Whispers at the GateAn Appalachian Haunting Anthologyby Kailan PitreBeneath the fog-wrapped ridges of the Appalachian mountains, the land remembers. Here, the wind carries voices, rivers hum old hymns, and the earth itself breathes through stone and bone. From the haunted hills of Old Latch to the red-threaded house on Isis Way, Whispers at the Gate opens ten tales stitched together by the same ancient pulse-a gate between worlds that is never fully closed.
Each story is a reckoning of memory and myth, of ancestors who refuse silence and spirits who guard what was once sacred. Meet the wanderers and watchers who hear the mountain speak: A folklorist who finds a breathing stone gate. A child who learns that hunger can't live where love still breathes. A storm that sings in the voice of a Thunderbird. A house that remembers its women by name. A river that dreams in tongues older than prayer.
These are not ghost stories. They are remembrances-the mountain's own confessions, carried through generations who dared to listen. When the mist rises and the lights flicker, don't be afraid. The Gate is only watching. You were always meant to find your way back.
Whispers at the GateAn Appalachian Haunting Anthologyby Kailan PitreBeneath the fog-wrapped ridges of the Appalachian mountains, the land remembers. Here, the wind carries voices, rivers hum old hymns, and the earth itself breathes through stone and bone. From the haunted hills of Old Latch to the red-threaded house on Isis Way, Whispers at the Gate opens ten tales stitched together by the same ancient pulse-a gate between worlds that is never fully closed.
Each story is a reckoning of memory and myth, of ancestors who refuse silence and spirits who guard what was once sacred. Meet the wanderers and watchers who hear the mountain speak: A folklorist who finds a breathing stone gate. A child who learns that hunger can't live where love still breathes. A storm that sings in the voice of a Thunderbird. A house that remembers its women by name. A river that dreams in tongues older than prayer.
These are not ghost stories. They are remembrances-the mountain's own confessions, carried through generations who dared to listen. When the mist rises and the lights flicker, don't be afraid. The Gate is only watching. You were always meant to find your way back.