Weston
Weston has always been a town full of good and evil, or so my grandfather would say. He told us stories about the shadows that linger here, tales so horrific we were sure he made them up. Right? Surely nothing that terrible could have happened in a place like this.
Oh, I should probably introduce myself. My name is Hannah, and I’ve lived in Weston for as long as I’ve known how to breathe. If you were in my shoes, you’d understand why I feel the way I do. Weston is so small that if a fly dies, the whole town knows by sunset. And I hate it.
Sometimes I wonder why we stay here at all. Not me, I’d leave in a heartbeat ,but everyone else seems bound to this place. Weston is beautiful, or at least that’s what we tell ourselves. But beauty can be deceiving. And Weston… well, Weston hides things.
“Hannah!” My mother’s voice rang from the kitchen, sharp enough to slice through my thoughts. I sighed, dragging myself back to reality. The smell of fried plantains clung to the air, mixing with the damp scent that always seeped in from Weston’s crooked streets. Our house sat at the edge of town, where cracked pavement gave way to wild grass and the forest pressed in close, as if it wanted to swallow us whole.
I shuffled downstairs to the kitchen. No sign of Dad, strange. But of course, James was there, trying to sneak food. My little brother never changes. Always chasing the impossible, always an idiot… though I say that with love.
And my grandfather? He’s gone now. Dead and buried, probably stirring trouble even in his grave. Who knows. The bubbling kettle jolted me back to the present. “Mom, where’s Dad?” I asked.
“Oh, he probably went to the games. You know how boys are,” she said.
I almost laughed. Boys in Weston are something else, an abomination this town has perfected. Not my grandfather’s monsters, but close enough.
But deep down, I knew something wasn’t right with Weston. Maybe it was just a stupid feeling. Maybe. But the missing posters told another story. They clung to lampposts and shop windows, their edges curling, the faces staring out with hollow eyes that seemed to follow you down the street. People whispered all kinds of things, scary things, but I told myself those folks had simply had their fill of this town and moved on.
I envied them. God, I wished I could do the same. Yet every time I passed those posters, I felt Weston watching me back, daring me to try.
And let us not forget the saying "never wander into the forest by nightfall." Everyone repeats it like scripture, though no one dares explain why. What could a forest full of trees do to a living human? I tell myself it’s just another agenda, another way to keep us trapped in this cage of a town.
Still, when the sun dips low and the shadows stretch long, Weston’s forest seems to breathe. The branches creak like bones, and the silence presses so heavy it feels alive. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything, who knows.
My grandfather used to say this town was protected by relics. God knows where they came from, but they’re planted around Weston, five feet apart, circling the edge like a fence no one dares touch. He swore that if even one relic went missing, the Devil himself would claim Weston as his feeding ground, his resting place.
I laughed at the thought. What would the Devil want with this town anyway? Probably the stench. Still, whenever I pass those relics, I can’t help but notice the way the air feels heavier, as if Weston is holding its breath.
I've been out here too long, the sun isn't playing nice today either. Sweat clung to my neck as I pedaled lazily, the bicycle wheels crunching over gravel. "I wonder what the others have been up to lately" I said smiling. Those bastards, never include me in the good stuff. I said as I ride my bicycle towards nowhere in particular, not that I could get lost.
As I pedaled around, thinking about meeting up with the others, something caught my eye. One of the relics was gone. Just… gone. The patch of earth where it had stood looked raw, disturbed, as if something had clawed it free. My stomach dropped, panic rising, but when I stared into the forest, it was calm. Too calm.
I forced a laugh. “Grandfather was lying after all. Or maybe the Devil’s too busy to deal with us. Or maybe he just doesn’t like the smell here.” I shook my head and rode on.
But then clear as day, I heard it. “Hanny.” My grandfather’s voice, soft and familiar, curling through the air the way only he used to say it. My heart slammed against my ribs. I whipped around, but there was nothing. Just the empty road, and some animals playing around.
Maybe I was imagining things. I cursed under my breath and pedaled harder, as I couldn't wait to get home.
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And somewhere beyond the town’s edge, the forest held its breath. Something had awakened.
