Ghost stories from Virginia

The Vanity Keepsakes

The summer I turned seven, my family moved into a sprawling split-level house in the suburbs of Winston-Salem, North Carolina. The previous owner, a Mrs. Abernathy, had sold it after...

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The Attic Door’s Small White Key

It was the tail end of February when the Pembrokes asked if I could look after their farmhouse for a long weekend. The place sat alone at the end of...

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The Gatekeeper’s Whisper

In the sweltering summer of 2019, my family booked a week at the Cragmoor Manor Resort in the hills of western Massachusetts. The manor, a sprawling Victorian relic, was reputed...

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The Empty Drawer

The day we cleared out my grandmother’s apartment felt like an autopsy. Not of flesh, but of a life. My mother, Helen, moved with a grim efficiency, her hands trembling...

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The Stairwell Door

I told my brother what I had seen. ‘I don’t want to give it a name,’ I said, ‘but I feel as though we should.’ ‘Mason,’ he said. ‘No, it...

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The Unspooling

I was thirteen the summer my father left for the Persian Gulf, and the house on the naval base in Pensacola felt like a ship run aground. My mother tried...

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The Saltwater Pilgrim

The first time I saw it, I was twelve, standing at the edge of Bitterwood Pond, a brackish cut of water behind the old caretaker’s shed. We’d been coming to...

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The Antique by the Window

My name is Adrian, and I’m sixteen. I’ve lived in this house for eleven years, ever since my parents bought it from an estate sale. It’s a sprawling Victorian on...

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The Cinder Song

My mother never spoke about the fire that took our house, or the way my father’s smile used to crack like old paint before he disappeared. She only said we...

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The Dryer’s Silent Pool

In the autumn of 2022, I moved into a modest ground-floor flat on the outskirts of a town that never made it onto any map worth reading. The flat was...

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The Perfume of Rain

I never believed in ghosts, not really. I was a practical woman, a retired botanist who found solace in the predictable rhythms of soil and seasons. But when I inherited...

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The Grain in the Foundation

I’ve always been a man of reason, a builder by trade, someone who trusts in the solidity of load-bearing walls and the logic of a level. When my wife, Clara,...

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The Lacemaker’s Bargain

My grandmother’s story is not mine to tell, but she gave me permission, and I carry it like a splinter under my skin. It begins in the autumn of 1987,...

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The Salt Moth

The first time I saw the moth, I was eleven, standing at the kitchen window of our new rental in Dustford, a town that had more empty storefronts than people....

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The Hollow Man in the Hallway

When I was eleven, my family packed our lives into a rusted Ford and drove across three states to a town called Cinder Creek, where the air smelled of burnt...

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The Lantern Man of Harlow Bend

On a rain-slicked morning in late October, Mercy Wainwright woke to a strange weight in the air, as if the house itself had held its breath. She lay in her...

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The Third Floor Light

I suppose I should start by saying I’ve never been one for the supernatural. I’m a practical woman, a nurse, and I’ve spent my life trusting in science and the...

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The Penumbra Man

I’ve always had a strange fascination with the abandoned, the forgotten, and the unexplained. Growing up near the Salton Sea, I’d heard countless tales of the desert swallowing whole towns,...

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The Cradle of Static

In the small, secluded town of Ridgewick, nestled between the fog-laden pines and the restless, dark waters of Lake Marrow, there was an old house known as the Hepplewhite House....

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The Weight on the Mattress

I’ve always been a light sleeper, a habit I picked up during my time in the service. So when the mattress dipped beside me that first time, I snapped awake...

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The Light Keeper’s Shadow

The December air bit through our coats as we strung the last of the blue and white lights along the porch railing. Our breath made little clouds, and the cold...

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The Mulberry Tree’s Debt

It was the last day of October, and the air had that sharp bite that promised snow before Thanksgiving. I was seventeen, home alone for the first time in my...

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The Lantern of the Hollow Field

I am seventeen, and I live on a sprawling ranch in the high desert of New Mexico, a place my family has worked for three generations. The main hacienda, built...

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The Linen Closet

The afternoon sun slanted through the west-facing windows of the old farmhouse, casting long stripes across the worn floorboards. I was in the upstairs guest room, a place I rarely...

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