“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
— Hamlet, William Shakespeare
A whisper in an empty hallway. A shadow moving without a source. A sudden chill, though no window is open. These are the little things that make a ghost story come to life—or should we say, make it feel like it’s come back to life?
What Makes a Tale “Ghostly”
A ghost story in English isn’t just about a spirit. It’s about what’s hidden, what’s almost there but not quite. It’s about the things that shouldn’t be there, but somehow are. The basics are simple:
- The unseen—something that’s there, but you can’t quite see it.
- The uncanny—something familiar, but just a little bit off.
- The afterlife—a presence from beyond this world.
Ghost stories stir up all kinds of feelings: fear, curiosity, wonder, and mystery.
Purpose of This Guide
In this guide, we’ll show you how to write your own ghost story in English. Whether you’re just starting or need a little spark of inspiration, we’ll help you create a haunting atmosphere, build suspense, and leave your readers feeling spooked—in the best way possible.
Ghost Story in English
They said the house at the end of the road was abandoned — but every night, a single light flickered in the attic, and sometimes, if you listened closely, you could hear someone whispering your name.
The Nightlight
Emma always needed a soft glow in the dark.
She placed a small nightlight in her hallway.
It sat by the door to her bedroom.
She liked the gentle amber warmth it cast.
It reminded her of safety.
It reminded her of childhood.
It reminded her of home.
She never forgot to turn it on.
Every night she made sure.
Even when she felt brave.
Or tired.
Or busy.
It was a habit.
A comforting habit.
One morning she woke early.
The sky was still dark.
She rubbed her eyes.
She yawned softly.
She sat up in bed.
She saw something odd.
The hallway was lit.
By her nightlight.
But she was sure she switched it off.
The switch sat in the down position.
She frowned.
She swung her legs over the bed.
She padded barefoot to the hallway.
Her toes touched the cool wood floor.
She stood in the doorway.
The light pulsed softly.
It glowed like a heartbeat.
Like a living thing.
It felt alive.
She swallowed.
She took a step forward.
She reached out her hand.
She saw movement.
Tiny footsteps.
They crossed the floor.
Slow and steady.
She held her breath.
She followed the glow.
It led toward her bedroom.
She felt her heart pound.
She whispered, “Hello?”
No answer came.
The glow paused.
It flickered once.
Then it pulsed again.
She realized the light itself was moving.
Across the floor.
Across the hallway.
She felt a chill.
She stepped back.
Her heel struck the wall.
She winced.
She looked down.
Nothing touched her.
She exhaled.
She forced calm.
She stared at the pulsing glow.
She watched as it drifted.
Back toward the door.
She wondered what it wanted.
She wondered if it was a trick.
She thought of childhood stories.
Of spirits and ghosts.
Of helpful lights.
Of warning lights.
She felt unsettled.
She stepped closer.
She whispered again.
“Who are you?”
No answer.
Only light.
Only pulse.
She reached out.
Her finger hovered above the beam.
It felt warm.
She hesitated.
She thought to turn it off.
But she dared not.
She wanted to see more.
She watched the light move.
It paused at her doorframe.
It pulsed gently.
It shimmered like glass.
She noticed a shape.
A small silhouette.
Almost human.
Almost childish.
She blinked.
The shape blurred.
Then cleared.
A tiny hand reached out.
It beckoned to her.
She froze.
Her breath caught.
She felt a pull.
Her own hand lifted.
She touched the air.
Her fingers met nothing.
But she felt warmth.
She felt life.
She whispered, “Are you there?”
The hand paused.
Then withdrew.
The glow moved on.
Toward the staircase.
She followed.
Her bare feet made no sound.
Her heart felt loud.
She reached the stairs.
The glow hovered at the bottom step.
She sat at the top.
She watched.
She waited.
She called softly.
The glow dimmed.
Then brightened.
It pulsed faster.
Almost desperately.
She felt a twinge.
Of sadness.
Of longing.
She wanted to help.
She stood.
She moved down.
The beam fell across her chest.
It warmed her heart.
It guided her steps.
She reached the bottom.
The glow turned.
It flickered toward the living room.
She followed without thinking.
She remembered her coffee.
She thought of turning back.
But she stayed.
She crossed the room.
She noticed dust motes dancing in the beam.
She noticed shadows recoiling.
She noticed the house breathing.
It felt alive.
She felt small.
She felt watched.
She felt curious.
She said, “Show me.”
The glow brightened once.
Then danced across the floor.
It hopped over a rug.
It slid under the couch.
It slipped behind a chair.
She crawled.
She knelt.
She peered.
She saw nothing.
She sighed.
She sat back.
The glow pulsed slower.
She frowned.
She wondered if the light needed her.
If it was guiding her.
If it was tormenting her.
If it was lost.
She felt a pang.
Of pity.
Of hope.
She stood.
She whispered, “I’m with you.”
The light paused.
Then it flew across the room.
It darted toward the window.
It pressed against the glass.
It flickered bright.
It cast a tiny shadow.
She saw a child’s silhouette.
It stood on the other side.
Small frame.
Long hair.
Flowing dress.
It looked in.
It raised a tiny hand.
She pressed her palm to the glass.
They mirrored each other.
She felt a bond.
She said, “I see you.”
The silhouette bowed.
It smiled faintly.
It stepped back.
The glow retreated.
It rose.
It hovered midair.
It pulsed gently.
It dimmed.
It vanished.
The hallway fell dark.
Emma’s breath echoed.
She felt emptiness.
She felt warmth.
She felt wonder.
She placed her hand on the glass.
She whispered, “Goodbye.”
The window showed empty garden.
Moonlight glittered on grass.
Stars shimmered.
She returned inside.
She flicked the light switch.
The hallway glowed softly.
She leaned against the wall.
She closed her eyes.
She trembled.
She smiled.
She felt less alone.
She climbed the stairs.
She returned to bed.
She held a pillow.
She stared at the ceiling.
She wondered about the child.
She imagined her story.
She imagined her name.
She dreamed up reasons.
She felt protective.
She drifted to sleep.
Later that night she woke.
She frowned.
She reached for the nightlight.
She remembered.
She sat up.
She listened.
Silence.
No pulses.
No footsteps.
No child.
She laid back.
She missed the glow.
She missed the hand.
She felt longing.
She fell asleep anyway.
In the morning she awoke.
Sunlight spilled across the room.
She stretched.
She yawned.
She looked at the hallway.
The light was off.
The switch was down.
She felt uneasy.
She padded down the stairs.
She crossed the living room.
She reached the window.
She saw footprints.
Tiny footprints.
On the dew-kissed grass.
They led away.
Toward the edge of the garden.
Toward the woods.
She knelt.
She touched the glass.
She felt tears.
She whispered, “Be safe.”
She studied the prints.
They faded.
At the tree line.
She rose.
She returned inside.
She decided to investigate.
She grabbed a jacket.
She unlocked the door.
She stepped out.
She followed the footprints.
She stepped on wet grass.
She inhaled crisp air.
She followed.
She reached the woods.
She hesitated.
She peered into darkness.
She felt a pull.
She ventured in.
She felt branches brush her.
She felt earth underfoot.
She heard distant bird calls.
She followed deeper.
She noticed the footprints again.
They glowed faintly.
She gasped.
She realized the light remained.
In the prints.
She followed the glowing track.
It led to a small clearing.
She stepped forward.
She saw a child.
She saw the silhouette.
Her back turned.
She wore a simple dress.
Her hair fell past her shoulders.
She looked over her shoulder.
She was small.
She looked scared.
She looked hopeful.
She raised her hand.
She pointed upward.
Emma looked up.
She saw a white owl.
Perched on a branch above.
Eyes bright.
Feathers ruffled.
The owl blinked.
It let out a soft hoot.
It spread its wings.
It took flight.
It disappeared into darkness.
The child bent down.
She touched the glowing prints.
They shimmered under her fingertips.
She looked at Emma.
She whispered, “Thank you.”
Her voice was faint.
Like wind through leaves.
Emma knelt beside her.
She said, “You’re welcome.”
The child smiled.
She touched Emma’s hand.
Warmth spread through Emma.
Like sunrise.
The child whispered, “Home.”
She pointed deeper into woods.
Emma rose.
She took a breath.
She followed.
She felt a surge.
Of courage.
Of purpose.
She followed the child.
They walked side by side.
They entered a hidden grove.
Sunlight filtered through branches.
Moss covered stones.
A gentle stream meandered.
Birdsong filled the air.
The child stopped.
She picked up a small lantern.
She handed it to Emma.
It glowed.
Amber light.
Soft and warm.
Emma held it.
She felt peace.
She asked, “Will I remember?”
The child nodded.
She whispered, “Always.”
She touched Emma’s cheek.
Her hand felt real.
Emma felt tears.
She smiled.
She said, “Goodbye, friend.”
The child bowed.
She stepped into mist.
She vanished.
Emma stood alone.
She held the lantern.
She found the path back.
She stepped quickly.
She emerged from woods.
She saw her house.
The hallway light blinked.
It pulsed once.
Then steady.
She entered.
She placed the lantern on a table.
It glowed through the day.
She sat.
She gazed at it.
She felt connected.
At night she placed both lights on.
They glowed together.
Amber and gold.
She slept peacefully.
She dreamt of her friend.
Of guiding light.
Of the gentle hand.
She woke.
She reached for the hallway switch.
She hesitated.
She thought of the child.
She thought of hope.
She left the light on.
Always.
Whistle in the Attic
Lily lived in an old house at the edge of town.
The house was big, but quiet.
It creaked and groaned at night.
The attic was her favorite place.
It was filled with forgotten things.
Old trunks.
Dusty furniture.
Boxes of photographs.
There was one thing Lily didn’t like, though.
The attic always had a strange feeling.
It wasn’t the dust.
It wasn’t the darkness.
It was the sound.
A whistle.
It came from above.
It wasn’t a tune.
It was soft.
A gentle, lonely sound.
It seemed to echo from the rafters.
Lily had heard it many times.
It was there when the wind was still.
When the house was completely quiet.
She first heard it when she was seven.
At first, she thought it was just the wind.
But the sound was too regular.
Too clear.
It seemed to be calling her.
She told her parents.
They laughed.
“Just the house settling,” they said.
But Lily didn’t think so.
She knew the difference.
The whistle was different.
It felt alive.
It felt like it had a purpose.
The attic door was always locked.
Her parents never let her go up there.
But Lily was curious.
One day, when they were out,
Lily decided to find out.
She found the key in her mother’s drawer.
It was small, old-fashioned, and heavy.
She held it in her hand.
Her heart raced.
She tiptoed upstairs.
She reached the attic door.
The air felt colder.
The door creaked as she unlocked it.
She pushed it open.
Dust swirled around her.
The room was dark.
Shadows stretched across the floor.
She stepped inside.
The air smelled like old books and wood.
She closed the door behind her.
The whistle was louder now.
It echoed from the rafters.
It seemed to pull her closer.
Lily looked around.
There were old trunks and chairs.
A mirror with cracks in the glass.
A rocking horse with faded paint.
The whistle came again.
It was right above her.
She looked up.
Nothing.
Just rafters.
The sound was closer now.
Lily’s heart thudded in her chest.
She took a step forward.
The floorboards creaked.
She hesitated.
Then the whistle sounded again.
It was right next to her.
She gasped.
It was coming from the corner of the room.
There, half-hidden behind a stack of boxes,
Lily saw something.
A small, wooden box.
It was old.
Covered in dust.
It had a faded carving on the lid.
A swirl.
Lily reached for it.
Her fingers brushed the surface.
The whistle stopped.
The silence was thick.
Lily held the box in her hands.
It was light but heavy at the same time.
She looked closer.
The swirl seemed to move, ever so slightly.
She frowned.
She turned the box over.
There was a small keyhole.
Her fingers trembled.
She turned the box in the light.
She found a tiny key beside it.
It was small.
It was old.
It fit perfectly.
Lily’s breath caught.
She turned the key.
The box clicked open.
Inside was a piece of paper.
Old and yellowed with age.
It had strange symbols on it.
It looked like writing, but not from any language Lily knew.
She pulled the paper out carefully.
Her hands were shaking.
She read the symbols aloud.
Nothing happened at first.
Then, a cold wind blew through the attic.
The lights flickered.
Lily froze.
The whistle came again.
This time, it was louder.
Closer.
It sounded like a voice.
A sad, distant voice.
Lily’s heart raced.
She stepped back.
But the voice kept calling.
She looked at the box again.
The paper seemed to glow faintly.
Lily had to know.
She had to find out what was in the attic.
She turned the paper over.
There, in small writing, were two words:
Come closer.
She looked around.
The attic felt bigger now.
It felt darker.
The whistle was almost deafening.
Lily couldn’t move.
She wanted to run, but her legs wouldn’t work.
She felt her feet move forward.
The voice pulled her.
Her mind screamed, No!
But her body didn’t listen.
She reached the farthest corner of the room.
Where the shadows seemed to form shapes.
Where the whistle was loudest.
Lily felt something brush against her arm.
She gasped.
She turned quickly.
Nothing.
Just the darkness.
Just the boxes.
Her breath came in short bursts.
She felt a presence behind her.
She spun around.
A figure stood in the corner.
It was tall.
It was dark.
It had no face.
But she could feel it.
It was watching her.
It was waiting.
Lily didn’t know what to do.
The whistle came again.
The figure didn’t move.
It just stood there.
Lily tried to speak.
Her voice was gone.
Her throat tightened.
She backed away.
The figure didn’t follow.
But it was still there.
She stepped back toward the stairs.
Her legs were like jelly.
She reached the door.
The box in her hands felt heavier now.
The figure didn’t move.
But she could still feel its gaze.
She turned the key.
The door opened.
She rushed out into the hallway.
She slammed the door shut behind her.
Lily stood there for a moment.
Breathing hard.
Her heart pounded.
She stared at the attic door.
The whistle was gone.
It was silent.
But Lily could still feel something.
She still felt the figure.
She looked down at the box.
It was in her hands.
The paper inside was still glowing faintly.
She closed the box.
She locked it back up.
Her fingers trembled.
But the whispers…
They never left.
Lily didn’t go into the attic again.
Not for years.
She grew up and moved away.
But every so often, late at night,
She would hear a whistle.
It was soft at first.
Then louder.
It sounded just like the one from the attic.
Lily would lie awake in her bed.
She would listen.
And she would remember.
The house.
The attic.
The figure in the shadows.
The whistle in the attic.
And she would never forget.
The door was still locked.
But she could still feel it.
The cold breath.
The whistle.
And the waiting.
Always waiting.
Mirror in the Hall
There was a mirror in Emma’s hallway.
Tall.
Old.
With a wooden frame.
Dark brown.
Scratched on the edges.
It had been there when she moved in.
She liked it.
Most days.
It caught the light just right.
It made the hallway feel bigger.
Brighter.
She would glance at it while passing.
Not to check herself.
Just to see something familiar.
It felt like part of the house.
Like a quiet companion.
But some days it felt strange.
Off.
Not scary.
Just… different.
Like it noticed her.
Like it watched.
She shook the thought off.
It was just a mirror.
Just glass and wood.
That’s all.
One rainy afternoon, she walked by.
She saw something.
Not herself.
Not right away.
Just a flicker.
In the corner.
A small movement.
She turned fast.
Nothing there.
Only her reflection.
A little pale.
A little tired.
She leaned closer.
She touched the frame.
It felt cold.
Colder than it should.
She frowned.
She stepped away.
She got tea.
She sat on the couch.
She tried to forget.
But she thought about it again.
That flicker.
That movement.
It wasn’t her.
She was sure.
The next day it happened again.
Same time.
Same place.
Another flicker.
She turned quickly.
This time—something else.
A shape.
Small.
Like a person.
Like a child.
Gone in a blink.
She stood still.
Staring.
Waiting.
Nothing.
She whispered, “Hello?”
Only silence.
Only rain tapping the windows.
She stepped back.
She left the hallway.
She didn’t look again.
Not that night.
Not the next.
But she felt it.
A presence.
Behind the glass.
Quiet.
Patient.
Watching.
A few nights later, she passed by again.
This time there was no flicker.
No shape.
Just her.
She paused.
She looked long.
Her reflection stared back.
But something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Her reflection blinked.
She did not.
She gasped.
She stepped back.
The reflection smiled.
Her own mouth stayed still.
She ran.
She shut the door to her room.
She sat on the bed.
Heart racing.
She whispered, “No. No. No.”
She didn’t sleep.
She kept the light on.
In the morning she checked the mirror.
Normal.
Perfectly normal.
Her own reflection.
No smile.
No blink.
No child.
She laughed nervously.
Maybe it was stress.
Maybe she imagined it.
Maybe.
But that night it happened again.
The smile.
Then a second reflection.
Smaller.
Standing beside her.
A child.
Eyes wide.
Hair long.
Face pale.
Emma couldn’t breathe.
She turned to look beside her.
Nothing.
Just air.
But in the mirror—still there.
The child.
Looking up.
Not scared.
Just quiet.
Emma whispered, “Who are you?”
The child didn’t answer.
Just watched.
Emma stepped forward.
The child raised a hand.
Palm flat.
Against the glass.
Emma raised hers too.
Their hands aligned.
Not touching.
Not really.
But it felt warm.
Like it mattered.
She asked, “What do you want?”
The child blinked.
Then faded.
Gone.
The mirror showed only Emma.
Shaken.
Alone.
She sat on the floor.
She stared for hours.
Waiting.
But nothing else happened.
Days passed.
Sometimes the mirror was normal.
Sometimes not.
Sometimes it was just her.
Other times—the child.
Always the same one.
Always silent.
Emma started talking.
Telling stories.
About her day.
About the rain.
The books she read.
The tea she liked.
The child never spoke.
But listened.
Emma felt it.
One night the mirror fogged.
Even though the hallway was cool.
Words formed.
Written on the glass.
She leaned close.
She read:
“Help me.”
Her heart sank.
She whispered, “How?”
No answer.
Only fog.
She touched the mirror.
It was warm.
Then hot.
She pulled back.
The heat faded.
She stood still.
She stared long.
Then went to bed.
She dreamed of mirrors.
Of halls that never ended.
Of children walking behind her.
She woke shaking.
She decided to find out more.
She searched old house records.
Newspapers.
Anything.
At the library she found something.
A story.
From years ago.
A little girl.
Missing.
From this very street.
Never found.
Emma felt a chill.
The photo matched.
The eyes.
The hair.
The soft, pale face.
She whispered, “It’s you.”
She returned home fast.
She stood in front of the mirror.
She said the girl’s name.
Softly.
The girl appeared.
Eyes wide.
Hopeful.
Emma asked, “Do you remember?”
The girl nodded slowly.
She placed her hand on the glass again.
Emma did too.
There was no warmth now.
Only a soft buzz.
A vibration.
The mirror shimmered.
Then stilled.
The girl mouthed, “Please.”
Emma closed her eyes.
She said, “I’ll help you.”
The hallway light flickered.
The house groaned.
The mirror rippled.
Like water.
Emma leaned closer.
She felt dizzy.
The girl reached forward.
Hand through glass.
Impossible.
But real.
Emma didn’t move.
The girl pointed down.
To the floor.
Emma looked.
Hardwood.
Scratched.
Ordinary.
But something tugged her attention.
A small corner of the rug.
Lifted.
She pulled it aside.
There was a crack in the floor.
She got tools.
She pried gently.
The board lifted.
Dust rose.
She coughed.
She looked inside.
A box.
Old.
Wooden.
She opened it.
Inside—small things.
A ribbon.
A marble.
A photograph.
The girl.
Smiling.
Alive.
Emma’s hands trembled.
She looked at the mirror.
The girl was crying.
Tears that glowed.
Emma placed the box in front of the mirror.
The child stepped closer.
She nodded.
Emma asked, “Is this what you needed?”
The girl smiled.
A real smile.
Not eerie.
Not strange.
Just soft.
Grateful.
The hallway grew bright.
The mirror shimmered again.
Then cleared.
No girl.
Just Emma.
She waited.
Minutes passed.
Nothing.
She whispered, “Thank you.”
She took the box.
She placed it on a shelf.
Somewhere safe.
Somewhere kind.
She lit a candle.
For the girl.
For her peace.
For the story that never finished.
And finally did.
From that day, the mirror stayed quiet.
No flickers.
No shapes.
Just reflection.
Emma still passed by.
Still glanced.
Still felt something.
Not fear.
Not sorrow.
Just calm.
Like a promise.
That light would find its way.
Even through glass.
Even through time.
She never moved the mirror.
She let it stay.
She let the hallway stay bright.
Always.
The Forgotten Room
Emma’s house had many rooms.
Some big.
Some small.
Most of them she used.
The kitchen.
The living room.
Her bedroom upstairs.
But there was one room she never used.
Tucked behind a narrow door.
At the end of the hall.
It was always closed.
Always quiet.
She called it the “forgotten room.”
Even though she hadn’t forgotten.
Not really.
She just didn’t go in.
Didn’t feel the need.
Didn’t feel welcome.
It wasn’t locked.
But it might as well have been.
The doorknob was cold.
The air around it felt still.
Dusty.
Heavy.
Once, she tried to open it.
The handle turned.
But the door stuck.
She didn’t push too hard.
Didn’t want to know.
She walked away.
That was months ago.
Then one afternoon—something changed.
She was cleaning.
Wiping windows.
Dusting shelves.
Vacuuming rugs.
She passed the hallway.
The forgotten room’s door was open.
Just slightly.
A crack.
Thin.
But enough to notice.
She stopped.
She stared.
She hadn’t opened it.
She was sure.
She stepped closer.
She peered through the crack.
Darkness.
She couldn’t see in.
But she could feel it.
A quiet breath.
A gentle pull.
She whispered, “Hello?”
No answer.
Just the faint smell of old paper.
And lavender.
She placed her hand on the door.
It swung open.
Slow.
Creaky.
Inside—dust.
Light filtered through a small round window.
The floor was wood.
The wallpaper peeling.
Faded flowers.
A rug in the center.
A chair.
A desk.
A small bed.
Emma stepped in.
Carefully.
The floor groaned beneath her.
She looked around.
The room felt untouched.
Old.
But not ruined.
Like someone had left.
And no one else had ever returned.
She crossed to the desk.
An old journal sat there.
Covered in dust.
She brushed it off.
She opened the first page.
A name.
Written in soft cursive.
Lily.
Emma whispered it aloud.
The air shifted.
A breath against her cheek.
She turned fast.
No one there.
Only light.
Only dust.
She turned another page.
Small drawings.
Notes.
Dreams.
Wishes.
A girl’s voice in ink.
Emma felt a lump in her throat.
She read more.
Lily had once lived here.
Long ago.
She wrote about books.
About birds.
About the stars.
She wrote about missing someone.
About waiting.
Page after page.
Emma sat in the chair.
The wood creaked beneath her.
She kept reading.
One line stood out.
“If I disappear, will anyone remember me?”
Emma stopped.
She closed the journal gently.
She looked at the bed.
Neatly made.
Blanket folded.
A small stuffed bear at the corner.
Its eyes were worn.
One ear torn.
Emma picked it up.
It smelled faintly of lilacs.
And dust.
She whispered, “I remember you.”
The light changed.
Softer now.
Warmer.
The window caught a beam of sun.
It stretched across the rug.
Emma felt watched.
Not in fear.
But in presence.
She stood.
She said, “Lily?”
The air moved again.
Curtains stirred.
She heard something.
Bare feet.
On wood.
Just behind her.
She turned.
No one.
But the journal lay open again.
Another page.
New writing.
Fresh ink.
“You came.”
Emma froze.
She reached out.
Touched the page.
It smeared slightly.
Still wet.
Still new.
She looked around.
Her voice shook.
“I want to help.”
Silence.
But gentle.
Peaceful.
Then a sound.
Soft humming.
From the corner.
She stepped forward.
There was a mirror.
Cracked.
But clean.
She saw herself.
And beside her—
A child.
Lily.
Long hair.
White dress.
No shoes.
Looking up.
Not sad.
Just waiting.
Emma turned.
The space beside her was empty.
But in the mirror, Lily stayed.
Emma whispered, “Do you want to leave?”
The girl nodded.
In the glass.
Emma reached out.
Her hand touched the mirror.
Cool.
Then warm.
Lily pressed her hand to the same spot.
The mirror shimmered.
A soft golden glow.
Then faded.
Lily was gone.
Emma stood alone.
She whispered, “Where did you go?”
No answer.
Only the journal.
Now closed.
She picked it up.
The weight felt different.
Inside, the last page read:
“Thank you.”
She pressed the book to her chest.
She sat on the bed.
She stared out the window.
She didn’t cry.
But she felt full.
Filled with something quiet.
Kind.
The forgotten room wasn’t forgotten anymore.
She dusted it.
Cleaned it.
Opened the curtains.
Let sunlight in.
Every day.
She placed flowers on the desk.
Lavender.
She read the journal again.
Every page.
She learned Lily’s story.
Simple.
Sweet.
And lonely.
But no longer lost.
Emma left the door open now.
She passed by.
She paused.
She said, “Good morning.”
Sometimes she heard humming.
Soft.
From nowhere.
From everywhere.
She smiled.
She never felt alone.
The house felt lighter.
The air easier.
Sometimes she’d sit in the forgotten room.
With tea.
And a book.
And just be.
She never saw Lily again.
Not in mirrors.
Not in dreams.
But the warmth stayed.
The humming sometimes returned.
And the journal stayed closed.
Peacefully.
She touched its cover each morning.
Just once.
A hello.
A thank-you.
For remembering.
For coming in.
For finding the room.
For saying her name.
Emma never closed the door again.
She let the room breathe.
And bloom.
And rest.
The Dollhouse on Willow Street
Emma walked past the house on Willow Street almost every day.
It was old.
With cracked shutters.
Peeling paint.
And vines creeping up the sides.
No one lived there.
Not anymore.
People said it was empty.
But Emma didn’t think it felt empty.
Not quite.
There was always a feeling.
A stillness.
Like someone holding their breath.
Waiting.
One morning, she noticed something.
In the window.
Upstairs.
A flicker.
Like movement.
She paused.
Looked up.
And saw it.
A dollhouse.
In the center of the window.
Perfectly placed.
Painted pink and blue.
With a tiny front door.
And curtains.
It hadn’t been there yesterday.
She was sure.
She took a few steps closer.
The window was dusty.
But the dollhouse shone.
Like it was freshly cleaned.
Like it was waiting.
Emma blinked.
Something moved.
Inside it.
Just a flicker.
A shadow.
She stepped back.
Faster now.
Heart thumping.
She told herself it was nothing.
Just a trick of light.
Or wind.
Or memory.
But the next day, it was still there.
Still shining.
Still perfect.
She crossed the street.
She stared at the house.
Then the dollhouse.
The curtains twitched.
Inside the big house.
Not the dollhouse.
Emma gasped.
She looked again.
Nothing.
Just still curtains.
She told herself to walk away.
But she didn’t.
Something pulled her.
Not her feet.
Something quieter.
Something deep.
She found herself at the gate.
Rusty.
Crooked.
She pushed it open.
It groaned.
The sound echoed down the street.
No one looked.
No one was out.
Just Emma.
And the house.
And the dollhouse upstairs.
She stepped up to the porch.
The boards creaked under her shoes.
She reached for the door.
It opened before she touched it.
Just a crack.
Enough.
Emma stood still.
Then, slowly, stepped inside.
It smelled like dust.
And wood.
And something sweet.
Like candy left too long in a drawer.
Light filtered in through tall windows.
Soft.
Yellow.
The house was quiet.
But not empty.
She felt it.
Like someone watching from the stairs.
Or the walls.
She turned to leave.
But saw it.
On a table.
Near the stairs.
The dollhouse.
She blinked.
It had been upstairs.
She was sure.
But here it was.
Right in front of her.
Emma stepped closer.
It was perfect.
Even more up close.
Tiny windows.
Little furniture.
Mini plates.
Mini spoons.
Tiny rugs on tiny floors.
It looked real.
Not just a toy.
She reached out.
Her finger brushed the roof.
It was warm.
Too warm.
She pulled back.
A tiny door creaked open.
By itself.
Emma leaned closer.
She peered inside.
She saw…
Herself.
Standing by the table.
Looking into the dollhouse.
She gasped.
She stepped back fast.
The tiny door closed.
She stared.
Breathing hard.
Her chest felt tight.
The dollhouse just sat there.
Like nothing happened.
But it had.
She knew it had.
She ran.
Out the front door.
Back through the gate.
Down the street.
All the way home.
She didn’t look back.
Not that day.
Not the next.
But on the third day, she walked past again.
She couldn’t help it.
And there it was.
In the window.
Upstairs.
The dollhouse.
Back where it was before.
Shining in the sun.
She crossed the street again.
This time slower.
This time steady.
She reached the gate.
It was open.
She stepped through.
The porch creaked.
The door opened.
Again.
By itself.
Emma entered.
The dollhouse was on the table.
Just like before.
She stepped closer.
She didn’t touch it.
Not this time.
But the little door opened again.
She looked in.
And saw a room.
Not hers.
Not the house.
Something different.
A tiny bedroom.
With tiny wallpaper.
Tiny shoes on the floor.
A tiny girl sitting on the bed.
Her hair was long.
Her face was turned away.
Emma whispered, “Hello?”
The girl looked up.
Her eyes met Emma’s.
So small.
So clear.
The girl raised her hand.
Emma did too.
Their fingers met the edge of the opening.
Not quite touching.
But almost.
The girl whispered something.
Emma leaned in.
“I can’t hear you.”
The girl whispered again.
One word.
“Trapped.”
Emma’s heart pounded.
She asked, “How do I help you?”
The girl didn’t answer.
Just stared.
So Emma watched.
She looked deeper.
The dollhouse shimmered.
And suddenly—
Emma wasn’t standing.
She was sitting.
In a small chair.
In a small room.
She looked around.
Everything was tiny.
She was inside.
Inside the dollhouse.
She gasped.
She stood.
The walls were real.
The windows were glowing.
She turned.
The little girl stood behind her.
Quiet.
Still.
Emma whispered, “What is this place?”
The girl said, “They forgot me.”
Emma stepped closer.
“Who?”
The girl looked out the window.
“Everyone.”
Emma touched her shoulder.
It felt like air.
And warmth.
She asked, “Why me?”
The girl said, “You saw me.”
Emma nodded.
“I want to help.”
The girl pointed to the ceiling.
Above them.
A light glowed there.
Soft.
Pale.
Like morning.
Emma reached up.
Her fingers brushed it.
And everything faded.
She opened her eyes.
She was on the floor.
In the old house.
By the table.
The dollhouse sat still.
Closed.
She sat up.
She felt dizzy.
Heavy.
But safe.
The little door was shut now.
But something was different.
Inside the dollhouse—
No more shadow.
No more girl.
Only light.
Soft.
Steady.
Emma stood slowly.
She whispered, “Thank you.”
The air felt lighter.
The room smelled like lilacs.
She walked to the door.
It didn’t open this time.
She opened it herself.
Easily.
The porch was bright.
The sky was clear.
She stepped outside.
The house was still.
But peaceful.
Not waiting anymore.
She turned back once.
Just to look.
The dollhouse was gone from the window.
Gone from the table.
She never saw it again.
But sometimes, when she passed Willow Street—
She felt something.
Like a quiet wave.
A soft goodbye.
Like a story closed.
And remembered.
And set free.
The Girl Who Lived in the Mirror
There was a mirror in Emma’s room.
Tall.
Old.
With a gold frame.
She didn’t like it much.
But it had always been there.
Since before she could remember.
Her mother said it came with the house.
Emma said, “Can we take it down?”
Her mother said, “It’s too heavy.”
So it stayed.
Against the wall.
Near the window.
Most of the time, Emma ignored it.
She didn’t like her reflection.
Not because of how she looked.
But because sometimes—
It looked… off.
Just a little.
Like her reflection blinked a moment too late.
Or turned its head when she didn’t.
She told herself it was in her mind.
Just tired eyes.
Just shadows.
But still—she avoided it.
Until one night.
She couldn’t sleep.
The wind howled.
The moonlight filled the room.
She rolled over.
And looked.
The mirror.
It was glowing.
Just a little.
She sat up.
It stopped.
She frowned.
Then looked again.
Nothing.
Only her reflection.
She whispered, “Weird.”
Then froze.
Her reflection smiled.
But she hadn’t.
Not even a little.
Emma’s heart jumped.
She leaned in.
Her reflection leaned in too.
But too slow.
Just behind her.
A beat late.
Emma whispered, “Who are you?”
The reflection blinked.
Then mouthed the words:
“Emma.”
But her lips hadn’t moved.
Not one bit.
Emma stumbled back.
Her hand hit the wall.
The mirror shimmered.
Just for a second.
Like water.
Then still again.
Emma ran from the room.
Downstairs.
To the kitchen.
Her mom stood by the sink.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Emma nodded fast.
But her hands shook.
She didn’t sleep much that night.
In the morning, the mirror looked normal.
Just a mirror.
Just glass.
Just her.
But not quite.
She avoided it for days.
But the mirror waited.
And then one afternoon—
She dropped a hairbrush.
It rolled toward the mirror.
Stopped at the base.
She reached for it.
And saw something.
In the corner of the glass.
A face.
Not hers.
A girl.
About her age.
Same eyes.
Same mouth.
But not her.
The girl in the mirror looked sad.
She placed her hand on the inside of the glass.
Emma did too.
They matched.
Palm to palm.
The girl mouthed, “Please.”
Emma whispered, “What do you want?”
The girl didn’t answer.
Only stared.
So Emma leaned closer.
And whispered, “Who are you?”
The girl whispered back.
But Emma didn’t hear.
She only saw the lips move.
She read them.
Slow.
“Let me out.”
Emma froze.
“No,” she said.
The mirror shimmered.
Light rippled across the glass.
Then faded.
The girl was gone.
Only her own reflection again.
Only herself.
That night, she dreamed.
The mirror.
The girl.
A room that looked like hers—
But not.
Dim.
Dusty.
And empty.
The girl stood inside it.
Alone.
Looking out.
At her.
Emma woke with a jolt.
The mirror was dark.
But her reflection wasn’t alone.
The girl stood behind it.
Quiet.
Still.
Watching.
Emma pulled the covers up.
She didn’t move again till morning.
She told her mom.
Her mom smiled, but looked unsure.
“It’s just a dream,” she said.
Emma didn’t believe that.
She started watching the mirror.
Carefully.
Every morning.
Every night.
Sometimes the girl appeared.
Sometimes not.
But Emma knew she was there.
Waiting.
Watching.
One evening, Emma said, “Why me?”
The girl answered.
Words on glass.
Drawn in fog.
“Because you see me.”
Emma reached out.
Touched the cold glass.
It felt thin.
Like it could break.
Or melt.
The girl whispered, “I used to live here.”
Emma nodded.
“Who are you?”
The girl didn’t answer.
She only turned away.
Emma leaned into the mirror.
“Can I help you?”
The girl turned back.
And smiled.
A real smile.
Not the strange, off one.
A soft, sad smile.
“I think so,” she said.
The glass shimmered.
Emma felt a tug.
Not on her arm.
Not on her clothes.
But deeper.
Inside.
The room spun.
Light flickered.
And then—
She was standing in the mirror.
Inside.
Everything was quiet.
Gray.
Heavy.
She turned around.
The girl stood nearby.
“Where am I?” Emma asked.
The girl said, “My side.”
Emma looked around.
It was her room.
But not.
Darker.
Still.
Like no one had touched it in years.
The girl stepped closer.
“I’ve been here a long time.”
Emma asked, “Why?”
“I got lost,” the girl said.
“In the glass.”
Emma swallowed hard.
“Can you come out?”
The girl shook her head.
“Not alone.”
Emma looked back at the mirror.
She saw her real room.
Bright.
Normal.
Empty.
No one inside.
Emma turned.
She took the girl’s hand.
It felt warm.
And soft.
Like real skin.
“Come with me,” Emma said.
They stepped forward.
The mirror glowed.
Light surrounded them.
The air shimmered.
And then—
They were both standing in the real room.
Outside the mirror.
Both breathing.
Both whole.
The girl looked around.
She smiled.
“I’m home,” she said.
Emma smiled back.
But the mirror—
It changed.
The glass dulled.
The frame cracked.
The reflection no longer moved on its own.
It was just a mirror now.
Just glass.
Just light.
The girl turned to Emma.
“Thank you.”
Emma nodded.
“What’s your name?”
The girl smiled.
“Emmaline.”
Emma blinked.
“That’s like mine.”
The girl nodded.
“I think that’s why you saw me.”
Emma laughed softly.
They sat on the bed.
Side by side.
The air felt warm.
Still.
Calm.
Her mom knocked on the door.
“Talking to yourself again?” she called.
Emma glanced at Emmaline.
Then back at the door.
“No,” she said.
“I’m not alone.”
And it was true.
From that day on, the mirror stayed quiet.
But Emmaline didn’t leave.
She stayed with Emma.
In the world.
In the light.
Not trapped.
Not forgotten.
Emma gave her clothes.
Books.
They whispered stories late into the night.
And sometimes—
Just sometimes—
When Emma looked in the mirror—
She saw only herself.
And that was okay.
Because the girl who lived in the mirror—
Didn’t anymore.
The Shadow Beneath the Swing
Emma loved the old swing in her backyard.
It hung from a sturdy oak.
Thick rope.
Wooden seat.
It creaked when still.
It sang when moved.
She swung every evening.
At dusk.
When the air cooled.
When crickets sang.
One night, she heard something odd.
Not the creak.
Not the wind.
A soft whisper.
Beneath the swing.
She froze.
The whisper stopped.
She peered down.
Only grass.
Only shadows.
She called, “Hello?”
No answer.
She shrugged.
She swung gently.
The whisper returned.
Softer now.
Like someone humming.
Under the swing.
She stopped swinging.
She leaned forward.
She felt a chill.
She whispered, “Who’s there?”
The humming ceased.
Only her breath echoed.
She touched the grass.
Cold.
Damp.
She stood.
She walked away.
She told herself it was wind.
Or an animal.
Or her mind.
The next evening, she returned.
Twilight.
Shadows long.
She sat on the swing.
She waited.
She watched the grass.
The whisper came again.
This time a word.
Soft.
Clear.
“Emma…”
Her heart jumped.
She leaned closer.
No one.
No voice.
Only night.
She whispered back, “Yes?”
The swing moved alone.
Back and forth.
Slowly.
As if pushed.
By an unseen hand.
Emma gasped.
She jumped off.
She backed up.
The swing stopped.
Perfectly still.
She exhaled.
She laughed nervously.
“It’s just a swing,” she said.
But she didn’t believe it.
She went inside.
She left the porch light on.
At midnight she woke.
She heard the creak again.
Downstairs.
She tiptoed out.
She saw the swing moving.
And a shadow beneath it.
Shifting.
Long.
Thin.
She whispered, “Stop.”
The shadow paused.
Then vanished.
She ran back upstairs.
She locked her door.
She lay awake.
She stared at the ceiling.
Morning took forever.
When dawn broke, she crept down.
The swing hung still.
No whisper.
No shadow.
She touched the seat.
Warm.
Strange.
She told her mom.
Her mom frowned.
“Just imagination,” she said.
Emma nodded.
But she couldn’t forget.
That evening, she returned again.
She sat softly.
She reached out.
She touched the wood.
The whisper came.
Week-old dust.
Under the swing.
Only one word.
“Play.”
Emma trembled.
She stood.
She backed away.
The swing swung faster.
Like laughter.
She covered her ears.
She ran.
She vowed never to return.
But she did.
The next day.
She needed answers.
She grabbed a flashlight.
She stood by the swing.
She shone light beneath.
The grass hid nothing.
No hole.
No creature.
Only broken toys.
A small doll.
A torn teddy.
A little shoe.
Emma stared.
Where had they come from?
She gathered them gently.
She carried them inside.
She placed them on her bed.
She dusted them off.
She felt a presence.
Behind her.
She turned.
Nothing.
She hugged the doll.
She whispered, “I’ll help you.”
That night, she left the toys on the swing.
She left her light on.
She lay awake.
She listened.
At midnight, the whisper came.
“Thank you…”
She sat up.
Her door creaked.
She watched the hallway.
Nothing moved.
She closed her eyes again.
Morning came.
She ran downstairs.
The toys were gone.
Only a small note remained.
Crinkled paper.
In the grass.
She picked it up.
One word:
“Home.”
She frowned.
She stepped outside.
She followed footprints.
Tiny.
Bare.
They led to the old swing.
Beneath it.
She knelt.
She saw an outline.
Like a door in the earth.
Covered by grass.
She brushed soil away.
A wooden hatch.
Small.
Hidden.
She lifted it.
Creaky hinges.
It revealed steps.
Downward.
Her flashlight in hand, she climbed.
The air grew cooler.
Fainter light.
She reached a small room.
Underground.
Walls of stone.
A single window high above.
A child’s room.
Small bed.
Dusty toy chest.
Blank wall.
Empty.
She shone the light.
Into the chest.
Inside—more toys.
Broken.
Old.
Memories.
She gasped.
She understood.
She whispered, “You lived here.”
The air shifted.
A small voice.
“Emma…”
She spun.
The swing’s voice.
But here.
In the room.
A girl.
Pale.
Thin.
Eyes wide.
She wore a tattered dress.
No shoes.
She looked at Emma.
“Thank you,” she said.
Emma’s heart ached.
She knelt.
“Why here?”
The girl pointed at the chest.
“I was forgotten.”
Emma touched the stone floor.
“Let’s remember you.”
She opened the chest.
She picked a toy.
A small wooden horse.
She held it out.
The girl’s eyes lit.
She reached.
Her hand passed through.
Emma’s fingers.
Warm.
Real.
The girl smiled.
Tears formed.
Emma wiped them.
The girl whispered, “Free me.”
Emma nodded.
She stood.
She led the girl upstairs.
Steps creaked.
Air warmed.
She climbed into the night.
She held flashlight.
She held hope.
She reached the hatch.
She opened it.
Moonlight spilled in.
She helped the girl out.
The girl stepped onto grass.
Emma closed the hatch.
She locked it with a stone.
She turned.
The girl looked at the swing.
She approached.
She sat.
She swung gently.
She laughed.
Soft.
Emma watched.
Her heart light.
The girl called, “Emma?”
She ran.
She joined.
They swung together.
Side by side.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t need to.
The night held them.
The whisper stayed silent.
The swing sang.
When dawn came, the girl vanished.
Emma woke under the swing.
Sunlight warm.
She sat.
Empty grass.
No girl.
No hatch.
No footprints.
But in the soil—
Tiny handprints.
And words carved softly:
“Thank you.”
Emma smiled.
She touched the marks.
She whispered, “Rest well.”
She left the backyard lit.
She put fresh flowers near the swing.
Every evening, she visited.
She swung alone.
But she felt company.
A gentle presence beneath.
A soft memory.
A promise kept.
Always.
Understanding the Genre
Every great story belongs to a genre — a hidden code that shapes what we expect, how we feel, and why we keep turning the page.
Historical Roots
Ghost stories in English go way back:
- Pagan folklore: Early stories about spirits.
- Medieval ballads: Old songs that told spooky tales.
- Shakespeare’s ghosts: Like Banquo’s ghost in Macbeth, where ghosts start to show up in stories.
Later on, the Gothic Revival made ghost stories popular again, like in The Castle of Otranto. By the Victorian era, people got really into spiritualism, and writers like M.R. James told ghost stories by the fire.
Key Characteristics
What makes a ghost story work? Here are the basics:
- Atmosphere: A feeling that something’s wrong, like you’re being watched.
- Supernatural: The ghost is often mysterious. Sometimes you understand it, sometimes you don’t, but that’s what makes it scary.
Sub-Genre Variants
Ghost stories can look different, like:
- Gothic romance: Dark love stories with ghosts.
- Psychological horror: Ghosts in your mind more than in the world around you.
- Campfire legends: Short, spooky tales told to scare people at night.
Choosing Your Setting
The right setting does more than hold your story — it breathes life into it, shaping every moment, mood, and movement like an invisible character.
Why Place Matters
The setting isn’t just a backdrop. It adds to the mood, tells part of the story, and can even feel like a character itself.
Classic Locales
Some places just feel right for a ghost story:
- Abandoned mansions: Big, old houses with lots of empty rooms.
- Foggy woods: Dark, misty forests where you can’t see far ahead.
- Desolate inns: Quiet, lonely places where strange things happen.
Modern Twists
You can mix it up with more modern settings like:
- High-rise apartments: Tall, empty buildings with mysterious sounds.
- VR or online “haunts”: Ghosts that show up in virtual worlds.
- Urban legends: Ghost stories tied to cities and neighborhoods.
Developing Your Characters
Characters are the heart of your story — the ones readers laugh with, cry for, and follow long after the last page ends.
The Protagonist
Your main character should feel real. They need some flaws, something they’re struggling with, and something personal at stake. This helps create an emotional journey for them.
The Ghost
The ghost can be one of two things:
- A tragic figure with a backstory that explains its haunting.
- A malevolent force driven by anger or some dark purpose.
What drives the ghost? Is it looking for something? Or is it just out to cause fear?
Supporting Cast
The supporting characters help build tension. You might have:
- Skeptics who don’t believe in ghosts and keep questioning everything.
- Sidekicks who try to help but don’t always get it right.
- Accidental witnesses who stumble into the haunting and add unexpected twists.
Plot Structure & Pacing
A great story is like a heartbeat — its structure keeps it alive, and its pacing makes sure we feel every thrilling moment.
Exposition
Start by dropping small hints that something’s not quite right—little details, rumors, or objects that feel off.
Rising Tension
Build the fear slowly, from things like cold spots and whispers to bigger, more obvious creepy events.
Climax
This is where everything comes to a head—whether it’s a big reveal, a confrontation, or a twist.
Falling Action & Resolution
Decide how you want to end it: do you leave a creepy feeling that sticks with the reader, or do you wrap it all up with closure?
Building Suspense & Fear
True fear creeps in slowly — built one shiver, one shadow, and one unanswered question at a time.
Pacing Techniques
Keep the tension tight with short chapters, cliffhangers, or slowing down at key moments to make the reader feel the weight of the scene.
Sensory Details
Use sounds and smells to set the mood: creaking floors, distant moans, the smell of something decaying.
Foreshadowing & Red Herrings
Drop hints early on, then twist them to keep readers on edge, never quite sure what’s coming next.
Crafting the Supernatural
The supernatural works best when it feels almost real — close enough to touch, yet just beyond what we can explain.
Establishing “Rules”
Decide what your ghost can and can’t do, and stick to those rules throughout the story to keep things consistent.
Mystery vs. Explanation
Leave enough mystery to keep readers curious, but don’t over-explain everything. Let some things stay unknown.
Invented Mythology
Add in local legends or create your own backstories for the ghost to make it feel even more real and eerie.
Language & Style Tips
The right words do more than tell a story — they create a world, set the mood, and leave echoes long after the last line.
Tone
Decide what kind of fear you want to create: subtle dread that builds slowly, or more intense, visceral horror that hits hard.
Imagery & Metaphor
Use comparisons to make things feel eerie—like saying “the hallway sighed like old bones” to make it come alive.
Dialogue
Keep the characters’ reactions real. Let them show shock, denial, or even bravado. And don’t forget how fear makes people’s speech falter or break.
Writing Your Own Ghost Story
“Writing a ghost story is like opening a door to the unknown — you never know what you might stir awake.
Step-by-Step Workflow
- Brainstorm your setting and mood.
- Sketch your characters—who they are, what they want, and what they fear.
- Outline key scenes: beginning hints, rising scares, climax, and ending.
- Draft your story, letting the tension build naturally.
Incorporate Local Legends
Use real places or local folklore to ground your tale. A familiar street or old town myth makes the ghost feel closer to home.
Keep It Personal
Tie the supernatural to real emotions—grief, guilt, love, or regret. When readers care about your characters, the scares hit harder.
Revision & Feedback
A great story is not just written — it is rewritten, shaped by fresh eyes, sharper words, and the courage to make it even better.
Self-Editing Checklist
- Check for consistency in your ghost’s rules and behavior.
- Make sure the pacing flows smoothly, building tension at the right moments.
- Ensure the scares are clear and effective.
Beta Readers
Ask them simple, key questions like:
- “Did you feel the tension?”
- “Were any parts confusing or unclear?”
Polishing Prose
Remove any clichés, tighten up your descriptions, and find ways to make the language stronger. Keep it clean and sharp.
Conclusion
In the end, a ghost story stays with us because it touches something deeper — our fears, our imagination, and our endless love for the unknown.
Recap Key Takeaways
Remember, a good ghost story needs:
- The right setting to create atmosphere.
- Strong characters with real stakes.
- Suspense that builds slowly and keeps the reader hooked.
- A style that matches the mood, from tone to dialogue.
Final Encouragement
“Embrace the unknown—let your imagination lead the way.”
Now, it’s your turn! Share your own ghost-story drafts or your favorite spine-tinglers. Let’s keep the haunting going!
Mark Richards is the creative mind behind Classica FM, a podcast platform that brings stories, knowledge, and inspiration to listeners of all ages. With a passion for storytelling and a love for diverse topics, he curates engaging content—from kids’ tales to thought-provoking discussions for young adults.
