Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Ghost ❤️ Zombie | Part 1

Episode Date: February 9, 2026

In a house already crowded with ghosts, a lonely girl grows up under impossible cruelty, dreaming of love while unseen spirits bear witness to every quiet hope she dares to have. What follows is a century-spanning miracle of devotion and patience, where even death itself is forced to wait for a first kiss on Valentine’s Day. BetterHelp: Sign up now and get 10% off at⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ betterhelp.com/dns⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠. Quince: Go to quince.com/dns for free shipping and 365-day returns. Author: Dave Kavanaugh * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This podcast contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised. #creepypasta #horrorstories #drnosleep #scarystories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

This Valentine's Day three-part special is live on Patreon right now. Start your seven-day free trial of Dr. No Sleep Premium and listen to all three parts instantly. No delays, no waiting. Cancel any time, no commitment. Just go to patreon.com slash D.R. No Sleep to sign up. The link is also in the description below. That's patreon.com slash D.R. No Sleep. This is a story about death.

Several deaths actually. and some are rather grisly. A father murders his daughter with the fire poker, for example. And later on, his son eats his mother's brain. But you mustn't let that distract you from the fact that this is also a story about miracles. And in the end, it is mostly a story about love. And not some grand love that starts a war like Mighty Paris and Helen of Troy,

nor a tragic love that echoes through the centuries like poor Romeo and Juliet. Now, when it comes down to it, the love in this story is nothing more or less than your ordinary run-of-the-mill variety, a love between lonely souls who find each other despite impossible odds. And when I say impossible odds, I am not exaggerating. That's where the miracles come in. Our story takes place in an old haunted house, though I personally think it's a little silly to describe any particular house as haunted. By this, I don't mean to imply that old houses can't be haunted, quite the opposite. They are always haunted, just like churchyards and boarded up asylums and that abandoned water tower outside your hometown.

All those dark and spooky places are, of course, haunted as haunted can be. It's just, so is everywhere else too. Our world is full of the dead. Millions and billions and trillions of us. Most things are dead after all. Dinosaurs and cavemen and pharaohs. Farmers and soldiers and nuns. Not to mention animals and trees and mushrooms and the like.

Even the stars. Most of them are dead, yet their light still fills the heavens. It's like that here on earth. We spirit. We fill up the place, like a second atmosphere. It's a bit like, like being lost in a city crowd, being a ghost. It can feel quite claustrophobic, yet at the same time, very lonely. You cannot touch or be touched, or achieve the sort of connections one takes for granted while alive.

And this, in turn, can lead to us ghosts, being haunted ourselves. We, the departed spirits of the dead, we are haunted by the echoes of our pasts, and by the memories of what we had and what we lost and what we longed for but never attained in life. But I'm starting to ramble, aren't I? My apologies, I will try and do better to stay on track. After all, for someone like you, someone's still alive, time is still a finite resource and easily wasted. But you must understand, I've been dead for a while now, and time is rather different when you're a ghost. We still experience it, that is. We can generally distinguish between one moment and another, but it's not the same as it is for the living. Moments are less like grains

of sand in an hourglass, and more like music. Some of the notes are fast, some linger. Some melodies are sweet, and one simply must replay them again and again, which a ghost can do, and some are harsh and make you angry or scared or confused. Some moments are grand and layered like the finale of a symphony, while others are just lonely little drops of music, like those played by a cat as it creeps along the keys of an out-of-tune piano. Oh, there's one of these in the story as well, a cat on a piano. But there I go, getting ahead of myself already, and when I haven't even begun the story properly. Onward then, to the start. The first major event of this love story took place in the early months of 1902, by which time The House was already relatively old,

its construction, having been completed back in 1820, on the outskirts of town. The old house, which is rather important in the story, was built in the Greek revival style popular at the time. It was sturdy and symmetrical, with a pillared wraparound porch and whitewashed wooden siding. Several Ohioan families had moved in and moved out of the house over the decades, and its five bedrooms had played host to several births and several deaths, as was like to happen in those days. This meant that by the time the Reverend Hiram von Gothenburg and his young bride took ownership of the place in December of 1901, the house was already the residence of a number of ghosts, including myself. My name is, well, my name is of no real importance in this story.

Suffice it to say, I was simply a man once alive, who happened to have died within the home some years before, and had chosen to stay, seeing no reason to leave and haunt elsewhere. That was how I was able to bear witness to the miraculous events that happened there. Now then, where are we? My yes, the new owners, the Von Gothenburgs. They had moved in at the end of 1901, and a few short months later, the young Mrs. von Gothenberg gave birth to their first and only child, a daughter. They named the girl Abigail Alyssa von Gothenburg.

That was obviously a very big name for a little baby. So perhaps that was why everyone who loved her in life, and later in the afterlife, always called her Abby. Abby was born in the master suite on the second floor of the old house at midday on February the 14th, 1902. And less than one hour after she left her mother's body, so did her mother's soul. I had been floating in the southeast corner of the drawing room when it began, but being a curious spirit, and feeling concerned for the young mother, who was small and

frail, I drifted up through the ceiling and into the master bedroom. I watched the birth, which, though harrowing at times, seemed to go well. I watched the midwife cut the cord, clean the screaming infant and wrap her in linen. I watched as she set Little Abbey into the waiting arms of her exhausted mother. Alas, the joyous moment was not to last. As the midwife gently urged Mrs. von Gothenburg to deliver the afterbirth, things took a turn for the worse. From the infant's tiny lungs, a horrid wail arose.

This was because her mother's whole body had gone abruptly stiff as a board and started seizing wildly, and in her arms, her daughter's tiny body was squeezed and shaken. Drul issued from the mother's mouth, which, like her eyes, was frozen open. Seeing all this, the midwife screamed, and after a short struggle, managed to extract Abby from her mother's grip and rush the infant from the room. I remained behind, watching from the corner, unable to intervene. and long before the town doctor could arrive to treat her, the new mother was quite gray and quite still and quite dead. I floated down then to the foot of the bed and bore witness

as the ghost of the poor Mrs. von Gothenburg emerged. That event, the self-extraction of a human soul from its mortal form, is not entirely unlike the birth of a living child, though instead of a slimy new body, a sort of milky blue light comes out, usually from the eyes and the mouth, and hangs in the air in smoky tendrils before slowly taking shape. As soon as her ghost had fully formed, an illuminous version of the woman, complete with sweat-soaked hair and a stained bedshirt, I could tell, from the look in her eyes, that she was not intending to stick around in the old house. Some ghosts do that. They rush away. I don't know why.

And whether they choose to haunt some other venue, or dive into the rocky earth, or flee into the sky and haunt the rings of Jupiter, frankly, it was none of my business. Though in this case, with the cries of Little Abbey echoing through the old house, I personally thought it might be nice for her mother's spirit to tarry long enough to say goodbye to the child. But no, the fresh ghost formed and blinked her glowing eyes, then clutched one small blue hand to her chest, and swept from the room, flying through the walls and across the lawn in the street, to soar over the frosted cornfields and beyond the horizon to parts unknown. And so, she was gone and would play no further part in our story.

But I remained. That is how it began. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it, that purple shop pay button. And just like that, you're done in seconds. That's the power of Shopify. It supports millions of businesses and drives 10% of all e-commerce in the U.S. From major brands like Mattel and Jimshark to entrepreneurs just getting started. With Shopify, everything you need is in one place, from customizable store templates to built-in AI tools

that help write product descriptions and enhance your images. It also makes marketing easy with integrated email and social campaigns. And if you get stuck, Shopify's award-winning customer support is there for you 24-7. See less cards go abandoned and more sales go with Shopify and their shop pay button. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com. slash D&S. Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com slash D&S.

Looking back now at the early years of Miss Abby Alyssa von Gothenberg, I am amazed at how she turned out, for she was, when allowed, a radiant fountain of every sort of joy. From where did she gather that light, you may ask? And I have no answer. Not from the old house, that's for sure. for in those days it was a very dark and very cold place indeed. This was, in large part, due to the fact that her father, the aforementioned Reverend Hiram von Gothenburg,

was a very cold sort of person, with cold hands and cold features and cold, colourless eyes. He was, come to think of it, one of those men who look very much like a ghost, long before they actually become one. And like a ghost, his presence haunted the whole place. Despite that, as motherless abbey grew,

sprouting locks of gold and copper, with rosy cheeks and the sweetest little laugh and smile, she did not succumb to the dreariness of her situation, though she quickly learned to avoid presenting too pleasant an attitude in the presence of her overbearing father, who liked his daughter to be silent and still, and dressed in very stiff garments with high collars and long sleeves and skirts that went to the ankles, and who, besides, accompanying him to church on Sunday mornings,

never saw any reason why she should otherwise leave the house. He spent a good deal of time in his ground floor study, writing sermons, and Abby took the opportunity to play with imaginary friends, and to run and to dance, always on tiptoe, so is not to be heard, and to sing little songs to herself under her breath. And though she only knew German hymns from her father's church, and I understood none of the words, I thought she had a lovely singing voice. There were also various other ladies from the church who visited to cook and to clean and to attend a range of household duties, but the reverend insisted to them all that his Abigail Alyssa was not to be treated like some silly spoiled girl, but rather a young sinner destined for hellfire should

she wander from the path the Lord has laid out before her. Many of the ladies cowered under this demand, and some even agreed, but when he wasn't looking, there were one or two who did sneak a bit of affection to Little Abbey, in the form of quick hugs and sweet treats. And once, a teenager girl from the church who had started coming by with her mother to fetch the Reverend's laundry, had given Abby a present, a wooden doll with eyelashes, red lips, and a yellow dress. Abby had liked it very much, but when her father discovered her playing with it on the front porch, he became irate, shouting about frivolity and idle worship. He thrust the doll into the coal stove that heated his study,

and then proceeded to smack the girl who had given it to her on both sides of her face, and used many cruel words to describe her. After that, no one gave Abby any hugs or treats or gifts again. The only playthings she managed to procure in those days were ones she made herself. She was particularly good at paper cutouts, which she created from scraps of her father's sermon drafts. She made snowflakes, of course, and houses and stars, but most of all, she cut out people, big and small, boys and girls, families. Once, she made a man and woman holding hands, and that was her favorite. She kept it hidden in the back of her Bible, and took it out when no one

was looking, no one, living, that is. Sometimes I saw her. How do I put this? Practicing to hold hands all by herself? She would press her hands together, intertwined her fingers and squeeze. It was clever, because if she ever got caught, she told her father that she was just praying, and it was sad, because it meant there was no one else around whose hand she might hold. She never asked to hold her father's hand, not once. The reverend wouldn't look kindly on such nonsense, and besides, his hands were always so cold and clammy, and buttons had paws, not hands, so she couldn't exactly hold hands with buttons either. Oh, I haven't told you about buttons yet, have I?

How could I have forgotten about buttons? You see, Abby did have one real friend, not made of wood or paper or imagination, which was a cat, black with a white belly, that her father had brought into the house in order to catch the rats that liked to scurry and squeal down in the coal cellar and up in the attic. The cat, whom the reverend called,

animal, and whom Abby called buttons was also very friendly with me. Cats, you see, have very keen senses and are always aware when spirits come into a room. You can tell because they go very still, and their pupils go very wide, and sometimes their tails go a bit fluffy. Some make a little chittering sound, too. And in that old house, with its many hauntings, there was pretty much always some ghost or other for the cat to take note of. Though I think I was the only one to befriend the creature, whose name, it turned out, was fortuitously chosen, given that he loved nothing more than when

I jingled the brass buttons on my coat. So yes, Abby's early years were not easy, not for her, nor for anyone who wished they might be able to step in and assist the child. But it will come as comfort for you to learn that her life got a good deal better once she, began school. This almost didn't happen. At first, the reverend had insisted that she stay at home and be taught by him exclusively, for his congregation was too small to fund a Lutheran parochial school, which meant his daughter would have to attend the public schoolhouse, where boys and girls were taught side by side, a prospect which enraged the reverend. But by the time Abby was 10, and still trapped in the old house Monday to Saturday, the situation became a topic of local gossip.

It all came to a head when a number of men in his congregation, egged on by their wives, of course, finally convinced their church leader that in 1912's America, he simply must allow his daughter to attend the local school. Reluctantly, the Reverend gave in. And it was with an extreme effort of will that Abby concealed her excitement as she strapped a belt around her books, buttoned up her shoes, and left the old house to go out into the world alone. I watched her depart, of course, feeling mingled nervousness, excitement, pride, and worry on her behalf. And in the hours of her absence, the old house just wasn't the same. I felt it, and so did buttons, who mostly lay on a front window

of Sil while he waited for her return. As for what school was like for Abby, we need not resort to guesswork. As I said earlier, the whole concept of past and present and future is not the same for a ghost. And I'd welcome the chance to revisit that time and place in the brief period of happiness between Abby's dark early years and her untimely demise. So, hold your breath and close your eyes if you need to. Can you see it? My eyes are still adjusting. Let's get our bearings.

Yes, here we are. I hear the ringing of the morning bell, the pounding of the little feet hurrying to get inside the one-room schoolhouse, and there. That is the excited laughter of Abby. She's 11 now, getting taller, too tall for her cotton dress. Inside the schoolhouse, she takes a seat on a bench between two other girls, who scoot to make room. They are her friends.

She looks so happy to be with them. They all do. In fact, yes, the girls are getting in trouble now, for giggling and whispering while the teacher, young Miss Betcher, is trying to teach. But Abby isn't worried about getting a lecture for Miss Betcher. The teacher isn't like Abby's father and never turns white as a sheet and starts screaming about hellfire. She just tells the girls to quiet down and do their best to obey. Now the lessons are over.

back outside, and the sun is very bright and the smell of cow manure drifts in from the farms. Over at the back of the school, a group of boys have gathered to spy around the corner and are whispering about what they see. Curious, Abby wanders over to investigate. It's Miss Betcher, whispers a boy named Nils, who is shorter than Abby. Nils has red-blonde hair and the prettiest eyes Abby has ever seen. She's with Tommy, you know, the mailman. They're, well, look. Abby makes her way through the boys, who smell worse than the manure, until she gets to the corner. Craning her neck around a sea for herself, she peers through the rose bushes in the back,

at a peculiar shape wriggling behind them. No, not one shape. It's two. It's two people, but entwined. Oh, my! Abby's pupils widen, a bit like buttons do when a ghost. enters the room, and her cheeks grow flush. She is looking at Miss Betcher, the teacher, and Miss Betcher's hands are hooked behind Tommy the mailman's neck, and his hands are reached

around to hold her close to his chest. Their faces are all squished together. I want to be a teacher, Abby mutters, and then, thinking out loud, she adds, where did they put their noses? Some of the other boys giggle, at which point the young lovers in the rose bushes break apart with the pop of their mouths detaching. The boys scatter, smirking as they throw around phrases like, gee whiz, and so gross, but Abby stays put. She sees Tommy emerge from the bushes with a crooked grin on his face, before walking off. Then Miss Betcher clears her throat and steps out, straightening her glasses and keeping her chin very high and her expression serious. But when she turns and scowls at Abby poking her head around the schoolhouse,

Abby just smiles back in her sweet little way, and the teacher can't help but smile too. Abby turns around, and that's when she notices that the boy Nils is still there too, looking rather in a daze and perhaps sick to his stomach. Abby smiles at Nils then, one eyebrow arched, which seems to hit the boy like a slap, and he reels around so fast that he trips on his shoelaces

and hits the ground with a oomph. Then he scrambles back up and sprints up the road. We watch Abby, as she watches Nills running home to his family's farm, and then we too depart the schoolyard, drifting up and away from the there and then, and return to the here and now. Take a moment to reflect and refocus. I must here remind you that our story is full of deaths,

and point out that, so far, we've encountered only one. So, I'm afraid, It is time for another. And this death, so vile, so unnecessary. To recall even the most minute of details is difficult for me, painful even. But it is key to all that is to follow. It was in the early days of 1918 when it happened,

at a time when so many, many ghosts were appearing day after day. There was a war, you see. There's always a war, of course. But this was a big one. An absolute deluge of destruction and misery. We ghosts are sensitive to that kind of thing. We can feel it when grand tragedies occur. And the Great War raging across the sea in Europe

was in the process of spilling its 10 million new ghosts into the atmosphere. That loss, it surged like a cold front across the face of the earth. And way over in our rural corner of Ohio, I felt its chill in the air, and heard the echo of gunfire and of boys screaming out for their mothers, and of mothers fainting on front porches back at home when news reached them that their son was never coming home. And back at the old house, the Reverend von Gothenburg

was about to learn a bit of news about his child too, but nothing bad. Quite the opposite, one might say, or at least, the sort of information that, at worst, might cause a concerned parent to experience a bit of nervous butterflies in their stomach. But, as you have by now come to understand, Hiram von Gothenburg was the sort of person more likely to have a belly full of maggots and rot than of butterflies.

I was in the attic on that Wednesday afternoon, patiently watching Buttons the cat, who was, in turn, patiently watching the ghosts of three fat rats scurry round and round a dusty rafter. That's when I heard footsteps, outside in the drive and knew that Abby was back from school, and she was not alone. Button's ears perked up at the sound of high voices and excited laughter. Several young ladies

seemed to be approaching the house. Buttons moved at once to investigate, darting across the attic beams and threw a gap in the roof's eve, from which he jumped down upon a branch of a sugar maple, and there crouched to watch. I myself merely floated down through the ceiling and the second floor and into the front hall. There, I saw that the reverend was standing at the front window, shoulder slouched, a growl in his throat, like a predator upon the prowl, as he looked out. To say this worried me would be an understatement. I drifted out, onto the porch, and watched, as Abby and her two best friends came to a stop at the foot of the stairs. All three girls were pale from the cold, but smiling brightly, their bonneted heads bowed together in joyous conspiracy as they

conversed. But their merriment vanished at the sound of the front door banging open. The girls jumped and turned to watch as Abbey's father marched out onto the porch. His mouth twisted in an icy, sneering grin. Abigail Elissa, he declared. Why stand you there in the frost and the wind, child? Do I not provide you a warm and safe abode here, within these walls? What business would a young lady have to keep her from coming up and in, and greeting her dear father? Hello, father, said Abby, bowing her head. You know my friend's here, of course.

This is Ethel May and Annie Pearl. Hello, Reverend Sir, said the other girl, as both she and Ethel May took hold of their skirts to Curtsy. He paid her friends no heed, but narrowed his gaze upon his daughter. Come inside, now. Abby moved to obey, but Annie Pearl clutched her elbow and blurted out. Oh, but we weren't finished discussing the party and... Even as Annie Pearl blurted out these fateful words, the Reverend's false smile flattened, and his eyes went dark, and Abby's whole body flinched.

Ethel May kicked her heel into Annie Pearl's shoe to silence her. but it was too late, and the damage was done. "'A, you say.' "'Oh, not really a party, sir,' said Uffelmey quickly, and she flashed her classic, disarming smile, which usually worked. "'Any pearl here is always exaggerating things, and I tell her, silence!'

His voice struck them all dumb, and what little color remained in the girl's faces drained away. lifting a hand, he pointed one long pale finger down at any Pearl. You there, the loose-lipped child. Tell me about this party, bearing in mind the Fourth Commandment. Is that the one about the neighbor's donkey? Thou shall not bear false witness, Abby whispered to her friend,

at which her father made a sound like a hissing snake, and she closed her eyes. Annie Pearl's bottom lip began to tremble. Oh, right. Well, Reverend Sir, it's just, tomorrow is actually, well, it's Valentine's Day, and it's also Abby's, er, Abigail's birthday. It's her sweet 16th, so we just thought, I know the date, he snapped. My daughter's arrival, like a curse upon my house, took the life of my bride, her own dear mother. Is that then what you would celebrate? Right? Annie Pearl looked to her friends for support, but both had lowered their gaze to the ground. Oh, no. I mean, it's just that some of us from the school thought it would be nice to throw a little get-together. Nothing fancy, mind you. We've just strung some lights up in the loft of the big barn.

My daddy said we could use it, sir, and my mother is making her famous gingerbread cake. Gingerbread cake, the reverend repeated. I see. And you say this get-together is scheduled on the morrow. Now that is intriguing, for I myself am set to travel out of town in the morning to attend a church business in Missouri, and I am not returning until the 17th, a fact of which my daughter is well aware. Old widow Cretan was to stay in the spare room while I'm away to watch over her, though I suppose

She goes, a bed early, and one might sneak away. He sniffed, then wiped at his nose with a sleeve, glaring down at the three of them. Who is to be in attendance at this party? Any pearl opened her mouth to respond. But Ethel May, to her enormous credit, I might add, laid a hand on her arm, took in a steadying breath, and looking up, said, Just some friends, sir. "'Girls?' asked the Reverend. "'Yes, sir.'

"'Doesn't sound too bad, does it? "'But I might ask, given that it is not just a birthday party, "'but also his eyelids twitched. "'Valentine's Day, a celebration, as I understand it, "'of lust and fornication.' "'Father, please don't.' "'Will there also?' "'He interrupted.

"'Be boys?' At this party? No answers. I thought so. How about music? A fiddle? Will there be dancing in the barn? How about strong drink?

And... Abby had had enough. Whipping up her head to reveal the tears in her eyes and the anger in her face. She stomped forward up the steps. Abby! Ethelmay began. But Abby shushed her. Go home.

Now! With a nervous glance at each other, Annie Pearl and ETHERL. Ethel May, both curtsied to the Reverend, then spun around and walked quickly back to the road, their skirts billowing in the February breeze. Folding her arms over her chest, Abby ducked her head and darted past her father and into the house. Throwing down her school books and reaching up to untie her bonnet and let down her hair, she had gotten halfway up to the stairs when her father came in from the porch and slammed the front door.

Abby froze. My study. The personal study of Reverend von Gothenburg was not a very pleasant space. Despite the coals burning in the cast iron stove on one side, the room somehow managed to be perpetually colder than the rest of the house by several degrees. The floor was bare, as were the walls, with the exception of one small cross behind the desk. A bookshelf held various volumes of church records, hymnals, and a leather-bound Bible.

The room was really only suited for one thing, which, to be fair, is what the Reverend used it for. And that was the writing of very harsh and pedantic sermons about brimstone and judgment and all the rest. Abby looked very out of place as she stood in the center of the room, in the harsh light of the kerosene lamp on the desk. She had on a white dress, and her golden hair was loose about her shoulders. Her blue eyes were brimming with tears. I took a spot up high in the corner of the room and hovered there beside a spider weaving her web and watched the reverend enter at a slow, deliberate pace and began to circle his daughter. He looked far less appealing than the spider. Sying and coming to stop beside the cast iron stove,

he leaned down. He must have been coaxing the coals when he heard the girls in the drive, for he had left the stove's door open with the poker leaning upright. It's hooked tip still inside. You have changed, Abigail Elissa, he said, lifting up the poker to prod at the calls. Do not think I haven't noticed. I can practically smell it on you, all those nasty, dirty thoughts in your head. He turned to her. The poker is still in his hand.

It's tip blowing red. You've become. a regular Jezebel and in my home. What? No, sir. Though I too shall be judged for your missteps. Yes, I should have been harsher with you, child, and henceforth I shall be. He lifted his chin and sneered, bearing his teeth.

Pack your things. You shall come with me to St. Louis in the morning, and when we return, I shall resume your education here at home. No, you can't just... Hold your tongue when I'm speaking to you. But this is all ridiculous. It's just a birthday party. Hiram's eyes blazed, and he swung the poker suddenly against the cast-iron chimney beside him. It clanged and lit the room with a burst of fiery sparks.

Abby gasped, clenching her hands into fists and backing away. Is that what they teach you in that public school? To disobey your father and to spread your legs and let the devil in at every chance? Is it? Abby was shaking. No, sir. He turned and aimed the poker at her, jabbing in the air. Tell me, child, tell me now.

Lest I have to fear it from another's lips, has my daughter become the village slut? Tears fell from her eyes and she shook her head. No. Liar! Abby's whole body jerked. Who is he, Abigail? Her father screamed. Who is this boy?

The boy at your little cake-fueled orgy. For whom about you? A bed of dusty straw and owl pellets is a fine enough place to defile and deflower, my child? It isn't like that. He marched forward, letting the hot poker hover inches from her face. The name. Abigail took in a shaky breath and held it. It's not like that father, she managed to say, straightening up.

Nils is good. Nils? The, the Erickson boy? She nodded. He is kind-hearted and respectful and smart and funny, and his family are good Lutherans. This made her father laugh, that it was the most mirthless, humorless, joyless laugh imaginable. Blah! Lutherans? The Erick sins? They belong to the Swedish evangelical Lutheran Church Abigail.

They are under the jurisdiction of the Augustana Synod. So? So? Those tow-headed unionists are but a half-step. above heathens. Their false churches are breeding grounds for soft and sentimental theology. I hear they've even been doing relief work hand in hand. His eyes go hard. With the Negro church in Akron, their morals are rotten daughter, and you would lust over one of them? So what if I would? She retorted, with a defiance in her voice I had never heard before.

And by the sudden look on her father's face, she didn't know she had it in her. So what if I like nails, hmm? Or, or, or, or want to dance with him, or to kiss on the lips and have him hold me in his arms and whisper sweet words into my ears. I like him. Okay, no, I love him. By the gleaming of the poker's tip,

the reverence face contorted, wrinkles stretching as his cold, cruel smile returned. Oh, but daughter, he said. The Lord is the only true wellspring of love. The filthy, wet tingle in your loins As something else entirely She met his eyes You know nothing of love, father

Something dark and devilish And if God is love She went on Then you know nothing of God For the briefest of moments They stood glaring at each other Then her father swung the poker back over his shoulder And brought it forward in a savage thwack

The fiery hook at its tip Sank into the left side of Abbey's skull deep, and the blood that poured from the wound hissed and sizzled against the hot metal into an odorous gray vapor, which rose spiraling into the room, mingling with the smell of the burning hair, and in my corner I had to watch with no way to intercede. For a further few seconds, Abby remained on her feet, her eyes and mouth wide open, her body trembling. Then her father yanked out the poker and she crumpled to the floorboards, twitching all over and leaking dark blood from the hole in her head.

He left her there on the cold floor, and went to the stove to once more place the poker's tip in the coals, leaving it there until the last bits of blood, skin, and hair had burned away. He then returned the poker to its stand, closed the stove door, straightened his white collar, and moved around the desk to his chair to sit and to clear his throat, and to look over paperwork for the upcoming trip to St. Louis.

I drifted slowly downward, until I lay hovering just beside Abby on the floor. I stayed with her, until her limbs ceased their seizing, until her breathing grew soft, then labored, then non-existence, until the beating of her young heart, so strong and brave and full of hope just minutes before, faded, then stopped altogether. other. Fifteen years, eleven months, three weeks, and six days after having witnessed the birth of Abigail Elissa von Gothenburg, I was there to watch her die. At first, when Abby's ghost appeared there in the air, looking much as she had in life, except that the image was composed of liquid light, the same blue color as her living eyes. She did not speak. But after a few minutes,

I saw her blink and tilt her head. Then her forehead creased in puzzlement. She looked around and spotted me. I drifted back a few feet to give her space. Uh, hello? Oh, miss, I said, and I tipped my hat. I, I've just died, haven't I? I nodded. I'm afraid so, yes. She looked around again, squinting, trying to. to get her ghostly eyes to focus. So then, is this? Are we in the kingdom of heaven? Oh, uh, we're in Ohio.

She raised an eyebrow. Right, and all these things in the air that I see? What are they? Echoes, I told her, drifting a little closer. Various spirits and the like. I don't precisely. know the name or type of some of them. But there's about a hundred ghosts here in the old house, of people, I mean, if you were wondering. Some American folk, like us, but most are from the old

tribes, are those that came before them. They keep to themselves mostly, and if you take a look out the window there, you'll see a great deal more. I pointed, and she turned toward the window, which was difficult for her as the motion sent her ghost spinning in place. But soon she was able to get a hold of her immaterial self and drift over to the curtains. Oh my! On the field across the road,

a herd of mammoth spirits stomped in graceful silence through the spectral trees of a long-dead virgin forest. And in the skies above, the light of a trillion-star corpse is glinted invisibly upon the undulating waves of spectral beings there, on the wings of birds and bats and extinct flying reptiles, not to mention countless human souls, adrift in the curtains of eternity.

Golly, she said, it's all rather pretty, I suppose, though it also makes me very sad. Yes. The legs of a chair squeaked from behind the desk. Both Abby and I flinch, then turned to look as Hiram von Gothenburg rose to his feet, and gathering up the pages from his desk, moved around the desk, muttering to himself about the times of tomorrow's train departures. When he came upon the body of his daughter, lying perfectly still with a puddle of dark blood around her head like a halo,

he paused. The expression on his face then, it was, well, let's just say, I would have given a lot for a way to keep Abby's ghost from seeing her father's expression. There was no grief in it, that's for sure, nor regret of any kind. Instead, the Reverend looked rather annoyed, sighing, he set down his papers again and left the room. A moment later, the cat buttons swept into the room and moving swiftly to the corpse, began rubbing the side of his face against one of Abby's outstretched limp hands. Buttons!

Abby said, and when the living creature whipped up his head to look at her, his pupils wide, Abby's blue eyes brightened. But can you actually see me, buttons? She turned to me. Can he? I smiled. Yes, indeed. Oh, that's good.

She floated down, reaching out for the cat, Only, her glowing fingers passed right through the animal and out the other side. Ah, well, that won't work anymore. Right. The reverend re-entered the room, causing buttons to sink into an anxious crouch and hiss, causing Abby's ghost to go quite still. It's all right, I told her, hurrying over. He can't hurt anymore, I promise.

He had a folded burlap sack over one arm. and approaching the corpse, lowered himself to one knee, careful not to get blood on his pants. You, get out of here, he said to the cat. Animal. He swatted it, buttons, who leapt back with a snarl before running from the room. Exhaling and disgust, the reverend then lifted up his daughter's bloody head with one hand so he could push the sack over it with the other.

Rising with a groan, he reached down toward the corpse's hands. I glanced sideways at her ghost, worried about her reaction. Would this then finally be the moment when Hiram von Gothenburg holds his daughter's hands? It was not to be. He just grabbed her wrists, straightened the limp arms up over her head, and began to drag the body across the floorboards, out the door and down the hall. After a short while, we heard the pantry door open, more dragging, the cellar door, squeak open and the thud, thud, thud of the body being dragged down those stairs into the coal cellar beneath the house.

Abby's ghost turned back to me, and her luminous eyes were filled with crystal tears. I know, I said, not knowing what else to say. It was unspeakable what he did, and... It's not that. It's just my farty. I've just remembered it. Oh. I know it doesn't really matter. It's just a silly party. But we had it all planned and there was a dance and afterward I perhaps... But now it's all pointless. And Annie Pearl and Ethel May will ever be so disappointed. I'm sure they will. I said and added.

And, uh, I'm sure Nils will be, too. Her face whipped around to gawk at me. You know about Nils? Oh, well, I... I might have heard something about him, yeah. Yes. He sounds like, like a special young man. He is, or he was? She blinked, a look of realization spreading across her face. I think I'm starting to, because it just happened right, but everyone, every plan, every dream they already feel so out of reach. She turned to gaze out the window again. It's all gone, isn't it? My whole everything. And Nils, well, it's like he's already grown up.

I hope they don't send him to the war. I hope he meets someone, someone special like him. I want to reassure her, and I open my mouth to say something kind, but there's a lump in my throat and a burning in my eyes. I really wanted a boyfriend, someone to hold my hand, to put his arms around me and kiss me and just be with me. Maybe that's silly, but it's always felt like now wouldn't be. be something, but now it will never happen. As I watch, Abby looks down, at her hands and then holding them up, fingers spread. She aligns them and goes to intertwine her fingers, but they pass right through each other.

Now I can't even hold my hand. She turns to me. Oh, and let me guess. A ghost cannot find a love with another ghost. Is that it? Oh, and I don't mean you. You're old. No offense. I chuckle, which takes care of the lump in my throat. I know what you meant, and you are correct.

It's not the kind of thing that, well, it never happens. The longing for it, the hungers of the heart, they persist. But the fulfillment of those desires, they forever elude us, spirits. That hardly seems just... I shrugged. Whoever said the universe was just. She considers my words, then shakes herself. Oh dear, I've been quite rude going on about myself.

I haven't even asked you about your story. Oh, well, I don't have much of a story to tell. I was just a fellow who, uh, happened to die over the drawing there, a few decades back. Well, what do I call you? Call me. Huh. I don't reckon a ghost ever asked me that before. I suppose, just my name.

And that's just Joe. Though her face was still stained with Mother of Pearl tear streaks, she smiled for me. Hello, Joe. I'm Abby. I nodded, returning the smile. Hello, Abby. We floated for a time, silent, thinking, and then, looking at her, and the tears gathering once more

in her eyes. I cleared my throat, and because I couldn't help but say it, any more than I could help save her from the bastard reverend, I said. You know, Miss Abby, when I say that it never happens for a ghost, well, never is an awfully long time. And what do I know? She sniffed the laugh. So then, maybe you just need to wait and see. She didn't exactly look convinced, but after a moment, And she nodded. Okay, then, I can do that. But will you wait with me, Joe? It's just I don't have any other friends, so.

I grinned. And straightening my uniform, I said, It would be my pleasure. And so we waited in the old house. We waited for Abby's miracle. And it would come. Oh, yes. The boy would come.

and Abby would finally receive her long-awaited first kiss. On her birthday, in fact, Valentine's Day, 1968. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe and share the show with a fellow horror fan. I'll see you in the next one.