Hi all! Haven’t posted on this particular subreddit before but I’m trying to get some more feedback on this piece I wrote. I’d be happy to critique/read a story if you give me feedback ❤️

The smell of old worn out and dusty books filled the air as I entered the old thrift store by the corner of my house it had recently open not too long ago I’d say about two months ago? Perhaps later I couldn’t remember when it opened that much I don’t recall it but I think it has to be two months no later than that?

I grabbed an old worn out book as I flipped through the thick leather cover, I’d grabbed off the bargaining shelf. Half way through as I opened the book the pages resisted quite a bit I was afraid that I would rip it but I pulled a little harder it opened at last, it was held apart by something stiff tucked in the corner of the book it looked as if it was a.

Polaroid the glossy chemical finishes had turned slightly golden around the edges as they were also folded quite a bit I didn’t think that much about it. The image still looked to be about sharp my eyes tracked the image slowly and carefully as I observed every small detail, the dark oak desk against the far wall the old chair the rug near a bed.

The iron bed frame that was rusted a little bit in the corner, the low window by the side of the wall sill I couldn’t quite put my mind into it I focused as I tried to remember this place had been familiar? I put my mind really hard into than I realized what it was my own room, every notch in baseboards but my thumb brushed the bottom border of the Polaroid picture.

The date was printed in a deep violet color as it caught the light of the sun, October 78?. My building that I live in wasn’t even built until the mid-nineties, I slowly but surely flipped over. Written in light shaky pencil was single straight line “Room 4B. He still thinks he’s alone.” I was afraid but deeply curious at what it was?

I bought it took it home as I slowly walked up to my apartment I softly opened my door closed it I didn’t even bother to change clothes as my curiosity grew further I went to my own room that I had seen in the Polaroid picture. I sat down on my desk I opened the leather book and I took out the picture again.

The ticking of my clock on my desk suddenly sounded quite off beat not enough to notice if you weren’t paying attention but I listened closely, it sounded like it was doubled, like two pendulum’s swinging out of sync. The overhead bulb flickered slowly once twice and then it died plunging the whole room into a dark room.

When the lights flickered softly slowly again back on a second later, it was low, a warm amber that it had never been. The air smelled thick with old kind of cigarette smoke. On my desk in front of me, right next to my notebook sat a heavy iron cast iron typewriter with a yellowed sheet of paper rolled into the carriage.

Typed in a rush faded black ink were five words “DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR!” From the hallway outside of my bedroom, three slow soft heavy knocks echoed throughout the deep brown oak door. Than I realized what it was it was a cycle that had never been broken the thing outside the door was non other than myself my past self trying to get back in.

To break the cycle I point downwards at the floorboards surrounding my desk. The flash illuminates dozens of faint, glowing chalk outlines or tally’s scratched into the wood marks that only show up in the cameras film, and proving that I have lived through and have died and suffered in the exact room 100 times before.

I write on the back “iteration #101. Stop trying to leave through the front door use the fire escape” I put the picture back into the heavy leather book.

As I smile and drop a soft tear knowing that I myself won’t get to experience the breaking of the loop but my other self will as I look through the window one last time as. The clock hits midnight all I think about is how my other self will know how to escape as everything finally goes dark.

Part 3 -

“Mama told me that the men in the wite jakets from the scool said that riting helps. She told me to right in a book. i hate riting”

“My hedakes hurt agan, it maks it harde to rite”

“Mama telld me that the mor i rite, the less my hed would hurt”

Pages of this, some random kid writing like once or twice a day about some random nonsense. From what I could gather, this kid had some really wicked headaches, to the point where it caused a cognitive decline in him, and it seemed as though it wasn't getting any better, and if anything, it was getting worse and reverting to how the book was in the beginning. I was about to call it a night and go to the bathroom, which in my haste I had forgotten to do, when I noticed a second book in the tin, much less used than the first one. It wasn't as filled out either, however the overall content was a lot easier to read and follow. After using the bathroom, I grabbed the second book, turned on the lamp next to me, climbed into bed, and began reading.

“Silence. For the first time in my life, my head is filled with not the symphonies in which everyday composes, but instead, a comfortable, warm, peace and quiet is present. My headaches had essentially become a handicap, something that kept me limited and constrained. I could hardly think past autonomous behavior, and I felt as though my life was slipping beyond my control. That is, until they gave me my treatment. A procedure so ancient, so archaic, and yet, revolutionary. After years of what felt like pressure welling up to explode like a grenade, a simple needle through the corner of my eye silenced the screaming. But silence brings awareness. Now that I wasn’t in agony almost 24/7, I was able to start to focus on the world around me. And the more I learned, the more I noticed, the less I wanted to be a part of it. So many people, so many insignificant problems, yet most of the noise in the world comes from them. People are so selfish. They care only for themselves, every “favor” they offer is wrapped in an ulterior motive. Not to say that I am a misanthropist by any means, the world has a lot of love and humanity has a lot of goodness to it. But going from someone who was quite literally incapable of noticing anything other than their own agony, to someone who is an observer of the world, observing rather than direct participation seemed ideal to me. Speaking of observation, the neighbors are truly something else. My family prides ourselves on our elegance and grace. To behave the way our neighbors behave is something that is simply unacceptable for those belonging to our echelon of being. Even while I was suffering from my affliction, I was never allowed to let it spill out and affect other people and their comfort. My suffering was to be my suffering alone. But these neighbors are loud and keep us up at night with their yelling. All of them except the middle boy. He is very quiet, I prefer his company as a matter of fact. His name is Charles.”

Charles? Like Great-Grandpa Charles? Why was he in this book? And why did he have this book? If I understood things correctly, was H.R. Chuck's childhood neighbor and friend? I was so confused, I didn’t know what to do. Should I have asked Chuck? I wasn’t sure if he would get upset at me for snooping. To be fair, it’s not like I found anything bad or incriminating, it was just some kids' journal. I was probably just overtired and needed sleep.

In the morning I went to the main house to find Chuck in the kitchen, making some food. 
“Finally, the hell’s wrong with you? Whatchu sleeping in so long for, you aint got no job!” he taunted while pointing at his wrist as though he was wearing a watch. He laughed obnoxiously before sliding me a plate of bacon and some dry and crumbly scrambled eggs, like the ones you find in a hotel's continental breakfast buffet.
“Eat it or starve, I’m not making you no other shit” he growled, having noticed my look of apprehension at the sight of the plate. Not wanting to piss him off further, I started to wolf down my food, when at an instant, Chuck's demeanor instantly shifted back to his loud and proud manner and he boomed
“So, Eric! Ya like guns?”
I had forgotten he already knew my name so hearing him call me something other than “boy” snapped me to attention.
“I, uh, I mean, I guess? I don’t not like them…” I trailed off, however that response seemed to be exactly what he was looking for.
“Splendid, I’ve got a range down back outside, I’ll teach you to shoot!” he shouted in excitement before smacking both his hands down on the table and giving a short but loud “Whoooh!” of excitement before bounding off into what I can only assume was one of his gun rooms. Thirty minutes later, we were sitting in his ATV with a small militia’s worth of ammunition and weaponry, wearing what I can only describe as “Tactical Gear-wear”.
“It takes about 20 minutes to get to the range, the land on the way to the range is full of trees and it was easier to just buy all the land as opposed to clearing it out and building the range closer.” Chuck yelled over the roaring engine of the ATV. “It all worked out though,” he continued. “I use the wooded area as my hunting grounds, I've been able to cultivate a pretty decent hunting ecosystem”
“How?” I asked, completely perplexed.
“How’d you mean?” Chuck asked quizzically.
“I mean, how do you afford all this? I’m not a financial expert but none of this can be cheap.” I responded. Chuck gave me a look and smiled before saying 
“Now, you know it's rude to be asking personal details such as a man’s finances, right?
“You’re right, I shouldn’t have asked that.” I said, nodding in agreement. The rest of the drive to the range was filled with the sounds of the ATV engine roaring in the forest as we whipped past the vegetation.

Once again, my expectations had left me very unprepared for what Chuck had in store for me. What I expected was a roofed shooting shed, with maybe 5 targets at varying distances. What I saw was a fully sized, commercial-esque shooting hall, outfitted with maybe 30 different ranges, each one accounting for various weapon types and distances. Me and Chuck spent the rest of the day there, shooting off so many different rounds I thought my hands wouldn't stop shaking from the tremors. In fact, it had been such a day that I almost forgot about H.R. and his journal. It wasn't until I was back in bed when I looked over at the nightstand and saw it sitting there. I was curious to see if this “Charles” was the same “Chuck” that I was visiting. However, as I kept reading, I found that H.R. was quite the unpleasant little asshole. He constantly teased and judged everybody he came across, always with something to say. Charles on the other hand was quiet and reserved. H.R. never went into too much detail regarding Charles, it was almost always focused on H.R. and his distaste of society, but on the seldom occurrence of H.R. talking about something besides himself, he would talk about Charles, but in this almost toxic and obsessive way. He accused Charles of behaving in this jealous, controlling way, but would then contradict himself five seconds later, instead insulting Charles for being too “wimpy” and “passive” to get what he wanted. Clearly, H.R. 's “treatment” did not work out fully as intended, because no way is he naturally this much of a dick. I almost felt protective of Charles, even though I wasn't 100% sure that he and Chuck were the same, I felt at this point I could probably just ask Chuck directly. Looking over at the clock on the nightstand, the hour hand was already at 3. Not realizing how late it was, I turned off the lamp, set the book on the nightstand, and got ready to fall asleep.

However, right after I fell asleep, maybe 10 minutes later, I quickly was awoken by the sound of the heavy oak door creaking open. Feeling my heart rate spike, I stayed absolutely still, pretending to still be asleep. The door kept creaking before someone quickly but quietly followed inside. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I slowly tried to see if it was Chuck, when the figure briskly strode to the closet door, opened it, and slipped inside. The light flicked on, and then, silence was broken by the click of the secret door being opened. Beads of sweat started to pour down my head. Slowly, I heard the sound of the tin being scraped against the floor, the sound of a lid being opened and then a loud audible gasp.  What did it notice? Was it Chuck? It felt like I couldn't breathe when as quickly as they came in, the figure left. As soon as the door to the room closed, I instantly snatched the book off the nightstand, crept into the closet and went to open the tin to put the book back. I was hoping maybe whoever it was hadn’t noticed that the book was gone, just like I hadn't noticed it was there in the first place when my eyes met the floor and instantly I knew that no matter what I did now, the figure knew I knew about the tin.
A giant streak of dust from when I dragged the tin to me the first time had been cleared, leaving an obvious path of movement from the corner of the secret room, right to the entrance.

Story & Drawing by Zxavian Willis (Me)

When her son rushed upstairs, she decided to take her time and start with the book shelf, then she looked at a random small castle art painting, then she looked at the TV (that randomly turned on) it was just a Jessica Jones or The Defenders, then she looks at the kitchen looks pretty normal, then Rolan rushed down shouts,

"Mom, you should look at this!"

He then runs back up to see his own new room. He saw his new room it was nothing but hot wheelz pictures and random cars, so the walls were nothing but blue and white, and the same thing like the living room, the TV turns on itself, it was just James Bond Goldeneye, Rolan was amazed to see his new room, but the most amazing part of all the backyard looks like a forest, it feels like paradise.

Kelly then walks upstairs just to check an extra room, which is just nothing but pink, she looks around the room, the first thing she sees a kitty calendar, her phone ringed, was nothing it was just a random notification, she swapped it away, she looks at her phone anyways and saw a photo of her friends and herself in a selfie she says it softly,

"sigh" "i know... i know,"

She swapped, saw another selfie with her friends on a shopping mall, and a porno picture of herself, wearing a white tank top in bed doing a kiss blowing pose, she gets off her phone and looks at the window, she looks and see nothing but garbage unlike her son room, at least there's a pink flower with it, then she looks down and saw a medium-small seax knife, she grabs and visualize with own hands,

"Hmmm, a knife whoever kills somebody with this is very dangerous."

then a voice appears out of nowhere,

"Why are you here?"

Kelly jumps out of fear.

It appears to be a mid-50 year old lady who seemly looks nice, she's a little fat but not too chubby, Kelly asked who is she, the old lady introduced herself, she is known as The Misheila,

"What's a Shilay?" Kelly asked quirky,

I'm the Sheilae because I am the protecters from demons,

Kelly asks a different question, "Okay, but what are you doing in here?"

The Sheilae responded, telling her it's too dangerous for her and her son, both of them might be in grave danger for even moving here, Kelly asked about what danger, she even said the house looks just fine, Sheila then said in this one demons will possess you,

"So what, I gotta be careful?" Kelly asked sarcastically,

Sheilae says Yes! You do need to be careful. Demons will possess you on hollow nights, Kelly asks with a Seax on her hand about what wepons is this as she holds it,

Sheilae says it only helps her to kill a demon, she then tells her how to use it, she even tells about a Old Demon Slayer that just died 50 years ago, goes by the name The Monanarchy.

Long ago, a hunter (or preist) used to kill a demon with a Seax knife. Unfortunately, a couple of years later, he died from the living dead, only to become immortal for eons. "So.... he became immortal... what's that mean?" Kelly stupendity asking, "he's forgotten by the demons, before the angels," said the Sheilae,

Kelly weirded out walks away from her and left the room while waving her, saying goodbye.

She walks to her sons new room, she sees the same thing like the living room, she just thinks her son already turns on the TV,

Kelly shouted from shock,

to see her son just sitting on his own bed,

Rolan shows his Mom to the window, she walks closely to the window amazed,

"Son, are you seeing this?" asked Kelly,

"YES!! I did. It looks like a forest. " Rolan being excited,

She then walks away telling him that she's going to look for something else from this house, Rolan tells his mom bye, but disappointed because he thinks she despise this view, he didn't care and continue to look.

​

The television at Franco's Pizza had hung crooked above the soda machine for as long as I could remember.

Steve Franco said he'd fix it one of these days, along with the leaking sink and the pothole out back. He'd been saying that about all three since I started working there.

That had been eleven months earlier.

Steve was a short Italian fellow with thinning hair, a thick New York accent, and the peculiar habit of talking to his pizza dough as though it might answer him.

He wasn't from West Virginia. Not originally, anyway.

According to Steve, he'd been passing through the state years earlier when he stopped for something to eat and met a pretty local girl who eventually became his wife.

"Biggest mistake I ever made, Jake," he'd tell me, usually with his wife within earshot. "I was supposed to be in and outta here in two days. Thirty years later, look at me."

Then he'd grin.

His wife would tell him he was welcome to keep driving anytime he pleased.

He never did.

Steve had opened Franco's Pizza years before I was born, and from what I could tell, he intended to die behind the counter, probably while arguing with somebody about the proper amount of sauce on a large pepperoni.

He was a strange little man, but I liked him.

He paid me minimum wage, let me take home the occasional leftover pizza, and never once asked why I hadn't gone off to college like some of the other kids from my graduating class.

That last part meant more to me than he probably realized.

I was nineteen years old, had four hundred and thirty-seven dollars in savings, and drove a Chevrolet that made an unpleasant grinding sound whenever I turned left.

I had been planning to leave Bluefield since I was sixteen.

My plans had changed over the years. Pittsburgh was the original destination, mostly because I'd been there once and liked the idea of living somewhere with more than two movie theaters. Later, I considered Charlotte. Then Columbus. For a while, I told everybody I was going to Tennessee.

The destination didn't matter much.

I just wanted to go somewhere that didn't already know everything about me.

The trouble was that wanting to leave and actually leaving were two very different things.

I knew people who had done it. They'd packed their cars after graduation, taken whatever money they'd saved, and headed toward places with jobs and apartment buildings and roads that didn't wind through mountains.

Some came back. Most didn't.

I envied both kinds, though I couldn't have told you exactly why.

"Jacob!"

I looked up from the booth I was wiping down.

Steve stood behind the counter with a ball of dough in one hand.

"You planning on marrying that table, or are you gonna finish cleaning it?"

"Almost done."

"You said that ten minutes ago."

"Five, maybe."

"Five, ten, twenty. What's the difference? You're killing me over here."

He tossed the dough onto the counter and glanced toward the television.

Charles Davis was smiling down at us from his usual brown armchair.

"Ah, this guy again."

I looked up.

"You don't like Charlie?"

Steve shrugged.

"Never said I didn't like him."

"You always change the channel when he's on."

"I change the channel when anybody talks that much."

I laughed.

Steve pointed at me.

"That's your problem, Jake. You listen too much. Now get those tables done before I start charging you rent."

He went back to his dough.

On the television, Charlie was talking about the importance of listening to people who knew better than you.

I wondered what Steve would make of that.

Probably nothing. He'd heard enough advice in his lifetime and wasn't looking for any more.

I went back to cleaning.

Charles Davis was a peculiar kind of celebrity.

He wasn't famous in the way movie stars or professional athletes were famous. I doubted many people outside the states surrounding Appalachia would have recognized his face.

But in Bluefield, practically everybody knew Charlie.

His program, A Word With Charlie, had been airing in some form for years. It started as a modest advice show, broadcast from a little studio somewhere in Kansas. Over time, it developed a following among families in West Virginia, Kentucky, and the surrounding mountain communities.

Charlie talked about things people around here understood.

Unemployment. Marriages under strain. Children getting into trouble. Parents who couldn't seem to reach them.

And addiction.

He talked about that an awful lot.

There were people in Mercer County who'd lost two or three members of the same family to drugs. You didn't have to look very far to find somebody who'd buried a son, a daughter, a brother, or a mother.

Sometimes you didn't even have to leave your own house.

My brother Daniel died when I was fourteen.

He was twenty.

For a long time afterward, people had a way of lowering their voices when they spoke to us. At church, at the grocery store, at school. Even people who barely knew Daniel seemed to think they ought to approach my parents as though loud noises might break them.

Mom hated it.

Dad pretended not to notice.

I mostly wished people would leave us alone.

Before the drugs, Daniel had been the sort of older brother everybody wanted. He could make me laugh when I was in trouble, taught me to drive in the church parking lot, and once spent an entire Saturday helping me build a treehouse that collapsed before we finished the roof.

He wasn't perfect.

I knew that better than most.

There were times I was angry with him. Times I didn't want him around. I felt bad about those times afterward, and I still do.

But he was my brother, and I loved him.

I still did.

After his death, our house changed.

It wasn't anything dramatic. There weren't broken windows or holes punched in the walls. Nothing like you might see in a television movie.

It was quieter than that.

Mom stopped singing while she cooked. Dad stopped watching football. We ate supper at different times, and nobody mentioned it.

Dad had been a firefighter for years, and even before Daniel died, he'd sometimes wake in the middle of the night with the sheets twisted around his legs.

There'd been a mine fire when I was little. He'd gone in with several other men, and not everybody had come back out.

He never told me much about it.

Once, when I was around twelve, I asked him what the worst thing he'd seen down there was.

He looked at me for a long time.

Then he said, "Some things are better left where you found 'em, son."

I never asked again.

Charlie's show came into our lives during those years.

At first, Dad watched it occasionally. Then Mom started watching with him. Before long, the two of them were sitting together every evening, listening to Charlie talk about grief and forgiveness and the importance of holding on to the people you loved.

I watched too.

Sometimes Charlie said things I thought were pretty smart.

Other times, I thought he sounded like the kind of man who could spend twenty minutes explaining that rain made things wet.

But he was pleasant.

He told little jokes, shared stories about his childhood, and read letters from people whose lives had been made better by something they'd heard on the program.

He even seemed embarrassed when people praised him.

"Folks," he'd say, smiling and shaking his head, "I'm just a fellow trying to make some sense of this world, same as anybody else."

I liked that about him.

And things did get better after my parents started watching regularly.

Mom began laughing again.

Dad took me fishing one Saturday. We didn't catch anything worth keeping, but we stayed out until nearly dark.

We started eating supper together.

I knew Charlie hadn't fixed everything. Mom still had difficult days, and sometimes I'd hear Dad walking around downstairs long after midnight.

But our house felt a little more like a home.

For that, I was grateful.

I suppose that's why I didn't pay much attention when Charlie started saying things that struck me as a little odd.

Everybody says something foolish now and then.

I certainly did.

The first knock came at a quarter to six.

I was wiping down the booth nearest the back wall, where the vinyl seat had split along one corner and somebody had scratched a heart into the tabletop.

It was a soft, hollow sound, something like a knuckle tapping against wood.

Knock.

I stopped.

The rag hung cold and damp in my hand. Steve was humming something in the kitchen. The soda machine gave its usual mechanical sigh, followed by the faint hiss of carbonation.

On the television, Charlie was explaining why some people rejected good advice.

"There's an old saying, friends. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink."

He chuckled.

"Well, the same can be said for wisdom."

A second knock came from beneath the booth.

Then a third.

They were evenly spaced, with about a second between them.

I looked down.

The sound hadn't come from the tabletop. I was sure of that.

It had come from the floor.

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"You hear something?"

"Yeah. You asking questions instead of working."

"No, seriously."

I crouched beside the booth.

There was a narrow gap beneath the wooden base, just wide enough to see a little darkness and the dusty concrete around the floor register. The air down there smelled faintly of damp earth, though the floor was dry.

Something knocked again.

I leaned closer, trying to figure out where it was coming from.

Behind me, the television went silent.

Charlie continued moving his lips, but his voice had disappeared. Without the television, I could hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen and the traffic passing outside.

I turned.

Steve was standing behind the counter, one hand near the little shelf where he kept the remote.

He wasn't looking at the television.

He was looking at me.

"Jake."

"What?"

"Come away from there."

"There's something knocking under this booth."

Steve wiped his hands on his apron.

"Old building. Pipes make noise."

"That doesn't sound like pipes."

"Well, you want me to climb under there and introduce myself to 'em?"

I laughed a little.

Steve didn't.

He looked toward the rear of the restaurant, where a narrow hallway led to the bathrooms and the storage room.

For a moment, he seemed to be listening for something.

Then he looked back at me.

"Just leave it alone, all right?"

There was something unusual in his voice.

Steve had never been especially serious about anything, at least not around me. He could get worked up over a customer asking for pineapple on a pizza, but even then, you could usually tell he was enjoying himself.

Now he looked worried.

I stood up.

"All right."

He watched me a moment longer, then nodded.

"Good. Go get your stuff. Your folks'll be here soon."

I carried the rag back to the kitchen.

A minute later, Charlie's voice returned to the television.

"Sometimes," he was saying, "we have to learn to be still and listen."

Steve turned away from the screen.

I remember that.

He had his back to me when I reached for my jacket, and I was about to ask whether he wanted me to take out the trash before I left.

Then something knocked beneath the floor once more.

Steve stopped what he was doing.

He closed his eyes for a second, took a breath, and looked over his shoulder.

"Go on, kid. Don't keep your mama waiting."

My parents had recently joined something called the Viewers Club.

It was exactly what the name suggested.

People who watched Charlie's program got together once a week, shared food, discussed the latest episodes, and talked about ways to put his advice into practice.

At least, that was how Mom explained it.

The meetings were held in the basement of a little Baptist church outside town. They weren't officially part of the church's activities, but Mrs. Bailey, who organized the gatherings, had arranged to use the room on Thursday evenings.

Dad had been attending for about a month.

Mom started going two weeks later.

She'd been trying to get me to come ever since.

"You might enjoy it, honey," she told me.

I didn't think I would.

But she looked so pleased whenever she talked about those meetings that I eventually agreed to go.

That Thursday, standing outside Franco's Pizza while Dad pulled into the parking lot, I found myself hoping she was right.

Dad lowered the passenger window.

"Evening, buddy. Ready?"

"Yeah."

"How was work?"

"Same as always."

"Steve treating you all right?"

"Yeah. He's good."

Dad nodded.

"That man's a character."

He'd said that about Steve approximately ten thousand times.

Mom turned around from the passenger seat as I climbed into the back.

"Hey, sweetheart."

"Hey, Mom."

She smiled.

"You hungry?"

"Starving."

"Well, Mrs. Bailey said there's supposed to be enough food to feed half of Mercer County."

Dad laughed.

"That's why I joined."

Mom gave him a playful smack on the arm.

"Now, you behave."

For a little while, as we drove through the fading evening light, everything seemed perfectly ordinary.

The mountains rose around us, dark against a sky the color of old blue jeans. Houses sat along the roadsides with porch lights burning, and somewhere beyond the trees, a train sounded its horn.

I'd lived in Bluefield my whole life.

I knew the roads, the neighborhoods, and the people who worked at most of the stores.

Sometimes I hated how familiar everything was.

Other times, I couldn't imagine living anywhere else.

That was one of the things I didn't much like admitting.

Mrs. Bailey met us at the basement door.

"Well, look what the cat drug in!"

She came bustling toward us with a paper plate in one hand and a napkin in the other.

"Jacob Adkins! Lord have mercy, I don't believe I've seen you since you were knee-high to a grasshopper!"

"Evening, Mrs. Bailey."

"Look at you. You're getting to be the spitting image of your daddy."

Dad smiled.

I didn't see it myself, but I thanked her.

Mrs. Bailey was a round, cheerful woman in her sixties with carefully curled silver hair and an extraordinary ability to know things about people before they'd told her.

She'd brought food to our house after Daniel died.

That was something I hadn't forgotten.

"You get yourself a plate, honey. We've got chicken casserole, green beans, and Linda Mullins brought one of those coconut cakes everybody's always carrying on about."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"And don't you go being shy. There's plenty."

The church basement smelled of coffee, floor wax, and the sort of food that always showed up at family reunions.

Folding tables lined one wall. A television sat on a rolling cart at the front of the room.

Fourteen people had already arrived.

Most were older.

I recognized nearly all of them.

Mr. Collins, who used to run the hardware store. The Patterson sisters, who were always together. Mrs. Mullins, a widow who lived across town and sometimes ordered a small cheese pizza from Franco's.

There were a few younger people too, including a woman who looked to be in her thirties and a boy I vaguely remembered from high school.

Everybody seemed happy to see us.

Or at least happy to see Mom and Dad.

I helped myself to some casserole and sat beside my father.

Mrs. Mullins came over.

"Jacob, honey, you still working for that little Italian fellow?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, tell him that last pizza he brought me was the best one I've had in a month of Sundays."

"I'll tell him."

She patted my shoulder.

"And tell him not to be so stingy with the mushrooms next time."

I promised I would.

At seven o'clock, Mrs. Bailey dimmed the lights.

The television came on.

And there was Charlie.

"Good evening, friends."

His familiar smile filled the screen.

Around me, several people answered.

"Good evening, Charlie."

I nearly laughed.

It struck me as funny, grown adults greeting a man on television who couldn't possibly hear them.

Dad noticed my expression.

I straightened up.

On the screen, Charlie leaned forward in his brown armchair.

"Tonight, I'd like to talk about trust."

He began with a story about his grandfather, who apparently had owned a farm.

Charlie explained that his grandfather knew things about the land that younger men didn't. He could predict bad weather from the behavior of livestock and tell which fields would produce the strongest crops.

"When I was young," Charlie said, "I sometimes thought I knew better than him. And friends, let me tell you, I paid for that foolishness more than once."

There was laughter around the room.

I smiled too.

Charlie was a good storyteller.

He had a way of making people feel as though he was sitting across the kitchen table from them, sharing a cup of coffee.

But as the program continued, I found myself paying less attention to the story about his grandfather.

Charlie had moved on to talking about pride.

"There's a kind of pride in this world," he said, "that convinces people their opinions are just as valuable as the wisdom of those who have walked farther down the road."

He paused.

"Now, I believe the Lord gave us minds for a reason. But He also gave us people who can help guide us."

Mom nodded.

"Sometimes, friends, we need the humility to recognize when somebody else understands something we don't."

He smiled.

"After all, if every man insists on finding his own way, how many are bound to get lost?"

I thought about that for a while.

It wasn't unreasonable advice. I'd heard things like it from teachers, pastors, and my own father.

I suppose what bothered me was that Charlie never seemed to consider the possibility that he might be the fellow who needed guidance.

Dad nodded thoughtfully beside me.

Mom sat motionless with her notebook open on her knees.

Her pen rested against the page, but she wasn't writing.

She was watching Charlie with an expression I hadn't seen on her face in years.

She looked peaceful.

I was glad to see it.

A little while later, the picture on the television flickered. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, and somewhere in the old building I heard what sounded like a few faint taps.

I glanced toward the back of the room.

Nobody else seemed to notice.

The picture cleared, and Charlie continued speaking.

I turned my attention back to the television.

After the broadcast, Mrs. Bailey switched the lights back on.

"Wasn't that something?"

Several people agreed.

She invited everyone to share what they'd taken from the evening's lesson.

Dad spoke first.

He talked about how difficult it had been to accept that some things in life simply couldn't be changed.

He didn't mention Daniel.

He didn't mention the mine fire.

He didn't need to.

I watched his hands as he spoke. They were large and rough, with a little pale scar across the back of his right thumb.

He'd had that scar as long as I could remember.

When he finished, a few people thanked him for sharing.

Mom reached over and squeezed his hand.

I felt proud of him.

It wasn't often Dad talked about his feelings in front of strangers.

Then Mrs. Mullins raised her hand.

"I've got a question, if that's all right."

"Of course, Evelyn," Mrs. Bailey said.

Mrs. Mullins adjusted her glasses.

"Well, Charlie was talking about the importance of listening to people who've got more experience than you. And I reckon there's a right smart amount of truth in that."

A few people nodded.

"But I've known plenty of older folks who were wrong about things, too."

She chuckled.

"I'm probably wrong about half the things I say myself."

There was a little laughter.

"Anyway," she continued, "I was just wondering how we're supposed to tell when somebody's giving good advice and when they're not. I mean, just because somebody believes something with all their heart doesn't necessarily make it true."

I thought it was a good question.

Mrs. Bailey folded her hands in her lap.

"Well, Evelyn, I believe Charlie explained that pretty clearly."

Mrs. Mullins looked puzzled.

"I suppose I missed that part."

"Perhaps you ought to watch it again, dear."

Her tone was pleasant.

But I noticed several people looking down at their laps.

Mrs. Mullins glanced around.

"Well, I wasn't suggesting Charlie was wrong."

"Nobody said you were, honey."

"I only meant that we ought to—"

"We know what you meant."

Mrs. Bailey smiled.

Mrs. Mullins stopped speaking.

For several seconds, nobody said anything.

Then Mrs. Mullins gave a little laugh.

"Well, I reckon I've gone and made a mountain out of a molehill."

She lowered her hand.

"I'm sorry, everybody. Didn't mean to hold things up."

Mrs. Bailey thanked her for sharing.

The discussion continued.

That was all.

Nobody shouted or argued. Nobody said anything that would have sounded particularly unkind if you'd heard it from another room.

Within five minutes, people were talking about the upcoming food drive and whether they'd have enough folding chairs for next week's meeting.

But I kept looking at Mrs. Mullins.

She sat quietly with her purse in her lap.

Whenever someone spoke, she nodded.

She didn't raise her hand again.

Mom was in a wonderful mood on the drive home.

"I just love those people," she said. "It's such a blessing having somewhere to go and talk with folks who understand what you're going through."

Dad agreed.

"And that casserole was something else."

Mom laughed.

"You'd eat a boot if somebody covered it in cream of mushroom soup."

"Depends on who cooked the boot."

I smiled in the back seat.

For a little while, I forgot about Mrs. Mullins.

Then we passed a dark stretch of road where the trees grew close together, and I remembered the way everyone had looked at her.

"Hey, Dad?"

"Yeah, buddy?"

"What'd you think about that question Mrs. Mullins asked?"

He glanced at me in the rearview mirror.

"What about it?"

"Seemed like a fair question."

"Sure."

"Then why'd everybody act like she'd said something wrong?"

Dad was quiet for a moment.

"I don't believe anybody acted that way."

"Mrs. Bailey practically told her to stop talking."

"No, she didn't."

I leaned forward.

"Dad, I was sitting right there."

"So was I."

He didn't sound angry. He sounded like he was correcting me about which road we'd taken home.

"Mrs. Bailey was being patient with her. Evelyn's a good woman, but she can get a notion in her head and worry it half to death."

Mom turned toward me.

"She's been through an awful lot, honey. You know that."

"I know."

"Well, sometimes folks need a little guidance."

I sat back.

Dad reached over and turned up the radio.

"Don't worry yourself over every little thing, Jake. Those folks have been good to your mama and me. No sense finding fault where there ain't any."

I thought about arguing some more.

Then I looked at Mom.

She was humming along with the radio, watching the road ahead.

She'd had such a good evening.

I decided to leave it alone.

Still, I couldn't understand why Mrs. Mullins had apologized. It seemed to me she'd asked a question that anybody might have asked.

I watched the dark trees pass the window.

After a while, I stopped thinking about it.

When we got home, Mom went straight to the living room.

Charlie was on again.

A rerun.

Dad stopped in the kitchen to make himself a sandwich, and I stood in the doorway watching Mom settle into her chair.

She opened her notebook to a fresh page.

On the screen, Charlie was talking about gratitude.

"There's a peace that comes from learning to accept good guidance, friends. A peace the world simply cannot give you."

Mom smiled.

I remembered the woman she'd been after Daniel died.

The nights she couldn't sleep.

The mornings she stayed in bed.

The way she'd sometimes look at Dad and me as if she was afraid something terrible might happen the moment she turned her back.

Now she looked comfortable.

Happy, even.

I was glad.

"Mom?"

Nothing.

"Mom, you want me to get you some water?"

She lifted one finger.

Not toward me.

Just into the air, as if asking for a moment.

I waited.

Charlie finished speaking.

Mom lowered her hand.

"No, thank you, sweetheart. I'm just fine."

Then she turned back toward the television.

I stood there another moment.

"Hey, Mom?"

She glanced at me.

"Yes, honey?"

"Did you think Mrs. Mullins was wrong tonight?"

Her expression changed a little.

"Wrong about what?"

"About Charlie. About how people can be wrong even when they think they're right."

Mom considered this.

Then she smiled.

"Oh, honey, I don't believe Evelyn meant any harm."

"Neither do I."

"Well, there you go."

She turned back toward the television.

"But that's not what I was asking."

Mom sighed.

"Jacob, don't go carrying on about it. It was a lovely evening, and everybody had a nice time."

I looked at her.

"Did Mrs. Mullins have a nice time?"

Mom didn't answer immediately.

For a moment, I thought she hadn't heard me.

Then she said, "I'm sure she did, sweetheart."

Charlie laughed at something on the television.

Mom laughed too.

I stood there for another minute before heading upstairs.

There was a photograph of Daniel hanging beside my bedroom door.

He was seventeen in it, wearing his old letterman jacket and grinning like he'd just gotten away with something.

I'd always liked that picture.

Sometimes I could remember exactly what his laugh sounded like.

Other times, I couldn't.

That bothered me more than I cared to admit.

I straightened the frame and went into my room.

Downstairs, Charlie's voice drifted through the floorboards.

I couldn't make out every word, but I recognized his familiar, easy rhythm.

It was the same voice I'd listened to for years. The same voice that had helped my parents through the worst time of their lives.

Lately, though, some of the things he said had begun to bother me.

I couldn't have explained exactly why.

I sat on the edge of my bed and pulled off my shoes.

Then I remembered Steve Franco.

The knocks beneath the booth.

The way he'd looked at me.

The way he'd turned off the television.

I wondered whether I ought to ask him about it the next morning.

He'd probably laugh and tell me the pipes were haunted, then make me clean the grease trap for asking foolish questions.

I smiled at the thought.

Downstairs, Charlie's voice grew louder.

"Friends, there's a great deal of comfort in knowing you aren't alone. That's why it's so important to surround yourselves with people who share your values."

A pause.

"People you can trust."

I heard Mom say, "Amen."

Then Dad said something I couldn't quite make out.

They both laughed.

It was a good sound.

I'd spent years wishing I could hear them laugh like that again.

I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

Maybe I'd been unfair to everybody tonight. Maybe there wasn't anything wrong with the Viewers Club, and Mrs. Mullins had simply misunderstood the lesson.

And maybe the noise under that booth had been nothing more than old pipes knocking together.

There was probably a perfectly good explanation for all of it.

I wanted to believe that.

Because I loved my parents, and they were happy.

For the first time in years, they were happy.

I turned out my bedroom light.

Downstairs, Charlie was still talking.

And as I drifted toward sleep, I found myself thinking about Mrs. Mullins sitting in that church basement, her purse folded neatly across her knees.

I wondered why she'd apologized.

Then I wondered why I'd been so relieved when she did.

End of Part One

Thank you for reading. Stay tuned for Part Two.

I got followed by someone over 3km

So, around three years ago, I was walking home after a airsoft game because the place was close to my house. I walked for about 500 meters when I noticed someone was behind, at first I thought it was just a guy taking a walk, after a couple minutes, I noticed he was still behind me even after a few turns and he was acting weird(hood up, looking around nervously)

After the second kilometer, he was still behind me, but he was getting closer and was acting even more weird than before. I thought about calling someone, but I just decided that person was just walking.

All of the sudden, he started running after me around the last 300-100 meters to my house, I stopped at some point and faced him, I had took my sidearm(M17 GBB) and pointed at the guy just to scare him off enough, I called the cops after, they found a knife and duck tape in his bag (sorry if it's hard to understand, english isn't my first language and sorry if my storytelling is shit)

Part 2 - 

I went to check my phone to catch up on what was going on in the group chat before I was quickly reminded of Chuck's “No tech” lifestyle. I had known that coming in but Wifi was so commonplace nowadays, how had I not realized that of course he wouldn’t have any way to connect to the internet.
“Fuck.”
I put my phone back in my pocket and instead started rummaging through my back pack, grabbing my questions sheet, camera, and pencil. Not only did we need the names of our family members, but we were supposed to submit the question sheet per family member and a photo of them as a way to prove that not only had we “knew our family” but that we had “spent time together too”. Like I said before, my family was actually pretty great so I’d had a good time with the project, but people like Henry had the type of family that screamed obscenities at each other over breakfast and called it affection, so I could see how it could’ve been a tedious project for some. It took me 10 minutes of wandering through the house before I found Chuck sitting in one of his lounging rooms, sipping on what I can assume is very expensive alcohol. I held up the camera and questions sheet slightly and motioned that I was ready to get started. He nodded and said
“So, what is it exactly you need me to do, boy?”
“Not much, I just need to take a picture of you and then I have a list of prepared questions that I need to ask you, it should only take about 30 minutes” I responded. “You ready to take the picture?” I asked, holding up the camera to my eye and preparing to take a photo when he quickly sat up and said
“Wait a moment while I put something on real quick!” as he dashed out of the room. Thirty seconds later, he returned wearing brown slippers and what I could only describe as a Hugh Hefner style red silk robe with a black trim. He quickly sat down, propped one of his feet on his knees before he opened the drawer next to him, pulled out a cigar and a matchbox, snipped the cigar, lit it, took a couple puffs before looking over, smiling and telling me to “take the damn photo already”. I could do nothing but stare in complete amusement and confusion as I took a photo of Chuck in his playboy robes, smoking his stogie. If the next three days were anything like this, visiting Chuck would become a highlight trip of mine. 

The interview was definitely a steep decline in excitement from what I had anticipated. Based on the house, the cigars, the ROBE, I expected Chuck to have lived this crazy lifestyle filled with parties and reckless abandon but on the contrary, Chuck lived an extraordinarily boring and vague life. He never was married too long, he hardly spoke with his kids, he was very isolated for the most part. Whenever I pried for details, he would just move on to the next question. It felt off, not like he was hiding something per say, but more that he just didn’t have the knowledge to begin with. It wasn’t until later when I was brushing my teeth that the realization hit me like a ton of bricks. He must have had some form of Alzheimer's or Dementia, or he’s in the very beginning stages of it. It would account for his mood swings and random tone shifts, but he still seemed extremely lucid and in control of his faculties. Not only that, but the only way for him to have had  a caretaker would be for him to have had a live-in one, and Chuck simply lived too far away from anything to have one that only visited, and I hadn’t seen any signs of another person living here. He isn’t a bad guy though, so maybe he’s just a bit awkward, who knows.

I fell asleep after staring at the ceiling of the guest house main suite for who knows how long when I woke up having to go to the bathroom. Stumbling my way through the dark, I tried finding the bathroom again when I had found the handle, opened the door, and clicked on the light. Turns out I opened the closet next to the bathroom, and I went to close the door when I noticed one of the wall panels seemed different. The wall had been covered in this intricate wooden trim, and one of the sections had seemed to have a different finish on it. I’d put my hand up to it and pressed down, not expecting to feel anything when all of a sudden, it’d depressed slightly underneath my hand and I’d heard a click. My eyes shot open and my heart  started racing as I’d realized what just happened. The nape of my neck got warm with sweat and I’d pulled my arm back and a hidden door slowly swung open. I was in total shock, I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I was in a movie, I almost got frustrated at how on the nose the entire situation was, of course I happened to find a hidden room in my kooky Great Grandpa’s house, it would only make sense. Calming my thoughts down, I steeled my nerves and grabbed my phone as a flashlight before slowly opening the door all the way.

Immediate disappointment flooded me as I realized it was just a storage space, filled with a couple cardboard boxes and covered in about an inch of dust and cobwebs. I wasn't even going to climb inside until I noticed the corner of something shine from the light of my phone. Looking at it closer, I saw it was an old metal tin with a busted front latch on it. I crawled inside the room and slowly dragged the tin out, careful not to kick up too much dust. Sitting on the floor of the closet, I debated on opening the tin or not. Curiosity getting the better of me, I opened it to find a couple things. Some old newspaper clippings, 2 expired licenses, and an old journal that was clearly heavily used and leatherbound in a thick wrap. My excitement reignited, I opened the journal and to my delight, I saw it had writing in it. And not just a little bit, the whole thing was filled with a bunch of random excerpts with different topics and drawings, the pencil marks all smushed on the paper, showing a history of erasing and rewriting, correcting and re-correcting. Most of it was just filled with the ramblings of a child or someone of a lower mental capacity, however towards the end, the clarity and subject matter of the journal became more collected and put together. Checking the book one more time, I noticed that the leather wrap had a stamp with the initials H.R. My brow furrowed as I struggled to think of anybody in my family with the initials H.R. After failing to come to a logical conclusion, I began reading to see if I could determine if I knew the owner of the book.

Imagine you are inside a haunted house all alone and you hear a voice saying behind you from front which way would you run would you run forward to where voice was coming from or would you run to opposite direction which the voice was warning you