Ghost stories from District of Columbia

The Bell in the Attic

We had lived in the old farmhouse for five years, and the usual quirks had become almost mundane. The creaking floorboards in the hallway, the cold drafts that swept through...

The Purple Polka

The year I turned twelve, my mother lost a baby in the linen closet of our apartment. It was a small, windowless room that smelled of detergent and old cardboard,...

The Water Keeper

Marla had lived in the old farmhouse for three years, ever since her divorce. It was a sprawling, drafty place with a cellar that smelled of damp earth and rust....

The Moonlit Loom

I was maybe eight when we moved into that old farmhouse on the edge of Barlow, a town nobody’d heard of unless you’d missed the exit and ended up on...

The Glass Coffin

I spent a sweltering week in the capital, trying to soak up the history and the air conditioning. My last day, I visited the National Museum of Flight and Space,...

The Lingering Soot

The old house on Maple Street had always felt heavy, but after the fire, it became a tomb. I was born in the sweltering summer of ’59, but my first...

The Music Box at 3:30

The call came at noon, a terse update from my sister: Mom was back in the hospital, complications from her hip replacement. I was three states away, useless, my hands...

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