The Salt of Cinder Creek
After years away, I returned to the town of Cinder Creek, a place I had sworn never to see again. Nestled in a valley between two ridges, it was a...
After years away, I returned to the town of Cinder Creek, a place I had sworn never to see again. Nestled in a valley between two ridges, it was a...
It’s been three years since I last wrote here. The events of last week forced me to break my silence. I’m Maya, a data analyst, and my husband, Arjun, is...
I’ve always devoured those real incident columns in ghost story magazines, but never thought I’d have my own. I live in Bangalore now, but when the pandemic hit, I retreated...
In the autumn of 1998, the monsoon had carved its signature into the red earth of our village, leaving shallow lakes that mirrored the gray sky. I was fourteen, living...
I’d always thought of my grandmother’s house as a place outside time, a sprawling single-story structure with thick walls that kept the summer heat at bay and the winter chill...
In the autumn of my fifteenth year, my family moved to a remote village nestled in the Carpathian Mountains. Our home, a two-story wooden house with a sagging roof, sat...
It began, as these things often do, with a name. My name is Arjun, and for the past two years, my nights have belonged to something that refuses to let...
The rain was a constant drum on the tin roof of our old colonial house in Kochi, a city that smells of wet earth and brine. I was seventeen, living...
The hostel at Nilgiri Hills Engineering College was a squat grey block, its windows like tired eyes staring out over the tea plantations that rolled down to the valley. My...
In the quiet town of Ashford, nestled between pine forests and a man-made lake, I had finally found a semblance of peace. For years, I’d been haunted by a recurring...
I was scraping by as a freelance translator, my nights a blur of glowing screens and caffeine. That particular evening, the deadline for a dense legal document loomed, and my...
Ravi knew the Aravalli road like the back of his hand. Every pothole, every leaning tree, every eerily silent patch where even the crickets seemed to hold their breath. It...
The year was 1997, and I was twenty-two, a fresh graduate with a degree in commerce and no job offers. My friend Vikram, who had landed a decent position at...
I had spent months devouring every account of the unseen, every tale of the in-between, so I thought I was prepared. My name is Arjun, I’m fourteen, and I live...
The rains came to Kodaikanal that year like a patient mourner, arriving in late July and refusing to leave. I worked the front desk at the Lakeview Hotel, a sprawling...
The summer of 2011 found me in the labyrinthine lanes of old Varanasi, a thousand kilometers from the ordered chaos of Mumbai. I’d traded the antiseptic corridors of my college...
In the autumn of 2019, I took a position as a junior maintenance technician at the Asteria Grand, a sprawling hotel built in the 1970s on the outskirts of a...
The first time I noticed the absence was during my third week at the Meridian Institute of Culinary Arts, a squat, sand-colored complex squatting on the edge of the Nevada...
The invitation arrived on a Tuesday, embossed with a crest of interlocked ivy and a single, perfect chrysanthemum. It was from Marcus, a former colleague who had inherited his family’s...
It was past midnight when Arjun left the temple grounds, the last strains of the damaru and the smell of burning camphor still clinging to his clothes. The villagers had...
In the summer of 2004, my cousin Rohan lived in the sprawling city of Chennai. His parents, my aunt and uncle, had retired to their ancestral village, a small hamlet...
In the summer of 2013, I was living with my family in an old colonial bungalow on the outskirts of a small town in Kerala. The house was grand but...
I had always been the one in the family who felt things others couldn’t. Not ghosts, not spirits, but the weight of unspoken fears, the texture of a room’s mood....
The autumn of 1998 had settled over the small town of Ashford like a wet wool blanket, and I, Daniel Mercer, at the age of eighteen, felt the chill of...
Listening to the woods...
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