Ghostly Singing Novels & Stories

“I think I will talk to him. So, you have not seen the ghost or know any story about it?” “Her. The ghost is always female, and we often see her in the hallway upstairs. She either travels down the hallway or stands at the window that looks out over the street. That’s why the owner placed a chair there so she can be comfortable. We often hear a woman singing an old Scottish lullaby. Guest often think it’s the owner singing. But she sleeps in a house separate from the Inn at night. She’s not here when the singing happens.” “Really, so she believes in the ghost?”

"There are voices of people that linger when their lives are unjustly taken from this earth," Crystal said. "Voices of blood, and people who can't get justice for themselves. These voices belong to the souls of the dead, and the innocent. They can haunt you, torment you, and even try to kill you if they are strong enough. They are like air. They can't be seen. They can't be touched. They can be felt, but mostly through one's hearing. They glide in the air. The strong wind can stop them, and so can fire. Nature doesn't necessarily stop them, but anything too loud for you to hear them can temporarily stop them. And that is why they are called whispers.

I could hear whispers—low, guttural voices speaking in a language I didn’t understand, their words laced with malice. The tombstone shifted, the stone creaking as it began to rise, revealing a dark, yawning pit beneath it. My heart raced, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. This was it. The moment we had feared. The witch’s resting place had been disturbed. Suddenly, a bone-chilling wail pierced the air, and a ghostly figure began to rise from the tomb, her form shimmering and translucent. She was cloaked in shadow, her face obscured, but her presence was undeniable. Power radiated off her in waves, and the air crackled with dark magic.

The challenge had barely left my lips when the silence of the Soul Altar finally took its bite. It wasn't the silence of peace; it was a hum so high it vibrated through my teeth—the collective wail of a thousand years of ghosts trapped in the focus-glass pillars surrounding us.

he whispered to himself. For a brief moment, silence reigned. Then the voice whispered again, “Vincent…” The darkness shook as chains lashed out from thin air, striking the ground around him and cracking stone beneath with their force. The ghost’s whisper curled around him like a predator stalking its prey. “You don’t hear her voice; you hear mine.” “No,” Vincent responded as he clenched his claws tight and crouched low to the ground. “That was hers…I would recognize it even in death.”

One face after another, as if emerging from the ground, just staring at Amelia and the other person through the mist. There was pain, there was pleading, there was anger, there was malice, and there was bloodlust. Each of them had their mouths open, as if speaking something. At first listen, it seemed no different, but upon closer inspection, it was a voice demon that could drive one insane. Amelia had never met before, but she had heard the old man mention her. This is called the wailing of a hundred ghosts, and it only appears in times of great disasters and catastrophes.

But, I was pretty sure I heard someone singing. Wait, a ghost? They said there are a lot of ghosts roaming around the hospitals. Is there a ghost who could sing? Wait, I think I remembered the lyrics. It was a Mayday Parade song. I browsed for my phone and started listening to the song until I found the specific lyrics I heard. I could never imagine we'd end up this way After all that we went through now, I'm fighting through the pain It's like this heart that's been broken so close to screaming

Then, without a second thought, he joined her in the water, slashing at his own wrist. As the blood mixed with the water, Grayson's vision blurred. In his final moments, he saw me—there, standing at the edge of the bathtub. His face lit up with a wild, desperate joy as he tried to stagger toward me, calling my name. "Honey," he cried, his voice full of longing. I stared at him, my eyes cold and distant, a disgust so sharp it cut through everything. "I'm not your honey," I said. "Not in this life, not in the next, not in any life to come. Not ever."

Make Him Sing The cassette recorder played without anyone touching it. Of course it did. Violet was too tired to be impressed by impossible objects anymore. At some point, horror became less surprising and more rude. The little machine clicked, hissed, and then released a child’s voice into Room 219. Not the distorted voice from the hall. Not the thin singing that had drawn them through St. Agnes. This was different. Closer. Smaller. Alive in the awful way recordings could make the dead sound like they were standing in the next room.

But then, something changes. Distantly, a voice breaks through the fog. Familiar, rough with worry, the sound stirs something deep inside me. Ghost. His voice reaches me in fragmented echoes, muffled and distorted like he’s speaking through water. The words don’t make sense at first, but there’s urgency, desperation woven into each one. My mind struggles to piece it together, to remember why he sounds like that. Then, a sharp sting jolts through my cheek. Another. It’s not enough to bring me back, but I feel it, cutting through the haze like a flicker of light in the darkness.