Off the northwest coast of Ireland, between the white sands of Trá Bhán and the Atlantic’s roiling waves, there is a rocky islet, approximately 150 metres long and 100 metres wide, marked on Google Maps as Illanamarve. The islet transforms depending on point of observation: from certain parts of the surrounding landscape, it presents as one of the many promontories edging the shore, from other angles, it’s clearly a place distinct. Though visible from most nearby towns, such as Annagry and Carrickfinn, at closer range Illanamarve is intermittently blocked from view by rising topography. Just as you catch sight of it, you lose it again. Composed almost entirely of granite, the island has a shallow covering of soil and grass but is devoid of trees or shrubbery. The route from Trá Bhán to the island – passable only at low tide – changes quickly underfoot from sand to loose rocks...

  I ignored them for months, but the paranormal investigators insisted on my attention. It was not entirely unflattering. First came the emails I dismissed as spam, then a slew of bizarrely worded DMs which appeared among sex-bots in Instagram’s ominous ‘message requests’ folder. Finally, on a rainy afternoon in January, I received a call from an unknown number. At the other end of the line was a man who introduced himself as Patrick, ‘a supernatural specialist’. He was, he assured me, a consummate professional – my privacy would be respected, my personal safety paramount. I was about to hang up, but lately the suspicion that nothing strange or extraordinary would ever befall my life again had grown stronger, and the possibility that I might continue living bereft of more unorthodox experiences filled me with great distress. Days were passing with nothing new in them. I sighed, I listened. Patrick...

Amina Cain’s writing articulates seemingly small, peripheral things that nonetheless hold us in their thrall with bewitching precision: the specific sadness of candlelight dancing across a solitary dinner table; how we catalogue our encounters with books that have moved us; the pleasure of going out to buy the persimmons and the butter, of sinking into a painting after a long day of labour, of meeting a friend after a spell of loneliness. Cain is the author of the short-story collections, I Go to Some Hollow (2009) and Creature (2013), the novel Indelicacy (2020), and A Horse at Night: On Writing (2022), a series of essayistic enquiries. She spoke to me from Los Angeles in October 2023.  Julia Merican (JM): When I knew I was going to be speaking to you, I started to read the interviews you’d already had with other people. I wanted to get an idea of the...

I was shaken awake softly at four o’clock. There is a slot, the blonde nurse whispered to me. I did not understand what she meant by slot. There was a canula in my arm and although she detached this from the antibiotic drip she did not remove it, and it remained there, crusting, for two more days. There was a slot: it was four o’clock, the ward asleep. Earlier I could still hear the snoring and proximally erotic moans of the other women, but now all was still. In the corridor it was bright and a nurse sat at her station, writing something, and for some reason I nodded genially at her as I passed. I felt, I think, that I was being civilly abducted and wanted to check that she knew about it. Led to execution. It was not unlike that actually. I asked, Can you call my partner?...