#ghosts

I've been talking to this cute punk girl online for a few months, and eventually I asked her to move in with me. This was 2008, and websites like Myspace were in full swing. We met on a site called VampireFreaks.com, which was basically Myspace for emos, punks, goths, and metalheads. I stood at the Greyhound station, excited to meet my once-online, now real-life girlfriend, and really hoping she was who she presented herself to be. The moment she stepped off the bus, I melted.

The morning came gently, the way it often did in late spring - without urgency, without noise, as if the world itself had decided to stretch before speaking. Sunlight spilled across the small street in soft, slanted lines. It touched the rooftops first, then the windows, then slowly made its way down to the pavement where it shimmered faintly like water. Somewhere in the distance, a bicycle passed, its wheels clicking in a steady rhythm that faded as quickly as it arrived.

“Jalen, you sell drugs?” “What? No.” “Family sell drugs?” I laughed. “You for real right now?” His stoic face answered for him. “Not that it should matter, but I don’t really have a family. So, no, they aren’t kingpins in the drug game.” “Consider yourself lucky. No family is the way to go. No hassles. No buying gifts for ungrateful nieces and nephews who think just because you own a coupla properties, you’re Diamond Jim Brady. Gives me heartburn just thinkin’ about it.”

Some neighborhood kids and I are going to commit a felony tonight, but it's no big deal. We've been committing a felony for almost two weeks now. We've developed a new pastime, and this all began when Cody Winters told us about the Railroad Game. This is the type of shit that happens when you live in a quaint suburb, filled with kids and teenagers that have nothing better to do.

I've always wanted to be a writer. I've always so desperately tried, to then always fail. I've written stories about dragons, stories about strange civilizations, and yet it seems to be that all my hard work has been for naught. I grasp to every chance to write something, be it a competition or just for others. And I always end up getting hurt, again and again and again and again and again. Perhaps they've been right all along, I just don't have any talent.

The last Heather spoke to her mother was on Halloween of 2015 when she was twelve years old. Now, it is Halloween of 2024, and she is reminded of the lore that ruined every Halloween for her.

I'll never forget the summer of 1998, or the encounters I shared with my classmates. When I was ten years old, just two weeks into the beginning of the school year, the entire fifth grade was taken on a special week-long camping trip to 'Camp High Hope' in Indiana. Being ten years old, the idea of spending a week away from home, without any parents or siblings, just friends and the other kids from school, was one of the coolest experiences you could ever hope for as a child.

Dear Frank, I am writing because letters feel safer than feeds. A message can sit in a desk drawer and wait. A post will burn in pixels and feed on itself. You told me once that chasing attention is like feeding a stray dog. If you stop, it will go away. If you keep feeding, it will come back in packs. You smiled then. You were right. I did not listen.

I remember the day because nothing about it felt wrong at first, and that’s what makes it stay with me. The normal days are the ones that rot the deepest when something inside them isn’t right. My name is William Marston, and I teach children how to put their thoughts on paper, how to shape fear into something harmless, something you can hold at arm’s length and say, “this is only a drawing.” I believed that. I needed to believe that. So when I told them that morning to draw a monster—anything…

In hindsight, this story is pretty embarrassing but hear me out. It’s not easy being the new kid who just moved to town in the middle of the school year. It didn’t help that this place was practically the middle of nowhere, the only restaurants being a mom and pop diner and a Taco Bell that was attached to a gas station. I nearly cried when I looked up how far away the nearest music venue was; an hour and a half, and they only showcased country bands.  I’ve never had a knack for fitting in, and…

In the late 18th century in upstate New York a pastor and his family; his wife, young daughter, maid and himself were all found dead inside their home. Cause of death was identified as quadruple suicide.

I have a... peculiar hobby. I mean, I guess you could call it a hobby, though it’s probably more of a habit of mine. Before I tell you what it is, let me tell you a bit about myself.

Some are inherently blessed with the ability to spin words into tales, as a glass spinner creates iridescent globes and faerie wings from the thinnest strands of molten sand. They can take the small components and, with ease and finesse, lay them over one another time and time again until the moment that the masterpiece is complete. At this point the light catches on a single aspect, and sets the whole thing shining and sparkling to all who receive it. All in all, it is a beautiful thing.

“Come play with me.” That line… it’s a cliché for the horror genre, is it not? You all know what I mean, the unsettling apparition of a child, or maybe just the voice, beckoning to you. What is it about children that gives them the ability to be so damn creepy? Maybe… maybe it’s the fact that, generally speaking, children are helpless and anyone with a nurturing side to their personality wants to help them and care for them. I mean, if any one of us saw a child in trouble, I’m sure we’d rush to…

“How do you eradicate death itself?” There was a strange life in this apartment complex, one that practically begged you to look the other way. From the outside, the place offered nothing. It was just a decrepit gray structure looking as if it would collapse under a single harsh gust of wind. It stood out solely because within a fifty-mile radius, no other human life existed. Questions went unasked. Certain answers were better left unknown, and if ignorance was bliss, so be it.

My brain couldn’t cooperate with what I was seeing. It was 39 minutes past 12, and my 58 year old father was standing outside my front door, looking especially tired and zombified. And he was asking me… “Are you sure you haven’t seen your sister?” He questioned in a raspy, hollow voice. I continued gaping at him, shaking my head. I forced my jaw to shut. “No, Dad. I don’t have a sister, I’m the only child.” I said, for the millionth time. “Are you… okay?”

The first thing my granny ever taught me about food was that you never, ever leave the house without a bit of bread in your pocket.

Growing up, my family was like a bunch of nomads. We never settled in one place for long. Anytime my father’s job called for it, we would uproot our lives and head on to the next big thing. This meant ending friendships and enrolling in school time after time. It was frustrating having to repeatedly sever my ties with the friends I made, and the little nest I crafted for myself. But as a ten-year-old kid, who was I to complain?

It was well past midnight as I drove home from my new job. The pay wasn't so good, and it was far from home, but I really had no choice considering I was behind on rent.

I think it all started when I dreamt of my own death. I was only 10. This isn’t the first time I’ve died in a dream. We've all felt the jolt of a fall or a hit. Shaking us out of slumber and into the dark comfort of our bed.