Ghost stories from Illinois

The Hollow Carousel

The November wind scraped dead leaves across the cracked asphalt of the St. Elmo County Fairgrounds, a place abandoned since the ’90s. I’d come here to practice astral projection, not...

The Hollow of the Pine

Elara had always loved the old farmhouse, but now it felt like a cage. The walls seemed to breathe with a slow, deliberate rhythm, and the floorboards groaned underfoot even...

The Vanishing Press

The first thing I noticed was the smell. Not the usual mustiness of the apartment, but something sharper, like ozone after a storm, tinged with a metallic undertone. It clung...

The Nutella Stain

I’ve never been one to shy away from the unexplained. Growing up, my grandmother’s house was a museum of oddities—crystals, dried herbs, and a ouija board she swore was a...

The Curtain’s Edge

In 2014, my partner Leo and I lived in a ground-floor apartment in a converted Victorian house. We were obsessed with paranormal reality shows. Every night, we’d bundle up on...

The Marble Bloom

The year was 2016 when I signed the lease for the ground floor of the Meridian House, a sprawling Victorian nestled on the edge of Lake Caddo in the piney...

The Hollow Sun

In the autumn of 2022, I moved to the coastal town of Greyrock, hoping the salt air and slower pace would shake the unease that had settled in my bones....

The Book That Fell

The day we moved into the house was damp and grey, a low pressure system pressing down on the valley like a thumb on a bruise. The realtor had described...

The Lantern Tree

The town of Ashford had a place we all knew to avoid after dusk—the old Miller’s orchard, where the trees grew in crooked rows and the ground was thick with...

The Bent Copper Nail

The apartment on Meridian Row had always been a little too quiet, as if the walls were holding their breath. I moved in during a wet autumn, when the radiators...

The Lantern Drift

I have always maintained that my encounters with the uncanny have been of the grounded variety—cold spots, shifting furniture, whispers that might have been drafts. I scoffed at those who...

The Sunday Thud

On the last Sunday of October, during the quiet hours of the morning, Dr. Alistair Finch was alone in his inherited Victorian house on the edge of the bog. His...

The Salted Orchard

The drive from the sun-scorched California coast to the iron-gray shores of Lake Michigan felt like a journey backward through time, each mile peeling away the Technicolor of our lives...

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