In "Ghost Stories For The Festive Season," writer Glenn Riley has has masterfully written and curated a collection of ghost stories that evoke the spirit of the festive season in the most spine-tingling way. This compendium isn't your ordinary gathe...
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The walls of Château de la Mort loomed out of the foggy night, dark and foreboding. Lieutenant Klaus Schneider halted the ragged line of soldiers behind him, twelve young men with hollow eyes and slumped shoulders. Though the war still raged across Europe, it was over for this lost platoon. Their spirits were as broken as the equipment they lugged across their backs.
"That's our shelter for the night," Klaus said, a tired sigh behind his words. "Keep alert. We don't know what we'll find inside."
The overgrown gardens surrounding the abandoned château were eerily still as the soldiers approached. Georg, the youngest at just seventeen, couldn't shake the feeling they were being watched. He tightened his grip on his rifle and tried to stop his hands from shaking.
The heavy oak doors creaked open reluctantly after the third hard shove from Klaus and Hans. Darkness spilled out like a living thing. The men clicked on torches that barely cut through the inky black.
"I don't like this, sir," Georg whispered through chattering teeth. "It feels wrong."
Klaus tried to hide his own unease. "It's just an old house, son. Here, help me get a fire going."
The flames threw dancing shadows across the cavernous great hall. Cobwebs draped from a chandelier like delicately spun lace. Dust carpeted the floor and furnishings. No one had set foot here in a very long time.
Fritz turned the radio's knob slowly, desperate for news from the front. Instead, an eerie wailing erupted from the speaker. He smacked it quiet. "Nothing but static."
They ate cold, waxy ration bars in silence. The fire popped and hissed. Outside, the wind began to moan. Georg's eyes darted to every swaying shadow. He made the mistake of glancing up at the enormous oil painting above the carved fireplace. His blood turned to ice.
A young woman stared back at him with unsettling intensity. Her black dress merged with the equally dark background until only her pale face and hands were visible. Something about her Beauty betrayed cruelty.
"They're saying Hitler's dead, sir," said Fritz quietly. "Shot himself in the bunker. The Soviets have Berlin surrounded."
Klaus absorbed this news with a stoic face. Inside, he reeled. Was it truly all over? After everything they sacrificed...
A loud crash exploded through the hall. Georg leapt up with a cry. "That came from inside! Something's here with us!"
"Get a hold of yourself!" Klaus chided. But his eyes probed the shadows, seeking unseen dangers. "It was probably just a piece of furniture falling over somewhere—"
Footsteps pounded down the hall. Hans appeared, whey-faced, chest heaving. "I s-saw something! At the top of the stairs!"
Georg grabbed the radio, shook it violently. "Send help! Bitte, there's something evil in this place!" Only static answered.
