u/Lilia_Briganda

Vernon pulled into the Hells Bells in Blackwood Ridge, figuring the wild county rumors about the motel were nothing more than a big joke. His buddy, "BigRay" Raleigh, an interstate truck driver who stayed there once, swore up and down that he'd woken up in the middle of the night, pulled the cheap plastic blinds back, and looked out to see a sparkling Mediterranean blue sea and the parking lot gone with goats outside his window, that all disappeared by morning. Vernon had laughed in his face. He dropped his vinyl bag onto the metal luggage rack in the corner and stretched out on the floral bedspread, waiting for sleep to hit.

Instead, the wood-paneled Zenith console hummed to life in the dark.

Channel 2 flickered through heavy static before settling on a crisp, quiet feed of Room 3. A couple in full Sunday best was methodically spreading lukewarm brown gravy across the floral wallpaper with foam painbrush rollers, working in complete, solemn silence. Vernon squinted at the set from the mattress, taking a long pull from his lukewarm gas station coffee.

"Night clerk must be running some kind of prank tape," Vernon muttered to the empty room, cracking a faint grin. "Helluva waste of gravy, but alright."

Curious, he swung his legs off the bed, walked over to the TV, and pulled the room's wooden armchair right up in the front of the console. He sat down and twisted the heavy plastic dial to Channel 4.

The static cut out instantly. A flat, monotone, hoarse voice came straight out of the speaker, clear as day: "You've got a lot of nerve laughing, Vernon, when you stole your sister's share of the inheritance back in '98!"

Vernon's grin instantly vanished. He tapped the side of the wooden cabinet, waiting for the night clerk's muffled laughter to follow, but the room stayed dead silent except for the low hum of the TV set. The joke died right then, and the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up."

Scoffing to cover his nerves, he clicked the knob over to Channel 6.

The screen instantly jumped to a sharp overhead view of the room. He saw the top of his own thinning hairline, the wooden arms of the chair he was clutching, and the exact moment his hand touched the dial. But on the screen, the shadow standing directly behind his chair was already reaching out for his shoulder.

The TV screen flashed a blinding white, then shut itself off.

It started on Season 4, Episode 3 of Bare & Uncharted—one of those cheap survival shows dropping contestants in the woods with a knife, a fire starter, and a following film crew. For the production team, it was four weeks in a hot tent downriver, watching video feeds on cheap monitors.

​Keller, the producer, who wore a brand-new hiking vest and never spent a night without cell service, sat next to Martin, clicking his pen while barking into his headset.

On screen, Maya hauled pine boughs for a crude shelter while Chet knelt, desperate for a spark.

​"Get closer on Chet," Keller said, sipping stale coffee. "He’s about to blow his top over that wet tinder. Tell Pete to move in."

​On the center monitor, Pete stepped out from the river cane, right into Chet's face. Then Pete stopped. The camera jerked sideways, pointing at the dirt.

​"Pete, hold it steady," Keller said into his mic. "What are you doing?"

​A quiet thwip echoed through the audio. Pete went down face-first into the mud, a small dart with red fuzz sticking out of his neck.

​"What was that?" Keller yanked off his headset. On screen, the camera lay sideways as two bare feet walked into frame, legs caked in red mud. On the secondary monitor, two warriors dragged Pete out of the brush, his arms swinging limp.

​"Cut the feed," Keller said, his voice dropping. "Grab the satellite phone. We’re leaving."

​Martin turned to unzip the tent door, but three mud-caked warriors stood in the opening. Behind them stepped another, caked in charcoal with white rings circling his dark eyes. He raised a long blowpipe before either man could move.

​When Keller woke, his neck throbbed, and he had a bitter metallic taste in his mouth. Pete was unconscious in the corner of the bamboo cage, and Martin clutched a dead satellite phone.

Outside, Maya and Chet’s screams pierced the jungle air for two days before suddenly stopping, replaced each night by the sweet, sickening smell of roasted flesh and frenzied tribal chanting.

​Human reason meant nothing here. When Martin was dragged out to a flat bamboo table, an old woman knelt beside him, gouging his eyes out with dark flint and swallowing them whole before cutting out his tongue. The clan cheered as the charcoal-painted man hacked Martin's legs off at the thighs while his chest still heaved, butchering him alive until his screams finally died.

​Days in the cramped cage wore away their sanity. Pete sat quietly in the corner, watching Keller twitch at every rustle until heavy footsteps thudded near the bars. The charcoal-painted warrior stopped inches away, staring unblinking as he unlatched the door.

​Pete braced himself, locking eyes with the warrior. As the door swung open, Pete shoved Keller hard, sending him stumbling within reach.

​"Take him!" Pete snarled.

​Dark hands snagged Keller by the shirt, dragging him screaming through the mud toward the village while Pete stayed pinned to the corner. Since capture, he had been picking at the crude vine lashings. The moment they vanished, Pete heaved upward on the loosened stalks, squeezed his body through the gap, and tumbled into the mud.

​Hugging the treeline toward the creek, all he could hear was Keller’s screams as he ran for his life. 

Suzy was sitting on her couch, scrolling through her phone, bored after a few video reels, when she stumbled across the Facebook Dating icon. She almost laughed out loud. Living in a small town where everybody knew everybody else's business, and where the local dating pool was pretty much nil, the thought of finding anyone decent online and close to where she lived felt like a joke. But after a year of being single, she figured why not and threw together a quick profile with zero expectations.

At first it was just the usual, a few guys looking for a hookup and some old classmates she graduated with a couple of years back. But a few days later, a message popped up from a guy named Jay who lived 20 miles away. He described himself as an IT field technician who traveled around the area for service calls.

He said, "I came across your profile and had to reach out before Facebook algorithms realized we'd make a much better match than its suggestions! His message was funny and actually made her laugh. What began as a few casual texts soon became phone calls that lasted longer than she realized.

They had been talking for about a month and finally decided to meet up that Friday. Just a quick, low-key cup of coffee at a 24-hour diner right off Route 9 to see if they clicked in real life.

He had texted to say he was already inside, and she spotted him the second she walked through the door. Instead of getting up to greet her, he just sat there watching her walk over- and as she slid into the booth, a cold knot twisted in her stomach.

The warm, seemingly easygoing guy from their phone calls felt surprisingly cold, almost detached, as he made a snide comment about her being ten minutes late. He flagged down the waitress who poured them both a cup of coffee, and Suzy brushed off his mood, assuming he'd just had a bad day.

Trying to keep things light, she made a joke about how awful the diner coffee was, but he only offered a brief, tight smile that felt totally forced. She pushed to keep the conversation upbeat, yet he just watched her mouth with a quiet intensity that made her skin crawl. He barely engaged in conversation with her. He was cold, stiff, and completely off, and her gut instinct was telling her to get the hell out of there.

She held her purse in her lap, taking slow sips of her coffee, doing her best to play it cool. After twenty minutes had ticked by, she politely excused herself. "Sorry, I have to get up early tomorrow, so I'd better head home."

His expression went blank. “Going already?” he said. His voice was totally flat. 'We were supposed to hang out for a little while."

“I know, but I’m just so exhausted," she said, laying down a five-dollar bill to cover her coffee. “It was nice to meet you."

He didn't get up, say goodbye, or even offer to walk her to her car. He just sat at the booth and watched her go out the door.

Back in her car, she locked the doors with a sigh of relief, pulled out of the parking lot, and headed down the dark stretch of Route 9 toward home. Her heart was bounding, but she kept telling herself she was just overreacting. Once she got back home, she'd block him and forget the whole thing.

Ten miles down the road, surrounded by nothing but thick tree lines and zero streetlights, a pair of blindingly bright headlights suddenly appeared right behind her, riding inches off her rear bumper.

Three hours later, state troopers found her sedan idling on the highway shoulder, reported by a concerned passerby. Her purse sat untouched in the passenger seat, and her phone lay cracked on the asphalt just under her wide-open driver's side door.

There was no sign of her anywhere.

Suzy was sitting on her couch, scrolling through her phone, bored after a few video reels, when she stumbled across the Facebook Dating icon. She almost laughed out loud. Living in a small town where everybody knew everybody else's business, and where the local dating pool was pretty much nil, the thought of finding anyone decent online and close to where she lived felt like a joke. But after a year of being single, she figured why not and threw together a quick profile with zero expectations.

At first it was just the usual, a few guys looking for a hookup and some old classmates she graduated with a couple of years back. But a few days later, a message popped up from a guy named Jay who lived 20 miles away. He described himself as an IT field technician who traveled around the area for service calls.

He said, "I came across your profile and had to reach out before Facebook algorithms realized we'd make a much better match than its suggestions! His message was funny and actually made her laugh. What began as a few casual texts soon became phone calls that lasted longer than she realized.

They had been talking for about a month and finally decided to meet up that Friday. Just a quick, low-key cup of coffee at a 24-hour diner right off Route 9 to see if they clicked in real life.

He had texted to say he was already inside, and she spotted him the second she walked through the door. Instead of getting up to greet her, he just sat there watching her walk over- and as she slid into the booth, a cold knot twisted in her stomach.

The warm, seemingly easygoing guy from their phone calls felt surprisingly cold, almost detached, as he made a snide comment about her being ten minutes late. He flagged down the waitress who poured them both a cup of coffee, and Suzy brushed off his mood, assuming he'd just had a bad day.

Trying to keep things light, she made a joke about how awful the diner coffee was, but he only offered a brief, tight smile that felt totally forced. She pushed to keep the conversation upbeat, yet he just watched her mouth with a quiet intensity that made her skin crawl. He barely engaged in conversation with her. He was cold, stiff, and completely off, and her gut instinct was telling her to get the hell out of there.

She held her purse in her lap, taking slow sips of her coffee, doing her best to play it cool. After twenty minutes had ticked by, she politely excused herself. "Sorry, I have to get up early tomorrow, so I'd better head home."

His expression went blank. “Going already?” he said. His voice was totally flat. 'We were supposed to hang out for a little while."

“I know, but I’m just so exhausted," she said, laying down a five-dollar bill to cover her coffee. “It was nice to meet you."

He didn't get up, say goodbye, or even offer to walk her to her car. He just sat at the booth and watched her go out the door.

Back in her car, she locked the doors with a sigh of relief, pulled out of the parking lot, and headed down the dark stretch of Route 9 toward home. Her heart was bounding, but she kept telling herself she was just overreacting. Once she got back home, she'd block him and forget the whole thing.

Ten miles down the road, surrounded by nothing but thick tree lines and zero streetlights, a pair of blindingly bright headlights suddenly appeared right behind her, riding inches off her rear bumper.

Three hours later, state troopers found her sedan idling on the highway shoulder, reported by a concerned passerby. Her purse sat untouched in the passenger seat, and her phone lay cracked on the asphalt just under her wide-open driver's side door.

There was no sign of her anywhere.

Wayne sat on the edge of the mattress in Room 113, staring at the harvest gold rotary phone on the nightstand. The cord trailed off the table and coiled on the carpet; two feet short of any wall jack.

He knew it was coming before it even started. At midnight sharp, the brass bell inside gave a heavy ring. He picked up the receiver.

"You're still sitting here, Wayne," the woman said. Her voice was steady, calm.

Wayne swallowed, his throat dry. "I'm leaving in the morning."

"You said that yesterday, and the night before."

"I just needed time to think," Wayne said, gripping the heavy phone handle. "I had a bad night on the road. I needed to clear my head."

"Tell me about the highway, Wayne."

Wayne rubbed his palm against his thigh trying to warm his cold and numb leg.

"It was raining hard," he said. "I was coming around the bend on Route 5 and approaching the bridge. Something came out of the dark--a shadow on the shoulder. I heard a thud against the right fender, but by the time I hit the brakes there was nothing in the rearview."

"You didn't hit the brakes, Wayne, and you didn't stop," she said. "That thud was a person, Wayne. You hit someone on the shoulder."

"I--I don't know," Wayne muttered, staring at the floor. "I just knew I had to get away from the water, so I drove here."

"You didn't drive here," she said softly. You panicked, overcorrected and skidded on the slick deck, scraping the guardrail along its length before plunging into the river."

Wayne stayed silent, his breath hitching. "No--no, I crossed the bridge. I came here."

"You've been sitting on that mattress for 7 days listening to me try to help you remember," the Listener said. "Look out the window, Wayne. Tell me what's parked out front."

Wayne stood up, walked over to the window and pulled back the blinds. The parking lot was completely empty.

"Where's my truck?" Wayne asked, squinting into the dark.

"It's at the bottom of the river," she said. "Go back to the bridge, Wayne. Face what's there or stay in this room forever."

The line went dead with a heavy click.

Wayne walked out the door into the cold, freezing rain, following the dark shoulder of Route 5 back toward the bridge.

Down on the mud bank at the far end of the bridge span, two county cruisers sat with their headlights cutting through the fog. A tow truck wench was dragging a crushed waterlogged Chevy truck out of the river.

Wayne walked down the gravel slope, his boots making no sound in the slush. He stepped right up behind two deputies standing near the water's edge.

"Found the car wedged against the bank," one deputy said. "Looks like he struck a pedestrian on the right shoulder of the bridge approach, overcorrected, and skidded sideways off the bridge deck."

Wayne looked through the shattered windshield of his crushed truck. The passenger side was caved in and stripped of paint from the guardrail. Beneath the muddy river water, his own hands were still fixed to the steering wheel.

Standing there in the cold rain the last 7 days collapsed back into a single, blinding second on the bridge.

Vernon pulled into the Hells Bells in Blackwood Ridge, figuring the wild county rumors about the motel were nothing more than a big joke. His buddy, "BigRay" Raleigh, an interstate truck driver who stayed there once, swore up and down that he'd woken up in the middle of the night, pulled the cheap plastic blinds back, and looked out to see a sparkling Mediterranean blue sea and the parking lot gone with goats outside his window, that all disappeared by morning. Vernon had laughed in his face. He dropped his vinyl bag onto the metal luggage rack in the corner and stretched out on the floral bedspread, waiting for sleep to hit.

Instead, the wood-paneled Zenith console hummed to life in the dark.

Channel 2 flickered through heavy static before settling on a crisp, quiet feed of Room 3. A couple in full Sunday best was methodically spreading lukewarm brown gravy across the floral wallpaper with foam painbrush rollers, working in complete, solemn silence. Vernon squinted at the set from the mattress, taking a long pull from his lukewarm gas station coffee.

"Night clerk must be running some kind of prank tape," Vernon muttered to the empty room, cracking a faint grin. "Helluva waste of gravy, but alright."

Curious, he swung his legs off the bed, walked over to the TV, and pulled the room's wooden armchair right up in the front of the console. He sat down and twisted the heavy plastic dial to Channel 4.

The static cut out instantly. A flat, monotone, hoarse voice came straight out of the speaker, clear as day: "You've got a lot of nerve laughing, Vernon, when you stole your sister's share of the inheritance back in '98!"

Vernon's grin instantly vanished. He tapped the side of the wooden cabinet, waiting for the night clerk's muffled laughter to follow, but the room stayed dead silent except for the low hum of the set. The amusement was gone, replaced by a cold, prickling unease.

Scoffing to cover his nerves, he clicked the knob over to Channel 6.

The screen instantly jumped to a sharp overhead view of the room. He saw the top of his own thinning hairline, the wooden arms of the chair he was clutching, and the exact moment his hand touched the dial. But on the screen, the shadow standing directly behind his chair was already reaching out for his shoulder.

The TV screen flashed a blinding white, then shut itself off.

By the late sixties, the old Catskill resort trade was starting to fall apart. Once jet travel got cheap, everybody and their brother started flying down to Miami or taking cruises instead of driving up from the city for two weeks in the mountains. The grand motels including the Blue Marlin were half-empty by July, and the family-run cabin courts along Route 17 were getting desperate.

​When the tourists stopped coming for the crisp air and kosher delis, the local roadside spots had to get creative to lure cars off the asphalt. There were the usual tourist traps—tame deer parks, mystery spots with tilted floors, and souvenir shacks selling cheap cedar boxes.

But right between the stretch where the Hell’s Bells Motel sat and the Sunrise Diner’s neon flickered, there was a strange little gravel pull-off hidden in the hemlocks.

​It was called The Crone in the Pines.

The owner was a quiet old fellow who always wore a grease-stained ball cap and sat on an overturned crate by the entrance. He charged fifty cents a head to walk a winding boardwalk into the thicket. At the end of the trail sat a weather-beaten wooden sculpture, locked inside a rusted iron cage.

​It was a life-sized figure carved out of dark weathered timber, shaped into the gnarled likeness of a stooped old witch woman. Her face was gaunt and sunken, with two rusted iron spikes driven directly through its carved eyes, and a frayed hemp noose tied tight around its neck.

A hand-painted sign nailed to a barn board claimed it was carved in the 1800s in likeness to a local witch who used to live up in the hollows--a woman the early homesteaders blamed for killing livestock and ruining crops before she disappeared into the woods. The sign said the carving was meant to trap her spirit so that no other phenomena would plague the valley.

​Most folks passed it off as a cheap gimmick—just something to sell five-cent coffee and postcards to drivers needing to stretch their legs. But then the hippie communes started moving into the hollows in the early seventies. They were drawn to the cheap land and the quiet backroads. It didn't take long before rumors spread around the diner counters that people were going out there after dark and leaving things at the base of the cage—dried flowers, carved bones, and mason jars of moonshine.

​Then came the summer of ’74, when the old man running the place vanished overnight. The cage door was found bent open from the inside, the padlock snapped clean off, and the wooden statue itself was completely gone.

​The resort era is long dead now, and those old roadside pull-offs are mostly rusted iron and rotted timber buried in the brush. But if you’re pulling a late shift near the diner or sitting in a dark lot along the pass, you might catch a glimpse of an old witch standing back in the pines, and when the fog rolls down off the ridge, hear a dry, steady scraping against the bark out in the dark. 

Clara bent in toward the table and dropped her penny into the jar.

Old Manie leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and stared down into the jar. ​The ripples pushed out in clean, even circles, bouncing off the glass and crisscrossing back over the bright copper face of Abraham Lincoln.

​"Well," Manie said, her voice dropping down low. "You ain't turning your toes up this winter, Clara Henderson. Nor the next."

​Clara's shoulders dropped as she let out a sigh of relief.

​"You got plenty of dirt left to walk on," Manie continued, squinting as a shadow crossed the surface. "But see how that water’s pulling toward the north side of the glass? You got a dark patch coming before the leaves turn. A heavy strain on your household. Something’s coming into your place that wasn't invited, and it’s gonna sit in your front room."

Clara swallowed hard. "What kind of strain?"

​"Water don't name names," Manie said, "It just shows the weight. You’ll bury two more before your own time comes, but you’ll be the one holding the needle when the thread runs out."

​Manie tapped the side of the jar with her fingernail, and the ripples flattened out back into dark glass.

​"That’s another penny’s worth," Manie rasped. "Who’s next?"

​"I ain't dropping nothing," Maeve said, her voice tight and stern.

​Old Manie laughed. "Scared you're going to find out you're the next one going under?"

​Maeve didn't answer her. She couldn't.

​All she could think about was the steep gravel road waiting for them at the edge of that rutted out clay road and the long, sharp drop down toward the quarry pond. If Old Manie looked into that glass and told her she was the next one going into a pine box, Maeve's hands would start shaking so hard she'd steer that Buick right off the side of the ridge before they ever hit the paved road.

​"Clara. Hattie," Maeve said, her eyes fixed on the driveway. "We're leaving."

​She got up from the bench, turned on her heels, walked down the steps, and headed straight for the car.

​Inside the Buick, Myrtle had the door unlocked before Maeve even reached the driver's door handle.

Old Manie just sat in her rocker, watching from the shade on the porch as Clara and Hattie hurried down after Maeve, leaving the jar of creek water behind and Clara's copper penny still in it.

Old Manie closed her pocketknife with a loud, sharp snap, slipped it into her apron pocket and let her rocker coast to a stop. She looked the three of them over.

​"Which one of you church ladies brought the penny?" Manie rasped, "and who’s trying to find out if they’re joining Mildred before winter?"

​Clara straightened her back, trying to keep her knees from knocking together. "We brought a jar of creek water from behind my house," she said.

"Word was you could look into it," Hattie added... holding the mason jar against her floral blouse like it was fine crystal. The creek water swished inside.

​​Manie spat tobacco juice past the arm of her chair, missing a tub of wilted ferns by an inch.

"Set the glass on the table here, Hattie, before you knock my porch down."

​They squeezed onto the narrow wooden bench, three purses clamped tight across their laps behind the small table separating them from Manie.

​Maeve cleared her throat. "Does the water really tell you how long a person’s got?"

​"Water’s blind," Manie said, leaning forward until her face caught the gray mountain light. "Water just flows where the dirt lets it. That creek water ran right through Lawton Gap—it washed your clothes, soaked your gardens, and took the mud off your boots. It knows the ground you walk on. But water by itself is asleep."

​She pointed a crooked finger at Hattie’s closed fist.

​"That copper in your hand is the spark," Manie said. "You drop a clean copper penny down into water from your own home, and it wakes the surface up. Copper pulls whatever’s waiting for you out of the dirt and throws it right up to the top. The ripples don't lie, but you got to have the belly to look at what it spells."

Clara swallowed hard, clutching her pocketbook like armor. "Spell it?"

​"Spells it," Manie said. "So... who’s dropping their penny in first?"

Hattie held the penny over the mouth of the jar.

​"Don't toss it," Manie grumbled. "Just let it drop." ​Hattie let the penny slip from her fingers.

Plink.

​The copper penny settled at the bottom of the jar, sending dark, tight rings floating across the surface of the creekwater.

Old Manie leaned forward, staring down into the glass.

"You got plenty of daylight left to thread a needle, Hattie," Manie said. "Your winter ain't coming today, nor tomorrow. You'll finish those quilts for your grandbabies."

Hattie's tension melted, her shoulders dropping, but Manie raised a crooked finger.

"Hold on," Manie grunted, squinting closer at the water. "You're wearing yourself down to the bone. Sitting on that porch every afternoon keeping your heart pulled tight."

Hattie stiffened.

"You're watching the road for a letter that ain't ever coming," Manie rasped, looking up through her grey bushy eyebrows. "Stop wearing out your eyes on that mailbox. The paper ain't coming, but your time ain't up neither. Go home and finish your sewing."

Hattie's breath hitched. Nobody on the ridge knew about that letter. She hadn't said a word about it to anybody. She dropped her head, staring down at the floorboards to avoid Clara and Maeve's questioning eyes.

Well, Hattie said, her voice clipped tight. "I got my penny's worth. It's your turn now, Clara."

Old Manie reached into the jar and pinched Hattie's penny off the glass bottom. She flicked her wrist, dropping the wet coin into her apron pocket with a quiet clink against the pocketknife, then wiped her dripping hand down her apron.

Water's clear," Manie muttered, her dark eyes shifting to Clara. "Put yours in."

Part 3 is here.

The Hells Bells Motel lobby phone rang at 3:30 a.m. Sterling jerked awake from a half-doze as he grabbed the heavy plastic receiver.

"Front desk. This is Sterling."

"The call came from Room 109, a guy with an irritated voice on the other end was saying that a crying baby had awoken him from sleep.

"Is anybody looking after that kid? It's been screaming 20 minutes that I know of, and I've gotta be up for an 8 o'clock shift, man. Can you ring that room or go down there and tell whoever's in there to feed it, quiet it down, or do something ... it's the room next to mine."

"Sure thing, Sterling said. "I'll take care of it.

Sterling hung up and looked down at the guest register. He didn't even have to flip the page. Room 108 had been empty all week--the plumbing under the sink had been backed up, so nobody had checked in there.

He grabbed the master key off the hook and walked down the quiet hallway. The carpet was thin, and the fluorescent light at the end of the hall hummed softly. When he got to Room 109, he could hear the faint murmur of a TV, but outside 108, the baby wasn't crying anymore.

Instead, a woman was singing softly through the door.

"Hush, little baby, don't say a word...Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird..."

Her voice was gentle, sweet and quiet--just a mother trying to soothe a restless child.

Sterling stood there outside the door, listening. The sound took him back years, reminding him of his own mother singing the same song when he was little and couldn't sleep. It was a comfortable, familiar memory, and for a minute he just stood there enjoying the sweetness of it.

He took the key from his pocket, hesitating just a moment so as not to interrupt her, and then gently clicked the key in the lock. The lock clicked, and he opened the door and clicked on the light.

The singing stopped instantly.

The bed had been stripped to the bare mattress, the sink pipes were disconnected on the floor, and the room was completely empty. Cold, quiet air was all that was left.

He closed the door, locked it back up, and walked back to the front desk. The guy in Room 108 would sleep peacefully now the rest of the night.

The monitor app on Sally's phone was always on her nightstand. At eight months, Timmy was an active baby, rolling around, babbling, and trying to pull himself up by the crib rails, so keeping the video and audio feed open gave her peace of mind.

At 3 in the morning, static and a low murmur broke the silence of the bedroom.

Sally reached for her phone and tapped the screen. Timmy was fast asleep on his belly, his breathing barely moving his tiny shoulders.

Standing right over the crib was a tall, shadowy woman wearing a tattered dress. Beside her stood a skeletal child peering through the wooden slats with two hollow, black eyes.

A dry whisper came through the phone's speaker:

"Shhh, don't wake your new little brother. Isn't he perfect?"

Sally stared at the screen in complete disbelief. She shook Karl awake.

"Karl, get up! There--there's somebody in Timmy's room." They threw off the covers and rushed down the hall.

Karl threw open the nursery door and clicked on the corner lamp. Soft light filled the room. Nothing was there. Timmy was fast asleep, his chest rising and falling softly.

"See? Nobody's here," Karl whispered, turning off the lamp so he wouldn't wake the baby.

They walked back down the hall to their bedroom, but as Sally set her phone on the nightstand, the screen flashed with motion.

The camera feed showed the crib was empty. The woman in the tattered dress and the skeletal child were standing in the nursery doorway, looking straight down the hall toward their bedroom.

The woman slowly raised a long, bony finger to her cracked lips, and her dry whisper came through the speaker:

"I said, shhhh."

The monitor app on Sally's phone was always on her nightstand. At eight months, Timmy was an active baby, rolling around, babbling, and trying to pull himself up by the crib rails, so keeping the video and audio feed open gave her peace of mind.

At 3 in the morning, static and a low murmur broke the silence of the bedroom.

Sally reached for her phone and tapped the screen. Timmy was fast asleep on his belly, his breathing barely moving his tiny shoulders.

Standing right over the crib was a tall, shadowy woman wearing a tattered dress. Beside her stood a skeletal child peering through the wooden slats with two hollow, black eyes.

A dry whisper came through the phone's speaker:

"Shhh, don't wake your new little brother. Isn't he perfect?"

Sally stared at the screen in complete disbelief. She shook Karl awake.

"Karl, get up! There--there's somebody in Timmy's room." They threw off the covers and rushed down the hall.

Karl threw open the nursery door and clicked on the corner lamp. Soft light filled the room. Nothing was there. Timmy was fast asleep, his chest rising and falling softly.

"See? Nobody's here," Karl whispered, turning off the lamp so he wouldn't wake the baby.

They walked back down the hall to their bedroom, but as Sally set her phone on the nightstand, the screen flashed with motion.

The camera feed showed the crib was empty.

The woman in the tattered dress and the skeletal child were standing in the nursery doorway, looking straight down the hall toward their bedroom.

The woman slowly raised a long, bony finger to her cracked lips, and her dry whisper came through the speaker:

"I said, shhhh."

The house was dead quiet with Sarah's parents down at the lake for the weekend. They had the bedroom floor cleared out, two half-eaten slices of cold pizza sitting on a paper plate, and the old Ouija board laid flat on the rug between their crossed legs.

"Ask it something else," Clara said, leaning back on her elbows and kicking her socks off. "Something real this time."

"Fine," Sarah said, rolling her eyes as she settled her fingertips back onto the small plastic pointer. "O great spirits, is Derek actually going to ask me to homecoming--or is he still talking to that girl from second period?"

Clara snorted, resting her fingers lightly on the opposite side of the plastic. "If the dead know about Derek's texts, we've got bigger problems."

They sat there a minute, giggling in the dim light of the TV screen, waiting for the piece to slide toward YES or NO. Nothing happened. Sarah went to pull her hands away to grab her soda, took a drink, and set the can back down. When she put her fingertips back onto the plastic beside Clara's, it felt completely locked in place—pinned to the surface of the board under Clara's fingers.

"Quit pressing down on it," Sarah said.

"I'm not," Clara retorted, her laugh dying as her voice dropped. "I swear to God, Sarah, I'm barely touching it."

"Hover then."

Clara lifted her hands up, suspended a fraction of an inch above the plastic pointer. Sarah did the same. Four hands hung frozen in mid-air, completely clear of the board.

For two agonizing seconds, neither of them moved. They just watched in awe as the pointer started moving—a smooth, steady glide across the glossy surface, like a magnet pulling it from underneath.

Neither girl breathed. Sarah stared at her open palms, hovering uselessly. The plastic piece moved again.

Silent and fluid, the plastic pointer glided across the letters, stopping on I, then N, then S, I, D, E.

INSIDE.

"Sarah," Clara whispered, her face going pale as she pulled her knees in tight. "Grab it. Stop it."

"I'm not touching it!"

The pointer glided down to L, O, O, K, stopped dead, and then the front tip tilted slightly upward, pointing its clear plastic lens past Clara's shoulder—aimed right at the dark, cracked-open closet door behind her.

The girls' eyes locked in a flash of pure panic.

Then, behind Clara, the dark closet door gave a low, un-oiled creak, slowly inching open.

"The Hexagon 12 lost-and-found is now 90% orphaned socks, two missing pages from Leviticus, and somebody's moldy ham sandwich. Whichever one of you left a half-eaten pork chop in the Vol. 4 stacks has until evening prayers to claim it before it is declared a holy relic!

Furthermore--anyone caught using Vol. 4 to prop their rear end up on the church pews will be assigned to scrub the fellowship halls. Sacred text is for saving souls, not cushing posteriors!"

~Mildred Clatterbuck, Head Honcho of Hexagon 12, Vol. 4

​It was a crisp, perfect autumn evening. Friends had gathered on the back deck, sipping wine, enjoying the weather and catching up on each other’s lives, while the kids kicked around the yard complaining they were bored—that classic, dramatic age where they’re too big for the playground and too young to sit around talking with adults.​

One of the parents leaned over his glass with a knowing grin and said, "Let’s send these bored kids on a snipe hunt. Who here doesn’t remember being tricked as a kid?"

Laughter broke out as they clinked their wine glasses in agreement.

They called the kids over, handed each a brown paper bag and flashlight, and promised they could keep the rare little woodland creature if they caught it.

"Shhhh, they told the kids...snipes are skittish." You have to go quietly into the woods, stand still, and listen close. If you hear a twig snap or leaves rustling, that means one is right on top of you--hold your bag down and wait."

The kids took the bait instantly, rushing off into the dark treeline.​

For twenty minutes, the deck mood was totally chill and relaxed. They swapped old stories from their own childhoods--like the time they'd been tricked into going on a snipe hunt--grinning as they watched the flashlights bobbing out in the dark, amused by how convinced the kids were that they were about to catch a prize!

Then, the steady rustling broke into a frantic rush toward the deck.​

Seeing the sheer terror on their faces as they huddled at the bottom of the steps, the parents’ laughter died instantly. One of the mothers leaned over the railing, counting frantically in her head.​

One, two, three…​”Where’s Tommy?”

​The kids were shaking, wide-eyed, pointing back toward the dark treeline. They stammered out that Tommy had stopped near the deep brush, shouting to his friends that he’d finally caught one.​

Just past the treeline where the yard light faded, a single brown paper bag rolled slowly out from the pitch-black woods-- torn completely in half. 

"To whoever felt the holy spirit move them to carry my Tupperware of pecan praline fudge right out of the fridge before choir practice yesterday--Jesus sees you, and so does the camera by the choir loft.

I'm not sayin' any names, but somebody's breath smelled suspiciously like toasted sugar during the opening hymn, and your wife looked very embarrassed. "

Proverbs 6:30-31: "The Lord says if you steal cause you're hungry, folks might undersatnd, but once you're caught, you owe seven times what you took. So, I'll be expecting seven pans of praline fudge on my front porch before morning services on Sunday, Earl!"

The thermostat in Room 6 was set on 80, leaving the small motel room at the Hells Bells Motel snug and warm against the bitter mountain night.

Russell thought the story he fed Pearl was clean and airtight, that a hydraulic line blew on old man Gilliam's tractor, and it had to be back in the cornfield by daybreak or the whole crop would be forfeit. So he informed her that he was heading back to the garage.

Russell crawled in his truck and traveled twenty miles down the highway past the ridge to a dimly lit dive pub where no one from Lawton Gap would go, but where his side-piece, Marlene, was waiting for him.

The whiskey had gone to their heads, making them both a touch giddy and loose. Propped up against the pillows, they took turns sipping from the cup, laughing and talking with easy intimacy.

All of a sudden, a quick, loud cracking noise echoed in the quiet room, which startled Marlene as she cowered in closer to Russell, "What was that noise?"

"Foundation settling, honey," Russell muttered, his voice a touch shaky as he fought to stay cool.

Russell saw it then-- a thin cloud of mist rose from the floorboards above Marlene's shoulder, giving off an odor of damp graveyard earth. Great-Aunt Myrtle materialized right in front of his eyes.

Russell was shocked, his jaw dropping as he stared straight at her. "Aunt... Aunt Myrtle?" She was dressed in the same black high-neck dress she'd been buried in in 1978, her silver hair tied in a knot so tight it drew her eyebrows back. She stood there blazing holes directly through Russell.

Marlene turned toward the female voice, letting out a startled scream, and backed up over Russell to the opposite side of the bed, clutching a pillow in front of her.

**"**Russell Wayne! get your boots back on this instant and get out!" Myrtle spat.

​"I... I'm a grown man—" Russell spat back.

"And you're a fool," Myrtle snapped, "a disgrace to the family name. You get your ass back up the ridge where you belong. Your wife, Pearl, is sitting at home right now, mending your work trousers with her poor eyesight, thinking you're elbow-deep in some engine overhaul--for shame--"

Marlene loudly gasped, "Oh my God, what the fuck, Russell...You're married? You bastard."

Russell looked over at Marlene. "Just give me a minute, honey--I'll explain--

But before he or Marlene could say another word, Mildred snapped out at Russell, "Do I need to call up your Uncle Silas to knock some sense into that head of yours?"

​"No--noo!" he stammered. His hands paralyzed in mid-reach for his boots. Uncle Silas was meaner than a cornered copperhead, actually killed a man over some 'shine' and buried him out in the brambles. If Silas came crawling up through those floorboards, Russell knew he wouldn't just get a tongue-lashing, he'd end up in a shallow grave himself.

​"Look, Russell," Marlene said, totally disgusted, grabbing her purse off the nightstand and heading for the door. "You've been lying to me for months. There is no explaining this. Go to hell. "

​"Wait, I can drive you—" Russell started, half-rising off the mattress.

​"ill get my own ride. Don't bother, you low-down liar and cheat," as she slammed the door shut behind her.

​"Well?" Myrtle said, tapping her foot on the floorboards. "Are you moving, or do I go get Silas?"

​"No, ma'am," Russell muttered, hastily shoving his feet back into his dirty boots and fastening his britches. "I'm goin'-- I'm goin."

The thermostat in Room 6 was set on 80, leaving the small motel room at the Hells Bells Motel snug and warm against the bitter mountain night.

Russell thought the story he fed Pearl was clean and airtight, that a hydraulic line blew on old man Gilliam's tractor, and it had to be back in the cornfield by daybreak or the whole crop would be forfeit. So he informed her that he was heading back to the garage.

Russell crawled in his truck and traveled twenty miles down the highway past the ridge to a dimly lit dive pub where no one from Lawton Gap would go, but where his side-piece, Marlene, was waiting for him.

The whiskey had gone to their heads, making them both a touch giddy and loose. Propped up against the pillows, they took turns sipping from the cup, laughing and talking with easy intimacy.

All of a sudden, a quick, loud cracking noise echoed in the quiet room, which startled Marlene as she cowered in closer to Russell, "What was that noise?"

"Foundation settling, honey," Russell muttered, his voice a touch shaky as he fought to stay cool.

Russell saw it then, a thin cloud of mist rose from the floorboards above Marlene's shoulder, giving off an odor of damp graveyard earth. Great-Aunt Myrtle materialized right in front of his eyes.

Russell was shocked, his jaw dropping as he stared straight at her. "Aunt... Aunt Myrtle?"

She was dressed in the same black high-neck dress she'd been buried in in 1978, her silver hair tied in a knot so tight it drew her eyebrows back. She stood there blazing holes directly through Russell.

Marlene turned toward the female voice, letting out a startled scream, and backed up over Russell to the opposite side of the bed, clutching a pillow in front of her.

**"**Russell Wayne! get your boots back on this instant and get out!" Myrtle spat.

​"I... I'm a grown man—" Russell spat back.

"And you're a fool," Myrtle snapped, "a disgrace to the family name. You get your ass back up the ridge where you belong. Your wife, Pearl is sitting at home right now, mending your work trousers with her poor eyesight, thinking you're elbow-deep in some engine overhaul--for shame--

Marlene loudly gasped, "Oh my God, what the fuck, Russell...You're married? You bastard."

Russell looked over at Marlene. "Just give me a minute, honey--I'll explain--

But before he or Marlene could say another word, Mildred snapped out at Russell, "Do I need to call up your Uncle Silas to knock some sense into that head of yours?"

​"No--noo!" he stammered. His hands paralyzed in mid-reach for his boots. Uncle Silas was meaner than a cornered copperhead, actually killed a man over some 'shine' and buried him out in the brambles. If Silas came crawling up through those floorboards, Russell knew he wouldn't just get a tongue-lashing, he'd end up in a shallow grave himself.

​"Look, Russell," Marlene said, totally disgusted, grabbing her purse off the nightstand and heading for the door. "You've been lying to me for months. There is no explaining this. Go to hell. "

​"Wait, I can drive you—" Russell started, half-rising off the mattress.

​"I'll get my own ride. Don't bother, you low-down liar and cheat," slamming the door shut behind her.

​"Well?" Myrtle said, tapping her foot on the floorboards. "Are you moving, or do I go get Silas?"

​"No, ma'am," Russell muttered, hastily shoving his feet back into his dirty boots and fastening his britches. "I'm goin'-- I'm goin."

1:1 The fool baptizeth the skin, yet returneth to the lockup before the holy water drieth upon the brow.

1:2 He who walketh out of the courthouse and into the exact same vehicle of ruin shall find no comfort in the bail bondman's choir.

1:3 Yea, the judge hath heard thy excuses, and the angels have run out of clean slates.

1:4 A wise woman saveth her bail money; a stubborn child shall spend her Sabbath in county orange.

1:5 Amen, I say unto you--Grace covers many sins, but it covers not the inability to learn a basic lesson.

~ posted this 2nd day of September, 2026 by Mildred Clatterbuck

(as a side note...“Watching family get dragged through the same exhausting cycles makes me madder than a wet hornet! Leave it to me to vent it with some dark humor–)

1:1 The fool baptizeth the skin, yet returneth to the lockup before the holy water drieth upon the brow.

1:2 He who walketh out of the courthouse and into the exact same vehicle of ruin shall find no comfort in the bail bondman's choir.

1:3 Yea, the judge hath heard thy excuses, and the angels have run out of clean slates.

1:4 A wise woman saveth her bail money; a stubborn child shall spend her Sabbath in county orange.

1:5 Amen, I say unto you--Grace covers many sins, but it covers not the inability to learn a basic lesson.

~ certified, docketed, and posted for public shame, this 2nd day of September, 2026 by Mildred Clatterbuck