It looks like Sara. It moves and sits and smiles like her—it even has her annoying laugh down pat. Its mimicry might have gone unnoticed, but its eyes gave it away, reflecting the light like a deer.
We also found Sara upstairs, throat slit.
We’re not sure what to do with it now.
#vssParanormal #mimicry #vssGhostTales #light #vss #writing #MicroFiction #horror
The house remembers everything, even the wolves. It wraps their ghosts with silver chains, trapping them deep down in the basement, where they stay half an eternity—until one foolish grandchild descends, drawn by eerie howls, holding the key to the final lock—
#vssGhostTales #howl #vssParanormal #silver #vss #writing #MicroFiction
“Don’t you believe in ghosts?”
He asks so seriously, I laugh. “Of course not.”
“Then you don’t remember the accident.”
I turn, ready to demand: what accident? But it's Danny. Danny Franks, my next-door neighbor. Who died last winter. Pneumonia.
He speaks softly: “Jess, a drunk driver hit your mom’s car. You…didn’t make it.”
#vssGhostTales #believe #vss #writing #MicroFiction #GhostStories
Uncle Raymond reads his newspapers, oblivious to the noise. He has no patience for my “female hysteria”—he sent Auntie María away for her constant breakdowns so long ago, I cannot remember her face. If I want to avoid the asylum, I need to pretend nothing is wrong—as a chorus of ghouls continue their unholy shriek in the attic. I am the only person in town who can hear them.
#vssGhostTales #UnholyShriek #vss #writing #MicroFiction #GhostStories #horror
He didn’t know her name; she'd come up to him at the dance, said her ride ditched her. She asked to be taken home. He thought he’d make the drive worth his while—be romantic, park at the old ruins for a bit under the full moon. She shivered as they rolled to a stop.
“You're not scared, are you?” he asked, his hand on her knee. Her skin was cold.
“No. I died just over there. Thanks for taking me home,” she said, and vanished.
#vssGhostTales #romantic #vss #writing #MicroFiction #GhostStories
Around dawn, Ava threw herself on the bed, fully dressed. It had been another sleepless night listening to ceaseless knocking at doors and windows, of pacing dark hallways to make sure nothing came in.
“I am sick of being haunted,” she sighed.
A hiss from under the bed: “I was here first.”
#vssGhostTales #haunted #vss #writing #MicroFiction #horror #GhostStories
There are ghosts in the ink, her cousin explained. His hands steady, his voice shaking. “This is how we seal them, how we use their power. This is how we keep the family safe.”
The tattoo never settles, crawling over her skin. And the ghosts never stop whispering. They tell her to pick up the knife, to draw blood, to break the lines of ink. They say they'll be merciful to her, but only to her.
She does not feel safe. She puts down the knife.
The last bonfire of summer: the one time they gathered each year. Dusty, Paul, Jen, Kit: four out of five, the usual spot. They toasted to Matt with cheap beer and told ghost stories until dawn.
“I’m still here,” Matt whispered, unseen, unheard—but not forgotten.
Katherine Traverse