I’ve been telling stories since I could string sentences together — eerie ones, mostly. At three, I’d stand in the middle of rooms (including church) and spin tales full of ghostly cackling and hand gestures, to the quiet horror of my mother.

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I’ve always been drawn to what’s hidden beneath — the soft hum of old places, the silence between trees, the edge where reality thins. When I was a teenager, newly licensed and reckless with curiosity, I took a 6-hour road trip just to touch the Moll Dyer Rock — the “Witch Stone” in southern Maryland. They say it curses anyone who lays a hand on it. I did it anyway. The rest of my teen years? Trial by fire.

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This story — Familyr — came from a dream that wouldn’t let go. It lingered, quietly taking root until it grew into something I had no choice but to write down. If it stirs something in you too… welcome. Maybe this world was waiting for you as well.

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I live with a full house — five kids, two cats, a dog, and a ferret — and a mind that never quite stops wondering. I love wandering old forests and haunted buildings, playing chess in quiet corners, and crocheting complicated things I’ll probably never wear. I relocate spiders instead of killing them. I wake early, make strong black coffee, and write while the house is still quiet.

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I didn’t write this to be read by everyone. Just by the ones who would feel it.