Halloween watermelon jack-o-lantern

AWM Story of the Week

Every week, the AWM is excited to bring you stories written by our visitors in our Story of the Day exhibit. Check back weekly for new stories, and visit the Museum to try out our typewriters and possibly be featured here!

This week, the weather has been crazy – reminding us of Halloween. So these are a few spooky stories for a Halloween in June!


You are a ghost.
This is your house.
You are haunting your flesh.


The clerk always, wore grey. No matter the temperature or weather, his suit was always the same, grey on grey on grey. Even his skin seemed to be grey, holding an unearthly pallor to it that suggested ill health, though his vitality never seemed to wane. What sickened me most, however, were his grey eyes. They were not the eyes of a man, they were the eyes of a cold dead corpse. That grey could not, should not, belong to mortal men. If it were just his eyes the situation would be different, he would simply be a madman still contained.

No, what scared me most was what was behind those eyes. It was not empty, but full. Full of unearthly fires that burned me to my very soul. The clerk is a dangerous man. I know not even if he is a man, but I know that he will kill us all.


Grandma Andrea Carlson

They told her she had until 9pm to get her mother-in-law in the ground. She was alone when she took the call. They said that they had tried calling several times, but that the party line had been occupied for several hours due to a family dispute in one of the other homes in Croftville. She walked 4 miles to the cemetery and started digging. Her husband was on a binger in town and usually drank for days at a time, but she told the hospital that he was up the trail logging.

They knew she was lying, but didn’t challenge her as she was having a hard time forming words through her tears. She dug. The night fell on her as she dug. It was long since nine, but she continued digging. Then she struck it, the corner of another casket.

It was a family plot that dated back many years, a four or five casket sized morsel of land that had been in the family since the days of her husband Michael’s grandfather’s grandfather. So there were other relatives buried here. Most of them were marked, but in the older days things had been less organized, had been slap-dash and hurried.

She cursed and spat and not for the first time regretted that Michael was not here to help her, not even to hand her a rag to dry her sweat.