You hear faint music in the distance at night. You can never make out what’s playing or where it’s coming from exactly, but sometimes you sit on your porch and strain to hear it over the cicadas and tree frogs. On some nights, you have to resist the urge to get up and follow it into the trees.
Your neighbors smile and wave to you when they see you. Their teeth are yellowed and crooked and their eyes are glossy. You don’t like their smiles. You don’t like them. You don’t even know them. You smile and wave back.
The diner down the street never gets much business, but you decide to go anyway. The waitresses stare at you when you walk in. They serve you sweet tea. It tastes of copper and lemon. You don’t look into the glass when you take a sip; nobody ever looks into the glass when they take a sip. You don’t go back to the diner.
There are signs that you see on the side of the dirt roads as you drive that read things like “HELL IS REAL!” and “REPENT!” One sign has a number on it that promises that if you call, the person on the other line can tell you where you’ll go when you die. You don’t call the number.
You hear screaming in the woods at 3:00 AM. You tell yourself it’s the owl, but you find yourself keeping a shotgun by your bed anyway.
There’s a graveyard by the old church. When you drive by, you swear that time slows to a crawl. You hear somebody calling your name. You’re too afraid to call back. You keep driving.
The neighbors’ kid disappeared last week. You saw them putting a wooden cross in their backyard. You don’t ask questions. Nobody asks questions. This is the third wooden cross they’ve put in their backyard.
The dogs are howling again. It’s louder than it was last night. It sounds like it’s coming from your living room. You hear scratching on the hardwood. You get up and lock the bedroom door.
izzy806
gummygunk
germansingergirl
yousharknotpass
kaledo-art
baratheonpilled
