Ghost stories from South Carolina

The Hollow Gable

The summer I turned twelve, we moved into the Gable House, a sprawling Victorian that my mother had inherited from a distant aunt she’d never met. It sat at the...

The Damp Fabric

My name is Carla, and I’m 26. I’ve been clean for five years now, but the past few weeks have felt like a slow-motion horror movie I can’t wake up...

The Salt Line

I’ve never been the type to scare easy. Growing up on a fishing trawler with my uncles taught me that. But the night the glass broke in the Harborside apartment,...

The Clockwork Hum

I’ve always prided myself on being a rational man. Ghosts, spirits, the supernatural—all of it was fodder for campfire tales and cheap horror films. That was before we inherited my...

The Quilt’s Weight

Marta had always been a heavy sleeper, a fact her husband, Leo, often teased her about. But the morning of October 14th shattered that illusion. At 6:57 AM, a guttural...

The Long Night Shift

The first time I heard the sobbing, I thought my partner, Marcus, was having a breakdown. We worked the overnight shift at the Weatherford County 911 Dispatch Center, a squat,...

The Hearthbound

My earliest memory of the thing in our house is tied to the smell of burnt toast and the hum of the old refrigerator. I was five, maybe six, and...

The Ironwood Visitor

It was a Tuesday morning, the third week of August, and the clock on my nightstand glowed 3:47 AM. I was hunched over my laptop, headphones on, tweaking the bass...

The Fourth Night Knock

It had been nearly three years since I’d moved into the old farmhouse on the edge of the marsh. The previous owner, a reclusive widower, had died in his sleep,...

The Hollow Vigil

My name is Elias Vane, and for as long as I can remember, I have been a conduit for the restless dead. In my youth, the visions came as violent...

The Throat-Clearer

The papery rustle of the motel’s air conditioner was the only sound in the room when Eva heard it. Not the television, though the morning news murmured from the nightstand,...

The Pale Drift

The late October air had a bite to it, but we kept the porch door cracked open, letting in the smell of wet leaves and distant woodsmoke. I was sprawled...

The Frequency of Static

I was eighteen, sprawled out on the cracked leather sofa in my uncle’s dusty farmhouse, the only light coming from the flickering TV and the pale moon through the grimy...

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