The Map of Static
It was 2:17 AM on a Tuesday when Lena realized she’d been driving the same stretch of highway for what felt like an hour. The radio had switched to a...
It was 2:17 AM on a Tuesday when Lena realized she’d been driving the same stretch of highway for what felt like an hour. The radio had switched to a...
I was seventeen when the house on Maple Street started feeling wrong. We’d moved there three years earlier, after my father’s transfer to a small Ontario town. It was an...
The first time I saw it, I was seven, standing at the edge of the barley field that bordered our farm. It was late autumn, and the stalks had been...
The antique shop was a cluttered mausoleum of forgotten things, and Clara had been searching for months for a replacement for the ornate silver frame she had shattered during her...
As a child in the late ’70s, I lived in a sprawling Victorian house in upstate New York, a place that smelled of damp plaster and old wood. Every day...
I’d never put much stock in the supernatural. Ghost stories were for campfires, not for the sun-drenched afternoons of my aunt and uncle’s farm in the high desert. Their place...
My mother’s house stood at the end of a gravel lane in the outskirts of a town that time seemed to forget. The place was an old Victorian with a...
Marta had always felt a strange kinship with the old radio station. It stood at the edge of the Cornish cliffs, a squat, whitewashed building with a rusted antenna that...
My grandmother’s farm in the Alberta prairies was a world of golden wheat and endless sky, but my cousins and I were drawn to the one blemish on the land:...
The farm had been in the Ashworth family for six generations, a sprawling acreage of wheat and corn that rolled gently toward the distant treeline. My grandmother, Elsie Ashworth, was...
I’ve never been one for supernatural explanations. Ghosts, spirits, whatever you want to call them—I always figured there was a logical reason for every oddity. But the events of the...
My name is Elias, and when I was ten, my family moved to a farmhouse in the dusty heart of Saskatchewan. After years of cramped city apartments, the wide, wheat-filled...
Three nights ago, I woke to find a girl standing at the foot of my bed. It wasn’t the sudden intrusion that made my heart pound against my ribs—it was...
In the autumn of 2019, I won a weekend getaway to the town of Stillwater, a quaint place known for its preserved 19th-century architecture and its annual Harvest Festival. The...
It was the summer of 2004, and I was twelve. My best friend, Maya, and I were over the moon because our Girl Scout troop had earned a spot at...
The day I went to the cemetery was unseasonably warm, a false spring that fooled even the hardiest of perennials. My mother had been gone for three weeks, and the...
My name is Arthur Pemberton, and I fix the guts of old buildings for the municipality of Halifax. Most days that means rattling pipes in civic centers or coaxing life...
It started when my daughter was two, a few months after we moved into a cramped apartment above a closed-down bakery. My wife worked nights, so I was the one...
The salt air clung to everything at Cedar Point, a rented cottage on the blustery coast of Maine. My cousin Paige and I had claimed the sunroom, a glass-walled nook...
It was the last night of October, and the air smelled of wet leaves and cold metal. I was seventeen, spending the night helping my father toss folded newspapers onto...
On the fifteenth of August, 2016, my sister Lena decided that the world she knew was no longer worth her breath. That afternoon, I found her in the barn, surrounded...
Ten years ago, when I was fourteen, I worked the night shift with my mother, delivering newspapers across the dusty outskirts of Redmond, a town that had seen better days....
The events I am about to share took place at my grandmother’s farmhouse in the rolling hills of Vermont, near a town called Barre. Some of the experiences I will...
Nina had always found comfort in the meticulous art of mapmaking. Her studio, nestled in the attic of an old Victorian house on Bramblewick Lane, was filled with drafting tables,...
Listening to the woods...
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