Adorned in vibrant marigolds and bearing the sacred candle of remembrance, Maria appears when families have forgotten how to properly honor their departed. This gentle Día de los Muertos guide helps restore the sacred connections between the living and the dead,

Shrouded in shadow with his ancient scythe, Grimm strikes fear into mortal hearts until they meet his gentle eyes. This compassionate psychopomp isn't the harbinger of death that legends describe, but a tender guide who helps lost souls find courage for their final journey.

In the hushed corridors of Cambridge University's oldest library, Professor Pageheart continues her eternal research alongside her faithful companion, Wormley the bookworm.

Every Halloween night, when autumn mist swirls through empty streets, Jackspur returns with his faithful pumpkin basket. The loyal spaniel died just days before Halloween 1952, leaving his heartbroken young master to trick-or-treat alone.

In the depths where vengeance sleeps, Ursula weaves her spectral nets. Once the youngest of seven sea witch sisters, she alone survived the sailors' brutal purge that sent her siblings to watery graves.

Deep in the woodland shadows where ancient fungi bloom, Dottybell tends her spectral garden of memories. Once a pioneering mycologist, she discovered that mushroom spores carry whispered secrets across continents and centuries.

Before she was a ghost, Strawbella was simply Bella Wint, a timid girl with ink-stained fingers and an apron that always smelled of sugar and jam. In the sunny village of Summermead Lane

Deep in the twisting brambles of Gloamsuckle Mire, where light grows tired and the trees whisper secrets, something ancient stirs. Once a kind healer of the marsh, the witch was betrayed by the very souls she saved.

Deep in the Elderwood, perfect pink blooms erupt around scattered toadstools—an offering left by Moss Bloom, the wooden wraith of the forest floor. Hikers who follow her moss-covered footprints find more than mushrooms: they glimpse hidden glades where moonlight drips like crystal and ancient trees whisper secrets.

When style blogger Lina Ramirez dons a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses at a posh thrift shop, she expects a perfect selfie—she never expects to become the star of Kaza’s eternal runway. Each night, the ghostly diva reappears on the mannequin’s face, and each morning Lina’s posts explode with envy and acclaim.

On the last train of the night, the Silver Line’s tunnels become Hive Wraith’s domain. Passengers watch in horror as gilded beetles and dragonflies scuttle across graffiti-scarred walls—each heralding a shadow that devours light and hope.

When the midnight livestream flickers on, viewers gasp as phosphorescent “S” tags blaze across every corner of the city—yet no hand holds the spray can. Tag, the graffiti ghost, leaps from screen to street, haunting webcams and streetlights alike.

There are whispers on the wind that know your name, if you’ve ever walked the moors near Hindarrow Hall. Some claim they’ve heard an old woman humming lullabies, or seen the silhouette of a ghost with a shawl pulled tightly around her shoulders.

When the lights flicker and the board beckons, skeptics fall silent. Tune in live at midnight as podcaster Mara Vale dares the spirits only to unleash Hemlock, the crimson mother of a thousand wraiths.

Each Father’s Day, a quiet ghost returns carrying a child’s drawing. Scribble doesn’t speak, doesn’t frighten. He simply appears where the ache of absence is loudest—a pub, a kitchen, a forgotten grave—holding a hand-drawn card that seems strangely familiar.

Dave was the kind of dad who always had a bad joke, a warm hug, and a cold pint. Now he’s got one more title—ghost. But not the scary kind. With his signature sunglasses, trusty dad bag, and a pint that never empties

They say you can still hear the vines whisper when the wind shifts through the trees near Alton.

It started in Room 7-B. A quiet failure. A single drip. Now, Goop is awake—an experimental ghost formed from spectral residue and psychic waste.

Before she was a ghost, Tricksy Pye was a curious witchling who wandered too far on Halloween night. She found a forbidden altar, spoke a spell not meant for her lips, and vanished.

She was once the toast of Whitechapel, her leopard-print coat as famous as her sharp tongue and sharper heels. Now, Pawline prowls the alleyways in silence, her glamorous shimmer dulled only slightly by death. Some say she protects the lost, others whisper she's still hunting the one who wronged her.