Midnight has passed, and in the stillness of these hours, the hauntings are never silent.

This is Real Ghost Stories Online.

After midnight.

You can always tell when a place remembers you.

Not just the way a memory does, soft and fading, but like a wound that never fully

healed. It stings when you pass by. You feel the air shift, the weight settle on your shoulders,

and you know the house is still watching. That's what it's like when I drive past the old

family home, a three-story brick giant that stood longer than any of us.

The mortar has turned the color of dried blood and ivy crawls up its side like veins.

Every window feels like an eye, still searching.

But long before that house began to whisper to me, there was another visitor, one who didn't

need walls or windows to find me.

I was eight years old the night I learned that death doesn't always mean goodbye, and it was a

Tuesday, maybe Wednesday.

Those days blur when you're that young.

I remember the light, though, the kind that filters through blinds at

sunset, turning everything gold before it gives up to gray. My father stood in the doorway, hands

trembling just enough that I noticed. He told my sister and me to sit down. He said he had bad

news. He didn't have to say the words.

The moment I saw his face, I already knew. My grandmother, the woman who smelled of cinnamon and roses,

who hummed hymns while she sowed, was gone. She'd been sick for months.

Cancer, they said. I didn't understand the science of it.

...