The Spit of the Unseen
At forty-four, Elara Voss had long since filed the incident under ‘childhood nightmares.’ It was a summer evening in the dusty town of Porphyry Creek, where the heat clung to...
At forty-four, Elara Voss had long since filed the incident under ‘childhood nightmares.’ It was a summer evening in the dusty town of Porphyry Creek, where the heat clung to...
I’m writing this from a motel room off Route 9, the kind with a flickering neon sign that buzzes like an angry hornet. My hands are still shaking. I need...
I was born in the sweltering heat of Arizona, but when I was six, my father’s job transferred us to the damp, evergreen-choked town of Ferndale, Washington. The move was...
I’ve always been a skeptic, even after everything that happened at my grandmother’s cabin. But now, after this weekend, I’m not sure I can ever look at a television the...
The old Blackwell place sat at the end of Cinder Hill Road, a name that felt too neat for a farm that had burned down twice. The first fire, back...
I was nineteen, fresh out of a revival meeting where I’d given my life to Christ, and I believed with all my heart that no demon could touch me. My...
In the faded autumn of 1997, I was nineteen, living in the flat farmlands of southern Nebraska, where the horizon stretched like a taut wire and the cornfields whispered with...
When I was fourteen, my family moved to a cramped apartment in the outer boroughs of Prague, near the old tram depot. It was a grey, damp place, with a...
Arjun and Meera had been planning this escape for months. Their jobs in the IT sector had turned their lives into a blur of deadlines and high-rise meetings, and the...
In the autumn of 2011, I lived in a converted warehouse in Portland, Oregon—a labyrinth of exposed brick and iron beams, where the shadows always seemed to lean a little...
I never believed in ghosts. Not really. I was a man of science, a retired electrical engineer who found comfort in circuits and logic. So when my niece, Mira, brought...
My first supernatural encounter happened when I was twelve, in the autumn my parents sent me to live with my grandmother in the Vermont countryside. My father had lost his...
I’ve always had a strange connection to the old clock tower in our town, but I never imagined it would become the epicenter of my nightmares. My name is Elena,...
The reason I’m committing this to paper is a need to confess, to lay bare the truth to a blank page since every living ear has proven deaf or hostile....
I never believed in the supernatural, not really. My name is Eleanor, and I’m a practical woman, a nurse by trade. I’ve seen the body fail and the mind slip,...
I’ve never been one to see ghosts or demons in every flickering shadow. I’ve chalked up most of my life’s oddities to tired eyes and an overactive imagination. But there...
The first time I saw him, I thought he was just a trick of the light. I was nine, spending the summer with my grandmother in the hill town of...
In the sweltering August of my sixteenth year, my father and I repainted the guest bedroom of our creaking Victorian in Portland, Maine. The color was a deep, arterial red—’Oxblood,’...
The Desert Breeze Motel was the kind of place you only stayed at because every sensible room in Vegas was booked solid. My friend Maya had flown in for the...
I never believed in the supernatural until I started tagging along with my friend Aaron on his ‘consultations.’ Aaron has a gift, or a curse depending on how you see...
The year was 1999 it was late in July, my best friend invited me to go jet skiing in the Atlantic with his family. As always I accepted his invitation...
I had always loved the old willow that sprawled against my bedroom window. Its long, sweeping branches swayed gently in the breeze, filtering the morning light into a soft, green...
The summer of 2009, in the dusty outskirts of Ashburn, Georgia, I turned seventeen. My family attended the First Baptist Church every Sunday, and I sang in the youth choir....
The house at 13 Raven’s Lane had always felt like a held breath. My grandmother, Marta, called it the ‘breathing house’ because of the way the floorboards creaked and the...
Listening to the woods...
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