BILL KURKLEN
Fiction, mostly. Ghosts, probably. Sad, pretty much.
Some love stories never end—no matter how many times you try to bury them.
It’s the 1960s, suburban Long Island, and a small, ragged thing makes his way through the woods, stitched together by suffering.
Meanwhile, six lives unravel just for touching a harmless gewgaw, a stupid paperweight—a bauble that warps minds, consumes everything it touches, and twists love until it eats itself.
Stuff is a slow, sinking descent into childhood scars, creeping horror, and the terrifying lengths we go to outrun—or embrace—our own demons.
For readers of Shirley Jackson, early King, and Mark Z. Danielewski—this is quiet terror, morally complex and emotionally raw.
Not an easy read. Not meant to be.