I read this expecting a ghost story. It is one, technically. There is an object, a presence, a gradual sense that something has moved into the edges of the room and is waiting to see how far it can go.

But what stayed with me wasn’t the supernatural element. It was the restraint. Falkner lets the story unfold slowly, almost reluctantly, as if he understands that the less he insists, the more the reader will lean in.

There’s a particular confidence in that — the willingness to leave space, to let atmosphere do the work, to trust that suggestion is more unsettling than explanation.

I’ve spent a long time trying to force stories into shape. This one does the opposite. It barely seems to try.

That’s precisely why it works.

— G. H. Schreiber

04/01/2026