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When I was in 3rd grade, my life felt as close to perfect as a kid could ask for.

My parents were still together and they seemed genuinely happy at the time.

Not like fake happy that you see in movies, but actually happy.

My older sister and I got along most of the time even though she could be annoying and mean.

We had a nice house, went on vacations, and I had everything I could want.

Honestly, I didn't even know how lucky I was.

You don't learn that kind of thing until you grow up.

Everything felt safe and normal.

At least it did until that one night.

It was late, I don't remember the exact time, but I had been dreaming about something.

I can't even remember what it was, but then I just woke up just like that.

You know that feeling when you're falling in a dream and it just jolts you awake?

It was like that.

At first everything seemed fine.

But then I saw him.

My third grade teacher.

He was standing in my room, just standing there, staring at me.

At first I thought maybe I was still dreaming.

It didn't make any sense.

Why would he be here?

But he didn't disappear when I blinked, and the longer that I looked, the more real it felt.

He didn't say anything.

He didn't even move, he just stood there, completely still, staring at me with this blank, almost calm expression.

His eyes though, made my skin crawl.

I couldn't move, I couldn't scream.

I just lay there frozen while my chest got tight and my breath came in short, shaky gasps.

My brain was screaming to do something, anything, but my body wasn't listening.

He just kept watching me like I was some kind of science experiment he was studying.

Finally, when I couldn't take it anymore, I started crying.

It wasn't loud, I was too scared to make noise, but the tears started pouring out and I could not stop.

That's when he moved.

He turned, walked to my window, opened it like it was no big deal, and climbed out.

But the weirdest part?

He put the screen back on before he disappeared into the night.

I don't even know how he did it.

A few seconds later, my dad came into the room.

What's the matter?

He asked, rubbing his eyes like he had just rolled out of bed.

I tried to explain, but the words came out in this jumbled mess of crying and hiccuping.

I pointed at the window, but of course there was no one there, no sign of anything, just the moonlight shining through the glass.

My dad checked the window and then shook his head.

You must have had a nightmare, buddy.

There's no way anyone came in here, everything's fine, just go back to sleep.

But it wasn't fine.

I knew it wasn't a nightmare.

My mom came in and tried to calm me down, brushing my hair back and telling me everything was fine.

But I saw the look she gave my dad, that one that said what's wrong with him?

The next day at school, I couldn't stop staring at my teacher.

He acted completely normal, like nothing had happened.

He handed out worksheets, explained math problems, and didn't look at me even once for most of the day.

I started to wonder if maybe my parents were right.

Maybe I had imagined it.

But then, right before the bell rang, I glanced up from the paper airplane I was coloring, and he was staring right at me.

His face was still, but there was this tiny, almost invisible grin at the corners of his mouth.

It wasn't a happy smile.

It was wrong.

Like he knew something nobody else did.

My hands started shaking.

The bells saved me though and I grabbed my stuff and bolted.

That night I tried to stay awake.

I told myself there was no way I was going to fall asleep, not with him showing up in my room.

But I was 8 years old and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't fight it.

I passed out and when I woke up again it was to the feeling of someone sitting on my bed.

I opened my eyes and there he was, my teacher, sitting crisscross applesauce at the foot of my bed, staring at me.

His expression hadn't changed, and neither had that creepy little grin.

This time, for some reason, I wasn't as scared and I whispered.

Why are you here?

He didn't answer.

He just put his finger to his lips and made a soft sound, telling me to keep quiet.

Then he got up, walked to the window, opened it, put the screen back on again, closed the window and disappeared just like before.

I told my parents again the next morning, but again, they didn't believe me.

You've got to stop watching those scary movies, my dad said as he poured cereal.

My mom just sighed and told me I needed to stop letting my imagination run wild.

After that, I stopped trying to convince them.

This went on for months.

Every couple of weeks he would show up in my room, sometimes two or three nights in a row.

Sometimes he would just stand there.

Sometimes he would be sitting on my bed.

He never touched me, never said anything beyond.

And then one day it stopped when I started 4th grade and I got a new teacher.

No more late night visits, but I still saw him in the hallway sometimes, and every now and then he'd catch my eye and give me that same small grin.

It wasn't as scary in the daylight, but it still made my stomach hurt.

Now I'm in high school and I still wonder if I made the whole thing up sometimes, but I don't think I did.

It feels too real even now.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, half expecting to see him standing there watching me, waiting for me to wake up.

This is a story my mom told me once, and honestly, it creeps me out whenever I think about it.

It happened years before I was born, back when she was in her early 20s, living alone in a small house on the edge of town.

It was a quiet neighborhood, the kind of place where people didn't bother locking their doors most of the time.

She thought nothing bad could ever happen there.

After this, though, I think she changed her mind.

One evening she was expecting a friend to come over.

It wasn't anything special, just a casual hangout, maybe dinner, maybe some TV.

My mom decided to hop in the shower before her friend arrived, figuring she would have plenty of time to freshen up.

But just in case her friend got there while she was still in the bathroom, she left a note on the front door.

It said I'm in the shower, come on in.

Simple enough, right?

She said she always thought it was funny how trusting she used to be back then.

These days, the thought of leaving your front door open with an invitation like that seems insane, but back then it felt normal.

Anyway, she taped the note to the door and went about her business.

The shower was one of those old ones with a loud water pressure that drowns out every other noise in the house.

My mom was halfway through rinsing her hair when she heard it.

A knock on the bathroom door.

Not on the front door, the bathroom door.

She froze for a second, a little startled but not scared.

It was her friend.

She obviously showed up.

She saw the note.

She just wanted to let her know she was there.

I'll be right out.

My mom called, loud enough to be heard over the water.

There was no response, but she didn't think much of it.

She assumed they would just sit in the living room or the kitchen and wait for her.

She finished her shower a few minutes later, dried off, and got dressed.

But when she stepped out into the hallway, something felt off.

The house was completely silent.

No voices, no footsteps, no sign that anyone had arrived.

She glanced into the living room.

Empty.

The kitchen empty, she checked the front door and sure enough, it was still unlocked.

The note was still there, like nobody had touched it.

Her stomach sank.

She called out.

Hello.

Her voice echoed back at her, and that's when she started to feel uneasy.

The house wasn't that big, and it wouldn't take that long to check every room.

She peeked into the guest room, then her own room, then the tiny laundry room in the back.

Nothing.

Nobody.

She walked back to the bathroom, almost on autopilot, and stared at the door.

It was a plain wooden door, old but sturdy.

She reached out and touched it, her hand hovering near the knob.

She told me later that she half expected it to still be warm, like someone had just been leaning against it, but it wasn't.

It was cold.

Trying to shake off the weird feeling, she went to the living room and sat on the couch.

Grabbing her book to distract herself.

She convinced herself she had imagined it.

Maybe the water pressure had caused some weird noise that sounded like a knock, or maybe it was the pipes.

That's what she told herself anyway.

But she couldn't quite shake the tension in her chest.

About 10 minutes later, headlights swept across the window.

Finally, her friend was there.

She got up and opened the door, and there they were, stepping out of their car with a smile as her friend came inside.

My mom tried to play it cool.

Hey, did you knock on the bathroom door when you came in?

Her friend gave her a confused look.

I just got here.

What are you talking about?

My mom froze.

You didn't come in earlier at all?

No, you just saw me pull up.

Why?

My mom didn't answer right away.

She said later that she didn't want to freak her friend out so she just laughed it off and said I thought I heard something.

Must have just been my imagination I guess.

But she couldn't stop thinking about it.

If it wasn't her friend that had come in earlier, who was it?

After her friend left that night, my mom double checked every lock in the house.

She even wedged a chair under the doorknob, something she had only ever seen people do in movies.

For weeks after that, she could not shake the feeling like she was constantly being watched.

Every time she took a shower, she would lock the bathroom door, even if she was home alone.

She never got an answer to what happened that night, nobody else had a key to the house and there was no sign of anyone breaking in or touching anything.

But she swears she heard that knock clear as day, and I believe her.

It still makes me wonder though, if it wasn't her friend, who was it?

Years ago, back when we thought we were invincible, my two friends and I decided to go camping in the fall.

We were fifteen, stupid, and thought that we were Bear Grylls, that we could do anything.

Of course, this wasn't some super prepared expedition.

We threw a small tent, some chips, maybe some soda, some water into the backseat of my friend's dad's old car.

We were headed to a campground deep in the Pacific Northwest woods.

You know, one of those places where the fog rolls in like a movie set and there's no cell phone service at all.

Good decision making was not our strong suit.

By the time we got the tent set up, it was already dark.

We had one flashlight between the three of us, which meant a lot of tripping and swearing as we got situated.

The tent was just big enough for the three of us.

If none of us moved or breathed, we staggered our setup in the tent, two of us with our heads on one side and the third guys head down by our feet because the tents didn't quite make the fits three adults promise on the box.

The night was silent.

And by silent, I mean creepily silent.

No crickets, no owls, not even the wind.

It was like the forest was holding its breath, waiting for something that should have been our first sign to get out of there.

But no.

We were adventurous, I guess you could say adventurous idiots.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up to a sound.

At first I thought it was part of a dream.

A muffled voice, like someone talking on a cell phone in another room.

Except we weren't in a room and there was no one else around.

Hello.

Can you hear me?

Hello.

The voice said.

My heart stopped.

I lay there, staring up at the tent ceiling, trying to convince myself that I hadn't heard it.

Then it came again.

Hello, can you hear me?

I turned my head and whispered.

Guys, guys, are you awake?

My friend next to me immediately hissed.

Are you hearing that?

We sat up so fast the tent nearly collapsed.

My other friend, who was down by our feet shot up too, his hair sticking out like he had been electrocuted.

What the hell was that?

He whispered.

We all froze, listening.

The voice came again, clear as day.

Hello, can you hear me?

And it was coming from the middle of the tent, right between our heads.

Now let me tell you, there's nothing like sheer terror to make three teenage boys lose their minds.

We scrambled around the tent like maniacs, throwing blankets, shaking out pillows, patting down every inch of fabric.

We were looking for a phone or a speaker or something, anything that would make that noise.

But there was nothing there.

It was just us, sitting there in our socks and PJS and panic, the voice saying hello, can you hear me?

Hello.

I turned to my friend across the tent.

Wait a second, what did you hear?

It sounded like someone was saying hello, can you hear me?

Same.

Said my other friend.

Dude, it was right here.

He pointed to the middle of the tent where our heads had been.

We all just stared at each other trying to process what was happening.

Then just like that, the voice stopped.

Silence again.

Thick, heavy silence.

The kind that makes your ears ring because there's nothing else to hear.

We didn't sleep the rest of the night, we just sat there, wide eyed, clutching our flashlights, jumping at every Creek and rustle outside.

I'm pretty sure I aged five years in those few hours.

When the sun finally came up, we didn't even bother making breakfast, we just packed up as fast as we could and bolted for that.

Car.

None of us even wanted to talk about it, but you could tell we were all thinking the same thing.

What the hell was that?

As we threw our stuff into the car, I noticed something that made my stomach drop.

All our phones were still sitting on the back seat, exactly where we had left them the night before.

None of them had been in the tent, and of course, none of them had any signal.

We just stood there, staring at the phones like they were cursed.

Finally, my friend broke the silence.

OK, he said.

So either one of you has a speaker hidden somewhere or.

He trailed off, his face pale.

None of us laughed.

To this day, I don't know what happened.

Maybe it was a prank.

Maybe it was some weird sound.

Carrying through the fog.

Or maybe the woods were just screwing with us for fun.

All I know is that I've never gone camping again without triple checking my gear and my sanity.

And every time someone says hello, can you hear me on a phone call, I get a little chill that runs down my spine.

I remember seeing the house for the first time.

I was a child of seven.

My young parents had just bought their first home.

I remember hating living in the cramped, dingy apartment we previously inhabited and opening the door to our new home with wide eyed wonder.

It blew my young mind how spacious this house was.

I went upstairs to scope out my bedroom.

I was so excited that I was getting my own room and didn't have to share with my infant brother on my Grand Tour of my new digs.

I finally made it down to our basement.

The basement was nothing like the rest of the house.

The upstairs was elegant and classy.

The basement was cold, metallic, sterile, and stinky.

The ceiling was lined with ancient pipes winding in grotesque angles.

The floor was covered in rough cement.

I recall taking a look at the stairs for the first time and being immediately struck by how odd they were.

The stairs were surrounded by drywall which clashed with the rest of the basement.

One particular section of the wall was colored differently than the rest.

It stood out like a sore thumb.

I inched closer to it and felt the texture of it.

It felt very strange.

I then knocked on it.

A hollow sound pervaded the empty air of the basement.

Something about that sound immediately put me ill at ease.

I walked up the stairs as I could hear the same hollow sound echo in the emptiness of the basement.

As we settled into our new home, I began to get comfortable with my surroundings.

The house began to feel familiar.

Everywhere, that is, except for the basement.

It just always put me off and I avoided going down there as best as I could.

Our family couldn't be happier.

My loving father and mother doted over me and my little brother.

My life was perfect.

Then it began.

I would hear Errant's noises.

When I pointed them out to my parents.

They told me the old standby, that the house was settling.

One night in particular indicated that something wasn't right.

I snuck downstairs to the kitchen for a late night snack.

As I closed the refrigerator, I heard a tapping sound cut through the silence of the night.

I craned my head to see if I could pinpoint where the sound was coming from.

Dread began to wash over me as I realized that tapping was coming from the basement.

I inched my way over to the basement door.

I opened it to see the blackness of the depths below.

My ears perked up.

There it was again, that hollow tapping sound.

The same sound I heard on my initial visits to the basement from hitting the drywall.

I turned on the lights, stealing myself to go down the stairs and investigate.

The tapping continued.

As I took the first step, fear overtook me.

I ran back to my room and hid under my covers until the morning lights gave way to a new day.

I remember walking down the stairs, being the first one up and about.

I ran to the living room to play Nintendo.

On my way, I passed the door to the basement.

It was shut, though I was in a state of near panic when I ran from it the previous night.

I distinctly remember leaving my door open and not turning off the lights.

I rationalized that my mother or father must have gone down there for some reason and I lost myself in Super Mario Brothers.

Three later, I mentioned the incident to my parents and they just assured me that what I had heard was the sound of the hot water heater clicking on at night.

I knew better, but welcomed A logical explanation.

About a month after the move, my mother asked me to run downstairs and grab a load of socks out of the dryer in the basement.

I reluctantly told her that I would.

It was the middle of the day, and enough time had passed to dull the fear that I'd felt a week prior.

I turned on the lights.

I ran down the stairs, hearing the hollow sound echo with my footsteps.

A cold sweat started to form on me.

The smell hit my nose as I reached the last step.

I made my way to the dryer and grabbed a basket.

I pulled the socks out hastily and shoved them into the basket.

After I shut the door to the dryer, I surveyed my surroundings.

The stillness of the basement was so eerie.

Then I heard it.

A faintly audible whisper.

At first, I thought it was somebody calling from upstairs, their voice scarcely making it down into the basement.

However, this was not the case.

That sound was coming from the basement, specifically from under the stairs.

As I stood frozen with fear, it began to increase in volume, but still remained barely above the threshold of human perception.

What was being said?

Incomprehensible to my young ears.

Then it stopped as quickly as it began.

I moved toward the stairs, keeping my eye on the oddly colored portion of the drywall.

As I took my first step to escape this ever growing nightmare, the most profoundly terrifying moment of my life occurred.

A loud hollow bang shook the stairs, almost knocking me to the ground.

I ran up the stairs as fast as my legs would carry me.

Through.

Tears and shaking uncontrollably, I told my parents what happened.

They tried their best to call me, but nothing they said could ease my mind.

I told them in no uncertain terms that I would never go down to the basement again.

They must have been convinced of how terrified I was because they honored my request and never sent me down there again.

After another three months in the house, things returned to normalcy for me and honestly, there was about a two week period where I was happy again.

This would be the last time happiness would exist in my life, or my families for that matter.

One moment in particular comes to mind.

I remember lifting up a little Jonathan above my head lovingly as his pacifier fell out of his mouth and brushed against my nose.

I pulled him in for a Big Bear hug and I remember how he smelled that wonderful smell that only babies emit.

I was so content.

It all came crashing down for me and my parents the night of July 2nd, 1991.

That is the day Jonathan went missing.

A ransom note was scrawled in barely legible English and left in his bed demanding $20,000 in cash.

It informed my parents that if they contacted the police, they would kill him.

My mother and father took to their room and argued loudly and emotionally over whether or not to call the police.

As I listened with tears streaming down my face, my mother eventually wore down my father and the police were called.

Seeing as the location of the drop in time were indicated on the note, the police set up a wiretap just in case the kidnapper decided to call.

I asked my parents and the police if they had thoroughly searched the house in case he was still there.

They assured me that they had and that Jonathan would be fine after the drop.

But the seed of an idea was already growing in my mind.

It would blossom throughout the rest of my life.

My parents followed the instructions to a tee.

They dropped off the money and then waited in the location where they were supposed to pick up Jonathan.

He never came.

Needless to say, this tore my family apart.

As the weeks passed and there was no news about Jonathan, my young, vibrant parents became husks of their former selves.

My mother especially.

She blamed herself for getting the police involved and believed that to be the reason Jonathan was not returned.

One night, as she was sobbing alone in shambles, clutching a bottle of wine, I finally decided to divulge to her the theory that had been brewing inside my skull.

I told her that I thought it was whoever, or whatever for that matter, was under the stairs that had gotten Jonathan and that maybe he was still alive.

She slapped me across my face so hard that I saw stars.

She screamed at me.

The guilt expressing itself is rage.

She told me to stop the childish crap and just accept that Jonathan was taken out of the house by some sicko and that he was dead.

My childhood died that day.

I remember contemplating taking a hammer and exposing whatever was under the stairs myself, but the fear of childhood was just too overwhelming for me to actually do it, let alone step one stair down into that basement.

My family moved shortly after this incident.

I remember looking to the future with what might resemble optimism, only to have it come crashing down yet again.

My parents divorced.

The grief was too much to share, and not a year after that, my mother took her own life.

The guilt must have just overwhelmed her.

My father did his best to raise me, but Jonathan's long shadow always hungover our lives.

20 years later, I began to think long and hard about my little brother's disappearance and how angry it made me.

My family had a chance at a normal and fulfilling life, and it was snuffed out in an instant by whoever took him.

I wasn't just robbed of a little brother, I was robbed of any chance of happiness.

As I grew up, I accepted the official story of what happened, but lately, curiosity began to get the better of me.

I began driving past the old house, seeing that it was currently vacant.

Ideas began to swirl in my mind, so I broke into the house.

Bolstered by alcohol, I decided to do it, knowing I would likely find nothing under the basement stairs, but hoping that this would close a too long chapter in my life and allow me to finally move on.

To my dismay, the stairs sounded exactly the same as I remembered, a hollow sound pervading the emptiness of the basement.

I stared at the spot in the drywall, still discolored, still just as ominous as when I was a child.

However, fear was not going to stop me now.

In fact, I was feeling the opposite.

I was feeling a courage I hadn't felt in a long time.

The moment of truth was upon me with all the force within me.

Emboldened by years of pent up rage, I ran towards the wall shoulder first.

The drywall came crashing down around me.

I opened my eyes as my bravery was immediately eroded and turned into absolute horror.

Bones, bones everywhere.

My horror increased to unimaginable heights as I surveyed the tight space, seeing the myriad of skeletons strewn about.

The light played menacingly on their tiny frames.

Tattered pieces of paper were scattered about with God only knows what written on them.

There must have been the remains of 20 to 30 children.

My fright reached a crescendo when I realized that with no exceptions, they were all missing their skulls.

One particularly tiny 1 begged for my attention.

I became weak in the knees and fell backward when I saw what were unmistakably bite marks up and down the tiny forearm.

As I hit the ground, I expected to hear a dull thud as I landed on the concrete.

Instead, I heard a hollow sound.

I looked to see what I had landed on.

A trap door.

Finding new courage, summoning strength I didn't know I had, I opened it.

Below me lay a dark tunnel, a crawl space that could barely fit a person lying on their stomach.

The dank smell wafting upward made me reluctant, but I knew what I had to do before I was conscious of what my muscles were doing.

I found myself crawling through the darkness toward whatever lay on the other side.

As I reached the end of the tunnel, I looked up to see a sliver of light cutting through the darkness.

With trepidation, I pushed upward.

Cautiously, I poked my head up.

To my surprise, the tunnel had.

Led to the other side of the stairs.

I crawled out to find myself in the corner of the basement, facing the stairs behind a dryer covered in years of dust.

The implications of all this sent my mind reeling, but before I could form a coherent thought, the lights turned off in the basement.

My heart caught in my throat as I began to hear someone descending the stairs.

Slow but sure steps announced I was no longer alone.

With every thud, my heart skipped a beat.

I began to hear that incomprehensible whispering.

The familiarity reignited the fear and woe of my lost childhood.

Worrying the darkness would not adequately hide me, I sought cover by ducking behind the dryer, not willing to take the risk of catching a glimpse, though every fiber of my being screamed to do so.

Panic began to set in.

What am I going to do when he, or whoever it is, discovers his layer has been revealed?

While I was mulling over my options, the screaming began.

I say scream as a frame of reference, but there is no way to truly describe the guttural noises that I heard.

The sounds smashing the silence of the basement were so bone chilling, so surreal as to defy description.

He had clearly discovered his perverse sanctuary had been disturbed.

Before I knew it, I was up the stairs running for my life.

I made it to my car, too scared to turn around with all of my muscles working.

I opened the door and put the key in the ignition in one swift movement.

As my car sprang to life under the streetlight, a shadow fell over my car.

I gunned it, never once looking.

Back.

Flooring the accelerator to the local police precinct, I breathlessly tried to explain to the attending officer what had occurred and collapsed to the floor mid sentence.

Now it is a month later.

The day after my discovery, the police launched an investigation and quickly made the same gruesome discovery.

I was thanked profusely by the police and the community for what I had found, with officers telling me they were going to be able to close the books on multiple missing person cases.

However, they were not able to find the perpetrator of these heinous crimes.

They began to test the DNA of the bodies.

A profound sense of relief overcame me when I received the call informing me that one of the tiny skeletons belonged to Jonathan.

I shared the news with my father.

The look of relief on his face tugged at my heart.

The burden he had carried for so many years was lifted.

We hugged as tears filled both of our eyes.

However, the relief has been short lived.

The thing that keeps me up at night is that whoever did this is still out there.

The question that plagues my mind is whether this monster.

Is literal or figurative.

Either way, I hope I never find out.

I started getting them last night.

My ex had taken the kids for half the month and I was home alone.

My apartment was dark and quiet, you might say tomb like the TV was on and the volume down low.

I was missing my kids, missing my ex, and despising myself for it.

My phone lit up.

I had to carefully remove the bowl of vanilla ice cream swimming in vodka from my stomach, lest it tips over.

I saw a number I didn't recognize, so I did the sensible thing and ignored it.

Then I got the familiar Ding buzz buzz.

One new voicemail.

OK, I thought, I'll bite.

The phone number.

Hadn't read Scam.

Likely.

It might even be important.

The first time I played it back, I couldn't hear it well, but it sounded like numbers.

I put it on speakerphone, then cranked up the volume to Max in a crackly drone, sounding like a voice recording from the 1980s or earlier.

Somebody read out these numbers, 04140112180513 132119.

That was all the message they left.

Straight away I knew it wasn't a phone number, it was too many digits and they were all spaced out in double s.

I tried to return to my low effort binge watching at a low volume, half heartedly piercing together subtitles.

Hours later, I couldn't get it out of my head.

I won't tell you the actual phone number that called me, because I'd really rather not, but I did give that number a call back.

It was a number with my area code.

I called it.

It rang so much I thought I'd be the one to go to voicemail this time.

But then came the click.

Except for some murmurs of static, it was quiet on the other end.

Hello, I said.

Somebody left a message from this number.

It was all.

Digits.

Not a phone number, just I don't know what.

It was clearer now.

There's breathing on the other end.

Hello.

Click again.

They had hung up.

Brief, but bothersome.

I didn't have much time to let it bother me, though, because I got a call back after 10 minutes from that number.

I answered instead of letting it go to voicemail.

Whoever it was immediately ended the call.

OK, I thought, that's pretty odd.

About another 10 more minutes, another call.

I answered again, same treatment.

As soon as I said hello, they hung up.

I didn't answer the next one because I was using the restroom.

That one went to voicemail.

I heard the Ding buzz buzz as soon as I entered my living room again.

Hands clammy, I picked up the phone, played it back.

I kind of expected another weird series of digits.

Instead, what I got was this.

Hey, what's the strangest thing you've ever seen at a museum?

Went to that carnival museum today.

You know the one.

I saw a costume that reminded me of you.

It got me thinking.

Anyway, don't want to talk your ear off.

Sherry and the kids send their best.

We're doing great and everyone's happy.

Can't wait to see you.

It was a man's voice, but one I did not recognize.

Carnival Museum.

When did I go to a Carnival museum?

I tried to remember all the parades I've ever attended, New Orleans and elsewhere.

I couldn't recall stopping in at any Carnival museums must have me confused with someone else.

On the other hand, the voicemails and wordless calls wanted to suggest other things.

What those were, I wasn't sure.

I glanced around.

My TV flickered, but otherwise dark apartment as a chill worked its way too slowly from foot to head, like a bad massage.

About another 10 minutes, I got another call.

I let this one go to voicemail.

You won't believe what happened today, the same man's voice said.

JJ you know, Joey Junior fell from a tree and broke some stuff.

I told that boy about climbing them trees.

But get this, that's not even the most unbelievable part.

We didn't need to see a doctor, just gave him some of that ice cream and he was right as rain, walking just fine.

Now there's a little hitch in his step, but it's the kind of thing that adds character.

We played some family games and for you know it, things were back to normal.

Ah, there I go again.

I'm for sure talking your ear off, and I know we'll be seeing each other very soon.

We're doing great though, and everyone's happy.

This is getting ridiculous, I thought.

I tried to pick apart my mind.

Thinking back on all my old acquaintances, Even if this was someone I knew, there was no way I was planning on meeting or seeing them.

As those messages suggested, I called the phone number again before another rough 10 minutes could transpire.

Hey, don't hang up.

I don't know you or your family.

You've got me confused with someone else.

Click.

At least I've had them on the line for a few rushed sentences.

The messages continued every rough 10 minutes like clockwork that someone had bashed with a hammer.

Anytime I picked up and didn't let it go to voicemail, I was rewarded with the call quickly ending.

Every message told some new details of that family's lives.

How their daughter Abigail got herself hurt chasing after some cars.

How Joey Junior had tried to eat a cockroach.

How Rebecca had to get her wisdom teeth out and it was a messy experience.

How they had all gone shopping for second hand clothing so fresh it might have been pulled straight from the backs of others.

Even though these messages were spaced out at roughly 10 minute intervals, it seemed he was describing separate days, weeks and months even.

Another strange thing was how about near the end of each voicemail the man concluded with, we're doing great and everyone's happy.

When it ate into my sleep, I lost every ounce of my patience.

I was scared, but I was also fed up.

I gave their number another call.

I don't want to hear how great you are doing, I said.

And how happy you are.

Do you hear me?

No more voicemails.

Heavy, heavy breathing on the other end.

Sounded like more than one person doing it.

I'll ask your forgiveness for not going about this earlier.

I'm kind of an old soul, at least when it comes to things like technology.

I put my phone on silent and I finally got around to searching that phone number that was calling me online, you know, seeing if there was anything about it tied to scammers and stuff like that.

I didn't find anything online about scammers, but that number was connected to a company that had locations all over.

I'm talking about all over the country, and while I won't tell you the name of it, I will tell you that it had the word happiness in it.

There wasn't much information online on the official website or elsewhere.

There were some creepy pictures on the official website oozing happiness and bright monochromes from the about section.

I wasn't sure whether it was supposed to be a pharmaceutical company or some kind of Wellness Center.

While I was doing all that searching, I had received a bunch of voicemails that I hadn't listened to yet.

My phone had been on silent mode.

Glancing over from my office chair, I noticed soft blue, red and yellow in bands, with the yellow flowing around the trees.

It was like a painted, uncooked Easter egg that had been broken with a yolk spilling out.

Made me think of the last Easter I'd spent with my family.

I've gotten fussy with my ex about using real eggs.

This time, she had said, What other eggs are you supposed to paint?

They might stink in the sun, I'd said.

Somehow or other expletives got flung around.

The next thing you know, the kids were crying, throwing their own fits.

Next thing you know, the Easter egg hunt was cancelled.

Like Hemingway describes bankruptcy.

It happened gradually and then suddenly, like the breakup in our marriage.

Weird how a sunrise through some trees can remind a person of things like that.

I guess my mind was on family, largely from all those voicemails from Joey, Senior Family Man of the Year.

I pulled up my desk chair to the window and just stared awhile.

My phone dinged, buzzed.

Pretty soon I might be receiving voicemails from work.

I'd have to shower and get ready.

Sleep and whatever this was had to wait.

One thing I learned from the dissolution of our family unit was that the practicalities of life didn't matter.

Oh, the people involved with those practicalities pretended to care, but when it came to work, if you didn't show, you got replaced.

Didn't matter what was going on in your personal life.

And who can blame them?

It's all a machine.

I showered and got dressed for work.

As soon as I opened my front door, I saw them.

They were passed the apartment complex Rd.

in parking lots, back past the manicured Magnolia and golden rain trees, up under the Wilder canopy of blackjacks and Pines.

A man, a woman, two children, all holding hands.

I couldn't hear them, but I could read their lips over and over again rapidly.

They were saying, we're doing great and everyone's happy.

I appeared but couldn't see their faces well above their feverishly working mouths.

They wore old clothing, garments that belonged in an attic or left hanging at a yard sale.

I peered but didn't dare step out onto my patio.

Cars drove by in the parking lot, clueless to what lurked in the trees.

I imagined someone approaching them.

I imagined that family jumping out with knives, stabbing and slashing their victim while they chanted over and over.

We're doing great and everyone's happy.

I went inside, locked my door and latched the windows and got the police on the phone.

The person I spoke with became fixated on prank calls and how there wasn't much they could do unless death threats were involved.

It's like they completely ignored the part about the family outside my apartment stalking me.

So they're happy, huh?

Well that's good.

I'd be more concerned if they weren't.

They advised me to just block the number.

The problem was, I was afraid if I blocked it, they would do more than stalking.

The police didn't even send anyone out.

After speaking with them, I found I'd just gotten a new voicemail.

During the conversation, the moisture in my mouth suddenly went into my hands.

I played it back.

Hey, still waiting on you.

If you want to go ahead over to the address redacted, you'd meet us there, then you'd be the one waiting.

We can catch up there.

Good things are on the horizon.

We're doing great, and everyone's happy.

That address in the message, I recognized it.

I got back on my computer and pulled up my browser history to confirm it was that company's closest location, The company that the number they were calling from was associated with.

And what about the other series of digits in the very first message I had gotten?

Now, as I finished typing all this up, I have got a decision to make.

I'm not sure how much time is left to make it.

That last message seemed especially threatening.

Difficult for me to explain something in the emphasis.

Worse maybe, is that I haven't received a single voicemail since the last one.

I don't know what that means.

I might be OK until nightfall, until that family is less worried maybe about being seen.

A part of me just wants to go into work, hoping it'll make me forget about what's going on here.

Maybe I can sleep there at the office instead of coming back home.

I'm concerned that if I don't go to that location from their last message, they'll do something extreme.

But there's something else.

Sorry I haven't mentioned it yet.

I was trying to get all this down.

As I was trying to get it all down, I took breaks to look out the window near my front door.

They are out there all right most of the time, holding hands.

Mouths moving rapidly.

Other times, there's this other thing, like all that happiness had cast a great big shadow, a tall shape that moves occasionally in the trees past the parking.

Lots.

Its arms and legs work like slinkies.

Its head slings back and forth like it's trying to free itself from its body.

Somehow I know it isn't very happy at all.

I had always known the 1964 Ford Mustang to be my grandpa's pride and joy.

He barely let anyone else touch it, let alone drive it.

I think he had bought it when it was brand new.

He had probably paid a fair bit for it back then, but it was probably worth a lot more new.

It was still in pristine condition because of the love and care that my grandpa showed it.

Most weekends you would find him washing the car and giving it a good Polish.

He did most of the mechanical work himself too.

I don't think he would trust anyone else to work on it.

I'm not a huge car person myself, so I don't fully understand my grandpa's obsession with the vehicle, but I have seen the joy it has brought him and I always like to see him happy.

He lost a bit of his natural charm and joy when Grandma died a few years ago, but whenever I see him tinkering with the Mustang and see the smile on his face and the twinkle in his eyes, I begin to understand his passion for the car.

My grandpa has always been slightly different.

Don't get me wrong, he is a great man, a great father figure to me and a usually bright and cheery fellow.

I guess what makes him a bit different is how particular he is about certain things.

Everything needs to be done in a certain order or a certain way, and he can get quite frustrated if you don't follow his peculiar way of doing something.

I remember when I was little while visiting my grandparents, Grandpa tried to teach me that the only way to brush your teeth was by first squeezing the toothpaste into your mouth and then start brushing.

Or the other time when he insisted that the only way to get rid of the hiccups was to swallow a teaspoon of honey and then jump up and down 10 times.

He has plenty of other strange customs and methods too.

Whether it's always locking the basement door and not allowing anyone down there because you will let the sand out, whatever that means.

Or the fact that he hated the song Under the Boardwalk, so much so that he banned any mention of it.

So I guess that pretty much sums up my grandpa, A bit of a strange man with a bit of a strange obsession with his car.

That's why I was so surprised when he actually let me drive it.

It was 1 early morning.

I'd come around to visit him and try to get a few odd jobs done that he was no longer capable of doing himself.

He was getting older and I wanted to be a good grandson and help him out.

When I arrived that morning he answered the door still in his dressing gown.

He invited me inside and asked if I wouldn't mind waiting for him in the kitchen.

He was going to finish getting ready, but that he was probably going to be another 10 minutes or so.

I made my way to the kitchen and sat down on one of the rock hard wooden chairs that sat around the large kitchen table.

Sitting in front of me was yesterday's newspaper, so I picked it up and started to read.

I quickly skimmed the headline.

Farmer claims to have seen Bigfoot on Shepherd's Road.

I then read an article about the disappearance of Sandy Frazier, a woman who went missing over 40 years ago, and I was halfway through reading about the Hitchhiker killer when Grandpa entered the kitchen.

He was now dressed in an old pair of long pants, a dull green shirt, and a woolen vest that sat over the top of the shirt.

I almost immediately noticed that he had his hand held up high and grasped the set of keys.

Today's your lucky day, champ.

He said to me with a grin.

You get to drive the old girl.

At first I couldn't believe what I had just heard.

Had he really just said that I could drive the Mustang?

Grandpa then walked closer to me and placed the keys into the palm of my hand.

I felt the cold metal on my fingers and I knew that he was serious.

I was going to get to drive the car.

I need you to collect a few things for me today.

Grandpa then told me.

Now as you know, I'm getting a bit too old to be driving here, there and everywhere, so I think you should do it.

Besides, it would be best if you get a little practice driving in the Ford, you know, just in case someone leaves you one in their will.

As he finished the sentence, Grandpa gave me a slight smirk and I swear that I saw him give me a wink.

I was getting the car in the will.

I really couldn't believe this.

I must have been staring at him in disbelief because he then began to speak again.

Of course you didn't hear that from me.

He said with a bit of a chuckle.

And of course I will need to teach you a few things about driving her before you set off today.

So that's how I spent the next hour and a half learning all about the car's features and the best way to drive it.

I learned how I should only adjust the mirrors whilst wearing gloves so that I didn't leave grubby fingerprints and I learned that I should only use the windscreen wipers if it is an emergency.

I also found out that the old AM radio no longer worked and that that was a good thing because listening to the radio while driving is a big distraction.

I nodded and agreed to everything that grandpa was telling me, but deep down I think we both knew I wasn't actually going to follow his advice.

The last thing he said to me was I needed to visit the shops that were in town and the best way to go to get there was down Shepherd's Road.

Shepherd's Road is a small and narrow dirt Rd.

that used to be the main way into town, but once the highway was built it pretty much became obsolete.

But grandpa still swears that it is the best way to travel to town.

I agreed that I would drive down Shepherd's Road instead of taking the smoother and much faster highway.

After my long and not very informative lecture was over, it was time to hit the road.

I hopped into the Mustang and fired her up.

She roared into life and I immediately understood Grandpa's love for the car.

There was something about the way she sounded and the way that it felt while sitting in the driver's seat that made me feel powerful, a feeling I could get used to.

I gave Grandpa a wave and took off slowly, trying to show him that I was taking care of his pride and joy.

Once he was out of sight however, I put my foot down and started to have a bit more fun with the car.

I made my way onto the dirt path known as Shepherd's Road and before long I was staring at the windy, dusty Rd.

For a second I thought about turning around and heading for the highway, but decided against it.

He would know I took the highway if I returned in the sparkling clean car and not a dusty and dirty car that would instantly need washing.

So I bit the bullet and started down Shepherd's Road.

It was bumpy.

My God it was bumpy.

I felt every little jolt and bounce and it felt like I was operating a jackhammer, not driving a car.

I persevered though, and continued bouncing my way down the road.

I didn't see any other car or living soul.

Most people were smart enough to take the highway.

I continued bouncing around in my seat for what felt like hours but was probably only 10 minutes or so when I saw her.

She was walking down the center of the road.

She was wearing an olden style stripy frock.

She was walking the same way I was travelling so I couldn't see her face.

All I could see was the back of the frock she was wearing and the low heel shoes that she was wearing on her feet.

She was walking slowly, seemingly minding her own business.

I don't think she heard me coming up behind her because she didn't turn around to look at me or acknowledge that I was there.

I slowed the Mustang down and slowly approached The Walking woman.

Maybe I could give her a lift, I thought, but my mind wandered back to the newspaper I had read that morning.

The words hitchhiker killer entered my mind and I thought better of stopping and letting her in the car.

I was now maybe 10 meters or so away from this woman and I began to drive out wide trying to get the car as far away from her as possible.

That's when the radio in the front of the Mustang fired up and began to play under the boardwalk came blaring out of the speakers.

It frightened me and I jumped in my seat this time because of the fear and not because of the bumpy Rd.

I thought the radio was broken, but here it was.

Playing as clear and as loud as it would have when the car was new.

We'll be having some fun under the boardwalk.

The radio sung.

I looked down for a moment, trying to figure out how to turn the stupid thing down, but I couldn't figure it out.

I looked up at the road once more.

I was now almost level with The Walking woman, who still didn't appear to have noticed me.

I was about to steer the car outwards just a little bit more to make sure that I wouldn't hit her, when I felt the steering wheel spin in my hands.

It was spinning the other way.

It was steering the car straight into the woman.

The car was now directly in line with the woman.

I quickly tried to find the brake with my foot, but as I lifted my foot off the accelerator I felt it pushed down all by itself.

The car lurched forward, accelerating quickly.

I heard the thud first and then saw the woman crash into the windscreen.

Small cracks appeared where she struck the glass.

She then rolled back off the windscreen, onto the front of the car, then finally off the hood and onto the ground below.

I had just hit someone.

I didn't mean to.

The car had done it itself, I was sure of it.

It was the one that swerved and speed into her.

That didn't matter now though.

I was the one driving, so I was the one responsible.

I sat there for a moment, unsure of what to do.

I looked to the front of the car and I could see the woman's legs poking out from the front of the car.

They were unmoving.

I reached for the door handle, pulled it and got out of the car.

I slowly walked to the front of the car and looked around and saw her lying there in a pool of her own blood.

The whole front of the car was covered in blood, and my first thought was that definitely needs cleaning.

I looked down at the woman and that's when I realized I recognized her.

I had seen her just that morning, not in person, but a photo of her.

It was Sandy Frazier, the woman who had disappeared all those years ago.

There was something strange about her though.

She still looked young, exactly like she did in the photo in the newspaper.

She hadn't aged a day.

This was very strange and I really didn't know what to think.

All I knew was that Grandpa was right.

The radio was incredibly distracting while driving.

If it hadn't started playing that bloody song then none of this would have happened.

I wouldn't have tried to turn it down and I wouldn't have hit this woman.

But the fact remains the same.

I had hit this woman.

Now the question was, what do I do with her now?

I really don't know what I was thinking when I made this decision, but I decided that the best course of action was to pick up her body and place it into the trunk of the car.

I walked over to the body lying in the road, bent down and scooped her up.

She was a lot heavier than she looked, but with a bit of effort I managed to lift her and walk her to the back of the car.

I had to put her down again to open up the trunk, but once it was open I lifted her once again and managed to stuff her body inside.

I was closing the trunk when I saw it.

I could have sworn just as the trunk closed I saw Sandy open one of her eyes, but that wasn't an issue for now.

I could deal with that later.

The trunk was already closed and so I made my way back to the front of the car and hopped back inside.

I started up the Mustang again and it roared into life.

I closed my eyes for a second and then reopened them and found myself staring at the start of a dusty road and the street sign that read Shepherds Rd.

I was back at the start of the road.

In fact, I don't think I've even begun my journey down there yet.

My windscreen was still in pristine condition.

There was not a crack insight.

I felt as if I had just blacked out and everything I had just experienced was not real.

Well, actually, I think it was me, but it felt like it wasn't my experience.

I felt as if I now knew exactly what happened to Sandy Frazier all those years ago.

I'm not sure whether or not somehow the car showed me my grandpa's experience, his memory, or whether it was something else, but all I know is that I now knew something that only me and one other person knew.

Now I had to decide, do I tell someone or do I continue to hide this secret?

Yeah.