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The full moon hung like a silver coin in the dark velvet of the sky, casting its cool light through the tangled branches of the ancient forest. Beneath it, Elara sat in her weathered wooden chair, the steam from her tea curling upward to join the thicker vapors rising from the cauldron. The green brew bubbled softly, stirred by the long wooden spoon she had left resting against its rim. A single black cat—Morrigan—curled at her feet, eyes half-lidded but watchful. Candles flickered on either side of the clearing, their flames dancing with the quiet crackle of the fire beneath the pot.
Elara’s gaze was distant, fixed somewhere beyond the trees. Her fingers curled loosely around the warm cup, but she did not drink. The night was still, yet she felt them—those familiar, unseen shapes that always came when the moon was full and her thoughts turned inward.
They moved around her like soft currents of air. A brush of cold against her cheek that was not the wind. The faint scent of cedar and old parchment that had once belonged to a man who laughed too easily. The ghost of a hand that had once rested on the small of her back while they danced beneath this very same moon, years ago, before the world had taken him. Another presence lingered farther back—sharper, more restless—the memory of a woman whose promises had dissolved like mist at dawn. And still others, quieter, older: the first love who had never spoken her name aloud, the one who had left without a word, the ones who had simply never arrived.
She felt them all. They did not speak. They did not need to. Their silence pressed against her ribs like a second heartbeat.
Elara closed her eyes. The tea cooled in her hands. The cauldron continued its low, patient simmer. Morrigan shifted and rested her chin on one of Elara’s boots.
“I know you’re here,” she whispered to the empty air. “I know what you want me to remember.”
The ghosts did not answer. They only circled, patient and invisible, while the witch sat alone beneath the moon and wondered, not for the first time, whether solitude was a spell she had cast herself—or one that had been cast upon her long ago, and never quite broken.
Blood oaths and promises are no longer of value it seems ..
Being deeply in love is like having a toy and when your tired of it it gets left in the dust under the bed forgotten...
Sad heart breakingly sad but such is the world .
South Loop bartenders swear she appears only after 2 AM, drifting between Wabash and Balbo. Her lips gleam like polished metal, reflecting neon in warped shapes.
People say she asks for a light. If you offer one, she leans close and whispers a single sentence in a voice like cold static: “You shouldn’t be here.”
Every person who’s heard it reports the same thing: the next morning, they wake with a metallic taste in their mouth and a vivid memory of standing in a place they’ve never been—an abandoned train platform deep underground, lit only by a single silver lantern.
🎃🕷️🕸️👻🎃🕷️🕸️👻🎃🕷️🕸️
🌑 The Hollow Choir Under the Red Line
Commuters riding alone between Fullerton and North/Clybourn sometimes hear faint singing beneath the tracks. Not music more like breathy, wordless harmony.
CTA maintenance workers claim there’s a sealed service tunnel down there, bricked up in the 1970s after a collapse.
The legend says the voices belong to the workers who died, still singing to keep themselves calm in the dark.
If you hear the choir clearly, the train lights flicker. When they come back, someone else’s reflection appears beside you in the window—never moving, never blinking.
🎃🕷️🕸️👻🎃🕷️🕸️👻🎃🕷️🕸️
🌘 The Night‑Root That Grows Behind Old Churches
In older neighborhoods Pilsen, Bridgeport, Ravenswood
there are stories of a black, barkless root system that appears overnight behind century‑old churches.
It looks like veins, not wood. People who touch it say it feels warm, pulsing.
The root only grows where someone has died suddenly on the property.
If you follow the roots, they lead to a single knot in the earth. Locals say if you press your ear to it, you’ll hear someone whispering your name from beneath the soil.
We were two mirrors
facing each other in the dark,
trading the same quiet weather
until the air between us
held a single pulse.
Your ache was my ache.
My joy arrived in your chest
before I even named it.
We moved like one long breath
stretched across two bodies.
Then the cord went slack
without warning,
without sound.
One moment the light was shared,
the next it was only mine
and it felt too bright,
too sharp,
too alone.
I reach for the old frequency
and find only static.
My own feelings arrive late,
confused,
wearing your absence like a second skin.
The room tilts.
North is missing.
I walk in circles inside my own chest
looking for the place
where your presence used to steady me.
Still, some residual glow remains
a faint afterimage of the bond
that once made the world
make sense.
I hold that thin light close
while I learn, again,
how to stand
on ground that no longer
echoes.
The grey outside mirrors the silence within,
Where forgotten hours begin to wear thin.
Rain taps a slow rhythm upon the cold glass,
Opening doors to the ghosts of the past.
A sudden draft creeps through the seam of the wall,
As unbidden shadows stretch long in the hall.
I pull up the sweater, I reach for the tea,
Seeking a comfort that won't stay with me
For warmth is a whisper, and loss is a chill
That settles in deep when the world hushes still.
Thoughts creep like water through cracks in the stone,
Reminding the heart of what once was its own.
A laughter long buried, a touch turned to air,
Drowning the room in a quiet despair.
The tides of "used to be" rise to the brim,
And memory floods till the present grows dim.
It rains on the window, it rains on the soul,
Taking the fractured and seeking the whole,
Caught in the current of all that has fled,
Living with voices no longer out loud, but unsaid.
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