
The House on Weaver Hill
Every autumn, the lights return to the old Weaver place — even though the power was cut forty years ago.
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Every tale here is original fiction, written to be read aloud by candlelight.

Every autumn, the lights return to the old Weaver place — even though the power was cut forty years ago.
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In the oldest wing of Ravenwood Library, a reader is never truly alone.
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She asks for a ride to the old cemetery. By morning, the seat beside you is empty — but your car is not.
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Hunters in Black Pine Forest speak of a creature that walks on two legs and leaves no tracks.
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A gilt mirror in a forgotten attic reflects more than the room behind you.
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A train that no longer runs still arrives at the old Dunwich station at 11:11 p.m.
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A drowned village, a light that answers from beneath the water, and a keeper who has been counting the dead for sixty years. Our longest tale — settle in.
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For thirty years, the switchboard at Cold Spring connected calls that nobody living had placed — and one operator wrote down every single one.
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The Ballard orchard gives one hundred and nine bushels every autumn — never more, never less. The family has spent four generations learning why they must not take the last one.
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A grand winter hotel closes for the season with one caretaker, one guest, and a floor that the elevator refuses to acknowledge.
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Twice a day the tide goes out at Shivering Reach and uncovers a hundred wooden stakes. The families who set them know exactly how many there should be.
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The Alcazar picture house burned in 1961 with the projector running. Everyone who has snuck into the ruin since agrees on what is showing.
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A one-room schoolhouse closed in 1938. Every autumn since, somebody has taken attendance in it — and the names have not changed.
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Cornish miners brought them across the water: small, unseen, and knocking. In Briar Hollow No. 4, the knocking was the only warning anyone ever got.
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A ten-tent carnival that played county fairs for forty years. Every town it left behind remembers eleven.
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A hundred and forty feet of dark timber over a slow river. You go in wet and come out dry, or the other way about.
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The canal has been dry since 1889. The lock at Shipley still fills at four in the morning, and something still walks the beam.
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