Ghost stories from Connecticut

The Second Sweater

I remember the autumn of my senior year in Stone Hollow, a town so small the postmistress knew everyone’s middle names. It wasn’t the kind of place you moved to...

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The Ward of Faded Lilies

In the autumn of 2012, I found myself in the sterile corridors of St. Jude’s Memorial, a hospital that had once been a sanatorium for tuberculosis patients at the turn...

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The group had been meeting at Marlene’s house for years, a rotating cast of believers from different congregations who gathered every Tuesday to study scripture. Marlene’s home, a sprawling Victorian...

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The Round Window Watcher

It was the summer I turned eleven, and my best friend Maren and I were inseparable. We lived in Miller’s Hollow, a town so small that the only thing to...

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The Lantern in the Cellar

I was forty-one when my wife and I decided to leave the city and buy a fixer-upper in the countryside. We had a six-year-old daughter, Elsie, and we wanted her...

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The Hollow in the Glass

My aunt Clara never told the story lightly. She’d wait until the kettle was off the boil and the windows had fogged with steam, then she’d set her mug down...

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The Porcelain Keepsake

My name is Clara, and I’ve never claimed to have psychic bones. My grandmother swore she saw her sister’s death in a teapot, and my mother once predicted a neighbor’s...

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The Static Garden

I’m twenty-three, and I’ve lived in the same house my whole life, a modest two-story in the outskirts of a town called Millbrook, surrounded by cornfields that turn to skeletal...

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The Graveyard Shift at St. Jude’s

Years ago, I worked the night shift as a paramedic in a sprawling metropolis. My partner, Dave, and I were stationed at St. Jude’s Hospital, one of the three we...

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The Last Log

It had been nearly a decade since I’d last typed a word on this forum, and I’d long since abandoned my old handle, ‘MossyBoots’. I never thought I’d return, but...

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The Lodger in the Walls

Three months had passed since I’d first heard those faint, whispering voices in the old apartment on Maplethorpe Street. I’d chalked it up to a drafty building, a trick of...

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The Pilot Light

The first time the apartment betrayed me, I was mid-sneeze over the kitchen sink. My reflection in the toaster’s chrome stared back at me, but it was a fraction of...

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The Painted Door

In the summer of my thirty-second year, I found myself standing outside a narrow brick townhouse on a cobbled street in the old quarter of a city I’d never visited...

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The Stairwell That Remembers

At seventeen, I’ve learned that some doors shouldn’t be opened, especially the ones we thought we’d sealed shut. My name is Julian, and last year, when I was sixteen, I...

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The Trashcan’s Confession

The summer I turned nineteen, I was staying at my gran’s house in the sleepy town of Millbrook, where the heat hung like a wet blanket and the cicadas sang...

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The Bulb That Wouldn’t Burn

The first time I noticed the pattern, I was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the remnants of my grandmother’s coffee mug—a chipped ceramic thing with faded roses. She...

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The Harbor Keeper’s Ledger

The salt air clung to everything in Port Blossom, a town that had long since forgotten the sea’s generosity and only remembered its cruelty. My family—my mother, father, two older...

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The Static Child

The pines on either side of the gravel road stood like dark sentinels, their branches heavy with the wet of recent snow. Inside the rented A-frame, Elara unpacked canned goods...

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The Kitchen Tiles

Maya had never believed in ghosts. At thirty-two, she’d lived in drafty old farmhouses, creaky Victorian walk-ups, and once, a converted church with a crypt in the basement. Not once...

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The Root Cellar’s Lament

Our house is a hundred-year-old farmhouse perched at the edge of a dying orchard, and we’re the fifth family to call it home. The previous owner, old man Hargrove, died...

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The Threshold of Static

When I was six years old, my family moved into a cramped apartment above a dusty antiques shop in the town of Old Mill, a place that felt like it...

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The Man in the Empty Rooms

When we moved into the Crestwood Apartments, I told myself the weirdness was just the old building settling. The place had a musty smell, and the floorboards creaked in patterns...

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The Scent of Marigolds

I never believed in ghosts. Not really. I was a pragmatist, a man who trusted in the tangible, the measurable. But there were things that happened in that house that...

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