Plot Holes

The day I found my first hole was the day my best friend came back from the dead.

We were in high school and stupid. Jake was his name and we liked to go out to this old abandoned house in the woods after school to just...screw around. Do stupid teenage things. It was a pretty big place to be honest. Two story house with a basement or three stories if you counted the small attic above it. The story is supposed to go that an old woman was building the house years and years ago in order to get away from the city life but, for some reason, never finished it. Probably died. Anyway, the house was pretty close to completion when she stopped but nobody bothered to finish it and now it just sits there rotting away.

So Jake and I would go to the house and just screw around, scaring each other or exploring the place. Whatever we felt like. Usually we were careful -- or lucky -- but nothing ever happened to make us worry.

Then the floorboards broke under Jake's feet when we were exploring the second floor and he fell. I never realized how bad the condition of the house must have been because when he hit the first floor, that broke too and he fell into the basement. I ran down and looked through the broken hole in the first floor. It was dark (but we usually had the foresight to bring flashlights) so I shined a light on him. I'll...never forget what I saw.

One of the boards or...something must've fallen at just the right angle that when Jake hit the ground, it speared up right through his stomach. I could see him shift and try to grab at it. Even hear him gurgle...and then he stopped.

He was dead. I was sure of it. Our stupidity got him killed. I was in shock. I didn't know what to do.

So I just...ran. I ran out of the house and left him there.

It was about evening when I got home and I went straight to my room. I didn't talk to anyone. Didn't stop for anything. I just wanted to curl up and try to forget that scene. My parents tried to talk to me but I feigned sleep and they just went on. Later that night, we got a call from Jake's parents asking where he was. They actually "woke me up" for that one and I said I had no idea. The usual "Well, if you see him, please let us know!" came afterward and I just nodded before I went back to sleep.

The next day was school and I went through the morning ritual in a bit of a trance. I didn't want to go but I couldn't stay home. I was pretty sure Jake's parents already suspected something of me. So I went. School was...just like usual. People screwing around in the morning and talking. I went up to my normal group of friends that I hung out with before the first bell rang and my heart stopped.

There was Jake.

He stood there, just laughing and being his normal self. When he saw me, he looked over and grinned before coming over. He made a joke but I didn't hear it. I just continued to stare.

"Hey, you ok?" He asked, starting to get concerned.

"Aren't you...are you ok?" Was all I could muster back.

"Well, yeah! Why wouldn't I be?" He laughed a bit but gave me a weird look.

"You, you don't...know anything?" I tried to phrase it as delicately as possible. I didn't want anyone else knowing, but I figured that was enough to clue him in. If it did, he didn't show it.

"Know anything of what?" He responded and then the bell rang. He said bye and gave me a weird look before heading off to class. I just stared after in shock. Why was my friend here? I saw him die! At the very least, he should be in the hospital! But he was fine.

I went to class but I couldn't concentrate. I just kept thinking about Jake and how he should be dead. I kept trying to think of how he could've survived but I just couldn't fill this strange hole of a mystery. After class, I decided I'd check out the house.

Jake met me after school and asked if I still wanted to hang out. I told him I wasn't feeling well and we'd catch up tomorrow. He seemed to accept that and move off. It's not like I wasn't excited my friend was back but looking at him made something in me cringe. He shouldn't be alive. He should not be here! I saw him...

So I went to the house that afternoon alone.

When I walked in, I could feel something. It was strange but familiar. It was the same feeling I got when I looked at Jake. That something wasn't right and it was just...off. However, here, it felt like a lingering feeling. Not this fresh "what the hell?" I got when I saw my friend. I stepped forward and looked down. Sure enough, there was the damn hole he fell through! I let out a sigh of relief and bent over. So I wasn't crazy! I slipped out my usual flashlight and shone it down into the hole. Yes! There was the wreck I saw him land on! Just...no Jake. Did he get free? Did he magically regenerate or something? I shone my flashlight up to look toward the hole in the second floor.

It wasn't there.

My breath caught in my throat and I began to frantically shine my light onto the ceiling. Where was it!?! I should be right above the damn hole in the floor! But nothing. I bolted up the stairs and, sure enough, there was nothing in the floor where he fell.

Nothing.

Something was wrong. Really wrong. I wandered back down to the first hole and peeked down into it.

I'm sure that was the moment that solidified my fate. If I had just ignored it, moved on, and been plain happy that my friend was back, I might have been able to continue life as usual. But that moment..

I saw something. Just a flash of something black, blacker than the darkness beyond my flashlight's range shift and fly out of sight. I gasped and stumbled back, breathing heavily. I know I should've run, but my curiosity took hold. And my logical side said it was just some animal or trick of the light. So I swallowed my fear and I leaned over to peak again.

I didn't see that flash of black again, but I did notice something. The boards and wreckage underneath the hole were gone. With that note, I knew something was wrong. Nobody can clean up something like that mess in the blink of an eye.

I bolted. I ran out of that house and through the forest, swearing up and down that something was chasing me. I had a feeling that there was something out there...but now I know it was simply watching me. For now.

I ran home and slammed the door shut behind me before I leapt into my bed. My body curled up and I just lay there, trying to comprehend what was going on.

It took me a while, but I finally drew myself out of bed. I had to figure out what was going on but like hell I was going back to that damn house. Not if some monster was in it. So, I did what any teenager would do. I went to the internet and researched.

It was slow and I didn't have a lot of luck at first. Looking up "paranormal" just got me weird pictures and stories. "Friend comes back from dead" got me a lot of zombie stuff. Missing time seemed to get me a little more info. A lot of it was around aliens, but a few stories seemed to peak my interest. Like, something crazy seeming to happen (like a car crash or accident) and, suddenly, there's a time jump and things seem to be OK. Like nothing ever happened.

There was one post on a missing time board that seemed to draw my attention, however. It was titled "Plot Holes" and was only posted a couple of days ago. I curiously clicked it.

Everyone seemed to speculate what caused this whole missing time thing. A lot of the time it was aliens or dimensional...whatever. This guy, however, acted like he knew for a fact. And his reason was the most bizarre of them all.

He started by telling a similar story. In a nutshell, his wife was killed in a household accident when part of their house caved in during a storm. While trying to get to her, he was knocked out by some other debris. When he came to, he was sitting in the living room and his wife was trying to wake him up. The house was fine, with no sign of disaster, and she was...alive! He was ecstatic but described a strange feeling. Like, he had figured out something he shouldn't have and that his wife shouldn't be there. Like my feeling I got with Jake.

Overtime, he couldn't be around her. It just was too strange. So he left. He went on the road, taking what money he had and doing weird little jobs here and there while staying in motels. While he went, he began to research. It took a great amount of time, but he found others with similar experiences. Most of them just described it as a miracle and moved on with their lives. Others couldn't shake the feeling, like he did.

All of them described the same sort of thing. Some event should've caused something to happen...a person to die or some landmark to be destroyed, only to have it miraculously come back later. So what was going on?

The author was at a standstill until he came across something. While researching people who shouldn't be alive, he came across a book review. Apparently, it was the latest book in the series and, in it, a side character saves the day by fighting off a bunch of enemies for the heroes. However, in the previous book (by a different author) that character had been killed. So, this character couldn't have come back to save the day but, if he didn't, the main characters would've died. The reviewer said it was one of the worst plot holes he'd ever seen. That got the forum author, and me, thinking. He said he'd post again after he experimented a bit and I didn't blame him. I had a few things I wanted to experiment with as well. Nevertheless, I dropped him a message saying I read his post and that something similar happened to me. Then called it a night early. I had to be extremely alert if I was going to try to look for the signs I wanted to find.

The next morning, I woke up and started my first attempt at looking for plot holes. I know how crazy that sounded but something seemed to click after reading that review. Someone should've died...but that was ignored so he could do something of significance later...it sounded so familiar.

The first few days, I didn't notice anything (except for that weird feeling around Jake. Nobody else seemed to have it). The third day was when I noticed my first plot hole. It was minor. The most minor of details but it was there. One of the girl's in my class went from wearing a skirt to a set of jeans between periods. I know how that seems to make me look but, I'll admit it, the skirt was why I noticed. But to change into a pair of jeans within seven minutes while walking across campus to another class? That doesn't make sense. I guessed it was possible, but it didn't make sense. It was like a costume got wrong during a scene change.

After that, it went all down hill. I kept seeing changes everywhere. A sign would be black in the morning, but light green later at night or a friend would go from wearing a sweater to a t-shirt when I looked away from a moment. You'd think that people would notice these changes but nobody did. Maybe it was the strange feeling that I got of something being off after the accident with Jake or perhaps you just had to be looking for them. But, as I kept looking, they were everywhere.

It was about a week and a half before I got a response back from the "Plot Holes" author. He introduced himself as Dennis and apologized for being late to respond. His reason why? He had gotten caught up in observing...plot holes. He was noticing the same thing I was! This is the first time I've ever actually spoken to this guy but the changes he described matched mine to a T. Except for one thing. After noticing a misspelled sign above a store late at night, he turned away for a moment to look back and saw a shadowy black figure floating by it. It was hazy, like looking at the figure through a fog that just wasn't there but, after the being floated away, the spelling error was gone.

A shiver went down my spine. That seemed…too close to whatever I might’ve glimpsed at the house. I hadn't seen it full on yet but then now I knew what I was looking for. I wish I hadn't.

It wasn't long before I began to see them. You had to look at just the right moment I found out. When it seemed like nobody was watching or paying attention to that little error you just noticed. Then you could make it out. A shadowy haze of a being, seeming to be dressed in a long black robe with a hood, messing with it until it changed. I saw one fade my friend's t-shirt into a jacket/shirt set on a cold day in class. And I saw another change an entire stack of books at the library into a completely different set before they were picked up by a student. Nobody noticed them, just like the holes. It was like you had to be on that wavelength to notice.

I'd been conversing with Dennis a bit online and he agree with that idea. It seemed that you had to notice one to start seeing the others. If you could brush it off, then your life would go on. But if you were the curious sort, then you were like the two of us. You'd just keep seeing them all the time. I was starting to go crazy. I couldn't say anything to anyone and Jake kept bothering me about why we never hung out anymore. I just couldn't look at him. He...wasn't natural but I realized it wasn't him! It was those...things that brought him back. Maybe he had some destiny or something but I had no idea.

Things took another turn when I was having a Skype conversation with Dennis. He asked if they noticed me yet. I told him no and then he got quiet for a long time. After some bugging, he finally responded and told me one of his friends that was helping him look into this occurrence was gone. Nobody even seemed to remember his existence. When he went over to his friend's house, Dennis found it relatively neat save for a few items strewn about. As he explored, the belongings that were out of place began to find themselves back in their positions. Dennis was sure that it was one of those creatures behind it and he confirmed his suspicions when he saw one putting back a book that had been thrown on the floor....and then turn and look at him.

The two stared for a long time, the creature gazing onto Dennis while he looked into a blank nothingness that was its face, the dark hood covering whatever might've lurked underneath. And then...it left. It turned and seemed to float away right through one of the walls. That seemed to be the last thing out of place then. The house looked like nothing had ever happened in it. Then Dennis began to notice something else. There were no pictures or objects identifying an owner. Unless you were that much of a hermit you had, at least, an old family picture of some parents or something. Or maybe some mail with your name on it. But nothing. It was like nobody had ever lived in this fully furnished home.

At this point, I began to worry. Dennis's friend had gone missing and nobody knew of his existence. I started putting the pieces together then. If these creatures could bring someone back from the dead, they could easily get rid of someone right? This meant I was in danger.

After that, I stopped. I was out. I ignored Dennis's messages. I tried to ignore all the holes I constantly noticed. I...did my best to ignore those shadow creatures when I caught them. I even tried to hang back out with Jake. But, every time we hung together...it was like I was looking at the face of a lie. And looking at him just made me think of those creatures. I imagined one pulling him up from that debris, slipping that board through and out his body, knitting up his wounds like nothing happened...

I did my best to look past it all. Dennis was hard to ignore however. He just kept tracking me down. I'd block him from my e-mail and messengers but he'd start making new accounts to talk to send me more messages. And he seemed to be sending more and more as the days went on.

Finally, one day, I received an e-mail from a new account that clearly was Dennis. I was about to delete it and block him again but the subject chilled me to the bone.

THEY'RE AFTER ME. GET ON SKYPE. I NEED HELP.

I didn't know what to do. If Dennis was in trouble from these things, then I had to help. I couldn't just leave him. But, after him...they might turn their sights on me.

I had to help. I wasn't going to just leave him hanging. Especially if he was in danger. I logged onto Skype, added his new account and immediately got a video chat request.

Dennis was in his apartment with the lights off and he looked terrified.

"What's going on?" I asked as I leaned in.

"They've been following me around." He spoke, his voice an exasperated whisper. "More and more of them keep coming around. And not just to fill in the holes. They're watching me."

"Are you sure?"

In response, he lifts up his laptop and carried it out to what looked to be the kitchen. He set it down in front of a window and drew back the curtain. I couldn't make it out anything until he turned on the light.

My heart stopped.

I'd only seen one of them at a time. Maybe even two if something was a particularly big change. But there were at least three or four behind that window, just staring in with those empty, hooded faces. He quickly flicked off the light and turned the laptop back toward him.

"Do you see? I don't know what to do. I don't want to end up like Jerry. Tell me what to do!" He was getting more and more anxious. I had no idea what to tell him. I didn't know what these things were. I didn't know what they wanted. Or how to stop them. I opened my mouth but couldn't form the words that he needed to hear.

And as I stammered to find out what to say, I saw them slip into the background behind him.

Through a freakin' wall. With a cabinet.

"Dennis!" I yelled. "Behind you!"

He turned just as the first approached. God, there were a bunch slipping in now. Three, then four, then five...He never stood a chance.

The first reached forward with an inky arm and shoved it straight through his chest. There wasn't any blood. Or even a sound safe for Dennis's terrified scream. He began to writhe, grasping at his chest as the creature held him there by...I don't even know what. His spine? His heart? Hell, it could've been his very soul for all I know. Then the others were on top of him. They fell onto him like a dark dog pile. Consuming him in their dark presences. I couldn't scream. I couldn't look away. I just watched as he faded from view as those creatures piled onto him. Then, slowly, ever so slowly....they backed away.

Dennis was gone. I bit back tears as I saw the empty space he had been in. I knew what had happened. He was gone. Erased. Nobody would even remember him. He was a hole that had to be filled in and taken care of.

Then their attention turned to the computer. To me.

My eyes widened as I realization hit me. I was another hole. I was an issue in their grand scheme. A thorn that had to be plucked. A part that drew attention to the inaccuracies of this world they were trying to design.

And I had to be taken care of.

I didn't even bother to turn off the computer. I just stood and turned only...to find myself face to face with a horde of them. In my own house. In my own room. My back went to my desk as one, shadowy shade glided to me. Its arm rose and I could almost make out the tendrils of its foggy black cloak and the individual digits of its dark fingers. I couldn't move. I was frozen. And then...it struck.

I didn't physically feel the hand shove into my chest. But I felt it somewhere deeper. Like it was grabbing an intimate part of my being. I felt violated, exposed, and most of all...completely terrified. I screamed as it began to squeeze. It hurt. It hurt so fucking much. My vision blurred but I could see the others move around me. They filled in a circle around my body, regardless if there was something in their way or not. They just...glided through like those things weren't there.

And then they fell upon me. Black hit me from every side. I screamed but no sound came out. I could feel that hand wrenching back, pulling something so personal to me away. My body felt limp then...I started to feel nothing. It inched along my limbs slowly turning feeling of cold, pain, terror into absolute nothing. I could only describe it as a feeling of being…erased. There was feeling, strong feeling, and then nothing. It slowly inched along, riding up along my arms and legs until it consumed my whole being. The pain faded along with it along with the sounds of the world and my vision before me. Soon, nothing was before me but pure blackness.

I was gone. I knew it. I was dead. Or worse. I didn't exist any longer. Stretched out before me was nothing but darkness. I tried to call out into the void, to claw my way forward, but I couldn’t move a limb. More like, though, I didn’t have a limb to move or a mouth to yell. I was just an essence. A left over floating in an endless void of nothing.

I'm still there. In pure, nothingness. I can't move or I don't think I have anything left to move. It's gone. Every part of me is gone. I wonder what happens now. I wonder what Jake's destiny was. I also began to wonder if this was death or something worse. A punishment for sticking my nose in places it shouldn’t be. Is this death or pure erasure? I’m sure Dennis is feeling the same things I'm feeling. I can almost imagine him too, floating in the same void. Maybe one day we’ll meet each other. It’s a hope that I try to keep alive. It keeps me sane that I might, one day, not be alone here.

That's the end of my story. I wish it was better. I wish I could say I fought back and saved myself. At least, that I was on the run. But, some plots don’t have happy endings. However, I'm sure I've left you wondering one final thing. If I'm dead or...erased, then how could I have written this? Well, my poor friend, you've just discovered your first plot hole.

Be wary if you see any more.

===

Credits to: David Knoppel

The M Show Fan Club

When I was 9 years old I had a favorite TV series. It had human actors and actors in animal suits and funny and educational clips in between. I don’t want to name it because it was a really good show and this story is not at all a fault of the show. I will just call it “The M Show”.

The M Show was running for years and I had been watching it for as long as I can remember. I always sat down, straight after school with my older sister Scarlett and my best friend Brandi, who lived next door.

It was our ritual, every day the three of us sat together – with sweets, if our moms allowed it, or else with apples or grapes – and in the breaks of the show we talked and gossiped about all those important issues in our lives.

Then, I remember it was a warm summer Friday, Scarlett found a prize competition in one of her girl magazines. It asked questions about the show and first prize was a travel with your parents to Disney World. But even better, everybody who sent in the correct answers would become a member of The M Show Club, a fan club for the show. The same day, after watching the M Show, the three of us huddled together on the couch to answer the quiz.

The questions were very hard; they asked details about old episodes of the show. Without Scarlett, Brandi and I would never have managed to answer all the questions.

Scarlett begged our mom for stamps and envelopes and we filled the three envelopes each with a paper with our names and contact details and the answers to the questions. Scarlett even told us to vary our answers slightly so that we wouldn’t be called out for cheating.

The letters were sent off and every day we all rushed to the mailbox to get our The M Show Club badges. When the first snow began to fall we stopped checking the mailbox. Brandi was still passionate about the show and watched it every day, but Scarlett lost interest. When Scarlett stopped watching I too began to skip the show. Brandi still came over, but she was the only one watching. I sat next to her while working my way through Scarlett’s old girl magazines.

It was early spring. I remember there were tulips in our garden and my mom reprimanded me for plucking two to decorate the kitchen table. But right after her lecture she handed me a small square letter with my name printed on it. The back said “Welcome to The M Show Fan Club.”

There was not much in the envelope – only a short leaflet that welcomed me to the club and a small ID card with my name on it, a big logo of the show and in black letters “The M Show Fan Club,” and in the line below, in big black letters, the word “Member.”

Brandi got her envelope the same day. She was glowing with happiness. Scarlett was jealous at first, but two days later she got her envelope too.

From then on, every Friday, each of us received a leaflet about the show with photos and anecdotes and background information on the characters. Occasionally the leaflets also called on the club members to promote the show and to watch out for “The M Show Tour.”

Either way, it worked: We loved the show afterwards. I think from that day on, after I proudly stuffed the membership card in my bag, I didn’t miss a single episode.

Then, in mid-June, we all got two leaflets. The first was the usual one with facts and photos. But the second was an ad:

“The tour bus is in town – this is your chance to become an ‘Elite Member’!”

The bus was coming the next Sunday to our town. We were all allowed to go. We were beyond excited.

The leaflet didn’t have much information and that was before we had a computer at home. The tour bus would arrive at 1pm and the main characters of the show would be there to welcome everybody and play games with us. Those that participated in at least four games would be upgraded to “Elite Member”-status and receive a new, golden membership card.

Those nine days of waiting for “The M Show Tour” were some of the longest in my life. Brandi and Scarlett and I planned every day how we would take photos with each of the characters and then play games with them. I secretly dreamed of beating Scarlett at the “knowledge game”, where our knowledge about the show would be tested.

On Saturday Scarlett went to a birthday-sleepover at one of her friends’ houses. The parents were supposed to bring Scarlett back by 12 on Sunday.

Around 12:30 Brandi came running to our house. She knocked on the back door, like she always did, and I let her in. Brandi was beyond excited; her mom had volunteered to accompany the three of us and she wanted to go early so that we wouldn’t miss anything.

My mom called the house of Scarlett’s friend, but they didn’t pick up their phone. She said that Scarlett would be home soon – early enough to go on time.

At 12:45 Brandi’s mother came over to ask for us. She said that we would have to leave so that the queues wouldn’t be too long. My mom said we should wait for Scarlett, but Brandi threw a tantrum; she was scared that she wouldn’t be able to hug all the characters if we came late.

Brandi’s mom decided to drive. I wanted to come along – but my mother said that she would drive Scarlett and me. I felt like I was being punished for Scarlett’s being late. I begged. I cried.

Nothing helped; Brandi went alone.

Her friends’ parents dropped Scarlett off at 13:40. I was mad at her, but my mom said if I made a scene we wouldn’t go at all. I relented.

We arrived around twenty minutes later at the big parking lot where the bus was scheduled to stop. We saw the crowds from the distance, parked the car and walked over.

I asked my mom where the characters of the show were; she said that they were just behind the crowd.

They all held the “The M Show Tour” flyers, but it looked as if the crowd were mostly parents. They stood in a half-circle towards the edge of the parking lot. Some of them looked concerned, but most of them were laughing and talking.

My mom spotted Brandi’s mother at the other end of the half-circle; we walked over to her. Brandi’s mother was one of the worried ones.

She told us that the bus had been there, together with all the animal figures from “The M Show.” They had a large bus with the “The M Show” logo and they handed out sweets.

One of the animal figures had explained to the parents that they had built a set outside of town where we all could make our own short film with the characters of the show. They said they would drive everybody there.

They took the children first. They were all so excited that few parents objected. Still, three or four parents came along and that calmed the rest. The next bus was supposed to arrive within a few minutes, to bring everyone to the set.

When I heard that I was excited like never before.

I ran to the street to look around so I could be the first on the bus. Scarlett followed me.

I didn’t see the worried expression when Brandi’s mother talked to mine.

I didn’t understand why the police came not even an hour later.

In Monday’s episode of “The M Show” one of the characters came on stage and told us to call our parents to watch the show. Our mom was already sitting with Scarlett and me.

The character said that “The M Show” didn’t have a fan club.

That week Brandi’s parents cried a lot. I was still sure that Brandi was okay, I thought she just had so much fun that she didn’t want to come back.

She must have had a lot of fun; she never came back.

Brandi’s mother cried even more, that Friday, when the small parcel arrived.

There was a new “The M Show Fan Club” membership card for Brandi. It was golden and said “Elite Member” in big, bold letters.

The parcel also contained a video. It was only a minute long; a minute of Brandi at the set of “The M Show.” She was wearing the same dress as when she came over to our house that Sunday morning.

On the video Brandi was smiling; an actor in a big animal suit stood next to her, silently.

“Hi mom, I really like it here.” Said Brandi. “I really wish you could be here.”

Then she laughed. “I’m sorry the others were late. I’m sure they would have loved it too.”

===
Credits

The Thing in the Window

I'm pretty freaked out.

That thing has been there for almost a week. The figure in the window. It looks featureless, only skin on a human frame, and it's pressing itself against the glass somehow. I don't know how it got there, and I don't know how to get rid of it.

At first I thought it was a prank, a doll or mannequin that some jerks put there to scare me. But I realized as I walked out of my house to pull it away... it wasn't there. I shrugged it off, thinking that someone had hidden it while I was walking through my door. But I went back in and looked out that same window, and it was looking in, staring at me.

I walked around my house, yelling for whoever it was to come out, but no one was there. The thing is hairless and naked, and it didn't look like it actually had eyes, or even a face at all. But its head is turned towards me when I enter the room. When I sit on my computer, I can feel its faceless hatred boring into my neck. But when I turn around, it's innocently turned in a different direction.

Finally on Thursday, I tried to open the window, but it's stuck. I think the thing's hands are keeping it down. But I got a good look at its face. Its eyes and mouth are behind the skin, pushing outward.

It stared at me, smiling.


I pulled back a fist and smashed it onto the glass, determined once and for all to get rid of the glaring monster. I know I’m strong enough. That glass should’ve cracked.

But it didn’t. It shuddered under my hand, but it didn’t break. And that smile just got wider and wider and wider, until I thought its head would break in half. It raised its own hand and bashed the window with its palm. It was mocking me. But I saw the faintest crack begin to appear where it had hit, and I backed away.

No way did I want that smile in the same room as me.

So I got a roll of duct tape, and I started covering the window. I couldn’t look directly at it; I nearly shit my pants just knowing it was watching me. But I couldn’t help it. I took a quick glance at that skin-covered face. A small peek.

It was angry.

That menacing grin was now a gaping frown full of teeth. The skin had ripped away from its mouth and I could see down its cavernous throat. A menacing rumble started to fill the house, and that hairline crack began to spread like splintering ice. I pulled down the duct tape. The rumble stopped, the split skin healed over, and it began to smile again.

Now it’s night, and the noise hasn’t started again. There are no sounds, no rumble, no crackling glass. Everything’s quiet now.

But I can feel its claws gripping the back of my chair. I can hear its skin stretching as it smiles.

It’s watching me type.

Tombstoning

Submitted 2 years ago * by the_itch

"Come on you pansy! Jump! Jump!" Mikey yelled up from next to me. The water was cold and the only thing keeping me warm was treading water and the adrenaline from my taking the plunge mere moments ago.

"Come on Jeffy! Don't be a pussy!" Jenny shouted next, from her place up on some of the other rocks. We all laughed and giggled self-consciously at her crude taunt. I heard Genevieve Saunders gasp.

Jeffy looked scared, and I didn't blame him. Dead Man's Drop had its name for a reason - it was a sheer wall of granite straight down to the dark quarry waters below. I remember the first time I jumped, four summers ago. It took me hours of watching the others plummet into the murky pool, and another half hour up on the ledge, before I had worked up the courage to jump.

No one had could ever quite agree exactly how high The Drop was; most of the others kids at school it was about forty feet. Mikey told me he thought it was fifty, maybe even more. The only thought I had when I stared at that dark rock wall, cracked and marred in places by tiny streamlets of water finding their way home to the pool at the bottom, was that it was high.

I measured the drop in seconds. Those seconds after that first time I closed my eyes and jumped and felt gravity do its work. Those seconds I prayed would not be my last, while I felt the cold spring air whoosh by me until I felt the bottoms of my feet slap the water's surface hard, and the kersplash of the invigorating cold waters of the dark quarry pool.

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand. Four one-thou….

"Come Jeffy jump!" I yelled through my shivering. "Awww, he's not gonna jump," Fat Tommy said from across the water. "He's chicken."

Before I'd thought Jeffy looked scared, but now I was worried because he didn't look really scared, only a little. I knew from two summers ago that it was better for somebody to be really scared than just a little scared… what's the word? Timid.

The new kids who were really scared, they never jumped. They'd watch the rest of us hoot and holler and plunge over the side, but they'd never work up to the courage to do the same. They could stand on the edge of Dead Man's Drop for a bloody century and they'd never feel any better about throwing themselves over, they'd only feel worse, and then would climb back down amidst taunts of scaredy-cat scaredy-cat.

What was worse were the kids who were just a little scared, the kids who looked like Jeffy Combs did right now, his awkward pale little body with his gangly little chicken legs standing near the rock wall's edge, with his thin face peering over. The kids who were only a little scared were the ones who'd hurt themselves. They'd jump and then change their mind in midair and go into the water with their mouth open, or land all funny, or not make it far enough out.

That's what'd happened to Jimmy from Ms. Franklin's class two summers ago when he broke his foot on the rocks, and what Dad told me happened fifteen years ago. A blonde boy from out of state had cracked his head, and then all the police came and then nobody snuck into the quarry for quite some years. But they came back. No one can keep us thrill-seekers away from The Drop for long, and people's memories in a small town are short.

"Come on Jeffy, you fag!" Tommy yelled.

I saw Mikey looking up in anticipation, a big grin on his face. Now I wished I hadn't said anything. Jeffy was a gangly like nervous kid and I was worried now that he was going to be one of those we'd heard about. One of the ones who was scared but not quite scared enough. One of the timid ones.

Or maybe not. I watched Jeffy adjust his glasses, take a few steps back, run, and jump.

Genevieve Saunders screamed.

He cleared the wall, but he didn't jump out far enough, and we all knew it. Those four seconds when Jeffy fell were the longest I could remember since I first jumped and we all waited holding our breaths to see his pale little body go splat on those rocks that broke Jimmy's foot two summers ago, right at The Drop's bottom.

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three-one thousand. Four-

But he made it after all. Kersplash, into quarry depths. All the girls up on the rocks yelled and the all the boys and I cheered and hollered despite ourselves, and how much of a little wiener we all knew Jeffy to be. I even heard some of the guys up at the top clapping.

One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three-one thousand. Four-

"Oh my god!" Jenny's scream broke the spell of our excitement. Suddenly the quarry air was depleted of our youthful energy and felt desolate and cold. The only sound was the hiss of tiny bubbles coming up from where he'd gone in.

"Somebody! Do something!" There was fear underneath the words, and tears behind, waiting to come out.

From deep inside something took ahold of me, something I didn't understand and had never felt before, and I swam toward the rock wall with all I had. I reached the churning circle of bubbles, took a deep breath, and dove. I feared the worst.

The quarry water was brown and stung my eyes, but I had to keep them open to find him. It was dark and I knew the water was deep here, probably twenty feet or more, but I had to look.

I pulled myself down, deeper and deeper into the icy cold depths. Pressure built on my chest and I could feel the pain of the water pushing against my eardrums intensifying with every foot lower I went.

I saw him. Through the brown haze was the bleached white skin of Jeffy right near what I reckoned must have been the bottom. My lungs were burning now and I had to act fast - I had to grab him and go or we'd both drown.

I swam closer and saw he wasn't unconscious and laid out on the quarry bottom or doing the Dead Man's Float like I would've thought. Jeffy was upright, just like how he'd entered the water, just like how all us kids entered the water - that's why it's called tombstoning.

As I came near enough to grab him, I saw the image that would mar my childhood and haunt the deepest darkest waters of my nightmares for years to come. I cried out and the sound of my horror was muffled in a cloud of bubbles. Through the murk I saw the mouth of Jeff's pale body still open in his last silent scream, and in it the end of the rebar rod which had speared him.

You’ve Known This Your Whole Life

You’ve known this your whole life.

Kissing my husband goodbye this morning made my stomach roll over in a way it never had.

Why?

Because early this morning something happened. Something I can't explain.

I woke up at 3:06 AM. I remember, because when I woke up I opened my eyes to the glowing red numerals of our alarm clock. Why does that matter?

Because the alarm clock is on my husband's night stand.

I yawned and rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling, confused as to how I got to his side of the bed. When I looked over to my side, every muscle in my body froze.

My husband lay on his back, his mouth wide open.

My husband never sleeps that way. He says that laying on his back gives him sleep paralysis.

That doesn't matter though, that’s not what made me freeze.

A little girl stood on my husband's chest, bent at the hips, her long black hair hanging down from her head and just brushing his cheeks.

The girl's knobby knees stuck out from under her dress. Her knees were covered in spider webs of tiny black veins, spreading from the front of her knees to the backs. Her dress was white, but stained black in places.

I remember biting back a scream as the girl scratched at her leg and a chunk of grey flesh fell to the mattress. It hit my husband's right arm and rolled to a stop against my chest. I could feel the little girl's flesh squirm with life and baking heat.

Before I could pull away, the girl's arm shot out and grabbed the chunk. I watched as she brought the grey meat to my husband's mouth, dropping it in as she let out a deep, gurgling giggle.

The girl brought both hands to my husband's chin and proceeded to work his jaw, making my husband chew what she placed in his mouth.

"Swallow," I heard the deep voice say from behind the little girl's hair.

My husband swallowed on command for the voice.

"Open," the voice whispered.

My husband opened his mouth and tiny black things began to fall into his mouth. The girl's head turned towards me as she hummed a song I couldn't place. A nursery rhyme, I think.

When she brushed her hair away from her face, I threw myself out of bed. Dark-edged creamy white pustules nested at both corners of the girl’s mouth, crisscrossed with trails of black veins.

Up until that point, I thought I was experiencing sleep paralysis, but the moment my ass hit the carpet and my feet started kicking back towards the corner of the room, I knew that I was fully awake and this was happening.

The little girl winked at me, torn lips pulling back in a smile that made me want to scream.

The girl only had one eye, but it was nothing more than a milky white orb whose surface was riddled with rotting pock marks. Where the girl’s left eye should have been was a cave.

Sharp black teeth glistened in the faint light as more of the black things fell from the girl's mouth into my husband's.

It was at that moment that I finally realized what the black things were.

The little girl nodded at me like she'd heard what I was thinking, before whispering, "Dead flies."

Bile rose in my throat.

The little girl perched on my husband's chest as she turned to face me.

"Now you know," a deep voice whispered from within the smiling little girl, even though her mouth never moved. "Most of you can't see us, but all can feel us. That itch on your face right before you drift off to sleep that keeps returning?"

The little girl giggled deeply and touched her long hair.

"Ever wake up in the middle of the night and feel the need to clear your throat?"

The little girl opened her gaping mouth a little wider and more of the dead flies rained down upon my husband's face.

You’ve known this your whole life.

I found my voice and asked, "What do you want?" in a hoarse voice that didn't sound like my own.

"Him," the little girl said. "Car wreck."

The little girl twisted her head sideways, folding it in toward her chest.

Then I woke up to my husband shaking me, that little smile on his face as usual.

Oh. So it was just a dream, you're thinking to yourself. Probably sleep paralysis.

It wasn't though. My husband woke me up this morning in that same corner of the room I'd pushed myself to earlier.

"What are you doing?" He asked. "Did you sleep on the floor last night?"

I answered something noncommittal and went to take a shower, convinced that it was a dream or that I was coming unhinged.

Downstairs, 20 minutes ago, I kissed my husband goodbye as he left for work.

When I walked upstairs, I found this on his side of the bed.

Three perfect piles containing six insects each.

6, 6, 6.

I've tried calling my husband, but his phone goes straight to voicemail every time so I’m sitting here with the phone next to me, waiting for it to start ringing. Waiting for someone to tell me that my husband is dead.

Cause of death: Car wreck.

I’m trying not to think of all the times I’ve had an itch on my face at the edge of sleep. I’m trying not to think of all the times I’ve woken up in the middle of the night and needed to clear my throat.

I'm trying not to think of that little girl standing on my chest as I fall asleep.

Try not to think of her when you go to bed tonight, /r/nosleep, because when you open your eyes, she might be staring down at you, her black teeth glistening through torn lips.

I’ve known this my whole life, and so have you.

The Scarecrow Corpse

 

Edit: This is from an old friend. I haven't heard back from him but I hope he's okay.

As you know I am (was) in training to be a Coroner. My education was almost complete and I had been working a paid internship with a well-known medical examiner in the Washington D.C. area. All that changed a few hours ago when I was fired from the office for refusing to participate in, what I believe to be, a cover up. Even though they ‘warned me’ about ‘consequences’ for leaking any information about this case, my conscience wouldn’t be clear if I kept quiet. This is something people need to know.

A few days ago we received a call from the Metro police about a possible body discovered on the redline. Since working here we’ve responded to a few calls in the subway system. The first time it was a woman who tripped over someone’s rolling suitcase while trying to pass by on the escalators. She ended up with a broken neck. Twice we went out there for a heart attack. Once for a late night mugging that went bad. The poor guy was stabbed repeatedly in the stomach even though he handed over his watch and wallet like the mugger requested. So far I haven’t seen anything especially gory and it was a bit of a let down when the dispatch officer said the man was found just sitting on the train. (Is it wrong that I’ve been looking forward to a call about someone either jumping or being pushed in front of a train?) The interesting thing is the wording of the dispatch request. “Possible body.” If the word ‘possible’ is in front of body, maybe it’s the paramedics that should be responding and not the coroner’s office.

When we arrived, the paramedics actually were on the scene so we figured it was just a miscommunication and we were called out prematurely. Police tape blocked off the whole entire station platform. From our view at the top of the escalators we could tell something wasn’t right. The paramedics stood outside the door to the train car and they weren’t actually doing anything except arguing and pointing at a body slumped up against a window inside. We could have left, but since it was a slow evening we decided to take a look anyway just to see what was going on.

As we approached I overheard some of the conversation between the two paramedics. “He’s dead, right?” said the older of the two. “Dead people don’t do…that.” Do what? I thought. Once they saw us, they quickly agreed that the man was dead and promptly left the scene to us. Clearly this wasn’t a call they wanted to handle, I can understand that.

The police weren’t much help either. I chatted with the officers on the scene while the doc went in to take a look at the man on the train. One of the detectives commented that there weren’t any clear signs of foul play. The witnesses all claimed the guy just sat down like everyone else and then he stopped breathing. Natural causes, I thought, seemed like a pretty cut and dry case, but when I looked over my shoulder at the Doc, he seemed… confused.

“Look at this.” He said to me as I walked into the train. As I approached, it seemed like the man was just napping like a lot of the train riders do when they know their stop won’t be coming up for awhile. “Look at what?” I asked.

“His eyes.”

The man’s head was forward with his chin to his chest so that I had to kneel down to get a good look at his face. As I’m doing this, the doc is talking out loud like he tends to do, just going over his mental checklist. “Not breathing. No pulse. His skin is cold to the touch. Approximate time of death 6 to 8 hours ago.”

I’m in the isle of train trying to make due with a pin flashlight since the dim lighting on the train wasn’t helping things much. The man’s eyes were open and they seemed to be staring at me. It’s not uncommon, so I lean in closer hoping to figure out what it is the doc wanted me to see so that I don’t look like an idiot and then… he blinked.

I jump back as quick as a mongoose would jump away from a cobra.

“What the fu…” I tried to say.

“Exactly.” The doc said.

“Got’ta be just a muscle spasm, right?”

“You would think,” he says, “but watch this.” He grabs the guy by the hair and pulls his head back. With his other hand he waves a finger in front of the man’s open eyes, which then began to follow along as the doc moves his finger left and right. Then the man looked at me and blinked again.

“Have you ever seen anything like this before?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“And he’s dead?”

“As a doornail.”

We let the officer in charge know that we couldn’t determine the cause of death on site. A full autopsy would need to be preformed to make any kind of determination. She made a note in the report that this body had a tendency to follow you with its eyes and occasionally blink. Off the record she told me the whole case bothered her. The man, she said, didn’t have any identification, credit cards, watch, jewelry, a phone, or even money. All they found on him was a train ticket and a napkin.

Once we had him back at the office we changed into our examination coveralls. I was asked to deal with his clothing. The man watched me the whole time as I stripped off his business suit. He even winked at me once. Also a few odd things were noted about the clothing. First, he wasn’t wearing any under garments. Normally people wear a tee shirt, boxers or briefs, and socks. This guy wore none of those things but for some reason he had on two belts, one over the other.

The doc switched on his tape recorder and then turned on the buzz saw. I watched as he preformed the Y-incision, and I made a mental note of his perfect technique so that I could try and do it better next time. I’m telling you the doc is a real artist. Next came the enjoyable cracking sound as the ribcage was pried open. All while this was happening the man’s eyes watched us. I could almost swear he was smiling too.

Over the next hour the doc made notes as he did the exam. He handed me each organ to be weighed and cataloged. There was nothing strange or out of the ordinary about any of the internal organs.

“Okay.” The doc said, “Lets take a look inside his head. I want to see what’s causing the eye movement.”

“Listen, do you mind if we tape the eyes shut first?”

I’m trying to remain as professional as I can but the constant blinking is unnerving me. The doc didn’t mind so I took some suture tape and worked up the courage to manually close the guy’s eyelids and taped them down. Immediately they started moving fast. His whole face was convulsing and contorting itself, trying to break free of the tape.

“I don’t think he like’s that.” The doc said and then he removed the tape from the man’s eyes. The violent motions stopped right away and he winked at the doc.

“This isn’t natural.” I said.

“There’s a scientific reason for everything. It’s our job to find it.” The doc replied.

“But he actually fought to get the tape off his eyes.”

“I guess he wants to watch. Now do you want to remove the skull, or should I?”

I’m too shaken to handle the equipment so I watch as the doc works the saw around the man’s skull. The bastard is smiling. I’m sure of it. He’s staring at me and blinking his left eye then his right eye back in forth. I hear the familiar popping sound caused by the top of a skull being pulled off.

“Whoa. Okay….” The doctor says.

“What is it?” I ask as I’m walking around to see what he’s seeing. The man’s eyes follow me of course.

“I think I might have to call this one in.”

Dear god.

The brain was missing.

“Doc?” I ask

“Not now. Pack up and go home. I’ll finish cleaning this up.” He’s saying this as he’s already dialing a number on the phone.

“But…”

“Just go. I’ll call you later.” It isn’t a request. I know when to shut up and listen. I make my way to the door knowing that the man is still staring at me. “And don’t say anything to anyone.”

The Doc never called me back. Each time I tried to reach him it went to voicemail. I tried to go back the next day security wouldn’t let me in the building. They said I was to await further instructions while on paid leave. That was four days ago.

This morning I hear a knock at my door. It’s a man who said he was with the medical examiners officer but he looks as if he’s with the CIA, FBI, NSA, or some other 3-letter agency. He asks if he can come in to talk. I open the door to let him in and as I do I notice two other similarly dressed men sitting in a black suburban across the street.

The folder he hands me is a case file for the John Doe that was found on the train. All of the notes about the eye movement and the blinking were removed. There was no mention of anything out of the ordinary, let alone a missing brain. It’s already got the Doc’s signature on it and this man is asking for me to sign it as well.

I try to tell him the files wrong but he holds up a hand to stop me from speaking. “This is how it happened. Sign it.” He said. I ask about the doc. I want to know why I haven’t heard from him. He says the doc has been ‘let go.’ The way he says it makes me think the worst. I refuse to sign it and ask to speak to the director of the medical examiners office. The man informs me that would be impossible and that I am to be fired. But fired isn’t the word he used. The word he used was ‘terminated’.

He leaves when I ask him to go but he warns me that mentioning this to anyone would have serious consequences. As soon as the door closed behind him I packed a bag and took off. I saw that a black suburban was parked at the end of my street and I might just be paranoid but I think it pulled out after I did. Just in case I was being followed I changed direction several times. When I felt safe enough I pulled into a nearby residential neighborhood and found an open WIFI signal.

I think something strange is going on in D.C. maybe elsewhere as well. I don’t know what it could be but I feel like the doc and I stumbled onto something we weren’t supposed to know about and now we’re in danger. I found the doc’s home number online. When I called it went straight to voicemail. I tried to leave a message for him but the line went dead once I began talking. If someone is monitoring my phone calls it’s possible my car is bugged too and they already know exactly where I am.

Again, maybe I’m just paranoid (or crazy). Maybe there is a completely logical explanation for the scarecrow corpse that stares and blinks and winks and smiles. I can't imagine how anything like that could exist or why. I’m scared, really, really scared. I decided the only thing to do would be to write this and email it out to everyone I know. Hopefully this information will make it to someone…

If you’ve received this and haven’t heard back from me by tomorrow then I’m probably dead and you’ll know what I’ve written is true.

===
Credits to Kris Mallory

August Heat

by William Fryer Harvey (1910)

PHENISTONE ROAD, CLAPHAM,
August 20th, 19—.

I HAVE HAD what I believe to be the most remarkable day in my life, and while the events are still fresh in my mind, I wish to put them down on paper as clearly as possible.

       Let me say at the outset that my name is James Clarence Withencroft.

       I am forty years old, in perfect health, never having known a day’s illness.

       By profession I am an artist, not a very successful one, but I earn enough money by my black-and-white work to satisfy my necessary wants.

       My only near relative, a sister, died five years ago, so that I am independent.

       I breakfasted this morning at nine, and after glancing through the morning paper I lighted my pipe and proceeded to let my mind wander in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil.

       The room, though door and windows were open, was oppressively hot, and I had just made up my mind that the coolest and most comfortable place in the neighbourhood would be the deep end of the public swimming bath, when the idea came.

       I began to draw. So intent was I on my work that I left my lunch untouched, only stopping work when the clock of St. Jude’s struck four.

       The final result, for a hurried sketch, was, I felt sure, the best thing I had done.

       It showed a criminal in the dock immediately after the judge had pronounced sentence. The man was fat—enormously fat. The flesh hung in rolls about his chin; it creased his huge, stumpy neck. He was clean shaven (perhaps I should say a few days before he must have been clean shaven) and almost bald. He stood in the dock, his short, clumsy fingers clasping the rail, looking straight in front of him. The feeling that his expression conveyed was not so much one of horror as of utter, absolute collapse.

       There seemed nothing in the man strong enough to sustain that mountain of flesh.

       I rolled up the sketch, and without quite knowing why, placed it in my pocket. Then with the rare sense of happiness which the knowledge of a good thing well done gives, I left the house.

       I believe that I set out with the idea of calling upon Trenton, for I remember walking along Lytton Street and turning to the right along Gilchrist Road at the bottom of the hill where the men were at work on the new tram lines.

       From there onwards I have only the vaguest recollection of where I went. The one thing of which I was fully conscious was the awful heat, that came up from the dusty asphalt pavement as an almost palpable wave. I longed for the thunder promised by the great banks of copper-coloured cloud that hung low over the western sky.

       I must have walked five or six miles, when a small boy roused me from my reverie by asking the time.

       It was twenty minutes to seven.

       When he left me I began to take stock of my bearings. I found myself standing before a gate that led into a yard bordered by a strip of thirsty earth, where there were flowers, purple stock and scarlet geranium. Above the entrance was a board with the inscription—

CHAS. ATKINSON
MONUMENTAL MASON
WORKER IN ENGLISH AND ITALIAN MARBLES

       From the yard itself came a cheery whistle, the noise of hammer blows, and the cold sound of steel meeting stone.

       A sudden impulse made me enter.

       A man was sitting with his back towards me, busy at work on a slab of curiously veined marble. He turned round as he heard my steps and I stopped short.

       It was the man I had been drawing, whose portrait lay in my pocket.

       He sat there, huge and elephantine, the sweat pouring from his scalp, which he wiped with a red silk handkerchief. But though the face was the same, the expression was absolutely different.

       He greeted me smiling, as if we were old friends, and shook my hand.

       I apologised for my intrusion.

       “Everything is hot and glary outside,” I said. “This seems an oasis in the wilderness.”

       “I don’t know about the oasis,” he replied, “but it certainly’s hot, as hot as hell. Take a seat, sir!”

       He pointed to the end of the gravestone on which he was at work, and I sat down.

       “That’s a beautiful piece of stone you’ve got hold of,” I said.

       He shook his head. “In a way it is,” he answered; “the surface here is as fine as anything you could wish, but there’s a big flaw at the back, though I don’t expect you’d ever notice it. I could never make really a good job of a bit of marble like that. It would be all right in the summer like this; it wouldn’t mind the blasted heat. But wait till the winter comes. There’s nothing quite like frost to find out the weak points in stone.”

       “Then what’s it for?” I asked.

       The man burst out laughing.

       “You’d hardly believe me if I was to tell you it’s for an exhibition, but it’s the truth. Artists have exhibitions: so do grocers and butchers; we have them too. All the latest little things in headstones, you know.”

       He went on to talk of marbles, which sort best withstood wind and rain, and which were easiest to work; then of his garden and a new sort of carnation he had bought. At the end of every other minute he would drop his tools, wipe his shining head, and curse the heat.

       I said little, for I felt uneasy. There was something unnatural, uncanny, in meeting this man.

       I tried at first to persuade myself that I had seen him before, that his face, unknown to me, had found a place in some out-of-the-way corner of my memory, but I knew that I was practising little more than a plausible piece of self-deception.

       Mr. Atkinson finished his work, spat on the ground, and got up with a sigh of relief.

       “There! what do you think of that?” he said, with an air of evident pride.

       The inscription which I read for the first time was this—

SACRED TO THE MEMORY
OF
JAMES CLARENCE WITHENCROFT
BORN JAN. 18TH, 1860
HE PASSED AWAY VERY SUDDENLY
ON AUGUST 20TH, 19—

“In the midst of life we are in death.”

FOR SOME TIME I sat in silence. Then a cold shudder ran down my spine. I asked him where he had seen the name.

       “Oh, I didn’t see it anywhere,” replied Mr. Atkinson. “I wanted some name, and I put down the first that came into my head. Why do you want to know?”

       “It’s a strange coincidence, but it happens to be mine.”

       He gave a long, low whistle.

       “And the dates?”

       “I can only answer for one of them, and that’s correct.”

       “It’s a rum go!” he said.

       But he knew less than I did. I told him of my morning’s work. I took the sketch from my pocket and showed it to him. As he looked, the expression of his face altered until it became more and more like that of the man I had drawn.

       “And it was only the day before yesterday,” he said, “that I told Maria there were no such things as ghosts!”

       Neither of us had seen a ghost, but I knew what he meant.

       “You probably heard my name,” I said.

       “And you must have seen me somewhere and have forgotten it! Were you at Clacton-on-Sea last July?”

       I had never been to Clacton in my life. We were silent for some time. We were both looking at the same thing, the two dates on the gravestone, and one was right.

       “Come inside and have some supper,” said Mr. Atkinson.

       His wife is a cheerful little woman, with the flaky red cheeks of the country-bred. Her husband introduced me as a friend of his who was an artist. The result was unfortunate, for after the sardines and watercress had been removed, she brought out a Doré Bible, and I had to sit and express my admiration for nearly half an hour.

       I went outside, and found Atkinson sitting on the gravestone smoking.

       We resumed the conversation at the point we had left off.

       “You must excuse my asking,” I said, “but do you know of anything you’ve done for which you could be put on trial?”

       He shook his head.

       “I’m not a bankrupt, the business is prosperous enough. Three years ago I gave turkeys to some of the guardians at Christmas, but that’s all I can think of. And they were small ones, too,” he added as an afterthought.

       He got up, fetched a can from the porch, and began to water the flowers. “Twice a day regular in the hot weather,” he said, “and then the heat sometimes gets the better of the delicate ones. And ferns, good Lord! they could never stand it. Where do you live?”

       I told him my address. It would take an hour’s quick walk to get back home.

       “It’s like this,” he said. “We’ll look at the matter straight. If you go back home tonight, you take your chance of accidents. A cart may run over you, and there’s always banana skins and orange peel, to say nothing of fallen ladders.”

       He spoke of the improbable with an intense seriousness that would have been laughable six hours before. But I did not laugh.

       “The best thing we can do,” he continued, “is for you to stay here till twelve o’clock. We’ll go upstairs and smoke; it may be cooler inside.”

       To my surprise I agreed.

WE ARE SITTING now in a long, low room beneath the eaves. Atkinson has sent his wife to bed. He himself is busy sharpening some tools at a little oilstone, smoking one of my cigars the while.

       The air seems charged with thunder. I am writing this at a shaky table before the open window. The leg is cracked, and Atkinson, who seems a handy man with his tools, is going to mend it as soon as he has finished putting an edge on his chisel.

       It is after eleven now. I shall be gone in less than an hour.

       But the heat is stifling.

       It is enough to send a man mad.