Any House Is Haunted

haunted-house-stories“Living in a haunted house is much the same as living in an ordinary house.

The small square kitchen, with its familiar cabinets and cereal boxes, is normally a room of nourishment and comfort. Then one night alone, I enter and find the space inexplicably fogged with sadness.

The ceiling fixture’s bulbs glow like failing candles and a sorrow from the past—from here in the kitchen itself, or from a corner of my childhood—has bled into the present like color through a bandage…”

Read the full story at

My Bed Unexpectedly Devoured Me

Apologies for my absence. Four weeks ago, my bed unexpectedly devoured me.

I had just made a potent chess move against the Bishop—accidentally, I admit, but one that silenced the Ouija planchette enough for me to sleep—and I slumped into bed still wearing my necktie.

My-Bed-Unexpectedly-Devoured-Me2Swirling tiredness engulfed me after weeks of thwarted effort. I had failed to locate the indescribable cat. I had repeatedly attempted meaningful contact with June, the ghost who shares my bedroom, while fearing she’d withdrawn from my mercurial emotions.

I had hurled my heart and hopes directly at the void, hoping they would flower out and pollinate the gloom. But there is a certain depth of neediness—a spiral in a spiral—that negates whatever goodness it inexorably funnels.

Loneliness. Depression. Self-doubt and desperation. How I pined for the remedy and fantasy of sleep!

I remember a soothing dizziness, a bottomless and widening and endless relaxation. My mattress softly opened in a vulviform embrace…

Read the full story at

The Mysterious Bishop

My Dear Strangers,

I believe the spirit-board entity is male. This is only a feeling, possibly imagined in the vacuum of proof, as thoughts tend to bubble in a mind full of silence.

haunted house storiesHe is strongly single-minded, more like a force or philosophical design than a human personality. He is, in this regard, the opposite of June, with whom I share an almost purely emotional relationship.

Both types of relationship are challenging to me. With June, I have the warm, mystic bloom of deep connection but—because she cannot communicate her thoughts—I am vulnerable to fears about her motives and desires.

Why does she come? Why does she go? Is my belief in our affinity another baseless thought, rising in the silence to alleviate my loneliness?

With the spirit-board entity, I lack any flicker of personal connection, and yet I finally understand his stubborn motivation.

Continue Reading at

The Ouija Riddle

My Dear Strangers,

I own a remarkably old spirit board of varnished maple, with wood-burned letters and a planchette made of thinly sliced bone. Popularly known as “Ouija” boards since their commercialization by the Kennard Novelty Company, these artifacts are crude but sometimes effective means of otherworldly communication.

haunted house storiesYesterday I used my board in an attempt to converse more easily with June, the ghost who shares my bedroom, but her ethereal fingers were unable to influence the planchette.

Disappointed but willing to try again, I left the board on my nightstand and went about my day. When I returned to the room at dusk, the planchette moved without my touching it at all.

Continue Reading at

The Tree Growing Out of My Wall Has Blossomed

haunted house storiesThe tree growing out of my wall has quadrupled in size.

This morning I entered the room and, before my eyes adjusted to the half-light, was speared in the belly by a leafy branch that extended sideways from the horizontal trunk.

Roots grip the wall like a twelve-fingered claw. Down-growing limbs support the tree’s weight like kickstands; without them, the damp brick wall would certainly collapse…

Read the Full Story

A Lesson in Amateur Witchcraft

haunted house storiesThis morning a pale young man rang the tritone doorbell of my brownstone. I was underslept and unshaved, and the stubble of my anger beard—which has persisted since the night of the violent crones—made me answer the door more irritably than I intended.

“What is it?” I asked the visitor on my stoop.

He was of high-school age, afflicted with cystic acne and skeletally thin. He introduced himself and asked if I was Mr. Rook of the Equinox Society. I nodded and scratched my stubble, impatient with his manners, but my annoyance dissolved when I noticed his alluring bosom.

“Come in,” I said, suspecting at once the reason for his visit…

Read the full story at

The Violent Old Women

033“Last night at 3:27 A.M., I was drawn to my bedroom window by sounds I couldn’t identify.

I wiped the foggy glass to look outside and two old women were fighting in the road. The night was charcoaly dark. Only the women’s shapes were visible until they scuffled near a streetlight’s upside-down cone.

Both were diminutive and thin, with long gray hair that swayed like Spanish moss. They wore ankle-length dresses—one black, the other calico—and necklaces, which appeared to be made of clamshells or glass, that swung and clinked together, threatening to tangle.”

Continue reading…

Dream of the Gnawing Mice

creepy stories“My dream began, as usual, in the infinite field of winter rye. The air was balmy, the sky was gray, and the rye was a rippling, luxurious green. A vernal day—a hopeful day of promissory smoothness.

Confident that I would find the cat and return the creature to its proper hunting grounds, I knelt to begin my descent to the forest, only to find the fragrant, loamy mud had turned to brick.

I scraped my palms and knuckles, ineffectually digging. Three of my fingernails tore away. The hard-baked ground absorbed my dripping blood until the wounds ran dry and there was nothing left to drip.”

Read the full story at

My Words Became Colorful Tongues of Fire

creepy stories“My larynx was a combustion chamber, lighting exhalations from the billows of my lungs. My epiglottis fluttered from the updraft heat.

The flames didn’t burn my esophagus or tongue, and once I had grown accustomed to the pilot-light sensation in my voice box, I experimented with various words and sounds, marveling at the colors that erupted from my mouth.

The sound was like a blowtorch ejaculating feelings. I have always been a synesthete, associating words with colors, but literally producing the effect gave me a surge of otherworldly vigor.”

Read the Full Story at

Lost in the Inverted Forest

My Dear Strangers,

The young girl’s indescribable cat remains lost. Despite my ordeals with the three-winged pigeon, the box in my stomach, and the dread cloud, I have continued to seek the creature each night in my subconscious, exploring the inverted forest where the cat was last seen.

Notwithstanding the suffocating dig at the start of each dream, I have grown to love the forest’s evergreen fragrance and outlandish beauty.

030The upside-down pines are driven into the ground like spikes, while their great and twisted roots soak moisture from the air. The sky is rolling fog, thick enough for worms. Birds are in the mud, out of sight and darkly chirping.

Twice I have heard a distant mew, as indescribable as the cat itself. It is a fell and fearful sound of mesmerizing power. One would expect such a noise from something massive, like a god, or from something small but awesome, like a split plutonium atom.

I have tracked the cat’s prints in the impressionable fog. I have tunneled into the mud, following the panicked shrieks of underground birds. I have smelled the cat’s excreta, about which even the word “indescribable” is wholly insufficient.

I sense, with anxious hope, that I am closer every night.

But urgency is growing. Two readers have contacted me regarding the cat, which prior to its vanishing had apparently prowled the readers’ nightmares and dreams. They had not been aware of the cat until its disappearance into the inverted forest, at which time their dreamworlds were overrun with vermin.

The cat, it seems, hunted a species of figmental mouse that feeds upon the dreamers’ brightest, sweetest thoughts. At first the notion struck me as creepily adorable, but further research revealed that the joy-nibbling mice—called nachtkauers in the scant references I’ve found—steadily devour the afflicted dreamer’s psyche.

Tales of insomnia, insanity, and suicide abound. I fear the mice will breed unchecked.

The cat must be found.

Look Beyond
William Rook