The Salted Root
The summer I turned sixteen, my friends and I started calling ourselves the Boundary Boys, after the old county line that ran along the ridge behind town. We’d grown up...
The summer I turned sixteen, my friends and I started calling ourselves the Boundary Boys, after the old county line that ran along the ridge behind town. We’d grown up...
My grandmother’s house in the dusty town of Gila Flats was a cacophony of life, a sun-bleached adobe that groaned with the weight of three generations and their secrets. But...
Ten years have passed since we traded the rain-soaked coasts of British Columbia for the dry, endless prairies of Saskatchewan. My parents had gone ahead, a month before my sister...
The old farmhouse at the edge of Pine Hollow had never felt like home to Mara. It was her grandmother’s place, inherited after the old woman passed, and every creak...
Our new home was a hulking Victorian relic on the outskirts of a town that had long forgotten why it was built. My mother’s boyfriend, Carl, had inherited it from...
In the summer of 1994, in the sleepy town of Millbrook, the old Holloway Road was our obsession. Every kid who grew up there knew the stories: the hitchhiker who...
The morning we arrived at Gull Rock Resort, the sun was a pale gold coin pressed against a sky of washed-out blue. The lake, a sheet of smoky glass, reflected...
Mara had always been a light sleeper, but the incident at her cousin’s cabin had changed that. She was sixteen, visiting the remote A-frame nestled in the pine woods of...
The summer I turned fourteen, my family moved to the dusty, forgotten town of Kettlebrook. The house we rented was a narrow, two-story Victorian with peeling paint and a porch...
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...
Four months had passed since I held my old tabby, Marmalade, for the last time. Eighteen years of purrs and headbutts, and then nothing but the hollow echo of a...
My name is Lena, and I have always been skeptical of the supernatural, despite my grandmother’s tales of the old country. But what happened last autumn in our newly purchased...
I never thought I’d be writing this down, but after reading so many accounts on this site, I’ve realized that my own experience is worth sharing. It happened when I...
I was fifteen when my mother and I moved to the old farmhouse at the edge of Morrow—a town so small it didn’t even have a stoplight. The house had...
It was the autumn of my seventeenth year, and the town of Larchwood Hollow, nestled in the fog-choked valleys of the Appalachian foothills, wore its decay like a second skin....
I was six the summer we moved to the house with the cracked foundation and the oak tree that scraped against my bedroom window like a fingernail on slate. The...
The autumn after my grandmother passed, I inherited her old sewing room—a cramped, dust-scented space at the back of my apartment that I’d never bothered to use. I had no...
In the autumn of 1997, I took a seasonal position at the Larkin Stage Stop, a restored inn that once served travelers on the old coach road between Millbrook and...
Mara had always prided herself on being a light sleeper. The slightest creak of the floorboards in their century-old farmhouse would rouse her, a habit born from years of tending...
The house on Bramble Lane was a Victorian relic, its bones creaking with every gust of wind. My brother Elliot and I were nine and seven when we discovered the...
My name is Elena, and this happened just last night. I’m still trembling as I write this, hoping someone out there can make sense of it. My partner, Marcus, and...
Growing up in the hollow, I always had a strange affinity for the macabre. My grandmother’s farmhouse, with its creaking bones and peeling wallpaper, was a treasure trove of ghost...
Two summers ago, my friend Mara and her family moved into the old Wainwright estate on the edge of Cedar Hollow. It was a sprawling Victorian monstrosity, all gables and...
My name is Elias, and I’ve spent most of my life trying to convince myself that the things I saw as a child were just nightmares, products of an overactive...
Listening to the woods...
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