Stan Swanson

We are the ones who still believe. In our periphery, we see them dancing darkly in moon beams, flickering like ghouls in the candlelight, and braying like witches to the wind that flutters the branches in the trees. We turn to look, but the specters sway just out of our line of vision, always behind us like our own shadows. Sometimes we feel them brush against our cheek while we sleep. Cold, clammy palms weep against our shoulders before we turn with a start. A chill sweeps over us. Sometimes we are fortunate enough to catch a glimpse. The white lady on the stairs raising her willowy arm to point at you. The poltergeist who scrambles under your bed when you flick on the light. The banshees howling like a windstorm at the front gate. And when we see them, we know. Something wicked this way comes. Danger lurks beyond, riddled in these stories. Ghosts and specters will haunt you if you turn the page. They are there, just beyond your vision. Rapping. Creeping. Waiting.

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