1
Rusty lanterns sway on the hooks that most towns save for hanging baskets, their tiny doors creaking open as somber volunteers light the misshapen candles inside.
The expanding crowd edges forward, latecomers joining from either side of Main Street, until those who arrived early glare over their shoulders and cling tighter to the metal railings in front.
“The eager beavers are getting restless,” Matthew says, picking the frayed patches on his acid-wash jeans while his busy eyes scan the scene.
He’s the reason we observe these things from the fire escape above the grocery store. My best friend doesn’t do well in crowds, his pale skin glowing red, his long blond hair stiffening like he’s just stepped out of the shower.
So, we watch from here because, like it or not, it’s tradition.
Mayor Barrett clambers onto the makeshift stage and taps his microphone, the statue of our town founder, Edward Bleak, looming over him.
“Welcome,” the mayor says, my skin prickling as a hush falls over the audience. “It’s that time again … to reflect and to mourn.”
Murmurs drift through the cold air as some people raise their hands to the sky and others bow their heads.
I search the crowd until I see Dad’s broad shoulders, his fingers flicking playfully at Mom’s fresh perm as she grins, while my brother, Alex, stands with his back to them. To their left, Matthew’s father wraps both arms around his wife, her thin frame hidden by an oversized jacket.
On evenings like this, Bleak Haven conveys “strength and unity,” even if it’s a lie.
No one has been murdered here for nearly sixteen years, but you wouldn’t think it from tonight’s performance.
“To every lost soul,” Mayor Barrett continues, “we hear you. To every broken spirit left behind, we will help to heal you. To every tragedy, we remember you.”
“Always.”
The word slips quietly from nearly every person in attendance, gray clouds rumbling as streetlights flicker. Then the mayor invites Kimberly Shutter onto the stage, guiding her by the elbow while she carries a box of fresh tributes.
“Thank you, sir,” Kimberly says. “You’ll be pleased to know we’ve been busy since the last ceremony.”
When she nods, a gaggle of freshman volunteers rush forward and pass the objects to the elderly people sitting in the front rows, then the business owners smiling somberly at the sides.
Even from here, I can picture the twisted-metal hearts with stick people hanging in the center. They are displayed in almost every storefront in Bleak Haven. They peer through living room windows and sway from rearview mirrors. They hang from Christmas trees, and belt loops, and above our classroom doors.
Some people cry over the dead. Others make creepy-ass trinkets.
The truth is our town likes to mourn. It takes pride in this trimonthly ceremony, even if most people are too afraid to utter the names of Bleak Haven’s youngest victims. That’s what the tributes are for—a palatable way to acknowledge unspeakable crimes.
I can speak them, though; not only because this place’s history is a knot I love to unravel, but because we were born here at the worst possible time.
Our class didn’t realize until later how terrified our parents had been when they first drove us home from the hospital, how it wasn’t normal to have padlocks on every window of our houses. We assumed that our existence was the same as everyone else’s … and we couldn’t have been more wrong.
ak Haven, snatching its babies away.
There are no early photographs of me in the backyard or at the park; no pudgy legs draping from swings, or wide lips smeared with van-bought ice cream. My senior class was born into an extended darkness that eased only when he was caught, and even then, some parents refused to lower their guard.
We would have learned about fear eventually. Around here, it’s inevitable. But I wonder how different we would have been if the Lullaby Man hadn’t hunted us for so long.
Three babies disappeared from their cribs during that period, and two from their own backyards. It would have been more, had Grace Rivera’s father not caught a shadow looming over his daughter’s bed, twisting its mask just enough to see the face below, before they broke free of his grasp and burst back into the night.
Two days later, Raymond Hartwell’s body was discovered down by the creek with a single self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.
When the FBI searched Hartwell’s house, they found five stuffed animals in the cellar—one from each of his victims—and three unopened boxes of pacifiers in his trunk.
They never located the children, no matter how many holes the police teams dug, no matter how many residents of our heartbroken town joined the search.
Bleak Haven High’s senior class has always had an unhealthy relationship with fear, and some have never shaken it off.
People like Kimberly overcompensate. Others, like me and Matthew, stick to the sidelines. And a growing number are trying something different, as Mayor Barrett knows all too well.
His son, Travis, sits on the hood of his Mustang, one foot kicking the road barrier while his father’s eyes narrow.
Most of the crowd are oblivious but, from up here, we can see the Bleak Haven Banshees’ tight end AJ Strauss step out of his parents’ Chrysler, before some of his teammates burst from the back seat.
Travis is the anomaly in his group—the only non-jock in a sea of them—but he certainly has the attitude of a quarterback.
He slides off his car and leans into the driver’s side window, the volume on his radio increasing until it begins to drown out his father’s closing speech.
“There are those who disagree with our methods!” the mayor shouts into the mic, hundreds of heads spinning around as Travis smirks. “But there’s nothing wrong with remembering the dead!”
For a moment, the blare of Travis’s music echoes through Main Street, then the crowd rallies, a low hum of discontent morphing into a battle cry.
“Alive in our hearts! Alive in our hearts!”
Each time Travis raises the volume, the rest of the town chants louder, their words remaining clear as his trembling speakers spew distorted reverb.
Mayor Barrett smiles at his scowling son, who slumps back into his car and revs the engine, AJ doing the same until both vehicles screech away.
“I’m sorry for the interruption,” the mayor says, his voice cracking as he adds, “Thank you.”
He waves away the applause and, for a few seconds, I feel sorry for him. I couldn’t do what he does—oversee this messed-up town, then sit down for dinner with a bona fide asshole.
When the service is over, Matthew and I clamber down and wait for our families.
“That was typically grim,” Mom whispers, holding a tribute in her chapped hands, today’s date—11/16/1987—etched into the metal. When she sees my expression she adds, “We don’t have to display it, Noah. But I couldn’t say no, could I?”
“Heaven forbid that we offend the grief groupies,” Alex mutters.
Dad chuckles, then swallows his smile whole when he sees Matthew’s parents approaching.
“Are you ready, Matt?” his father asks.
Matthew grimaces at the shortening of his name. “Sure.”
“Actually,” I say, “we had plans. If that’s okay. We won’t be late.”
Mom smiles warmly at Matthew’s mom, while his father’s right arm twitches before he forces it deeper into his pocket.
“Fine,” he says at last. “We’ll see you folks around.”
“Of course,” Mom replies. “Any time.”
Matthew’s mother glances up and nods, then hurries after her husband.
My best
friend nudges me and whispers, “You didn’t need to do that.”
“I know.”
“But thank you.”
Mom watches us with that look she gets sometimes, her eyes halfway between happy and sad, then she takes Dad by the hand and leads my family away.
Kimberly and the other volunteers busy themselves tidying the stage while Mayor Barrett stares at the empty patch of grass that, a few minutes ago, was jam-packed.
Every business closes early for the ceremony, leaving an eerie calm to rest over a usually bustling Main Street.
The crowd evaporates far quicker than it forms, each group of families and friends rushing back to “normality.” Some people are addicted to the grief, but most show their faces out of kindness rather than desire, the trinkets they display the smallest possible token of condolence.
Only a handful of households stay away altogether; some because they hate the former mayor’s initiative, others because they have somewhere else to be.
“We could…”
The blood drains from Matthew’s face as he waits for me to finish my sentence. But I can’t.
As much as I know about Bleak Haven, there are still some facts that lurk in the deepest crevices. And those facts only reveal themselves on nights like this; once every three months, when a few senseless people allegedly test the patience of ghosts.
We often joke about seeing for ourselves. And every time, we talk ourselves out of it.
“Okay,” Matthew replies.
“Really?”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
That’s a dangerous question. But I cling to my friend’s sudden bravery and walk to Larkrise Avenue, then across the narrow track that leads to the woods stretching beyond those same backyards, just as the groaning clouds burst.
When we finally reach the shelter of the tightly packed fir trees, my socks are soaked through my sneakers, while Matthew dries his brow with the sleeve of his denim jacket, then brushes soggy leaves from his Doc Martens.
There are other woods in Bleak Haven, but we avoid those ones now. The raised hairs on my neck suggest we should leave this one alone, too.
I force the voice away but it comes again, louder this time.
Be. Brave.
There’s brave. And there’s stupid.
“Are you sure?” I ask, because I’m not. We’ve all heard the stories about what goes on in these woods after the remembrance ceremonies—tales that make children pull their curtains tighter and drag their blankets over their eyes.
Matthew nods emphatically. “Yes.”
How bad has it gotten behind his front door that this is more appealing?
I jump at the sound of a twig snapping, Matthew’s heavy boots stepping into the gloom while mist swirls at his back. Then I stiffen as anxiety rests its talons on my neck.
This is a bad idea. But there’s a missing chapter in the homemade history books I’ve been writing since I was a kid. That’s why I follow Matthew into the darkness, my nerves expanding until my stomach feels bloated and my head is light, until my heart pounds like a pneumatic drill and his shape fractures.
“Matthew.”
My whisper breaks apart, each letter carried away on a separate sliver of cloudy breath.
“Matthew,” I try again, louder this time, my hand finding something warm in the shadows that quickly darts away.
“What the hell is that? Matthew! Are you there?”
Dead branches rustle in every direction until something grips my shoulder and I strike out.
“Easy, Noah. It’s me.”
Matthew’s face slowly comes into focus as shafts of moonlight break through the trees.
“Someone else is here,” I whisper. “I felt them.”
He holds a finger to his lips, then takes my hand and guides me forward. When he stops, his breath is hot against my cheek as he hisses, “Listen.”
I dare myself to close my eyes, then force all the other sounds away—the blood throbbing in my skull, my frantic breathing, the unseen creatures scurrying through the woods—as another noise breaks free: a low and constant hum that grows louder the more I focus on it.
It’s chanting.
“We need to go,” I say.
“Not yet.”
Matthew treads deeper into the woods, shaking off my flailing hand until I have no choice but to follow him.
“Stop,” I whisper, but he keeps going, rich orange flames dancing through the gaps in the trees as the chanting gets louder and thick smoke snakes into the sky.
He lowers himself onto his belly before peering into the clearing and, when I focus on them again, the words are clear.
“It never ends. It never dies. The Burning Book. Before our eyes. It never ends. It never dies. The Burning Book. Before our eyes.”
Matthew edges closer, while my legs refuse to move. But if I don’t stop him …
I force myself forward, snatching at his jeans, then his jacket, until I can see what he’s peering at.
Eight figures stand in a circle, flickering shadows dancing over their hooded robes as a bonfire snaps at the icy air.
Matthew glances at me, an excited grin on his face. Then the chanting stops, the shrill ring of silence stinging my ears before one of the figures raises its head and stares at us.
“We need to leave,” I hiss, scrambling to my feet and pulling him up.
We sprint through the darkness as spiky branches slash our cheeks and our ankles collide with overturned tree trunks. But we don’t stop, we don’t fall, because we can’t.
My heart beats so hard in my skull that I picture eight pairs of feet thudding toward us, closing in on all sides until we are encircled like their bonfire. That’s why I run faster, even when my calves burn and my throat feels like a block of jagged ice, even when Matthew pulls me back like an anchor.
“We have to keep going,” I pant. “I’m not being someone’s sacrifice. This was a dumb idea.”
Matthew’s eyes widen, then he dashes past me, staying ahead until we’re back on Larkrise Avenue, the warm glow of wide windows suddenly feeling like a terrible trick.
“Should we ask for help?” Matthew says, his head darting up and down the street. “Do you think they followed us?”
or someone to burst through. But I know the truth about those people; at least, I know enough of it to breathe a little easier now we’re out of the woods.
“They won’t come for us,” I say. “We’re safe here.”
There are whispers, rumors, cautionary tales, about the people who don’t attend Bleak Haven’s remembrance services. Not the ones too broken or too unfeeling to leave their homes. The other ones.
But I don’t want to freak Matthew out any more than he already is.
While many in this town use these nights to mourn our dead, others are searching for the Burning Book. And they are not the kind of people I want anywhere near me. ...
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