Anyone who knows me very well knows I’m a big fan of the ghost story. Not what passes for “horror” these days. Not the Insidious 5’s or the whatever the latest jump-scare-torture-porn is.

I’m talking about old fashioned “ghost stories”. Supernatural horror that makes you keep the lights on and sprint across the room to your bed, even though you’re a grown-ass adult. I’m a sucker for a good haunted house story and always have been.

I’ll be using this blog (and the related Facebook, Twitter, Instagram) to post tidbits related to stories I’ve loved, new things I find, and some of my own ghost stories I’m writing. Not sure where this is going, but hopefully you’ll follow and enjoy it. And maybe will hurry up the stairs a little quicker at night because of something I posted

One Quick Note

I should probably clarify something before I add too many more posts to this page, and it may surprise you.

I do not believe in ghosts.

When I was young, sure. I used to beg to stay up to watch movies and shows on TV (remember “That’s Incredible”?) about true tales of UFO’s and hauntings. And I’d have nightmares so bad I’d fall out of bed.

For years, I slept with the covers clutched around my neck, hoping to avoid vampire or werewolf attack. And I’d never dangle my feet over the side of my bed, are you kidding?

But now, as I write this, I’m a 44-year-old atheist and there’s not a doubt in my mind these things aren’t real. I know it like I know my own name, at least by the light of day.

Yet, I sometimes still fear the dark. I still get spooked when I’m up late watching a scary movie and think I see something out of the corner of my eye. And I move a little faster going up the stairs to bed.

Frankly, I’m fascinated by this. I know that anything perceived as supernatural has an all-too-grounded explanation, even if it’s unknown right now. Yes some things are unexplainable, but my assumption is never that it’s magical.

So how can I still love ghost stories? I think it’s something in the primal fears we all have as humans. Something deep down that reacts to anything out of the ordinary. Something in the shadows that just won’t come into focus. Something that makes the hairs on our arms stand up when we hear a whisper on the wind, just beside our ear.

I’m fascinated by what scares us, whether it’s a Stephen King novel or an urban legend told around a campfire. And I’m even more fascinated by why, at 44, I can still be scared by tales of things I know don’t exist.