Welcome to An Author’s Life
I’m Anders Vane, and I’m a writer. I write stories that make you feel something.
Here’s a bonus story for you. A literate ghost story.
Do Not Force
The floorboards in the hallway used to groan when the wind got in the cracks.
That’s what I told myself.
Tonight it was creak-creak-thud-creak. I stopped on the steps, key half-turned. The thud meant something had shifted. The lock didn’t want to give.
I waited. The sound stopped.
The hallway light flared once, then settled. I went up.
Halfway to my apartment, there was a door in the wall. Yesterday: brick. Tonight: a door, painted the color of old milk. No handle. Just a brass plate at eye level, scratched like someone had tried to pry it off.
PLEASE DO NOT FORCE.
My hand was already moving toward it. I don’t know why. The air around the door felt different—thicker, like standing too close to someone’s mouth.
The door opened before I touched it.
Inside: a room the size of a closet. A chair. A table. On the table, a notebook and a pen tied to the wood with a leather cord.
The room smelled off. Not bad—used. Like the air had been breathed already, by someone else, and put back.
I sat because my legs decided for me.
The notebook was open. The page was blank except for a single line at the top, written in pencil:
Who are you writing to?
I picked up the pen. It was warm.
I thought: I’ll write something smart. Something that shows I understand what this is.
The pen didn’t move. My hand cramped around it, knuckles white, but the tip wouldn’t touch paper. I tried harder. The pressure traveled up my forearm, into my shoulder. My chest tightened.
I let go. The pen clattered against the table, still tied.
I breathed. The room exhaled with me.
I picked up the pen again, slower. I thought of my sister. Not “a reader.” Not “someone who might judge this.” Just her. The way she holds her coffee cup with both hands.
The pen moved.
I haven’t called you in two years.
The air loosened. My ribs expanded. I could breathe again.
I tried the next sentence: The liminal architecture of our estrangement resonates with—
My hand locked. The pen tip scraped sideways across the page, tearing it. Heat flooded my wrist, my elbow. The room pressed in from all sides.
I gasped and crossed it out, fingers shaking.
I’m afraid you’ll start a fight and the back and forth wears me down.
The pressure released like a fist opening.
I wrote three more sentences. Each time I reached for a clever phrase, the pen refused. Each time I wrote something plain and true, the air gave me space.
When I stopped, my shirt was soaked through.
I stood. The door was already open.
I stepped into the hallway. The door was still there behind me, innocent. The brass plate was warm when I touched it.
Back in my apartment, I sat at my desk. I pulled out my laptop and opened the document I’d been working on—a story about a man who finds a mysterious door.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
I felt it immediately: the pressure at the base of my throat. Waiting, patient, at the edge of every sentence I might write.
I closed the laptop.
I opened my email instead. Found my sister’s name. The last message from her was four years old.
I started typing.
I don’t get in touch because I don’t respect you enough.
I stopped. Read it back. It was true and I hated it.
I hit send before I could take it back.
The pressure disappeared.
Outside, the floorboards creaked. Just the wind. Just the building settling.
I waited for her to reply, knowing she might not. Knowing that the door in the hallway would still be there tomorrow, and the day after. Knowing that every time I sat down to write anything—story, email, grocery list—I would feel it testing me.
The pen had taught me the rule: You can force the door open, or you can force the words out.
But you can’t force both.
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Praise for The Lost Daughter
This story has all the elements required to keep readers by the fireplace during the Christmas season, indulging in the rich Norwegian folklore as told by a writer I highly estimate as a true expert on the subject. It's dark, it's mysterious, but it's also full of humanity—a humanity that can be very fragile and easily swayed one direction or another when something as unbearable as the loss of one's own child fills up every thought of every waking hour.
— Goodreads Review
Praise for Astral Leak
THIS is true escapism in its rawest expression. At last we have something new being written that is putting mythology back into myths.
— Goodreads Review
Praise for The Norse Scriptures
It is a monumental achievement. It creates a sense of awe that few modern retellings manage to evoke. If you have any interest in mythology, folklore, or epic literature, this is an essential read. It is a modern classic that feels ancient.
— Goodreads Review
