It began in 5th grade, when I slipped a note to my bestie in Mr. Lott’s Friday afternoon class. While we listened to him speak about the Apache of the Texas Plains, I was aching to tell Natalia about the shadow figure in my bedroom of our newly remodeled old house.

Two summers later, my cousin spent most of the break with us and witnessed the paranormal activity that, by this point, my entire family couldn’t deny. When she returned to Fort Worth for our 7th-grade school year, we were only allowed 30 minutes of long-distance phone chats a week. That’s when our mailboxes became vessels for our thoughts, speculations, complaints, and imaginations.

Saturday afternoons were spent at the mall with my mother. While she looked at another pair of what would surely be “too uncomfortable to wear” shoes, I would spend my allowance at the stationery shop next to the food court, picking out different colors and weights of paper by the sheet, with a clear design agenda on the upcoming week’s letters to my cousin.

By the time I reached high school, the hauntings in my house felt normal. I told my friends stories about the clock that refused to tell time and stay on the wall. I described the headstone that was unearthed during my father’s backyard beautification efforts. I watched eyeballs bulge at my birthday slumber party when I shared my secret shadow friend’s affinity for sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me fall asleep.

All of these stories grew more colorful on the pages I sent to pen pals, friends who had moved away, and my dear cousin, 250 miles north of me.

Many moons later, my comfort in the paranormal led me to a career in dark tourism, and now, my love for fancy paper and elaborately haunted tales has alchemized into my golden ticket: Letters in the Dark is my way of keeping stamps relevant and a reminder that paper correspondence is worth resurrecting.