As I sit in my car in Jud, North Dakota looking over my phone’s map app, I wonder how I found this little strip of heaven.  Every where I turn, I see murals that are vibrant and have different things painted all over them.  Now a man can admire a work of art without being called a pansy, I might add. Deciding to stay for a little while, I pull out onto the intersection and notice a diner on the corner before the next stop sign.  I realize that it has been days since I have eaten anything or maybe more, so I drive into the parking lot and climb out of my beat-up old Chevy truck.  Yes, this time I didn’t steal one.  I saw it on the side of the road a couple months back and bought it straight out with cash from an old man with no teeth and his wrinkled old lady out in the country. Getting out of the car, I open the door and hear the squeal of the frame, it reminds me that I must get some WD-40.  The old man had said that it has seen better

Sitting on the cold, hardwood floor, I stare at my nephew’s half rotted corpse as the smell fills my nostrils and makes my stomach churn.  The ironic thing about all this, is that now the enticing aromas from downstairs, mix with the pungent odor from his rotting corpse and make the bile in my stomach fill my mouth.  I start to gag, but I don’t care and still sit there staring because his body is in remarkably good condition for one that has been rotting for almost a year. Hearing a knock at the door, I casually glance over at it before returning my gaze to his almost mummified body slumped over.  Just as I shake my head, I hear it again, but the noise is muffled and sounds like I am underwater.   I can only assume that I am in shock, because when Sharon opens the door and walks in, I freeze.  Knowing that if she finds the body, I am toast, I try to move but find that I am stuck in place.  “What is going on?” I say quietly, so she d

Sitting there for a while longer as I ponder what just took place, I find myself doubting everything that I have learned so far.  So, as I try to get my mind off it by glancing around the room and watching as everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, I realize that there is something horribly wrong with this picture.  When I am not looking directly at someone, they are staring at me with a blank look in their eyes.  They aren’t really chatting.  They are just making noise while their mouths move.  A constant murmur surrounds me, and I realize that it is all just a clever disguise.  Shaking my head, I think back to everything that has happened, and the conversation with the man.  “Did he say anything out of place?” I whisper so no one else can hear as a tingle rises up my spine.  I decide that all the information from everyone lately is not correct, except for my aunt.  I believe my aunt, because she had no cause to

Seeing her face every time I close my eyes, I have given up sleeping completely.  It has been two weeks now and the sweltering heat is making my temper boil.  As I watch a little boy of about 8 years old, cross the street by the courthouse just outside the park, I wait patiently for a man named Jim Davidson to show up.  Thing is, as I sit here reading the news on the newspaper’s website, I have noticed something odd about this quiet little place.  For a small town like Mount Pleasant, Michigan, there sure are a lot of little children missing from their own backyards.  And that is only the tip of the iceberg, because once I started digging, I found out that children have disappeared here for centuries without anyone ever finding them again. So, what is so different about this place?  Why would she show up here?  And why Jim? According to the Morning Sun Newspaper’s website, he had spoken with “A woman with unnaturally bright

Hearing a noise in the night, I wake up to a screeching sound by my head and then I see it.  There is a small rat sitting there eating on something in the dark.  I smell the rancid odor as it circulates the room, and it fills my nose before I begin to feel like I am going to puke.I would not say that it was the first time this happened, because that would be a lie.  Matter of fact, I am so used to it happening, that I shrug my shoulders and climb out of bed to give it a swift kick before turning on the lamp on the table.  It squeals in pain before running off to some hole in the wall.  Then as I watch it scurry along, I see something else unpleasant.  Not only is there a small chunk of what looks like a child’s leg on the floor covered in blood and maggots, but there is also a note that is handwritten on parchment lying next to it.  There is simply no way I am going to pick that up, so instead I use a hanger from the rack to p