“I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe in ghosts.” Evers laughs at himself. In part because of how absurd it is to say that out loud. To feel compelled to remind himself he’s a rational person. Mostly though, he laughs because it calls to mind the Cowardly Lion’s timorous refrain: I do believe in spooks. I do believe in spooks. I do, I do, I do, I do, I do believe in spooks. “I don’t believe in spooks,” he says, trying on the impression. Then—as if to convince himself—he

Mona steps out the back door of the Hotdish Diner absolutely swimming in Carl the Line Cook’s coat and digs out his pack of smokes. She pats around the pockets and digs in her apron and looks up. Sticks her tongue out. It’s supposed to snow tonight. It was all anyone could talk about. All day long. Every trucker on every stool at the counter, every gaggle of bluehairs in every booth: Did you hear it’s supposed to snow tonight? Gonna get some snow, can you believe it? Oh, it’s

The widow swan had followed him. Tinker was sure of it. Forget the fact that birds didn’t do that. Stalk people. Hold grudges. Seek vengeance. They couldn’t do that. Birds had little gumball brains. It was an absurd idea to even consider, and yet, there it was. Waiting for him at the end of the little dock that swayed in the chop of the lake like a huge loose tooth. Three hundred miles from where he’d left it, honking and flapping around the lifeless pile of its partner. Tink

A Short Story by Jeremy Gardner For a hundred and eight years the Norman Hotel stood sentinel over the town of Barlow, like the gnomon at the center of an enormous, ominous sundial. Old-timers called it “The Bank” or “The Norm,” but to their children (most of them now in their forties and fifties) it had a number of more dismissive nicknames, “The Blight,” “The Thumb,” “The Tomb,” “The Eyesore,” and most derisively: “That Big Pile of Shit on Central.” Their grandparents would

James Whale (Left) - Boris Karloff (Right) The Motion Picture Production Code—enforced from 1930 and reaching its most stringent application from 1934 until its decline in the late 1960s—represented one of the most aggressive regulatory frameworks in American cinematic history. Known commonly as the Hays Code, it functioned as both a moral compass and a tool of censorship, explicitly forbidding depictions of what it termed “sexual perversion.” The Hays Code was never just abo

THERE IS A MONOLITH IN THE KITCHEN OF MY HOME. I do not remember how old I am, or if I could even call this my first memory because to organize those first sparks into consciousness would be impossible, but I know I am old enough to open the fridge, or more specifically, the freezer. My cousin Ashley is babysitting me and she’s asleep on the couch - not out of derelict of duty, it had to be well past midnight, but even in my childhood I was a night owl. So I was awake, and fo

I belong to the last generation with limited internet access, so I figure that I found “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre” (1974) because of the kindhearted celebratory antics of a man living in the neighborhood I grew up in. Every Halloween, he’d run around in his front yard with a chainsaw (without chains), and without access to the film he referenced, I began to intertwine the feeling of the one night a year when the world and I were on the same page with the sound of a chainsaw

I: Chekhov’s Cave Painting In early 2019, a team of scientists announced they had made an incredible discovery. After shimmying up a fig tree on the Indonesian island of Sulawesi, in search of an entrance to a remote cave system, a member of their research group had stumbled upon a previously unknown prehistoric pictograph. By analyzing the calcite “popcorn” that had built up over millennia on the surface of the paint (a method of chronometric dating based on the slow decay