Maplewood was the kind of town people drove through without giving a second thought. Nestled between two larger cities, it was the quintessential small town — where the air smelled of freshly cut grass, and the biggest scandal of the year usually involved a stolen garden gnome. But beneath its idyllic exterior, something sinister had always lurked, unnoticed by its 800 residents.
Tiffany Miller, a 33-year-old schoolteacher, had returned to Maplewood six months ago. After her divorce, she decided to leave the chaos of Chicago and move back to her hometown for a fresh start. She rented a modest house on Elm Street, two blocks from where she had grown up. Life was quieter now, but something about Maplewood felt different. As if the town was holding its breath.
The first unsettling moment came on a Thursday morning in September. Tiffany was walking to the corner coffee shop when she noticed an older man staring at her from across the street. He was dressed in a faded flannel shirt, and his sunken eyes bore into her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. She smiled politely and kept walking, but when she glanced back, he was gone. That night, she saw him again, standing under the streetlamp outside her house. He didn’t move or speak — just watched.
By the next morning, he was nowhere to be found, and Tiffany convinced herself she’d imagined it. Stress from the move, she thought. New routines and small-town paranoia. But over the next few weeks, the feeling of being watched grew stronger. A shadow darting past her window. Footsteps behind her that vanished when she turned. She considered telling someone, but who would believe her? Maplewood was safe. Always had been.
The turning point came in October, during the town’s annual Fall Festival. The entire town gathered in the park to celebrate with pumpkin carving, hayrides, and a pie-eating contest. Tiffany found herself seated next to Barbara Phelps, an eccentric woman in her sixties known for her conspiracy theories. Tiffany usually avoided Barbara, but tonight, Barbara leaned in close and whispered, “They’re watching you, you know.”
Tiffany froze. “Excuse me?”
Barbara smiled, her teeth yellowed from years of smoking. “I said, they’re watching. Always have been. They like new blood.”
Tiffany laughed nervously. “Who’s ‘they’?”
Barbara just patted her hand and walked away, leaving Tiffany with a sinking feeling in her stomach. She decided it was time to do some digging.
The Maplewood Library was small but well-organized. Tiffany spent hours combing through old newspapers and town records. At first, she found nothing unusual. Then she stumbled upon a series of articles from the 1950s about unexplained disappearances. Over the course of a decade, five people had vanished from Maplewood without a trace. All were newcomers to the town. The cases were never solved, and the articles ended abruptly in 1961.
Her heart racing, Tiffany searched for more recent records but found nothing. It was as if the town had erased any mention of the disappearances. Determined to learn more, she reached out to Sheriff Darren Harlow, an affable man in his late fifties who had been born and raised in Maplewood.
“Old stories,” Darren said, waving a dismissive hand when Tiffany asked about the disappearances. “Urban legends, that’s all. Maplewood’s as safe as it gets.”
“But the articles—”
“Probably blown out of proportion. You know how newspapers were back then. Don’t worry about it, Tiffany. You’re safe here.”
His words didn’t reassure her. If anything, they made her more suspicious.
The nightmares began a week later. In them, Tiffany was running through the woods, chased by shadowy figures. She’d wake up drenched in sweat, the sensation of hands grabbing at her still lingering. Then came the knocking — soft, insistent taps on her front door in the middle of the night. Each time she checked, no one was there.
One night, fed up and desperate for answers, she stayed up late, peering through her living room window. At 3:17 a.m., she saw them. Three figures standing in her yard, motionless. They wore dark cloaks, their faces obscured. Tiffany's breath caught in her throat as they raised their heads in unison, as if sensing her gaze. Panicking, she closed the curtains and locked all the doors.
The next morning, she decided she couldn’t stay silent anymore. She told her closest friend, Sarah, who ran the local bakery.
“You’ve been under a lot of stress,” Sarah said gently. “Maybe you’re imagining things?”
“I’m not!” Tiffany snapped. “I know what I saw.”
Sarah hesitated, then said, “Look, I’ve lived here my whole life. Nothing bad happens in Maplewood. Maybe… maybe you should talk to Barbara.”
Tiffany found Barbara tending to her overgrown garden. When Tiffany explained everything, Barbara sighed and invited her inside. The older woman brewed a pot of tea, then sat across from Tiffany, her expression grave.
“They’re real,” Barbara said finally. “The Watchers. They’ve been here as long as the town itself.”
Tiffany frowned. “Who are they?”
“No one knows. Some say they’re guardians, keeping the town safe. Others say they’re… something else. Something evil. But one thing’s for sure- they don’t like outsiders.”
“Why hasn’t anyone done anything?” Tiffany asked, her voice trembling.
Barbara laughed bitterly. “What would you have us do? Fight them? Call the police? No one who challenges them survives. Best thing you can do is leave. Leave, and never come back.”
Tiffany packed her bags that night. She didn’t care if it made her look paranoid or weak — she wasn’t staying in a town where shadowy figures watched her every move. But as she loaded her car, she noticed something odd. The street was empty. Too empty. Not a single light was on in any of the houses, and the air was eerily still.
Her hands shook as she turned the ignition. The car roared to life, and she sped toward the highway, refusing to look in the rearview mirror. She was miles out of town when she finally dared to glance back. For a moment, she thought she saw figures standing on the edge of the road, their cloaks billowing in the wind. Then they were gone.
Relieved, she kept driving.
Months passed. Tiffany settled into a new life in a different city, slowly convincing herself that the Watchers had been a figment of her imagination. Therapy helped. So did making new friends and starting fresh routines. She even stopped locking all her windows at night.
But one evening, as she walked into her apartment, her blood ran cold. Sitting on her kitchen counter was a pumpkin. A small, perfectly carved pumpkin, identical to the ones from Maplewood’s Fall Festival.
Underneath it was a note, written in shaky, childlike handwriting- “You can’t leave.”
The air suddenly felt thick, oppressive. A faint creak echoed from her bedroom, as if someone had just shifted their weight on the floorboards. Heart pounding, Tiffany froze in place.
Then, the lights flickered once. Twice. And went out.
In the darkness, a soft whisper brushed against her ear, almost playful- “We told you.”
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1 comment
Suspenseful.
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