’Twas Halloween Eve, and all through ParaHouse, Not a spirit was stirring—except one louse. The cobwebs were hung by the banisters with care, In hopes that fresh mortals soon would be there. The portraits were crooked, the floorboards all groaned, The chandelier swung, though no wind had moaned. Grandfather clock struck a quarter to twelve; Its hands spun backward, then rang like a crack of a helve. Young Jasper had come with his flashlight and grin, Dared by his cousins to s

Story by Melisa S. Kennedy - On Ghost Hill, where the full moon hung like an old lantern, Victoria Rider’s historic mansion loomed with its gothic sprawl of turrets and gargoyles, and its large windows glowing like jack-o’-lanterns. The eccentric billionaire witch, with her long black and silver hair, and dress woven with raven feathers, stood beside her third husband, David, a handsome man with a smile sharper than a cursed blade. It was Halloween, and thirteen strangers ha