Ghost stories from Florida

The Weeping Hollow

My life before the move was unremarkable, a quiet existence in a dusty Kansas town where the only mysteries were the cornfields that seemed to breathe at night. I never...

The Hollow Hours

I’m not writing this for sympathy or for someone to tell me it’s all in my head. I know it’s in my head; that’s the problem. My name is Casey,...

The Itching Veil

When I was nine, my great-aunt Marisol came to live with us in our cramped apartment complex in North Miami. She was ancient, with skin like crumpled parchment, and dark,...

The Salt-Stained Window

The summer before my senior year, my parents shipped me off to my grandmother’s house in the sleepy coastal town of Edgewater, Oregon. The house was a relic from the...

The Hollow Basin

The house on Larkspur Lane had always felt wrong to Mira, but the worst was the bathroom off her parents’ old bedroom. It was a strange, rounded room with a...

The Hollow Nightlight

The house on Maple Street was supposed to be our fresh start. After months of cramped apartments and financial strain, the two-story Victorian with its wraparound porch and overgrown garden...

The Christmas Clock

In the winter of 2014, my grandmother, Elena, who was more of a mother to me than my own, passed away in a small hospice room in rural Vermont. She...

The Saltmarsh Path

Our home stood at the edge of a saltmarsh, where the reeds whispered secrets to the wind. My husband, Elias, and I had bought the old farmhouse for its isolation...

The Salt on Her Skin

My grandmother, Elara, always said the sea talked to her. Not in words, but in currents, in the way the salt clung to her skin long after she’d left the...

The Last Gaslight

My family has owned the old lighthouse keeper’s cottage on the Maine coast since my great-grandfather bought it in 1911, just four years after it was built. The original lighthouse,...

The Clockwork Teeth

In the autumn of 1992, the desert heat still clung to the prefab housing of Fort Meridian, a sprawling Air Force installation that seemed to float on a sea of...

The Salted Road

The migration from Virginia to the Gulf coast of Florida should have felt like shedding a skin, but for me it was the opposite: a tightening. I was four, and...

The Watcher in the Wall

After the divorce, my mother and I moved into a small waterfront house in a quiet cove, far from the cramped apartment we’d shared with my father. The house was...

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