Past Works

“I don’t blame myself. I know you were probably going to ask. Everyone always says that they blame themselves.” He shifted in the chair. “I know that it wasn’t my fault.” There was a pause. He looked at her, then his hands. 

“Actually I was going to ask if you would like some water.” The therapist gestured to a pitcher, condensation forming and dripping down onto a tray, creating a little puddle around the glass. 

The man cleared his throat and nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

“So, why are you here?”

“So I can go back to work, frankly.”

“Yes, I understand you are here for trauma counseling.”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you tell me a little bit about what happened, just to get started.” 

In a dark corner of the room, a faucet was dripping. 

“Okay, uhm. . . He was always messing around when he shouldn’t’ve, you know? Joking and stuff. He wanted to make work lighthearted, I guess, which was nice, but sometimes you gotta be serious, right?” He cleared his throat.

“Go on.” She gave a slight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. 

“Uhm.” His hands shook slightly, so he bundled them into fists. He closed his eyes and went on. “So, we were working on a site and it was pouring rain. We were almost flooded. Ground was soaked, and turned into a muddy river. It was the most rain I’ve ever been in. Not sure why we were working then. It was bad; I had to keep wiping my face so I could see; water kept getting in my eyes. Well, anyway, if you don’t watch where you’re going in constructions, if you misstep, nothing good happens. . . I- I remember the moment so clearly when he sank. It was like the ground swallowed him.” He looked off, through the windows. It seemed later than it should have been. ”His face was frozen, not in shock, just regular, expressionless. He didn’t have time to register what was happening. Just a split second and he was gone. Disappeared. Keeps replaying in my head, obviously. Everyone says that. It’s just– it’s like he was never there.” There was a heavy, uncomfortable silence. He felt like he should keep talking. “So, yeah, they said I should see someone before I go back to work. For trauma.” Shadows spilled across the room. 

Drip. 

Drip like a rap at the door when you’re home alone.

He was about to continue. “So, I feel. . .”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I’m a little lost.” She looked down at her notes. They were blank. “Who are we discussing?”

“…What?”

“Just now. Who were you talking about?”

“I… My coworker.”

“Who?”

“… “ He froze, furrowed his brow for a second, then looked to the therapist. “I’m sorry. My mind’s been drifting lately.” He smiled slightly, a tired smile. The cup of water sat full and forgotten on the table beside him. 

“That’s okay.” Her tone was reassuring but rehearsed. She scribbled something in her folder of papers. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about your childhood?”

“Uhm. . . My parents and I didn’t talk very much. But sometimes we’d watch a show or movie, and Dad and I would try to say the funniest thing we could think of to make Mom laugh. I would usually win.” 

Drip. 

Drip. A storm while you’re driving. You’re blind. Who knows what’s around you? What’s coming to get you? 

“We lived in a regular sorta house, with a cat who lived outside. He would always disappear for a long time before sauntering back like he owned the place, yowling for food.” He laughed briefly. “I went to school like everyone else for a while. Got a job.” There was a long silence as his eyes drifted like he was lost in a daydream. His features seemed to droop. 

The therapist might have said something. Neither heard. The only sound was the faucet. She made a mumble, almost a hum, trying to form an intelligible noise. She kept going like there was a response, nodding, keeping notes. Her hands made motions of writing in the air, but she had no pen or paper, just muscle memory. Then, finally there were words. 

“Why don’t we discuss your childhood?” Everything was still. Words were slow.

“It was quiet.” 

There was nothing else to say. 

The drip, 

drip, 

drip should have added an urgency to each word, but muscles were relaxed. And words were slow.

“I’m so lost.” He was slumped on the floor. There was no chair for him to sit. It had disappeared with the thoughts and the notes and nearly all that was left of him. “I don’t know who I am anymore.” 

He could barely speak now.

Drip, drip. It keeps going, never ceasing, never relieving. You don’t know what you wait for. You wait for nothing.

Drip, drip. It pacifies you, your ignorance, and the nothing makes you slack-jawed. It is out of your hands and into oblivion’s. And it craves erasure. 

Drip. 

“I can’t remember how long I’ve been in this room or how I got here.” 

Drip. 

“I don’t know who you are.” His eyes were glazed over, like he was nearly asleep. The therapist simply kept scribbling, occasionally looking up at him but not seeing, muttering “mmhmm, go on” in sync to the drip of the faucet.

He went on, monotone but strangely melodic. “I’m . . . slipping away.”

“Go on.”

There were tears on his emotionless face; his throat had forgotten to tighten, his lip to quiver. Then the words spilled out of his mouth. “I’ve been feeling . . . empty.” He gargled and spit. “Is that normal, doctor?” The therapist stared through him as he slowly melted into the chair. She sat there, the words slowly reaching her ears. 

“Yes… That’s completely normal,” she whispered. 

He pooled onto the floor. “So…empty. . .” 

No one was there. 

The therapist looked at the wall. A little part of her wondered what she had been doing moments before. But she quickly lost that feeling and went on with her day.

She couldn’t find her nameplate. It always used to live on her desk. 

Her secretary didn’t respond when she spoke. Everything she tried to say trailed off. Every word morphed into strange sounds. 

She’d felt strange all day, and the air was too thick. It was hard to move. She wandered through hallways that all looked the same. She couldn’t tell if she was breathing. 

She found herself back in the office where she sat at the desk and wondered how long she had been there and what she was supposed to be doing. What did she use to do here? Where did it go? She thought faintly. She didn’t know what was lost. 

She noticed the faucet had stopped dripping. She’d grown used to the persistent noise like an etching in her brain. Pick, picking apart her pieces. Wrong, wrong. 

In its absence she felt the pressure of silence surrounding her, drowning her. It was silence that shouldn’t have existed. It was evil. It was silence that had been stalking and getting closer, and now it was all around. But the silence wasn’t the killer. 

In her mind’s eye something was receding before a tsunami, before a great wave come to take everything, before what’s been built is leveled, before there’s nothing and no one remembers what was once there. 

The next day the cleaner found an empty room and a wet spot on the carpet. Then the cleaner wondered why he’d gone in there at all since no one used that office. 

But the maze has overgrown 

I just wanted to hear 

Your voice through the leaves 

In the backyard 

But I can’t shout your name 

I can’t step 

Without falling through 

To another world, another time 

Where the colors are strange and smudged

It’s strange I don’t remember your name 

Or the turns

I used to go so fast to get to you

Now that I’m stiff as stone

I don’t remember which seat was mine 

At breakfast 

I don’t remember the light through the trees

Or the games we’d play

I don’t remember;

What did we use to say?

I feel it in my chest and my stomach 

I feel its wooden frame stretch down

My arms to my fingertips 

Halting every slight movement 

It stutters when I breathe 

Then settles 

Then settles 

I fear I’ve swallowed a mirror 

That cracks

And breaks when I speak 

Cursing me

Cursing me

I step with choppy legs 

And reflect

If I am me

Then who is she?

Nights with too dense air 

That hang in your lungs

Swinging

Like a weight 

As you wait

Weighing options

Always rocking

On the porch

The cicadas screaming 

Will always be 

Anachronistic 

And foreign 

In another realm

Behind the trees

Because you know 

What you don’t know 

And you know that 

Some knowledge 

Is only for the bugs

I can’t fall asleep at a time like this

I’m awake and my mind moves

I am still

It turns over and burns

Shhh

Dreams melt from my ears

I get up like smoke and shift 

Through the rooms

Plan lost to my waterlogged brain

Careful careful 

Ache

No no

You were here once before

Did you like my smile?

Were the walls far enough apart for you?

You like to slip through cracks 

And every time I dream 

I dream of the back of your head

When you arrived at the movie theater, you hadn’t thought about how late it would be when the movie ended. You hadn’t thought about the possibility of the friend who drove you here falling asleep before the movie ended and you had time to call her. She’s a deep sleeper; fire alarms wouldn’t open her eyes, much less a likely silenced phone. You stand in the rain outside the entrance with no ride, not even the hope of one. The only thing shielding you from the rain is a flickering streetlight, and you can’t see anything far away. You hear nothing but the rain and the soft buzz of the light, whose hope of staying bright gets dimmer and dimmer with each passing minute.

Standing there for about an hour or so, you try to think of a plan to get home. There’s no bus at this time of night, and no one you know will be up. The town you’re in is small, which means that you can’t walk to the subway or call a taxi. It seems that the only choice is to walk. Your foot splashes into the river of water running down the street, and the droplets barely have time to land before a car pulls to a stop in front of you. The passenger-side window lowers.

“What are you doing out so late? Do you need a ride anywhere?”

A man in a gray turtleneck sits in the driver's seat. He leans toward you to see through the window, and you catch him looking you up and down. His short-ish brown hair flies about his head, and his rectangular glasses are smudged and scratched at the edges. His car does not make you feel any safer about him. You count at least three dents on one side alone, and one of the wheels is missing a hubcap, but his car is the only one you can see in the darkness, and you’d rather not walk home in the rain. The car door opens, albeit with quite a bit of effort, and you step in.

“Do you know where 749 Earl Drive is? I can give you directions.” You start to pull out your phone, ready to open your GPS to find the fastest possible route. 

“Oh no, that’s alright. I know this place fairly well. You can put the phone away.”

“Okay, well I’m just going to text my-”

“You don’t need to, I’ll get you home.”

“But I’m just going to-”

“Put the phone away.”

There is a moment of silence. You put the phone away.

“Come on,” he pats your armrest. “Tell me about yourself; let’s have some conversation instead.”

The car silently rolls out onto the street, and you have a look around the inside of the car. It’s surprisingly clean for a car whose owner is the creepiest person you’ve met in a long time. There is a mat on the floor in front of you, which seems like it would come off easily, and the seat cover you’re sitting on shifts each time you move. The dashboard, like the rest of the car, is devoid of any personality, and there isn’t even any pet hair or crumbs on the padded floor. The driver’s side is the same, but it doesn’t have any loose covers. The seat is clean and the floor is still spotless, though. You don’t see any sort of wrappers or trash anywhere, and there’s only one dark red spot on the side of the seat. You stare at it for a while, wondering if the stranger knows it's there.

“So how come you’re out so late? You don’t have a curfew?”

“No, I have one,” you say, “but I snuck out to see a movie.”

“So your parents don’t know you’re out here?”

“No. My friend took me, but she fell asleep before I could call her to take me back home. She’s a really heavy sleeper, and my family’s the same. I could probably scream at the top of my lungs right outside their rooms and they wouldn’t even notice.”

“Ah,” the man laughs, “it’s a blessing and a curse.”

“Yeah, they sleep late, too. I have to ask my friends for a ride to school every day.”

“So you don’t even see them until school is over?”

“I get home late, too. Maybe around eight o’clock.”

“Wow, so how often do you see your family?”

“Not very much,” you say, “once or twice in the evening. We usually get together to watch TV before I go to bed unless I go to a friend’s house.”

“Huh.” 

For some reason, the man seems satisfied with this answer. For some reason, you’re happy with yourself for having satisfied him. For some reason, he misses your turn, even though he told you he knows this town like the back of his hand. The streetlights get farther apart, and it becomes harder to see the man’s face. 

“My turn was back there,” you say. “I know a good spot to turn around.”

“No need,” he says while still driving away from your house. The shadows on the trees get longer and darker, and the car jerks violently as it turns down a rocky path you’ve never seen before. You pull out your phone, trying to find your location on the GPS, but before you can put in the passcode, it flies out of your hands and through the driver’s side window. 

“I told you to put the phone away.” His voice is angrily calm, just loud enough for you to hear. He reaches for the glove compartment, and you realize what the red stain on his seat is. The passenger door won’t open.

“Let me out,” you plead, frantically pulling on the door handle. It remains stubborn, keeping you in the car. The glove compartment opens, and a small knife shines in the darkness. It’s all you can see as it inches closer and closer to your neck. 

“Wait here.”

You nod, and the man gets out of the car. You don’t know what to do. Your door won’t open and you’ll be caught if you try to climb out of the driver’s side. You’re trapped.

The passenger door opens from the outside. 

“Get out.” You get out of the car. He pulls you through the trees, keeping a tight grip on your arm. You reach a clearing in the trees and are thrown to the ground. The man walks to the center of the clearing, knife still in hand. He crouches down and uncovers a small bag, containing a lighter and a whistle. Now might be your chance to escape. 

The man is only a few yards away from you, facing the other way. If you get up quietly and run fast enough, you might be able to get out of the forest. There’s no time to search for your phone, so you’ll have to take his car and drive away as quickly as possible. You brace your muscles, trying to remember the route back to the car. You move to your feet as slowly as possible.

You hear a sharp rustle as the whistle falls to the round, and you take your chance. The leaves around you crinkle and crack as you fly through them, running faster than ever before. You pass a sign not far off from the clearing before you hear a shout and another pair of feet racing after you. With every sign you pass, the feet close the distance between you. Halfway to the car you stumble, tripping over a root that’s invisible in the darkness. The feet seem to pick up speed as you lose yours, and your hope of getting to the car is lost. The rustling grows closer.

Gathering all your strength, you push yourself up. Your feet move before your body can right itself, but you’re running again before the man can catch you. The car is in sight now.

You pass the last sign, exiting the forest. The toes of the man’s shoes scrape against your heels as you throw open the car door and jump inside. The door slams shut just in time. 

There’s no time for a sigh of relief. You race to lock the car before the man reaches the car handle and grasp for the key to start the car. Your hand grabs nothing. You fling open the glove compartment, but it's empty. You scan the floor, the cupholders, everything around you, but there’s no key anywhere. It's not in the car. 

It's attached to a keyring, which jingles as the man takes it out of his pocket. 

An idea forces its way through the fog of fear in your head, moving your hands to the handle of the door. You pull the handle and push the door open as hard as you can, and the man falls backward with an “oof.” The keys fly through the air and land, to your dismay, behind him. 

Now is your chance; you jump out of the car and run for the keys. The man sits up and reaches for you, grabbing your shoe as you run past him. He pulls and you fall just short of the keys, inches away from your hand. You turn your attention to the stranger and kick him in the face, hoping to hurt him enough for him to let go. Your shoe makes contact with the space between his eyes and his head snaps backward, but he still holds strong. Both hands are on your ankle now. 

You try to wrestle your foot away from him, kicking and spinning your leg in circles in hopes of weakening his grip. You kick him in the face once more, getting his nose this time. One hand lets go, and the other loosens its grip. You pull your leg back, and the hand is on your shoe, tightening its grip again. 

You remember the keys just behind you, now in reach after your struggle. You grasp them and ram them into the man’s hand before he can orient himself, and you hear a pained, frustrated yell before you’re finally freed of his grip. 

You’re almost there. You stumble to the car and cram yourself inside, grabbing the door and pulling it back to you. It slams shut just as the stranger is back on his feet. You jam the gear shift into reverse and put all of your weight onto the gas pedal. The car flies out onto the road, and you are immediately grateful you’re outside a small town. The only things on the road are the man and your escape.

You put the car in drive and turn the wheel as far right as it goes. The car turns back toward the town and you step on the gas pedal, speeding away from the man in the forest. The streetlights start to get closer together, and you can feel your thoughts start to slow down again. The car is silent, save for the slow rumble of the engine, and your knuckles are white as you grip the steering wheel. The only thing you can think of is that man, and you try to remember as much of his face as you can so you can report him to the police. You remember to put your seatbelt on just after entering the town again.

The next day, you appear in the news. The stranger who picked you up wasn’t found, but thanks to you stealing his car, the police know he can’t have gone far. They search the forest and find a small bag, containing a lighter and a strange whistle which, when blown, doesn’t sound like any bird you’ve heard of before. Your friend appears in the news too, and you know why she wasn’t there to pick you up after the movie. They find her body in three pieces, each with their insides scraped out and her bones arranged in a strange symbol just outside of the clearing in the woods.

I have a wish in my backpack

Made up of one thousand cranes

Folded and placed in a small, clear jar

I’d hoped they weren’t all in vain

I have a wish in my backpack

I was planning to give it to you

But I heard you were kissing some no one

Don’t deny it, I know it’s true

I have a wish in my backpack

Now tainted with the sting of betrayal

My wish has malicious intentions

My mind is very unstable

I have a wish in my backpack

Who the hell do you think you are?

I put in all this time and effort for you

Put all my love inside of this jar

I have a wish in my backpack

And just one thing to say to you

Two words infused with great anger and glee

I’d just like to say: F**k you.

“Dude, look how unbreakable this is,” a girl says and throws her phone across the bus. It flies from the front to the back in a perfect parabola, hitting the elderly woman driving. The phone is sturdy; sturdy enough to knock someone out if thrown hard enough, and this is exactly what happens. The bus driver slumps forward, unconscious, and the phone disappears. The bus swerves to the left and rolls down a hill. Massive booms echo through the forest, causing a murder of crows to fly away; their caws are the last thing the children hear before another boom drowns out everything else. The bus reaches the bottom of the hill, and silence hangs over the forest. All anyone can look at is the deep tire marks carved into the dirt on the side of the road. No one moves. After a few moments, a girl, the girl who threw the phone, manages to drag herself to the top of the hill, covered in bruises and blood, her left arm clearly broken. 

“Hey, my phone!” The girl bends over and picks it up with her left hand. She stands up and faces the screen, holding up the phone so we can see it clearly. There isn’t even a scratch.

“Nokia 3310. Indestructible.”

The screen fades to black.

A duck is nearby

Anatidaephobia

It’s always watching…

The wilder wind blows through my childhood home.

The memories passing by as I sit.

Memories as breakable as some bones.

Winds blow harder as the room is unlit.

A torch is set aflame to light a wick,

but the candle is not on fire this time.

It´s smart but can be easily tricked.

Easily readable just like a sign.

The one made by the Mother Earth herself.

She grows things that are taken like a crumb.

Blinded by the pain I cause to myself.

She is patient just like the winds that come.

Close my eyes, sleep, while the pain shifts away.

Happier dreams while I slumber and play.

Playing with smiles and childhood innocence

Delicate hands touch comes down to the world

Thinking that the adult world is nonsense

Protected like the mother's baby bird

Each baby bird has something different

One baby bird stained red worse than the rest

One baby bird that’s less magnificent

Their mother bird thinking that they’re the best 

Not catching as the little bird falls off

No guidance when the small bird asks for help

Locks and yells at the “toy” bird in the loft

A harsh slap came towards the bird…it yelps

When I open a book, 

I discover a world. 

A wonderful world of words, 

A lavish language of letters. 

I drift into a utopic land, 

Filled with mystery, horror, or history. 

I travel a world of joy and laughter, 

I view palaces crafted from paragraphs. 

A sparkling sun shines on shimmering shrubs, 

Illuminating fairytale flora. 

Fantastical fruit grows from fictional trees, 

And prose flows from paper rivers. 

And the still-wet ink of narratives past - 

It makes me feel like I’m home at last. 

I wish to stay in this amazing dream, 

To dwell in paradise everlastingly.

As soon as I wake up, I am faced with drowsy darkness. I try to sit up, or even open my eyes, but every muscle feels like lead. My thoughts make their way through my mind like molasses. I can’t remember how I got here, or what I’d done before I woke up. I force myself to calm down and breathe. I‘m lying on grass, but I can’t feel the sun or wind. I hear a thud from above me and force my eyes open. I sit up and immediately do a double-take. I’m in a forest - a huge forest. The sky is gray and cloudless.

But something else feels off. I stand up and tentatively walk forward. It’s only once I approach the first tree that I realize what’s wrong. There are no animals. No birds, no squirrels, not even an ant. Where am I? I wonder. There is no one else here, and the bleak forest appears to go on forever.

I decide to climb a tree to see if I can catch a glimpse of anything better from there. The first branch holds my weight, and the second, and the third. I reach up to the fourth branch and slowly shift my weight. I place my foot, my hand, then CRACK! The branch gives out beneath me. I hit the ground hard and barely dodge the falling branches. My heart racing, I look at the branch and notice something odd. The tree looks like it is made of… wood? Not the wood normally in a tree, but cut, carved, hollow wood— like a construction project.

I run to the nearest tree and yank at one of the branches. It’s exactly the same - man-made wood. I start to lose it and run as far as I can as fast as I can. I race past rows of fake trees and begin to sprint faster. My feet pound the forest floor and my arms pump beside me. Adrenaline is rushing through my veins and my heart is pounding against my chest.

As my eyes frantically search for something normal, I smack face-first into… a wall? I stumble backward as pain floods through my skull. I blink rapidly to clear my vision. My head spinning, I reach out and touch the wall. It also feels wooden, but it’s covered in some sort of. . . projection screen. As I question what’s going on, I feel something pinch my arm and look down in fear. My blood turns to ice and I suddenly can’t breathe. The object looks like a mosquito, but it’s stuck in my arm and is not budging. My head starts to feel fuzzy, and I’m able to recognize a syringe in the mosquito’s body before my eyes roll back and I black out.

“Local authorities have been searching for weeks, but there is no sign of the victims.” The reporter signs off and the weather report begins. The woman shakes her head and turns off her radio. Everyone else had dismissed the suspicious disappearances too easily.

***

Three months ago, a girl went missing and was never found. A month later, on the same day, a young boy went missing. And two days ago, another girl was taken. Serial killers and crazed kidnappers weren’t common in the rural town of Dubuque, Kansas, so the first disappearances had everyone on high alert. However, only one news channel was covering the latest kidnapping. It was as if no one noticed, or something was stopping them from noticing. The woman had heard of disappearances like this before, and she was determined to find the missing children. She had searched the town countless times in recent months but had never found a clue.

She decided to go for a walk to clear her head. There were miles of abandoned woods behind her house, and she liked the quiet. She found her usual trail and ducked under vines hanging overhead. As she walked, she pondered the mystery. This has to be the work of a psychopath, someone horrifically methodical. She thought. The problem was, she had no idea who it could be. Then again, Dubuque wasn’t a very lively place. People weren’t too friendly in a ghost town.

She sighed and looked up at the sky, then around at her surroundings. She hadn’t been to this part of the woods before, and the sky seemed to be growing darker. She shrugged and warily continued onwards. Soon, she spotted something in the distance. A swing set? Thinking of the missing children, she decided to explore. Just as she resumed walking, she heard a hollow thud. Then another, and another, and another, in time with her footsteps. She crouched down and knocked on the forest floor. Another hollow thud, louder this time. The dirt appeared to be thinner here, and the trail was worn down - like someone was recently here. She frowned. She hadn’t seen anyone walking in the woods before.

Her eyes roamed over the ground and found a mysterious dark, flat stick. A handle? She wondered. She gave it a tug and was surprised to find it gave way. The trapdoor opened, and the woman could not believe her eyes.

She was standing in the sky. Below her, she saw a forest identical to the one she was standing in. She carefully leaned forward to peer over the edge. Just as she was about to back away, she felt a sharp shove from behind. She screamed as she plunged down into the mysterious forest. Her arms pinwheeled beside her, and her eyes squeezed shut as she braced for impact. She hit the ground hard and immediately blacked out. When she woke up, she was greeted by a bleak, endless forest.

Somewhere in the distance, the bodies of three children waited for her to join them.

There is a soft light above where you sleep

Flame and oil, trapped in metal hangs from the sympathetic hands of a pine

A barrier rattled by the wind obstructs your view of the night

Your eyes can only focus on the beacon on the other side

Shelter restrains your body from the earth below

The World breathes deep, longing, achings around you

Despite messages from its violets, trees, stars, and heart

Behind the wall you are unreachable

But, in the quiet morning when the estrangement comes to an end

Under the divulgence of the sunlight

the World, it welcomes you

in strong times of stress,

i forget to remember about

the wonders of this world.

how the small cause

ripples in the sea of the Stars.

the Stars dance in front

of my eyes like a

mobile over my crib.

the cold air numbs my nose

while the fire in my heart

burns.

i become angry that

the Stars stare at me.

for once i stare as well,

challenging them back.

they seduce

a calm and peace.

the same as a mother

singing her lullaby.

the Stars reveal truth.

they tell you of

what they have seen,

if you bother asking

with a still heart.

they are held in the

sky that acts as my

veil separating me from the universe.

i forget to notice them,

even though they

speak,

sing,

and dance in front of my

eyes and above me.

they remind me of how small i really am.

but I can’t help but hope that I am one of

them.

i want to be a

flame that everyone feels and sees.

i want it to show in the depths of my eyes.

i want to burn so bright that

others reach out.

i want to be

special like the

Stars.

i want to be

the one someone

looks for.

but could i?

“Have you ever heard of the spirit, Franklin of Plymouth?” 

The young kids just looked around at each other, none of them knowing what the traveler was talking about. The man said he came from the New England region, visiting the South. He was staying in a bed and breakfast as he was in the area. It was nearing Halloween and the kids in the hotel were working on their costumes when he called them over to the fire. 

“Franklin was an original pilgrim from the Mayflower. However, he was only ten when he arrived with his family-” 

“Wait, I’m ten!” said a redheaded boy to the man. 

“But, what people didn’t know was that he had the power of witchcraft. But by the time he was an old man like me, the Salem Witch trials had begun. No one suspected him of his powers, but how could they? He had already separated his soul from his human shape and escaped the human race.” 

The kids couldn’t imagine how that would be possible and how at all this was interesting until the man went on to say, “And the only way Old Man Franklin of Plymouth lives is by taking away a human's soul and replacing it with his own. Living until that human vessel dies and moves on. Almost like a disease.” 

Then the kids were scared. “How do we know if he took one of our friend’s souls?” asked the redhead. 

The old man answered, “They become forgetful of themselves and the people they know. The doctors call it dementia or the other one. What is the name of the other one?” That is when two little girls screamed and the whole group ran away. 

The only problem with the kids running away early was that the old man never got the chance to say that the spirit isn’t contagious, or that the only way to save your friends is by saying their name three times, or you know, that the spirit of Franklin didn’t really exist. So that night when the kids were with their families, they paid attention to their moms, dads, brothers, and sisters to see if they had been possessed by Franklin. Mom had called them by their sibling’s name. Dad had forgotten who was president. Sister couldn’t remember her fifth youngest sibling’s birthday. Brother had forgotten his favorite toy at home. So all of the kids who listened to the story by the fire, had laid awake that night wondering if Franklin was going to eat their soul as they slept. 

So, as the policemen the next morning asked each and every kid about the killings of their families, “Who was it?” they all, each and every one of them, said . . .

“I forgot,” with bloody scissors, knives, and sharp pencils in their hands. 

If I were to die, I wish to die a lively dramatic way 

A way that people will remember till the end of days 

People will tell their children about my bravery 

Or about my stupidity 

If I were to die, I wish to be consumed by the forest 

I ask that the winds will scream my name when I go 

I pray that the moon will add my story to her collection 

And that the sun will shine beautiful rays of hope. 

So that flowers will grow where I lie, 

Showing the people that I still have some more life in me, 

For my stubbornness will stay with me even in death. 

If I were to die, I promise to scream and yell at that endless abyss. 

I would be loud enough for Pluto to hear in his lonesomeness 

And the abyss would grow tired of my stubbornness 

It’ll let me go from its cold yet familiar grip 

And let me live a new life that I will live to its fullest 

Where I sing with the winds that scream 

Where I play with those beautiful flowers that the sun shines on 

Where I find a forest that's still hungry 

I will find company in the moon 

And there start thinking 

If I were to die.

Monday, October 13, 1986. The day Connie Murphy was reported missing from a school party. Connie's body was found on September 30, and the case was closed. A memorial service was held, and the town offered its condolences. After a week or two, the town returned to normal. While no one forgot about Connie she was no longer a priority in their minds. 

The date is now October 13, 1996. Today marks ten years since Connie was lost. Henry and Polly Murphy are in their living room, in front of the television, when the news comes on.

“Good Evening. This is Reporter John Herbert reporting live for the 6 o’clock Forestford news. We start today’s edition with a bit of a sad topic. On this day ten years ago, 15-year-old Connie Murphy was announced missing from our town," Henry and Polly both gasp.

“Ten years. Oh my!" Polly exclaims. 

“No, it can’t be. Ten years," Henry pauses, "we must celebrate, darling.” 

“Oh yes, we must. It’s what Connie would’ve wanted.” 

Polly gets up off the couch and walks to the kitchen cabinet where the wine is kept. She grabs a bottle from the back of the cabinet. 

“I think it’s time we open up this one dear,” Polly says as she points the bottle toward her husband. 

“I forgot about that one!” Henry exclaims, “It’s only fair since we did buy it the night she went missing.” 

“You are right dear it’s only right we open it after all this time.” 

But as Polly reaches for the wine opener the phone rings, and as she begins to open the bottle her husband calls her into the living room.

“Honey, can’t it wait? I’m trying to open this bottle! It’s stuck!” Polly yells back at her husband. 

“No…It’s... Um… this is important,” Henry says back, doubt filling his voice. 

“Oh my gosh. What is it?” Polly is now in the living room, the landline phone held toward her ear. 

There is silence for a while causing Polly to respond again with a simple, Hello?” 

“Mom! Hi, I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for so long. I feel like we haven’t talked since I was like 15!” The voice chuckles on the other side. 

“C..Connie? How are you? What are you… Who is this? Why are you playing some sick joke on my husband and me?” Polly says as fear grows on her. 

How could this be? Connie is no more. It has been ten years since that night, and Connie was never found. Henry and Polly are the only ones to know the truth. There is no “lost”, there is only “dead.”

“A joke? You are so funny Mom; this is why I love you so much,” Connie laughs again, bright and alive. “Do you know where my bracelet is by the way? I swear I never took it off.” 

That’s when Polly hangs up the phone, slamming the phone on the plastic stand and unplugging the phone. Henry is rushing to the kitchen to grab a beer. When he returns, Polly is on the floor with her head in her hands. 

“How would they know?” Polly asks in a voice just above a whisper. 

“That was Connie’s voice. It… It had to be,” Henry say as he took a large sip of the beer in his palm. 

“But that’s impossible...we..." 

“I know, but that had to be her voice. Who else could it have been?” Henry’s beer is now empty, his head in his hands on the couch. 

As Henry and Polly sit in disbelief the air around them turns cold. Grief and regret remain unspoken between them. The room grows cold, and the phone rings again. 

“Should I answer it?” Henry asks as he stands up. 

“I guess,” Polly sighs. 

Henry picks up the phone and Connie’s voice is back, but this time it feels different. There is something in the air that is creating a tension thicker than steel.

“Dad! Hey. I miss you so much and….,” the voice fades away and a low grumble takes over.  The room grows dark. 

“Polly, are you there?” Henry calls out. He can’t see anything. Everything around him is an endless black void. 

“Henry? Where did you go? Henry?” Polly calls out into the empty space that once contained her husband. 

Now Henry is confined to the phone, where he will be punished for killing his own daughter.

When I was younger, we lived next to a train, which was operational only between 12 and 2 a.m. I found it peculiar. However, my mother forbade me from ever going to the railroad, which made me even more intrigued. But I listened to my mom and never went. 

I eventually decided at the age of 17 to ask, “Mom. . . Why can’t I walk near the tracks?” 

She paused for a bit before sitting down, taking a break from the dishes. 

“Your grandpa was a very hardworking man from around 7:00 to 11:00, and he would occasionally stop by the bar for a beer or two before heading home. However, one night when he came home he was sweating profusely, and he looked crazed in the eyes muttering something we assumed was gibberish. My mother and I cleaned him up and put him to bed so he could be comfortable. 

The next morning I awoke to my mother in tears, and she told me, ‘Father is missing. . . We have to go find him.’ 

Off we went checking everywhere, the pub, the city, and even his job. No sign of him. We finally decided to head home to find him sitting on the porch rocking in his chair singing a song we couldn’t understand. 

He was just staring at me, and he told me ‘SEI, PLEASE WHATEVER YOU DO…DON’T GO TO THE RAILROADS.’ We got him up and brought him into the house. Next morning he was gone again, and I never saw my father again. I felt terrible for asking, and I comforted my mother and began off. I felt bad, but this only struck my curiosity even more and I decided to go to the tracks. That night I snuck out while my mom was sleeping and headed to the tracks, and not too far along I heard the train a-comin’. The sound almost became a blur. I got chills and smelt something burning, but nothing was set ablaze. 

Then a whisper “ sei~, Sei~, SEI~.” It began to get louder, making me feel nauseous and my heart pounding until everything began to freeze in time, the train only speeding past, seeming to never end. Then a tall, pale, sinister man almost like a ghost approached me. 

“Where you heading tonight, kid?” 

I don’t know why, but in fear I lied to the man. “I got in a fight with my mom because I didn’t listen to her.” 

“Ah, you should really listen to your mom, kid”

I kinda mean-mugged him but continued down beside the railroad, and he followed a few feet behind me. 

“Hey!” he shouted out at me. “Why not climb up on the train and get along faster?” 

It seemed almost as if my body was taken over, like I was a puppet. Frozen in fear I tried to fight back against this strange and unsettling energy around me. While fighting not to get on the train, I heard my mom shouting my name and emerging from the woods before everything went black. I awoke in a hospital bed only to be showered in love and joy by my teary eyed loving mother. Then the doctor walked in. 

“Ah, Sei, you’re finally awake.” 

I thought to myself those words sound really familiar. The doctor turns around, and it is the same man with the same malicious laugh. I begin to scream only to hear my mother’s muffled voice, and when I turn to look at her my entire heart dropped, with her face melting and peeling off as this “man” is still laughing.

And for the last thing left ,with both Sei and his mother gone, was a letter. It read, “Who’s going to ride the devil's train tonight?”

“Thea, come on, get up!” Mom screams from downstairs. 

I open my eyes groggily, hesitant to move so early in the morning. I look outside my windows adorned with billowing curtains. The sun is yet to rise today, my heart fills with excitement as I think of the gorgeous sunset I will see this morning. I pick up my phone. No new messages. October 13, 6:03 AM. I sigh, expecting a message from my father, or anyone at all. I stand up, realizing that I was already supposed to be downstairs for breakfast. Opening the door out of my bedroom, I notice my cat, Leo walking down the hallway. I beckon for him, but he doesn’t notice me. I find this odd, as he always sees me and comes right towards me, but perhaps he’s tired. I call his name, and he jumps up and looks around the hallway with confusion, not noticing me. I find this strange, but I continue down the stairs towards the kitchen. My mom is in the kitchen, with her dark curly hair and rich eyes, she keeps preparing breakfast as I walk in. There is a long silence in the house. I wonder if my mom is angry or hungover from the night before. 

“Hey, mom,” I say after a moment of standing awkwardly in the kitchen.

“Hey, how’d you sleep?” she replied, not looking up from what she was doing. I cross into the kitchen, sitting at the island bar. 

“Good. Something odd happened with Leo this morning. He didn’t even see me!” I say, grabbing a bowl from off of the counter. My mom finally turns around, a concerned look on her face. A long silence passes as my mom’s face contorts with worry and confusion.

She says “Thea, love, don’t hide from me.”

My heart drops. “I’m not hiding mom. You don’t see me sitting at the counter?” I say with fear for her answer.

“No,” she replies, looking pale. I run from the counter, across the house and to the bathroom. 

“Please. Please. Please.” I say under my breath as I run into the bathroom. I feel my heart pounding as I open the door to the bathroom, my head feels heavy as I lift it to look into the mirror. All I see is the back wall. I move my arms. Nothing. My vision blurs as I scream and feel my body fall to the tiled floor of the bathroom. My body lies there for days, with nobody finding me. A miserable life I now lead just because of one morning.

I sat with the bones, I wish I could tell you what they told me

They showed me things I was never supposed to see

Mama said there were dark things hidden in the sylvan of birch

Things that stare down at you from the peak of their perch

But as I sit with the bones, I see nothing wrong

They share with me their secrets, ones that have been kept for so long

Among the crooked wooden crosses, haphazardly staked in the ground

Supposedly marking something earthbound

Pollution sitting, a small pile of junk

White figures that shift among the trunk

`They whisper to me, becoming more and more distinguished from the whisper of a tree

‘Stay here with us; it’s where you’re meant to be’

I stay a bit longer, and they teach me more things

Tis evening now, past the setting sun

And I heard the gentle whisper of ‘Run’

‘Run’ I heard, not from the bones, yet not from the wind

‘Run’ says the children hiding just in the wood, bleached white as the bones near where I stood

‘Run’ says the children, with eyes of black void,

So I run as fast as I can, for a short time that has surely been hours

Past a spooked fox and a valley of withering flowers

Yet I make it back to the very same place as the trees around me whither and shake

Foolish child! they scream at me, as the bones rattle and quake

Foolish child, do you not see? Those children you saw, the next of them you shall be!

And as you sit here wide-eyed and wondering, about how a pile of bones could do such an atrocious thing

I implore you to run and flee, or the last of them I shall not be

Little miner, did no one teach you to stop digging when the canary has finished his song?

Run, run, run little miner. For you shall be joining me before long.