The Static in Room 12
I’ve always been attuned to the other side, a sensitivity I never asked for. In my old town of Millbrook, we moved into a Victorian-style house on Birchwood Lane, a...
I’ve always been attuned to the other side, a sensitivity I never asked for. In my old town of Millbrook, we moved into a Victorian-style house on Birchwood Lane, a...
My grandfather built our house in 2015, a modest two-story in the foothills of the Appalachians. The land had been in our family for generations, but the house itself was...
I never believed in the family gift, not really. My grandmother, Elara, had stories about seeing the dead, but she was old and maybe a little senile. My mother, though,...
Last autumn, I traveled with my family to my grandmother’s farmhouse in the Hudson Valley for her annual harvest gathering. I was assigned to sleep in the attic, which my...
In 1983, I was seventeen and helping my aunt run the Iron Kettle, a diner perched on the edge of the Klamath River in Northern California. The town was called...
I was born in a house that breathed, or so I believed for the first nine years of my life. My mother said it was just the wind in the...
I was housesitting for my aunt while she took her six-year-old, Mia, to visit their grandmother upstate. Her old farmhouse, nestled at the end of a dirt road that seemed...
Elara had always been sensitive to the unseen. Growing up in the fog-drenched town of Pemberton, she’d learned to live with the whispers of the dead, the cold spots in...
Listening to the woods...
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