Ghost stories from Wisconsin

The Furnace Light

It was the winter of 2004 when I first noticed the flicker. Our house on Maple Street was old, with creaking floorboards and a basement that smelled of damp earth....

The Bed That Breathed

Marta first noticed the change in the old farmhouse the night she moved in. The place had been in her family for generations, but she’d only visited as a child,...

A Visit in the Night

One quiet evening, I settled into my sheets, drifting off into a peaceful slumber. Suddenly, I was jolted awake, my body frozen, unable to move. It had been months since...

The Weight of Whiskers

The apartment was quiet, a stillness that felt deeper than mere silence. Marnie had lived alone since the divorce, and the only other heartbeat that used to share her space...

The Marrow in the Walls

Spring crept into the valley with a false promise of peace. The old farmhouse, perched on a hill overlooking the mustard fields, seemed to exhale, and we took that as...

The Cinder Room

The house on Maple Hollow Lane was a modest two-story with a wrap-around porch and a yard that sloped gently toward a dying oak. We’d moved in at the height...

The Weeping Hollow

My first true brush with the unnatural happened in the autumn of my twenty-first year, in a place called the Weeping Hollow. It wasn’t a hollow in the ground, but...

The Hollow Static

The house on Marrow Lane was a fixer-upper, a sprawling Victorian that had seen better decades. My wife, Elena, fell in love with its high ceilings and the claw-foot tub,...

The Static Hour

Elena had grown accustomed to the nightly ritual of suffocation. Her sleep apnea was a silent thief, stealing her breath in the dark hours, leaving her gasping on the precipice...

The Hollow Silo

I was eleven the summer the silo went silent. We’d just moved to my grandfather’s farm after he passed, a place of rusted machinery and fields that stretched like gray...

The Cardboard Box Archive

The Barlow house had a cellar that my brother and I called ‘The Pit’. It wasn’t a proper basement—just a dank, low-ceilinged cavity under the kitchen, accessed by a trapdoor...

The Lock that Listened

The last Sunday of August hung heavy over the cul-de-sac, the air thick with the drone of cicadas. I was watching my daughter’s six-month-old golden retriever, Biscuit, while she and...

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