The Unfolded Bed
When I was eight, we lived in a cramped apartment in the industrial part of town, where the only sounds at night were the distant clang of metal and the...
When I was eight, we lived in a cramped apartment in the industrial part of town, where the only sounds at night were the distant clang of metal and the...
The night was a thick, wet blanket over the hollow. Marcus had chosen this cabin for its isolation, a break from the city’s constant hum. But now, with the storm...
The old hacienda in Batangas had been in our family for generations, but it wasn’t until the summer I turned twelve that I understood why my lola always kept a...
It had been three years since I moved back into my childhood home, a creaking Victorian relic on the edge of a dying town. My marriage had dissolved like sugar...
In the sweltering hum of an August night, my mother, my younger brother Mateo, and I laid out our thin mats on the cool linoleum of the living room. Our...
I had always been drawn to the stories, the ones told in hushed tones around dying embers in our village of San Isidro, tucked in the mountains of Nueva Vizcaya....
It was the night of the Barangay Fiesta, and the whole town of San Isidro was alive with strings of colored lights and the distant thump of a bass speaker....
My grandmother called it ‘the knowing,’ and she said it ran in our blood like a river of ink. I never liked that comparison. Ink stains, it leaves marks you...
When I was barely five, my family lived in a creaking farmhouse outside of Stillwater that my great-aunt had left to my mother. The house was a maze of narrow...
The old Salzman place sat at the end of Cedar Lane, a crooked finger of a road that dead-ended into a tangle of pines and brambles. I spent my summers...
Growing up in the rural town of San Isidro, I was raised on tales of the Aswang and the Manananggal, but the one that always lingered in my mind was...
The house on Marrow Lane had a way of holding its breath. We moved in when I was twelve, and the walls seemed to sag with memories not our own....
The day we moved into the pale yellow house on Aster Lane, the sky was the color of bruised plums. The moving truck groaned up the gravel drive, and I...
Before anything, I’m Mira, fifteen years old. I don’t know if I truly have a sixth sense, but I’ve always seen things that others can’t. This is the story of...
The night air in our mountain town of San Rafael was thick with the scent of damp earth and ripe persimmons. I’d been finishing a late shift at the town’s...
It was a sweltering Tuesday afternoon in early February when I, Tomas, decided to withdraw the money for the used car. The bank was a short walk away, and I...
I had never believed in ghosts. Not really. I had a rational explanation for everything: drafty windows, settling pipes, a neighbor’s cat. But the house I lived in, the top...
It was a humid afternoon in the town of San Isidro, nestled between the Sierra Madre and the Caraballo Mountains, where the roads turned to gravel and the only map...
The year was 2019. I was eight months postpartum, working the night shift at a 24-hour laundromat attached to a defunct shopping mall in the outskirts of Baguio. The mall...
The afternoon sun bled through the dusty window of the water refilling station, casting long, distorted shadows across the concrete floor. My father was sprawled on the old rattan sofa,...
It was the autumn of 2007, and I was a sixth grader at St. Agatha’s Preparatory School, a squat, brick building tucked into the outskirts of a fog-draped town in...
I’m not the type to believe in things that go bump in the night. I’ve always been the skeptic in my group, the one who rolls their eyes at ghost...
In 2004, I was nineteen, living with my aunt in the crook of a mountain valley in the province of Antique. Our house, a weathered bamboo structure, perched on stilts...
Listening to the woods...
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