#ghoststories — Public Fediverse posts

The Uncanny Valley: Tales from a Lost Town (The Uncanny Chronicles)

"Thirty-Three Tales. Thirty-Three Tellers. One Lost Town"

Sale: $6.99 to $1.99

by Gregory Miller
Rating: 4.3/5 (1,685 Reviews)

#horror #fiction #books #booksky #thriller #ghoststories #shortstories #creepy #mystery

The Uncanny Valley: Tales from...

The Uncanny Valley: Tales from a Lost Town (The Uncanny Chronicles)

"Thirty-Three Tales. Thirty-Three Tellers. One Lost Town"

Sale: $6.99 to $1.99

by Gregory Miller
Rating: 4.3/5 (1,685 Reviews)

#horror #fiction #books #booksky #thriller #ghoststories #shortstories #creepy #mystery

The Uncanny Valley: Tales from...

The Uncanny Valley: Tales from a Lost Town (The Uncanny Chronicles)

"Thirty-Three Tales. Thirty-Three Tellers. One Lost Town"

Sale: $6.99 to $1.99

by Gregory Miller
Rating: 4.3/5 (1,685 Reviews)

#horror #fiction #books #booksky #thriller #ghoststories #shortstories #creepy #mystery

The Uncanny Valley: Tales from...

The Uncanny Valley: Tales from a Lost Town (The Uncanny Chronicles)

"Thirty-Three Tales. Thirty-Three Tellers. One Lost Town"

Sale: $6.99 to $1.99

by Gregory Miller
Rating: 4.3/5 (1,685 Reviews)

#horror #fiction #books #booksky #thriller #ghoststories #shortstories #creepy #mystery

The Uncanny Valley: Tales from...

The Unquiet Hour - No Cost Newsletter

https://theunquiethour.com

#TheUnquietHour #GhostStories #Folklore #StrangeHistory #Unexplained #Mystery #HauntedPlaces #LocalLegends #Storytelling #CuriousMinds #writing

The Unquiet Hour - No Cost Newsletter

https://theunquiethour.com

#TheUnquietHour #GhostStories #Folklore #StrangeHistory #Unexplained #Mystery #HauntedPlaces #LocalLegends #Storytelling #CuriousMinds #writing

Oh! YES! Another Zackie story!
reynafavis.wordpress.com/2026/07/02/t...
Kinda going back to stories predating the ones so far, does that make it a prequel of sorts? #Zackie #ZackieStories #psychopompZackie #fangirling #mysteries #ghoststories #indieauthors #books #summerreading #faveseries

Oh! YES! Another Zackie story!
reynafavis.wordpress.com/2026/07/02/t...
Kinda going back to stories predating the ones so far, does that make it a prequel of sorts? #Zackie #ZackieStories #psychopompZackie #fangirling #mysteries #ghoststories #indieauthors #books #summerreading #faveseries

Why yes, I sure did wear a "I ❤️ Weenies" right before going to grab some pictures of St. Luke's Chapel with these two, and yes, downtown Raleigh was in the middle of a pride celebration. Turns out, a lot of others like weenies as well!

#Skepticism #Paranormal #CriticalThinking #PhantomChoir #GhostStories #Debunked #ParanormalInvestigation

Why yes, I sure did wear a "I ❤️ Weenies" right before going to grab some pictures of St. Luke's Chapel with these two, and yes, downtown Raleigh was in the middle of a pride celebration. Turns out, a lot of others like weenies as well!

#Skepticism #Paranormal #CriticalThinking #PhantomChoir #GhostStories #Debunked #ParanormalInvestigation

An abandoned college in Maryland became the center of chilling legends involving ghosts, rituals, and unexplained events. The truth remains elusive.
#AncientOrigins #HellHouse #HauntedHistory #GhostStories #Mystery
Read more:https://www.ancient-origins.net/myths-legends/legend-hell-house-college-st-mary-s-007054

An abandoned college in Maryland became the center of chilling legends involving ghosts, rituals, and unexplained events. The truth remains elusive.
#AncientOrigins #HellHouse #HauntedHistory #GhostStories #Mystery
Read more:https://www.ancient-origins.net/myths-legends/legend-hell-house-college-st-mary-s-007054

An abandoned college in Maryland became the center of chilling legends involving ghosts, rituals, and unexplained events. The truth remains elusive.
#AncientOrigins #HellHouse #HauntedHistory #GhostStories #Mystery
Read more:https://www.ancient-origins.net/myths-legends/legend-hell-house-college-st-mary-s-007054

Stocksbridge Bypass Revisited

There are some stories that refuse to stay buried.

You can examine them, challenge them, investigate them and pull apart every available piece of evidence. You can stand in the places where events allegedly occurred. You can interview witnesses. You can compare accounts and search for inconsistencies. You can spend years trying to separate fact from fiction. Yet somehow the story survives.

The Stocksbridge Bypass is one such story. For many years the road has been described as Britain’s most haunted highway. Tales of phantom monks, ghostly children, strange figures and unexplained encounters have become woven into the folklore of South Yorkshire.

Television programmes have featured the road. Paranormal investigators have visited it. Podcasts continue to discuss it. New generations of ghost hunters discover it every year.

In 2010, alongside my good friend and colleague Steve Mera, I took a critical look at the legend. Together we examined witness accounts, investigated locations, considered alternative explanations and attempted to establish what could actually be known about one of Britain’s most famous hauntings. You can read that report here – Stocksbridge Bypass: A Critical Review

The article generated considerable discussion.

Some readers felt the evidence supported the existence of something genuinely unexplained. Others felt the case demonstrated how easily stories can grow and evolve over time. Others, well… They just thought we were being killjoys. What fascinated me most, however, was not the evidence itself.

It was what happened afterwards. The legend carried on. If anything, it became stronger.

Sixteen years later the monk still walks. The children still play. The stories continue to circulate. And perhaps that tells us something important. Because the real mystery of the Stocksbridge Bypass may not be whether it is haunted. The real mystery may be how modern folklore is created.

To understand that, we need to go back to the beginning.

The bypass opened during the late 1980s, designed to ease traffic congestion around Stocksbridge. It was, by any reasonable measure, a modern road. Unlike ancient lanes and forgotten trackways, it arrived complete with engineers, planning documents and living witnesses. Yet almost from the beginning strange stories began to emerge.

Construction workers reported unusual experiences. Security guards described encounters with mysterious figures. Most famously, stories began circulating about a hooded monk seen near Pearoyd Bridge. Other reports quickly followed. Ghostly children. Shadowy figures. Unexplained feelings of dread. As often happens with folklore, the stories accumulated.

One witness tells a tale. Another adds a detail. A newspaper reports the account. A television programme broadcasts it. A book repeats it. A podcast retells it. Each retelling adds another layer. By the time most people encounter the legend, they are rarely hearing the original story. They are hearing the latest version.

Folklorists have long recognised this process. Traditional folklore was once carried by word of mouth around hearths, pubs and village greens. Today it spreads through websites, social media, documentaries and YouTube channels. The mechanism has changed. Human nature has not.

The Stocksbridge Bypass exists at a fascinating crossroads between traditional folklore and modern media. Had the story emerged a century earlier, it might have remained a local tale known only to nearby communities. Instead it appeared at exactly the right moment. Local newspapers reported it. Television discovered it. Programmes such as Strange But True? introduced it to a national audience and suddenly a South Yorkshire ghost story belonged to the whole country. The monk became a celebrity.

What is particularly interesting is how the various elements of the haunting reflect much older traditions. Take the monk – Please take him. He has a dirty habit(sorry!)- Britain is full of phantom monks. Many appear near ruined abbeys, ancient churches and former religious sites. Some are associated with historical events. Others seem to exist purely because a hooded figure emerging from the darkness is an inherently unsettling image.

The ghost children are equally familiar. Stories of spectral children appear throughout British folklore. Sometimes they are linked to tragedies. Sometimes they seem entirely disconnected from any identifiable historical event. They both occupy a strange place within our collective imagination.The bypass may be modern. Its ghosts are anything but and this raises another intriguing possibility – Perhaps Stocksbridge Bypass did not create new folklore. Perhaps it simply provided a new stage upon which old folklore could perform – After all, roads have always attracted stories. Travellers are vulnerable. They are away from home. They move through unfamiliar landscapes, often at night. The road is a liminal space, neither here nor there. Folklore thrives in such places, from phantom hitchhikers to black dogs, from highwaymen to ghosts, Britain’s roads have never been short of stories. The bypass merely joined a much older tradition.

The surrounding landscape contributes its own atmosphere. This part of South Yorkshire possesses a unique character. The hills rise abruptly above former industrial communities. Woodland presses against roads and reservoirs. Old boundaries blur into newer developments. There is a sense of transition everywhere. The landscape feels ancient and modern simultaneously. On misty evenings the bypass can appear genuinely uncanny, but hat does not prove the existence of ghosts.

It does, however, help explain why ghost stories flourish there. The atmosphere matters, as does landscape and even the place. After all, the most enduring legends are rarely attached to locations that feel ordinary.

So, as the years pass, another process becomes visible.The original witnesses gradually fade from the story. Some have passed away. Others have withdrawn from public discussion. Yet the legend continues independently of them. It no longer requires the original events, it has become self-sustaining and this, perhaps, is the final stage of folklore. A story reaches a point where it no longer belongs to individual witnesses. It belongs to the community. Stocksbridge Bypass has reached that point.

Whether one believes in ghosts or not almost becomes irrelevant. The legend now exists in its own right. Visitors still stop. Investigators still search. Stories continue to be told. And somewhere between the steel towns, the moors and the woodland valleys of South Yorkshire, a hooded figure continues to walk through the public imagination.

My investigation with Steve Mera remains one of the most rewarding pieces of research I have undertaken. Not because we solved a mystery, but because we were able to watch folklore at work. The bypass taught me that legends are living things. They evolve and adapt. They survive criticism. Sometimes they even grow stronger because of it.

The monk may never be conclusively identified, the children may never be explained. But the debate? The debate will undoubtedly continue.

The greatest lesson of the Stocksbridge Bypass investigation for me is that stories have power – not because they are true or because they are false. But because people continue to tell them.

And as long as that happens, the ghost road of South Yorkshire will never truly fall silent.

Further Reading:

David Clarke – articles on contemporary folklore and road ghost traditions

Steve Mera and Kirst Mason D’Raven – Stocksbridge Bypass: A Critical Review

Strange But True? archives

Jacqueline Simpson and Steve Roud – A Dictionary of English Folklore

Katharine Briggs – British Folk Tales and Legends

Copyright Notice:

© 2026 Mysterious Times. All rights reserved. This article may not be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form without prior written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations used in reviews, research or educational purposes.

Stocksbridge Bypass Revisited

There are some stories that refuse to stay buried.

You can examine them, challenge them, investigate them and pull apart every available piece of evidence. You can stand in the places where events allegedly occurred. You can interview witnesses. You can compare accounts and search for inconsistencies. You can spend years trying to separate fact from fiction. Yet somehow the story survives.

The Stocksbridge Bypass is one such story. For many years the road has been described as Britain’s most haunted highway. Tales of phantom monks, ghostly children, strange figures and unexplained encounters have become woven into the folklore of South Yorkshire.

Television programmes have featured the road. Paranormal investigators have visited it. Podcasts continue to discuss it. New generations of ghost hunters discover it every year.

In 2010, alongside my good friend and colleague Steve Mera, I took a critical look at the legend. Together we examined witness accounts, investigated locations, considered alternative explanations and attempted to establish what could actually be known about one of Britain’s most famous hauntings. You can read that report here – Stocksbridge Bypass: A Critical Review

The article generated considerable discussion.

Some readers felt the evidence supported the existence of something genuinely unexplained. Others felt the case demonstrated how easily stories can grow and evolve over time. Others, well… They just thought we were being killjoys. What fascinated me most, however, was not the evidence itself.

It was what happened afterwards. The legend carried on. If anything, it became stronger.

Sixteen years later the monk still walks. The children still play. The stories continue to circulate. And perhaps that tells us something important. Because the real mystery of the Stocksbridge Bypass may not be whether it is haunted. The real mystery may be how modern folklore is created.

To understand that, we need to go back to the beginning.

The bypass opened during the late 1980s, designed to ease traffic congestion around Stocksbridge. It was, by any reasonable measure, a modern road. Unlike ancient lanes and forgotten trackways, it arrived complete with engineers, planning documents and living witnesses. Yet almost from the beginning strange stories began to emerge.

Construction workers reported unusual experiences. Security guards described encounters with mysterious figures. Most famously, stories began circulating about a hooded monk seen near Pearoyd Bridge. Other reports quickly followed. Ghostly children. Shadowy figures. Unexplained feelings of dread. As often happens with folklore, the stories accumulated.

One witness tells a tale. Another adds a detail. A newspaper reports the account. A television programme broadcasts it. A book repeats it. A podcast retells it. Each retelling adds another layer. By the time most people encounter the legend, they are rarely hearing the original story. They are hearing the latest version.

Folklorists have long recognised this process. Traditional folklore was once carried by word of mouth around hearths, pubs and village greens. Today it spreads through websites, social media, documentaries and YouTube channels. The mechanism has changed. Human nature has not.

The Stocksbridge Bypass exists at a fascinating crossroads between traditional folklore and modern media. Had the story emerged a century earlier, it might have remained a local tale known only to nearby communities. Instead it appeared at exactly the right moment. Local newspapers reported it. Television discovered it. Programmes such as Strange But True? introduced it to a national audience and suddenly a South Yorkshire ghost story belonged to the whole country. The monk became a celebrity.

What is particularly interesting is how the various elements of the haunting reflect much older traditions. Take the monk – Please take him. He has a dirty habit(sorry!)- Britain is full of phantom monks. Many appear near ruined abbeys, ancient churches and former religious sites. Some are associated with historical events. Others seem to exist purely because a hooded figure emerging from the darkness is an inherently unsettling image.

The ghost children are equally familiar. Stories of spectral children appear throughout British folklore. Sometimes they are linked to tragedies. Sometimes they seem entirely disconnected from any identifiable historical event. They both occupy a strange place within our collective imagination.The bypass may be modern. Its ghosts are anything but and this raises another intriguing possibility – Perhaps Stocksbridge Bypass did not create new folklore. Perhaps it simply provided a new stage upon which old folklore could perform – After all, roads have always attracted stories. Travellers are vulnerable. They are away from home. They move through unfamiliar landscapes, often at night. The road is a liminal space, neither here nor there. Folklore thrives in such places, from phantom hitchhikers to black dogs, from highwaymen to ghosts, Britain’s roads have never been short of stories. The bypass merely joined a much older tradition.

The surrounding landscape contributes its own atmosphere. This part of South Yorkshire possesses a unique character. The hills rise abruptly above former industrial communities. Woodland presses against roads and reservoirs. Old boundaries blur into newer developments. There is a sense of transition everywhere. The landscape feels ancient and modern simultaneously. On misty evenings the bypass can appear genuinely uncanny, but hat does not prove the existence of ghosts.

It does, however, help explain why ghost stories flourish there. The atmosphere matters, as does landscape and even the place. After all, the most enduring legends are rarely attached to locations that feel ordinary.

So, as the years pass, another process becomes visible.The original witnesses gradually fade from the story. Some have passed away. Others have withdrawn from public discussion. Yet the legend continues independently of them. It no longer requires the original events, it has become self-sustaining and this, perhaps, is the final stage of folklore. A story reaches a point where it no longer belongs to individual witnesses. It belongs to the community. Stocksbridge Bypass has reached that point.

Whether one believes in ghosts or not almost becomes irrelevant. The legend now exists in its own right. Visitors still stop. Investigators still search. Stories continue to be told. And somewhere between the steel towns, the moors and the woodland valleys of South Yorkshire, a hooded figure continues to walk through the public imagination.

My investigation with Steve Mera remains one of the most rewarding pieces of research I have undertaken. Not because we solved a mystery, but because we were able to watch folklore at work. The bypass taught me that legends are living things. They evolve and adapt. They survive criticism. Sometimes they even grow stronger because of it.

The monk may never be conclusively identified, the children may never be explained. But the debate? The debate will undoubtedly continue.

The greatest lesson of the Stocksbridge Bypass investigation for me is that stories have power – not because they are true or because they are false. But because people continue to tell them.

And as long as that happens, the ghost road of South Yorkshire will never truly fall silent.

Further Reading:

David Clarke – articles on contemporary folklore and road ghost traditions

Steve Mera and Kirst Mason D’Raven – Stocksbridge Bypass: A Critical Review

Strange But True? archives

Jacqueline Simpson and Steve Roud – A Dictionary of English Folklore

Katharine Briggs – British Folk Tales and Legends

Copyright Notice:

© 2026 Mysterious Times. All rights reserved. This article may not be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form without prior written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations used in reviews, research or educational purposes.

I'm reminded, by way of a post from my friend Mark Valentine (https://wormwoodiana.blogspot.com/2026/06/the-centenary-of-connoisseur-and-other.html), that Walter de la Mare's collection of stories, The Connoisseur and Other Stories, was published a century ago this year. It contains some truly singular ghost stories that are masterpieces of the form: the title story, Mr. Kempe and All Hallows to name but three of them.

I'm also reminded when getting it from the shelf that my copy contains on its front pastedown a lovely bookplate of one Dorothy Nash, about whom I've not been able to find out very much. The age of the plate would seem to be contemporaneous with this 1926 volume. Its motto - “adscriptus glæbe” - means something like tied, or attached, to the soil or the earth. The depiction of an oak sapling sprouting from the acorn might even be a playful nod to the æ ligature also known as an “ash”.

One other book listing online has the same plate which it describes as “Interesting Bookplate of Dorothy Nash (actress.)” IMDB tells me that Ms. Nash is “known for Johnny Ring and the Captain's Sword (1921) and The Stain in the Blood (1916)” but since both of these appear to be US-made films, I think it's unlikely to be our Dorothy…

And finally, right at the bottom of that front pastedown is also a tiny bookseller's label, with gold type on a black background, which reads:

S.W. SIMMS & CO., Booksellers
12 George Street & 8 Bridge Street
BATH.

I love that books contains these secrets and avenues for investigation, even before you get to the "true" contents.

#WalterDeLaMare #TheConnoisseurAndOtherStories #ShortStories #GhostStories #StrangeStories #Bookstodon #Bookplates #ExLibris #DorothyNash @bookstodon

I'm reminded, by way of a post from my friend Mark Valentine (https://wormwoodiana.blogspot.com/2026/06/the-centenary-of-connoisseur-and-other.html), that Walter de la Mare's collection of stories, The Connoisseur and Other Stories, was published a century ago this year. It contains some truly singular ghost stories that are masterpieces of the form: the title story, Mr. Kempe and All Hallows to name but three of them.

I'm also reminded when getting it from the shelf that my copy contains on its front pastedown a lovely bookplate of one Dorothy Nash, about whom I've not been able to find out very much. The age of the plate would seem to be contemporaneous with this 1926 volume. Its motto - “adscriptus glæbe” - means something like tied, or attached, to the soil or the earth. The depiction of an oak sapling sprouting from the acorn might even be a playful nod to the æ ligature also known as an “ash”.

One other book listing online has the same plate which it describes as “Interesting Bookplate of Dorothy Nash (actress.)” IMDB tells me that Ms. Nash is “known for Johnny Ring and the Captain's Sword (1921) and The Stain in the Blood (1916)” but since both of these appear to be US-made films, I think it's unlikely to be our Dorothy…

And finally, right at the bottom of that front pastedown is also a tiny bookseller's label, with gold type on a black background, which reads:

S.W. SIMMS & CO., Booksellers
12 George Street & 8 Bridge Street
BATH.

I love that books contains these secrets and avenues for investigation, even before you get to the "true" contents.

#WalterDeLaMare #TheConnoisseurAndOtherStories #ShortStories #GhostStories #StrangeStories #Bookstodon #Bookplates #ExLibris #DorothyNash @bookstodon

Listening tips: Ghosts and hauntings

There’s something deeply satisfying about listening to ghost stories on a dark, rainy evening. The suspense, the thrill, the fear of the unknown… Regardless of whether you take them seriously or see them as a form of entertainment, ghost stories have been around for a very long time, trigerring something primordial in the human psyche.

In this post, I’ll share with you some of my favourite podcasts on the subject of ghosts and hauntings (as in real-life experiences, not the literary genre of ghost stories). From whispered accounts of haunted houses to chilling explorations of folklore and paranormal investigations, these shows invite us to lean in and believe—if only for a moment—that the veil between worlds is much thinner than we might think.

Uncanny

Hosted by Danny Robins, this BBC Radio 4 programme is an absolute must. While it also covers other supernatural / paranormal phenomena, such as the UFOs, ghosts feature prominently. Each episode consists of an interview with a witness to an uncanny experience, followed by comments from experts in the field – one of them on Team Believer, the other on Team Skeptic. At the moment of writing, there are close to 100 episodes available, including a recent release of Cold Case episodes, exploring famous and still unexplained mysteries from the earlier centuries.

The Paranormal Podcast

Jim Harold’s The Paranormal Podcast is one of the longest-running shows dedicated to the supernatural, featuring interviews with leading voices on ghosts, UFOs, cryptids, and unexplained phenomena. Since 2005, Harold has built a loyal audience by blending guests, folklore, and chilling accounts into a weekly exploration of the unknown. With over 900 episodes available, you’ll have plenty of listening material! 

Otherworld

Similar in scope and concept, Otherworld—hosted by Jack Wagner—presents detailed witness accounts, typically unfolding like a documentary-style investigation, designed to make listeners feel like they’re part of the story. Episodes last from anywhere between a couple of minutes to hour-long features, some of them serialised over several episodes.

Ghost Church

This podcast series is rather different, in that it explores the religion of contemporary American spiritualism, from its roots in the 19th century (ever heard of the Fox sisters?) to whatever remains of the once thriving spiritual and social reform movement. The host, Jamie Loftus, guides us through this fascinating history and introduces us to a present-day community of practicing spiritualists.

Unobscured

And if you’re not at all familiar with the history of the spiritualist movement, Season 2 of the Unobscured podcast is a great resource. Presented by veteran podcaster Aaron Mahnke and including interviews with prominent researchers and historians, this series is a wonderful addition to his other very popular podcast, Lore. 

There are many more podcasts out there on this (and related) topics, not all of them of great quality. If you have any additional tips and recommendations, do post them in the comments section below!

NOTES

I’m a freelance language tutor (English, Latin, Classical Greek), researcher, and a literary scholar currently based in Belgrade, Serbia.  

If you wish to receive new content from my blog – as soon as it’s published – please enter your email address in the subscribe box below.

To support my work, you can send me a donation via PayPal. It would be greatly appreciated!

COVER PHOTO CREDIT

Frank Eiffert via Unsplash

Listening tips: Ghosts and hauntings

There’s something deeply satisfying about listening to ghost stories on a dark, rainy evening. The suspense, the thrill, the fear of the unknown… Regardless of whether you take them seriously or see them as a form of entertainment, ghost stories have been around for a very long time, trigerring something primordial in the human psyche.

In this post, I’ll share with you some of my favourite podcasts on the subject of ghosts and hauntings (as in real-life experiences, not the literary genre of ghost stories). From whispered accounts of haunted houses to chilling explorations of folklore and paranormal investigations, these shows invite us to lean in and believe—if only for a moment—that the veil between worlds is much thinner than we might think.

Uncanny

Hosted by Danny Robins, this BBC Radio 4 programme is an absolute must. While it also covers other supernatural / paranormal phenomena, such as the UFOs, ghosts feature prominently. Each episode consists of an interview with a witness to an uncanny experience, followed by comments from experts in the field – one of them on Team Believer, the other on Team Skeptic. At the moment of writing, there are close to 100 episodes available, including a recent release of Cold Case episodes, exploring famous and still unexplained mysteries from the earlier centuries.

The Paranormal Podcast

Jim Harold’s The Paranormal Podcast is one of the longest-running shows dedicated to the supernatural, featuring interviews with leading voices on ghosts, UFOs, cryptids, and unexplained phenomena. Since 2005, Harold has built a loyal audience by blending guests, folklore, and chilling accounts into a weekly exploration of the unknown. With over 900 episodes available, you’ll have plenty of listening material! 

Otherworld

Similar in scope and concept, Otherworld—hosted by Jack Wagner—presents detailed witness accounts, typically unfolding like a documentary-style investigation, designed to make listeners feel like they’re part of the story. Episodes last from anywhere between a couple of minutes to hour-long features, some of them serialised over several episodes.

Ghost Church

This podcast series is rather different, in that it explores the religion of contemporary American spiritualism, from its roots in the 19th century (ever heard of the Fox sisters?) to whatever remains of the once thriving spiritual and social reform movement. The host, Jamie Loftus, guides us through this fascinating history and introduces us to a present-day community of practicing spiritualists.

Unobscured

And if you’re not at all familiar with the history of the spiritualist movement, Season 2 of the Unobscured podcast is a great resource. Presented by veteran podcaster Aaron Mahnke and including interviews with prominent researchers and historians, this series is a wonderful addition to his other very popular podcast, Lore. 

There are many more podcasts out there on this (and related) topics, not all of them of great quality. If you have any additional tips and recommendations, do post them in the comments section below!

NOTES

I’m a freelance language tutor (English, Latin, Classical Greek), researcher, and a literary scholar currently based in Belgrade, Serbia.  

If you wish to receive new content from my blog – as soon as it’s published – please enter your email address in the subscribe box below.

To support my work, you can send me a donation via PayPal. It would be greatly appreciated!

COVER PHOTO CREDIT

Frank Eiffert via Unsplash

A new acquisition! #booklovers #ghoststories

What did Razelle really see #disappear around the side of the house? Was it truly a #ghost or something completely different? #supernatural #ghoststories #testimony

https://www.europesays.com/hu/95249/ Index – Kultúr – Az özvegy lerántja a leplet a halhatatlan legenda árnyoldaláról #CeFemina #CeNapi #Entertainment #GhostStories #HU #Hungarian #Hungary #irodalom #könyv #kultúr #Magyar #Magyarország #memoár #PaulAuster #SiriHustvedt #Szórakozás

“Farewell Miss Julie Logan”, by JM Barrie

The tale of an uncanny romance in a remote winter glen, “Farewell Miss Julie Logan” is one of the most unnerving & tenacious examples of Scottish Gothic fiction. Listen to the story online, from Romancing the Gothic

10/10

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=enjQUoqUpy4

#Scottish #literature #JMBarrie #gothic #Scotland #supernatural #ghosts #ghoststories

“Farewell Miss Julie Logan”, by JM Barrie

The tale of an uncanny romance in a remote winter glen, “Farewell Miss Julie Logan” is one of the most unnerving & tenacious examples of Scottish Gothic fiction. Listen to the story online, from Romancing the Gothic

10/10

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=enjQUoqUpy4

#Scottish #literature #JMBarrie #gothic #Scotland #supernatural #ghosts #ghoststories

My childhood brushes with ghost lore

Despite writing about supernatural folklore, I rarely think about my childhood brushes with ghostly stories. I thought I might rectify that here—by reflecting on two examples of ghost lore I was exposed to in my youth.

Before I begin, I should point out that children’s folklore is just as vital and dynamic a phenomenon as its adult equivalent. Children’s Folklore: A Source Book (1999) is one example of a text that documents the folkloric creativity of children (as opposed to their passive receptivity). The book shows that wherever children come together, they form what folklorists call “folk groups.” The only criteria for the existence of such a group is that “two or more people. . . share something in common—language, occupation, religion, residence”; that they “share ‘traditions'”; and that they have the opportunity to meet face to face.

The Grey Lady

I’ll start with my childhood experience of belonging to a large “folk group” at my prep school, Tockington Manor, in South Gloucestershire. Every child in the school belonged to this folk group, because everyone, at some point, learned about the Grey Lady who haunted the manor’s halls. The boarders at the school were terrified of this lady: they said she wandered the manor at night—the spirit of a nurse who’d fallen from a skylight when the building served as a hospital during the First World War. I don’t remember much about this nighttime revenant, but she’s clearly a variant of a folkloric figure found at boarding schools everywhere: the Grey, White, Black, or Brown Lady.

In my school, older students, already initiated into the ghostly mystery, passed on stories about the drab-colored lady to the younger children, who did the same for the incoming class. I can only assume that telling stories about the Grey Lady allowed us to share anxieties in a fixed, personified form, which helped us adapt to unfamiliar surroundings. It also mythologized the building’s space, especially for boarders—those who couldn’t leave. Separated from their family homes, they created bonds and associations through the emotions that ghost stories evoke.

The story of the Grey Lady may have been one of the most memorable aspects of our folk group. But one story doesn’t create a culture. We also played games like marbles and conkers and had a shared language (words like cave—Latin for “beware”—were used to signal that a teacher was coming). Sometimes we sneaked out of school to gather in an old stone quarry, a place now dense with ivy-covered trees. The aura of this place—which we called simply “Quarry”—will forever remind me of the childhood capacity to create mythological worlds in spaces dominated by adults.

The Yellow Lady

The second example of supernatural storytelling from my childhood occurred during a trip to a Catholic boys’ camp in the summer of 1991. There too the sharing of ghostly legends created belonging among the boys. Despite sharing a tent with my brother, a cousin, and members of my cousin’s family, I felt unsettled in my new surroundings, and I remember how powerfully the nighttime telling of ghost stories allowed us to bond through fear. 

The only story I remember clearly (because it terrified me) was inspired by a local landmark. Visible from the camp was a house that glowed an eerie yellow at night. The sight of this building alone would be enough to inspire a haunted house tale. But in our case, the color became detached from the building, and we gave it to a supernatural figure who roamed the grounds at night. Apparently, a mysterious revenant called the Yellow Lady haunted that house, and she visited the meadow where we slept. Pricking up her disturbingly large ears to listen for wakeful boys, the Yellow Lady prowled the rows of tents, determined to steal a child. 

Although I remember thinking at the time that the Yellow Lady must have been a ghost, she differs in one important way from the Grey Lady mentioned earlier. While the latter was merely a scary presence that never interacted with students, the Yellow Lady was relational, embodying the discipline of the adult world (“no talking after lights out”). Her eerie color and super-sensory abilities—a result of her inhumanly large ears—suggest that she was a kind of supernatural bogeywoman, perhaps even close to a fairy.

The extreme effectiveness of this Yellow Lady legend meant that all of us had trouble sleeping that night. The next day we rushed to mass, hoping to find protection in proximity to a sacred ritual. The impulse was in keeping with much ghost lore, where holy symbols ward off supernatural threats.

Interestingly, while researching “Yellow Lady” stories (to see how commonplace they are), I came across a blog post in which the writer talks about a Yellow Lady story he learned at a camp run by monks. He then turns the tale into a literary short story—an embellishment, perhaps, of a fragmentary tale like mine. It seems to me that the writer’s camp may even have been the one I attended. Either that or the Yellow Lady haunts a number of such camps.

Haunted houses and witch houses

Besides my encounters with the Grey and Yellow Ladies, the only other ghost lore I can remember from my childhood are stories about haunted houses. These were always abandoned homes in the neighborhood, their shattered windows revealing darkness inside, the absence of family life. Repeating things we’d heard or inventing stories on the spot, we called these houses “haunted” or the former resort of “witches”—words that described the rupture in our sense of what a home should look like. One of these houses sat at the corner of Charborough Road and Dunkeld Avenue in Filton, Bristol (I can still picture its dilapidated state). Another was on a road branching off from Charborough Road: they said that if you looked into its broken, upstairs window, you might see a witch looking back. (The latter is a vague memory that may even have been my own thought.)

Considering all this lore, it seems to me that ghosts fill the gaps where social meaning decays, whether through separation from home, abandonment of a home, or maladjustment in a place that’s not yet fully home. When I consider these crucial functions, I understand why empirical approaches to ghostly “phenomena” bore me: they arguably fail to understand ghosts at all.

Read about more ghost lore here.

My childhood brushes with ghost lore

Despite writing about supernatural folklore, I rarely think about my childhood brushes with ghostly stories. I thought I might rectify that here—by reflecting on two examples of ghost lore I was exposed to in my youth.

Before I begin, I should point out that children’s folklore is just as vital and dynamic a phenomenon as its adult equivalent. Children’s Folklore: A Source Book (1999) is one example of a text that documents the folkloric creativity of children (as opposed to their passive receptivity). The book shows that wherever children come together, they form what folklorists call “folk groups.” The only criteria for the existence of such a group is that “two or more people. . . share something in common—language, occupation, religion, residence”; that they “share ‘traditions'”; and that they have the opportunity to meet face to face.

The Grey Lady

I’ll start with my childhood experience of belonging to a large “folk group” at my prep school, Tockington Manor, in South Gloucestershire. Every child in the school belonged to this folk group, because everyone, at some point, learned about the Grey Lady who haunted the manor’s halls. The boarders at the school were terrified of this lady: they said she wandered the manor at night—the spirit of a nurse who’d fallen from a skylight when the building served as a hospital during the First World War. I don’t remember much about this nighttime revenant, but she’s clearly a variant of a folkloric figure found at boarding schools everywhere: the Grey, White, Black, or Brown Lady.

In my school, older students, already initiated into the ghostly mystery, passed on stories about the drab-colored lady to the younger children, who did the same for the incoming class. I can only assume that telling stories about the Grey Lady allowed us to share anxieties in a fixed, personified form, which helped us adapt to unfamiliar surroundings. It also mythologized the building’s space, especially for boarders—those who couldn’t leave. Separated from their family homes, they created bonds and associations through the emotions that ghost stories evoke.

The story of the Grey Lady may have been one of the most memorable aspects of our folk group. But one story doesn’t create a culture. We also played games like marbles and conkers and had a shared language (words like cave—Latin for “beware”—were used to signal that a teacher was coming). Sometimes we sneaked out of school to gather in an old stone quarry, a place now dense with ivy-covered trees. The aura of this place—which we called simply “Quarry”—will forever remind me of the childhood capacity to create mythological worlds in spaces dominated by adults.

The Yellow Lady

The second example of supernatural storytelling from my childhood occurred during a trip to a Catholic boys’ camp in the summer of 1991. There too the sharing of ghostly legends created belonging among the boys. Despite sharing a tent with my brother, a cousin, and members of my cousin’s family, I felt unsettled in my new surroundings, and I remember how powerfully the nighttime telling of ghost stories allowed us to bond through fear. 

The only story I remember clearly (because it terrified me) was inspired by a local landmark. Visible from the camp was a house that glowed an eerie yellow at night. The sight of this building alone would be enough to inspire a haunted house tale. But in our case, the color became detached from the building, and we gave it to a supernatural figure who roamed the grounds at night. Apparently, a mysterious revenant called the Yellow Lady haunted that house, and she visited the meadow where we slept. Pricking up her disturbingly large ears to listen for wakeful boys, the Yellow Lady prowled the rows of tents, determined to steal a child. 

Although I remember thinking at the time that the Yellow Lady must have been a ghost, she differs in one important way from the Grey Lady mentioned earlier. While the latter was merely a scary presence that never interacted with students, the Yellow Lady was relational, embodying the discipline of the adult world (“no talking after lights out”). Her eerie color and super-sensory abilities—a result of her inhumanly large ears—suggest that she was a kind of supernatural bogeywoman, perhaps even close to a fairy.

The extreme effectiveness of this Yellow Lady legend meant that all of us had trouble sleeping that night. The next day we rushed to mass, hoping to find protection in proximity to a sacred ritual. The impulse was in keeping with much ghost lore, where holy symbols ward off supernatural threats.

Interestingly, while researching “Yellow Lady” stories (to see how commonplace they are), I came across a blog post in which the writer talks about a Yellow Lady story he learned at a camp run by monks. He then turns the tale into a literary short story—an embellishment, perhaps, of a fragmentary tale like mine. It seems to me that the writer’s camp may even have been the one I attended. Either that or the Yellow Lady haunts a number of such camps.

Haunted houses and witch houses

Besides my encounters with the Grey and Yellow Ladies, the only other ghost lore I can remember from my childhood are stories about haunted houses. These were always abandoned homes in the neighborhood, their shattered windows revealing darkness inside, the absence of family life. Repeating things we’d heard or inventing stories on the spot, we called these houses “haunted” or the former resort of “witches”—words that described the rupture in our sense of what a home should look like. One of these houses sat at the corner of Charborough Road and Dunkeld Avenue in Filton, Bristol (I can still picture its dilapidated state). Another was on a road branching off from Charborough Road: they said that if you looked into its broken, upstairs window, you might see a witch looking back. (The latter is a vague memory that may even have been my own thought.)

Considering all this lore, it seems to me that ghosts fill the gaps where social meaning decays, whether through separation from home, abandonment of a home, or maladjustment in a place that’s not yet fully home. When I consider these crucial functions, I understand why empirical approaches to ghostly “phenomena” bore me: they arguably fail to understand ghosts at all.

Read about more ghost lore here.

My childhood brushes with ghost lore

Despite writing about supernatural folklore, I rarely think about my childhood brushes with ghostly stories. I thought I might rectify that here—by reflecting on two examples of ghost lore I was exposed to in my youth.

Before I begin, I should point out that children’s folklore is just as vital and dynamic a phenomenon as its adult equivalent. Children’s Folklore: A Source Book (1999) is one example of a text that documents the folkloric creativity of children (as opposed to their passive receptivity). The book shows that wherever children come together, they form what folklorists call “folk groups.” The only criteria for the existence of such a group is that “two or more people. . . share something in common—language, occupation, religion, residence”; that they “share ‘traditions'”; and that they have the opportunity to meet face to face.

The Grey Lady

I’ll start with my childhood experience of belonging to a large “folk group” at my prep school, Tockington Manor, in South Gloucestershire. Every child in the school belonged to this folk group, because everyone, at some point, learned about the Grey Lady who haunted the manor’s halls. The boarders at the school were terrified of this lady: they said she wandered the manor at night—the spirit of a nurse who’d fallen from a skylight when the building served as a hospital during the First World War. I don’t remember much about this nighttime revenant, but she’s clearly a variant of a folkloric figure found at boarding schools everywhere: the Grey, White, Black, or Brown Lady.

In my school, older students, already initiated into the ghostly mystery, passed on stories about the drab-colored lady to the younger children, who did the same for the incoming class. I can only assume that telling stories about the Grey Lady allowed us to share anxieties in a fixed, personified form, which helped us adapt to unfamiliar surroundings. It also mythologized the building’s space, especially for boarders—those who couldn’t leave. Separated from their family homes, they created bonds and associations through the emotions that ghost stories evoke.

The story of the Grey Lady may have been one of the most memorable aspects of our folk group. But one story doesn’t create a culture. We also played games like marbles and conkers and had a shared language (words like cave—Latin for “beware”—were used to signal that a teacher was coming). Sometimes we sneaked out of school to gather in an old stone quarry, a place now dense with ivy-covered trees. The aura of this place—which we called simply “Quarry”—will forever remind me of the childhood capacity to create mythological worlds in spaces dominated by adults.

The Yellow Lady

Another example of supernatural storytelling from my childhood occurred during a trip to a Catholic boys’ camp in the summer of 1991. There too the sharing of ghostly legends created belonging among the boys. Despite sharing a tent with my brother, a cousin, and members of my cousin’s family, I felt unsettled in my new surroundings, and I remember how powerfully the nighttime telling of ghost stories allowed us to bond through fear. 

The only story I remember clearly (because it terrified me) was inspired by a local landmark. Visible from the camp was a house that glowed an eerie yellow at night. The sight of this building alone would be enough to inspire a haunted house tale. But in our case, the color became detached from the building, and we gave it to a supernatural figure who roamed the grounds at night. Apparently, a mysterious revenant called the Yellow Lady haunted that house, and she visited the meadow where we slept. Pricking up her disturbingly large ears to listen for wakeful boys, the Yellow Lady prowled the rows of tents, determined to steal a child. 

Although I remember thinking at the time that the Yellow Lady must have been a ghost, she differs in one important way from the Grey Lady mentioned earlier. While the latter was merely a scary presence that never interacted with students, the Yellow Lady was relational, embodying the discipline of the adult world (“no talking after lights out”). Her eerie color and super-sensory abilities—a result of her inhumanly large ears—suggest that she was a kind of supernatural bogeywoman, perhaps even close to a fairy.

The extreme effectiveness of this Yellow Lady legend meant that all of us had trouble sleeping that night. The next day we rushed to mass, hoping to find protection in proximity to a sacred ritual. The impulse was in keeping with much ghost lore, where holy symbols ward off supernatural threats.

Interestingly, while researching “Yellow Lady” stories (to see how commonplace they are), I came across a blog post in which the writer talks about a Yellow Lady story he learned at a camp run by monks. He then turns the tale into a literary short story—an embellishment, perhaps, of a fragmentary tale like mine. It seems to me that the writer’s camp may even have been the one I attended. Either that or the Yellow Lady haunts a number of such camps.

Haunted houses and witch houses

Besides my encounters with the Grey and Yellow Ladies, the only other ghost lore I can remember from my childhood are stories about haunted houses. These were always abandoned homes in the neighborhood, their shattered windows revealing darkness inside, the absence of family life. Repeating things we’d heard or inventing stories on the spot, we called these houses “haunted” or the former resort of “witches”—words that described the rupture in our sense of what a family home should look like. One of these houses sat at the corner of Charborough Road and Dunkeld Avenue in Filton, Bristol (I can still picture its dilapidated state). Another was on a road branching off from Charborough Road: they said that if you looked into its broken, upstairs window, you might see a witch looking back. (The latter is a vague memory that may even have been my own thought.)

Considering all this lore, it seems to me that ghosts fill the gaps where social meaning decays, whether through separation from home, abandonment of a home, or maladjustment in a place that’s not yet fully home. When I consider these crucial functions, I understand why empirical approaches to ghostly “phenomena” bore me: they arguably fail to understand ghosts at all.

Read about more ghost lore here.

My childhood brushes with ghost lore

Despite writing about supernatural folklore, I rarely think about my childhood brushes with ghostly stories. I thought I might rectify that here—by reflecting on two examples of ghost lore I was exposed to in my youth.

Before I begin, I should point out that children’s folklore is just as vital and dynamic a phenomenon as its adult equivalent. Children’s Folklore: A Source Book (1999) is one example of a text that documents the folkloric creativity of children (as opposed to their passive receptivity). The book shows that wherever children come together, they form what folklorists call “folk groups.” The only criteria for the existence of such a group is that “two or more people. . . share something in common—language, occupation, religion, residence”; that they “share ‘traditions'”; and that they have the opportunity to meet face to face.

The Grey Lady

I’ll start with my childhood experience of belonging to a large “folk group” at my prep school, Tockington Manor, in South Gloucestershire. Every child in the school belonged to this folk group, because everyone, at some point, learned about the Grey Lady who haunted the manor’s halls. The boarders at the school were terrified of this lady: they said she wandered the manor at night—the spirit of a nurse who’d fallen from a skylight when the building served as a hospital during the First World War. I don’t remember much about this nighttime revenant, but she’s clearly a variant of a folkloric figure found at boarding schools everywhere: the Grey, White, Black, or Brown Lady.

In my school, older students, already initiated into the ghostly mystery, passed on stories about the drab-colored lady to the younger children, who did the same for the incoming class. I can only assume that telling stories about the Grey Lady allowed us to share anxieties in a fixed, personified form, which helped us adapt to unfamiliar surroundings. It also mythologized the building’s space, especially for boarders—those who couldn’t leave. Separated from their family homes, they created bonds and associations through the emotions that ghost stories evoke.

The story of the Grey Lady may have been one of the most memorable aspects of our folk group. But one story doesn’t create a culture. We also played games like marbles and conkers and had a shared language (words like cave—Latin for “beware”—were used to signal that a teacher was coming). Sometimes we sneaked out of school to gather in an old stone quarry, a place now dense with ivy-covered trees. The aura of this place—which we called simply “Quarry”—will forever remind me of the childhood capacity to create mythological worlds in spaces dominated by adults.

The Yellow Lady

The second example of supernatural storytelling from my childhood occurred during a trip to a Catholic boys’ camp in the summer of 1991. There too the sharing of ghostly legends created belonging among the boys. Despite sharing a tent with my brother, a cousin, and members of my cousin’s family, I felt unsettled in my new surroundings, and I remember how powerfully the nighttime telling of ghost stories allowed us to bond through fear. 

The only story I remember clearly (because it terrified me) was inspired by a local landmark. Visible from the camp was a house that glowed an eerie yellow at night. The sight of this building alone would be enough to inspire a haunted house tale. But in our case, the color became detached from the building, and we gave it to a supernatural figure who roamed the grounds at night. Apparently, a mysterious revenant called the Yellow Lady haunted that house, and she visited the meadow where we slept. Pricking up her disturbingly large ears to listen for wakeful boys, the Yellow Lady prowled the rows of tents, determined to steal a child. 

Although I remember thinking at the time that the Yellow Lady must have been a ghost, she differs in one important way from the Grey Lady mentioned earlier. While the latter was merely a scary presence that never interacted with students, the Yellow Lady was relational, embodying the discipline of the adult world (“no talking after lights out”). Her eerie color and super-sensory abilities—a result of her inhumanly large ears—suggest that she was a kind of supernatural bogeywoman, perhaps even close to a fairy.

The extreme effectiveness of this Yellow Lady legend meant that all of us had trouble sleeping that night. The next day we rushed to mass, hoping to find protection in proximity to a sacred ritual. The impulse was in keeping with much ghost lore, where holy symbols ward off supernatural threats.

Interestingly, while researching “Yellow Lady” stories (to see how commonplace they are), I came across a blog post in which the writer talks about a Yellow Lady story he learned at a camp run by monks. He then turns the tale into a literary short story—an embellishment, perhaps, of a fragmentary tale like mine. It seems to me that the writer’s camp may even have been the one I attended. Either that or the Yellow Lady haunts a number of such camps.

Haunted houses and witch houses

Besides my encounters with the Grey and Yellow Ladies, the only other ghost lore I can remember from my childhood are stories about haunted houses. These were always abandoned homes in the neighborhood, their shattered windows revealing darkness inside, the absence of family life. Repeating things we’d heard or inventing stories on the spot, we called these houses “haunted” or the former resort of “witches”—words that described the rupture in our sense of what a home should look like. One of these houses sat at the corner of Charborough Road and Dunkeld Avenue in Filton, Bristol (I can still picture its dilapidated state). Another was on a road branching off from Charborough Road: they said that if you looked into its broken, upstairs window, you might see a witch looking back. (The latter is a vague memory that may even have been my own thought.)

Considering all this lore, it seems to me that ghosts fill the gaps where social meaning decays, whether through separation from home, abandonment of a home, or maladjustment in a place that’s not yet fully home. When I consider these crucial functions, I understand why empirical approaches to ghostly “phenomena” bore me: they arguably fail to understand ghosts at all.

Read about more ghost lore here.

My childhood brushes with ghost lore

Despite writing about supernatural folklore, I rarely think about my childhood brushes with ghostly stories. I thought I might rectify that here—by reflecting on two examples of ghost lore I was exposed to in my youth.

Before I begin, I should point out that children’s folklore is just as vital and dynamic a phenomenon as its adult equivalent. Children’s Folklore: A Source Book (1999) is one example of a text that documents the folkloric creativity of children (as opposed to their passive receptivity). The book shows that wherever children come together, they form what folklorists call “folk groups.” The only criteria for the existence of such a group is that “two or more people. . . share something in common—language, occupation, religion, residence”; that they “share ‘traditions'”; and that they have the opportunity to meet face to face.

The Grey Lady

I’ll start with my childhood experience of belonging to a large “folk group” at my prep school, Tockington Manor, in South Gloucestershire. Every child in the school belonged to this folk group, because everyone, at some point, learned about the Grey Lady who haunted the manor’s halls. The boarders at the school were terrified of this lady: they said she wandered the manor at night—the spirit of a nurse who’d fallen from a skylight when the building served as a hospital during the First World War. I don’t remember much about this nighttime revenant, but she’s clearly a variant of a folkloric figure found at boarding schools everywhere: the Grey, White, Black, or Brown Lady.

In my school, older students, already initiated into the ghostly mystery, passed on stories about the drab-colored lady to the younger children, who did the same for the incoming class. I can only assume that telling stories about the Grey Lady allowed us to share anxieties in a fixed, personified form, which helped us adapt to unfamiliar surroundings. It also mythologized the building’s space, especially for boarders—those who couldn’t leave. Separated from their family homes, they created bonds and associations through the emotions that ghost stories evoke.

The story of the Grey Lady may have been one of the most memorable aspects of our folk group. But one story doesn’t create a culture. We also played games like marbles and conkers and had a shared language (words like cave—Latin for “beware”—were used to signal that a teacher was coming). Sometimes we sneaked out of school to gather in an old stone quarry, a place now dense with ivy-covered trees. The aura of this place—which we called simply “Quarry”—will forever remind me of the childhood capacity to create mythological worlds in spaces dominated by adults.

The Yellow Lady

Another example of supernatural storytelling from my childhood occurred during a trip to a Catholic boys’ camp in the summer of 1991. There too the sharing of ghostly legends created belonging among the boys. Despite sharing a tent with my brother, a cousin, and members of my cousin’s family, I felt unsettled in my new surroundings, and I remember how powerfully the nighttime telling of ghost stories allowed us to bond through fear. 

The only story I remember clearly (because it terrified me) was inspired by a local landmark. Visible from the camp was a house that glowed an eerie yellow at night. The sight of this building alone would be enough to inspire a haunted house tale. But in our case, the color became detached from the building, and we gave it to a supernatural figure who roamed the grounds at night. Apparently, a mysterious revenant called the Yellow Lady haunted that house, and she visited the meadow where we slept. Pricking up her disturbingly large ears to listen for wakeful boys, the Yellow Lady prowled the rows of tents, determined to steal a child. 

Although I remember thinking at the time that the Yellow Lady must have been a ghost, she differs in one important way from the Grey Lady mentioned earlier. While the latter was merely a scary presence that never interacted with students, the Yellow Lady was relational, embodying the discipline of the adult world (“no talking after lights out”). Her eerie color and super-sensory abilities—a result of her inhumanly large ears—suggest that she was a kind of supernatural bogeywoman, perhaps even close to a fairy.

The extreme effectiveness of this Yellow Lady legend meant that all of us had trouble sleeping that night. The next day we rushed to mass, hoping to find protection in proximity to a sacred ritual. The impulse was in keeping with much ghost lore, where holy symbols ward off supernatural threats.

Interestingly, while researching “Yellow Lady” stories (to see how commonplace they are), I came across a blog post in which the writer talks about a Yellow Lady story he learned at a camp run by monks. He then turns the tale into a literary short story—an embellishment, perhaps, of a fragmentary tale like mine. It seems to me that the writer’s camp may even have been the one I attended. Either that or the Yellow Lady haunts a number of such camps.

Haunted houses and witch houses

Besides my encounters with the Grey and Yellow Ladies, the only other ghost lore I can remember from my childhood are stories about haunted houses. These were always abandoned homes in the neighborhood, their shattered windows revealing darkness inside, the absence of family life. Repeating things we’d heard or inventing stories on the spot, we called these houses “haunted” or the former resort of “witches”—words that described the rupture in our sense of what a family home should look like. One of these houses sat at the corner of Charborough Road and Dunkeld Avenue in Filton, Bristol (I can still picture its dilapidated state). Another was on a road branching off from Charborough Road: they said that if you looked into its broken, upstairs window, you might see a witch looking back. (The latter is a vague memory that may even have been my own thought.)

Considering all this lore, it seems to me that ghosts fill the gaps where social meaning decays, whether through separation from home, abandonment of a home, or maladjustment in a place that’s not yet fully home. When I consider these crucial functions, I understand why empirical approaches to ghostly “phenomena” bore me: they arguably fail to understand ghosts at all.

Read about more ghost lore here.

He hadn't been seen for weeks. Then one night, he took the stage.

The Fiddler's Dram — a Tennessee folktale about the greatest fiddler in Weakley County — is the new episode of The Moonlit Road. Out now: https://www.themoonlitroad.com/fiddlers-dram-a-strange-tennessee-folktale/

Storyteller: David Hirt. Soundtrack by bluegrass legend Randall Franks.

🎻 Music: Mississippi Sawyer — Don Richardson (1916) | Public Domain | via https://archive.org

#SouthernFolklore #GhostStories #TennesseeFolklore #Paranormal #TheMoonlitRoad #randallfranks

In GHOST The Lingering Spirits Of North Devon , mother and daughter share their personal experiences, dispelling the belief that spirits are to be feared. #Devon #GhostStories #BookLovers #weekendreads

https://alluringcreations.co.za/wp/ghost-encounters-the-lingering-spirits-of-north-devon-by-helen-hollick-and-kathy-hollick/

Who you gonna call? (Sorry, couldn't help it...) It's time to introduce our very own Writing the Occult ghost hunter: author and paranormal enthusiast Rosie O'Carroll will join the seekers on 30 May to tell us the "how" and "why" of going on a ghost investigation 👻

Tickets for Writing the Occult: Seekers are now on sale, with more speaker announcements to come.

writingtheoccult.carrd.co

Meet Rosie🧵⬇️

#ghosts #paranormal #paranormalinvestigation #occult #writers #writing #ghoststories

Who you gonna call? (Sorry, couldn't help it...) It's time to introduce our very own Writing the Occult ghost hunter: author and paranormal enthusiast Rosie O'Carroll will join the seekers on 30 May to tell us the "how" and "why" of going on a ghost investigation 👻

Tickets for Writing the Occult: Seekers are now on sale, with more speaker announcements to come.

writingtheoccult.carrd.co

Meet Rosie🧵⬇️

#ghosts #paranormal #paranormalinvestigation #occult #writers #writing #ghoststories

"Before you can scare others, you must be scared yourself. Ghostly fear is transmitted, not concocted." - H R Wakefield on the art of writing ghost stories, of which, of course, he was a master. #BookWormSat #ghoststories #supernatural #vintagepaperbacks

The house is gone now.
But some stories don’t disappear with the walls.
Some things don’t need a house to stay behind.

The full tale is now up on The Moonlit Road Podcast. 🌙
https://buff.ly/xpc4m1R

#SouthernGothic #GhostStories #NewOrleans #Folklore #Folklife

😱 Oh no, the AIs are coming to take over! 🙄 This article pretends to unravel the "mystery" of why we indulge in sci-fi nightmares about #AI, but spoiler alert: it’s because humans love a good ghost story — even when the ghosts are just lines of code. 👻💻
https://www.quantamagazine.org/why-do-we-tell-ourselves-scary-stories-about-ai-20260410/ #Takeover #SciFi #GhostStories #HumanNature #Technology #HackerNews #ngated

He gave her everything —
silk, jewels, a grand house in New Orleans.

But some gifts come with a cost.
And some houses remember exactly what was done inside them.

The story is now up on The Moonlit Road Podcast. 🌙
https://www.themoonlitroad.com/the-devils-mansion-of-new-orleans

#SouthernGothic #GhostStories #NewOrleans #Folklore

https://youtu.be/FkxGZjx_BXA

After this episode, there's no more Ghost Stories. This is one of those shows that will never get another season, or a remake. Is that good or bad? Up to you... #Crunchyroll #ADVFilms #GhostStories #学校の怪談 #anime #supernatural #comedy #abridged #TBGN #SSHITAnime #SundayMorning

Frohe Ostern!🐇🐰🐣

#SiriHustvedt #ghoststories #buch #ostern

https://youtu.be/wwKJEvNOcVo

Do you like Death riding a motorcycle? If so, you'll mildly tolerate this episode of Ghost Stories. I will not claim you'll like it. That's too much... #Crunchyroll #ADVFilms #GhostStories #学校の怪談 #anime #supernatural #comedy #abridged #TBGN #SSHITAnime #SaturdayMorning

https://youtu.be/wwKJEvNOcVo

Do you like Death riding a motorcycle? If so, you'll mildly tolerate this episode of Ghost Stories. I will not claim you'll like it. That's too much... #Crunchyroll #ADVFilms #GhostStories #学校の怪談 #anime #supernatural #comedy #abridged #TBGN #SSHITAnime #SaturdayMorning

She of the Smokeless Fire

Kabana Cocktail Lounge

MARRAKECH, Morocco

31° N, 7.9898° W

If artificial intelligence was prompted to write the most Neverman-esque ramble based on Uncharted archives, it would likely begin with Vic holding a beer in a faraway desolate location talking to a strange French chick. Fine. I’m predictable. Guilty as charged. But good luck keeping up from there, Claude. This story may begin as a prototypical Neverman tale, but only the jankiest a.i. hallucinatory slop could predict what happens next. Yes, tipsy Vic dances with a mysterious mademoiselle, but wait!, there’s more! This story has ski-less Finns!, fire!, more fire!, fig jam… which may or may not have been infused with hashish!, and: the mysterious mademoiselle may not actually be a woman at all! Not saying she was a dude! No. No she was a lady, absolument! Just not necessarily a human lady. 

Allow me to explain something to our less superstitious a.i. data gobblers… In this part of the world, North Africa, prevailing sentiment has it a creator god first made man out of clay. As one would. The powers-that-be (or, powers-which-were) then made a second entity. An entity made of smokeless fire.

Voilá! Colette. She of the smokeless fire. 

The Agafay Desert lies south of Marrakech in the dusty hills between mountains and ocean. “It’s a shit-pile of rocks” reads the tourist brochure, “but it is easier to get to than the Sahara”. While the pebble-quarry alone lacks allure, if you gaze above & beyond the moonscape you’ll find Atlas holding aloft the celestial spheres. These mountains are worthy of inspiring the ancients. It was across this scenery I tore about like a fucking lunatic banshee on holiday, climbing foothills on my all-terrain 4-wheeler to eventually reach a camel ranch. At the ranch I was served tea. With tea came dusk. With dusk came Colette. 

Where & when did she materialize? The shit-pile of rocks is barren; it would be easy to notice upright primates (or anthropomorphic fire entities) against the lunar backdrop. Colette I would have not missed. She absolutely was not among the sunburnt mis-adventurers brrap-brrr-brraaaaapping about on quads. Was she waiting at the camel ranch all along?, hiding?, patiently?, like a desert flower which blooms only with the departure of sun? 

Mystérieuse, non?

Before she arrived, I’ll be honest: I was a miserable little shit. I was saddle-sore & overheated, using my sweat to wipe the dust out of my eyes. And the umpteenth cup of tea left me over-caffeinated with a nagging bladder. I really did not care for the others in the motorcade; it was the full spectrum of asshole weekender: every shape, size & tongue playing Mad Max in the desert. Most were Euro-hippies with trust-funds or gutter-punks who stole their father’s pension money. Each tourist was either too slow or way too fast, always too loud, often strung-out on drug, and those who were too drunk were not sharing the contents of their cooler. I am looking at you: the pair of ski-less Finns. Veeti & Tauno. Tauno & Veeti. Two beefy red-bearded vikings with schoolgirl gigglishness. Veeti, who dressed like a Victorian era tomb-raider, and Tauno, who had gone troppo, dressing in the traditional Berber djellaba robes to resemble a wizard. When they brought out their cooler at the camel ranch, I offered all the Dirham coin in my pocket for one cold beer. Sorry-bro-my-man, they responded in English. There wasn’t enough to go around. 

Hands deep in my jean pockets, I sulked away. Or as the Finns would say, kadota kuin piera Saharan. I disappeared like a fart in the Sahara. 

Much of the hi-jinx between Veeti & Tauno were inside jokes made to each other in Finnish. When the Finns wanted to speak with the Moroccans they would speak French, the common local parlance. When the Finns wanted to entertain the masses, they would boast their bullshit humor loudly in English, the universal mutt language. 

Hahaha, Veeti would laugh as he popped open a bottle of champagne, saying, Tauno!, you are hairier than a Russian’s third testicle! Tauno would look carefully over his shoulder for any offendable Russians before saying, yes!, this is true! There was a time when nothing was hairier than the third testicle of a Russian. No longer! Now my hairiness surpasses even that! Ho-ho!, ah-ha!

It was schtick. Veeti the tomb-raider would scold his fellow Finn and Tauno would play along. Shit!, Veeti would announce in English for all the sunburnt to hear. I have stepped in camel shit! Tauno!, where were you? To not step in this camel shit first? If you had stepped here first there would be less camel shit for me to step into! Yes!, Tauno would say from under his wizard hood, this is true! Had I not lagged behind and stepped in the dung before you, your misfortune would be so much the less! Ha-ha, ho-ho!

28 hours later, jotting these notes while drinking a pisco sour in Marrakech, I find myself in a better mood. In retrospect, the Finns’ doofusishness is charming. But at the time, I was the aforementioned miserable little shit. After being disappointed with the Finns in Agafay, I distanced myself from the cool kid’s table and stood alone at the edge of the camel camp to gaze upon the fading light of the sun as it reflected off the Atlas snow-peaked mountains. 

This is when Colette appeared. 

Onirique. Out of nothing. As if the sun had to depart for her to ignite. 

With the camels groaning & gargling phlegm, Colette stepped into the waning light beside me, basking in the purple hues of the snowy peaks. Her eyes were teary. I realized I was holding my breath. 

Oh!, I said by way of introduction before gasping for air. Bonjour, she smiled. Fool that I am, I decided to try my luck with her language and quoted one of Paul Bowles desert tales. I said, la chaleur complique la vis. 

Simple enough. Right? Then why did her eyes widen in shock? The shock then turned to laughter. Not mockery, but not not mocking. Colette then explained to me, saying, “la vie”. Not “la vis”. La vie is “the life”. Instead you said “heat complicates the screw”. 

Ah. Ah ha. I guess I need to reconsult my Paul Bowles. She gave me a forgiving smile and left my side to join the ski-less Finns who were sitting around a table of mint tea and other fun refreshments. 

As I write these notes from the comforts of Kabana Cocktail Lounge, I cannot help but laugh at how quickly my demeanor improved. One interaction with Colette, even as fucking dumb as I acted, transformed me from miserable shit to delighted fool in the time it took for her to flash a smile. 

If I am going to keep telling this story I’m going to need another pisco sour. 

As the sun set last night, vans arrived to the camel ranch rendezvous point to transport the bone-rattled wanderers uphill & overhill & up again to a former French Foreign Legion outpost turned entertainment venue. Dinner & a show & then some. The hilltop fortress was already crowded with dozens of sunburnt wanderers before we fresh hell arrived. Having lost her scent, I darted between the bow-legged bodies until I spied the Frenchwoman enter a large tent. At the time, I had yet to learn her name, but it would not be long. Finding her sitting at a low table, I hurried my way to a neighboring table, sitting my dusty ass down on a floor pillow with an audible oof! as my legs gladly surrendered. Colette was distracted with the conversation of those damned Finns while I ignored those who came to occupy my table. Outside, the crowd thickened & swarmed as music began to play from a legion of speakers. Identifying the shepherd boy who served food, I ordered a Corona, a Coca-Cola and chicken tagine. A few juggling acrobats made their way to my table; I tossed miscellaneous coin in their direction and waved them away. I tore into my chicken & couscous with abandon, but it was far more food than I required. My neighboring table had been mostly vacated as Colette’s companions left for the dance floor. She alone remained. It was time to say something. Anything. 

Reaching out my chicken tagine dish to gain Colette’s attention, I asked, would you like a drumstick?

I never claimed to be a lady’s man. 

In my favor, if a woman ever offered me her chicken leg, I would swoon. Colette, however, naturally, turned down my offer. But she did engage. She was Colette. I was Vic. Vic Neverman, l’homme qui n’a jamais été. We shared origin stories & travel itineraries. She was laughing. Not when I intended, but it was my words which brought her laughter nevertheless. She invited me to her table as her entourage regrouped and ordered more tea. I brought my leftover chicken & couscous. When served tea, I sweetened my glass with what I thought was honey, but was instead something of a figgy jam. Tauno, one of the ski-less Finns, took my tagine dish and shuffled couscous into his mouth with his right hand (which is proper Moroccan etiquette; one should never use their ass-wiping left hand) and sucked the meat clean off the drumstick. After belching, he patted his stomach and said, Allah forgives. 

The tea was too sweet. Yet tangy. My lips became numb; foreign from my face. And then my face melted. My memory of the night blurs after that. My Corona lasted for hours. There was dancing to African house music in the courtyard. Dozens of dozens of us. Where did we come to? So far from home. Why were we where? Veeti was dancing like a maniac. Tauno was making-out with the breeze. Colette moved subtly, seductively, arms swaying like waves of flame. Her feet had become music notes which controlled the music bumping through the speakers. The masses around us moved as the stoned cobras of Djemma el-Finaa. 

l’intimité des étrangers!, I sang with the music, the intimacy of strangers!, we are no strangers to intimacy! L’intimité ne nous est pas étrangère! L’infini ne nous est pas étranger! L’infini! L’infini! No stranger to infinity. 

Spun dizzy, I climbed out of the dance pit, past the latrines and the kitchen to the darkest shade of the hill and steadied my world by gazing up. Everything down here was revolving. Only the stars remained fixed. L’infini! The only thing familiar on this moon was the stars. 

The freneticism of the rave simmered after a few months. Years. Epochs. Sometime after the fall of man, the crowds dribbled as a collective puddle to the fighting pit where a pyromaniac danced & blazed. The Moroccan fire-dancer ended his performance and, burping up kerosene, worked the crowd for baksheesh. A slow procession of delirious pilgrims returned to the vans & buses revving engines in chilling darkness of pre-dawn morning. I had not seen Colette since the dusty dance floor, but spotted her during the mass exodus. If I could find a seat aboard her bus, the night flight back to Marrakech would offer me a last chance at getting to know her. And so I followed. In my haze, I followed where she led. Beyond the sandy plateau which served as parking lot. A Moroccan halted me, redirecting to a vehicle. M’sseur, he insisted. This bus will deliver you home. Thanks, but…, I explained to him how I’d rather go thataway. I tried reasoning with the man. As long as it gets me back to the Marrakesh, I don’t care where in the city I am delivered. I moved again to follow Colette. 

Friend, friend, listen to me…, the Moroccan said, this is your path home. 

He was sincere. Interrogating the fog of memory all these hours later, I ponder the decision made. How much was lost by following his direction? How much was won? 

Am I not still astray? Even tonight, like the possessed Pepé le fucking Pew levitating after an alluring scent, I’m led along strange paths. Entranced, the scent brought me to Kabana Cocktail Lounge. 

In Agafay, I overheard the ski-less Finns discuss this bar. At the off-chance Colette would find herself here, I arrived at the Kabana rooftop with the sunset watchers. As patrons gathered along the viewing deck, I opted for a perch at the bar. I settle into my piscos and sure enough here come the Finns… Veeti looks like a yacht club commodore. Tauno is still in his unwashed djellaba, stinking of camel. They pace like caged lions at the bar as they wait for their table reservation. Two sunburnt Nordic blonde women, Neanderthal tall, chitter at each other in skimpy dresses as high up as my collarbone. The women accept champagne flutes brought to them by the Finns. I listen to the foursome banter in English. Veeti is blaming Tauno for his hangover. I swear to you!, Veeti says to Tauno, one of these days, I shall take you out behind the sauna!

The Finns do not recognize me. I keep an ear in their direction, but remain facing forward on my rattan bar stool, listening to the Cuban love songs played by the Moroccan jazz band. This tropical atmosphere is more Brazil or Miami than a desert town. The Old Medina feels continents away despite the sound of the muezzin announcing the last call to worship. 

No signs of Colette.

Marrakech is haunted. This much I am certain. No longer baffled with the medieval maze of streets, I can find my way home blindfolded through the souk passageways, across the Djemma el-Finaa, along the Derb Jamaa to my side-alley riad entrance. I’m past any cultural shocks & spooks. No, I am haunted by something much more personal. My first night in the riad, my toiletries were emptied into the toilet as I slept. Completely upended. Into a pool of my own mellowing piss. No one else was in the room. Nothing human. Something did not want me here in Marrakech. I had to find a new toothbrush.

There are legends of Aisha Kandisha, legends no one speaks of. The djinn are not to be mentioned. Not out loud. “The changed ones”, they’ll say. The entities born of smokeless fire. The folklore of Aisha Kandisha can be traced to the Phoenicians & the later Carthaginians who had sea ports along the coast of North Africa long before the Arabs brought Islam west. With the Phoenician trade routes came Babylonian myths of Umm al Duwais. I first heard of Umm al Duwais when I was on the Persian Gulf, listening to ancient pearl diver tales of a seductress who lured men into the sea. Aisha Kandisha is the Maghreb evolution of this legend. Beautiful, sultry, perfumed, Aisha Kandisha takes the form of a woman who appears out of the desert and lures travelers astray. The only sign of something wrong is her feet, which resemble the hooves of a camel. 

Two pisco sours followed by a couple drafts of Flag Spéciale lager and I have befriended the Moroccan bartenders of Kabana. They are led by an old haus herr, a German chemist who mentors the young Moroccans in the ways of mixology. When they stir-up a cocktail, they seek the German’s approval. Haus Herr takes a straw to sample the elixir and provides feedback in excellent Arabic. Or what sounds pretty excellent to my oblivious ears. 

When I ask my bartender, Mohammad, to create a cocktail for me with the essence of Morocco, he is up for the challenge. He chooses a French gin, Palmaráe, distilled with Moroccan spices. Sweet?, spicy?, Mohammad inquires my preference. Spicy, I say to him, like Aisha Kandisha. Mohammad’s hands pause and he looks sideways for support. His boss, the German, arrives at his side and says they do not speak that name in here. Apologies, I say, putting a hand over my heart. Okay, I say to Mo as I look at the fruit spread between us, how about raspberries?

What is this?, Veeti asks. I have forgotten the Finns. They do not recognize me, but are drawn with curiosity to my cocktail. It’s a new cocktail Mo mixed, I say, I call it “Smokeless Fire”. It’s tangy. A little evil. Veeti & Tauno order four Smokeless Fires for their table, thanking me with and lift of their glass, kiitos! 

Before you go…, I say to the Finns, do you recall?, we met last night in Agafay… They do not remember any Americans but Tauno does remember my chicken leg. Yes!, the Finns smile, you are the man of chicken! Are you friends with Colette?, I ask, the beautiful French woman? Which?, there are many beautiful French, they say with escalating laughter. I sort through pictures on my phone as their chuckles subside, but she’s not in any image. I describe Colette in detail, but the more I try to describe her the more I realize she’s indescribable. I only believe her French from her words. 

Veeti & Tauno are leaning away from me, closer to the dance floor, as I persist with my questions. I describe Colette with what little detail can be recollected. The teary eyes. The lower lip. The naked ear lobe. The feet of music notes. 

Ha!, Tauno laughs. Music notes? Ha!, Veeti laughs. Women have no such shoes. Ha!, Tauno laughs. Are you sure she did not possess the feet of a camel?

Everyone is laughing but me. I feign a smile. 

They say the Devil built a mansion in the middle of old New Orleans.

And some say he never really left.

A new tale is coming from The Moonlit Road Podcast. 🌙

https://www.themoonlitroad.com

#SouthernFolklore #GhostStories #NewOrleans #ScaryStories #Storytelling

Siri Hustvedt: #GhostStories auf Kampnagel. Sie war sehr charming und funny, nachdenklich und tiefsinnig. Ein sehr schöner Abend, auch wenn wir Plätze in der obersten/ hintersten Reihe hatten...

Absolut herausragend auch der Moderator Jan Ehlert, der zwischen Englisch und Deutsch wechselnd ihre Beiträge übersetzte und direkt mit seiner weiteren sehr guten Moderation anschloss.
https://kampnagel.de/produktionen/siri-hustvedt-ghost-stories

#SiriHustvedt #Hamburg

I’m a big fan of Helen’s work. Her stories are clever, atmospheric and often scare-filled, which is already a powerful combination. And then when you add in her exquisitely realistic and researched sense of place, the terror only increases exponentially.

There aren’t too many great writers furthering the pleasing terror agenda of M. R. James, and making it their own, but Helen’s surely one of them—and one of the best.

#SupernaturalHorror #GhostStories #Horror #SupernaturalLiterature #Books #Bookstodon #WomenInHorror @bookstodon https://mas.to/@helengrantsays/116277066752625876

I’m a big fan of Helen’s work. Her stories are clever, atmospheric and often scare-filled, which is already a powerful combination. And then when you add in her exquisitely realistic and researched sense of place, the terror only increases exponentially.

There aren’t too many great writers furthering the pleasing terror agenda of M. R. James, and making it their own, but Helen’s surely one of them—and one of the best.

#SupernaturalHorror #GhostStories #Horror #SupernaturalLiterature #Books #Bookstodon #WomenInHorror @bookstodon https://mas.to/@helengrantsays/116277066752625876

https://youtu.be/XUgu-RwdT80

I hope you're ready to fight a ghostly tree from the projects, because that's what Ghost Stories has in store for us today. What a weird episode... #Crunchyroll #ADVFilms #GhostStories #学校の怪談 #anime #supernatural #comedy #abridged #TBGN #SSHITAnime #SundayMorning

https://youtu.be/XUgu-RwdT80

I hope you're ready to fight a ghostly tree from the projects, because that's what Ghost Stories has in store for us today. What a weird episode... #Crunchyroll #ADVFilms #GhostStories #学校の怪談 #anime #supernatural #comedy #abridged #TBGN #SSHITAnime #SundayMorning

(14)

Lese jetzt Breyger und Hustvedt, diese zwei hauptsächlich und allerlei nebenher. Die äitiologische Untersuchung hat immerhin ein neues Medikament ins Spiel gebracht. Ganz langsam wird es aufdosiert, damit die Nebenwirkungen nicht allzu schlimm werden. Ich träume allerlei wirres und gleichzeitig für mich selbst nachvollziehbares Zeug, das aber sofort ausradiert wird, sobald ich wach bin. Das kleine Büchlein Träume in Europa von Wolfram Lotz habe ich tatsächlich in der Bücherei gefunden. Die Messe in Leipzig ist im vollen Gang, ab und zu höre ich etwas davon im Radio, die Preisverleihung an Katja Poladjan habe ich per Stream live verfolgt. Die Lyrikempfehlungen sind voller wunderbarer Bände, von denen ich einige schon kenne und viele im Laufe des Jahres lesen möchte. Es ist gut, das gefeiert wird und Menschen einander treffen und miteinander reden. Wir brauchen Widerstandskraft, und die, so glaube ich, nährt sich am ehesten durch Verbindung. In der Zeit erklärt Thea Dorn kenntnisreich wie unsere Demokratie gerade auf dem besten Weg ist, sich selbst lebensbedrohlich zu gefährden. Eva von Redecker erklärt in einem Interview im Freitag, welche Faktoren dafür sorgen, dass der rechte Rand immer stärker wird, dass Menschen diese eine Partei wählen. Ich bin froh, dass es so kluge Köpfe gibt, die die Zusammenhänge durchschauen und erklären. Aber ich habe auch Angst, dass diese Stimmen nicht durchdringen.

Siri Hustvedts „Ghost stories“ sind berührend, gerade weil sie ein Stückwerk sind, einmal handelt es sich um Tagebuchauszüge, dann werden Mails an die Freund:innen gezeigt, und später dann Briefe, die der dem Tode geweihte Paul Auster an seinen neugeborenen Enkel schreibt. Ebenso wie Joan Didion begegnet Hustvedt der Krankheit, indem sie alles verfügbare liest, sich so viele wissenschaftliche Artikel aneignet, dass ein Arzt sie fragt, ob sie auch Ärztin sei. Sie beschreibt, wie sie aus der Welt gefallen ist mit dem Tod ihres Mannes, und wie sie danach versucht, die zerbrochenen Stücke wieder zusammen zu fügen. Parallel dazu lese ich „hallo niemand“ von Y. Breyger, ein verrückter Roadtrip durch unsere verrückte Zeit.

Die Magnolie im Nachbargarten steht in rosaroter Pracht. In der Küche liegt die blassgelbe Wortschau mit wunderbaren Gedichten von Jürgen Brocan und beeindruckenden Zeichnungen von Christoph Heek. Es geht in dieser Ausgabe um Leichtigkeit und dieses Thema ist wirklich gut umgesetzt.

Ja, aber wie geht es dir selbst, fragt eine Stimme. Ich komme zurecht, sage ich.

https://youtu.be/EGtn0YJ8uF0

If you like The Ring ghost in Ghost Stories, might I recommend you read Erma. Basically, what if The Ring ghost had a kid, and also a lot of other weird stuff... #Crunchyroll #ADVFilms #GhostStories #学校の怪談 #anime #supernatural #comedy #abridged #TBGN #SSHITAnime #SundayMorning