On the eighty second year of the twentieth century, the loss of gravity in a small Oregon town is labelled a nuclear accident.

Only one article is written on the topic. Santino Jimenez's first published article, only because of a lack of anything else to talk about in the weekly paper. When the article is published, he reads the article with pride. So does his family, who smile when they see his name in ink.

Others read in fear.

They flock to the tent of the fortune teller, asking her for every type of reading she can do. They ask for hope, for reassurance. Though she tries to be pleased with her new thriving business, each reading surfaces a new fear in her heart, and every reassurance she gives feels more fake than the previous one.

Atop of the hill that looms over the town, a businessman mocks the article. He sits in his leather chair and speaks aloud to anyone who will listen to how much rubbish this article has. His wife tries to soothe him with her quiet agreement and gentle hand that clasps his.

He too is scared, no matter what he says. He looks to his left, somehow expecting his son to be there. When he is not, he goes to find him, to tell him a secret, their family secret.

The people are terrified. They let themselves be startled by anything, and even a simple hand to the shoulder from friends or lovers spooks some out of their wits.

Though deep in the forest that surrounds the town is where the man who is most scared, and he runs.

He runs as fast as his legs will carry him, a book clutched to his chest. Breath huffs from his lungs like a train might puff out smog, and his eyes are heavy from little sleep. Though he does not stop running.

Not when demons call his name.

They almost sound like children, calling to a friend or a sibling. Though where children are sweet, they are maniacal. The voices ring through the forest, and he brings his book closer to his chest.

When he reaches his cottage, he has never run faster. He locks the doors behind him, and the calls fade into the midnight.

Sleep does not come to him. Only screams, ones that make his blood curl with every sound heard.

The screams carry on through the entire night, even after his ears ring. He tries to drown out the sound, but the voice haunts him.

The screams of his once friends.

The screams of his new enemies.

"Come out, come out, Fiddleford. Isn't it time for another experiment?" 

A R C H I V E S  F A L L S