Julia had grown up knee-deep in superstition. Augury itself came with superstitions, though most would say they were purely common sense. That night, as Julia sat in inky silence tapping her fingers against the steering wheel, she thought about one warning in particular. One that her mother had whispered in her ear years ago, before kissing her softly on the head and buckling her in for some late night road trip.

Always put something in the passenger seat at night. An open seat next to you is an invitation.

A belated announcement, but here nonetheless — my latest short story, Passengers, is now published on Strange Constellations!

Do you like to read about ghosts? About girlfriends? About grief? Do you start sometimes, while driving home at night down those winding country lanes, because you looked in the rearview mirror and saw some huge and shambling shape cross the road? Do you tell yourself after you’ve parked your car, only twenty feet of yawning black void from your front door, that that tapping sound on the roof is just the engine cooling down, just the engine, just the engine? Then this one might be for you.

— CEM