Laughter

You walk down the empty road in the dark, bundled up against the steely probing fingers of winter’s grasp. To your right is a glorified man-made ditch used throughout the year. In the spring, summer and fall it is used as a place to practice your golf swing, play soccer and for small kids to frolic around, but in winter it is used almost exclusively by the children and teens, like yourself, to sled and have snowball fights. To your right is the empty golf course cast under the dark gloom of night, and with it comes a desolate feeling.

The children laugh and play, their giggles and shouts of excitement are almost infectious as you head towards home. But that is exactly what frightens you: the sound of the children being merry. If you checked your watch, you would see that the time hovers a few minutes after ten, and if you looked around you would realize you are alone. The desolation of the empty neighborhood street left perfectly intact.

Breathe. Don’t think about it. Just make it home.

You are a little older now, and another year has passed on. You forgot about the laughing children because they only come in the depths of winter at night. The razor sharp chill of the wind cuts through you, making quick work of your winter jacket. You are a year older and you are arriving home even later, closer to midnight, and still the unseen children laugh and play. You look everywhere you can see, and still you are perfectly alone in the little bubble of your lonely street.

Don’t think about the kids. Don’t think about their voices. Don’t think about what you can’t see.

The voices melt away like spring for another year, but once again, you stand on the empty street in the middle of a light snowstorm. The invisible children are playing in the snow, their laughter and shouts of glee terrorizing you, sending your skin into a spidery crawl. This year you will find out where they are playing. This year you will dispel that cold trepidation in your heart.

But you don’t. In fact, you only make things worse. Worse to a point where you don’t want to be out after dark. The laughter now feels like screams, and the young voices sound like fear. You can’t help but shudder every time you hear them. You never want to hear them again.

You went out to find the source of the young voices, the voices that should have been tucked away in bed hours ago. You searched the gully, the golf course, and even Lake Bonavista Downs fruitlessly. The ghosts of the children never show themselves, and like winter, your heart is forever haunted by a cold chill of the unknown.