Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Ghost ❤️ Zombie | Part 3

Episode Date: February 13, 2026

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A lot of things change when you die. All the myriad of processes at which your body has persisted ceaselessly since forming in your mother's womb, they end. And though in life you barely took notice of the inflation of your lungs or the pounding of your heart, not to mention the measured division of your cells or the tireless efforts of a billion trillion little proteins, each carrying out its infinitesimal task on your behalf. When all this fades and you are left. alone, without organs, without mass, less than flame or smoke or starlight, just a creature of dream.

Then all at once, you experience a profound feeling of appreciation, that any of it ever happened at all. Life. What a miraculous thing it was. And when it's gone, and there is still a you at all, it makes you wonder, after all. If you were never really made of cells, then what are you made of? The answer, it turns out, is desire. From eternal darkness, the cosmos wished itself into being.

Stars willed themselves to shine, and later, life. Life yearned itself awake and aware, and into me and to you, and to everything that walks or crawls or swims or grows. We are woven of desire. And when our mortal bodies perish, all the unsatiated yearnings of our being, all the cravings and passions and desperate hungers, the need to be warm and safe,

to see and be seen, to know and to love, and to be loved, they remain. In life, Abigail Alyssa von Gothenburg had wanted to be held and be kissed, and to feel another's hand in hers. But then she died, and the chance of fulfilling these desires died with her. And that, my friends, is unfair.

Or at least, it would have been, had events not transpired to give her story, the story whose conclusion we now find ourselves nearing, a final chapter, and scenes which transform the genre of her tale from one of tragic horror to a bittersweet romance with a happy ending. But there I go again, getting ahead of myself.

So, where was I? Ah, yes, the front porch. In the hours that followed the undetheth of young Clarence Harker and my own fantastical journey to witness the events which led to his demise, several ideas occurred to me as to how we might handle our predicament, all of which relied on the remarkable, undeniable connection between Abbey's ghost and Clarence's body, and between the spiritual energies which each emanated. By some miracle, a word I do not use lightly, the violent fire of the boy's infection,

and the pure blue light of Abbey's spirit combined to create something new, a dazzling thing, soft as velvet, yet strong as crucible steel. And I knew the moment that lavender glow touched my mind that it was special. The question, though, was whether it might provide us the means to prevent further disaster. And to test this, I found myself presenting a rather embarrassing request. Clarence, see, was attempting to drag his mother's corpse toward the porch steps, but his movements were slow, stiff, and awkward. And it was clear the undead boy was struggling to handle the emotional weight as well.

That's right, Clarence. Good. Abby told him kindly, floating by his side. Though in truth, the body had hardly shifted, and time was running short. I had actually tried to offer a helping hand myself, gently reaching to guide the boy's elbow, though, of course, my ghostly fingers merely drifted through his flesh and bones and out the other side, as I knew they would. Uh, Abby, dear, I said. Perhaps you could, uh, provide more than your encouraging words. She looked over at me.

What do you mean? Oh, just guide his hands a bit. You know, take, uh, take his hand in yours and... At this suggestion, Her ghostly eyes widened, and her cheeks turned a paler shade of translucent. After a moment, she swallowed and turned back to him. Oh, well, would that be all right with you, Clarence? I mean, would you mind it very much if you and I were to hold hands?

Clarence cocked his head curiously, his jaw loose and drooling. It's okay if you don't want to, or... He raised his right arm stiffly toward her. His hand outstretched, his fingers parted. Abby stared at the hand, then took in a shaky breath and slowly lifted her own. Their fingers touched, and the astral luminance of her spirit's surface slipped across his bruised and bloodied skin, over his swollen knuckles, then down and around his palm, curling snugly into place, as his hand remained rigid. Abbey quivered and closed her eyes. Oh, oh, I am sorry. What's come over me? I don't mean to cry or to smile. This is a

terrible time for you, Clarence. I know. It's just waited an awfully long time for this. Clarence looked at her, and his fingers bent, wrapping themselves around her hand and squeezing. She turns to me, crystal tears glistening like amethysts in her eyes. Joe, I, I can feel him. Twisting back to Clarence, she grabs his other hand. I can feel you. I can feel you and you're so warm. Like sunlight and hot tea and a lamb's wool blanket on a cold night. I haven't felt anything since, but can you feel me too? Can you?

Clarence nods. And am I terribly cold? The muscles in the boy's neck creak as he shakes his head. Well, I'll be, I muttered, and Abby looked at me and laughed lightly. And look at you, Joe, you old softy, you're crying too. Oh, nonsense. Just a touch of hay fever, that's all. I said, clearing my throat.

But now, we really must get back to the task at hand. No pun intended. And with the use of this miraculous bridge between our ghostly selves and the material world, we succeeded in cleaning away the evidence. With Abby guiding his movements, Clarence carefully carried his mother's body to the back of the old house and laid it in some bushes there, along with the pistol. He patched up the tire marks in the lawn the best he could,

and finally swept and washed away the blood from the side porch. Their vehicle remained parked at the back of the house, though I felt confident it would stay undiscovered, at least until dark. All this completed, I recommended that Clarence take refuge in the shed for the time being, but Abby would hear none of this. And so, just minutes before the reverence chauffeur pulled up the drive and assisted the old man into the house,

Abby helped Clarence open and climbed through a window in the sitting room, and taking him by the hand, led the boy up the stairs and into her childhood bedroom, a space which Hiram von Gothenburg had not bothered entering in the past half century. A great deal of dust had collected on the windowsills there and on the bed spread, and generations of spiders had claimed the corners of the room to weave their kingdoms, which had, in turn, then been reclaimed by the dust, like the ruins of old Egypt. And so, there in the dim still of the cobweb reliquary,

she moved to float in a sitting position on the edge of the bed, and Clarence sat beside her. I followed them into the room, not to be nosy, mind you, but out of caution. The immediate danger might have been dealt with, but there was still so much we didn't understand about the whole misadventure, and so many things might yet go wrong, and now the old reverent was back and pottering about downstairs, so very close. Well, here we are, Abby said to Clarence, fidgeting in place. About your mother.

We'll find a proper place for her, I promise. She seemed like a very loving sort of person and a very generous parent. And I'm sure she'd be glad that you, that you ate her brain like that. You required sustenance. And the meal does seem to have giving you lots of strength and vigor. Clarence let out a soft grunt. It wasn't loud, but it was enough to make me start and look nervously at the door. I never knew my mother, Abby went on, unless dreams count, because sometimes when I was very little,

I would dream about her, but a ghost cannot dream. Hmm, I wonder if you can. She looked at him, then slowly, raised a hand, and she set her palm gently against his cheek. He gave no immediate response, except to look at her. From the study downstairs, the Reverend released a dry cough which echoed through the old house. I flinched and over on the bed, Abby's smile wilted. That man down there, the Reverend, that's my father.

He, well, he's everything your mother was not. He's the reason I'm dead. He murdered me. At this revelation, Clarence's body went rigid and his His eyes went red, extra rigid and extra red, I mean. Yes, and then he dragged my body into the coal cellar, and he buried it down there. Sometimes I feel bad for my body. I know that's silly, but sometimes, sometimes I float down to the cellar and sort of dip my head into the dirt and just float there.

And I look at myself, and I watch myself change. Worms have eaten all the soft parts, but my hair is still there, and my teeth and my bones, and some bits of clothing. There's no brains, though, I'm sorry to say. Otherwise, I'd gladly offer them to you. I cracked a smile at that, because it wasn't a joke. It was just Abby's way. The day after I was killed was my birthday, and my friends came to the house because they were worried about me, because I hadn't gone to school, and we were planning a party for that night. So they came, and they knocked on the door for a long time. But no one was home except us ghosts.

I could see them, but... Well, in the end, I guess they figured that I had gone off to Missouri with my father, on church business. And when he came back, that's the story he told everyone, too. I heard him telling some people on the porch. Only he claimed that I had decided to stay in St. Louis with his seat. sister. I don't even know if my father had a sister. I never met any aunt. And then the next year, the Spanish flu came through, and so many, many people died. Oh, it was ever so loud, all that ghostly shrieking, awful. Well, then my father told everyone that he had received a letter that I

had caught the flu and died. So, that was that. And no one ever questioned him. And I don't know if my friends ever grieved for me and missed me or just moved on or what i could go and look for them i suppose but something's always sort of kept me here maybe it's the cats as abby told her afterlife story the ghost of buttons sauntered casually through the floorboards and flopped in the air just above abby's lap she smiled at the cat but then a troubled look came into her eyes clarence are there People who are missing you right now? Friends or other family? Or a dog or cat or anything?

He exhaled and shook his head stiffly. There's a sort of sadness in your eyes. I can see it. Across the room, I could not. But I was sure she was right. He had been through a lot, that boy. Here. She took him gently by the elbows and helped him lay back atop the bedspread.

We could just rest. And look, Buttons is chasing flies. Poor thing. Even if she manages to catch one, her paws pass right through them. They lay there, side by side, with a ghost cat zipping about above them. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for.

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Abby's 66th birthday, or, more truthfully, the sweet 16 she never got, which had been stolen from her. Late on that Sunday night, Clarence sneaked out the window and, with Abby's assistance and my instructions, dragged his mother's vehicle down the road to the edge of a large pond, then pushed it down the embankment and into the chilly brown water, where it sank from sight. I spent most of Monday hovering in the sitting room, up by the corner, trying to think up the best plan to deal with our dilemma. While from Abby's bedroom upstairs, her melodic voice spoke to Clarence, and sometimes giggled, and sometimes sang, and sometimes went very quiet.

On Tuesday evening, everything nearly fell apart. I was floating down in the coal cellar, thinking hard, when I heard Abby release a great burst of laughter from two stories above. It was good to hear her laugh again, so gaily and bright, just like she had done when she was tiny, in the hours when the Reverend was not home, and she could run about with the cats and make her little paper cutouts and sing German hymns. But then I heard something else, footsteps, heavy and awkward, creaking the floorboards. And they were not the footsteps of Hiram von Gothenberg, who I knew was then writing a sermon in his study. I tensed up. The study was directly below Abbey's bedroom, where the footsteps would be

loud indeed. The only consolation was that the reverent was rather deaf by then, along being a little blind and more than a little daft. He had lived such a long life, that shameless man, and gotten away with every sort of sin and cruelty. And could there be any stronger evidence to make clear that the world we inhabit is devoid of carmic balance than this, that so many faultless children die each and every day, while so many cruel old men lie warm in their beds and happily recall the wicked deeds of their lives, for which they faced no consequence. Then came another noise through the ceiling, a piece of old wood-breaking, and a gasp, for there was no doubt that the reverend had heard that one. Soaring upward from the cellar and through the kitchen to the top floor,

I shot into Abby's bedroom. What are you two doing? I hissed at the pair of them, who were up and on their feet. Were you dancing? Clarence was staring at me with big red eyes, his body frozen. Then Abby's ghost peeked around one of Clarence's shoulders. She was trying not to laugh, I could tell. Sorry, Joe. He was teaching me. I think he's rather good, especially considering he's undead. But he did sort of lose his balance and, well, he reached out to steady himself on the mantle there, see? He's quite strong. I turned to Clarence, who stiffly moved to try and hide a long chunk of wood in his right hand behind his back. It was just an accident, Abby said, as I floated closer. I think the Reverend heard.

That erased the smile from her face, and I heard a growl rising in Clarence's throat. His fingers tensed on the wood he was holding. I caught his eye and gave a little shake of my head. No, I whispered to the boy. I get it, but not here, lest we risk having his stinking ghost in our midst forever. Downstairs, the reverend's chair squeaked. Then his cane came tap, tap, tapping from his study. What do we do?

asked Abby in a panic. I looked around the room. Hmm. I spotted Button's ghost in the corner, watching a spider crawl up the wall. Right, right, Abby. Have your boyfriend set down the mantelpiece, chunk, and open the door, just a few inches, quickly, but quietly. And, Abby, did you not hear me? She blinked, her mouth hanging open.

Boy, friend. Quickly, please. Shaking herself, she dashed to grab Clarence's hand and had him set down the wood. then pulled him by herself over to the door, and did as requested. Hiram's cane was tapping up to the bottom stair now. Persing my lips, I let out a shrill ghost whistle, which startled buttons and sent him launching up and flying right through the ceiling. But I was not summoning any ghost cat, and sure enough, a few seconds later,

as the tap, tap, tap of Hyren's cane ascended the stairs, the round, curious, fuzzy orange face of Mozart appeared in the doorway. Good boy, Mozart, I said, floating backward toward the broken mantle and jingling the buttons on my jacket. That's right. Come here, a little closer. The reverend's cane tapped down the hall. Abby Clarence, hide behind the door, now. Abbey yanked Clarence to her side as she glided to the wall, then pushed his chest so that he flattened himself beside the door, even as it swung open on its squeaky hinges. The reverend limped a step inside, his hunched spine and outthrust face making his silhouette look monstrous to me, like a headless ghoul. His ancient watery eyes squinted through the dust in the air, panning the old bedroom of the daughter he had murdered, the daughter who, unseen, was now just a few feet to his left, holding hands with the boy behind the door, an example of affection which Hiram would no doubt disapprove of mightily,

and on rather many levels. The old man's gaze reached the cat on the floor, beside the broken chunk of the mantle. He sneered. Get out of the air. He snarled at Mozart, who responded by flopping on his side and looking at a paw. Out, say I. Mozart jumped, hissing, then dropped his tail and scurried for the door. Cursed the reverend, swinging his cane at the cat, and missing by several inches.

Then, with a final look of disgust at the cobwebs in the bedroom, he turned, limped out, and slammed the door behind. Dust rained from the ceiling. I straightened up, floating in the center of the room, glaring at the door as his cane tapped away. Abbey exhaled, still holding Clarence's hand. You know, I am quite tired of existing under the same roof as that man. As I looked over at the two of them. But don't you worry, you won't have to for long.

Abby cocked her head. Are you saying, you have a plan now? I nodded. I think I do, yes. And if it works, then this old house will have new residence before the spring thaw. And Clarence will be somewhere he can be safe and hidden. How? Where? Just then, the furnace downstairs,

rumbled, and the heat vents around the room hissed. It is 1968. Know what this old house no longer needs? A coal cellar. But we got one thing to do first. For the Reverend, that Wednesday, February the 14th, began like any other day. He arose a little after dawn, his joints creaking and throat rattling, and went about his morning routine, dressing himself very slowly in his old suit, spitting a throat full of phlegm into the kitchen sink and breaking his fast with oatmeal and coffee, as he always did. But when he finally shuffled into his study at 10 o'clock,

something was different. There was an odd odor in the room for one thing, and the tools by the old coal stove had been disturbed. That cat smells as if it's killed something. His disgust brought him energy, for he could pour it into the sermon he would today compose. a real banger, no doubt, full of harsh words and righteous venom. Cackling, he moved around the desk to his chair. Then he stopped, and he looked at the chair. And then he screamed. A wild scream it was,

torn from the elder's throat, bringing up more phlegm and bile and a bit of last night's dinner. Abomination! He whined, once he was able to take a breath again. He clung to the desk to keep from falling over. So we stared into the face of the teenage boy sitting up in his chair. What is the meaning of who are? How did? His old eyes squinted, taking in the details of the figure before him. The dark bite mark on one arm, the unnatural stiffness of the body, the bulging red eyes, the brown skin. I'm being robbed. Help. Help! Help! The undead teenager sighed. This.

Running to what now? Trembling. He leaned closer to the boy, wrinkling his nose. What devilry is this, hmm? Some trick of hell? Where's a white collar and calls himself a man. Irim sneered. That's it.

I am calling the police. He turned to go, but the body in the chair growled. Would you confess to? To them, old man slowed. He froze. Yes, father. Hiram von Gothenburg turned slowly around, his mouth hanging open, unable to speak. It is I, whom you called your Abigail Alyssa. Ashet sits before you now, belongs to another. That's his name.

Now the reverend was unable to blink as well. You are, and he is. And what? Ah, is sweet it fills up your heart. Moments become as centuries, and all many things become. This is ridiculous. This has graciously allowed me to briefly share this physical space with him, that I might borrow the use of his voice so that you will hear my words.

Hiram shook his head, his old man's earlobe swinging. No, no, no, no, no. I reject this. All of it, fully. Cut your pen, father. I do not heed the words of demons. You will pick up your pen and write. Not a sermon. Just a simple note, which you shall leave upon your desk explaining your sudden departure. My what? This old house, you will say, is to be left to the church, not for use by the next reverent,

but rather for a family in need within the community, so that for once there will be light and laughter in these walls, and have them tune the piano. I will write no such nonsense. You will explain that you have moved to St. Louis to live out your father. Final days with your sister there. I don't have a... He blinked, then curled his old fingers and fists, and narrowed his eyes. You really are Abigail, Alyssa, aren't you?

Hmm, it seems at last the outer shell reveals the wickedness within. So, tell me, you dark dog, why would I do any of this? From behind the desk, the undead teenager lifted something up, held in a fist, a firepoker. Recognize it. What do you think it will do to your head when we strike? Do you think you'll die right away? Or will you bleed out on the floor? As I did, awake and aware and so very afraid? The elderly preacher began to tremble. I see hatred in his eyes. Or have you faith that an angel of the Lord will intervene and catch the weapon mid-air. Despair a pious pastor when in his chair was saved by a miracle.

So how about you? Are you worthy of a miracle, Hiram? Or not? The reverend hunched forward, shoulders rounded and chewing on the flem in his mouth, picked up his pen. There! He said bitterly. minutes later. I wrote your little lie. Now what precisely do you—

He did not speak again, because Clarence's left hand darted forward, seizing the reverend by his frail jaw. Standing, Clarence turned and trudged across the room, dragging the old man and dropping the fire poker to the floor. The reverend gagged on the fingers in his mouth, which were pressed tightly into the flesh beneath his tongue, with the thumb hooked underneath. His feet kicked at the floorboards in a feeble protest as he was pulled into the front hall, then out the front door, and into the cold breeze outside. Clarence came to stop on the porch, sighing as the wind washed across his skin. He gazed through his bulging red eyes out across the yard and over the empty road

to the frosty field beyond, all the way to the misty horizon. Then from his body, Abbey's ghost detached, floating to the space beside. him, she said to Clarence. He nodded to her, still clutching the jaw of the Reverend von Gothenburg in his left hand. Then he adjusted his stance, jerking around his right hand to grab the Reverend's belt. Clarence tensed the undead muscles in his arms and legs and core, and growl. Leaning back, Clarence spread his arms and stretched the Reverend so that the bastard spine unfurled in a popping of vertebrae, and every pain receptor in his wrinkled flesh went lightning hot. And then, with a fiery grunt, the boy spun on his heels and hurled the elder's broken

body high into the air, a flailing silhouette against the gray clouds. As it soared across the street, Clarence turned to Abby, and raising one hand to his chest, he held it out and tapped a finger on the glowing tip of Abby's nose. A golden flush appeared on her ghostly cheeks. I love you too. I watched as the reverend's body tumbled into the field with a distant thud and disappeared from view in a cloud of dust.

Well, you look at that, I said, grinning as dust dispersed. It seems there is a smidge of justice in the cosmos, after all. May that old sinner haunt the rusted gears of the tractor that chews up his stinking flesh come spring. And may we never speak or think of him again. I nodded. Well, I don't know about it.

you, Abby, but I almost feel like celebrating. And it is February 14th, so? I started to turn to face the teens. Happy Burr. Oh, oh my. Abby's ghost was stretched up on her tiptoes, her hands around Clarence's neck, her gossamer hair loose and her eyes closed, and her lips sealed against his deathless mouth. He held her close. A happy Valentine's Day then, to you both. I averted my gaze as I turned back into the house and left them to it. There was still a lot of work to be done, and though Clarence was strong and had no need of rest, it still took until the following week for the project to reach its completion. The remains of poor Mrs. Gladys Harker, hitherto hidden in the bushes,

were again carried by her son, this time to the coal cellar, and there buried beside the bones of Miss Abigail Alyssa. Then, inside the old house, the cellar door in the back at the pantry was covered up in drywall, and a shelf was shoved before the wall there. Finally, the cellar's outer door, through which coal was once deposited for storage, was likewise sealed, using spare bricks from the shed and mortar, and made to blend in with that part of the home's exterior. For this final step, Clarence stayed inside the little cellar,

caging himself in, as it were, in the dark. But don't worry. There was just room for a mattress and a quilt down there, and the walls were decorated with many pretty paper cutouts. And, of course, he would not be alone. Abby floated up and found me in the front hall, where I was playing with Mozart, jingling my coat buttons above the piano.

It's done, she said. Good. He'll be safe down there. You both will. I know, cozy too. And the cats have already found a way down through the crawl space. They keep bringing Clarence mice to eat. She moved up beside me, watching as Mozart got bored of the piano,

and hopped onto the piano stool instead. Thank you, Joe, for all you've done for us. I shrugged. It was no bother, and I was always a sucker for a worthy cause. No, she retorted. It was special. what you did for me, what you've always done for me. You didn't have to do it, and it makes me wonder.

See, you've still never told your story. Ah, that. Well, my story is of little interest, too. It is of interest to me. And after all this, I worry that, Joe, are you like, like I was, forever longing for a love you never had in life? I watched as Mozart yawned and stretched out on his side upon the cushion. Slowly, I shook my head. I did have a love in my life, Abby, I finally said.

And she was everything to me. That time we spent together, it sustains my spirit even now, even though that time was brief. Because the war came, see, and off I went and That was that. Abbey's brow furrowed. You were killed in battle, but you said you died here, over in the drawing room. That's right, yes.

And my death, like my life, was not any grand tale. I was injured in battle, way out in Maryland. But I survived and started to regain my strength. I wrote letters home then to my young bride, promising to be back in Sandusky soon. And then they did just that, sent me homeward to recover, but... But you never made it back home. I shook my head. I got some secondary infection, they call it, on the journey.

Made it as far as the road just out there. Then they stopped the stagecoach and brought me into this house. And a few minutes later, I died. And opened my ghostly eyes in this old place. Which didn't seem too bad. And my wife? She moved on and found happiness again. Of that I've always been certain.

And I had lived a good life, yes. So I, I was content. Or, so I told myself. Until. My eyes tingled. The worlds of atoms and of spirits around us blurring in my vision. I looked at Abbey, my perfect Abby, and I said,

If I'm being honest, my one regret for which I longed for but thought impossible was to be a father. To be there when a little one comes into the world and to watch her grow. And then when times are hard, to be there to comfort her if I can, and maybe even teach her a thing or two. She looked back at me, her blue eyes glimmering. And mostly to just spend time together, to get to know. know her and witness the pure light of her smile and to become so damn proud of that girl that my heart is fit to burst. Joe?

And then, when she is ready to see her married, do a fine young man and know that she will be safe and happy. Now, wouldn't that be something? We floated there in the old house, tears on our smiling faces. You are my miracle. Oh, Abby. Below us, sleepy Mozart slipped over the edge of the bench and fell to the floor. You're leaving, aren't you? You're leaving the old house. I nodded. Yes, I think. It's time. Where will you go? Oh, I don't rightly know. A lot of choices out there. Some more peaceful, I guess.

Hmm? Maybe I'll just haunt the moon for his spell. Might be nice. She smiled at me. I winked and tipped my cap. And then, as I hovered there, a phantom, an echo. Abbey floated slowly toward me. And somehow, somehow I cannot explain, she laid a kiss upon my cheek, and I felt it. Then she sank through the floor out of sight and retreated into the perfect, cozy dark of the sealed little chamber below, where Clarence was waiting for her. I am far away now, drifting, a journeyman upon the tides of heaven, but I can always look back, sunward, to the earth, and that precious pinprick of twinkling lavender light that shines, even now, from the back roads of Ohio.

Oh yes, the old house is still there, and it's still haunted too. Haunted by the living and the dead and the undead, and by the spirits of cats and mice and spiders, and by memories and miracles. But most of all, it is haunted, always, by a sweet eternal. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe and share the show with a fellow horror.

I'll see you in the next one.