The Weight of June
I’m not proud of what happened that summer, but it happened. It started on a sweltering Tuesday in June, two days before my big piano recital at the community center....
I’m not proud of what happened that summer, but it happened. It started on a sweltering Tuesday in June, two days before my big piano recital at the community center....
In the coastal town of Greyhollow, where the sea fog rolled in like a living thing and the lighthouse beam cut through the murk like a knife, I learned that...
When Elias was eleven, his grandfather took him and his older brother, Marcus, into the Hightower Range, a stretch of tangled forest and sliding shale that locals called the Hungry...
After I moved out of the bedroom with the closet incident, I took the spare room across the hall. It was smaller, but the walls were a fresh coat of...
It was the summer of 1979, and I was staying at my Aunt Hattie’s farmhouse in rural Ohio, a place that had been in our family since the Civil War....
The autumn of 1842 lay heavy over the Sawyer homestead, a sprawling 900-acre tract along the eastern bend of Hollow Creek. Margaret Sawyer, widowed two years prior, ran the farm...
I remember the exact afternoon the nursery rhyme changed. I was five, kneeling on the cold linoleum of the hallway in our new house, a converted church on the edge...
When I first moved to Blackhollow, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the town itself was holding its breath. The houses seemed to lean away from the street, their windows...
The old textile mill on Meridian Street had always felt heavy, even before the fire. When the renovation crew unearthed the tin box with the names and dates, we thought...
It was a humid Wednesday, just past six in the evening, when I finished sealing the last joint on the rusty pipe in the old textile mill. My name is...
I have two stories I rarely tell. One I’d rather forget, the other I keep as a sort of test. This is the one I’d rather forget. In the autumn...
The alarm clock read 4:47 AM when I peeled myself out of bed, the floorboards of my old farmhouse creaking in protest beneath my feet. I’d been hunting this stretch...
When I was six, we moved to a creaking farmhouse in the Minnesota backwoods, a place where winter never truly loosened its grip. The house had a room my parents...
When Lila and her partner, Julian, moved into her mother’s old farmhouse, they expected creaking floorboards and drafty windows, not the silent, persistent strangeness that greeted them. The house sat...
Listening to the woods...
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