When I was a kid walking to school each day, I passed by an old white, two-storey house surrounded by trees and overgrown bushes. The unkempt lawn was full of weeds, and the house looked as if it hadn’t been painted in years. I didn’t know who lived there, but sometimes I pictured an old lady by herself, maybe with a thousand cats, or sometimes I pictured an old man who drank whisky all day and listened to sad songs on an antique record player. Sometimes I imagined a family lived there, with a deformed teenage son living in the basement.

Even thought the house scared me, I wanted to see inside of it, I wondered what the bedrooms looked like, the hallways, the room at the top of the stairs.

My new collection of stories, Unending Rooms, is shaped like that house of my imagination. When you walk into the house (or when you enter the first part of the book), there’s a lot of light, the living room, the part of the house the public might get a glimpse of.  Maybe there are fresh flowers in vase near the window.

But the deeper you go into the house (read: into the book), things get a little darker. There are secret doors to hidden rooms. There is a basement, where a single light bulb swings on a chord.

This is how I imagined the shape of the book.

The very last story in Unending Rooms, Part IV of the book, is a room in the house that no one ever sees.