Creepypasta - Where scary things go bump in the night

The first few weeks were fine. It took a bit of adjusting, especially to the noise. The first time I heard the boom, I was so scared, I nearly peed myself. I thought something had gone wrong, and that the whole field was about to collapse. I know, it sounds like I’m exaggerating, but really, put yourself in my shoes. You’re minding your own business when your temp agency calls in the middle of the night. There’s an employer offering twice your hourly rate, on condition that you leave immediately. It’s the new moon, so you drive thirty miles out of town in complete darkness. You get there, and there’s only one guy there to greet you. He tells you their patrolman never showed up for his shift tonight. Gives you the job. Makes you sign a non-disclosure agreement. Tells you to walk around the field, climb the chimneys, radio in anything strange. That’s it. He leaves you there. You start to walk, it’s the dead of night, no traffic, complete and utter silence. And then…

BOOM.

It’s terrifying.

I tried to radio it in, but it took half an hour to find a spot where the connection was strong enough to hear the reply.

“That’s normal. Keep patrolling.”

That’s what they told me. Cold, clinical, straightforward.

Each subsequent boom made me less and less nervous, but I never quite got over the split-second of dread they caused. I think it’s because they came at random, so there was no way to brace myself. If you approach a garbage bin and know someone’s about to jump out at you, your heartrate might quicken a bit when they do, but it won’t be that bad. If you know every single garbage bin might have someone in it waiting to jump out at you but you don’t know which or when, that spike in your heartrate will be a little higher.

But I’m not here to tell you about the booming noises. I’m here to tell you about Chimney 7.

Chimney 7 was just like all the others. I’d say it was approximately nine…maybe ten storeys high. There was a grated – and, in places, rusty – spiral staircase circling around it all the way to the top. I couldn’t tell you the exact circumference, but it was wide enough that you’d be able to drop a car into the hole without hitting the sides. It took approximately 6 minutes to climb stairs, and only 5 to get back down, and that’s without resting.

Up until my last week, Chimney 7 was no different from the others.

And then came the night where everything changed.

It was cold enough that I could see my breath. Halfway through my shift, I’d grabbed an old baseball cap from the back of my truck to keep my head warm. Nothing special, just a green cap with Fido Dido printed on it. Yeah, I know, I’m showing my age.

Although I’d never seen smoke coming from the chimneys – despite me calling them chimneys – that evening, as I approached Chimney 7, I spotted a small wisp of smoke billowing through the air. Since it was my job to report anything unusual, I tried radioing out, but all I heard was static. I couldn’t have been farther from the spot my signal normally got through if I’d been actively trying to avoid it, so I decided that if I was going to make the effort to walk all the way back, I better make damn sure I had something to report. I began climbing the steps around Chimney 7, and as I did, I heard a low growl that stopped me dead in my tracks.

I closed my eyes and listened, but I couldn’t pinpoint the source. I figured it was the sound of the grate buckling in the cold or maybe scraping against the concrete wall, but the closer I got to the top, the louder it got. Once I reached the topmost platform, I realized it was coming from the chimney. Something mechanical, I figured. Probably malfunctioning, to boot. I figured I’d have to look into he chimney, but I was reluctant. See, I’d never tried before, nor had I been instructed to do so. I suppose I could have, but those damn sonic-like booms made me nervous. All those nights in the dark made my imagination run wild, and I had this vivid, unshakable mental image that if I craned my neck and looked into the hole, the chimney would boom, and my head would be blasted straight off my neck. With that fear very much at the forefront of my mind, I gripped the edge of the chimney and shyly poked my head over JUST enough to be able to see.

There was nothing but blackness beyond the top few storeys. Blackness, and a symphony of wind howling through the tunnel with the growl that seemed to cycle from low to high to low again, as though the chimney were a sleeping, snoring giant. No sooner had I popped my head in, did I pull it back out. That was enough bravery for one night. I climbed down and hurried to the radio spot, giving my report, but while it did sound like the signal went through, I never got a reply.

The next night, I wasn’t quite as reluctant to look into Chimney 7. All evening, I’d kept tabs of which chimneys had been booming, and good ‘ol seven hadn’t done it once. I figured it really was defective, and therefore, safe. I climbed the stairs to the same growly tune and then peered inside, pushing my head in farther than the night before. A gust of wind coming from deep below flung my cap in the air and out of reach. It spiralled its way down the chimney like a helicopter seed and disappeared from sight. I wasn’t fond enough of the cap to contact the employer and beg for it back, but I wished I had something to stay warm. I flicked my flashlight on and moved the beam in circles, if only to see what had become of it, but the light couldn’t penetrate far enough to see the bottom. Oh well.

Again, I went back to the radio hotspot, and again, I mentioned the dysfunctional chimney. Still no reply.

Something told me to steer clear of Chimney 7, and I listened to my guts for as long as I could. I’d circle close but not too close to it, examining it from the vantage points of Chimneys 6 and 8. I did this for three nights until I received my direct deposit paycheck and felt guilty about not doing my job. Before my next shift, I bought a heavy-duty flashlight, and then headed straight for Chimney 7.

The light reached considerably farther. Down to ground level, I think? But even so, I still couldn’t see the bottom. What I could see, however, was that at about three storeys down – just below where my original flashlight stopped working – I discovered scratch marks. I mean, I guess they could have been anything. Even with 20/20 vision, it’s hard to tell a scratch from, say, a scratch-shaped graffiti. All I know is there was something marking up the walls all along the circumference.

I was already spooked from the scratches, so I don’t know if what I saw next was my mind playing tricks on me, but as I panned the halo around, I caught something on the farthest side. It was some sort of long black shape, but as soon as my light hit it, two bright spots reflected back at me and momentarily blinded me. By the time my vision finally cleared and I looked again, there was nothing but concrete below.

It took all my strength to finish my shift. I just had to remember the dollar signs that came with the mounting terror. They somehow convinced me I was imagining things.

The last night was the worst. All of the chimneys were quiet, and I found myself dreading the silence more than I dreaded the booms. It was raining hard, which might explain why, as I walked by Chimney 7, I couldn’t hear the growl I’d become accustom to. I didn’t want to go up, but I couldn’t neglect my rounds again. It wouldn’t be right.

I was careful the whole way, hand clinging to the guard rail as I navigated the slippery circular staircase. Every step seemed to make the whole thing shake and I was afraid the rusted metal would break once and for all. I was suddenly very aware of my added weight, what with the water having seeped into my clothes. Fortunately, the structure held, even though its integrity was in question. As I reached the platform at the top, I thought I could breathe a sigh of relief, but something caught my eye while I was trying to catch my breath. The rim of the chimney was broken. Large pieces of concrete littered the platform. I didn’t need a flashlight to see the scratches this time. As I glanced into the chimney, I found deep gouges scratched up the wall, all the way to the top. Three on each side, with a fourth that seemed to come from a different angle. The cuts were deep and purposeful, like desperate fingers raking a cliffside as a hiker clung for dear life. Whatever had clawed its way up, machine, animal, or…I don’t even want to think of the alternatives, it was now somewhere out there in the dark, and its grip was strong enough to break concrete.

I had had enough. Everything about this damn job put me on edge, and even though there was a reasonable explanation – maybe the gouges had been made by grappling hooks or a device to slide down the chimney from the top like the ones window cleaners use – I was done. D.O.N.E.

As much as I wanted to run down the staircase and back to my truck, the rain was still coming down in sheets, and the last thing I needed was to slip and crack my head open. I went slowly and methodically. Suddenly, my worst nightmare came true. The stairs shook violently. I don’t mean there was a gust of wind that made them jitter, I mean they were SHAKING. My stomach dropped to my feet as I imagined whatever had created those deep cuts in the chimney was now climbing up and towards me. The metal screeched as it bent, a sound far more unsettling than growling coming from a chimney. A sound more grounded in reality, and in danger. I screamed and hung onto the railing for dear life, and then I felt a pop. Not in my body, not against my body, but through the metal. Pop. Pop. Pop. The bolts connecting the hinges to the chimney were falling out one by one.

Through the heavy rain, I could have sworn I heard a scream like a coyote, and then the staircase went still.

I was out of breath, on my knees, arms wrapped around the railing and paralyzed with fear. I could tell the structure was no longer safely fastened to the tower, as it was swinging in the wind, but I couldn’t see the extent of the damage. It took me a few minutes to gather the courage to start moving, my white knuckles stiffly releasing my death grip. It should have taken 5 minutes to get back down, but I spent 15. The longest 15 minutes of my life. I could hear the staircase shifting as I slowly made my way from step to step, hoping it would hold and trying not to shift my weight and throw everything off-kilter. I didn’t know how many bolts were left, or if my weight could cause the others to come out.

As I neared the bottom, I saw the final flight had been pulled from the chimney and was now suspended in the air. The handrail was warped outwards and undulated in parts, like a bent twist tie. It was still too high to jump off, so I had to climb down as the stairs rocked like a ship in a storm. Solid ground never felt more solid, until I saw something out of the corner of my eye, and then the bottom seemed to drop from under me. Between Chimney 6 and 7, I found a baseball cap. It was shredded, but there was no mistaking the Fido Dido logo on it. It was mine. Around it were long, narrow footprints about the length of my arm, with branches stretching out in four different directions like talons. I didn’t wait around to see what had left them.

It’s been two months since that night. I haven’t gone back. I keep receiving paychecks. Like clockwork, every two weeks, there’s another direct deposit in my bank account. I don’t know if it’s to buy my silence, or if there’s no one left to take me off the payroll.

One of the local teenagers was sitting on the porch behind me, so I knew the kids were being looked after. If it was some strange prank or something, well, I'd hear about it later. I headed back inside and returned to writing that day's story.

Around eight in the evening, someone began knocking on our front door. Two of my roommates were in their rooms with the doors open, but we were all playing an online game together, so we ignored it and hoped the guy in the room downstairs would get it. He either didn't hear it or didn't care, so we sat there listening to the pounding and knocking for about fifteen minutes before one of my roommates logged off the game and stormed down to the front door. I heard, "What the HELL do you want? None of us are parked in your goddamn spot! We never park in your spot!"

That didn't sound good. I left my computer and slid down the hallway to see what was going on. They'd told me stories about Bill and how he insisted that one section of the sidewalk was for his food truck; apparently, he'd go around at literally any time of day or night knocking on every single door in the neighborhood until he found the 'offender.' This time, Bill was looking not for a car owner, but for the perpetrator of the black square prank.

After much arguing, he finally moved on to the next house, but I couldn't go back to playing our game. Instead, I wandered out under evening orange and headed down the street. The black square was odd; its angle seemed to be changing to match me, and I moved my head back and forth a few times rapidly to confirm that it always looked exactly square from any angle.

Anton was sitting in his open garage in a lawn chair as I approached. He handed a man a bag, pocketed a stack of cash, and coughed and leaned back. The stranger hurried away without looking at me. It was not an unusual sight.

Standing in Anton's driveway, which ran straight at the black square and Bill's house beyond, I asked, "Hey, what is this thing?"

"No idea man," he responded. "But it's got me on edge. It's just been there all day. I thought maybe somebody was scopin' me out, but it doesn't do nothin'."

I didn't want to get too close to it, so I picked up a stick. "Kids were messing with this earlier, right? Did anything happen?"

"Nah."

It was strange. There seemed to be some sort of scaling perspective at work. As I moved closer to the square, it grew larger in my sight than the change in distance warranted. Far away the effect had been imperceptible, but up close it was extremely unsettling. It felt almost as if the black square was looming up to encompass me, and might even leap out at any moment.

It was becoming increasingly obvious that this was no prank. The sides were exactly equal in length from what I could see, and absolutely nothing showed or reflected on its surface. I'd seen Vantablack nanofabric in person once before, and that superblack material had definitely left an impression on me. It had felt like staring into absolute void—and I had that same feeling now. The only difference was that my stick encountered no resistance as I moved it forward.

I took one step. The stick still moved freely ahead.

Was it past the threshold yet? It was disturbingly impossible to tell because the square always seemed to be facing me, so I couldn't tilt left or right and get a look from the side. The square also got bigger faster than it should have with each step, so I couldn't get a good idea of exactly where it began and ended. Worst of all, the forward perspective had no landmarks and no shadows. It felt as if I was inside a television show and reaching forward into a CGI background: the studio lights offscreen were still lighting the stick and I was reaching into something that didn't really exist.

I swung my branch left and right. There were no edges to strike, either. The pointed end traversed from ultrablack to the green of Bill's lawn and back with no resistance. It was then I truly understood that we were in trouble.

"Hey Anton?"

"What up?"

He was usually one to play it cool, but I could tell by his subtly concerned expression that I must have looked very strange standing in front of complete nothingness. "Let's, uh—" How to phrase it? "Let's make sure nobody goes near this."

He nodded and gave a nervous laugh.

We didn't have any sort of housing association or community building, so it would really be up to word of mouth. Bill was two houses past ours now, still knocking on doors, and he was doing a decent accidental job of warning everyone. A few neighbors had come out onto their lawns to stare at the thing, and I saw Idil emerging one lawn over. While studying the black square from afar, she shivered and pulled her headscarf a little closer. I smoothed down my shirt reflexively as she approached.

She stopped on the sidewalk just short of Anton's driveway. "What is the square?"

We just shook our heads.

"You call police?" she asked, looking at me.

Anton leaned back in his seat and watched me.

Put on the spot, all I could say was, "Um, I don't think so."

She was visibly confused. "Why not?"

Anton snickered. "Cops don't come here, girl."

"Police don't come this area?"

"Nah. They do, but trust me, you don't want 'em. They don't come here to help."

"Oh." She looked down at the ground, then over to the black square, and then to her front door. She departed without a word.

The rest of the neighbors began to emerge from their homes as Bill pissed them off in sequence, but we did not meet or talk beyond the distant glances of confusion and confirmation. I didn't like that strange square in the street, not one bit, but there wasn't much to do about it. A few people were taking pictures, so I went back inside and put my phone on the charger to do the same.

My roommates and I locked the house up tight that night. We couldn't see the black square from any of our windows, but the mere knowledge of its presence was like a chill in the air. I was the night owl of the four of us, and when the others went to bed, I quietly stacked boxes full of junk from the basement to block the windows—just in case. In the morning, nobody commented in approval of the boxes, but neither did they take them down.

I stepped outside to confirm that the anomaly was still there. This time, I took pictures.

I'd seen more than my share of movies and shows about creepy anomalies, but it was another thing having one actually show up outside my house. In person, there's a balance of risk versus curiosity, and there was nothing we could do about the square without endangering ourselves. We couldn't get too close to it, because who knew what would happen? And we certainly couldn't go inside it.

So it sat there, and, in large part, we ignored it in our day-to-day lives.

But there's also another kind of risk: the unknown, and the stress effects on your community and on your health. Each morning for a week I would look to my right at that eerie black square and wonder if I was being watched. Or, worse, was it some kind of hole from somewhere that might let in horrific entities beyond our understanding? Or hell, even just basic clawed creatures we could understand would be horrifying. A simple wolf or bear on the loose on our street would have been an emergency warranting help, and here we were with the possibility of literally anything appearing at any time.

On a random night that about eight people were over to play board games, Idil asked again if I would call somebody. This time, I agreed.

But who? And how?

I did find some numbers for two local news channels. I sent in my pictures, but they laughed at me and said they looked photoshopped. I insisted that no, it was literally just a black square, and they told me to call back when I had something scarier.

The military was an obvious answer too, but how does one 'call' the military? I didn't exactly have a phone number for 'the military.' Each night for a week, I waited on hold with various desks, bases, and institutions, repeating my story verbatim each time. "A strange anomaly has appeared in our neighborhood and I need somebody to come take a look at it."

Most secretaries hung up on me immediately, but I finally got one that laughed. He asked, "Watching some X-Files tonight?"

I sighed. "Look, I've been trying to contact someone about this for a week. Let's say, hypothetically, that I'm serious. Is there some sort of division or group for that?"

"Let me just call Area 51, buddy. They'll take care of you."

"Come on! There has to be some guy that takes weird phone calls and checks them out, right?"

"Aww, that's no fun. Fine, I'll give you the number."

I had it. Finally, I had it. The next conversation I had was promising, and a military jeep showed up the next morning. Idil texted me when she saw it park on the street, and I hurriedly went outside to greet—one man, apparently. He was only slightly older than me, and he stood staring at the black square with a haunted gaze. As I finally got his attention, he turned his head to look at me and said, "Motherfuck!"

"Right?" I pointed down the street at the black square. "That thing's been sitting there like that for a week and a half."

Finally prompted to move, he went to the back of his jeep, pulled out a tripod and a camera, and set it up facing the anomaly.

Watching him, I asked, "So you're going to call in the big guns, right? Someone will take care of this?"

His only answer was a glance, and then he got in his jeep and drove off, leaving the equipment running.

That was progress, I told myself. Somebody was aware of the issue now, and somebody was on it. Small consolation as the days wore on. One of the neighbors boarded up their windows—and then everyone did. Nobody asked the first house to do it if they had seen or heard something scary. We just did it. That day we went to the hardware store, endured the awkward process of explaining what we were doing to the overly-helpful employees, and then took our boxes of nails and stacks of wood and began hammering into the window frames.

I winced at the first one that went awry and damaged the wall, but I figured our security deposit was long gone anyway. We kept the curtain between the glass and the wood so that the landlord wouldn't notice on a casual driveby, although he would certainly see that the entire neighborhood had suddenly acquired bars and boards. If the area went to shit, would he lower our rent? Doubtful.

Then, my roommates and I got drunk together for the first time in months. The neighbors were doing the same thing in their boarded-up houses and on their lawns, and eventually we had a sort of block party going. It was an eerie thing all being connected and bonded by a common threat—but being unable to mention that threat even as it loomed in the distance at all times. There was nothing we could do about it, so mentioning it publicly was impolite.

As dusk deepened and someone started a bonfire in their back yard, I almost couldn't stand the pressure of what was happening. That thing might turn deadly and kill us all any time, but I wasn't even allowed to mention it without pissing people off! Boarding up our houses? We were all reacting to it! We were all aware it existed and we all knew everyone else knew too, but we couldn't talk about it?! A weird defensiveness was emerging among the conversations I overheard; this was our street and none of us could afford to move away, therefore the black square had to be harmless. There were even people talking about the idea that there was nothing wrong at all—and that talk was growing.

Agitated, I left the block party. I still wanted to drink, but angrily now, so I went to the nearest bar and sat. By pure chance, to my left was the soldier who'd set up the camera equipment. He was half-sloshed already, and he looked sidelong at me while holding the bar to keep himself up. He laughed darkly. "Oh, it's you."

It was almost a relief to see that he was still in town. "You guys going to do anything about the black square once you collect enough info?"

He sat taller and focused his bloodshot eyes on me. "Guys?"

"Yeah, your team or whoever."

"It's just me."

"Oh, well what about the higher ups?"

He downed another shot that had just been delivered. "Higher ups? My whole department got cleaned out by the new administration to 'cut costs' or something. I'm the only guy in my entire building."

My beer arrived, and I took a sip of it while trying to fully understand what he meant. "Like, temporarily? Are you waiting on new hires?"

He gave an exaggerated shrug. "It's been seven months, and nobody talks to me or tells me anything. I just get a paycheck automatically. No emails, no nothin'. I'm thinking maybe they just forgot to transfer me when they got the rest. I don't think anybody even knows I'm still there."

That was an off-putting thing to hear. "Then what do we do about the black square?"

He gave a long drunk belly laugh. "Brother, there are forty-seven anomalies in Ohio alone and I'm the only person in this state left in the department that handles that shit. Just be happy that yours isn't making people crazy or changing your muscle tissue into acid while you sleep."

"What? Does that happen?"

He stared forward at the venue's long mirrored back wall for a moment, unmoving except for the muscles in his jaw tightening as if he was grinding his teeth. After a tick, he suddenly reached over and clapped me on the back. "Nothin' so dramatic as all that. I'm just playin'." He got up, threw some cash on the bar, and began to stumble away.

"Wait!" I called after him. "What's your plan for the black square?"

"Plan?" he yelled back on his way out the door. "You are on your own brother."

I skirted through the crowd and pushed out into the night. "And what about the forty-six other anomalies?"

He just kept walking and soon became small in the distance.

Was it really possible that there was nobody manning the defenses for things like this? Were we simply open to danger with no one to respond? Was the only working plan to hope that nothing bad would happen? What the hell kind of plan was that? I returned home even more agitated than before.

It was about three weeks after the appearance of the anomaly that those that insisted the black square was harmless became the majority. We'd been able to complain about it, make jokes, and watch it fearfully before that afternoon, but the winds changed and I immediately found myself on the outside with no warning. If I glanced suspiciously at the black square, someone would deride me for it. If I tried to measure it to see if it was growing at all, someone would come out on their lawn and tell me to stop and that I was wasting my time. By the fourth week, those reactions became veiled threats.

Bill was standing out on the sidewalk the first day of that fourth week. I had just come home from playing a card game elsewhere, and he approached me rather angrily. "Stop causing trouble," he said without sugar-coating it.

"Me?" He was a large man in multiple ways, and I took a step back warily. "I'm just not willing to accept that the incredibly odd anomaly in the middle of our street is safe."

"The black square isn't causing any trouble," he growled. "You're the problem here. Pissing people off, going against the grain. People wanna sleep soundly and they can't do that if you fill their heads with nonsense dangers."

"If it's nonsense," I asked. "Then why are your windows boarded up?"

He balled a fist. "'Cause that's how it's always been around here. Everybody does it, and always has."

"The hell are you talking about? It was just last month that—"

He slugged me in the stomach.

I backed away. There was nothing left to say. I understood exactly what was happening.

He glared from the sidewalk until I went inside and closed the door behind me.

Two mornings later, screaming erupted from a few houses down. Nine of us rushed out of our houses with makeshift weapons—only to find that the danger had been the night before. Someone's window had been broken, and the wood beyond had been clawed mightily by something that had left traces of azure ichor behind.

I thought that certainly it would be undeniable now. It was obvious that something had come out of that black square and tried to get into a house. The only reason the single father and his two girls were alive: they'd boarded up their windows like everyone else.

"See?" I said to those gathered. "I told you it's dangerous!"

But the single father in question shook his head. "Of course you'd say that. How'd you do it?"

I began backing away almost instantly as all eyes turned on me. "What?"

Bill said, "Yeah, likely what happened. What tool did you use to make those marks? And what is that blue shit? Is it toxic? Did you put Ethan's girls in danger by throwing toxic blue sludge on their house?"

Ethan added, "And you'll pay for that window, too."

"The hell is wrong with you people?" I clutched my bat and continued moving backwards.

Idil came out of her house then, and asked some of the others in the group what was going on in Somali. They backed off, and Bill and Ethan shot me hateful glances.

On the way back to my place, Anton shook his head as I crossed his driveway. "Gonna get yourself killed boy."

Whispering, I asked, "What, by insisting that the physics-defying anomaly in our street is possibly dangerous?"

"Just sayin'. I sit in front of this thing all day every day and it freaks me the hell out, but I don't say nothin' to anyone else around here. Neighbors are more dangerous than that thing, get it? Keep your head down."

I mulled over his words for another few days while the attitude in the neighborhood became openly hostile. More claw marks and strange azure liquids appeared during each night, and Bill started enforcing what he called 'his right to open carry' by walking around on the sidewalks with an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder.

And then Ethan started doing it, too.

It made me tense as hell, but they'd often talked about gun responsibility, and part of me was glad to have weapons around given that something was probably coming out of the black square each night and trying to get into our houses.

At four in the morning on the first night of the fifth week, I heard loud banging on the front door. For twenty minutes I listened to someone pounding and yelling outside until one of my roommates shouted from his bed, "Fuck off, Bill! We don't have to answer the door for you! We're not parked in your goddamn spot!"

The knocking went silent. My other roommate called from his room, "That's the first time he's ever actually just gone away!"

At that, I sat up starkly in my bed. I knew. In that keening instant, I knew. Something had happened out there; some spark. Perhaps the unseen creature had finally gotten someone. Perhaps it had gotten one of the neighborhood children.

I grabbed my baseball bat and put on my tennis shoes. Other than that, I was only in shorts and a t-shirt, but there was no time. Running into the dark hallway that connected our rooms, I whispered, "Get your gun out."

"What?" my roommate asked.

"Get your goddamn gun ready," I practically hissed. "They're coming for us."

There was a crash of glass and the sound of boards being ripped off in the back of the house to punctuate what I'd said, and I heard my roommate jumping up and fumbling around with the case that held his gun. My other roommate just said quietly and fearfully, "They're not coming for us. They're coming for you." In the dark, I heard his door close and lock.

This was no movie situation. I knew this would end very quickly between untrained civilians, and I knew I was at a big disadvantage. If the windows hadn't been boarded up, I would have escaped that way, but I was forced into a corner. I only had knowledge of the terrain and the advantage of surprise. Using long steps to avoid the parts of the floor that creaked, I moved out into the board game room, and a big silhouette moving around the corner became a wide open target for my bat. I swung without restraint and as hard as I could. I'd never tried to kill anyone before, but I was amazed at how lethal my strength felt when the restraints were off.

The bat snapped in half on Bill's head, and he fell to the floor. He limply tried to resist, but I pulled at his rifle while screaming obscenities, and he gave it up while groaning on the floor and whimpering about his head bleeding. I'd won.

But, unfortunately, there were seven more silhouettes behind him.

Ethan was among them, and I saw his face by moonlight as they dragged me out into the street. "This asshole nearly killed Bill!" he shouted. "Proof positive he's the one behind the attacks!"

"You came into my house with guns!" I screamed at them. "You goddamn psychopaths!"

There were twenty other people out there already, many sticking to their own lawns. By the light of the full moon, they watched fearfully. Some of them asked if what I was saying was true.

Ethan yelled over me, "He'll say anything to trick people. Fake news!"

"Fake—?" They were still holding my arms, but I struggled. "This is ridiculous. You've all got guns and you literally just broke into my house in the middle of the night!"

"Fake, lies," Ethan insisted to the neighbors we passed as they kept pushing me and dragging me. As we passed Idil on her lawn, I realized where we were going.

She ran forward and kicked at Ethan. "I did not leave my country just for you to be the same!"

One of the men stayed behind to keep her restrained, and I nearly got away because of the distraction. Unfortunately, they caught me, and continued moving me toward the black square. Even by moonlight, it was starkly visible. "Why are you doing this?"

Ethan snarled, "You know, you monster. I can't let you live after what you did to my little girl."

I could see one of the wooden barricades among his windows had failed. Something had broken its way inside, and red blood was mixed with the azure pools usually left behind. "So you're going to try to kill me by throwing me inside the black square?" I asked loudly so that everyone around could hear. "How does that make any sense if you insist it's not dangerous? That I'm the one who somehow orchestrated these attacks in the night?"

One of the neighbors screamed, "Stop trying to get out of this. Fake news!" She turned and insisted to someone else that I was a liar. "Getting rid of him will stop the attacks."

They were lost. I'd known it, but it was only now that I truly accepted that I was not in a neighborhood surrounded by peers. I'd been living in hostile territory surrounded by enemies for weeks, and they'd become delusional because of their own fear. Living with fear every single day and being unable to do anything about it had turned their fear to anger, and now anger had become violence directed at the only target they could actually reach: their neighbor.

On that first night of the fifth week, they kicked me forward and pointed their guns at me, forcing me to walk into the black square; the unknown source of their fear. It had come to us from somewhere else, but it was now the desperate void at the center of our lives. It was our heart.

I'd never felt more sharp and aware. Adrenaline seared fire through my every nerve as I kept moving forward away from the guns at my back. The dark square expanded rapidly in my sight, but then grew more slowly as I came nearer than ever before. It asymptotically filled half of the sphere of what I could see; I kept waiting to pass the threshold like a door, to see the sides I'd tried to find with sticks and ropes over the last five weeks, but it never came. I kept pressing forward only to find myself still half in the world I knew and half in the darkness—until I turned around and saw Ethan and the others very far behind me. My brain struggled to process the shape or curve of what was happening, but I had the distinct sensation that I could keep walking forever and the black square would remain a giant sail pressed against half of me.

Except I knew there was an unseen dropoff, and perhaps that was the key. Perhaps the door was actually down, and the black square we could perceive was merely a higher-dimensional perspective on it.

I got down on my knees and hands and began to crawl. I couldn't afford to fall accidentally.

"Don't bother!" Ethan shouted in the distance. "You're going over. You're not getting out of this."

There it was. I could feel the edge. Here, the black square was almost exactly half of what I could see around me. Directly above, to the left, to the right, and down. The paved street far beyond Bill's and Anton's houses—part of the street I'd stood upon many times coming the other direction—now met sheer void.

But it wasn't dark.

Light had always been coming up from below. There'd just been nothing for it to reflect from so that we could see it. Light came up from below now, illuminating my face, my eyes, my mind. It was a ghastly light, certainly not ever a color that had graced our world before, and I could see everything by the cast of its deep glare. I'd never seen that color with the rods and cones in my eyes before, but I knew what it was. If you could open a door into the mind and observe the hues within, if you opened that door into the mind of a person being tortured with perfect and exacting skill, you would see the chroma of pain. Not just the feeling of it or the idea of it in thought, but the blood of the concept, the core, as a brushstroke on existence.

For some reason, I laughed—but I did not smile.

I stood and began to walk back.

Ethan held his assault rifle forward. "Don't you come back here. Don't you fuckin' do it!"

I just shook my head.

The other men behind him raised their guns, too, but they were waiting on him.

I didn't slow. I couldn't. As I moved toward Ethan, I told him, "You're human, Ethan. Fundamentally capable of good, or just neutrality, of cooperation, of peace." The words spilled directly from my raw brain and into the night air. "You are not like what's over that edge. Take a look for yourself. You'll understand."

The barrel of his weapon glimmered darkly by moonlight—but the square behind me was blacker.

"What do you mean?" he asked after a moment, the strain of oncoming terror dampening his tone. I think he saw the look in my eyes. Some small fraction of what I'd seen had to still have been lingering in my irises like a rotting reflection gone bad. "What's in there? What's over that edge?"

I couldn't really think at that moment. I put my forehead to the barrel of his rifle and grasped for the trigger under his hands. "Please."

He pulled away in fear. "You're crazy!"

They were no longer a threat now. I drifted past them and back to my house, where one of my roommates peered out his door and apologized and the other finally finished finding his ammunition. "Danger's past, don't bother," I murmured before going into my room and sitting on my bed.

It took six days for my brain to develop a coping mechanism. For six days, I sat and stared at any blank white wall I could find. It was eye bleach, in a way, because it had every color and none. After six days, I felt nothing, and that was my release. To scab and scar over what had happened to my mind, my brain had amputated my emotions.

And good for that. I would feel horrible at the loss of love and joy and friendship and companionship—but I can't.

And that's better than feeling what I witnessed over that edge.

Bill was back from the hospital by then, and feeling rather sheepish. A neighborhood watch had been set up and armed men were taking turns guarding the black square, around which they'd built a wall out of bricks and cement. They knew that nobody would be coming to help. No police, no military, no government. We were on our own, a fact which made Idil sad as she talked to me about the home she'd left, where it had been exactly the same in her village. "This is humans," I told her. "Sometimes we do better, for a little while. Sometimes we don't." She didn't have a chance to reply before Bill came up and sat carefully down next to me on my porch.

He rubbed his bandaged head and said, "Sorry about what happened last week."

I kept watching my armed neighbors around the black square. "It doesn't matter."

"It does, though," he muttered, looking downcast. "We coulda killed ya."

"It doesn't matter," I said again.

He swallowed audibly and then asked, "What'd ya see in there? Think the neighborhood'll go to shit now?"

"Now?" It amazed me that it was right there. It was right there just a hundred feet away. We were alive and standing here breathing air and eating food and having conversations just a hundred feet away from that. "It was always here, Bill. The only thing that changed six weeks ago is that we can see it now."

We don't talk much anymore. The neighborhood is quieter than before. We just sit and wait for the inevitable, each day and each night. The black pit is among us, lurking in open sight, and one day it will spill forth ungodly hordes I don't need to describe because you already know what they look like.

Sometimes we do better. Sometimes we don't.

I was young when I first witnessed one. About 3 years old. All I remember is the bustle of the village as we all entered an underground lock-in. Despite how thick the walls and doors were, we could all still hear it faintly. The blaring of the klaxons echoed around the village.

Growing up, I'd see them. Tall poles with conical shapes on the end, facing various directions. There were no visible wires, which made you assume they were hidden inside. But there was also no opening for maintenance. Despite this, they functioned perfectly every time they went off. There was no department for them. No one knows what grid they are wired to. They're just there, and they exist. It was just a fact that everyone accepted. Though, what wasn't accepted, was a common consensus for why.

For the next 20 years, I'd occasionally bring it up. And what people felt and knew drastically shifted from person to person.

When I started high school I'd walk to school every day. Driving wasn't and still isn't a common commodity in the area. Pendletown was small enough for driving to be more of a flex than a necessity. So a regular routine for many kids was to meet up with others on the same route and the group built up as we neared the school.

By the time they reached my house, there'd usually be 4 to 5 kids already built up, ready for me to add to the number.

For the most part, the route was always the same. But due to the swings in weather, it was sometimes better to go down alternate paths. The tighter alleyways would provide cover from particularly harsh winds that plagued the winter months. And when we went this way, we'd sometimes see the Church of Many.

This wasn't some grand cathedral. It was a function room where many middle-aged men would meet for a few beers. Drinking early in the day is universally seen as inappropriate, but they always argued it was for religious reasons, and somehow they always got away with it.

We'd sometimes peek through the windows out of curiosity. We'd only heard rumors about the place, so we knew very little. However, we knew that the whole organization was based on the Alarm, which sounded every 20 years. They were known for holding public events around the village. It honestly felt more like a themed community center than a religion. Something that gave our little area an identity. But you could never say this to them. If you bring up their so-called relaxed worship, they’d argue you out the room about the importance of the organization. They would even go as far as to make you thank them for saving the town every 20 years; claiming that it was their doing that things weren't worse when the Alarms went off.

As you can imagine, it's nigh impossible to prove their claim, but equally impossible to prove otherwise.

Quite honestly, the whole thing would be forgotten about for long periods. Something that happens every 20 years doesn't exactly bring about a sense of urgency. But sometimes, in school, a kid would bring it up, and talks would start all over again. There'd be a new theory thrown in and jokes around the room each time.

But this is where Isaac always stood out.

If you ever brought up the Alarm with him around, he'd say the same thing. The Alarm is a hoax.

Something to understand; our town isn't exactly 100% on the grid. It's known about by the government but so disregarded that we've managed to uphold a sort of autonomous zone. Separate from outside influence. Because of this, we still have some kind of royal family, but to actually call them that is an overstatement. They're just the lineage of the founders that have passed down power through each generation.

They claim they know the secrets of the Alarm but say it's kept from the public for the village's safety. This is another point of contention, but we'll save it for now. Just know that this family has a lot of power in this village, but for the most part, they're well-liked since they're very involved with the growth and development of the land.

This doesn't stop the rumors, though.

Isaac had one thought when it came to the Alarm. A hoax. His theory goes that it's done to subjugate the population. Every 20 years, they assert their dominance by sounding the alarms and seeing who obeys. A simple routine that lets everyone know who's in charge.

You see, anyone who doesn't seek shelter in the town's bunker is never seen again.

During my later years in school, I met a girl called Edna. She was sweet. The village was small, so meeting new people was rare after a certain point. People exaggerate when they say a place is so small that everyone knows each other, but some of the more busy people might literally have done that.

I met her during a school outing. The years in school were split. She was in the year below, and this particular trip was mixed with a few years.

By the end, we were inseparable, and this carried on after the trip ended.

I very quickly met her family, and we all got on well. But one moment really stood out to me, and that's when the Alarm was brought up.

I only brought it up off-handedly at the dinner table. I mentioned that someone at school was talking about the Church of Many being caught being drunk and disorderly again and started raving about the Alarm like it was urgent, and the table sort grew somber.

Her parents didn't seem to want to say anything, but Edna put the silence out its misery by explaining their side of things.

Apparently, she had an older brother, James. James had heard a rumor about the Alarm that was still around. The idea was this; if you stayed out during the Alarm, you were met by the spirits of the village. If you went to them with a wish in your heart so strong, it'd be granted.

James had a wish. Something he never shared with his family.

Well, James snuck away when the evacuations were happening. Edna's family couldn't find him, but it was too late to go searching. So they had to hope James was okay when the Alarms were going off.

They searched and searched afterwards; the whole town had gotten involved. But James was nowhere to be found.

The idea of something supernatural happening during the Alarms wasn't a foreign idea to people. But Edna's family had their thoughts. James would never have wished to be away for his family. So if he stayed out to make a wish, and was gone. The spirits could never be good. They were evil and had to be hidden from.

I once talked to my dad about the Alarms. My dad was a run of the mill handyman. If you needed something done, he'd either be able to do it, or figure out how. He was able to figure out any practical issue if you gave him enough time.

My dad was sometimes sought for his advice. His practical thinking translated well to other areas, and he became a sort of councillor for some. No one had degrees in the village. Knowledge was brought in from outside sources, but no one really left Pendletown for qualifications. Besides, there would be no need. Around there, qualification came from already being able to do the job, or apprenticing with someone until you could.

This is to say, he isn't stupid. You can imagine education in a place like this isn't of the highest caliber, but he had a head on his shoulders.

When I was younger, he'd tell me the same thing. Every 20 years, there was a monster that would emerge and gobble up any kids who wondered out while the Alarms went off.

This was a common story told to kids to keep them in check. A lot of people in my school were told that. And I imagine my parents were told that when they were kids, and so on.

Even when I hit high school, he persisted with this story, but with some added details. I imagine that the gruesome notes were to keep me in check when the childish version lost its lustre.

A fear some parents had was if the Alarms went off when teens were in the woods drinking. If they were too far out, they'd never make it back in time. This isn't to say they were strict to a harsh degree. But they were often overbearing when nearing the due date.

This was because there was no set day. Sure it was known to happen every 20 years. But there was a wide variance of possible days.

People tried lining up the dates to old calendars. Ancient time measuring devices. Even alternate religious texts. But nothing could predict the exact time and date. So often, we all became especially cautious when we knew the days as coming up.

I was nearly 23 and was a few years into my career when we were nearing the date for the next Alarm. By village standard, I was considered a man. So I faintly confronted my dad to tell me what he thought the Alarm was.

He told me what he thought. It's a monster.

I resigned myself to hearing the same story again. But this time, he went into much more detail than before.

He explained that every 20 years, a monster came through and ate any who is found. This was much of what I'd heard before. But he went on to tell me of some of the things he'd heard. Claw marks on doors where pets were left. Giant footprints on the outskirts. He said that you'd just get laughed out when these things were brought up. But a small group of people were really invested in this theory.

The final point he had was about all the rumors. He brought up one I'd heard before. That wishes were granted to anyone who went out into the Alarm. My dad said that the head family knew of the secret, and had started the rumors. He proposed this. Ideas of wishes, power, and new life. All designed to get you outside during the ominous day.

He had a simple answer when I asked why they'd do this. Every 20 years- 'it' becomes hungry, and needs to eat.

I mentioned the pundits that have casual meetups and run community events. But during the year leading up to the big day, the members of the Church of Many go into full force. The nice family-friendly events either wind down or are tricks to preach their word. It's almost like the cliche of a timeshare getaway.

I was looking for a nice day out with my girlfriend of 3 years. Though we went to the same school, we met a few years after. Things were well, so I wanted to splash out on something nice.

Our usual nice day out was to go to the steakhouse and get something fancy from the evening menu. The guy running the place was really nice, and if he knew it was a special day, he'd treat you right. He made a lot of business from being known as the place to go during a special day.

Though you should never lie to him. If he found out you lied about your birthday or anniversary just to get some preferential treatment, you'd never get that privilege again. Like I said, everyone knew everyone, and if word traveled enough, you could have a rough time in the village for a few years until you got your reputation back.

Wendy and I were up for the same routine, but I saw a poster on the village board about a pop-up food place on my way to work. It promised foreign food and foreign entertainment. I'm sure it's normal for you to treat yourself to a Chinese at the end of a night of drinking, but here, that was a luxury. To have tasted outside food was something you could talk about for many years with the heated interest of many. You'd have people lying about trying things just to gain a foothold on the social ladder. So when word of a travelling Vietnamese diner was put up, I immediately put in for it.

Not many people got in, but I aggressively brought up my special day and just about squeezed in.

It was the talk of the town, and I found out a lot of people that I knew were going. All seemed to be about my age.

Even though I wanted this to be about Wendy, I asked my parents if they wanted to go too. But it was strange. Even though they were on the camp of always wanting to try something foreign, they quickly refused. Wendy's parents did the same.

We should have picked up on how strange this was, but we couldn't piece together a good reason.

The day came, and everyone was tense. We were seated in a small auditorium with tables and chairs arranged so that you could see the stage. We all assumed this was to see the entertainment, which we awaited eagerly.

The lights dropped, and spots were shone on the stage. We were introduced to the head chef. A man with a complexion that was unlike anything we'd ever seen. A very distinct eye shape. And jet black hair. He was the real deal. But then he was joined with others, and it was clear what we'd fallen for.

Beside him were two pundits from the Church of Many. They introduced the chef and the itinerary of the evening. Some people were looking around, seeing if they could get out in time, but it was too late.

The lights came on, and around us were the other members of the church. They were dressed in flares of abnormal red clothes. Their faces were rubbed with a tinge of yellowed powder, and they had taped their eyes on the sides to be more narrow. A caricature of the man on the stage. The head chef seemed very displeased at this but must have been heavily compensated to put up with our small village shenanigans.

The chef was led to the back, and the evening commenced.

The heavy propaganda that ran the whole night drowned out smells of exciting spices. Members of the Church came up and had many segments throughout the night.

Throughout the years, they ran many festivals that celebrated local culture. One segment was about their contributions to the growth of the town. Raising a family here was very prospective due to the many great events they organized. This appealed to the family-oriented people of the crowd.

They also ran events highlighting local made produce that praised local craftsmen. Furniture, artisan alcohols, fresh foods. It was common to have a personal skill on top of your primary career. So to be part of that growth really appealed to the hard workers.

If you ever needed help, the Church of Many were there. One woman had an accident in which a heavy piece of furniture was dropped and crushed her leg. Her career died on that day, along with her dreams of dancing. So the Church ran a fundraiser for her to receive outside help, and with the help of a hospital many miles away, she managed to regain some of her leg function. To this day, she still leads a healthy life.

They hit all the checkboxes. Despite the deceptive nature of the event, they didn't sound too bad.

Then they had a segment appealing to the less active people of the crowd. You can drink in the morning during the 'meetings' three days a week if you join. It was allowed on workdays due to religious reasons as sanctioned by the head family. The rule of thumb was to not get belligerent, but anything before that is open game.

Again, this turned some heads. It had people thinking maybe it's not as bad as some said.

Fear of the unknown is big and circulates predominantly in talkative circles. The Church of Many always had an odd reputation where you never knew where their true intentions lay. Their nature was very relaxed, but they had some serious and unknown religious practises. It seemed you only got full details if you were in, and even then, you had to be a long time member before you got any critical information. This caused a lot of distrust from some of the more opposed members of the public.

The food came out, and it was divine. I don't even remember what it was called, nor do I fully remember even what meat it was. It was a blast of spices and sauces mixed in a way utterly alien to our meat and potatoes culture. The reaction was visceral at how shocking it was. Some people cried tears of joy at having had such an experience.

But after this, it was only downhill from there.

They had more segments on stage. We were receptive to such a fantastic meal and very persuasive points. But this is where it started to get a bit crazy.

They raved about the truth of it all. How we could be free from our mental prisons. They put down the common man as being ignorant to higher truths. Simple salvation could be had if you joined.

The eldest of the group came out. Old man Ezekiel. He had lived through four Alarms. The most out of anyone in the village. His beard hung low, giving him a sage appearance. He wore garb far outdated to the modern times of our province.

Old man Ezekiel went on to come out with something that divided the room. He claimed he survived being outside during an Alarm. He explained it was when he was but 4 years old, having been left by his mother by accident. Ezekiel claimed what he saw led him to revolutionizing the inner circle of the Church of Many. But these secrets were too much for someone uninitiated. The only way to receive the blessed knowledge was to pledge your life to the Church. Work hard, and earn the highest of trust.

This immediately had the room in whispers. Some had family taken because of the Alarm, while others had their biases and theories challenged by the notion of someone surviving. He was heckled with questions. If he survived one, why had he hidden for the others? Was anyone around who could challenge such a claim? If he had this knowledge, why hasn't he tried to stop it? He simple stood there with an all-knowing expression. And only when the commotion died down did he simply walk off stage. We received no more words. The ball was in our court.

By the end, some left in a huff, having felt insulted by the ridiculous claim. Others were already fanatical about the cause, already trying to garner more interest in the divided members of the crowd. In the end, Wendy and I left. We weren't 100% opposed to the Church, but we hadn't had the drive to seek more direct answers.

When we got home, my dad was there to greet me. He asked me how the food was, but I knew he knew what it was about. He explained what the whole thing was. Every 20 years, they did something like this. They'd run a highly desirable event that garners vast amounts of interest. And it's all to push for new members. Those who went to a previous one, or knew about it, were forbidden to 'warn' the newer generation. And so he had to sit there and let us ago, along with others who we told.

Nearing the coming day, you can feel it coming. There's electricity in the air. Less and less events happen the longer the 20th year goes on. People know to keep their schedules open in case they're caught unaware. Even the Church quietens down their excursions in fear of accidentally getting people trapped outside when it happens. But even still, there are the parties.

Some parties and meetups happen close to the bunker during the coming months. These events have strict rules to keep running. It sounds weird, but it's encouraged by the head family. I reckon it's to keep our small economy stimulated. If not enough people spend, money gets held up and bottlenecked.

There can be music, and musicians are hired, but it can't be too loud. You can drink but no hard liquor, and there's an unwritten rule to never get belligerently drunk. In the past, there have been those reported to have drunkenly slept through an Alarm and went missing from not getting in the bunker.

Though there's a somber air to these meetups, it's still a much needed social energy. It can feel like months of waiting, so going that long without any stimulation can drive one stir crazy.

It's normal to keep your circle of friends from school well after school has ended, which was the case for me. Every time I went to one of these events, I'd see familiar faces. Edna, who I mentioned before, Kyle, who was in my form, Watson, who was often on my walk to school, and Steg, whom I'd known since kindergarten. Up until then, talk about the Alarm had dried up. Everyone had said their piece many times, and there was never any new information to spark more ideas. But when we knew the day was coming, it'd creep back into conversation like old times.

Being more mature, our conversations dropped from the wild notions to more talking about getting past it. We knew the consequences of not following the rules. Other than Ezekiel, no one has ever survived being outside during the Alarm. And even then, his claim was heavily scrutinized.

We all agreed to just behave until then. Keep a low profile, and get past it. Simple, right?

It turns out Kyle had other ideas. When the date was getting close, he started bringing up some of the old theories from school. He'd bring up a few but always circle back to one. That you could make a wish if you survived.

Edna immediately flipped out about this. By then, it was known what had happened to James. So it was already a bad move to bring up the Alarm, but bringing up the rumour that got him killed was not cool.

One time Steg went off on him for always bringing it up. We couldn't figure out what he was thinking. Kyle would try to soothe the idea that it was worth a shot. That he wanted it to be true. But Steg would have none of it. It was during one of his put-downs that Kyle spoke up. He screamed so loud the pub briefly quietened down. All he said was- "But it could bring her back…"

We all knew what this meant.

When Kyle was 8, his mother fell ill. It wasn't immediate, so for three years, he'd rush home from school every day to be with her. They were really close, so losing her really took a part of him with her. So the idea of a way to bring her back, no matter how obscene, was romanticized to him.

Even though we all felt for him, we took an opposing stance. We knew it was a bad idea.

To Kyle, though, the prospect of the Alarm only coming every 20 years meant it was now or never. So looking back, I think there was no talking him out of it.

He only told me. I was often the one to talk to him afterwards and empathize with his situation. I did this to make him feel better after a harsh berated from Steg. So I think this made me his confidant. So one day, after a late-night gathering, he took me somewhere. A small reinforced hut near the outskirts of the village.

Over the years, he built it. He'd apprenticed as a builder after finishing school. So to think he chose that career just for this was an absurd idea to me. But at this point I wouldn’t put it past him. I never said anything. I just listened.

He went on to explain the rigidity of the thing. It was strong enough to withstand a bomb. The only opening was small enough to keep up the strength of the structure, and on it was a small porthole to look outside. His thinking was that he had to see and talk to whatever came to make the wish.

Inside was some food and water, but not too much since it'd only need to last for one night. By his design, it couldn't be locked from the outside. This is to allow fast access when the time comes. Trust was common in the village, so locks were often not needed. However, it could be locked from the inside. And it was a rigid lock. He let me test it, and when it was bolted, my full force barely shook the thing.

To say it was solid was an understatement.

Then the day came.

When it was time, you knew. The Alarms made a winding-up sound like they were warming up. This was your cue to get to the bunker as soon as possible. I saw everyone moving in unison. All making their way calmly but hastily to the one place drilled into us from birth.

But while making my way there, I noticed him. And only because I knew to look out for him. But there he was, Kyle, slinking away in the opposite direction. I knew where he was going, and looking back, I could have stopped. Sure, he could have still escaped if we went after him. But he trusted me when he confided in me his idea. To break that would have challenged my honour of being a friend. Something a lot of people took seriously. So I just gave him a subtle nod and wished him Godspeed.

The mood in the bunker is something you can't explain. Only when you experience it, does it fully sink in what’s truly happening. An Alarm is going off, while the whole population is hunkered together. But something they never tell you about is the commotions that inevitably start.

A couple started raving that they had left their pet. They were causing a commotion by the door, begging to be let out while the Alarms were still just winding. But they were obviously refused exit.

Then a woman started screaming. She met up with the kids brought in from the school but couldn't find her son. The teacher explained that he had just slipped away from the class. It was protocol to not go back. There were too many examples of losing a teacher long with a kid when this happened. So it was drilled into them to never go back. This sounds pragmatic on paper, but seeing the pain from a screaming parent berate them will forever stay with me.

At first, when I saw the burly crew that operated the doors, I was intimidated by their presence. They were the leading team of the local police force. Crime wasn't a common thing in the village, and when there was an incident, it was often just a civil case that was resolved with words, not action. So when you had a small team constantly trained in physical combat, it was rumoured that it was just for this instance. The manning of the door during the alarm.

It's easy to think it just a precaution. But witnessing it in person, I was thankful for the time they put into sculpting their life for this very moment. Holding down one or two people is easy for someone strong. But when the parents corralled other parents into their cause to get out and rescue their kid, to see the efficiency of the coup being put down was like a well oiled machine.

You'd think they'd be at their limit when it was nearly 2 on 1 per bouncer. But the number grew when another incident happened that they never warned you about. The knocks.

The Alarms started, and they were loud. You had to talk just below a shout to be heard. So when you heard faint knocking from the door, you knew they were hitting hard. Only when you listened closely could you hear them. People left outside, having not made it in time, just outside the door.

Though you couldn't hear the words, you could hear to the pleading in their voice. Begging to be let in. Terms of desperation screamed as loud as they could. Obviously, the humanitarian of the bunch raised a commotion about this. They yelled at the bouncers to quickly open the door and let them in. It'd only be for a few seconds if they were fast. Still subjugating the rioting parents, it was amazing to see how they could still overpower this new group causing an uprising.

All the while, seeing how serious they were taking things in the bunker, all I could think of was Kyle.

At first, I didn't realize it, but eventually the screaming and bashing outside stopped. Not just petered off. It just stopped. Yet the Alarms still rang.

They rang for a solid hour before slowing down back into its wind up sound, then died down entirely. We all stood there in silence for a moment, taking everything in. Almost in disbelief that it was over. 20 years of build-up, just for that one hour. But there'd be no reports in the past of a false end, or a double Alarm, so not long after, the doors were opened, and we were free to leave.

The held down and rambunctious lot were let go with no warning or punishment. It seemed understandable that it was to happen, almost inevitable. A high point of emotion, but not held against them. Though scratched up and bruised, they left without a whisper.

Elders from the Church of Many loudly raved celebratory words of another successful Alarm, though they were largely ignored.

Most went back into their daily routine, but I slipped away with one place in mind.

I got to Kyle's bunker and knocked as much as I could. I berated with questions. If he was in there if he was okay. To just make a sound. Anything. But I heard nothing.

I peeked inside through the tiny porthole to try to see him. The porthole offered a wide few of the small room. If he was in there, I'd see him.

Then I tried the last thing I could do. I pushed the door to open it, and it was locked.

“George, you gotta see what’s been set up by the bandstand. There’s this huge tent up and this man standing in front of it yellin’ like a carnival barker.” Sarah was out of breath and obviously had run from the park and all the way down Main Street. Her hair was whipsawed every which way and one strand stuck to the end of her nose. She gave a quick puff and blew it out of the way and waited for me to react. With Sarah, I was always two steps behind and running to catch up. Girl had energy in those days and in an unlimited supply.

I stopped rearranging the nails and said, “There wasn’t anythin’ up there when I walked by this mornin’. When’d it go up?”

She shrugged her shoulders, a quick raise and drop, “Dunno, but it’s up. And you gotta see this guy. He’s all dressed up, head to toe and he can talk. Boy, can he talk.”

I thought about and checked the clock. It was near about 5 and time for me to quit anyway. “All right, let’s go check it out then.”

Sarah grinned from ear to ear and was gone. I didn’t doubt she was telling everyone in the gang, the ones that were still in town anyway. Most of us scattered to the four winds after graduation. Only a handful of us remained in town and only a handful of us were on hand to witness the dance.

I walked down to bandstand by myself, not bothering to wait for the others. Most likely Sarah was already there waiting for us. I met up with Bill as I passed the drugstore, where he worked as a soda jerk. “What the hell is Sarah talkin’ about George? She blew in here and then blew out again before I could ask her anything.” Bill was a big guy, tallest (and heaviest) guy in our class and I just about cracked up the first time I saw him wearing that little peaked paper cap McCleary makes his soda jerks wear. Bill doesn’t really like to be laughed at though and after the knot under my eye went down, I made sure not to laugh at him anymore.

He’s a good guy aside from that temper. He was the best guy on the highschool basketball team too, though he’s one of the few guys who got kicked out of a game. Threw another player halfway down the court. And they were on the same team too. Bill said the other guy elbowed him in the gut. Had to have been an accident, no one would have done it on purpose.

We both walked down the street, Bill smoking a cigarette, a habit that caught up to him in 1995 when they removed his right lung. At the end of Main Street, we crossed Buchanan and entered the park. Normally, at that point, we would have been able to see the bandstand, perched on a hill near the center of the park. During the summer, there’d be concerts: performances by the school marching band, a church choir singing some hymns, that kind of thing. Once a couple of kids from the high school had put together a pretty good rockabilly group, but somehow the parks committee passed an ordinance that banned rock ‘n’ roll in the park. Small towns, you know?

But now, there was a huge, faded yellow tent blocking the bandstand, like the kind in the circus or the kinds those old revival ministers like to use when they’re feelin’ the spirit and they like to feel your wallet too.

There was already a pretty large crowd around the tent and as Bill and I got closer, we could hear the fellow that Sarah had told us about. He sounded like a carnival barker all right. Bill and I walked faster down the path that lead to the tent. We pushed our way through the crowd, up toward the tent and where we thought the man was.

“Come on everybody, it’s getting’ close, getting’ close, we’re goin’ to have ourselves a heckuva time tonight, yes indeed, a HECKUVA time. We’ll be singin’, we’ll be dancin’ I PROMISE that and the Song and Dance Man always keeps his promises!”

We still couldn’t see him, still too many people were blocking the way. It looked like the whole town had shown up to see the Song and Dance Man. Bill tugged on my sleeve and pointed. I followed his finger and got bug eyed. It was Reverend Harper, the Baptist minister. I’ve lived a good long time, but I ain’t ever seen a man that could thump a Bible harder than he. Harper preached against the evils of sin; sin in drinking, sin in smoking reefer, sin in smoking tobacco, sin in lying and most of all, sin in dancing. And here he was lining up to get inside the tent too, ‘cause he certainly wasn’t preaching. We waved at him, Bill waving with the hand that held the cigarette and that old Baptist turned red as the Red Sea and turned and walked away. Bill and I grinned at each other and kept on walking toward the front and toward the Song and Dance Man.

Finally we broke through the crowd and there he was. He stood on an old crate, splintered and lookin’ like it was on the verge of collapsing under his feet. On the grass beside him lay a black fiddle case with gold trim along its edges. It looked old, older than the crate, older than the town. It seemed like something ancient.

He was all angles, all knees, elbows and shoulders. Tall and gangling, his body moving and bopping to the rhythm of his words. He wore a red and white pin-stripe jacket, looking like he belonged in a barber shop quartet. A straw hat sat on his head, always getting pushed back or pulled forward by his long fingered hands. Long, six fingered hands. I started when I saw that. I had read that it some folks are born with six fingers, but readin’ about something and seein’ it are two different things.

His eyes just about flashed blue lightning as he spoke and sparks nearly flew from those white teeth. And he just never stopped talking. Not for breath, not for questions, not for anything. Just kept up that patter like his very soul depended on it.

“All right, all right, all right, we’re getting’ close, getting’ real close, yes we are. Are you ready to dance? Are you ready to sing? Cause I’m ready to play my fiddle, yes I am, yes I am. Gotta fiddle at my feet and I’m ready to play. Ready to make those strings SING, can you believe it?”

He’s clap his hands and that’s as close to a pause he was willing to do.

Sarah and Sam came up to us now, having found us in the crowd. Sarah elbowed me in the rib and said, “What’d I tell you? Looks like he should be in a carnival tryin’ to get us in to see the bearded lady or somethin’.”

Sam nodded his head in greeting to us, which caused his glasses to slide down his nose and he gave them a short push back up to where they belonged. He was as tall as Bill, but nowhere near as built. He was the smart guy in our gang. You had to have someone like him around to tell how to do things like take apart the principal’s car and rebuild it in the school gym. Not that we ever did anything like that.

“What’s he sellin’?” asked Sam.

“A dance, I figure,” I said.

“What’s it cost?”

The Song and Dance Man must have heard him because he said, “What does it cost I hear you ask? Why it don’t cost a dollar and it don’t cost a quarter and it don’t cost a dime. Folks, this will cost you nothin’, just get on in and dance to the song all night long.”

We all looked at each other. Good deal. A little free music and space to dance? There wasn’t much to do in town back in those days and there still isn’t. This was almost too good to be true.

The Song and Dance Man stopped now, a minor miracle in and of itself. He dug deep into his pocket, pulled out a gold watch and checked the time. And then he grinned a grin that must have shown every one of his teeth. He repocketed the watch and said, “Folks, it’s time for the dance so come on in. Come on in, everyone because it’s time for the dance to begin.” And with that, he hopped down from his crate, grabbed it up with the fiddle and darted through the tent flaps.

Sarah, Bill, Sam and I nearly got mowed over in the rush to get inside, but we were still the first ones in. We stopped short when we pushed aside those big old tent flaps, but were quickly driven inside.

It was huge inside. There was a hardwood floor beneath our feet that looked like it must be oak, a dark, dark oak polished to a mirror shine. There were candles in holders all along the tent-pole posts and when I looked up, I couldn’t see the ceiling for all the darkness. It was like looking up at a starless night sky, where the moon didn’t dare show her face.

The crowd kept driving us and more and more people poured in. It wasn’t just the young people either. There was Missus Crenshaw, our Junior year English teacher who was in her fifties. There was Mr. Hoskins the principal. There was the good old Revered Harper, still looking embarrassed, but also like he couldn’t help himself. It really was the whole damn town. Hell, even the mayor was there with his wife, standing and talking with the chief of police.

Soon everyone was inside and the murmur from all the talking was nearly deafening. It was already getting warm in there and I was feeling cramped and claustrophobic. We were all looking for the Song and Dance Man, to see where he had gone. No one looked up, so no one saw him until the first pull of his fiddle bow.

He was there, on the center tentpole, sitting on a small, wooden platform, about twenty feet off the floor. God knows how he got up there, because there certainly wasn’t any ladder goin’ up. He dangled his feet over the edge and held his fiddle in one hand and the bow in the other. The fiddle and bow seemed to be made of that same dark wood that the floor was and gleamed in the candlelight like a thing alive. I almost doubted that the fiddle even needed the Song and Dance Man to make its strings hum.

We all looked up at him and he grinned and jumped to his feet while the crowd gasped, worried he might plummet into their midst.

And then he began to play.

He made those strings sing. I haven’t heard anyone play like that before or since and I thank God for that every day. It made the air around us crackle and spark. It loosened the joints and jolted the mind. You felt the urge to move deep in the bone, buried in the marrow. I grabbed Sarah’s hands and we began to move across the floor and everyone followed suit. Some with partners and some without. Some doing the foxtrot, some doing a waltz and some of us doing the twist. We dance, moved, shucked, jived, rocked and rolled.

I passed Reverend Harper moving his feet in a clunky boxstep with Eloise Grendel, an old battle-axe of a Catholic. I saw the mayor’s wife waltzing with Dan Adams, one of our firemen.

I swirled with Sarah, moving across the floor, bumping and jostling with the people around us. It was hot and getting hotter in there and it wasn’t long before it smelled of sweat and bodies moving against bodies. I felt dizzy, but we kept dancing together, kept dancing and not stopping. It was awhile before I realized that the Song and Dance Man was singing too, but in a language I didn’t understand.

He lorded over us, standing on that platform, making his fiddle sing and sing. His bow rose and fell, slid back and forth, side to side. He played like he talked. No breaks, no pauses, just a manic deluge of tunes while his tongue curled around words that had no business being said in this world.

I gave my head a shake as I spun with Sarah and I realized my legs were tired. My feet ached and my lower back was beginning to throb. I checked my watch and realized we had been dancing for a solid hour. I shook my head again, trying to shake off the dozy feeling that was clouding my thinking.

“Sarah,” I cleared my throat. I had only spoken in a whisper. My tongue felt thick and funny. I tried again, “Sarah.” Louder this time, but she still didn’t respond and we kept dancing. I shook her, but she didn’t respond. I kept shaking her until I realized I was doin’ it in time with the music.

So I just tried to stop. And I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop.

Underneath the fog, I began to feel frightened. I began to see the faces of the other people now. I saw their terror. Reverend Harper’s face had grown redder than it had been before. Sweat poured down his face, but still he kept moving, twirling Missus Grendel around and around, her head lolling from side to side. She had fainted, but her feet were still moving. We moved past Bill who danced with Susie Watkins and I saw her frightened eyes darting around the room, but Bill bobbed his head in time with music and his glassy eyes looked at nothing in particular.

The Song and Dance Man laughed from his perch and kept playing, tapping his feet. His eyes were glowing in that dark, humid place. Glowed and glowed and light glanced off the bow with each sweep.

I heard a scream and swiveled my head to watch a woman drop to the floor holding her leg. She had cramped up. I was envious. She got to stop. She got to rest. My own legs felt like dead wood and the ache in my back had deepened.

Then her partner stepped on her ankle and I heard the crunch from across the room. He was still dancing, his eyes blank and empty as he moved. She screamed again and started to crawl away, but began to stand up instead. She started to dance, bringing her weight down on the broken ankle. Again and again and again. I turned away, but I couldn’t block the sound of her sobbing.

The music ran on.

I checked my watch again and it was three hours now. We didn’t flag. Didn’t falter. We kept up the same speed as the fiddle. The damning fiddle. Rapping our feet against the floor. Never mind the blisters that burst. Never mind broken toes or broken ankles. Never mind that deep pain buried in the spine that refused to go. Never mind old hearts and bad knees.

We kept up that frantic pace as one mass: a bobbing, thumping, jumping creature with one mind.

Reverend Harper died at one point. I watched it happen. He was holding up the still fainted Missus Grendel (whose feet still moved with the music) when he dropped her. And then fell to the floor. He twitched once, his feet beating a quick, staccato rhythm and then was still. Missus Grendel got back up and kept on moving. I watched Harper as I danced, trying to see if he was breathing.

He wasn’t. I swear to you he wasn’t. But he still got back up. He was dead, but he still got back and began to dance again. He turned to look at me, and he grinned the Song and Dance Man’s grin. His eyes were red, filled with blood from whatever had broken in his brain. I watched as a single red tear rolled down his cheek.

I shut my eyes and kept moving.

Harper wasn’t the last. He probably wasn’t the first. The old and the sick were the first to drop. Exhaustion, heart attacks, hemorrhages somewhere deep inside, they died. And then they got back and kept dancing, grinning their grins.

I passed Sam and Lizzie. He had lost his glasses at some point. His eyes darted around, terribly aware. I looked at his leg and I saw a jut of bone tearing through his denim jeans. There was a trail of blood behind him and as he swirled, a spray landed on the legs of the people around him. He stepped on that broken leg, twirled on it, jumped on it. All in time with that fiddle.

The night passed.

I remember stepping on something at one point and realizing I had just crushed Missus Dempsey’s right hand. She was lying on her back on the dance floor. She had been stepped on time and again. I could even see a man’s shoeprint on her stomach. Her head had been caved in, her chest beneath her dress had a sunken look. And still she was trying to get up to keep moving.

The smell of blood mixed with the sweat and I couldn’t breathe anymore. The air was thick and from all around I could hear cries, screams, but nothing that drowned out the fiddle or the Song and Dance Man’s singing.

And then it stopped. I danced one more step and then stopped myself. I looked up at the platform. We all did, craning our necks upward. He was checking his pocket watch.

“All right folks! That’s all for tonight! The dancing is done and the morning has come. You may leave if you can walk and you should walk quick cause this Song and Dance Man is gonna be gone.”

We all stood there, like stunned cattle. And then marched to the tentflaps. No one ran, because they couldn’t. It was a miracle we could walk. Sarah stepped ahead of me and left, but I stayed behind. I turned and looked. And saw at least twenty people still standing there. Harper was among them. They were all grinning, their eyes empty. They stood and made no sign of wanting to leave.

“Go on now friend, the Song and Dance Man has what he wants, but he’d be glad to add you too if you tarry and dally too long.” I looked up at him and saw him smile. And then I turned my back to him and left the tent. When I turned back again it was gone along with the people inside.

That’s the story of what happened. The others won’t tell it or pretend it never happened. Never mind the 21 people that vanished that night, the mayor’s wife included. They’d rather not think about it.

Sarah and I took Sam to the hospital over in the next county, far from folks that knew what had happened, where they had to remove his leg. Sam was quiet before and was quieter still after, pulling odd jobs that a one-legged man could do. Doesn’t move around much nowadays, just sits on his porch, a cane across his lap and massages the stump with his hand. Says it bothers him on cold nights. And warm nights. And wet nights and dry nights.

Bill left and joined the army, stayed in long enough to fight in Vietnam and won a bunch of medals. Came back and settled down to drink and drink hard and if you want to find him, you can find him in Eddie Dixon’s bar. No matter how drunk he gets though, he doesn’t talk about that night.

None of us saw much of Sarah after. She came through the best, but that’s how she always was. She left and went to college, but like Bill, she got pulled back to Belle Carne. She teaches over at the high school now, teaching English to the Juniors.

And I stayed here, plugging away at the hardware store. I ran it for a while, but now I don’t do much of anything. Just sitting around with Sam on his porch, talkin’ about things sometimes. Though not often. Because if I stay too late, stay too long, I’ll see his eyes go glassy behind those coke-bottle lenses and he’ll disappear into himself. And I’ll catch him humming a faint trace of a song and the hairs on my neck stand on end and goosebumps rise on my arms in great knots.

And my foot will start to tap out a small beat on the hardwood porch and a big wide grin will spread across Sam’s face. The grin of the Song and Dance Man