All in Ghost Story

Angel's tree

Spring wind carried the scent of apples through the windows, so strong it seemed that they were close enough to bite. Firm, crisp flesh and fresh juices just a bite away, red and golden skin breaking beneath teeth to spill sweetness over lips and down chins. 


The old oilskin had been cold and greasy to the touch when he’d put it on, but now as the wind dug icy claws into his skin and sought the cracks in his clothes, he was thankful for it. The old castle loomed above him, dark even against the blackened sky, and before him lay the path.

Old homes

It was always the same. Dingy orange light filtering through the windows, bent and twisted by the warped glass panes, the haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the air. Last strains of some old song fizzling out on the jukebox.

Bone orchard

I listen to their breath and sometimes, very faintly, in the middle of the night, if I lie flat on the grass and listen hard with my whole body, I can feel them shifting as they dream of the world beyond their earthen cradle.