The Fourth Horseman

Part one: 

There’s a stretch of ground near my hometown that everyone says is cursed. Past the lamppost that only flickers between midnight and 1 AM — past the gutted remains of the house which has burned down four times, never to be rebuilt again — through the lingonberry bushes that are ripe all year; there you’ll find it. A patch of fine powdered dirt hidden in a copse of birch trees. The same rich earth that the rest of the verdant wilderness thrives on, although no grass or flowers or even the hardiest weed can be seen struggling through this blighted space.

Read MoreThe Fourth Horseman