I stood there in the water holding my father’s body, while the other four adults floated,face down in the water. All of them died. I didn’t know what to do…I was only nine. I took deep long breaths and felt my warm tears run down my cold numb cheeks. Chirping insects sang in the darkness while an owl hooted, and the calm waters steadily and rhythmicly lapped against the shore.  I was beside myself, after the shock wore off, not sure of what to do. I tried screaming for help, but no one could hear me deep in the woods late at night. I had to let go of my father and hope someone knew what to do. I laid him back into the water, and I pushed and splashed my way to the shore, and then I ran; I ran in one direction til I saw the lights from the town. I recognized this part of the woods – it was the entrance to the cemetery off of Duskhollow Lane. I stumbled up the slope, into the chilly, murky cemetery and then back out into the streets,  through the neighborhoods I knew so well.  I turned down Hushmoor Street. That’s when I saw Allison's mother rush outside, wrapping herself up in her pink robe.  “Margot!” She cried, waving me down.  “Have you seen Allison? She never came home tonight!”   With tears in my eyes, and heavy breath, I looked around. Other parents also started coming out onto their stoops and porches, calling the names of their missing children. Many were still wearing their colorful, quilted night robes. They scanned the road and treeline with flashlights, looks of concern and worry plastered to their faces. I panicked.  “I haven’t seen her, Mrs. Whitlow. Sorry. I’m actually looking for my–” My breath caught in my throat. What do I say? I can’t lead them to…They’ll think that I killed…Father is lying in a lake… “M-my friend. Morgan. Sorry,” I yelled and kept running. Pushing the image out of my mind of my best friend's body floating into the light. I hurried home, as more people took to the streets, either from the noise or in a panic over their children not coming home.  I managed to get back to my house, my mom was on the phone with a cigarette in her hand clearly flustered.  “Margot!” She yelled with relief, clutching her non-smoking hand over her heart, “Where were you? The town’s in an uproar. There are missing children all over!” I’d never seen her so hysterical. “I thought you were taken or killed!” She continued, “Is your father with you? No one's seen him...” I collapsed in her arms, crying harder without any sound.  “Oh sweetie,” she said, rubbing my back, “You're soaking wet. And filthy! Your dress is all ripped…” I looked down and noticed for the first time how tattered and dirty my clothes were. “Margot,” Mother pulled me up and looked me directly in the eyes, “What happened to you?” I can’t ever tell her the truth. She’d never believe me… “I-I fell. Off my bike. Into a ditch.” After some more consoling, Mother walked me into the bathroom and prepared a bath. She helped me take off my wet, ripped dress, and then the phone rang. Without hesitation she dropped everything and hurried out of the room. I sat in the tub uncomfortably, the faucet dripping occasionally, breaking the silence. I could hear Mother’s voice muffled through the bathroom door making phone call after phone call about Father. “I know children are missing…No, mine’s here,” She sounded tired, “She just came home a moment ago… No…I’m calling about my husband, he hasn’t come home. Ugh! Fine, I’ll hold.” I pulled my hand up, letting the water filter through my fingers, watching the rivulets disappear into the bath like the children disappeared into the light. The water felt different somehow, not quite as scary as iit had been before. I felt clean again on the outside, but deep down I still had this feeling that the tainted mercury water was now inside me. I tried to shut out the thoughts, but my mind kept digging deeper.  Why did everyone suddenly wake up after the rain stopped? What was really in our water? Most importantly, Who was that boy my father saved? He must have been important…I heard of aliens on TV and in movies, but did I really witness an alien invasion?  I sighed. There’s that word again – “witness.” That’s what the voice told me at the lake.  I splashed water on my face to try and snap out of my spiraling mind, to try not to think of the tragedy that happened hours ago. I got dressed, and walked into my room. I tried to lay in bed, but when I closed my eyes I saw flashes of memories of my own…and memories that seemed like someone else's. Visions of long, gray beings in a deep fog, walking and communicating with each other. That's when I heard a knock, accompanied by the door bell; that's when the people started coming to the door.  I hurried and sat at the top of the stairs as two men in suits with sunglasses stood in the doorway. Sunglasses? At night? I wondered. They were asking my mother questions. I couldn’t hear what they said, but my mom seemed concerned. They must have struck a chord, because she started yelling at them to leave, and slammed the door shut. She lit another cigarette and stormed away from the front door, past the stairs, and into the kitchen. I think I heard her crying.  I tried to go back to bed, but trying to sleep was pointless. A couple hours later, there was a knock again. I hurried back to my spot on the stairs. This time, it was Sheriff Brooks and his younger deputy, Officer Pryce. They both had a somber face. Sheriff Brooks put his hand on Mother’s shoulder. She definitely started to cry that time, loud and clear. That’s when she found out Father was found with the other adults in the lake while in search of the children. But that was just the beginning.  The police department tried to cover it up, denying any and all accusations. They tried to convinced the town that it was some sort of accident.  Chief Rusk’s body was found in the lake too, which made more people suspicious, and so the rumor mill started to turn; it made the whole town wary of each other. Chief Rusk's wife and son were treated like outcasts, and our local news station tried to cover up their missing anchor lady's reasons for being involved, saying she was “moving on to bigger and better things in the broadcasting world.” They changed their name to TNN – The Nocturnal News – as a “re-brand”. I guess they didn’t think the  camera guy was anyone special – they never mentioned him once. Dr. Paulson’s medical practice went under, and supposedly there was a deep investigation into his client list. They didn’t find any suspicious or guilty malevolent activity.  As for me and Mother, days, months, even years later, people in suits, news reporters, TV show producers, police officers and government agents came to our house trying to ask Mother and me questions. One man came asking if he could film a movie about it.  “We’re gonna call it – get this – The Lake Mercury Incident,” he tried pitching us, gesturing with restless hands and an unsettling grin on his face. But it wasn’t an incident; it was an invasion, and I was the only one who knew. Besides the conspiracies going around town, everything was back to normal – except for me. I felt as though something deep inside was changed, almost like the others had left me behind that night at the lake. I couldn't tell if it was a gift or a curse, the fact that I know the truth of what happened; two sides of the same coin. And I knew I couldn’t tell a living soul.  The worst part by far was the dreams. My subconscious sent me into nightmare after nightmare, reliving that dreadful night. I started hearing voices in my room. They spoke an unfamiliar language, but as soon as I woke up, they – whoever they were – were gone.  I think they are still watching me through my dreams – maybe even appearing in person while I’m asleep. Sometimes the voices reach out while I am awake, getting louder and  louder until I audibly tell them to shut up. One night, I very clearly heard them talking over my bed, and that time, I recognized a few words.  “...Girl…Child…Human…” I kept listening for familiar words speaking through their strange alien language, “...Fragment…Dark…Memory…Harvest…” But the word I heard the most, over and over again was, “Water.” I am eleven now, and Mother has caught me talking to the beings who aren’t there, sleepwalking, and “speaking in tongues,” as she calls it. She did what any other mom would’ve done for her daughter.  One evening, she called me to come outside.  “We had visitors,” she said. And these visitors didn’t come from the stars.  I came down to see two men in white button-up shirts, pants, and hats. They stood there smiling big, white grins. Mother told me I needed to go with them, in their big white van. This time it was a different kind of abduction, to a place with white walls, and where the water still tasted like mercury.

Children of Mercury Part 5 My vision was blurry, and it was hard to see where I was. Through the darkness I felt a hard wooden floor. I remember hearing footsteps all around me, but I felt so weak I couldn’t lift my head to look around. Eventually I could make out my own legs and shoes – with mud on them – but it wasn’t long until my vision blurred and I slipped into darkness yet again.  Pain woke me up a while later, as I felt something cut my arm. I was lying on my back, looking up at the stars.  “Stars?” I whispered, “But where's the rain?”  I took in the clear sky full of stars up above me, and the trees moving slowly on both sides of my vision. That's when I noticed the tension on my legs. I was being dragged! My arms lay limply taught behind me, my dress up under my armpits. I could feel cold, wet grass with all sorts of * rocks and gravel poking, stabbing, and cutting my back. As my eyes focused further, I could make out the silhouette of a large man in some sort of uniform. Why is he pulling me through the woods? The man looked too big to be my father. Funny, I thought to myself, Chief Rusk wears a navy blue suit like that…  The swishing of boots stepping through brush continued as I mustered up enough strength to roll my head around.  Gosh that hurts – every movement! That’s when I saw Grant walking lifelessly along with Doctor Paulson, Allison tagging along in the distance. Rolling my head to the other side, I saw the other empty children from school – even Morgan further back with her same deep maroon sweater on. There was the news anchor lady and her camera guy from my dreams bobbed amongst the children, shuffling through the woods like soaking wet reanimated corpses.   I tried to lift my head up to see where we were heading, my body still numb and limp from the cold. The all-too familiar shape of my father headed our group in the distance, walking with a pair of small legs sticking out the side. He was holding The Child.  We came to some sort of clearing where I could feel the ground change texture beneath me. The grass turned to gravel and cold wet mud.  Where are we? Chief Rusk started kicking water up, and then a rush o  hit. The freezing cold lake water took me without hesitation, and I felt it burn going up my nose. It filled my mouth with that strange, unwelcome metallic taste. The shock woke my limbs up, and I flailed my way to the surface. Spitting and coughing, I sat up in the shallow knee-deep waters. In the hustle and bustle, my captor had let go of me, and I watched him join my father deeper into the lake. The empty bodies of the children hobbled past me into deeper waters, seemingly oblivious that I’d slipped away. They continued filing in until they were thigh-deep and then spread out, as if they had been pre-assigned positions. The adults stood at the center in a square formation, surrounding my father who still grasped both hands beneath The Child.  The children broke their ranks and proceeded to form three circles, like a bullseye around the square. Then, a moment of silence; I could hear the natural sounds of the woods and the water trickling, when suddenly the children raised their arms to the sky, and their mouths jutted open. Again, I heard their unworldly sirens sound out, the humming screams moving and harmonizing in perfect sync. One by one, the adults chimed in – all except my father, that is. He stood in the middle silently, to his waist in the deepest waters.  That's when three giant flat discs of pure white light appeared in the sky, like a camera shutter opening. The giant discs hung about ten stories above us,each the length of a bus. Two of them rotated slowly around the middle one which stayed directly above my father and The Child. It reminded me of the nightmares I had. They lit up the waters like giant searchlights on a helicopter as the actors in this messed up play stared directly into them.  My classmates kept singing their horrible screeching song, as they started to lie back, flat in the water, floating with their arms out to the sides. Their faces were the only things visible,  bobbing above water as it reverberated to the humming sound. I watched in horror, as their bodies started to rise out of the water with their backs straight as if being carried by invisible tables, still belting their ethereal tones. Higher and higher they rose, all around me, and a familiar face caught my eye. No – not Morgan! Like a newborn fawn I awkwardly splashed, trying to hurry over to my former best friend before she floated completely out of reach – but I was too late. I jumped and high as I could, and stretched out my arms, crying out, ‘“Don’t go – Please, don’t go! Take me with You!” I screamed as rivulets of tainted metallic lake water flowed onto my face from her dripping ascent above me, “I”m so sorry!” Frantically, I looked around for help while the children continued to rise higher and higher. The adults in their square began raising their arms and my father joined in, raising The Child out of the chilling deep blue waters. I watched the top of the boy’s head rise slowly until, as if standing, The Child ascended completely into the air. Tendrils of water slowly came pouring out of the adults’ eyes, ears, nose and  mouth, like snakes reaching out toward the unearthly lights in the expanse above. These veins of water connected and absorbed into The Child’s body, his eyes opening slowly like a newborn baby.  I had never noticed just how large his eyes were in comparison to the rest of his face. Large and black with bright blue pupils, he hung there in the bright white light from above, staring directly at me.  My classmates floated closer and closer to the giant round lights. Out of nowhere, I felt a jolt – like something had exploded in my brain. A sickly, stuttering, small voice wiggled its way into my mind.  “Th-th-the W-witt-nes-s-s,” it said as The Child stared with a straight, unmoving face at me, slowly floating higher and higher into the light.  As the other children in the sky met face to face with the circle lights, they phased into them in short, glittering bursts and disappeared. I watched as Grant, Morgan, and the others disintegrated before my very eyes, The Child and his haunting eyes joining them very last. The giant lights blinked out as if they had never even been there. The adults, all left behind, suddenly collapsed into the water with one big splash.  I hurried my way to my father, wading past Dr. Paulson, Chief Rusk, the newswoman and the cameraman. They weren't moving. The water was up to my armpits now  as I reached toward my father’s body where it floated, limp in the water. I rolled him over to look at his face; his wide, lifeless eyes shook me to the core – wide open, blood trickling out of them. His mouth was lifeless and jaw locked open. He was dead.  Initially, I felt nothing. A moment passed – I’m not sure how long. Slowly the sounds of a more natural world returned to the lake and surrounding woods; insects began buzzing and the water settled into its rhythmic and familiar pattern. Then, the more visceral shock began to run its course. I lost control and screamed loudly into the night.

My father's condition had gotten worse. The townsfolk were starting to look at him weird, like he was the new local lunatic.  He’d have these ‘fits’ where he’d hunch forward and sort of mumble, arguing with himself as if someone were whispering horrible things only he could hear. One time at the grocery store, I saw him standing in an aisle staring at the ceiling light. His face slowly turned reddish purple, the veins in his head popped, and his hands began spasming as he gripped the sides of his head. I hurried over and grabbed his hand, “Father, what's happening?” “Nothing. What are you talking about?” he said with a new, tired demeanor.  My mother didn’t seem to notice anything strange with my father. She was like everyone else in school - sort of lived her life as if nothing's wrong. She didn’t even seem to notice the rain! She would come down the stairs every morning and say things like, “Another beautiful day!” or “The weather’s supposed to be nice all afternoon!”  Then one night, Father came home after work and told Mother that Mr. McClain, his boss, insisted he take some time off. He didn’t really say why, but I could easily guess the reason. It started an argument between my mom and my dad that went on late into the night.  One evening, Mother was getting ready to go to Bridge night with our neighbors. I was helping her unpack the groceries before she left, and in a fluster she started going on about her day. She started carrying on about everything from the neighbor’s new car to Mrs. Greer finally re-opening her hair salon.  “And you’ll never guess what happened to me today at the grocery store!” She exclaimed, “I was returning my buggy by the door, then turned to walk back to the car, and suddenly Dr. Paulson was standing right behind me! He asked me to give this envelope to your father when I got home.” She took a large envelope out and put it on the kitchen table. “Oh? What are they?” I asked.  “I’m not sure sweetie. I asked what it was about and Doc Paulson just said ‘Don’t worry, he’ll know what to do with it.’ Can you run it up to him? Mommy is going to be late,” she said, swiping on lipstick, “Also, tell him to heat up last night's dinner in the oven for the two of you. And don't stay up too late past your bedtime!” She kissed my forehead while pinning her pearl earrings in.  “Okay, Mommy.”  She grabbed her keys off the divider in the kitchen entryway along with her purse and hurried to the door. She yelled up the stairs to my dad on her way out, but I was too distracted by the mysterious envelope on the table to pay attention to what she was saying.  What does Dr. Paulson want with my dad? Is he sick? Maybe he went to find out what's causing the fits! When I heard the car engine roar over the rain in the driveway, I went up the stairs, envelope in hand. All the lights were off on the second floor, so the hallway was pitch black. I carefully walked down the hall, and faced the door to the den.  Before the Satellite Creek Incident, I would have expected to see my father, wearing his thick coke bottle glasses, washed in the warm lighting of his desk lamp, and nose-deep in records with his fancy ink well pen; perhaps a stream of cigar smoke would float up from his ashtray, filling the room with a sweet tobacco smell. He'd look up and smile.  An eternity passed as I stood, frozen, in hopes he might come out on his own. I felt a cold draft coming from under the door. I gave a gentle three knocks. And then…nothing. I opened the door just a crack and peeked in. It was dark. I pushed the door and it opened all the way with a long, deep creek.  "I grabbed the wrong keys!" Mother called up the stairs, spooking me back to reality, “I'm leaving now! I’ll be home by 10!” “Okay!” I called back, with an agitated sigh.  Part of me was in denial of how the den had changed. It was dark, cold, and musky. A stale cigar and mold smell filled the air. Stacks of books, newspapers, and article clippings were piled up all over the floor. I was scared to even walk in! But, I took a deep breath and held it, hurrying over to drop the envelope on the desk. No cigar, no glasses, no pen. But most importantly, no Father.  I glanced through some of the articles on his desk: “Farmer’s son walks into oncoming traffic: Is your child next?” “Record rainfall stumps meteorologists” “Boy pulled from river sent home to parents” They all had something to do with the odd weather, missing people reports, and most importantly The Boy who had drowned. Some of the headlines were cover ups, and lies blaming the local weather department, the government, and even foreigners:  “Russian spy spotted near Satellite Creek Reservoir”  Something caught my eye on his desk as I was about to run out of the room - a newspaper article with handwriting scribbled in the margins. I pulled it out from underneath the stack of other papers. The letters in the handwriting looked odd, and I couldn't make sense of them.  “What is he doing?” I murmured out loud.  I shuffled through more of his deranged writing until I came across a sheet with the same star my classmates  had drawn on the windows.  Suddenly, I heard the faucet in the bath tub running. It made me jump! I dropped the papers and hurried out into the hallway.  Who was it? I thought I was alone! Looking down the dark hallway, I saw the bathroom light on, with my father standing over the tub. He was unwrapping something bundled up in his old jean jacket.  It’s the corpse of that boy he rescued from the river! I watched him bend over slowly, placing The Boy with his blueish skin into the filling tub. I called out to him, from down the hallway.  “Father?”  Kneeling down next to the tub, his head cocked to one side in my direction, but he was staring over top of me. I noticed his eyes looked strange; the whites were now black and the gray blue surrounding the dark pupils were now sleek, small, white discs like the one that hung above him in my nightmare. It reminded me sort of like how a cat’s eyes look at night.  He stared at me for a moment as the tub water started overflowing. His jaw opened – further than any normal person ever could – and out came a horrible, reverberating scream. The force of the scream was so powerful, it slammed the bathroom door shut, tossing me down the hallway like a ragdoll. I hit my head against the wall with a loud bang and everything went black.

The water started tasting different – sort of metallic with a side of chemicals. I looked at myself in the mirror while brushing my teeth before bed, trying to look for anything that wasn’t there before. Am I changing? Are the changes noticeable? Nothing out of the ordinary, except for maybe a couple new freckles.  That night I had a strange dream. It was night time and my father was standing at the guardrail overlooking Satellite Creek, exactly where he had pulled the boy from weeks before. A single street light spotted him from above, covering him in a bright yellow light and casting stark black shadows. His back was facing me, and his arms looked like he was cradling something. I looked around to see if we were alone and saw the weather lady standing frozen like a statue in front of her blue-shrouded cameraman. I heard a strange humming sound – a melodic tune of unknown origins. It was coming from the direction of my father. I turned to look at him. This time, he stood facing me, and in his arms was the boy; skin a cold blue, water droplets formed at the tips of his hair. His face was buried in my father’s chest. The light above flickered and went out, and the dream went black. Suddenly, I was standing in the middle of my class room, surrounded by my peers.They stood in a circle around me, staring at me like Morgan and Grant had in the hall. The lights went out again. I was back with my father again, and the boy. But this time, the boy’s head was turned just enough so I could see one eye; he could see me. He was awake – and alive – side-eye staring at me.  My father’s mouth opened and once again the unsettling melodic humming poured out of it; the same noise the kids at recess had made. His head slowly rolled back, and looked directly up at what was once a street light, but had somehow changed to a glowing white disc. The boy in his arms began floating up, as if gravity had let go of his limp body. The sound coming from my father’s throat grew louder and louder, as the boy floated four feet above him now. The white disc of light became so bright it filled the dark dream, and suddenly I awoke.  My throat was so dry, I immediately began gasping for water – water that I was too scared to drink. I heard another heavy rain pounding on my bedroom window. I sat in bed shaking, in a cold sweat, and checked the clock radio on my nightstand. The dim red numbers read 3 AM. This is all too much – and that dream felt so real! I pulled my knees up and buried my face in them. The dam broke inside, and I never felt so alone.  And cried tears of Mercury.  I didn't sleep much after that – everything that day was a blur. I was about to nod off during second period Science class, till Morgan, who sat in front of me, lifted her arm up. And placed her index finger against the window. In the past we used to write secret messages to each other in the condensation. I could tell when she lost all interest in what Mrs. Henley was saying because she'd doodle little drawings on the window like her cat, a smiley face, or maybe a butterfly. I watched, curiously following her finger with my eyes.  What is it? A star? And some kind of squiggly line…  I squinted, tracing her finger with my eyes. Another arm rose up a few seats away. It was Allison’s, and she began drawing on the window. Another arm went up. Then another. Then, like synchronized swimmers, they all dropped their arms one at a time once the signal was complete.  Morgan’s star hung there on the window, watching me. It made me feel uncomfortable, like the mysterious symbol held the answers to why my friend is gone, but refused to tell me how to get her back.  The bell broke the hypnosis the star held over me, and Mrs. Henley muttered her farewells and the homework assignment that I didn't hear, because my mind was lost in what I just witnessed. I got up and hurried over to Allison’s seat and saw the same strange, unworldly star Morgan drew. The next one was the same, and the next, and the next.  I felt my jaw slowly open in amazement. What does this mean? I looked around the room. I was alone, but I still felt eyes watching me. I looked out the window and down below I saw about 20 students standing out in the rain. Watching me, glued to me. I could see Morgan was one of them with her maroon wool sweater hanging on her, full of rain water. All of the students were soaking wet and dripping, but they didn’t seem to mind. They scattered about the back lawn, some even standing as far as the entrance of the woods.  I froze, afraid to make any sudden movements. This is the first time they've noticed me.  Mrs. Henley came back into the room. "Oh, Margot, you're still here? Did you forget something?”  I was afraid to turn and look away from the window, but I peeled my eyes away just for a quick glance in her direction.  “Oh yeah, I thought I lost something important...but I guess it's not here.”  I turned back to the window to see if they were still there, but the field was empty. The drips of condensation ran down the drawings, making their sigils unrecognizable.  Yes. Something important has gone, and left us for the stars.

My best friend Morgan started acting weird after the black out. I noticed it on the way to lunch that day, and decided to bring it up to her.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, blankly. After that encounter, every time I spoke to her, speech slowed and she spoke fewer and fewer words – eventually, no words at all. It was odd because she was normally a chatterbox, and yet no one even noticed when her lips weren’t moving anymore. It got to the point where she didn't even acknowledge me in the halls or at the bus stop. She’d slowly walk right past me, staring straight forward with a cold, dazed look, as if no one were home in her head. School became dull and dreary without her; the black and white checkered floor tiles and the greyish-green walls started to feel like a prison. The endlessly overcast days didn’t help either. Later that week, I tried to confront her about it, thinking it must be some kind of mean joke. I went to find her before P.E. and found her standing, facing her locker with that same, blank stare. She wasn't opening it or going through it – just staring at it. Agitated and concerned, I reached out with determination to get some answers, grabbed her shoulder, and then froze. Amidst the crowded hallway, I felt many eyes suddenly watching me. About thirteen other kids of different ages were standing there with that same, dead look staring at me. I scanned their faces. A few of them I knew – Allison from Science, Richie from Homeroom. A seemingly constant flow of students walked around them like river water around sturdy rocks. I hesitantly let go of Morgan's shoulder and, without blinking, the thirteen kids went on their merry, lifeless way. I slowly turned to face my friend, but she was already gone. I stood there overwhelmed by what just happened, as the entire hallway emptied out. I was alone again in this dreary life of endless grey.  Later that day, I sat at the picnic bench during recess. It was an overcast day like it had been since as long as I could remember. I watched Morgan from afar. She was sitting on a swing, feet planted on the ground, with that cold, dead stare watching over the playground. Grant, the farmer's son, walked over to her, piquing my interest. He blocked my view, so I had to find a new vantage point to learn what was going on.  When did she start talking to Grant? I thought, hurrying around the blacktop. He’s three years older than her, and everyone knows they don't like each other – especially after the incident on the field trip to the natural history museum.  I tried getting closer without being caught, and found a good hiding spot near the slide. When I checked over by the swings, I saw the two; Morgan looking up with just her eyes, and Grant looking down also with just his eyes. They weren't even talking, just looking at each other in silence. After a while, Grant turned and walked towards the school building. Morgan stood up, like a robot, and soon followed.  As they started walking, other children started to slowly stop their playground activities and join rank. In the corner of my eye, I saw Richie abandon his partner on the seesaw, leaving him to land with a harsh thud and a confused face. I turned, panicked even more to see another friend lost to Morgan’s strange behavior.  I spotted Allison a ways away on the other side of the slide and made a beeline for her.  As I reached her, she looked up.  “Allison!” I shouted, “Do you see what’s going on with –” But then I recognized it. The emptiness – it was already in her eyes. I watched as she dropped her science book directly into a puddle and started joining the others. The group was up to eight or nine now, and they all marched at a dirge-like pace. Glancing around the playground, it seemed like the rest of the kids didn't seem to notice; they just kept going on with their games of tag or hopscotch. Grant walked over to the corner of the building, and the small herd of kids – including Morgan – followed. He walked the group around the side of the door leading into the cafeteria and stood, facing the corner where the gym and cafeteria met. Morgan joined him, standing as close to him and the corner nook as possible. The others slowly piled in, all staring at that same corner. Cranky old Mrs. Tilly, the Recess Aid, blew her whistle and yelled over to them. “You lot - get back over here where I can see you!” They didn't budge. She walked over and waved her arms, as if herding a flock of sheep.  “Come on!” she yelled, “Get back out on the playground!” They scattered like cockroaches around and into the playground. All except for Morgan and Grant, that is. Mrs. Tilly sighed.  Just as she started to walk toward them, Jimmy started tying Patrick up with a jump rope. With a resolute sigh, she picked up pace and headed over to save Patrick from sure doom. As soon as the coast was clear, one by one, the small cluster of empty kids walked back over and huddled into the same corner, like a school of fish joining together after a shark broke their formation. I walked up as close as I could and watched them just stand there for minutes. Then, suddenly their mouths dropped open, and the sound that came out of them wasn't human. They were humming an unworldly sound; a sound that I noticed made the puddles around them ripple.

I remember it all started in 1973 after that horrible winter when the snow piled up into mountains in parking lots, covered sidewalks, and blocked doorways. The Ellsworths, an older couple down the street, passed away after the snow barricaded them in and they couldn’t dig themselves out. They thought that they could wait out the storm in hopes someone would come find them, but they didn’t make it. Rodney, a junior firefighter who lived next door, was the one who found them. He said they were lying on the floor on their sides, holding hands, facing each other; frozen and skinny like cold skeletons.  It was the talk of the town afterwards. The townsfolk distorted their tragic love story into a dark omen, claiming that because the two had passed over the winter, it was a bad sign of the coming spring. And you know what? They were right.  The heavy snow changed to rain, but the snow on the ground didn't melt fast enough, collecting the rain like cold water basins. The water level started to rise in the lakes, pumping more water through the town's veins like a heart pumping blood throughout the body.  Then, at one point in early April, after all this rain the walls of snowy dams gave way, the flooding began. The rivers overflowed, consuming the part of Main Street which dips into the valley. All the tiny shops and businesses owners waded out into waste-deep waters, trying to board up their storefronts and save whatever they could.  I remember watching a news report. The weather lady stood near the overflowing Satellite Creek, with her bright blue raincoat, clear plastic umbrella with her outdated beehive hair and fake eyelashes. In the middle of her report, someone behind her screamed. The camera guy panned frantically to find where the screaming came from and focused on a man running into the chaotic current, pulling someone from the river. I recognized the man’s denim jacket and plaid trapper hat. It was my father!  My eyes were fixed to the screen as my father pulled a small boy ashore, about the age of six or so. It was scary. He was naked, with tight dark hair plastered to head from the wet. He was young – maybe six or seven. His skin was an odd blue with pockets of purple under his closed eyes, spotted with dabs of grayish green to match the color of the water that took him. His body was limp, and it was soon apparent that my father was too late, the boy had already drowned.  That night when my father came home, still soaking wet, he was in a lost daze. It took a while for him to talk about it, but I overheard him talking to my mom in the kitchen in the middle of the night. I peeked around the corner and looked down the hallway. A towel lay on his shoulders and steam rose from a mug sitting on the table.  With his arms out, as if he was still carrying the boy, he said, “He couldn’t have been much younger than Katie, and no one could identify him, Karen. No one knew who was or where he came from.”  Over the next few days my father went to the police station every day, trying to find out more information about the boy. No matter who he talked to, they always claimed they had no idea what he was talking about. It frustrated him, and he slowly became obsessed with finding out why no one would talk to him, and why everyone looked at him like he was nuts. One day, he even confronted Chief Halden Rusk in the middle of North Star Grocery. “Small town crazies are the worst” I heard the Chief Rusk mumble to himself as he walked away. My father wasn't the same after the incident, but oddly enough, neither was the rest of the town.  When the flood waters subdued, it left behind something unexplainable. The water now has a funny taste, in a way I can’t describe. When I brushed my teeth, or drank from the water fountain at school, there was a metallic taste, almost what I imagine mercury would taste like. This was a hard time for my family, but the strangeness didn’t stop there. I started to become obsessed myself.  After replaying the footage in my head over and over. I thought back to that day and recalled that that day at school had been . . . odd. Around 2 PM the power had gone out across town. Wait . . . 2 PM? That must have been pretty close to when my father pulled that boy from the river!  The rooms and hallways were dark, but enough sunlight managed to shine through the overcast rainy day, providing a little light to each classroom. My teacher went into the closest to try and find a flashlight or candles, in hopes that having a light would help ease any of my fellow scared classmates. But, oddly enough, the room was silent. No one made a noise –  which was odd for our room full of 10-year-olds. The lights turned on within half an hour, which felt more like an eternity. That eerie silence sitting in the dark made me feel uncomfortable, as though something came in when we couldn't see. When the lights came on, we were all somehow . . . different.

The lantern flickers, so I know I’m close.  “Not much further,” I mutter to no one in particular.  I keep pushing through the brush, dragging my sled of supplies and other odds and ends. I pass a series of trees and check for words, but there aren’t any. The lantern flickers more and more with every step. A few yards away, I see a light.  “Bingo,” I celebrate as a loud mechanical voice bellows out something about The Three. I hurry to the source of light, and stop suddenly when I see the light die out. Down in a ravine below, there was a boy, sobbing, knelt at the foot of an old jukebox. He slowly wilts into a heap on the ground. I wait to see what happens next, but nothing does.  If I’m going to make a move, now’s the time.  I hurry around the sloping woods, trying not to wake the boy.  This machine is what I’ve been looking for; it’s been calling to me for many nights. I pull out my trusty crowbar and go to work.   The boy mutters, “Three will come….Two will go…” I freeze.  He can’t see what I am doing – it'll cause too many questions. Small town gossip can kill a guy.  I reach into my sled and dig out an old, dusty blanket, giving it a good flap, and laying it gently on the sleeping boy. Then, back to work I go. I’m not sure what all this kid knows of this machine; its origins are a mystery, even to myself. All I know, is that it doesn't belong here.  I struggle, but I manage to get the box onto my sled, and start to haul the damn thing through the woods. Luckily there’s a well-worn path to follow out to the park.  I lug the machine further and further, till I reached the end of town. Dropping the lantern onto its usual spot near the Welcome to The After Dark sign. I lean an arm on it to catch my breath. “Thanks, old friend,” I say in appreciation, giving it a couple pats.  I turn to look at the sky and see the sun starting to rise, slowly catching my breath.  “The solstice is coming,” I huff, “Who knows what could happen, or what will come through? I need to get back, and start the preparations!” Still huffing, I shrug the ropes of the sled over my shoulder, and slowly start my way towards the shop.  I clap my hand to my thigh a couple times, and another old friend comes to visit me, the silhouette of a small dog appearing, silently scampering around with every step.

I watch the machine switch records. As the needle hits vinyl and the music starts to play, the world once again falls into darkness; but this time, I see sunlight fading in. Warmth washes over me as birds chirp. The air feels humid and I can smell that familiar scent of coming rain.  As my eyes adjust, I find myself standing in the front yard near a newly flowering crabapple tree with white and pink flowers. An old, worn out white farmhouse with tarnished wicker furniture stands a couple yards away. There sits The Boy once again, head down, wearing a Red Sox baseball cap. The window behind him is open, and I can hear a record playing in the living room. That’s the same song the jukebox played! The screen door suddenly opens, and The Boy’s head darts up.  It’s like looking into a mirror – or at least a mirror from when I was ten.  A man walks out wearing big, heavy boots – my father’s boots.  The wooden floorboards bend slightly with every step. He sits down next to The Boy with a groan and a sigh. I stand, unseen, like a ghost watching from afar. “I remember this moment, word for word,” I whisper to myself, as my father starts talking in a calm yet melancholy tone.  He puts his arm around me . . .  I  watch as the man puts his arm around my past self.  “You know, it's going to be difficult letting go of this place. But, change is a part of life," my father says softly, his voice carrying a weight I didn’t understand at the time, “Sometimes we have to move on, even when we don’t want to." I watch as my younger self clenches his hands into fists, gripping the fabric of his shorts.  "But why do we have to leave?“ I say simultaneously with my past self.  My father sighs, rubbing my younger self’s back in slow circles, "Because life doesn’t stay in one place, kiddo. New opportunities, new experiences — they come whether we’re ready or not. And sometimes, we don’t see the good in change until we’re standing in the middle of it." I knew this moment well. It was the day my family moved from that small farmhouse to the town of After Dark. Back then, I had hated my father’s words, but standing here now, outside of time, I can see the sadness in his face. He didn’t want to leave either. I never noticed before, but he has a tear in his eye as he reaches around and pulls out his old glove, handing it to me. My eyes light up with surprise and joy as my vision begins to ripple. My father’s voice grows distant, distorted. The sky darkens in an unnatural way, and suddenly I’m falling backward into the void. I gasp awake, sprawled on the damp forest floor. The jukebox glows softly beside me, as if it has been waiting. My heart pounds as I try to process what just happened.  This thing — this machine — it’s more than just a broken-down relic in the woods. I spend almost the entire night pushing quarter after quarter, and seeing so many things – far too much to be recorded. I don’t stop until the birds start chirping and I notice the sky starting to turn a brighter blue.  After that night, I hunt down every quarter I can find – even turning every dollar bill into change – then sneak out every chance I can to that hidden spot in the woods. I don’t just see my life, but I see others too; I begin to realize that the Jukebox could take me anywhere that there was music. Some nights I watch myself; I have run-ins with The Boy on his bike as I hurry into the woods. Another night I see a girl dancing with fireflies, lost in time. I see three children of different ages running through fields, and swimming in watering holes – the joys of summer! I watch my mother remarry and my father pass away. I watch myself overcome loss, learn to forgive, and even fall in love. Night after night I come, ready to learn the secrets of the world, seeing endless possibilities, different lives I have lived or soon will live. It makes me understand my life, how to change it. It shows me how I can grow as a person, overcome my fears and anxiety of growing up. It shows how to become so much more. I come-to from a vision and greedily fumble for the next quarter, slipping it in the slot. The machine makes a grinding noise, so loud it could wake the whole town. It spits my coin out like a gunshot and almost hits me. I see it smoking, its silvery facing now burnt laying in the grass nearby. The machine's lights turn red. The small screen turns black, displaying a blue star pentacle shape, and a loud robotic voice bellows out: “Three will step forward, two will become lost, and one shall wander alone, “Three will step forward, two will become lost, and one shall wander alone,  “Three will step forward, two will become lost, and one shall wander alone. “This is the prophecy of the old town that came before; the ones that seek the light and turn our world into endless night. The night is coming. The Endless Night.” The machine goes silent as all the lights turn out, leaving a quiet ringing in my ears as I adjust to the instant silence. My eyes wide open, my jaw to the floor, I slowly reach for my last quarter and slowly put it in the slot. Nothing. No lights, no sound. Nothing. I collapse to the ground sobbing. “No!” I cry, pounding my fists against the machine, “No, no, no, no, nooo! I need you!”  I lay there in a heap of tears, in a ball, up against the Jukebox. Eventually, exhaustion takes over, and everything goes black.  Fin

The woods seem strange, even though I’ve searched for about three to five baseballs back here almost everyday. At dusk it seems more…dangerous and unfamiliar. Bending branches and pushing bushes aside, I finally see a familiar warm glow in the distance.  It looks different somehow, more alive than it looked during the day. Cautiously, I walk up to it, and give it another, closer examination. How does it work? Do I just put a quarter in, or do I have to hit some of these buttons? I should've done some research or asked someone…Oh well, it’s too late now. I go for it, slipping a coin in the slot. A short jingle plays as the mechanisms inside boot up and spark to life.  “Now what?” I whisper to myself.  I hit a button at random – the one with “#5” on it – and the mechanisms start to whir. I stand there, face against the glass, watching the retro technology work its magic. Little arms move and pull a small, warped record out from a stack. I watch delightfully as it places it in the middle console and lines the needle up oh so gently. A muffled song begins to play, one that's oddly familiar, but too old for me to know the name of.  Then, suddenly, everything goes black.  I’m not sure how much time goes by, but eventually my vision comes back. Did something hit me? Did I get knocked out?  I look around and see that I’m standing in a corner of an old restaurant…or a bar? I can’t tell which. A dimly lit stained glass pool table light illuminates posters of the After Dark Night Owls baseball team and shelves covered in paraphernalia circa 1960s adorning the wood paneled walls. The smell of smoke fills the room, and that same song from the Jukebox plays, muffled in the background while blue circular disco ball lights swirl.  I see a boy in a suit that looks a little big on him, his clip on bow tie barely holding on to his shirt collar. The boy sits on a barstool facing away from the counter next to a big, old guy chatting up the bartender – who is clearly trying to close up the bar. The boy looks like he’s fighting to stay awake. I follow his tired gaze to a couple slow dancing alone in the middle of the small, empty dance floor. They look oddly familiar… The man is wearing a black suit with a white button up shirt and nice pants. His top four buttons are undone, he looks sweaty as he holds the woman close. In her sparkly white dress, she buries her face into the man's chest. Her hair looks as if it was once done up really nice, but now parts of it were coming loose and undone. They slowly sway back and forth to the music as a busboy stacks chairs behind them. The DJ is taking apart his setup, putting clunky old tripods and speakers on a dolly. The couple doesn’t seem to notice; they are completely absorbed in each other, in this moment.   I happen to catch the boy again in the corner of my eye, finally losing his battle against sleep. I watch as his head droops to the side and knocks over a large beer stein from in front of the old man next him. The glass falls and shatters on the floor.  Suddenly, my vision starts to fade. The world slowly grows darker as the couple break free from each other's arms and hurry over to the boy.  “Louis!” The woman cries out as my vision goes black once more.  I awake lying on the ground in the middle of the woods. Startled, I sit up quickly, breathing heavily like waking up from a nightmare or falling asleep in class. I look around and see nothing but dark shadows cast by the light of the jukebox with its quiet electric hum. I pull myself together for long enough to grab onto the side of  the jukebox to help me stand up.  What I just saw felt so familiar. Where have I seen it before?  I try to dig deep, rubbing my forehead, wide-eyed and in awe of what I just experienced. Then, it hits me. “My parents' wedding dinner!” I exclaim, “But how does it know about my parents' wedding?” I look at the machine with a new sense of wonder.  Will it take me back again?  I reach for another quarter, and place it in the slot, hesitating for just a second, unsure of what the machine will show me next – or for how long. The excitement of the unknown finally takes over, and the quarter falls into the machine with a clunk. This time, I thought about the number to press, and I go for lucky number 35 – the number from my baseball jersey.

“Fly ball!” Kenny Bennete shouts with a crackle of puberty. I watch the ball fly over my head and land with a thud behind the trees, near the edge of the baseball field. Then comes the wave of rude jokes, chanting, and name calling. I think they do this on purpose, because they know I'm not a good outfielder, and they always make me play closest to the woods. This way, retrieving the ball takes longer, which also means they get to hassle me till I find it.  Disgusted and annoyed, I use my mitt to swat away branches and bushes, shoveling with it as I comb the forest floor. The sing-song sounds of my teammates’ laughter slowly fades as I go deeper into the woods.  "Ugh, there it is,” I say with a groan.  I bend to pick it up, and a glimmer of something reflective catches my eye. Something was out there through the woods. I swim through bushes, down and around trees, eventually arriving at a clearing. There, standing alone, is a metal box. Sunbeams shine through an opening in the dense forest canopy above, hitting the metallic contraption like spotlights on a stage, as if wanting to be found. Skeptical and confused, I slowly approach the odd machine, forgetting why I came into the woods in the first place.  The box has a glass window with buttons below it. I see an odd book-like contraption on the inside. The box is bigger than me – about a foot taller, considering I’m short for 14. Parts that were once painted are worn and chipping, rust forming on the bare metal. It was odd, yet familiar.  I think I’ve seen this before? I think they call it a ‘jukebox’? “What in the world?” I whisper to myself, gently running my fingers over the buttons. I press a few here and there, testing to see if it still works. “How do these things work again?” I mutter to myself; then the coin slot catches my attention.  I pat my pockets, looking for change, but remember those jerks took it from me at lunch. I snap out of my daze to the sound of approaching voices calling that name I hate. “Loo-Wuss!” “Where’d you go, Loo-Wuss?”   I shout back, “I found it! It rolled down here!” and hurry back through the woods. I don't want them to see my new discovery. I know they'll ruin it. Like how they ruin everything.  That evening at dinner, I can’t stop thinking about the box.  How did it get there? It’s too heavy to move, and there’s no drag marks. Nothing seemed to have disturbed the grass or plants around it. Nothing’s adding up! Then I remember seeing all the glowing neon red and orange lights. Wait – how were the lights on? After pushing steamed broccoli around the plate more times than Babe Ruth ran around the bases, I hurry to my room, and start scavenging for quarters.  I sell my mom on some lie about going to Kenny Bennete’s house, to help him with homework. “He’s failing math,” I say, “And Coach said he can’t play next year if he doesn’t pass this week’s test!” She looks at me confused, but the urgency in my voice convinces her to allow it.  The sun is setting when I leave, casting an orange-red light across town as I ride my bike back to the baseball field. There’s a few older kids I don’t recognize here playing catch on the field. I don’t need anyone else asking questions, so I push my bike into some bushes near the woods’ entrance. I take out my flashlight and try to retrace my steps back to the box.

I wipe the bike grease on my hands into an old rag and give the wheels a good spin, checking the connection of the new chain. Content with my work, I flip the bike back on its two wheels and grab my usual things: pocket knife, flashlight, some waterproof matches, and a compact coil of rope. I stuff it all into a small bag and put my headphones in, gliding out of my garage and into the night.  There’s never any destination in mind when I set out on these nightly rides. I tend to go wherever the streetlights guide me. I head out onto Moon Wake Avenue, hang a left down Somber Glow Street, and ride past the Big Dipper Diner. I can see the waitresses through the windows, talking while wiping down counters and tables. It always looks warm and inviting but I never stop in.  Switching gears, I head down to Melancholy Crossway, with its row homes and narrow street with cars lining each sidewalk. I see a “Road Closed” sign in the distance. They must be doing construction down the way, so instead I make the right onto Nocturne Passage.  This neighborhood is full of interesting colors; flood lamps and porch lights cast greens through car canopies and blues on wood siding from their aged fluorescent bulbs. I know which ones are on sensors, so I race the lights and try to pass undetected. It’s a game I like to play, but rarely ever win. And unfortunately I don’t. Like always. One of these nights I will… I pass the house with the blue police box shaped mailbox, which means I’m heading onto Omensong Bend. Many times I forget just how many people stay up late in this neighborhood. They must enjoy the peace and quiet the night provides. After all the years of riding these streets, I know all their routines. If you think of it, the night is just as alive as the day, but in a more calm way. I wave to the pizza guy coming home from a late night delivery, and slow down when I pass the local cop’s house. He’s usually leaving for his shift around this time of night. Across the street, there’s a kid sitting on his front porch surrounded by books and papers. He occasionally wears an After Dark Community College shirt, so I always assume he’s busy cramming for the next test. I also notice some of the more…stranger…things that most people don't see. At least, I assume they don’t see it because they never talk about it. Like the old woman who wears a robe walking all thirteen of her cats on leashes. There's a group of five cloaked, dark blue figures, they walk in total sync chanting in languages that I never understand.​ Oh - and a mannequin of a woman dressed like some 60’s housewife that appears randomly around town. I even notice odd graffiti that pops up around here and there, but I’ve never found the person who makes it.  The clicking of the bike chain helps me keep in time with my mind.  I’m not sure why, but when I’m on my bike, I feel like my thoughts flow easier.  Maybe it’s the constant flow of fresh air, helping me process my thoughts that at one point seem complicated; but it’s as if my wheels unravel the knots as I weave through these empty streets.  I never feel comfortable staying in one place for long. There’s something about being contained that never suits me. Jobs are hard to keep; friends and relationships are even harder. Something deep inside always tells me to run, as if the emergency escape door is always at my back. I can’t stay still or the fear of being stuck consumes me. So, I take to the streets with my fellow night owls to keep me company, the feeling of stars overhead, and my tires beneath me.  This is an odd town. Sometimes things don’t make sense, but that gives me more of a reason to go out and see all the things there are to see. Eventually, the streetlights start shutting off one by one and daylight starts taking over, turning my comfortable night into a new, unknown day; my signal to head home and sleep till the streetlights turn on again.

An Excerpt from Tales of The After Dark  It’s one of those winter nights when there’s not a single cloud in the sky. The moon is so bright that everything looks like a blueish midday in September, or an inverted photograph of a perfect summer day. Our shadows, darker than pitch, follow along like childish tricksters dancing and weaving on the uneven construction site ground.  I smell the cheap wood filter cigars we bought from the gas station as my one friend breaks the plastic seal. He passes one to each of us as we walk throughout the half built cement structures.  My other friend trips on a deep construction truck tire track of frozen solid mud and crushes his cigar. “Just distracted by pulling off my glove,” he says, trying to be cool. We wander around the open space, taking in the monstrous machines scattered about this vacant, desolate wasteland we once called home. Their metal bits ting and clang, moving in the occasional winter breeze as we try to chart out the things that used to be here.  “Over there was the outdoor obstacle course,” my one friend says, pointing over to where a trailer now sits. He pivots to the right, “And right there, the small amphitheater the local Boy Scouts built. You can see the lights from the movie theater from here.” “And somewhere over here is where we graffitied that old wooden bridge!” My other friend shouts. It’s hard to imagine that just a few months ago, this area was entirely covered in trees. Old trees – ones that grew around giant metal gears from the farmhouses this part of town used to be known for. Now it’ll just become a stripmall full of overpriced things, restaurants that will come and go, and executives misjudging the needs and wants of the people who live here.  I can hear the busy highway in the distance now without the trees blocking all the sounds –  sounds of a life that we would come here to escape. My one friend pulls out his deck of cards and I crack open our bottle of “booze on a budget” as he starts dealing. With an occasional swear under our breath – which didn’t keep the cold out of our worn gloves and hats – we play this game he learned from overseas (the name of which I swear he makes up every time we play.) With construction buckets as seating, and a table made of scrap wood we talk, but never speak of why we were here, sitting in the cold.  It felt that we had to spend this one last night here, as if to see an old friend off; to ease it into the next phase of existence. It may look different – covered in concrete and scaffolds – but to us, it will always be a second home. Even though our woods lost the battle with local mayors and bulldozers, it always comes back to the routine – cigars, cards, and cheap drinks at the same spot in the woods. When all else fails, we always find ourselves back here in this spot; somewhere no one can find us, but we always have each other.  After tonight, I feel like things will be different.  The sky slowly starts to change color as the shadows of the machines and half-built structures start to lighten up, signaling us that the early work crew will be here soon. We take one last look across this plane of transition, and head back to our individual lives, as we leave a part of our youth behind. A construction worker will show up to work to find our final offerings to the land – a deck of cards, an empty bottle and a half-smoked box of cheap cigars.

A shiver runs through me, though I’m not sure if it’s from the cold drizzle or the unease settling in my chest. The fresh carving is just as smooth, just as impossibly precise as the first.  Who are you? I take a step back and scan the trees, searching for any signs of life – or any more hidden messages. The forest offers no answers, only the same dull November stillness and the same silence, save for the occasional rustling of leaves. Beau and Freya, usually keen to sniff out anything unusual, seem unbothered. Freya even wags her tail, oblivious to my growing dread.  How are they doing this?  I get the dogs settled in, and immediately grab a folding chair, my notepad, and pens, hurrying back to the line of trees.  I am not leaving here till I find out who’s responsible. There’s no possible way that I’ll miss the culprit behind the carvings. Hours pass. I feel the sun come out, helping to combat the cold. Ikeep trying to work on my novel, but I’m not getting much done. Every creaking tree branch or rustling blade of tall grass pulls my attention away from my work. I let out a sign, and slump back in my seat.  This is ridiculous, I think with a sigh. I roll my eyes and right as they land on the first tree to my right, I see a new carving. I do a double take in disbelief, but there it is – another deeply carved message.  How long was it there? How could it have appeared without a soul or a sound? It’s as if the tree willed it into existence! “This isn’t possible,” I whisper to myself as I read the newest message: DOGS?   A question. As if the tree recognises Beau and Freya. As if it knows what they are. As if it’s seen them.  Panic takes over, and I throw myself out of the chair and charge deeper into the woods.  “Who are you?” I yell, “What do you want?” Turning every which way, I frantically try to see if any responses are appearing. I stop, dizzied, and take a deep breath. I turn to look back, and see: HERE That wasn’t there a second ago.  I slowly walk closer to it, inspecting the bark of the newly vandalized oak. I let out a panicked shout as I search for another tree to reply. “Who’s here?”  WE We?  “There’s more of you?” I stutter out, as another response appears directly below the last: MORE “How many more?” MANY   “Where are you? How are you even doing this?” My eyes are drawn a bit deeper into the woods to a much bigger, much older tree. The trunk itself is about three average trees wide, worn grey bark and covered in knots. The knots on the tree start to morph, phasing into rune-like symbols and eventually settling into a language my eyes can recognize: EVERYWHERE My eyes open wide. My body freezes. “Everywhere?” I ask, my breath growing heavy.  A twig snaps, triggering my flight or fight response. I hurry back down the usual trail to my house without even looking back. The dogs are walking in figure eights, confused, frantic – but I’m worse.  We sit on the floor of my living room, still in direct sight of the patio door. I stare at the woods, holding Freya in one arm and Beau in the other. From here it looks like any other day, but beyond those trees there are things I cannot comprehend.  Who do I call? How do I explain this to someone? Would anyone even believe me?  The adrenaline dies and rational thought slowly returns.  At least here I’m safe from the trees. I look around the house, thankful to feel my pulse and breathing returning to normal. Eventually I muster enough energy to stand up and latch the door shut. I turn to check the time on my clock, when I notice something out of place in my peripheral vision. Right above the patio door, just where the wall meets the ceiling, I see etched into the wood grain: INSIDE

I trace each letter with my index finger. The carving is deep and pretty high up — it wouldn’t have been easy for anyone to carve this, especially in the short amount of time while we were out. And then to leave without a trace… I hate it when my peace is disrupted. Wearily, I look around the woods. I cup my hands and call out, “Hey! This isn’t funny! Whoever did this better show themselves!”  My shouts are met with nothing but a muffled echo, some spooked crows, and my dogs’ anxious stirrings. Beau and Freya begin pulling harder with their leashes to go in, so I head down the yard, trying to keep an eye on the woods as best as I can.  I am a novel writer by trade and Luckily my office desk faces a window overlooking the backyard, with a great view of the trees. While I work I watch to see if anyone returns. No sign of life except the usual herd of deer and a few wild turkeys. I eventually give up and go on with my day, trying to distract myself with usual chores and work.  The next morning I wake up, brew my morning coffee, get the dogs ready, and set out like normal. It’s overcast with some drizzle, and a chill in the air. When we get to the treeline, I freeze.  I forgot about the odd carving.  I had hoped that it was all a strange dream, but when I walked around the tree, there it was. The cold, dead Hello. I looked around, and didn’t see any new trails in the leaves. Nothing.  Hesitantly, the dogs and I carry on with our morning routine.  At the clearing, Freya runs off only to find our neighbor Farmer Grant. I call him over and walk to meet him halfway.  “Mornin’. You seen anyone near my property line lately? Or anything out of the ordinary?” “Nothing that I’ve noticed,” Farmer Grant replies, rubbing Freya’s head. “There is a possum running around that I’d like to take out, but nothing to lose sleep over.” I hadn’t thought this far ahead, and scrambled to make up a reason for my odd questions. I managed to babble something about seeing a bear with mange. I didn’t want to worry him or make him think I’m incapable of taking care of Beau and Freya – he loves these dogs just as much as I do, but I can tell he heard the concern in my voice.  “If I see anything I’ll give a holler.” We pass all the usual landmarks on our way back home, but when we approached the last leg of our walk, I change to a more cautious pace. I’m hesitant to cross that border of my yard into the woods – it’s like there’s something waiting for me. I survey the area as we slowly walk up to the Hello carving. Another odd spot had appeared while we were gone, on a different nearby tree. This time, the carving says… Who are you?

The crisp, smokey smell of cold mixes with earthy decaying leaves and rises up with every step. The woods are shades of stale gray and dull brown after October's vibrant hues fade, it takes more effort to find the color in early November. An orange streak of sunrise peers through branches, scattering the coming daylight through prismatic frost, coating the ground.  Every morning I take the dogs out into the woods behind my house. We walk as far as we can – till my morning coffee gets cold – and then we mosey on back.  Beau and Freya, my two German Shorthaired Pointers are as happy as children at recess in these woods. Every empty hollow log, deer trail, and rabbit rustling in a bush is a new adventure. Beau has a full, light milk-chocolate coat; his sister Freya has a deep brown upper half transitioning midway down her back into a creamy white with Beau’s same milk-chocolate brown spots. A real beauty if I do say so myself!  We pass by all the usual landmarks – the old dilapidated shed; what used to be an old tree house, now in shambles on the ground; the small crick where the broken rope swing hangs – and reach our familiar clearing at the edge of the woods, right where our property line ends and our neighbor’s farmland begins. Luckily, our neighbor is who I bought the pups off of, so he doesn't mind if either one wanders too far onto his property. If either one gets away, I know every rock, stick, and blade of grass in these woods – they can’t be hard to find.  This is where I let the kids off their leashes and throw their ball – or stick – for a while andjust . . . breathe. I love my space and my peace, and wouldn’t trade it for anything. It was difficult dealing with the loneliness, moving this far out in the boonies.  Until I got these two, that is.  And now, I couldn’t imagine life without them and our morning walks.  A calm, cool mist rolls in from the rising temperatures while silhouettes of floppy ears and wagging tails dance through the sun’s warm, yellow beams. It’s truly beautiful here. It’s hard to leave, but there’s work to be done, and luckily we can do it all again tomorrow.  With a quick whistle and a couple pats on my thigh, the two come bounding back, ready to head home.  As we near the end of the woods we come to a familiar tree – a tree which has always been there – standing in the last row, right where the woods end and my backyard begins. But, I notice something out of place – as if someone had carved a round spot into it while I was away. I scan the woods behind me, and check for any obvious signs of someone in my house. There doesn’t seem to be a soul around. The dogs don’t seem bothered by it. They’re tugging on their leashes knowing that we are so close to home, but I can’t fight this feeling that someone is out here in my woods. I walk up closer to the tree.  No trail or sign of anyone walking through - not a broken twig or bothered pile of leaves;  not even a single wood chip on the ground. But this isn’t possible.  About 6 feet up this tree, the bark was just…missing. A single word was deeply engraved, that  said…  HELLO.

The Souvenir Shop Owner “It’s a bittersweet sound, the last bell jingle of the night – my final customer leaving for the evening. I follow after them to the door and flip my sign to ‘Closed’, as I do every night; sweep the floors, count the register, and tidy up for tomorrow. “I always find myself lingering at the light switch, though. I like to always take one last long look at my little shop.   “If someone were to ask me what my job is, I would say I sell memories. I can not seem to phrase it in any other way. This town is a bit strange, as you might’ve already noticed, and I've been around for many years, and I'm sure you already noticed it's a bit strange around here. Odd occurrences happen here that most people turn a blind eye to, but sometimes – if you pay attention – you might discover something amazing!  “Now, like I said, as a seasoned veteran of The After Dark, I’ve sort of developed a knack for finding these amazing things and I sell them in my shop. It's like they . . . call to me. Sometimes even sing! But most of the time, if I am meant to find them, then I will. “And here they sit. On my shelves, amongst other knick-knacks and tchotchkes. They might not seem like much, but when you take one home and listen carefully to it, you might hear their songs. Then, and only then, you'll see just how amazing this place can be. “Welcome to The After Dark. It's about time you found yourself.”

There's a man walking up my street. Even with the hood of his light gray hoodie shrouding his identity, I can still see the terror on his face. He keeps looking back behind him, with a demeanor I can only describe as someone trying to swallow their fear.    I watch through my curtains, trying to see who must be following him.    A mugger? No, not in this town. Or, is he the mugger? A thief? Arsonist?   The man is getting closer and closer, yet he doesn't even look in my direction, distracted by whoever it is that's following him. He passes through the orange glow of the streetlight directly across the street from my house. I wait as he slowly fades out of sight into the darker end of the street. No one else comes after him. I wait half an hour hoping to see who it could've been – or what it could've been – but nothing ever comes.   Oddly enough, it happens again a week later. Same time, same scenario. The same man, walking as if something is following him. That same gray hoodie looks a bit more . . . tattered. But this time he looks even more scared.    I watch and wait again, yet no one ever comes.   Just when I thought things couldn't get more strange, the man shows up again, a week later on the same day, at the same time. His clothes seem to be even more ripped. He looks thinner and, somehow, even more afraid. He walks a little slower than before. Eventually, he fades into nothing, and not a soul is left in sight.   I’m not the type of person who follows the neighborhood drama, but I did check in with The Neighborhood Watch. They said they haven’t heard or seen anyone that fits that description, but they’ll keep an eye out.    It became a routine for me, watching this mysterious man every week. I asked people in town, but no one’s ever said they've seen him – my one and only neighbor has never seen him either. But every week I see him walking past, looking more and more torn up, more exhausted, and even more scared then the time before. One night, like always, I’m camping out by my window, and right on time he appears. This time he looks ragged – clothes ripped and shredded, revealing his chest and arms. A streak of blood runs down his forehead, the wound obscured by his hood. I trace the line of blood with my eyes as it travels down the right side of his face, over his eye, and onto the pavement.    He was sweaty, his skin dirty, and he walked slowly, shakily with a limp. This time, I can hear him huffing and puffing, mumbling and wheezing. The fear in his eyes is immensely and instantly palpable. I shoot over and throw open the door.   “Hey! Are you okay?"    The man keeps his eyes on the invisible force. He hobbles into the night. And nothing follows.  The next week I waited impatiently with 911 at the ready, but when the man's usual time rolled around, no one came. I sat in silence, afraid to even take a breath.    Suddenly, I saw movement. A large oval shadow moved along the sidewalk without anyone around to cast it, moving like a shark underwater. Wherever it went, the ground vibrated like a small earthquake. It came close to the pool of light cast from the streetlight above. The shadow morphed around the light and kept on going.

My vision is blurry and the air feels heavy in my lungs, like breathing in a thick mist. I wait for my vision to clear, and I see a ceiling fan above me, frozen in place. I feel around, sensing worn fabric, and notice my head is resting on a pillow.    I’m lying in a bed. Yes, a bed – a familiar bed.    I look down and see pale white feet – my feet – attached to long, skinny white legs – my legs.   I sit up, pulling my covers away, and realize I’m wearing a nightgown.     It looks just like the one I wore when I was a child.    I look around and see a child's bedroom, bespeckled with dolls and toys, collages of friends, and trinkets from middle school.  The walls have posters and picture frames of people's faces I know and bands that I long outgrew. There’s a heavy layer of dust on the night table next to me, extending to a small vanity next to the window. The vanity mirror is foggy, but in the reflection I still see . . . me. Or what I can make out as me – long dark hair and fair white skin.    My eyes travel along the vanity to the windowsill where two jars sit half-filled with leaves, grass, and twigs. Each has a strip of masking tape and, written in Sharpie marker, a name scrawled in familiar penmanship – my handwriting.  I know the names before my eyes trace the letters – mine on one, and my brother’s poorly scribbled on the other.  We used to compete to see who could catch the most fireflies in their jar before mom called us in to wash up for bed.   “But why am I here?” I whisper out loud as if someone can hear me, “I haven't been home in so many years.”   The walls have an odd deep, cool-bluish glow.  Eerie, yet oddly comforting.  I sit up and turn, putting my feet on the cold wooden floor.  I feel like I have sea legs, stumbling across the room to the door. I peer into the hallway.    The rest of the house is dark.  I quietly check the bedrooms.  No one home, but everything exactly the same as it was the day I left. David’s room with his dinosaurs and astronauts littering the walls and floor. My parents’ bedroom still has the smell of mom’s hand lotion.    “Everything is the same. But why am I here? And How?” I whisper again to myself, as I head down the stairs.  My muscle memory kicks in so I miss all the loud, creaky wooden steps – the way David and I used to sneak downstairs to rewatch cartoons after everyone went to bed.  I walk through the kitchen with the same bland, peeling wallpaper – and the oven clock still stuck at 3 am like it always was – and slide open the patio door into the backyard. The air feels lighter outside. The moon is full and the sky is full of stars. The colors of the sky and the world around me seem more saturated than usual, yet everything is accounted for – my dad’s old grill, the bucket full of yard toys, the old swing set standing by the fence.   I slowly walk out to the middle of the yard to the bald patch of grass where the home plate for kickball used to live. I scan the property, and remember the nights David and I used to camp out where the lawn met the trees; all those summer nights playing flashlight tag with Emily, Taylor, Mason, and Andrew. The memories overwhelm me as tears of joy well up in my eyes.  A childish gleam of excitement washes over me, and I run, jump, and twirl – dancing through the yard, I kick up sparkles of moonlight reflecting in fresh dew as wet grass clings to my bare feet.    With a sob of joy and a sniffle, “I’m home,” I say aloud to my imaginary backyard audience, “I have no idea how I made it back here, but if this means I get to live in these memories, I want to stay here forever. I’m never going to leave.”

I hurried out before my manager could guilt me into staying through another shift.  We had 3 call-offs, and after wearing the hats of cook, server, and dishwasher for 14 hours, I had to leave. This has been going on for weeks. I pay rent for an apartment that I never get to see, but tonight I need to go somewhere, get some fresh air. What's another hour away from home going to hurt? I set off into the night, with nothing but my sack of dirty work clothes, and my half-empty box of smokes.  I decide to go to my secret spot overlooking the town, about a half hour’s walk from work, where the street lights can’t reach me.  A  great place to see the stars.   In passing, I see the Souvenir Shop owner pulling in his folding sidewalk sign.  I can see the words “Two for One!” smeared in teal chalk.  It looks like he had a sale, but it didn’t go as planned.  He looks up at me as I walk past.  We share the same defeated looks on our faces and give a nod of mutual understanding saying, “Hello!” but also, “I feel your pain.”    "Misplaced and Overlooked"- 2021 Suburbia slowly fades away behind me as I reach Moonwake Avenue, winding up through the hills, above and away from where the streetlights reach.  I follow the path to a clearing with an old wooden picnic bench, weathered away by the elements.  I assume kids dragged it here from the local park nearby so they can make a ruckus and smoke out of sight.  I sit on the table and run my finger along the graffiti and names engraved in the wood.  They've almost worn away, telling me that no one’s been up here for a while. I always forget how beautiful it is up here. I can see everything, all the houses with their little lights, slowly being lulled to sleep as the people in them turn out the lights one by one.  I like to imagine that all my problems are down there, too, looking small and insignificant from up here.  Makes me feel a bit better, as I stand up and stretch my arms out. I take in a deep breath of spring’s cool wind with its undertones of warmth.  The smell of new life cleanses my whole body.   I love this town.  But if I have to spend another closing shift, I’m gonna lose it!    I shake a cigarette out of my pack and strike a match against the nearby trash can.  I recognize a symbol on a pamphlet sticking out through the garbage.  I read the slogan underneath.  It made me fidgety and ponder what life would be without the restaurant; it made me think about how important my time actually was to me.    Who would I be if I weren’t always so busy with my job?   I became lost in deep thinking, finding myself etching the logo into the bench with my box cutter from work, as if my body was answering the question for me.  That night I left empty handed –  my work clothes in the trash, a half-box of cigarettes and a matchbook on the picnic table bench next to the poorly carved symbol of After Dark University.  Maybe it IS about time I found myself . . .