Ghost stories from Mississippi

The Unplugged Broadcast

The old farmhouse on Cedar Road had a personality of its own, or so we told ourselves. It creaked and groaned like an old sailor, and the floorboards shifted beneath...

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The Pale Stalker of Ashford

It began with a whisper in the dark, a soft rasping sound like dry leaves skittering across a tombstone. My nephew, Leo, was only five, and after his parents died...

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The Knob that Wouldn’t Stay

The house on Maple Street had been in my family for three generations, its bones creaking with the weight of history. Built in 1940 by my great-grandfather, Elias Thorne, it...

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When my four-year-old, Elsie, started chattering about her invisible friend, I assumed it was the usual preschool nonsense. But the name she kept repeating—’Lady Aurelia’—sent a chill through me. It...

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The Fingernail Moon

My sister’s death left a hole in our family the size of a truck, and her son, Leo, was the one who fell in. My girlfriend, Maya, and I moved...

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The Last Ferry at Dusk

The night was unseasonably warm, even for late September in the small coastal town of Pemberton Bay. My partner, Marcus, and I had just moved into a rented cottage near...

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The Grandfather’s Clock

I remember the night my world tilted. It wasn’t the breakup with Lena, or the fistfight with Marcus that sent my life spiraling. It was the silence that followed, a...

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The Keeper of the Sunken Grove

When I first met Elias, he took me to his family’s land—a sprawling, wild expanse of 300 acres that bordered a forgotten forest. Unlike typical farmland, this place was a...

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The Salt and the Sickle

I’ve always been attuned to the spaces between, the thin places where the living and the not-quite-gone overlap. My grandmother called it ‘the Sight,’ but it was less a gift...

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The Lantern Girl

I was nineteen when I moved into the old Millbrook Apartments with my girlfriend, Maya. It was December, and the city of Verona was drowning in an unseasonably cold rain...

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The Static Room

My name is Elias, and I’ve never been one to believe in the supernatural. I’m a pragmatic man, a retired engineer who values logic and reason over folklore and fear....

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The Hungry Roots of Hollow Creek

The summer of 2011 found me and three friends, Dale, Maggie, and Pete, driving down a dirt road that seemed to fold into itself like a serpent. We were heading...

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The Night the Floorboards Sang

The first time I noticed the noise, it was a Sunday, the kind of lazy afternoon when the light slants through the blinds and makes everything look like an old...

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The Curator’s Debt

The summer after my junior year, my friend Mira returned from a dig in New Mexico with a gift for me. We were both archaeology students, and she knew I’d...

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The Seventh Hollow

In the quiet outskirts of a town that time forgot, nestled between the rustling pines and the overgrown banks of the Coldwater River, stood a house that had known more...

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The Cypress Knell

I’m writing this down because if I don’t, I’ll go mad. It’s easier to spill it all out here, in the open, where the words can’t fester inside me. I’m...

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The Marble Keeper

My name is Elara, and I’ve spent my entire life feeling the cold brush of the unseen. It started with small things—a flickering light, a sudden chill—but as I grew,...

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The Gilded Visitor

The bayou never truly slept. Even at night, when the cypress knees rose like drowned hands from the black water, there was a hum of life—insects skittering, bullfrogs groaning, the...

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The Face in the Hall

I never believed in ghosts until the summer of ’92, when we moved into the old farmhouse on Redemption Road. The place had been abandoned for years, its clapboard siding...

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The Cradle of Static

The house on Thornapple Lane was a fixer-upper, and we knew it when we bought it. The plaster was cracking, the floors sloped, and the basement smelled of damp earth...

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The Static in the Strainer

The old farmhouse had a screened porch that sagged in the middle, and that’s where my daughter’s toy kitchen sat, a garish plastic island against the wood rot. The kids...

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The Last Cartridge

The house at 33 Marrow Lane was a creature of damp and creaks, and I had learned to hate it long before my grandfather passed. He died in the autumn,...

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The Woman in the Attic

When my mother remarried, we left the city for a dilapidated farmhouse on the edge of a cedar forest. The previous owner had vanished without a trace, leaving behind a...

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