The Tree of Regret is supposed to to conceal a door.
The bath is its own season, a submerged oasis, scented vaguely of almond bark, diffident toward the stark onset of Winter in the valley. She peels the washcloth from its stiff perch on the soap dish and whisks it slowly through the water like the tail of some rough crocodile, swimming lazily on the current …
You look down a spiral stair, hear nothing, see nothing, but feel it breathing there… In Hitchcock houses – that’s what my Aunt Eleanor called them – you always feel as though something could go terribly wrong, at least once, but maybe only in several generations – so you hope it’s not yours that finds …
What if you could have *any* superpower. You’ve been asked that, right? You had a kid brother, or just one of those friends? What would it be?
A many headed thing – that’s what Dad had called it. He had to call it a ‘thing’. That’s what you do when there’s no known phyla, even in cryptozoology. People get that a unicorn, if they existed, would be a kind of horse. Bigfoot – that’d be a primate. But what the Hell do …
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