The Caroler at the End of the Hall - a Christmas Ghost Story
The first snowfall came late that year, whispering against the windows of Hawthorne House like a cautious hand testing the glass. Inside, the old place smelled of pine needles and dust. Evelyn had hung the wreath herself—evergreen braided with red ribbon—on the front door, though she couldn’t say why. No one came anymore. Still, it was Christmas Eve, and traditions have a way of insisting on themselves. Hawthorne House had been a boarding school once, then a convalescent home, then nothing at all. The town said it was condemned. Evelyn said it was quiet. She preferred quiet. At dusk she lit the candles along the main hallway, each flame shivering as if it sensed the cold pressed close behind the walls. The hallway stretched longer than it should have, a trick of architecture or memory, she never knew which. At the far end stood a door that had been painted over so many times its panels were soft and swollen, the brass handle dulled to the color of old bone. Evelyn did not go to that do...