top of page
Shadow

Step into the shadows and let your senses guide you through a world where scent and spirit intertwine. "Midnight Whispers" is a captivating series of ghost stories that will transport you to haunted shores, misty forests, and forgotten towns.

​

Light a candle. Turn down the lights. And prepare to be spirited away into a realm where dreams become ghost stories, and scents unlock the doors to the unknown.

Image by Jez Timms

We encourage you to keep a dream journal by your bedside. Who knows? Your midnight visions might inspire the next spine-tingling tale. By recording your dreams, you're not just preserving your nocturnal adventures—you're potentially capturing the essence of future ghost stories. Plus, you'll be amazed at how the practice enhances your dream recall and deepens your connection to these stories.

Trees

The Black Candle of Lizzy's Tree

The rich, earthy scent filled my room as I lit the black candle. Its midnight hue seemed to absorb the light around it, the flame flickering with an almost otherworldly quality. As the aroma of olive blossoms and fresh rain enveloped me, I felt a shiver run down my spine. It was the same scent that had haunted me for years, ever since that night when a group of us went looking for ghosts and found more than we bargained for...

We were just kids then, barely out of high school, with a thirst for adventure and a fascination with the paranormal. Our quest had led us to a small town nestled in the mountains of the Pacific Coast, known for its eerie legends and ghostly sightings. The misty forests and rugged coastline created the perfect backdrop for the supernatural tales that drew us there.

As night fell, we found ourselves in an old, church-like building that seemed to breathe with whispers of the past. Candles flickered everywhere, casting long shadows on the walls. The salty scent of the nearby ocean mingled with the musty air of the ancient structure, creating an atmosphere thick with mystery.

An old man approached us, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. "You seek ghosts?" he asked, his voice raspy. "Let me tell you about Lizzy's tree."

He settled into a creaky chair, the candlelight casting deep shadows across his weathered face. "Lizzy wasn't from around here, you know," he began. "She came from back East, a city girl with dreams of adventure. Captain James Cook swept her off her feet with tales of the Pacific and promises of a life by the sea."

The old man's eyes grew distant. "They say Lizzy fell in love twice when she arrived here - once with the Captain, and once with this wild coast. She'd spend hours exploring the forests, collecting wildflowers, and watching the storms roll in from the ocean."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But it was the olive tree that truly captured her heart. Cook had it brought in special, a wedding gift. Lizzy tended it day and night, singing to it, reading beneath its branches. Folks say that tree grew faster and stronger than any olive tree had a right to in this climate."

His expression darkened. "But the sea's a jealous mistress, and it called Cook away often. Lizzy was left alone, with only her tree and the townsfolk for company. Years passed, and no children came. That's when the whispers started."

The old man paused, glancing around as if checking for eavesdroppers. "Some say Cook's long absences drove him mad with suspicion. Others whisper that Lizzy found comfort in the arms of a local man. But those who knew her best swear she was true, her only love being that olive tree."

He spoke of the abandoned town atop the mountain, founded by Captain Cook. "The town was only accessible for a week each year before rains washed the road away. Some say it's Lizzy's curse," he whispered, "protecting others from her husband's wrath."

The old man's tale continued, detailing the fateful night of storms, poisoned tea, and tragedy beneath the olive tree. As he finished, he fixed us with a penetrating stare. "They say Lizzy's spirit still tends her beloved tree, a black candle in hand to light the way for lost souls. But beware," he warned, "for Captain Cook's jealous spirit also roams, ever searching for his wife and those who might help her."

Intrigued and slightly unnerved, we set out that very night, guided by the full moon's glow. The path was treacherous - a river crossing, a dense forest, and finally, the ruins of an old stone estate. Behind it lay a narrow road leading up the mountain.

As we ascended, the air grew thick with an unseen energy. At the bend of the road, we froze. There stood the ghost town of Cook, gray stone homes seemingly vibrating with spectral activity.

In the center of town, we found a small cemetery. Amidst crumbling tombstones stood the most beautiful olive tree I'd ever seen. A plaque at its base read: "Here lies the resting place of Lizzaquet Bow-Cook, beloved mistress of Cook, taken from this town too soon. She rests under her beloved tree."

As if summoned by our presence, the wind picked up. Dark clouds rolled in from the ocean, obscuring the moon. The air grew thick with the scent of rain and something else - a hint of olive blossoms and smoke. Panic gripped us as we remembered the old man's warning - get back to the river path before the rains came.

That's when I saw her.

A figure in white, ethereal as sea mist, standing beneath the olive tree. In her hand, she held a black candle, its flame steady despite the wind. The candle seemed to absorb the darkness around it, its flame an impossibly deep blue. Her eyes met mine, filled with a sadness that seemed to span centuries.

"Lizzy," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the rising wind.

She raised the candle, its light growing stronger. In its glow, I could see tears on her translucent cheeks. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out. Instead, the smell of olive blossoms intensified, mixing with the fresh rain of the coming storm.

Suddenly, the temperature dropped. A male voice, filled with rage, boomed from behind us: "Lizzy! Who are these intruders?"

The ghost of Captain Cook materialized, his form dark and menacing against the stormy sky. As he lunged towards us, Lizzy's candle flared brightly. Its light formed a protective barrier, holding the furious spirit at bay.

Lizzy's lips moved again, and this time I heard her whisper, carried on the wind: "Run. Follow the light."

We didn't need to be told twice. As Captain Cook's spirit howled in frustration, we ran. The black candle's light stretched before us, illuminating a path down the mountain. It flickered and danced, sometimes appearing ahead, sometimes beside us, but always guiding our way.

Behind us, we could hear the enraged shouts of Captain Cook and the rumble of what sounded like an avalanche. The town was coming apart, stones crumbling and trees falling, as if Lizzy's departure had broken some ancient spell.

We raced through the forest, the candle's light leading us unerringly. The rain started, softly at first, then in sheets. The path behind us began to wash away, but the light kept us just ahead of the destruction.

Just as we reached the river, now swollen with rain, I glanced back. Lizzy stood on the far bank, her black candle held high. As our eyes met one last time, I saw a small smile on her face. Then she was gone, taking the light with her.

We barely made it across the rising waters. As we collapsed on the safe side of the river, we watched the path to Cook's town disappear under mud and debris. The black candle's scent - olive blossoms and fresh rain and something undefined - lingered in the air, a final reminder of our brush with the supernatural.

Years passed, but I never forgot that night. The scent of olive blossoms and rain always brought back the memory of Lizzy's sad eyes and her saving light.

Then, last week, I stumbled upon a specialty shop selling artisanal candles. There, on the shelf, stood a midnight-black candle that seemed to call to me. Its scent - a mix of olive blossoms and fresh rain - transported me instantly to that ghostly town.

Now, as I watch the candle burn in my room, I can't help but wonder. Is it just a candle? Or is it Lizzy's way of reminding me that even in the darkest nights, there's always a light to guide us home?

I blow out the flame, a wisp of smoke curling up like a spectral figure. As I close my eyes, I swear I can hear a faint whisper: "Thank you for remembering."

Man with Flower Collage

Echoes of the Past

​

The salty breeze of the Mediterranean mingled with the rich, warm aroma of frankincense as Rico settled into his quaint Airbnb on the Italian coast. He lit a stick of incense, its smoky tendrils curling through the air, reminiscent of ancient rituals and sacred spaces. As the fragrance filled the room, casting an almost mystical atmosphere, Rico drifted off to sleep, unaware of the haunting night that awaited him.

A violent tremor jolted Rico awake. The earth beneath him shuddered, and the air filled with a cacophony of crashing objects and panicked screams. Disoriented, he stumbled out of his apartment, the ground still quaking beneath his feet.

In the eerie moonlight, Rico witnessed a nightmare unfold. The neighboring apartment complex teetered precariously as the retaining wall behind it crumbled. A massive wave, born from the seismic disturbance, crashed against the weakened structure. To his horror, Rico spotted a family on the top floor, their desperate waves and screams for help piercing the chaos.

Time seemed to slow as the wave struck. The building shattered like a house of cards, the family disappearing into the churning waters. Screams of "Correre per le colline!" (Run for the hills!) filled the air as a mob of terrified people surged past Rico, fleeing towards higher ground.

Rico found himself swept up in the panicked crowd, his feet carrying him up the steep hillside. The world around him was a blur of darkness and terror, punctuated by the continuing tremors and the roar of water. Finally reaching the hilltop, he collapsed, gasping for breath.

As his senses slowly returned, Rico became aware of an unsettling silence. The screams had faded, replaced by an oppressive quiet broken only by the distant rumble of the disturbed earth. "Hello?" he called out, his voice sounding small in the vast darkness. "Ciao?" he tried again, remembering the Italian greeting.

A rustling in the nearby trees caught his attention, followed by a low, pained moan. "Are you hurt? I can help you!" Rico called out, squinting into the darkness. The only response was more rustling and another moan, closer this time.

An inexplicable chill ran down Rico's spine. Something felt terribly wrong. A flash of white darted between the trees, and Rico's heart began to race. "I'm right here! Ciao? Hey!" he yelled, desperation creeping into his voice.

Suddenly, the most horrifying sound Rico had ever heard shattered the night. It was like a nightmarish blend of a screeching owl and the agonized cries of a dying fox. Paralyzed with fear, Rico crouched behind a large tree trunk.

The unearthly cry came again, closer now. Through the darkness, Rico made out a tall, humanoid silhouette. But as it moved into a patch of moonlight, he recoiled in horror. The creature had the skull of a horse atop a skeletal human body. Its arms dangled grotesquely as it moved, its head swiveling unnaturally as if sniffing the air.

Rico's eyes darted to the ground near the creature, where he spotted a woman's body. With a jolt, he recognized her as the mother from the top floor of the collapsed building. To his amazement, her chest still rose and fell with shallow breaths.

Before Rico could process this, he heard movement behind him. Two young boys emerged from the bushes, terror etched on their faces. They gestured frantically towards their mother, then back at themselves.

The creature's head snapped towards the boys with shocking speed. It dropped to all fours and charged, letting out another blood-curdling shriek. The boys fled into the darkness, leaving Rico alone with the approaching monstrosity.

As the creature changed direction to pursue the children, Rico saw his chance. He dashed to the woman's side, checking for a pulse. "Open your eyes!" he whispered urgently. The woman's eyes flew open, wide with fear, but when she tried to speak, only strangled sounds emerged.

"There's no time for this," Rico muttered, scooping her into his arms and running blindly into the night. His only thoughts were of escape and finding the boys. Suddenly, his foot caught on something hard, sending both him and the woman tumbling to the ground. Everything went black.

"Hello? Hello, young man?"

Rico's eyes fluttered open, squinting against the bright sunlight. An old shepherd with kind, worried eyes peered down at him, speaking in heavily accented English. "You okay?"

Memories flooded back, and Rico jumped to his feet. "The town! It's underwater! The woman, the kids, that... thing!" he cried, looking around frantically. To his bewilderment, he found himself in an old, overgrown cemetery. The peaceful coastal town sprawled out below, untouched by any disaster.

The shepherd gently took Rico's arm. "Come, I take you to doctor," he said soothingly. Rico's protests fell on deaf ears as the old man led him into town. Everything was normal – the buildings intact, the retaining wall solid.

At the doctor's office, Rico recounted his terrifying experience. The doctor listened with a mix of concern and growing recognition. When Rico finished, the doctor stood and pointed out the window to Rico's Airbnb.

"That building," the doctor began, his voice heavy with old sorrow, "collapsed in 1947 during a massive earthquake. I lived there with my brother and mother on the top floor. There was a balcony then, before they rebuilt. My brother and I climbed down, but our mother..." he trailed off, lost in painful memories.

"A huge wave destroyed the top floor while she was climbing down. We never found her body. For years after, my brother and I would hear what sounded like our mother crying outside our window at the church where we lived as orphans. We'd look, but she was never there."

The doctor's eyes met Rico's, a glimmer of understanding passing between them. "Every year on that night, we would hear her. But as time passed, her voice... changed. Now, I rarely hear it – just the cries of some local animal, hurt or hunting."

Rico sat in stunned silence, the lingering scent of frankincense still clinging to his clothes, a remnant of his Airbnb room. He realized with a shiver that some echoes of the past never truly fade – they simply wait for the right moment to resurface, carrying with them the weight of unresolved sorrows and the lingering fragrance of memories long buried.

As he left the doctor's office, the town's narrow streets were alive with the day's activities. Yet, to Rico, each waft of incense from a nearby church or shop seemed to carry whispers of the past, a reminder that in this ancient land, history and the present were often separated by nothing more than a thin veil of time and perception.

That night, back in his room, Rico hesitated before lighting the frankincense incense again. As the familiar scent filled the air, he couldn't help but wonder about the stories these old walls had witnessed, and what other echoes of the past might be awakened by something as simple as a fragrance carried on the night air.

Silver Eerie Figures

The Summoning

The crisp October air carried the scent of fallen leaves and wood smoke as five friends trudged through the darkening woods. Jack-o'-lanterns winked from distant porches, but out here, only the waning moon lit their path.

"Are you sure about this, Zack?" Emma whispered, clutching her backpack.

Zack grinned, his plastic vampire fangs glinting. "Come on, it's Halloween! We need a real scare this year."

The group fell silent as the old Crowley farmhouse loomed before them, its weathered boards groaning in the wind. Broken windows stared like hollow eyes, and the sagging porch seemed to beckon them closer.

"Last one in's a rotten egg!" Tyler shouted, bolting towards the door. The others followed, their nervous laughter echoing in the empty rooms.

Lily pulled out candles and matches while Emma produced the Ouija board – a thrift store find with ornate symbols burned into the wood.

"My gran says these things are dangerous," Mia murmured, but curiosity won out as they arranged themselves in a circle.

The candlelight cast dancing shadows as they placed their fingers on the planchette.

"Is anyone there?" Zack called out, his voice wavering slightly.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, with a jerk that elicited gasps from the group, the planchette began to move.

Y-E-S

"Who are you?" Emma asked, her eyes wide.

H-U-N-G-R-Y

A cold draft extinguished two of the candles. In the dimness, shadows seemed to writhe in the corners of the room.

"I don't like this," Mia whimpered. "Let's stop."

"No way," Zack insisted. "This is just getting good. What are you hungry for?"

The planchette moved with frightening speed.

Y-O-U

A thunderous crack split the air as the floorboards beneath them splintered. The kids screamed, scrambling away from the widening gap that oozed a foul, black mist.

"Run!" Tyler yelled, but as they fled, tendrils of mist wrapped around their ankles, pulling them back.

They burst out of the house, hearts pounding, not daring to look back until they reached the street.

"Is... is everyone okay?" Emma panted.

They nodded, too shaken to speak.

"Let's never do that again," Lily said, and they all murmured agreement.

But as they parted ways, none of them noticed the wispy shadows that clung to their costumes, following them home.

Mia jolted awake at 3 AM, her room filled with a bone-deep chill. Something was different. Wrong.

Her closet door, always kept firmly shut, stood open, revealing only inky blackness beyond.

As she watched, paralyzed with fear, a hand – impossibly long-fingered and pale – gripped the edge of the door.

H-U-N-G-R-Y, a voice rasped, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Mia tried to scream, but no sound came out. The thing in the closet took a step forward, its form shadowy and indistinct except for those terrible hands and glowing, hungry eyes.

In four other homes, four other children awoke to similar terrors. Zack found wet, blackened footprints leading to his bed. Emma's mirror showed only swirling darkness where her reflection should be. Tyler's room filled with whispers that grew louder with each passing second. And Lily found herself unable to move, aware of a weight on her chest and hot, rancid breath on her face.

As Halloween night gave way to a gray dawn, five sets of parents were met with eerily similar scenes: empty beds, open windows, and rooms that felt wrong in ways they couldn't explain.

In the old Crowley farmhouse, five new shadows danced on the walls. And on the dusty floor, the Ouija board's planchette moved by itself, spelling out one final message:

M-I-N-E

The Weeping Woman's Trail

​

Maya's fingers instinctively reached for the scapular hanging around her neck, a gift from her abuela. As she lifted it to her nose, the comforting scent of tobacco and tonka enveloped her, reminding her of warm hugs and whispered prayers. "To keep you safe on your adventures, mija," her grandmother had said, her own scent matching that of the blessed cloth. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Maya adjusted her backpack and pressed on, determined to reach the next campsite before full dark.

The gurgle of the river beside her was a constant companion, occasionally punctuated by the call of a distant bird or the rustle of leaves in the cool evening breeze. Maya loved solo hiking, but as twilight deepened into dusk, an uneasy feeling began to creep over her.

The trail narrowed, hugging closer to the riverbank. Gnarled trees loomed overhead, their branches reaching out like grasping fingers. Maya flicked on her headlamp, the beam cutting through the growing gloom. As she walked, wafts of tobacco and tonka from her scapular mingled with the earthy scent of the forest, creating an oddly discordant atmosphere – as if two worlds were overlapping.

A sound caught her attention – so faint she almost missed it over the river's flow. A woman's voice, soft and mournful, seemed to drift on the wind. "Mis hijos... mis hijos..."

Maya froze, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up as she recalled the legend her abuela had told her countless times. La Llorona, the Weeping Woman, forever searching for her drowned children along waterways. Instinctively, Maya clutched the scapular, drawing comfort from its familiar texture and scent.

"It's just the wind," Maya muttered, forcing herself to keep moving. But the voice came again, closer this time, filled with heartbreaking sorrow.

"Mis hijos... ¿Dónde están mis hijos?"

A flash of white among the trees sent Maya's heart racing. She quickened her pace, the beam of her headlamp bouncing wildly as she half-jogged down the trail. The voice followed, growing more frantic, more insistent. With each step, Maya became aware of how the comforting scent of tobacco and tonka seemed to be fading, overwhelmed by an icy, wet odor that reminded her of river stones and decay.

Rounding a bend, Maya skidded to a halt. There, in the middle of the trail, stood a woman in a tattered white dress. Her long, dark hair hung in wet ropes around a face hidden in shadow. At her feet, the ground was impossibly dry.

"¿Has visto a mis hijos?" the figure asked, her voice now a raspy whisper.

Maya's breath caught in her throat. She took a step backward, leaves crunching beneath her boot. The woman's head snapped up at the sound. In the beam of the headlamp, Maya saw a face twisted with grief and rage, eyes black as pitch and teeth bared in a terrible grimace.

With a wail that pierced the night, La Llorona lunged forward, her arms outstretched. "¡DAME A MIS HIJOS!"

Terror exploded through Maya's body. She turned and ran, crashing through underbrush, uncaring of the trail or direction. Branches whipped at her face as she fled, the wailing growing louder behind her. The scent of tobacco and tonka surged suddenly, inexplicably strong, as if trying to combat the encroaching smell of river water and despair.

In her panic, Maya lost her footing on the uneven ground. She tumbled down an embankment, landing with a splash in the shallow river. The icy water shocked her system, but the fear of what pursued her was greater. She scrambled to her feet, ready to run again.

But the wailing had stopped.

Maya stood there, chest heaving, water dripping from her clothes. The night was silent save for the gentle burble of the river. Her headlamp, miraculously still functioning, illuminated only trees and mist. Slowly, the warm, sweet scent of tobacco and tonka returned, seeming to push back the lingering chill in the air.

Shaken and soaked, Maya climbed back up to the trail. She retrieved her fallen backpack and, with shaking hands, pulled out her emergency satellite phone. As she waited for the search and rescue team to arrive, Maya huddled against a large boulder, jumping at every snapping twig and flutter of leaves. She clutched the scapular tightly, its familiar scent a talisman against the terrors of the night.

Hours later, wrapped in an emergency blanket in the back of a ranger's truck, Maya finished recounting her experience. The ranger nodded sympathetically.

"You're not the first to have a scare out there," he said kindly. "The mind can play tricks when you're alone in the dark."

Maya managed a weak smile, but said nothing. She knew what she had seen. As the truck pulled away, Maya glanced out the back window at the river disappearing into the night.

For a moment, she thought she saw a flash of white among the trees and heard, just on the edge of hearing, a mournful cry drifting over the sound of the engine:

"Mis hijos... mis hijos..."

Maya shuddered and turned away from the window. Her hand reached for the scapular around her neck, grasping it tightly and holding it close to her heart. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the comforting scent of tobacco and tonka. In that moment, she could almost feel her grandmother's presence, warm and protective.

She knew she would never hike alone again, but she also knew that she would always carry this scapular with her – a piece of her abuela's love, wisdom, and protection. As the truck drove on, taking her back to safety, Maya held onto that scent of home and family, a shield against the darker forces that lurked in the shadows of the world.

Christmas

The Bell in the Snow
 

On Christmas Eve, in the year 1878, I found myself trudging through deep snow toward the village of Whitcombe. The early darkness had caught me unawares, and I was grateful when I spotted lights twinkling through the swirling flakes. As I drew closer, I heard what seemed to be a church bell tolling, though its ring was peculiarly muffled by the falling snow – a hollow, desperate sound that made my blood run cold.

The village appeared deserted when I arrived, save for a single candle burning in the window of what I took to be the parish house. The bell continued its doleful toll, and with each ring, the flames of the street lamps seemed to dim and flicker. Though I could not locate its source – the church steeple stood dark and silent against the grey sky – the sound appeared to follow me, growing louder with each step I took through the empty streets.

An elderly woman answered my knock at the parish house door, her face ashen. Upon hearing my request for shelter, she crossed herself and whispered, "You hear it then? The phantom bell?" Her gnarled hands trembled as she clutched her shawl tighter. "He's searching again tonight."

She ushered me inside and, over a cup of steaming tea, told me the tale in a quavering voice. Twenty years prior, on Christmas Eve, the church bell-ringer – a devoted man named Thomas Marsh – had become lost in a blizzard while making his way to evening service. They found him frozen the next morning, his hand still clutching his bell-rope, his face contorted in a rictus of terror. Strange marks in the snow around his body suggested he had been running from something before his death, though no other footprints were found.

Since then, every Christmas Eve, the sound of his bell could be heard drifting through the snow, though the church bell itself remained silent. "Some say," the woman whispered, leaning closer, "that he's still running from whatever pursued him that night. And sometimes, in the darkness, they see his shadow pass by windows, bell in hand, looking back over his shoulder in eternal flight."

I spent an uneasy night in the parish house guest room, the phantom toll growing louder as midnight approached. In the depths of night, I was startled awake by the sound of shuffling footsteps in the snow outside my window, accompanied by the desperate ringing of a bell. Against my better judgment, I peered out into the darkness. There, illuminated by moonlight, was the figure of a man in antiquated dress, frantically ringing a bell as he ran. As he passed beneath my window, he looked up – his face blue with frost, his eyes wide with terror – and raised a warning hand toward me before vanishing into the swirling snow.

When I awoke on Christmas morning, the snow had ceased, and bright sunlight streamed through my window. Of the mysterious bell and its bearer, there was no sign. But as I prepared to depart, I noticed something glinting in the snow beneath my window. There, half-buried in the drift, lay an ancient bronze handbell, its surface etched with frost. Next to it, preserved in the snow, was a single set of footprints that ended abruptly at my window. When I turned to point them out to my hostess, both bell and prints had vanished, leaving only unmarked snow in their place.

To this day, I cannot say with certainty what I witnessed that Christmas Eve in Whitcombe. But on snowy nights, I sometimes catch myself straining to hear the distant toll of a bell, muffled and made strange by falling snow. And when I do, I'm careful never to look out my window, lest I see again that frost-blue face with its warning gesture, forever fleeing from something in the darkness.

bottom of page