The sun is shining. It has always been shining. You don’t remember when it last rained.
Late at night, the train calls to you, long and wailing in the darkness. There is no train in your city and you wonder what lies under the sidewalks.
The ocean watches. The waves crash against the shore and when they pull back, sunken bones are stuck in the sand, gray and grainy. “You’re next,” the child balancing on a tall driftwood log reminds you. She falls and you’re the only one who calls the ambulance.
On your drive home, you pass an empty diner. The waitress inside waves at you, her fingers too long, her smile too wide. You don’t go in.
The playground near your home seems to be shrinking, sinking into the ground little by little, and the children go with it.
The woods beckon, and when you stand at the tree line you see faces. “You see them too?” Your mother asks. She smiles.
You see them standing in the cornfield sometimes. Odd, maybe, but rather easy to ignore. All the same, you never leave your father’s sight during the harvest. You don’t want them to find you.
“Are you thirsty?” The priest asks, but there’s already a cup in your hand. The water is stained a rusty color. You shake your head, but you drink anyway.
It rains, finally, and the crumbling pothole on your street is filled with dirty water. Your little brother swims, but something yanks him under and he never resurfaces. The funeral is held too late, after everyone but you forgets.
The arcade is a tourist trap, full of bright colors. No one ever goes in, and no one ever comes out, but when you peer through the windows, it’s not empty. Don’t look too long.
At the county fair, a scrawny man offers you caramel apples. You wake up in the corn maze with all of your teeth missing.
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