The Haunting of Ashburn House

by Darcy Coates

The massive grey tabby turned his sea-green eyes towards her and projected abject misery in the way only cats are capable of.

her mouth dry and pulse racing, as the memory of that night replayed in her mind like a stain she couldn’t get rid of no matter how hard she scrubbed.

One side had a half-octagonal extension, creating bay windows on all three levels. The roof was sharply peaked and tiled with dark slate. A porch extended from one side of the bay window to the end of the building, with the front door set deep in the shadows.

This is a house that hasn’t seen a new soul in half a century. The walls are saturated with her; the floorboards are worn down from her feet; the very air continues to carry her presence after her death.

the effort was like trying to chase water while it soaked into the ground.

They weren’t all that different from her—teenagers who had found themselves classified as adults by virtue of too many birthdays and who were trying to fumble and bluff their way through the world without anyone realising how thoroughly underqualified they were.

She understood with absolute certainty that she must run, flee the woods, escape the area before it was too late, but she had no comprehension of why.

The moon would revive her and give her the strength to quell the occupant, that arrogant child, to drag her down, peel the skin from her frame, drown her screams in flowing blood, crack her bones, and taste her still-pulsing flesh.

“Ghosts don’t have covens. Only witches. The correct group noun is a ‘fraid’ of ghosts.”