The Blue Jar on the Windowsill
My grandmother always said that some rooms in a house absorb the sorrows of their inhabitants like cloth soaking up spilled wine. She believed that the upstairs bedroom of our...
My grandmother always said that some rooms in a house absorb the sorrows of their inhabitants like cloth soaking up spilled wine. She believed that the upstairs bedroom of our...
The night after the funeral, Mira found Karl’s old kite in the garage, its red tail snagged on a nail. She’d been avoiding the house since the service, but her...
I was a night auditor for the Clearwater County Sheriff’s Office, pulling the graveyard shift in a town that rolled up its sidewalks after nine. My name is Deputy Mara...
It was the last evening of our visit to my sister’s place in the quiet outskirts of Pender County, North Carolina. The house sat on a dead-end road, bordered by...
I had long since convinced myself that the spectral whispers of my youth were nothing more than adolescent imagination, a phase I had outgrown like a too-small coat. That certainty...
It was a Tuesday, and I was watching my six-year-old niece, Lily, while my sister Jenna ran to the city for a job interview. The list she left on the...
I was twelve when I first noticed the scratching. It came from inside the wall behind my bed, a faint, rhythmic sound like a fingernail dragging across plaster. My stepfather,...
The summer we moved to Kilgore, Idaho, was the summer the well ran dry. Not the town’s well—the one behind our rental, a rusted metal skeleton that groaned every time...
It was the tail end of November when we pulled into the driveway of the house on Pointer Lane, a narrow dead-end street that branched off the main road through...
The GPS had been silent for the last three miles, its screen a stubborn swirl of grey static that seemed to mock our every turn. It was October, and the...
On the third of November, 2019, the night nurse’s voice crackled through the phone, telling us that our aunt Miriam wouldn’t see the dawn. We drove through the rain-slicked streets...
The night air in the old Renner house was thick with the scent of dust and forgotten things. I was sprawled on the living room couch with my cousin, Mira,...
Three years ago, I worked as a night aide at Willow Creek Manor, a sprawling assisted living facility tucked into the pine-scented hills of northern Idaho. It wasn’t the fanciest...
The night of June 3rd, 2016, I turned in early, exhausted from a long day of cataloging antique books at the local library. My old cat, Jasper, curled up at...
The first time I noticed something was wrong was when the lilacs in the garden began to wilt, despite the spring rain. I thought it was a blight, but the...
It’s been eight years since that night in the old carriage house, and I still can’t sleep with my feet anywhere near the edge of the bed. I was nineteen,...
It was around three in the morning when my cousin Theo and I sat on the edge of my bed, talking about the things that haunt us. My apartment, a...
Four years ago, when I was eight, my teacher gave us an assignment: to share a scary experience. I had one that never let me go. It started on a...
The lighthouse at Cape Morrow had been automated for twenty years, a relic of a bygone era. When the storm knocked out the grid, the old keeper’s quarters became my...
My name is Amelia Hartley, and I’ve lived in the dusty, forgotten town of Red Hollow, New Mexico, since I was five. It’s a place where the mesas bleed orange...
I drove three hours to visit my old college roommate, Cara, at her new place in the foothills. The house was a renovated farmhouse, surrounded by a grove of hemlock...
The house on Maple Street had always been ordinary from the outside, but inside, the basement held a presence that I had learned to respect. My name is Sarah, and...
My sister Mira and I had been hired to clean out the old Ferris place on Thornwood Lane. The owners had fled overnight, leaving behind a half-furnished house that smelled...
I’ve always envied those who claim to see the dead in full, solid form, shimmering like a photograph come to life, sometimes even speaking or reaching out. My own encounters...
Listening to the woods...
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