MJ Cooper

By the time the last freight train came through Atlanta, Indiana, most decent folks were already asleep. It was the kind of…

There are towns that grow old the way people do: by gathering aches, by favoring one side in the wind, by lowering…

There are houses that look abandoned even when candles burn in every window. The Beattie Mansion was such a house. It stood…

By the time the sun drops behind the breadfruit trees in San Jose, the House of Taga no longer looks like a…

By daylight, Estate Whim was a handsome lie. It stood on the quiet west end of St. Croix with its whitewashed walls…

In Wilkesboro, where the hills rise blue and old as bruises against the evening sky, there stands a brick jail that has…

In Soda Springs, Idaho, the earth has never learned to keep quiet. It mutters under the streets and sighs in the cellars.…

In Concordia, Kansas, where the wind comes walking over the plains with its hands in its pockets and its mouth full of…

There are buildings that grow old the way people do—stooped, softened, full of aches in the joints and stories in the walls.…

Belmont, Nevada, did not die all at once. It dwindled. That was worse, somehow. A town that burns leaves ash and black…

There are places in Mississippi where the land has a memory older than courthouses, older than churchyards, older than the names men…

By day, the Cuban Club in Ybor City looked less like a haunted place than a memory that had learned how to…