When I was ten, my parents rented a summer home.
It was a massive construct, with more rooms than we needed for a four-member family. My dad’s idea was that the more space we had, the less likely my brother and I would get bored. You see, my parents were physics professors, and their creativity was poured into radical theories no one could ever prove, and ways to keep my brother and I out of their hair.
So we did have fun. One of the best summers I’ve ever had.
Until we started hearing voices.
My parents said it was wind in old pipes, that the whispering we heard when we cowered in our beds was nothing more than our imagination. My brother and I didn’t believe them of course, and most of the time we were worried that if the whispering got louder, we would hear what the voices were actually saying. And that scared us even more.
This book was one of the hardest writing experiences I’ve ever had. I remember wanting to stop on several occasions. Maybe it’s because I’m not really the ghost type of guy.
Or maybe I’m worried that the more I write, the louder the voices will become.
And believe me, I really don’t want to hear what they’re saying.
See you in the shadows,