There’s no such thing as ghosts, I tell myself as I creep through my dark house, my feet barely touching the wood floor.

There’s no such thing as ghosts, I repeat as I stare at the broken, bloody body at the bottom of the steps with the strangely familiar face.

There’s no such thing as ghosts, I chant as I reach out to my husband as he descends the stairs towards the body, though he doesn’t notice me.

There’s no such thing as ghosts, I cry, as my husband passes through my outreached transparent hand. But then, what am I?

Tom’s breath froze in the air as he hurried through the woods. He could feel it following him—heavy footsteps, ragged breathing. His heart pounded.

Finally, he reached the cabin and slammed the door shut. Safe.

A knock echoed from the door. "Let me in, Tom," a familiar voice called.

His blood froze. It was Lisa, his wife… but he had buried her last week.

Panicking, he opened the door, but no one was there. He turned around—and found Lisa smiling at him.

"Thanks for letting me in," she whispered.

He looked down. His own body lay lifeless on the floor.

The whispers started at midnight, soft at first, then louder, like dry leaves scraping across the floor. Claire froze in bed, clutching her blankets. She'd locked the door. No one was inside.

But something was.

A shadow slid from beneath the wardrobe, stretching tall, eyes gleaming red in the darkness. It grinned, its mouth wide, teeth sharp as broken glass.

"You shouldn’t have opened the box," it hissed, voice like a blade on bone.

Claire’s heart raced. She tried to scream but her throat tightened.

The last thing she felt was its cold breath on her skin.

Then a silence.

A wind howled through the cracked windows of the old house, carrying whispers from the past. Sarah stepped inside, drawn by something she couldn't name. Shadows twisted along the walls as if alive, watching her. A child's laughter echoed from the darkness. Her heart raced.

"Who is there?" she called, her voice trembling.

The laughter stopped.

Suddenly, small, cold hands gripped her legs. She looked down, but nothing was there. Panic surged as a soft voice whispered in her ear, "You should never have come back."

The door slammed shut behind her, sealing her in with the house’s hungry secrets.

Guests at our backyard parties always noticed patches of grass that were thicker, and corpse shaped. We joked this was an ancient burial ground.

But after a winter of alternating heavy snows and thaws that squeezed the ground like a pimple, bones emerged. The first ones looked like chicken bones. We were horrified when a skull surfaced.

Soon afterward, our old lady neighbor asked why we were digging out back, again.

"Putting in a native garden," I said. "For the environment."

She stomped away disgusted.

My wife said, "Might be a problem."

I put the old snoop under the goldenrods.

“Them cows are lost?” Piper persisted.

“There are no actual cows— it's just a stupid saying. Go to sleep!” Harmony snapped at her little sister.

Piper's wheezing exhalations filled their darkened bedroom.

Harmony's tone softened, “It just means… ‘for a very long time’. Maybe forever. Nobody knows.”

Drifting to sleep, Piper whispered, “Harmony, I'm gonna love ya ’til the cows come home.”

Eventually, Harmony found the strength to visit. With kissed fingertips touching cold gravestone, she wept, “Love you, Piper.”

Approaching her car, Harmony cried out and fell to her knees.

On the hood, scrawled in the fresh snow:

ttcch

Sophie woke suddenly. The mournful howling of wolves echoed around the valley, but something else caused her skin to prickle. She held her breath and listened....A quiet sound, that ceased a heartbeat after the howling faded. Like someone was working loose the latch on the door. Silent as an owl, Sophie moved to the window and peered out. Three silhouettes darkened her door. She counted two jerry cans and the barrel of a gun. Tools to burn a witch. The whispers she'd spread in town had finally borne fruit. Souls, delivered to her door. Starter, main and dessert. Bon appetite.

In a small town, neon lights flickered, casting colorful reflections on the asphalt. A cassette player blasted pop hits as kids roller-skated down the block, their laughter mixing with music. Jane, clad in leg warmers and oversized scrunchies, rushed to meet her friends at the mall. They passed the arcade, where pixelated heroes battled on screens. They munched on greasy fries, sipping neon-colored soda, and plotted their weekend adventures. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the smell of fresh popcorn wafted from the theater, promising movie magic. It was just another day, but the eighties felt electric and alive.

Fuck! It's eighty degrees outside. It shouldn't be that hot this time of the year. It's fall! We have acorns, leaves and halloween.

Yes, I know I live in Midgaurd and yes, I know Midgaurd is beautifully warm and always has been but I want it to be crisp and clear for one single morning, then we can be done; I'll be happy. But, no! No! Instead we have eighty degree weather and a snow storm. Fucking whether! Whatever norns are controlling this need to step down! And if its the frost giants... by Thor's hammer I'll have their heads.

I loved rain in the early eighties. In heavy rain, everything stopped on a council estate. Nobody went out, not even in cars. No-one, but me. My skinny bruised knees waded through thick downpours. The drumbeat of raindrops pounded their rhythm on my nit-itchy scalp, drowning out any other noises.

Such peaceful isolation. I wondered free. No kids at the park, and not even the travellers came out of their caravans to yell or set their dogs on me. Nobody followed me out into the rain. Nobody could hurt me out there. I sure loved rain in the early eighties.