Ghost stories from New York

The Basement Door

The first time I saw the basement door move, I thought it was the wind. But the house was sealed tight, and the door was heavy oak, fitted into its...

The Ninth Hour Visitor

Milo Reyes had always been drawn to the dark corners of the world, the spaces where reason faltered and the impossible seemed possible. At nineteen, he lived in a cramped...

The Ink-Fall Elegy

I never saw a ghost, not in the way people mean. I saw something else, something that made me question the very nature of my vision and, eventually, my sanity....

The Glass Hummingbird

The summer I turned twelve, my great-aunt Elara died. She was sixty-three, not old by today’s standards, but the cancer had hollowed her out until she was a brittle thing,...

The Last Orchard

The old Henderson place sat at the end of Cedar Lane, a two-story Victorian that had somehow survived the subdivision that swallowed the 300-acre orchard my grandfather tended. By the...

The Uninvited Boarder

The house on Birchwood Lane had always been too quiet for my liking. When I moved in, the realtor warned me about the drafty windows and the finicky water heater,...

The Man in the Static

The house on Birch Lane was a split-level, a strange hybrid of brick and wood that seemed to sag under the weight of its own silence. On Christmas Eve, while...

The Static Hour

The house on Maple Street had always been a talker. Since we moved in four autumns ago, it whispered through the heating vents, clicked in the walls, and once, in...

The Salt Garden

The Salton Sea had been dead for decades, but its ghost still breathed. I’d come here for the photographs—the skeletal trees, the crumbling foundations of the failed resort, the way...

The Hollow Gate

I have always believed in the unseen, not through faith or scripture, but through the cold certainty of a shiver that has no earthly source. My family is a line...

The Coal Room Visitor

Three weeks before Christmas, Nora and I were nestled in the upstairs guest room of my parents’ farmhouse in rural Vermont, binge-watching a cheesy horror series on my laptop. The...

The Static in the Walls

The old farmhouse had been in our family for six years, though it never felt like ours. It was built in the late 1960s, with creaking floorboards and a staircase...

The Hollow Floor

The day the moving truck groaned away from 12 Barrow Lane, I felt a peculiar lightness in my chest, as if the house had exhaled. My parents, for the first...

The Weight of the Four

The summer we moved into the old farmhouse on Broken Creek Road, the heat was a blanket you couldn’t shake. The place had been vacant for years, and the air...

The Slate of Wednesday

On the first Tuesday of October, Marcus found himself searching for a particular kind of testimony. He had a theory, half-formed, that the elderly were often the unacknowledged seers of...

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