ghost story

By day, the old King Opera House in Van Buren looked almost respectable. That was the trick of sunlight. It smoothed the…

The road above Ponce climbs in patient bends, as if the mountain has all the time in the world and the city…

You could miss Murray Station Homestead if you drove too fast, and most people did. That was part of its arrangement with…

By eleven o’clock on most nights, downtown Altoona had finished pretending it was awake. The storefronts along Twelfth Avenue gave back only…

By daylight, Bowers Mansion looks almost reasonable. That is the first trick it plays. It sits there in Washoe Valley with its…

Everybody in Cairo knew the Silver Run Tunnel, though most pretended they didn’t. That was how it was with certain places in…

There are houses that welcome you. You know the kind. Porches with rockers, windows glowing butter-yellow in the dusk, a wreath on…

People in Winchester know the road, though many will tell you they’ve never taken it after sundown. It runs out past the…

In Prescott, Arizona, the wind comes down from the pines with a dry whisper, carrying dust, juniper, and old names. It moves…

Savannah has always known how to keep a secret. It hangs its secrets from wrought-iron balconies and lets Spanish moss comb them…

There are places where the earth does not forget what men have done upon it. That is what old Mr. Harlan Pruitt…

By day, Crybaby Lane looked like any other narrow road in the old folds of North Carolina: two ragged shoulders, a seam…