When you grow up in Germany, old buildings aren’t a novelty. They’re just… Tuesday.
Crooked timber frames. Weathered stone staircases. Heavy wooden doors that creak even when you swear no one touched them. Windows that look like they’ve seen at least three wars and a scandal or two. Entire streets where the buildings lean toward each other like they’re sharing gossip.
I lived in places like that.
Apartments with stairwells that echoed just a little too long. Ceilings so high your imagination had room to stretch. Basements that absolutely, positively were not haunted… except, you know, maybe just a little.
When you grow up surrounded by history, you don’t have to try very hard to believe that walls remember things. That footsteps linger. That stories don’t always end when people do.
So yes. There are ghosts in my books.
Not because I sat down one day and thought, “Let’s add a ghost for fun.” But because when you’ve walked past buildings older than your entire family tree on your way to buy bread, the supernatural feels less like fantasy and more like… possibility.
Old houses breathe. They settle. They whisper.
And if you’re a writer?
You listen.
That’s why my stories are filled with lingering spirits, secrets tucked into corners, and just a touch of magic woven into everyday life. Because to me, that magic was never far away. It was in the stairwell. In the attic. In the shadow that moved when the light changed.
When you grow up in buildings like these, you don’t ask if there are ghosts.
You ask what they want.
Any questions?
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