The best ghost story books from Next Chapter [March 2023]
The ghost horror fiction genre has been popular for centuries and continues to captivate readers today. It is a genre that often explores the unknown and unexplained, instilling a sense of fear and mystery in readers. Ghost stories typically involve supernatural elements, including apparitions, hauntings, and possession, and can be set in a wide range of locations, from old mansions to abandoned hospitals.
One of the most notable characteristics of the ghost horror fiction genre is its ability to tap into readers' primal fears. Ghost stories often deal with themes of death, loss, and the afterlife, which can be unsettling and deeply emotional. They can also challenge readers' beliefs about the supernatural and our place in the world, prompting us to consider what might lie beyond our physical existence.
Overall, the ghost horror fiction genre offers a thrilling escape into the unknown, with a wide range of authors and styles to choose from. Whether you're a seasoned horror fan or just dipping your toes into the genre, ghost stories are sure to leave a lasting impression on your imagination and sense of wonder.
Below, you’ll find our best ghost story books as of March 2023. If you enjoy one of the stories below, please don’t forget to leave the author a review! Don’t agree with our choices? Please leave a comment and let us know your favorite :)
Books featured on this page
Red Herrings Can't Swim (Nod Blake Mysteries Book 2) by Doug Lamoreux
What Haunts Me (Ghost Killer Book 1) by Margaret Millmore
Red Herrings Can't Swim (Nod Blake Mysteries Book 2) by Doug Lamoreux
Book excerpt
Other than a lame guess our drowned man appreciated a midnight swim, the only clue the body in Lisa’s boat offered had been the visions delivered to my brain on contact. In an instant the din of the midway, calliope music, and the glitter of neon lights (if I was seeing what I saw) exploded in my skull. For some ungodly reason, I’d been transported into the nostalgic world of the carnival. An instant more and that vision had been replaced by the ridiculous sight of a cartoon fish smoking a cigar, by a scream from our drowned man, and by a burst of pain for me and a plunge into cold black water for him. What stew could I make from those ingredients?
Working backwards from where the corpse was found adrift gave me Lake Michigan as a starting place. That was no starting place at all. Marine debris could cover a lot of territory and the body, flotsam or jetsam, could have originated anywhere in Chicago, northern Illinois, western Michigan, eastern Wisconsin, the Great Lakes or, for that matter, the Saint Lawrence Seaway. The pain I’d experienced offered no better clue; it was merely pain. His or mine? I wasn’t sure. The fish meant nothing to me. Few cartoons meant anything to me. As a kid, the only ‘funny’ I ever read was Dick Tracy. I knew Flattop, Mumbles, Gruesome, and the rest, but I didn’t remember any cigar chomping fish. I didn’t do Saturday mornings inside. Rather than fight my mother for couch space, my weekend days were spent in the streets raising the anxieties of innocent neighbors. The fish was a mystery. The only part of the vision that made any sense at all were the lights and sounds of the midway. But I hadn’t been to a carnival in ages.
To the best of my knowledge, which I admit was limited, that year’s fair season had come and gone in Chicagoland; in the city and surrounding counties. Midway attractions may have been teeming in the suburbs with corn dog sales out the wahzoo but, if they were, I didn’t know about it. Just then, I was aware of only one such attraction in the city; some kind of to-do currently working to lure crowds to Navy Pier. As it was the only carnival I knew of, and it was on the lake, and might have provided a convenient venue from which to chuck a body into the drink, it appealed to me as a starting place. I headed for the near north side and the lake.
Traffic was what it always was on a Saturday night in Chicago. I dealt with it by dialing in a metal station and letting Molly Hatchet warn me I was Flirtin' With Disaster. No news flash there. I soon pulled off of Lake Shore Drive, followed the Streeter Drive curve, and turned right for Navy Pier.
Built between 1914 and 1916 at a cost of four and a half million pre-Depression Era bucks, Municipal Pier #2 jutted 3,300-feet out into Lake Michigan. Back then it was the largest pier in the world, handling lake freighter cargo, passenger steamers, and serving as a cool place for public gatherings in a time before air conditioning.
original plan called for four more like it, but Municipal Piers #1, 3, 4 and 5 were never built. Before construction on #2 had finished, the arrival of mass-produced trucks destroyed the lake freight industry. It might have been a total disaster had it not been for World War One. Wars were always good for business. The Red Cross moved onto the pier, and Home Defense, the Navy, and Army. A pier jail was even opened for draft dodgers.
Gheist by Richard Mosses
Book excerpt
Kat woke early, confused, on a couch. Why wasn’t she in her hotel room? Yesterday came back in full technicolour. A sense of dread wrapped tightly round her. Breathe. Breathe deep. She needed a plan. She couldn’t stay here. Evelyn had been kind, but Kat could see she was an unwelcome presence.
She got up, unsure what to do. The weight of the key swinging around her neck was unfamiliar. What was that all about? A deep ache pulsed from her side. Her ribs still hurt, the bruises not fading but changing from purple towards green.
Kat slipped the stolen dress back on. She really needed new clothes, or to get back her own. She felt ashamed wearing this dress. It reminded her of how desperate she had become. She should have gotten help. But she’d chosen the easy way. What could be more natural than winning it all back and winning some freedom while she was at it? No more need to worry about work, or Tony. She could start again, anywhere. She’d won enough once, she could do it again.
Exactly. She was a winner. This was just a temporary setback. She’d go back to the hotel. She’d have a long shower and change. She’d tell them she wanted to stay for another week. Simple really. She’d find a job for a few days, wait tables, something down to earth like that. Then with her wages she’d win it all back. So long as Danton and the other goons didn’t come looking for the money she owed them.
It was very bright in the kitchen. Kat had shunned the light, playing at tables all day round. How could it be so strong so early? She made herself useful by putting on the filter machine. Her stomach grumbled. The eat-when-you-want buffets had kept her going, but all she’d had since breakfast yesterday was Evelyn’s chicken sandwich. It was one thing to put coffee on in someone else’s house, quite another to make yourself breakfast. Her mum had taught her to be a respectful guest. She should do the dishes, but she also didn’t want to disturb her host, clattering around.
Hiding from the light in the living room, Kat browsed through Evelyn’s books. It felt intrusive, this insight into someone else’s tastes and interests, but she was curious. There weren’t as many theological texts as she’d expected. A few on other faiths, Buddhism, Zoroastrianism, the Cathar heresy, the Sufi and Ismaili sects. Hardly mainstream, but Evelyn was probably a scholar in her field. Most of the books were paperbacks, a mix of horror novels and romance books. It was an unusual combination. Hearing movement, Kat sat down.
Ghost Boy by Ian & Rosi Taylor
Book excerpt
Will stopped in mid-stride, stunned. "Toby!" he called. "What are you doing?"
There was no reply.
He ran towards the place where Toby vanished. The area formed a shallow grass-covered depression, with slightly higher land surrounding it. Straggly elder bushes, goat willows and hawthorns fringed the edges of the hollow.
The ball lay in the grass in the centre of the depression, but there was no sign of Toby. Will, utterly perplexed, called again.
"Toby? Where are you?"
The wind in the bushes. No other sound. Will turned in a circle, shielding his eyes from the late-afternoon sun, trying to catch a glimpse of Toby. Once or twice he thought he had spotted him, but it was only nettles and willowherb blowing in the wind.
He searched among the encircling fringe of bushes, prodded with his stick at any holes he saw among the bony moss-covered roots. But he found nothing. "Ow! Damn!" he exclaimed, as he cut his hand on a briar.
He bound his bleeding hand with his handkerchief. It was surprisingly painful. He began to feel irritable – he really didn't need Toby to start playing silly games. "Hey, Toby," he called. "Stop messing about!"
He hurried this way and that, peering behind bushes, clumps of nettles and thick tussocks of grass, but still no Toby. He returned to the standing stone on its mound. He searched around the stone, investigated the weed-choked gateway that led into the field. Still nothing.
"Toby! TOBY!!"
He retraced his steps as far as the lane. He shouted Toby's name over and over, but with no result. He felt a growing sense of unreality, as if he was trapped in the strangest of dreams and had lost the ability to wake himself up.
He ran back to the field, looked behind every bush. He ended up in the hollow, where the ball still lay in the grass. He beat his forehead with his fists, hoping the violent action would dispel the intolerable limbo he was stuck in. But it did not.
Ascending by Kenna McKinnon
Book excerpt
Michael and Scarlett married on May 20, 1965. On a rainy day in June he and Scarlett returned from their Banff honeymoon. That morning they moved into their new home. Their meager furnishings had been delivered. As they had just arrived, their Sprite’s engine was not yet cold.
The orange tabby kitten had used up his nine lives cohabiting with a feral brood on the streets and lived on borrowed days when Michael Kane first found him, huddled wet, dripping, and cold beneath their engine mount.
They didn’t know the pedigree, age, nor name of the kitten that emerged squealing and bouncing stiff-legged from under the relative warmth of the car but like the infamous bad penny he hung around the young mechanical expert until Michael convinced his wife to adopt the handsome little cat.
At the time, Michael’s new bride owned a grey Scottish terrier / bichon / poodle mix dog she called Angus, as well as a parakeet named Max.
“All right, if he doesn’t bother Angus,” Scarlett said. Her dog lay on his belly, feet splayed, at the edge of the carpet in the hallway. His tail thumped when he saw the kitten, which wasn’t so sure about making friends with a dog.
Shortly after their wedding on the long weekend in May, they moved into the yellow house near the Municipal Airport close to downtown as their first home together. The landlord didn’t care how many pets they had so long as they kept up the rent and the rather large damage deposit to cover any damages or ruined carpets.
Angus woofed, stared, and shook himself as the stray cat crept sniffing around the perimeters of the living room and kitchen, into the open doors of one of the three bedrooms then shot under a double bed as though squirted from a mustard bottle.
“Hello, little tiger,” Michael coaxed as he tried to persuade the kitten to come out from under the bed. “What do kittens eat?” he asked his bride and Scarlett shrugged. She was a dog person. Definitely not a cat person. But she humored her new husband and Angus didn’t seem to mind the intruder. Rather, he tried to make friends with his new roommate, snuffling under the bed skirts to get a good smell of the kitten, who would have nothing of it. Scarlett had to smile at Angus’s antics.
“What should we call him?” she asked as she opened a tin of sardines and shoved it under the bed.
“That’s it,” coaxed Michael. He pushed the sardines as far as they would slide in the direction of the kitten, who hissed and retreated further. Tail wagging, Angus woofed softly as he pushed his nose under the bed. The kitten hissed again.
What Haunts Me (Ghost Killer Book 1) by Margaret Millmore
Book excerpt
The following morning I was up before the sun and sitting at my desk by 7 a.m., an extra large coffee at my side, plowing through the gazillion emails that had come through in my absence, all of which purported the utmost urgency, most of which were not urgent at all. By the time I'd finished with the emails, my assistants had arrived and were more than happy to dump the work load back in my lap. The day was busy and I didn't get out of the office until six-thirty that evening. It was Friday and I was glad. I didn't intend to work the weekend…after all, I was still recuperating and needed to rest. I also didn't have any weekend plans, which was fine too.
I stopped at the market and deli a block from my house and picked up a variety of sandwich fixings, pasta and potato salad, and a six-pack of beer. The busy day had kept me from thinking about my “memories” or whatever they were, but as I left the market I was instantly reminded of them. A woman in her mid-thirties stood across the street, decked out in the high-fashion of the 1970s, complete with bell bottoms, a floppy hat, and round-rimmed glasses. She was glaring at me, as if she knew me. A truck roared past and then she was no longer there. I walked home in a bit of a daze. Of course an outfit like that wouldn't be abnormal in San Francisco, neither would the glasses, but the truck had only been between us for a second or two, surely not enough time for her to simply vanish. That's when I decided I hadn't really seen her at all; it was a nasty side-effect of my flu and nothing more.
The quiet evening did me a world of good and when I woke up on Saturday I felt like a new man. I decided to put on some shorts and a sweatshirt, grab my tennis racket, and head over to Lafayette Park, an eleven and a half acre park in Pacific Heights located on a hill between the streets of Washington, Sacramento, Gough, and Laguna. The views were spectacular on a clear day. It had both treed and open spaces, and if the weather was nice and sunny, the hillside facing Sacramento Street was loaded with sunbathers, mostly women; that view could be pretty spectacular too. It also had two tennis courts set up as first come, first serve. I played there as often as I could, usually catching the winner of the last set as my competition.
That's where I'd met Greg. He was a fiftyish man with a lean athletic body and darkly tanned skin, lined with more wrinkles than he should have had for his age. He was also a darn good tennis player and usually gave me a run for my money. He was there that day, just finishing up a set with a nice looking young lady. I moved into the court and took my seat on one of the benches along the chain link fence, which was proper etiquette in alerting the players that you wanted the next game.
Greg and I played two sets before someone else arrived at the courts, and since he had efficiently destroyed me, I was the one out. I shook his hand, said my goodbyes, and headed back home for a shower. Before leaving the park, I stopped at the top of the hill and took a look around; it was a beautiful day and I could see for miles. There were a few dog walkers in the park and an elderly gentleman sitting on a bench nearby, his short sleeved shirt exposing his clearly disfigured left arm, which he held close to his side.
Ghost Song by Mark L’Estrange
Book excerpt
Once Jonathan informed Meryl that he had decided to confide in her, she excused herself for a moment so that she could pour herself a drink, say goodnight to her staff, and thank the musicians for playing such a marvellous set.
Jonathan sipped his drink, nervously, and watched while Mike showed the bar staff out and locked the main door behind them.
The band finished their drinks and walked over to the bar to leave their empty glasses.
As Meryl showed them to the door, Jonathan called out to the lead singer.
“Young lady,” he stood up to catch her attention. “I was wondering if I might have a quick word with you before you leave?”
The girl smiled and walked over to the old man’s table, closely followed by the rest of the band. “Yes,” she said, cheerfully, “what can I do for you?”
Meryl suspected that Jonathan was about to ask the young singer about her encore, so she came back over and stood next to the old man.
Jonathan was visibly shaking so he tried to steady himself by holding onto the back of his chair, but Meryl grabbed his arm and insisted that he sit back down before he started to speak, so the old man complied with her wishes and re-took his seat.
“I was just wondering…about that song you sang at the end of your concert…you mentioned that your mother taught it to you when you were a baby.”
The girl smiled. “That’s right, it’s a bit of a staple amongst the Romany clan as it’s usually the first song we’re ever taught. Why do you ask, have you heard it somewhere before?”
Jonathan rubbed his hands together as if to ward off the night cold when in truth it was still quite warm in the bar, and the log fire which Mike had been replenishing throughout the evening was still blazing away across the room.
As he opened his mouth to answer, the words caught in his throat. Jonathan turned his face away and held his hand to his mouth to clear his throat, once more.
When he turned back, Meryl was holding up his glass as if to encourage him to take a sip before he continued. Jonathan thanked her and took a long swallow before replacing the glass on the table.
The young female singer leaned over the table and rested her hand on Jonathan’s sleeve. “I’m so sorry,” she said, softly, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Jonathan waved his hand as if to dismiss her concern. “Not at all, young lady,” he replied, “you didn’t upset me, it’s just…” He paused, as if unable to find the words he was looking for.
There you have it - the best ghost story books from Next Chapter in 03/2023. We hope you enjoy them - and if you do, please leave a comment below, or a review in Goodreads or your favorite store. It would mean a lot to us!
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