There are whispers on the wind that know your name, if you’ve ever walked the moors near Hindarrow Hall. Some claim they’ve heard an old woman humming lullabies, or seen the silhouette of a ghost with a shawl pulled tightly around her shoulders.

When the lights flicker and the board beckons, skeptics fall silent. Tune in live at midnight as podcaster Mara Vale dares the spirits only to unleash Hemlock, the crimson mother of a thousand wraiths.

Each Father’s Day, a quiet ghost returns carrying a child’s drawing. Scribble doesn’t speak, doesn’t frighten. He simply appears where the ache of absence is loudest—a pub, a kitchen, a forgotten grave—holding a hand-drawn card that seems strangely familiar.

Dave was the kind of dad who always had a bad joke, a warm hug, and a cold pint. Now he’s got one more title—ghost. But not the scary kind. With his signature sunglasses, trusty dad bag, and a pint that never empties

They say you can still hear the vines whisper when the wind shifts through the trees near Alton.

It started in Room 7-B. A quiet failure. A single drip. Now, Goop is awake—an experimental ghost formed from spectral residue and psychic waste.

Before she was a ghost, Tricksy Pye was a curious witchling who wandered too far on Halloween night. She found a forbidden altar, spoke a spell not meant for her lips, and vanished.

She was once the toast of Whitechapel, her leopard-print coat as famous as her sharp tongue and sharper heels. Now, Pawline prowls the alleyways in silence, her glamorous shimmer dulled only slightly by death. Some say she protects the lost, others whisper she's still hunting the one who wronged her.

She was once the toast of Whitechapel, her leopard-print coat as famous as her sharp tongue and sharper heels. Now, Pawline prowls the alleyways in silence, her glamorous shimmer dulled only slightly by death. Some say she protects the lost, others whisper she's still hunting the one who wronged her.

Rue never made a sound. Even in life, they moved softly—always on the edge of things. In photographs, Rue was the blur in the background. In school plays, the shadow behind the spotlight. And in mirrors… well, they never quite lined up.

The Tongue Game started as a silly dare in a forgotten Victorian parlour. Now it spreads via whispers, drunk dares, TikTok challenges, and cryptic online threads.

In a sun-dappled glade hidden between heartbeats of spring, Meadow wanders gently among the daisies and dreams. With a bunny at her feet and a dragonfly that follows her drifting path, she brings the calm of morning dew and the warmth of childhood wonder.

Each spring, Peep emerges, cradling a marbled egg and watching over three more nestled at their feet. But these are no ordinary eggs they hold whispers.

At the moment a clock strikes thirteen, the world holds its breath—and a door creaks open in a place that should not exist. Page, the silent guardian of the Library Between Realms, watches as a new volume appears.

In the grove where forgotten trees twist above nameless graves, Moonshade lingers beneath the silver glow of a ghostly moon. Once a guardian of peaceful rest, her soul now drifts between realms—where dreamers wander and the dead wait.

They say it appears when the world tips too far. A brick in hand. A face covered in blood and silence. Some call it a ghost. Others say it’s an idea made flesh.

Deep within the hidden corridors of Ravenwood Manor, a single vial glows with an eerie light, clutched in the spectral grip of Eldrin. In life, he was a master alchemist, driven by an obsession to craft an elixir that could rewrite fate itself.

Esme Hexroot was once the most eccentric witch in Ravenwood, her magic as wild as the tangled vines in her overgrown garden. Now a spectral figure, she drifts through the manor, her emerald-hued form shimmering in the candlelight, ever accompanied by her ghostly feline familiar, Nocturne.

They say that when bees go missing, a gentle spirit is there to guide them home. Phoebee, the spectral guardian of the hives, watches over fields of flowers, ensuring every lost little worker finds its way back.

Liminal is neither fully here nor entirely elsewhere. It lingers at the edges of reality, flickering between existence and absence. When you catch a glimpse, you may feel a strange sensation—like something pulling, something shifting.