Recent Updates
  • The Maine Contract
    The Maine Contract I The parking lot was wet. It was always wet in Maine. Sarah Mitchell was driving back from the grocery store in Rockport, and Jake Morrison hit her bumper with his bicycle. He did not have insurance. She stopped the car. She got out. The bicycle was bent at an angle that suggested it had been broken for a while and nobody had tried to fix it. Jake stood next to it in a...
    0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
  • The Mirror's Whisper
    The Blackwood Manor was a skeletal remain of Victorian ambition, perched on a cliff that seemed to want to throw the house into the sea. Julian, the sole heir to the estate, returned to the manor after a decade of exile, carrying only a suitcase and a heavy sense of dread. In the attic, covered in a shroud of grey velvet, stood the Mirror of Aeons. It was a massive, ornate piece of glass that...
    0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
  • Title: The Silent Patron
    The roar of the 1920s in New York was a symphony of excess, a frantic dance on the edge of a volcano. Julian lived in the heart of it, in a penthouse that overlooked Central Park, where the air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and illegal gin. He had inherited a fortune from an uncle he had never met—a sum so vast it felt abstract, like a number in a ledger rather than actual...
    0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
  • The Architect of Silence
    The city of Oakhaven was a masterpiece of symmetry and stone, a place where every street was a perfect arc and every building a testament to the order of the State. In Oakhaven, silence was not the absence of sound, but a civic duty. The citizens spoke in hushed tones, their lives choreographed by the Great Clock in the center of the plaza, which dictated when to wake, when to work, and when to...
    0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
  • The Glass Horizon
    (Interwar Period Variation) Berlin in 1928 was a city of electric fever and hollow eyes. It was the era of the 'Golden Twenties', but the gold was merely a thin veneer over a deep, systemic rot. In the smoky depths of the 'Blue Parrot' cabaret, where the jazz was frantic and the champagne was cheap, Julian Thorne spent his nights documenting the collapse. Julian was a war correspondent who had...
    0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
  • The Engineer
    The Engineer's Last Shift The numbers on the ionosphere monitor were wrong. Mike Callahan knew this the way a mechanic knows an engine is misfiring—by sound, by feel, by twenty-two years of knowing exactly what every machine in the Brooklyn coal plant was supposed to do. The monitor sat in the corner of the control room, a World War II-era device that had been installed to track atmospheric...
    0 Comments 0 Shares 7 Views 0 Reviews
  • The Black Blueprint
    The rain hadn't stopped in three days. It wasn't even a proper rain—more like a persistent drizzle that seeped into your bones and made you question every life choice that had led you to a city where the sky was permanently the color of a wet sidewalk. I was sitting in my office on Canal Street, watching water trace lazy paths down the windowpane, when the envelope appeared. No delivery boy. No...
    0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
  • The Quiet Heroism of Dust
    (Noble Grim Variation) The settlement of Hope's End was a collection of rusted shipping containers and plastic tarps, clinging to the edge of a salt flat that stretched infinitely in every direction. There was no green here, no birds, only the relentless wind that carried the grit of a dead world into every pore of the skin. Silas was the settlement's water-gatherer. It was a thankless,...
    0 Comments 0 Shares 7 Views 0 Reviews
  • The Rust Belt
    The machine in the back of the shop had been broken for three weeks. It was a used press brake, bought from a man in Toledo who claimed it had been sitting in a warehouse since 1978 and had never been used. Danny knew better. He had seen the rust on the hydraulic lines. He had seen the way the control panel flickered like a dying heartbeat. But he had bought it anyway, because the monthly...
    0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
  • The Plague of Blackwood Manor
    I found the first one in the scullery. It was three days after Sir Sebastian returned from India, and the house was still settling into its old rhythms after the disruption of his absence. I had risen early, as was my custom, to inspect the kitchens before the cook came down. The gas lamps were still dim, casting long shadows across the flagstones, when I saw her—Martha, the kitchen maid—lying...
    0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
  • The Observer
    New York City, 2008 I got the call on a Tuesday, which is the kind of detail that would make a novelist proud but makes me want to laugh. There is nothing cinematic about the end of the world. It comes on a Tuesday, in a phone call, from a number you don't recognize. My name is Mark Delaney, and I am an associate professor of astrophysics at City College of New York. I am thirty-four years old,...
    0 Comments 0 Shares 7 Views 0 Reviews
  • THE HOUSE AT THE END OF THE RANGE
    The Mississippi delta in 1955 was the kind of place that remembered everything and forgave nothing. Captain Henry Ashworth drove through the swamp and oak trees, past abandoned plantations and collapsed sharecropper cabins, to a house that had once been grand and was now grand in ruin. Black Oak Manor sat at the end of a quarter-mile dirt road, surrounded by Spanish moss and memory. He had not...
    0 Comments 0 Shares 12 Views 0 Reviews
More Stories