I might be 9, but I’m well versed in the art of manipulation and guilt tripping, and as the non-custodial parent my dad is particularly susceptible. He passed away three years ago, and his explanation died with him.My dad only gets me into the car by promising a trip to Barnes and Noble. I’ve asked my uncle about it for years after this, but he would never say a word. It looked like it realized we wouldn’t stop and it stopped to watch us turn a corner and disappear from its sight. I quickly looked behind us to see the being limping towards us. I glanced at the being limping towards me and I realized I hadn’t seen it blink since our first interaction. I remember his movement was stiff, like he hardly bent his knee when he took a step.Īs my uncle approached me, someone shouted my name from across the street. I hid for what I thought to be a long time - my uncle said he looked for me about five minutes - and when I came out, I saw my uncle standing next to a car. I was scared that I was alone, scared that my uncle left me behind, scared of whatever it was that chased us. I remember trying not to cry, but couldn’t hold it in. Out of breath, I ran into a building and hid. I remember running after him as fast as I could, but I soon lost him in the streets. My uncle and I ran, but my uncle, being about two feet taller than I was, sprinted far ahead of me.
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I remember tasting something like iron in my mouth, as if I had swallowed blood. As we passed by the brush, we both smelled something metallic in the air. The voice repeated, at similar decibels, “I’m a dummyhead!”įinally finding humor in the situation, my uncle and I walked across the lot without feeling scared. The voice repeated, “Stupid teenagers,” again and again.įeeling braver, I shouted, “I’m a dummyhead!” “Don’t worry, it’s just some stupid teenagers,” he said. My uncle, trying to be brave, grabbed my shoulders. The low voice repeated what I said, except there was a gargling sound at the end. My uncle and I looked at each other and slowly walked back out of the lot. I heard a low mumbling voice coming from the brush repeated what I said.
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Dense brush had grown near it and it was rustling. He was focused on a wall to the right of us, about 30 or 40 feet away. I told my uncle how I felt, but he didn’t respond, as if he hadn’t heard me.
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I got the sense that something - or someone - was watching me. When we entered the lot, I immediately felt a sense of dread and paranoia. This shortcut - cutting through an abandoned lot - cut the walk down by about three minutes. My uncle’s house was located about half a mile away from the store, so it was about a 10 minute walk if we walked on the main road. We decided to take a shortcut - our ice creams were melting, and the sun and the humidity was getting to be too much for my aging uncle. I remember, because my uncle told me to stop staring at the sun because my eyes “would melt into the back of my head.” We were walking home from getting ice cream from Bruster’s. My short blonde hair, usually spiked up paired with thin aluminum-rimmed glasses, and my lopsided grin that seemed to be permanently on my face. Back to 1998, when I was a 13-year-old, wily boy.