The Puppet Gallery of Ashford House
My eighteenth birthday fell on the same week my parents had to attend a custody hearing in a town called Mercer, five hours from our home. They left my younger...
My eighteenth birthday fell on the same week my parents had to attend a custody hearing in a town called Mercer, five hours from our home. They left my younger...
In the late autumn of 1987, the town of Ashford Hills was a patchwork of identical split-level houses built on an old apple orchard. My family moved into number 14...
In the autumn of my fourth year, my family lived in a sprawling, drafty farmhouse on the edge of the Nebraska plains. The house had a long history, with a...
The house my parents and I moved into when I was three was a sprawling Victorian pile in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields that turned to bog in...
I’m a licensed architect, which means people expect me to be rational. They expect me to measure twice, cut once, and not believe in anything without a blueprint. My name...
The wind had a way of speaking on the rez. It wasn’t just sound; it was a language, a low moan that carried the dust of old roads and the...
Before we moved to Toronto in 1997, I was four years old, living with my parents in a small, humid apartment in Cebu City. My mother, Lita, often told me...
My name is Elena, and I live with my five-year-old son, Milo, in a small, sun-bleached town called Dustwick. We moved there after my divorce, hoping for a quiet place...
The house on Hemlock Lane had never felt like ours, not really. It was a rental, a three-story Victorian that had stood since the 1890s, with peeling wallpaper and floorboards...
In the autumn of 2008, when I was four years old, my family moved into a dusty old house on Cedar Lane. The house had a peculiar living room, dominated...
In the sweltering heat of early August 2011, I sat on the cracked linoleum floor of my studio apartment in a faded suburb of Louisville, Kentucky. My daughter, Lily, who...
The old farmhouse on Cedar Hollow Road had stood for over a century, its bones creaking with every gust of wind. When my husband, Daniel, and I moved in with...
I remember the spring of my ninth year, when the world still felt wide and open, and the woods behind our subdivision were a kingdom of endless possibility. My friend...
I remember the first time I saw her, or rather, heard her. A faint, watery humming drifting down the hallway of our new house in the salt-bleached town of Port...
I never believed in ghosts, not even when my daughter started talking about the man in the attic. We lived in an old Victorian house, the kind with creaking floorboards...
I have always considered myself a man of logic. A firm believer in cause and effect, in the physical and the explainable. So when my four-year-old daughter, Lily, started talking...
The Salt on Her Tongue I remember the day the tide brought her to us. It was a Tuesday, the kind of gray morning that made the lighthouse feel like...
I never believed in the supernatural. I told myself the flickering lights in our rented farmhouse were just faulty wiring, that the scratching in the walls was mice, and that...
The year was 2005, and we lived in a rented house on Ferndale Lane, a dead-end street where the streetlights flickered like dying fireflies. My daughter, Lily, was four. She...
My niece, Lily, was four years old, and I was babysitting her while my sister, Claire, was at a doctor’s appointment. We were in the upstairs bathroom of their old...
Lily was five when she first spoke of the man in the attic. We lived in a narrow Victorian house on Maple Street, a relic my husband inherited from his...
Marta was seven when her grandfather, Tomas, died. It was sudden, a fever that turned to pneumonia, and he was gone in a day. The family was in shock. Marta’s...
Six months have passed since I brought home the antique cylinder music box from a dusty estate sale in Eureka, California. The seller, a brittle woman named Marlene, claimed it...
My family checked into the old Hartwell Hotel, a sprawling, Victorian-era building with creaking floors and a smell of mothballs and dust. I was eight, sharing a room with my...
Listening to the woods...
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