#ghoststories — Public Fediverse posts

“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

“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

“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

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

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.

BLOG POST: How I wrote 'One Star Review', a story about a holiday let with a history that the hosts would rather not talk about, even if visitor after visitor notices that something is not quite right.

https://precastreinforced.co.uk/2026/05/01/5-one-star-review-thin-places-in-hard-concrete-story-by-story/

#GhostStories #haunted

😱 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

#gamemastersbookclub Explores the Genres! - Bangsian (Afterlife) #fantasy #bangsian #afterlife #ghoststories #BleachAnime #goodomens #peterbeagle #garthnix #ghostbride #yangzechoo #books #bookstodon
Bleach - Tite Kubo
Good Omens - Terry Pratchett
A Fine and Private Place - Peter Beagle
Sabriel - Garth Nix
The Ghost Bride - Yangsze Choo

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#Xeriscaping
#HeirloomPlants
#FountainPens
#GhostStories
#Reading
#Folklore
#GreenBuilding

To help make connections: name 5-7 things that interest you but aren't in your profile, as tags so they are searchable.

Then boost this post or repeat its instructions so others know to do the same.

#Xeriscaping
#HeirloomPlants
#FountainPens
#GhostStories
#Reading
#Folklore
#GreenBuilding

To help make connections: name 5-7 things that interest you but aren't in your profile, as tags so they are searchable.

Then boost this post or repeat its instructions so others know to do the same.

#Xeriscaping
#HeirloomPlants
#FountainPens
#GhostStories
#Reading
#Folklore
#GreenBuilding

To help make connections: name 5-7 things that interest you but aren't in your profile, as tags so they are searchable.

Then boost this post or repeat its instructions so others know to do the same.

#Xeriscaping
#HeirloomPlants
#FountainPens
#GhostStories
#Reading
#Folklore
#GreenBuilding

Friend Destiny took us on a day trip to New York City a few years ago, to see "BEETLEJUICE" on Broadway. It was amazing! #newyork #nyc #newyorkcity #beetlejuice #betelguise #ghost #ghosts #ghoststory #ghoststories #lydia #timessquare #broadway #bustrip #daytrip #vacation #hottestdayoftheyear #hightemps #theater #theatre #cococola #musical #musicaltheater #musicals

Friend Destiny took us on a day trip to New York City a few years ago, to see "BEETLEJUICE" on Broadway. It was amazing! #newyork #nyc #newyorkcity #beetlejuice #betelguise #ghost #ghosts #ghoststory #ghoststories #lydia #timessquare #broadway #bustrip #daytrip #vacation #hottestdayoftheyear #hightemps #theater #theatre #cococola #musical #musicaltheater #musicals

Friend Destiny took us on a day trip to New York City a few years ago, to see "BEETLEJUICE" on Broadway. It was amazing! #newyork #nyc #newyorkcity #beetlejuice #betelguise #ghost #ghosts #ghoststory #ghoststories #lydia #timessquare #broadway #bustrip #daytrip #vacation #hottestdayoftheyear #hightemps #theater #theatre #cococola #musical #musicaltheater #musicals

Friend Destiny took us on a day trip to New York City a few years ago, to see "BEETLEJUICE" on Broadway. It was amazing! #newyork #nyc #newyorkcity #beetlejuice #betelguise #ghost #ghosts #ghoststory #ghoststories #lydia #timessquare #broadway #bustrip #daytrip #vacation #hottestdayoftheyear #hightemps #theater #theatre #cococola #musical #musicaltheater #musicals

Friend Destiny took us on a day trip to New York City a few years ago, to see "BEETLEJUICE" on Broadway. It was amazing! #newyork #nyc #newyorkcity #beetlejuice #betelguise #ghost #ghosts #ghoststory #ghoststories #lydia #timessquare #broadway #bustrip #daytrip #vacation #hottestdayoftheyear #hightemps #theater #theatre #cococola #musical #musicaltheater #musicals

Time for another Writing the Occult: Love & Death session briefing! We have speculative fiction writer Verity Holloway joining us, marrying her love of Victorianism and the Gothic to chat about graveyards and the path from 18th century pastoral poems to Romanticism and the Gothic. BYO mossy stones.

Tix/details: writingtheoccult.carrd.co

#horror #gothic #graveyards #cemeteries #ghoststories #romanticism #writers #writing #books #creativity #creativetoots

Completely Sober 🤪 #Mastodon #YouTube #TBGN #TwoBrosGameNight #SSHITAnime #YoungerBro #OlderBro #GhostStories #学校の怪談 #HiroshiHashimoto #Aniplex #ADVFilms #newseries #announcement #bingewatching #show #TV #anime #supernatural #comedy #ghosts #February #post #link #playlist @TBGN_Older_Bro

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLrVoPQdxs8RIp2CGmrtZmMshLkMpg1A4r

Completely Sober 🤪 #Mastodon #YouTube #TBGN #TwoBrosGameNight #SSHITAnime #YoungerBro #OlderBro #GhostStories #学校の怪談 #HiroshiHashimoto #Aniplex #ADVFilms #newseries #announcement #bingewatching #show #TV #anime #supernatural #comedy #ghosts #February #post #link #playlist @TBGN_Older_Bro

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLrVoPQdxs8RIp2CGmrtZmMshLkMpg1A4r

Completely Sober 🤪 #Mastodon #YouTube #TBGN #TwoBrosGameNight #SSHITAnime #YoungerBro #OlderBro #GhostStories #学校の怪談 #HiroshiHashimoto #Aniplex #ADVFilms #newseries #announcement #bingewatching #show #TV #anime #supernatural #comedy #ghosts #February #post #link #playlist @TBGN_Older_Bro

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLrVoPQdxs8RIp2CGmrtZmMshLkMpg1A4r

Completely Sober 🤪 #Mastodon #YouTube #TBGN #TwoBrosGameNight #SSHITAnime #YoungerBro #OlderBro #GhostStories #学校の怪談 #HiroshiHashimoto #Aniplex #ADVFilms #newseries #announcement #bingewatching #show #TV #anime #supernatural #comedy #ghosts #February #post #link #playlist @TBGN_Older_Bro

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLrVoPQdxs8RIp2CGmrtZmMshLkMpg1A4r

I'm planning a super informal FREE zoom writing salon about ghost stories on Thursday, Dec. 18, 2025, 11am-12pm (North American Central Time). It's late notice, and an odd time, but if you'd like to join, please register and I'll send you a link. We'll just look at a few short ghost stories, talk about how they work, and end with some prompts.

https://forms.gle/eHUs4pGLxBVYh1oH8

#WritingCommunity #WritingConversations #GhostStories #WritingClass

Naughty or nice? Which list will you be on this Christmas?

Do You Believe In Father Christmas?

#flashfiction #Christmas #ghoststories #ChristmasFiction #Paranormal #ShortStory #FatherChristmas #SantaClaus

http://hughsviewsandnews.com/2025/12/12/do-you-believe-in-father-christmas/?utm_source=mastodon&utm_medium=jetpack_social

Do You Believe In Father Christmas?

When I was eight years old, I did the most despicable thing.

On Christmas Eve 1970, I told my five-year-old sister that there was no such thing as Father Christmas. She was horrified.

Telling her that Father Christmas did not exist was the worst thing I ever did.

My mother was so angry with me. She sent me to my room.

I missed supper. I missed the carol-singers outside our house.

I missed seeing the first snowflakes of what was to be my first white Christmas. And I missed the evening of Christmas Eve, my favourite time of the year.

However, worse was to come.

I cried myself to sleep, blaming Father Christmas for what had happened.

Sometime during the night, I was woken by hands around my throat.

“You evil boy!” boomed the voice. I was too frightened to open my eyes.

“Open your eyes, boy! Do it, or you will never see Christmas again.”

He forced me to open my eyes. I don’t know how he did it, but he somehow did.

I couldn’t believe what I saw.

I was shocked beyond belief. It was Father Christmas who had his hands around my throat.

“You never, never tell anyone ever again that I do not exist. Do you understand me, boy?” I tried nodding my head, despite being in complete shock.

“Good. Now, look deep into my eyes.”

Seconds later, I saw a flock of robins in his eyes and, before I knew it, they were propelled into my eyes.

The screeching sound they made hurt my ears. I could not scream for help to my mother or father because of the tightly gripped hands around my throat. I finally managed to close my eyes, and the screeching robins and hands around my throat disappeared.

Terrified by what had happened, I crawled under my bed. I curled up into a tiny ball and shivered the night away. Sleep did come, but only briefly.

It was the sound of laughter that woke me.

I could hear the muffled voices of my family. It was Christmas morning, and they were already downstairs.

How could they have forgotten to wake me up?

I crawled out from under my bed and made my way past the open door of my bedroom. On the floor, at the top of the stairs, were two empty Christmas stockings. How could they have emptied their stockings without me?

I ran down the stairs and into the lounge, which was lit up with Christmas lights.

“Mum, Dad, Julie…I’m sorry,” I cried, but none of them took any notice of me. “Please forgive me, don’t spoil Christmas.” But it was no good, they just ignored me.

That’s when I saw the strange boy.

“Oh, that’s lovely, Hugh. Grandma sure knows how to knit Christmas jumpers,” laughed Dad, as he hugged the strange boy.

For the rest of the day, I watched as the boy with my name took my place. Nobody bothered me. Nobody even noticed I was there. It was as if I were a ghost.

I finally went to bed and cried myself to sleep. The whole family had arrived at our house and a Christmas party was in full swing.

The next morning, my mother woke me up.

“Are you feeling better, Hugh?”

“Are you talking to me?” I asked her.

“Of course, I am. Who else goes by your name in this house? Come on, it’s Boxing Day, and we need to get over to Grandma’s house.”

I didn’t ever say anything to anybody about what had happened, and I didn’t see the strange-looking boy with my name again.

Well, I didn’t see him until the following Christmas Day when the whole thing happened again. And it’s happened every Christmas since then.

You see, my place is now taken by a ghost, but only on that one day of the year when I become a ghost.

I’m so happy and thankful that it’s not Christmas every day.

Do you believe in Father Christmas?

This short story was originally published on my blog in December 2019.

Image created by Hugh W. Roberts using Canva.

Click the buttons below to follow Hugh on Social Media

• WordPress
• Amazon
• Goodreads
• Mastodon
• Link
• Bluesky

Copyright © 2019 hughsviewsandnews.com – All rights reserved.

#christmas #christmasFiction #fatherChristmas #fiction #ghostStories #ghostStory #ghosts #paranormal #santaClaus #shortStories #shortStory

Do You Believe In Father Christmas?

When I was eight years old, I did the most despicable thing.

On Christmas Eve 1970, I told my five-year-old sister that there was no such thing as Father Christmas. She was horrified.

Telling her that Father Christmas did not exist was the worst thing I ever did.

My mother was so angry with me. She sent me to my room.

I missed supper. I missed the carol-singers outside our house.

I missed seeing the first snowflakes of what was to be my first white Christmas. And I missed the evening of Christmas Eve, my favourite time of the year.

However, worse was to come.

I cried myself to sleep, blaming Father Christmas for what had happened.

Sometime during the night, I was woken by hands around my throat.

“You evil boy!” boomed the voice. I was too frightened to open my eyes.

“Open your eyes, boy! Do it, or you will never see Christmas again.”

He forced me to open my eyes. I don’t know how he did it, but he somehow did.

I couldn’t believe what I saw.

I was shocked beyond belief. It was Father Christmas who had his hands around my throat.

“You never, never tell anyone ever again that I do not exist. Do you understand me, boy?” I tried nodding my head, despite being in complete shock.

“Good. Now, look deep into my eyes.”

Seconds later, I saw a flock of robins in his eyes and, before I knew it, they were propelled into my eyes.

The screeching sound they made hurt my ears. I could not scream for help to my mother or father because of the tightly gripped hands around my throat. I finally managed to close my eyes, and the screeching robins and hands around my throat disappeared.

Terrified by what had happened, I crawled under my bed. I curled up into a tiny ball and shivered the night away. Sleep did come, but only briefly.

It was the sound of laughter that woke me.

I could hear the muffled voices of my family. It was Christmas morning, and they were already downstairs.

How could they have forgotten to wake me up?

I crawled out from under my bed and made my way past the open door of my bedroom. On the floor, at the top of the stairs, were two empty Christmas stockings. How could they have emptied their stockings without me?

I ran down the stairs and into the lounge, which was lit up with Christmas lights.

“Mum, Dad, Julie…I’m sorry,” I cried, but none of them took any notice of me. “Please forgive me, don’t spoil Christmas.” But it was no good, they just ignored me.

That’s when I saw the strange boy.

“Oh, that’s lovely, Hugh. Grandma sure knows how to knit Christmas jumpers,” laughed Dad, as he hugged the strange boy.

For the rest of the day, I watched as the boy with my name took my place. Nobody bothered me. Nobody even noticed I was there. It was as if I were a ghost.

I finally went to bed and cried myself to sleep. The whole family had arrived at our house and a Christmas party was in full swing.

The next morning, my mother woke me up.

“Are you feeling better, Hugh?”

“Are you talking to me?” I asked her.

“Of course, I am. Who else goes by your name in this house? Come on, it’s Boxing Day, and we need to get over to Grandma’s house.”

I didn’t ever say anything to anybody about what had happened, and I didn’t see the strange-looking boy with my name again.

Well, I didn’t see him until the following Christmas Day when the whole thing happened again. And it’s happened every Christmas since then.

You see, my place is now taken by a ghost, but only on that one day of the year when I become a ghost.

I’m so happy and thankful that it’s not Christmas every day.

Do you believe in Father Christmas?

This short story was originally published on my blog in December 2019.

Image created by Hugh W. Roberts using Canva.

Click the buttons below to follow Hugh on Social Media

• WordPress
• Amazon
• Goodreads
• Mastodon
• Link
• Bluesky

Copyright © 2019 hughsviewsandnews.com – All rights reserved.

#christmas #christmasFiction #fatherChristmas #fiction #ghostStories #ghostStory #ghosts #paranormal #santaClaus #shortStories #shortStory

Do You Believe In Father Christmas?

When I was eight years old, I did the most despicable thing.

On Christmas Eve 1970, I told my five-year-old sister that there was no such thing as Father Christmas. She was horrified.

Telling her that Father Christmas did not exist was the worst thing I ever did.

My mother was so angry with me. She sent me to my room.

I missed supper. I missed the carol-singers outside our house.

I missed seeing the first snowflakes of what was to be my first white Christmas. And I missed the evening of Christmas Eve, my favourite time of the year.

However, worse was to come.

I cried myself to sleep, blaming Father Christmas for what had happened.

Sometime during the night, I was woken by hands around my throat.

“You evil boy!” boomed the voice. I was too frightened to open my eyes.

“Open your eyes, boy! Do it, or you will never see Christmas again.”

He forced me to open my eyes. I don’t know how he did it, but he somehow did.

I couldn’t believe what I saw.

I was shocked beyond belief. It was Father Christmas who had his hands around my throat.

“You never, never tell anyone ever again that I do not exist. Do you understand me, boy?” I tried nodding my head, despite being in complete shock.

“Good. Now, look deep into my eyes.”

Seconds later, I saw a flock of robins in his eyes and, before I knew it, they were propelled into my eyes.

The screeching sound they made hurt my ears. I could not scream for help to my mother or father because of the tightly gripped hands around my throat. I finally managed to close my eyes, and the screeching robins and hands around my throat disappeared.

Terrified by what had happened, I crawled under my bed. I curled up into a tiny ball and shivered the night away. Sleep did come, but only briefly.

It was the sound of laughter that woke me.

I could hear the muffled voices of my family. It was Christmas morning, and they were already downstairs.

How could they have forgotten to wake me up?

I crawled out from under my bed and made my way past the open door of my bedroom. On the floor, at the top of the stairs, were two empty Christmas stockings. How could they have emptied their stockings without me?

I ran down the stairs and into the lounge, which was lit up with Christmas lights.

“Mum, Dad, Julie…I’m sorry,” I cried, but none of them took any notice of me. “Please forgive me, don’t spoil Christmas.” But it was no good, they just ignored me.

That’s when I saw the strange boy.

“Oh, that’s lovely, Hugh. Grandma sure knows how to knit Christmas jumpers,” laughed Dad, as he hugged the strange boy.

For the rest of the day, I watched as the boy with my name took my place. Nobody bothered me. Nobody even noticed I was there. It was as if I were a ghost.

I finally went to bed and cried myself to sleep. The whole family had arrived at our house and a Christmas party was in full swing.

The next morning, my mother woke me up.

“Are you feeling better, Hugh?”

“Are you talking to me?” I asked her.

“Of course, I am. Who else goes by your name in this house? Come on, it’s Boxing Day, and we need to get over to Grandma’s house.”

I didn’t ever say anything to anybody about what had happened, and I didn’t see the strange-looking boy with my name again.

Well, I didn’t see him until the following Christmas Day when the whole thing happened again. And it’s happened every Christmas since then.

You see, my place is now taken by a ghost, but only on that one day of the year when I become a ghost.

I’m so happy and thankful that it’s not Christmas every day.

Do you believe in Father Christmas?

This short story was originally published on my blog in December 2019.

Image created by Hugh W. Roberts using Canva.

Click the buttons below to follow Hugh on Social Media

• WordPress
• Amazon
• Goodreads
• Mastodon
• Link
• Bluesky

Copyright © 2019 hughsviewsandnews.com – All rights reserved.

#christmas #christmasFiction #fatherChristmas #fiction #ghostStories #ghostStory #ghosts #paranormal #santaClaus #shortStories #shortStory

Do You Believe In Father Christmas?

When I was eight years old, I did the most despicable thing.

On Christmas Eve 1970, I told my five-year-old sister that there was no such thing as Father Christmas. She was horrified.

Telling her that Father Christmas did not exist was the worst thing I ever did.

My mother was so angry with me. She sent me to my room.

I missed supper. I missed the carol-singers outside our house.

I missed seeing the first snowflakes of what was to be my first white Christmas. And I missed the evening of Christmas Eve, my favourite time of the year.

However, worse was to come.

I cried myself to sleep, blaming Father Christmas for what had happened.

Sometime during the night, I was woken by hands around my throat.

“You evil boy!” boomed the voice. I was too frightened to open my eyes.

“Open your eyes, boy! Do it, or you will never see Christmas again.”

He forced me to open my eyes. I don’t know how he did it, but he somehow did.

I couldn’t believe what I saw.

I was shocked beyond belief. It was Father Christmas who had his hands around my throat.

“You never, never tell anyone ever again that I do not exist. Do you understand me, boy?” I tried nodding my head, despite being in complete shock.

“Good. Now, look deep into my eyes.”

Seconds later, I saw a flock of robins in his eyes and, before I knew it, they were propelled into my eyes.

The screeching sound they made hurt my ears. I could not scream for help to my mother or father because of the tightly gripped hands around my throat. I finally managed to close my eyes, and the screeching robins and hands around my throat disappeared.

Terrified by what had happened, I crawled under my bed. I curled up into a tiny ball and shivered the night away. Sleep did come, but only briefly.

It was the sound of laughter that woke me.

I could hear the muffled voices of my family. It was Christmas morning, and they were already downstairs.

How could they have forgotten to wake me up?

I crawled out from under my bed and made my way past the open door of my bedroom. On the floor, at the top of the stairs, were two empty Christmas stockings. How could they have emptied their stockings without me?

I ran down the stairs and into the lounge, which was lit up with Christmas lights.

“Mum, Dad, Julie…I’m sorry,” I cried, but none of them took any notice of me. “Please forgive me, don’t spoil Christmas.” But it was no good, they just ignored me.

That’s when I saw the strange boy.

“Oh, that’s lovely, Hugh. Grandma sure knows how to knit Christmas jumpers,” laughed Dad, as he hugged the strange boy.

For the rest of the day, I watched as the boy with my name took my place. Nobody bothered me. Nobody even noticed I was there. It was as if I were a ghost.

I finally went to bed and cried myself to sleep. The whole family had arrived at our house and a Christmas party was in full swing.

The next morning, my mother woke me up.

“Are you feeling better, Hugh?”

“Are you talking to me?” I asked her.

“Of course, I am. Who else goes by your name in this house? Come on, it’s Boxing Day, and we need to get over to Grandma’s house.”

I didn’t ever say anything to anybody about what had happened, and I didn’t see the strange-looking boy with my name again.

Well, I didn’t see him until the following Christmas Day when the whole thing happened again. And it’s happened every Christmas since then.

You see, my place is now taken by a ghost, but only on that one day of the year when I become a ghost.

I’m so happy and thankful that it’s not Christmas every day.

Do you believe in Father Christmas?

This short story was originally published on my blog in December 2019.

Image created by Hugh W. Roberts using Canva.

Click the buttons below to follow Hugh on Social Media

• WordPress
• Amazon
• Goodreads
• Mastodon
• Link
• Bluesky

Copyright © 2019 hughsviewsandnews.com – All rights reserved.

#christmas #christmasFiction #fatherChristmas #fiction #ghostStories #ghostStory #ghosts #paranormal #santaClaus #shortStories #shortStory

Do You Believe In Father Christmas?

When I was eight years old, I did the most despicable thing.

On Christmas Eve 1970, I told my five-year-old sister that there was no such thing as Father Christmas. She was horrified.

Telling her that Father Christmas did not exist was the worst thing I ever did.

My mother was so angry with me. She sent me to my room.

I missed supper. I missed the carol-singers outside our house.

I missed seeing the first snowflakes of what was to be my first white Christmas. And I missed the evening of Christmas Eve, my favourite time of the year.

However, worse was to come.

I cried myself to sleep, blaming Father Christmas for what had happened.

Sometime during the night, I was woken by hands around my throat.

“You evil boy!” boomed the voice. I was too frightened to open my eyes.

“Open your eyes, boy! Do it, or you will never see Christmas again.”

He forced me to open my eyes. I don’t know how he did it, but he somehow did.

I couldn’t believe what I saw.

I was shocked beyond belief. It was Father Christmas who had his hands around my throat.

“You never, never tell anyone ever again that I do not exist. Do you understand me, boy?” I tried nodding my head, despite being in complete shock.

“Good. Now, look deep into my eyes.”

Seconds later, I saw a flock of robins in his eyes and, before I knew it, they were propelled into my eyes.

The screeching sound they made hurt my ears. I could not scream for help to my mother or father because of the tightly gripped hands around my throat. I finally managed to close my eyes, and the screeching robins and hands around my throat disappeared.

Terrified by what had happened, I crawled under my bed. I curled up into a tiny ball and shivered the night away. Sleep did come, but only briefly.

It was the sound of laughter that woke me.

I could hear the muffled voices of my family. It was Christmas morning, and they were already downstairs.

How could they have forgotten to wake me up?

I crawled out from under my bed and made my way past the open door of my bedroom. On the floor, at the top of the stairs, were two empty Christmas stockings. How could they have emptied their stockings without me?

I ran down the stairs and into the lounge, which was lit up with Christmas lights.

“Mum, Dad, Julie…I’m sorry,” I cried, but none of them took any notice of me. “Please forgive me, don’t spoil Christmas.” But it was no good, they just ignored me.

That’s when I saw the strange boy.

“Oh, that’s lovely, Hugh. Grandma sure knows how to knit Christmas jumpers,” laughed Dad, as he hugged the strange boy.

For the rest of the day, I watched as the boy with my name took my place. Nobody bothered me. Nobody even noticed I was there. It was as if I were a ghost.

I finally went to bed and cried myself to sleep. The whole family had arrived at our house and a Christmas party was in full swing.

The next morning, my mother woke me up.

“Are you feeling better, Hugh?”

“Are you talking to me?” I asked her.

“Of course, I am. Who else goes by your name in this house? Come on, it’s Boxing Day, and we need to get over to Grandma’s house.”

I didn’t ever say anything to anybody about what had happened, and I didn’t see the strange-looking boy with my name again.

Well, I didn’t see him until the following Christmas Day when the whole thing happened again. And it’s happened every Christmas since then.

You see, my place is now taken by a ghost, but only on that one day of the year when I become a ghost.

I’m so happy and thankful that it’s not Christmas every day.

Do you believe in Father Christmas?

This short story was originally published on my blog in December 2019.

Image created by Hugh W. Roberts using Canva.

Click the buttons below to follow Hugh on Social Media

• WordPress
• Amazon
• Goodreads
• Mastodon
• Link
• Bluesky

Copyright © 2019 hughsviewsandnews.com – All rights reserved.

#christmas #christmasFiction #fatherChristmas #fiction #ghostStories #ghostStory #ghosts #paranormal #santaClaus #shortStories #shortStory

Folklore read live!

From the graveyard comes a rotted man in burial cloth raging with hunger!

Hear the terrible tales LIVE right NOW: https://youtube.com/live/PKVWUO089sk

#FairyTaleTuesday #WritingCommunity #storyteller #FairyTale #AmReading #reading #indieWriter #fairy #folklore #folk #tales #stories #GrimmBrothers #dnd #dnd5e #pathfinder #pf2e #ttrpg #fantasy #lotr #russian #russia #folklore #legend #epic #legend #zombie #zombies #halloween #horror #ghoststories

Huh - what do I see in the corner of my eye - is it - an old volume...? No - a pretty recent one (2018): this #LiteraryStudies study by Patrick J. Murphy connects the dots between the #MedievalStudies of #MRJames & his classic "antiquarian" #ghoststories 👻

#Halloween

Folklore read live!

What oh what will you do
When the hungry Baba Yaga
Creeps and crawls for you?

Find out your options in tonight's tales LIVE right NOW: https://youtube.com/live/K8JRBHFSHKk

#FairyTaleTuesday #WritingCommunity #storyteller #FairyTale #AmReading #reading #indieWriter #fairy #folklore #folk #tales #stories #GrimmBrothers #dnd #dnd5e #pathfinder #pf2e #ttrpg #fantasy #lotr #russian #russia #folklore #legend #epic #legend #babayaga #halloween #horror #ghoststories

Folklore read live!

Your beloved eats the dead. Would you keep the engagement?

Find out the stakes in tonight's tales LIVE right NOW: https://youtube.com/live/cSTKsMTOCWA

#FairyTaleTuesday #WritingCommunity #storyteller #FairyTale #AmReading #reading #indieWriter #fairy #folklore #folk #tales #stories #GrimmBrothers #dnd #dnd5e #pathfinder #pf2e #ttrpg #fantasy #lotr #russian #russia #folklore #legend #epic #legend #babayaga #vampire #halloween #horror #ghost #ghoststories

Imaginez des murs qui répondent, un code de coups qui transforme l’invisible en interlocuteur, et une maison ordinaire devenue le centre de toutes les attentions. Cette histoire, ce n’est pas une fiction, mais bien l’un des cas de poltergeist les plus troublants de France.

#poltergeist #france #europe #paranormal #paranormalactivity #fantome #Mystery #mystères #ghost #ghoststories #ghosthunting #canada

https://mesplaisirs.com/le-poltergeist-de-la-machine/

If you want to read a free haunted house story with a mystery, a priest, a goth character and a m/f romance, how about this one?
"Father Joseph and the Haunted House" is a fanfiction, but in this case, it's not really necessary to know the original material (the film "The Ritual" from 2025) in order to understand the story.

It's here on AO3:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/67699466/chapters/175010516

#reading #hauntedhouse #ghoststories #goth #freestory #fanfiction #ghost #mystery

Oooooh... If you can't make the #MikmaqStoryteller #JenniferPictou event this Saturday, there's this one in October!

#Wabanaki #GhostStories with Jennifer Rae Pictou

October 14, 2025

Cape Elizabeth Historical Preservation Society

Price: Free
Time: 6:30 PM

"Get in the Halloween spirit with authentic Wabanaki Ghost Stories told by Mi'kmaq citizen and storyteller, Jennifer Pictou. Come and listen to indigenous stories from the deep woods and waters of Maine and find out why you never, ever want to sleep with your windows uncovered. These indigenous stories have been passed down from generation to generation and are still part of vibrant Wabanaki cultures today. Jennifer advises, 'Bring a friend... you won't want to be alone in the dark after.'

"Pictou has been telling ghost stories for 11 years on Mount Desert Island. She was bitten by the storytelling bug when she was 8 years old at summer camp where she listened to traditional Mi'kmaq stories for the first time and hasn't looked back since.

"Jennifer tells traditional Mi'kmaq stories in the oral tradition. Currently she is also part of a Wabanaki artist group leading the 4-year run of on-stage performances called Wabanaki Stories, through Portland Ovations.

"Pictou, is a traditional storyteller and artist with a diverse background as a museum director, tribal historic preservation officer, and historian. Her true passion lies in sharing stories that connect people to Maine's landscape and Wabanaki cultures. She is the founder of Bar Harbor Ghost Tours, which has been recognized by USA Today as one of the top ten ghost tours in the country for seven years. Most recently, she co-authored the book Haunted Bar Harbor, published in May 2025.

"This special program is free to all, and light refreshments will be served. This event is appropriate for all ages."

More about #WabanakiSpiritTales...

https://www.mdislander.com/news/wabanaki-spirit-tales-with-jennifer-pictou-the-little-people/article_6e8ab950-8275-11ef-b997-bbad0da48c15.html

Event page:
https://www.mainetourism.com/event/wabanaki-ghost-stories-with-jennifer-rae-pictou/10464/

#WabanakiStorytelling #SpookyStories #CulturalPreservation #Wabanaki #IndigenousStorytellers #MaineLibraries #LibrariesRule

Gene Tierney and Rex Harrison, along with George Sanders and
Edna Best, make for a wonderful cast in The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, one of my very favourite films.
#GeneTierney #RexHarrison #GeorgeSanders #EdnaBest #Ghoststories #romanticghoststories #supernaturalfilms #RADick #TheGhostandMrs.Muir

Gene Tierney and Rex Harrison, along with George Sanders and
Edna Best, make for a wonderful cast in The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, one of my very favourite films.
#GeneTierney #RexHarrison #GeorgeSanders #EdnaBest #Ghoststories #romanticghoststories #supernaturalfilms #RADick #TheGhostandMrs.Muir

Gene Tierney and Rex Harrison, along with George Sanders and
Edna Best, make for a wonderful cast in The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, one of my very favourite films.
#GeneTierney #RexHarrison #GeorgeSanders #EdnaBest #Ghoststories #romanticghoststories #supernaturalfilms #RADick #TheGhostandMrs.Muir

Gene Tierney and Rex Harrison, along with George Sanders and
Edna Best, make for a wonderful cast in The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, one of my very favourite films.
#GeneTierney #RexHarrison #GeorgeSanders #EdnaBest #Ghoststories #romanticghoststories #supernaturalfilms #RADick #TheGhostandMrs.Muir

Gene Tierney and Rex Harrison, along with George Sanders and
Edna Best, make for a wonderful cast in The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, one of my very favourite films.
#GeneTierney #RexHarrison #GeorgeSanders #EdnaBest #Ghoststories #romanticghoststories #supernaturalfilms #RADick #TheGhostandMrs.Muir

I'm reading @juergen_hubert 's books, starting with "Sunken Castles, Evil Poodles". His translation of German folklore to English, complete with commentary and footnotes, is utterly fabulous.

As someone who's read a lot of folklore books, across multiple cultures, I highly recommend "Sunken Castles" for writers and lovers of folklore alike. Solid research, notes on where the story is set in modern geography, great context, witty asides all make for a very engaging, inspiring read. The stories come to life from his carefully light, detailed approach.

This book is helping me create myths and folktales for my own fictional world. I'm having a blast reading it!

Print:

https://thescribblinglion.com/product/sunken-castles-evil-poodles-jurgen-hubert/

Ebook:

https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B08CL2HS28/

#folklore #GermanToEnglish #translations #selfpublished #folklore_translations #writing #history #GhostStories #GreatBooks #BookRecs

Why don't Americans trust experts? 😂 Because they'd rather take advice from someone who claims to have seen a ghost than from a PhD. 🧙‍♂️✨ Apparently, the scientific method is out, and crystal balls are in! 🔮🔍
https://bigthink.com/big-think-books/paranormal-investigators-public-trust/ #trustissues #ghoststories #scientificmethod #skepticism #humor #HackerNews #ngated

If there’s a solstice or an equinox approaching, you know it’s time for another free ebook in my Grammaticus Free Library series!

The latest one contains a short ghost story by Edith Nesbit, "Uncle Abraham's Romance."

A lonely old man remembers a series of unusual encounters with a mysterious woman. Was she just a product of his imagination or perhaps a visitor from the beyond?

If you like ghost stories, you’ll enjoy this one!

https://grammaticus.blog/2025/06/18/free-ebook-uncle-abrahams-romance/

You can find all the previously released titles here: https://grammaticus.blog/library/

#learningenglish #englishvocabulary #EnglishTeacher #englishliterature #ENesbit #shortstory #ghoststories