Short Ghost Stories to Tell-The Crossroads Demon

Editors Note: I have scoured the internet gathering up some great articles on some of the best Short Ghost Stories to Tell. Although, most of these are indeed short, I will be updating each and every day, so you'll never run out of ghost stories to tell. But for now, I hope these stories by various authors at Ezine Articles, should give you some insight to what the art of story telling is all about. And how you can have everyone you know amazed at your story telling abilities, but most importantly just have fun! after all that's what story telling is all about, getting together with family & friends and scaring each other senseless lol!

The Crossroads Demon
By Bloode Thomas

There be a crossroads demon here in our town; a lonely one, a saddened one but all the same a demon. Demons don't like normal folk, they be jealous. They be jealous of what we are, and something they will never be. I've seen enough folk come and go throughout this town to know the difference between a hoax and a real life experience. The crossroads demon, well he looks pretty normal. He looks just like you or me, heck he could even pass as human right? Oh but kiddo, that's where you're wrong.

Normal humans like you or me kiddo, we got shadows. This fella don't.

A crossroads demon doesn't care who you are.

You drive down to the roads, just where the train track and the actual road meets and boy oh boy, you'll see him, plain as day. He'll be standing there, a smile on his face but his eyes aren't blue or brown or green, they have the colour of scarlet. That bloody damn colour. He'll smile at you and wave you closer and you'd think he'd be like any other teenage kid.

You see, if you got no shadow then you can't pass anywhere in the world. A shadow is what ties you to this earth, it's what ties you to the lie and the dark and every other section of the natural way of the planet. It's also your life. You think for a moment, if your shadow is a life signature what happens when its gone? Well that's easy. You be dead but you just don't know it. You'll watch the world fade away and wonder why everyone's forgotten you and why everyone seems to grow old and die so goddamn fast.

They can't see you no more. Only a demon got that power to stay in the world of the living and actually be seen by the living.

There ain't no hell and there certainly ain't no heaven if you got no shadow boy. That crossroads demon, he'll walk right up to you, talk to you and stare. He'll bend down like he's dropped a quarter and pick up your shadow. Then he'll run to the other side of the tracks and that'll be the end of it. You've just lost your life, just as easy and as quick as that and even with a smile served.

The crossroads demon ain't got a name, but every person that crosses those tracks just disappears. Again purely cause we can't see the dead. The shadow ain't just your soul, it's a combination of your soul and your flesh, hence why we never see no bodies.

Ain't no blood or gore, just like that you're gone.

A crossroads demon cant be reasoned with.

One thing I am noticing though, a lot of people are disappearing lately; every one of em at crossroads, regardless of trains. Even just you're normal intersections and crossroads.

I drove into town the other day, drove right past a woman and a little girl walking to the other side; A guy without a shadow walking right up to em. He smiled and waved and did this thing, bending down to pick up a quarter. He snatched those shadows right up and ran, and I mean ran. Faster than a human can.

That's what they are kiddo. They be a crossroads demon. So quick, painless and so final. Ain't no one ever wanna end their life so quick like that.

These days I don't walk across those pedestrian crossings because you can't see a crossroads demon until it's too goddamn late. I'll drive across but I'm always quick about it. I see too many people just die and disappear like they were never there.

A crossroads demon don't care about your family, or your working life. They ain't care you got a mortgage to pay or a thousand goddamn bills. They see right into your soul and they know exactly what burdens you got hanging right over your head but again they don't care.

I keep thinking if I find the crossroads demon that took away my wife maybe I'll have some closure but every time I get close enough to the bastard its that smile. It just paralyses you. How many time now have I come so close to that death?

Oh don't get me wrong, I've shot him. I've pumped shotgun shells into him; I've nailed him with.45 Handgun rounds. I've done everything I can to him, but nothing ever works. He simply heals up quick as a flash and stands there smiling like the world's on fire but he's too happy to care.

Your only option is to high tail it outta there and past those crossroads because a crossroads demon can't pass the barrier that makes the road a crossroad. They can't pass those barriers because that's where the living is the strongest.

Let me ask you this, what's stronger? A circle or a cross? If you said a circle, you'd be damn right. The world of the living might as well be exactly that, a circle. Inside that circle at different points there are these crosses. Ideally that's where our roads are, and it's here with the constant coming and going that our barriers are weakest. That's exactly where these bastards wait and they can wait an eternity.
A crossroads demon doesn't care how long it has to wait.

Their world is boring to em, too much power, too much corruption not enough humor or the beauty of the random event. Every time now that I drive by an intersection, even out here in the country, I see em. I see those people just standing at the lights and the crossing and sometimes, just sometimes I see someone without a shadow. Right there, that's enough for me and most of the time I feel like high tailing it home, but there's no point in doing that right there because a crossroads demon can smell the fear and if you ain't careful, he'll take your shadow alongside the cars shadow. The bigger something is, the bigger the shadow it casts in the light. You see my point?

A crossroads demon ain't one to be messed around with because if you do, there won't be a body to bury. It'll be like you never even existed at all.

Maybe pay attention the next time you cross a pedestrian crossing. Look around for the person without a shadow and if you see em, step off the crossing onto the road. If a car hits you, at least you know you're hurting enough to know you're alive.

You see anyone picking up a coin you've dropped, get the hell outta there!

Story written by Bloode Thomas, co-owner of http://www.shortghoststories.net/

I, Bloode, have been writing ghost stories and short stories since I was young. Its only recently that I've turned my hobby into a true passion and combined it with the net.

Come say hello at my website - Short Ghost Stories.net

Article Source: The Crossroads Demon

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Short Ghost Stories to Tell-Flinters Hill Train Station

Editors Note: I have scoured the internet gathering up some great articles on some of the best Short Ghost Stories to Tell. Although, most of these are indeed short, I will be updating each and every day, so you'll never run out of ghost stories to tell. But for now, I hope these stories by various authors at Ezine Articles, should give you some insight to what the art of story telling is all about. And how you can have everyone you know amazed at your story telling abilities, but most importantly just have fun! after all that's what story telling is all about, getting together with family & friends and scaring each other senseless lol!

Flinter's Hill Train Station and Janiey Lane the Suicidal Train
By Bloode Thomas

Flinter's Hill Station is a place that some days I call home. Out of work, out of a future, out of a whole damn world, this place is all I got. The people here died out long ago, I'm the only one left, well at least one of the living. It ain't a place you can shut your eyes and wish away the darkness. Nope, old Flinter's Hill ain't nothing like that. It's a damn old place, older than the surrounding town even. Flinter's Hill was here before we all jumped on the board the old train to civilisation, before we nestled and created a colony here. Flinter's shares house to a local cemetery and a big one at that. That there graveyard has been here longer then Flinter's even.

These trains going about the joint made enough noise to wake the dead. You go out way past the Sydney Rookwood Cemetery boundaries and follow the remnants of railway lines; you'll see the old dead station well enough. She ain't got much history cause no one wants to remember her and she's been renamed enough times for locals and history folk alike to never know her, but you follow those train lines, you'll see the old beauty. Of course she doesn't always appear on the lines, only occasionally she'll appear to those looking from the outside.

You see, right here at Flinter's Station, well we got ourselves a load of spooks. They ain't the usual type either; none of this occasional pop ups and wee bitty little orbs. Ain't none of that, Christ I wish there was some of that here. Nope, the ghosts at Flinter's, well... they ain't purely human, least not anymore. On top of that, they are angry spooks, angry angry spookies.

I seen em, I seen em every friggin' day especially before I go to sleep. There be a girl that walks along the platform, damn cow makes the biggest racket you could ever hear. This screaming, wailing constantly for hours at a time. She just endlessly paces up and down the platform, crying, crying, and crying out for something or someone.

Annoying as but ay' she be a beautiful girl, least she would be. I've made the mistake of looking into those black eyes before and I praise you be god right now, I'll never do that shit again. It ain't the terror that gets you, no way; you forget you're looking at a dead body. It's the emptiness that hits you, so hungry, so thirsty with an endless ache. She looks right at you and pulls you in and you ain't ever been so scared in your life.

These be mine ghost stories, be mine short ghost stories.

Some days I close my eyes, wish it all away and you can feel that weight on you. That human weight you've known all your life, like a honey you've met be laying on top of you giving you love, but you know you're alone. You're all on your lonesome with not a weapon, nor with barely a scrap of clean clothing and all you can do lay there. You know that if you open your eyes she'll be there, lying on top of you because you know it's her, it's her goddamn weight and she's just waiting, playing her own twisted waiting game to drive you crazy. You even try and open your eyes just even a whisper and BAM, she's got ya. I thought that after a year or two, I'd get used to her games but doubts are the devils tools and he's filling my heart and head with the lot of em.

She's only but one of the spooks, I call her Clara. A pretty name for a pretty girl eh?

Flinter's is a wreck and no one comes here any more. The trains all stopped, well, the real ones. You see these trains have been coming here so long, they do it on their own accord. Metal isn't supposed to think, it isn't supposed to have a spirit but these trains do. The No. 961-EF2 Train or as the folks here called her with affection - Janiey Lane the Wenches Train, well, that bitch still comes back. You ever have the time you can read about her on the grimy newspapers and rubbish strewn about this joint. You read about her crash, how she took out sixty seven people on the platform and demolished the one hundred and sixteen on board. Papers read the driver's brakes didn't respond at all, like the train didn't want to stop it demise.

Yet every night she's here, and you can see those people in the old world clothing. Dirty, ratted, excited yet scared to death they board her every night. She still has that beautiful grey, steel gleam on her, on her body and her wheels. Its only when you look at her now you get why they called her the Wenches Train, cause all the ladies would on board this beauty, all exclusively, all done up to the hilt with short skirts and high heels.

Janiey Lane the suicidal train more like it, she was just a descending axe taking the heads of those on board and executioner herself. You still see her here, you still hear her. Poor old Janiey Lane our suicidal train.

First you hear her horn in the night air, that blearing, saddening bleat that sounds like a machine crying with its rhythm. She gets closer to the platform and you see her beautiful eyes, those pink, pearly headlights all ablaze with colour. The people crowd onto her, all the ladies and the wenches. They talk; they giggle and laugh as she pulls up. The horn toots and she's off but something's wrong. She's crying like hell this time and she's not going to make it. Her wheels send sparks at all different angles as her crying becomes louder, her tooting becomes angrier.

You can she's not happy and she's not on the tracks properly. She's speeding up way too fast, too fast to be human error. She doesn't stop; she won't stop, not now. She lifts her wheels off the track on the exiting side of the platformand hits head on to. Half in and half out, she's nothing but a crumple of steel and iron. People are screaming everywhere as a section of the train station caves in but all the crying in the world won't do a thing. She keeps tooting, laboured breathes and bleats. Everyone around is too busy tending to the people, cause no one cares a damn about Janie Lane the Wenches Train. Those wenches don't care; they're too covered in blood to care. Janiey Lane our beautiful suicidal train cries herself to sleep as her oil seeps from her steel body and her wheels and doors work, they don't no more.

These be mine ghost stories, be mine short ghost stories.

Here at Flinter's Hill, we had another train. A man's train if there ever was one. Train No. 84620-ME, a huge iron beast with a coal burner, black from top to bottom, from wheel to window. The drivers and the passengers all had a name for him - Johnny Bane, the Lover's Train. He was taken off the tracks and put into the train graveyard not two weeks before Janiey Lane went off the rails.

Maybe that was the key to her sadness and her rage? Maybe she simply fell in love.

Aside from that Clara's still continuing her hide and seek and killing me all the slowly. The devil in the bowler hat is still laughing his head off and the wailing tracks, they're still wailing. Christ I hope I get some sleep tonight.

Welcome to Flinter's Hill Train Station, be careful on your journey.

This Short Story is created by Steen Olsson, Pen Name - Bloode Thomas.

To see what we're about and see more of our Short Ghost Stories please visit our homepage - http://www.shortghoststories.net

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Article Source: Flinter's Hill Train Station and Janiey Lane the Suicidal Train

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Short Ghost Stories to Tell-The Forgotten Body

Editors Note: I have scoured the internet gathering up some great articles on some of the best Short Ghost Stories to Tell. Although, most of these are indeed short, I will be updating each and every day, so you'll never run out of ghost stories to tell. But for now, I hope these stories by various authors at Ezine Articles, should give you some insight to what the art of story telling is all about. And how you can have everyone you know amazed at your story telling abilities, but most importantly just have fun! after all that's what story telling is all about, getting together with family & friends and scaring each other senseless lol!

The Forgotten Body - Short Ghost Story
By Allison Crow

Katy was twelve when she first knew that aside from her family, there was another presence in the house. It was almost dusk, and she was sitting alone at the swing out front. She had been waiting for Penny, the nanny, to call her in for dinner when she saw a lady in the kitchen window. The lady was wearing a long white dress, her hair was pitch black, and her skin pale in contrast. Even though she couldn't quite see the lady's face, she knew she was pretty. Katy was still looking at the lady when she turned her head and smiled. She headed back to the house but stopped in her tracks when she saw the lady up close, around the corner.

Where the lady's eyes should have been, were deep, dark and empty sockets. Her head was still inclined towards Katy, and on her mouth was a plastered smile. Katy almost uttered a scream when Penny came out to call her in, "Katy! There you are. What are you doing?"

"Hi, Penny! I'm starving..." She looked back into the kitchen, but the lady was no longer there.

*****

"Please pass the peas, Katy. Katy? Katy!" her mom, Mrs. Marie, snapped her fingers.

"Oh. Yes, Mum?" Katy had been in a daze, thinking about her earlier encounter with their other resident.

"The peas, dearest darling," Katy did as she was asked. "Is there anything you'd like to talk about, darling? You've hardly touched your food."

She hesitated for a moment, in light of the possibility that if she told her mom what had transpired that afternoon, they might think her silly. But her mind wouldn't keep her at peace. "Mom, who owned this place before we moved in?"

Mr. and Mrs. Marie looked taken aback. After a bout of silence, her dad was first to speak.

"This place was empty for many years. The last occupants had left 13 years before we moved in. They were the Lucans. Why do you ask, Katy?"

"Hmm, is there any chance they had a daughter? Maybe about 20 years of age?"

"Where are all these questions coming from dear?" there was a hint of strain and panic in Mrs. Marie's voice.

"There was someone this afternoon, in the kitchen..."

Creak. Creak. Creak. They all turned to look at the stairs. After a few long moments, the creaking stopped, but the air in the house suddenly felt chilly, if only slightly.

"Dad, maybe we ought to move out tomorrow. Please, Dad." She had never seen her mom so frightened. Her dad agreed and told them to pack their things tonight.

Without asking, Katy figured out what was happening. After dinner, her mom helped her pack in her room. They went into bed together while her father was out to arrange their move tomorrow.

But Katy couldn't sleep that night. She felt as if someone was in the room with them, and someone was watching them both. That night, the house seemed cold despite it being summer, and noises were becoming more and more prominent as the night grew older.

Katy could not restrain herself any longer and decided to come down to the kitchen. She wanted to run back up when she saw the lady sitting quietly on the kitchen counter. Despite the hesitation in her legs, she mustered the last ounce of any courage she had left and approached the lady. She peered through the lady's dark hair and looked at her as though she actually had eyes. The lady smiled again.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Katy implored.

Even though the lady did not have eyes, she appeared sad and stood up. She took Katy by the arm and started leading her outside. While they were moving Katy felt the heat in her body slowly draining out where the lady's hand held her. She was scared but would not let her curiosity have her.

The lady knelt down beside the swing without saying a word. She sat still for a few moments, then started digging with both her hands, scraping her fingernails into the cold, damp earth. After a few minutes of what felt like an eternity, Katy started to see bones of a hand emerging from the dirt. And then she noticed that one finger had a ring. She helped dig with the lady after what seemed like an hour. The earth revealed bones of a young woman who passed away a long time ago. Katy looked over to where the lady was sitting, but all she saw was the swing. And empty earth. Her mother woke up and came looking for her, and all that they had seen, they reported to the police.

The body was of Carol Lucan, a 22-year old lady who was to be married. On the eve of her wedding, she was kidnapped and brutally murdered. The police had to file her case unsolved after many years of fruitless searching. With Katy's discovery of her remains, the police could open her file again. Katy's family gave her a proper burial on auspicious land, and from then on, the ghost of the young lady never appeared before them again.

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Article Source: The Forgotten Body - Short Ghost Story

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