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Post date: October 31, 2025
By Andrew Broadley
It was a senselessly cold December night in New Jersey and Mr. Marston had nowhere left to go. A single drop of whiskey crept its way down his ruthless features; it clung to the winding trails of wrinkles on his cheek before nestling in the grey wilderness of his beard. As he gazed out the back window of his Manahawkin home, his pale, dying reflection gaped back at him. Many years ago, the old businessman had left the city to terrorize the Pine Barrens when he decided there were no more honest men he could reduce to victims of his unscrupulousness. The gilded glitter of the numerous awards, medals, and trophies he proudly displayed in his living room could not outshine his reputation for evil, which kept watch over the room like a bad omen in the sky. The smoke spilling from the cigar in his arthritis-stricken hand, filling the room with a thick haze, could not shroud his many sins. Mr. Marston was dead twelve days later, a Friday. He left behind no guilt, no remorse, and no last will and testament. What Mr. Marston did leave behind, however, was unfinished business.
***
A bitter cold washed over my body when my eyes adjusted and I discovered that I was no longer asleep in my bed. I was only vaguely aware of my arms pulling the blankets over myself and my eyes shutting, surely bound again to see happy dreams. However, one obstacle remained between my wavering consciousness and its return to deep hibernation: a peculiar soft blowing sound directly above my head. My ceiling fan had a habit of turning on spontaneously throughout the night. I turned my head to meet my alarm clock. The time it displayed, precisely 3:00 a.m., was a stern reminder of the long day that awaited me just a few hours ahead. I closed my eyes again. The sensation persisted. Slowly, I drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, I poured myself a generous cup of coffee. I looked with bleary eyes at the calendar: December 14th. A single beam of light shone down on me from above the kitchen table, in stark contrast to the darkness that enveloped the whole house. I was home alone, as my mother was away on a business trip, far away from our hometown of Manahawkin. Solitude was cold, but the coffee was warm. My thin veil of serenity was soon pierced by a migraine. My head pounded severely; I could not bear it much longer without an aspirin which I retrieved from the kitchen cabinet. Suddenly, a mixture of terror and extreme cold locked my arms and the precious medicine fell to the floor. I left the house for school without the much-needed aspirin. I looked at my house from the bus stop; the unknown eyed me back.
An untimely phone call drew me from my sleep in a panic. I took my phone from its usual place next to my ticking alarm clock: precisely 3:00 am. My mother’s voice greeted me from the other side of the phone after I swiped up on the glowing screen. She had forgotten that it was so early in the morning in Manahawkin, as she was traveling internationally. My desire to sleep got the better of me and I gave my mother only abbreviated answers to her many questions, but I did not fail to mention my freakish experience with the bottle of aspirin that morning. To my befuddlement, my mother gasped with shock.
“What is it, Mom”
“December 13th… that's the day the old owner…”
“What, Mom? What is it?”
“Oh, never mind, honey. I am sorry to wake you up. You really ought to get some rest now.”
“Okay, Mom. Good night.”
“Good night, Andrew. Hopefully your room isn’t too hot tonight. I know it must be frustrating with your ceiling fan being broken and all, but we will work on it as soon as I get home.”
“Broken?”
The familiar blowing sensation came upon me at once. I could feel the blood rush from my face. I moved the screen away from my face. My eyes met not a curiously functional ceiling fan, but the upturned grin of a man with ruthless features and gilded teeth. Smoke filled the room and the man standing above me, breathing down on my face, drew closer.
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