Ghost stories from South Carolina

The Painted Door

The drive back to the hotel was quiet, the hum of the engine a welcome lull after the oppressive stillness of the historic district. I sank into the passenger seat,...

The Automatic Chalkboard

I’ve always thought that old farmhouses have a way of holding onto things—not just dust and creaking floorboards, but the remnants of lives lived within their walls. Our place, a...

The Static in the Signal

My family has always laughed at my obsession with the paranormal. I’d devour books on hauntings and watch grainy documentaries late into the night, while they rolled their eyes and...

The Weeping Fig

Every July, my family made the pilgrimage to New Orleans. Not for the jazz or the beignets, but for my mother’s obsession with antebellum architecture. This year, she had booked...

The Inverted Lullaby

My name is Cole, and I’m thirteen, though I’ll be fourteen in a month. I play bass in a band called ‘Golgotha’s Anthem’—we’re a Christian death metal outfit, which confuses...

The Hollow Table

I never understood why the dead chose me. They came like moths to a flickering porch light, drawn by something I couldn’t name. Most were gentle, lost souls yearning for...

The Clockmaker’s Gift

I’ve always had a knack for knowing things I shouldn’t. Not like reading minds, more like feeling the texture of a room, the weight of an unseen presence. It started...

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