This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Dangerous-Parfait-28 on 2024-09-18 10:06:31+00:00.
I grew up in a small, old town in Maine that most people wouldn’t recognize by name. It’s the kind of place where everyone knows each other, where the streets are quiet after dark, and where the past lingers like a heavy fog that never quite clears. I moved away years ago, but I still find myself thinking about that town, especially at night when sleep evades me. There’s something about the darkness that brings back the memories—the kind you try to forget but can never really shake.
When I was a kid, the town had this strange, almost otherworldly atmosphere. It was hard to put into words, but there was a feeling, a deep unease, that we all sensed but never talked about. The adults called it superstition, the kind of thing that happens in every small town. But we kids knew better. We heard the stories, the whispers in the schoolyard, the tales passed down from older siblings. It was always about children going missing, about kids who would wander off and never come back.
It started with the little things. Toys left on porches would disappear, bikes abandoned on the sidewalk would be gone the next morning, even when the chains were still locked. Parents would write it off as pranks or the work of some petty thief. But the kids knew better. We always did.
The first time I really understood the fear was when a boy from my class, Jamie, vanished. We were in third grade, and Jamie was the kind of kid everyone liked. Always laughing, always with a joke on his lips. He was the first to dare anyone to go into the sewers, a place we all avoided. He said he’d heard voices down there, that something was calling to him. None of us believed him, not really, but we didn’t want to test it either.
One day, Jamie didn’t show up for school. It wasn’t unusual at first—kids get sick or go on trips without much notice. But when a week passed and Jamie still wasn’t back, the adults started to worry. They searched the town, the woods, even drained part of the river. Nothing. No one talked about the sewers, though. Not even when someone found his sneaker by the storm drain near the old paper mill, the one with the faded sign and the rusted gates. The cops said it probably washed down from somewhere, that it didn’t mean anything. But we knew.
After Jamie, there were more. A girl from the next street over, twins who lived near the library, a little boy from the outskirts who’d just started kindergarten. One by one, they vanished, and the town grew quieter, like the life had been sucked out of it. The laughter of children faded, replaced by the whispers of the adults, who were now too scared to let us out of their sight. But it didn’t matter. When someone—or something—wanted you, it would find you.
I remember one night, lying in bed, listening to the rain patter against my window. I was half-asleep when I heard it—a voice, soft and melodic, like a lullaby. It was coming from outside, from the direction of the street. I crept to the window and peeked through the curtains. There was nothing there, just the empty street, the old streetlamp flickering like it always did. But the voice didn’t stop. It called my name, sweet and inviting, like it was promising something wonderful. I wanted to go to it, to step out into the rain and follow that voice wherever it led. But I didn’t. I don’t know why, but something in me knew better. I climbed back into bed and pulled the covers over my head, trying to block out the sound. Eventually, I fell asleep, and when I woke up, it was morning.
Years passed, and the disappearances slowed, then stopped altogether. But the town was never the same. Some families moved away, unable to bear the weight of the losses. Others stayed, trying to forget, to pretend like nothing had happened. But those of us who grew up there, who lived through it, we never forgot. We never could.
Now, as an adult, I avoid small towns. I stay away from old storm drains and abandoned buildings, and I never, ever listen to strange voices in the night. But every now and then, when I’m lying in bed, just on the edge of sleep, I hear that lullaby again. And I remember.
I remember the missing children, the darkened streets, and the town that kept its secrets close, buried deep beneath the surface, waiting for the day when it might need to feed again.
Sometimes, I wonder if anyone else remembers, if the story still lingers in the minds of those who left. But I don’t ask. Because some things are better left forgotten. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself when the night comes creeping in.
And then there are the balloons. Red ones. I used to see them sometimes, floating by the riverbank or caught in the branches of a tree. I always thought they were just left over from some birthday party, but now, looking back, I’m not so sure. I still see them in my dreams, bright and crimson, drifting silently down empty streets. It’s strange, how something so innocent can fill you with such dread.
About a week ago, I got a letter in the mail. No return address, just my name written in shaky, almost childlike handwriting. Inside, there was a single photograph—grainy, black and white, like it was taken decades ago. It was a picture of a group of kids standing in front of the old library in my hometown, smiling at the camera. But there was something wrong. In the background, just behind the children, there was a figure. A tall, thin man in a suit, his face obscured by shadow. And at his feet, a red balloon.
My heart pounded as I stared at the photo, a cold sweat breaking out on my skin. I hadn’t thought about that place in years, and now it was coming back to haunt me. The letter didn’t include a note or an explanation—just that single, haunting image. I wanted to throw it away, to pretend I never saw it, but something stopped me. Instead, I placed it in a drawer and tried to forget about it.
But I couldn’t.
Two nights ago, I heard the voice again. The same soft, melodic lullaby, drifting through the air like it had years ago. This time, though, it wasn’t outside my window. It was in my house, just outside my bedroom door. I froze, too terrified to move, as the voice called my name, over and over, growing louder with each repetition.
When I finally mustered the courage to open the door, there was nothing there. Just the dark, empty hallway. But on the floor, right outside my bedroom, was a red balloon, bobbing slightly as if someone had just let it go.
I knew then that it wasn’t over, that whatever haunted that town hadn’t forgotten me. It had found me again, and this time, it wouldn’t let go.
Last night, I made a decision. I’m going back. Back to that town, back to where it all started. I don’t know what I’ll find, but I can’t keep running. Whatever this thing is, it’s coming for me, and if I’m going to stop it, I need to confront it.
I booked a ticket for the first flight out tomorrow morning. I haven’t told anyone where I’m going. I’m not sure I’ll come back. But there’s one thing I know for certain: I’m not the only one it’s after. And if I don’t do something, if I don’t end this, it will keep hunting, keep feeding, until there’s nothing left.
So, if you’re reading this, be careful. Pay attention to the signs—the missing children, the voices, the balloons. And if you ever hear a lullaby in the night, don’t listen. Whatever you do, don’t follow it.
Because once it finds you, it never lets go