CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "If you find a show called 'Chubby's Show' on an unused station, DO NOT watch it" Creepypasta

Episode Date: April 7, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by kalenryan13: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...​Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...​iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...​SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...​►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...​►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...​►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...​FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta​►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/​►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta​►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPasta​CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic​ ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic​ ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt​ ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM​ ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

I didn't sleep much as a kid. Some nights I was watching TV. Others, I was kept awake by creeks and moans. Usually, I'd be to bed by 11, sometimes 12. For my young age, the latest I'd ever reached was one. I don't remember most of it. Just a near black room and blue light from the television. So, I was up one night.

I was seven, sick with strip throat. I always seemed to catch it. About an hour or two before, I'd vomited everything up and found myself ill in bed. The TV volume was low, the mumblings of late-night kids' shows chattering like ghosts. Mom left the puke pan on the floor beneath my bed just in case. When I was done throwing up, I'd stare into my reflection. Pale, glassy and shaded in blue. I wasn't disappointed to miss school.

Overjoyed, if anything. Every day I went in and was almost silent. I'd talk here and there. I'd do my work as lazy as possible. I'd come home and draw what Clone Wars was playing, and then I'd try to forget everything I've been taught. On conference night, my teacher pointed out a few failed assignments for math.

I'd told my parents I was hypothesizing, like we learned in science. The burn of my vomit still hung in my throat. Eyes were dry, arms and legs heavy. the blankets no longer warm enough. Something in the basement was working. A machine, maybe the furnace. It conjured up images of giant metal teeth.

My sick form on a conveyor belt, rolling into them as they smashed together. Red eyes like fire alarms flashed inside the head of the thing and it gnashed its fangs again. The black tore me out of my vision. The show had ended, the next one waiting to come on. First commercials

The room lit up again I watched the ceiling fan Do nothing for a while And considered what I'd do tomorrow I had a few ideas for comics A couple thoughts on characters I wondered what it was like to write No pictures, just the words

I blinked And the fan hadn't moved an inch I shivered The commercials were still going I picked up the remote Squinting at the TV Too many churning ideas, twisting around my head like stars, and I only had so much money to waste in the toy store. I figured I'd flip channels, maybe bore myself into sleep.

Up came the menu. I checked to the right to see if any channels will be showing something good in the near future. Nothing. King of the Hill was going. Dad said not to watch that. Infomercials, talk shows, and reruns on different channels. The kid shows were all running out. I went as far left as I could to check if anything good was playing in the moment.

Nothing. I shut my eyes, relaxed and let the remote land at my side. It was either be up all night or try and sleep only to be up all night. I shut my eyes tighter, fingers curling at my sides. In my head, I reimagined Star Wars characters tarting guns and firing with lasers, calling for one another over the flames and the smoke. A clone trooper, I named Jigsaw, stood against the Sith Lord in an all-black armor, face-covered. They threw their hands aside and drew a red lightsaber.

I was still busy, thinking of a name for him. I picked up the remote again, opened my eyes. I held down the button and watched the channels fly upward, disappearing into the infinite abyss. I squinted and let my tongue lull, the stations all. scrolling faster. I was deep in the TV's ocean. Shows tilted with numbers and dashes as if there might

be alien broadcasts. I imagine Jigsaw again, him surrounded by other clones, reading a scanner, picking up an enemy transmission. Words. I had accidentally gone a few channels down, so I scored back up. Sitting in between the empty stations

was a show. Chubby's show it said. Not one I've ever heard of. Head cocked, I stared at the blue rectangle on the menu. Something about it fixated me. Recurrent thoughts circled my mind again. The playground, the classroom, school bells ringing, the cafeteria.

The blanket couldn't keep me warm anymore. The memory shone like gems beneath sand. The ocean was dark, but they sparkled anyway. I glanced up, once. higher into the abyss. There was sharks circling over my head. I'd seen this show before

somewhere, but I had no memory of what it was about, or why it made me remember other things. I blinked once or twice, then I read the show's description. Meet Chubby, Fatso, Bam Bam and Boomer, the greatest teacher for the greatest

generation. I blinked again, rereading the words. My mind ran circles around itself, whispers of a time not too distant spinning around my head. The playground was in the fog, the kids were laughing in the classroom, then the school bells rung. He froze in the cafeteria. It towered over even the principal, tall, blackened. That was when it stopped. My heart pounded my sternum, got seizing up with twisting pain.

My bladder needed to loose itself. I clicked select to watch the show. The TV went dark. I gasped, jolting forward, and put my hands behind me and craed my neck out. The power had gone out, I figured, or something weird had happened with the wires. Like spiders, the thoughts crawled up my back,

bit my flesh, and left it burning. The back of my neck was hot and prickly, throat dry with puk. The air still smelled sickly sweet like illness, the humidifier hummed in the corner. It was a virus. Dad had told me about them how I should be careful about what I clicked on the internet

so that I don't infect the computer with one. I pressed the remote to try to turn the TV on and it didn't work. I was seconds away from shouting for Mom or Dad when I pressed on the button three more times and it turned on by itself. The circus music started. The bedroom was glowing blue again.

Drumbeat and whistles chined. a title appearing in big yellow and red letters. Chubby show, it read. I felt nailed to the bed. It began to introduce the cast. Fat so, the screen displayed. A ragged cat, orange fur missing in places and dirty marks all over the costume. He swung around a giant hammer, grin stretched onto his costume face.

There were kids running from him in every direction. That's so, the TV narrated. I called backwards. All the kids were screaming. One of them off screen was crying. My head banged against the wall. Bam, bam, jam, shared the TV. A pig appeared on screen.

Mudspots covered his face, tears in his costume's fabric. He was in a parking lot chasing down a group of kids. They checked over the shoulder and sprinted. One of them screamed. barely audible. Jason! They looked ahead of them, as if checking off screen. Jason!

It was boom as time to shine. The elephant held the trigger on a power drill, raising it over his head inside a wooden room. A kid strapped to the table, pounded their fists on the sides, and screamed at the ceiling, thrashing. Jason, Jason! No, not Jason.

Grayson. Me. Chubby made his appearance. He brandished another giant hammer, posing with pride. I trembled and my voice shook and I screamed into the night. Mom, Dad? The TV was louder now. Chubby, it exclaimed.

I shook beneath the blankets. Mom! Chubby was on their heels after the mob of kids. They were all running towards a screen like they might escape the dog. "'Dad?' They reached the screen, pounding from the other side. The old box TV shook in its place and rattled with thuds. "'Grason, Grayson, Grayson!'

All the kids were screaming. "'Turn off the TV! Turn off the TV!' It was like waking up again. I sat forward and leaned in to listen. "'Grason, turn off the TV. Grayson, can you hear us? You have to turn the TV off!' I blinked a few times. Chobby was closing the gap, nearly to the kids.

Grayson, Grayson! My lip quivered. Chobby was only a few feet away. I pointed the remote, and clicked. The TV paused. Seconds from death, the kids were frozen, with their eyes wide open, hands stuck to the screen, fists pounding against the glass. Chobby stood no more than two feet behind, hammer raised, inches,

from swinging. If he'd brought it down over the heads, it would have smashed like a pumpkin, spilling guts and spraying bits of skull. My breath was still catching up. My heart raced inside my chest. The remote was sweaty and warm between my fingertips. The bedroom was the coldest it had been since the night started.

Mom! I hollered. Dad? I threw the blanket off me and sprung my feet over the edge. They carried me across the carpet, it still wet and puk-scented and left me at the edge of the door. I banged on it stupidly, tearing it open and switching on the lights. Mom? I tried. Dad!

There they were. Motionless. The blanket was no longer on them. Their eyes were wide open, glued to the ceiling. Arms splayed out to their sides, legs straight, laying on opposite sides of the bed. They looked, almost dead. "'Mam? Dad?' I dashed towards them. I grabbed Mom by the side and tried to shake her awake, screaming into her ear.

"'Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom! Mom! The body was limped to every touch. She wasn't cold like she was dead. She hardly breathed, yet a chest caved in every now and then. I jumped over her and dove for my dad. Dad? He wasn't any better. I pulled his hair

He hated when I did that He anged his ears and slapped him on the cheek And shook him by the shoulders While I knelt on his chest And all I felt was his stomach Driving down And all I felt was his stomach Diving down

Diving down Diving down Diving up Diving up They were sleeping And I froze on my knees Staring into the cold eyes of a man Half alive

Breathing Heart beating pulse flowing, but no thoughts. The tears bit at my eyes like hissing cats. I shooed them away and fell into my dad's chest. Dad, I whimpered. And the noise came back. Vague, yet I heard it.

I was still lost in Dad's chest, but my eyes were open. Like the devil's whispers. Grayson, Grayson. Their voices were echoing from the bedroom again. Grayson! I lifted my head up, rubbing my eyes with a forearm. This wasn't over yet. I jumped off the bed and ran.

I tore into the bedroom and stopped in front of the TV. The children were back on the screen. They were pounding the glass. The big metal box was rattling on its stand, shaking so hard it almost fell off. Grayson! The rise. were lit up like street lamps.

They pounded their hands harder against the window. Grayson, can you hear us? Are you there? I trembled. Hello? I shouted. Grayson, lock all your doors. My chest ached.

Lock all your doors, Grayson. There! The TV went dark again. White lines of static bloomed, zipping up and down, humming. My hand was stuck over my heart, feeling its beat. It seemed to

speak in Morse code. You heard them, Grayson. Go lock your doors. Go lock your doors, Grayson. There, there, there. The TV turned back on. Boomer was sitting in a chair. The room was red, made of the same materials you might find on a playground. The sofa appeared like a giant line. Boomer's couch was just big and yellow, like a slide. He was reading a book the size of a newspaper, a bright red hardcover. What the kids need to learn, the front cover read. Boomer was silent. So was the room.

The TV produced nothing but a low drone, the occasional hum or toot of Boomer mumbling to himself. The camera recording had a mishap. The screen was out of focus for a moment. Then there were footsteps. Fato the cat rushed in. It jumped up and down and danced around Boomer's chair in glee. Boomer, Boomer, Boomer, Boomer, guess what?

What, Vatso? What is it? I'm trying to read. Vatso started stomping his feet, as if he was doing the party dance. He tapped his toes quicker and quicker and quicker like a football player, turning towards me. Boomer, boomer, look! Vatso pointed off the screen, staring directly at me. Boomer's gaze turned my way. My heart fell dead inside me. We got one, said Fatso.

Boomer and Fatso started chuckling all giddy. I screamed and covered myself with the blanket. I started shaking my legs in my head and my mouth got dry as my eyes spilt tears. I peaked over the edge of the blanket thinking they were crawling out of the television but they hadn't. Fato and Boomer were running. They were racing through the house, around all the childish. things like slides and monkey bars. They dashed up a set of spiral stairs and stopped at the end of a long hallway, pounding on the door.

Doot, do, do, do. Bam, bam, answered the door. The big oint into the faces of Fatso and Boomer. Bam, bam, bam, bam, cried Boomer. They turned and pointed at me again. I froze with my eyes hanging above the blanket. We got one, they said in unison. With a break in all the noise, the three animals froze in the hallway.

I thought the show had stopped, but the TV still hummed, just barely, even though the animals were unblinking. They stared a while longer, grinning. Then a door creaked open. Chubby the dog stepped out, blood smeared on his costume, dirt and grime clouding up his white and black fur. He stared with huge, costumed eyes, cold and black. The show seemed to stop again. Then it came back on. The four of the animals were running.

They were out of the house now, getting off into a parking lot. Waiting at the edge of them, parked at an angle was a shiny red car, round and stubby. Small enough you could fit another in the same stall. It was like blinking back to life. My heart was screaming now,

echoes in my bloodstream rushing to my brain. everything was suddenly cold and achy and I thought my head might explode I remembered what the kids were saying Grayson they cried Grayson go lock your doors go lock your doors there there coming

In a tide of chills I rushed out of the room I always kept my window locked I ran into my parents' bedroom the windows were clear I race back out into my playroom almost stepping on the toys I locked that window I checked every window in the kitchen twice

and cleared the sliding back door I got to the front door and bowled into the basement locking the glass door downstairs I paused breathing the swings in the backyard were moving in the wind

the knife I remembered my dad's kitchen cleaver he always buried it deepest in the drawer so nobody would get hurt with it or someone was going to have to Get hurt now. I turned, staring into the blackened basement. I swallowed and chewed on my lip.

Then I gassed it for the stairs. I went up them, rounded a corner and rushed into the kitchen. The drawer was across from me around the island. I zipped past it, tore it open and started rummaging. Long blades, short blades, all of them big enough to kill. None as deadly as the thing that shined beneath. was huge, silvery and perfect for chopping a hand off. Take off someone's head if you knew how to use it right.

I was mesmerized. Something occurred to me. People were going to get hurt tonight. Bad things were going to happen to someone. I suddenly felt very dangerous, picking up the cleaver and twisting it in my hand. It was almost elegant. I raced back towards my bedroom.

The house was dark and still. Every footstep and breath echoed. Other than panels of moonlight on the walls, I couldn't see a thing. I rushed inside my bedroom, panting and slammed the door behind me. With a quick hand, I turned and locked the knob, glancing around in every direction for the TV remote. It was laying on the floor, inches from the pew pan. I grabbed for it and aimed it at the TV. I hank the shade shut and turned the volume down.

The camera's quality had dropped. Everything was glitchy and distorted. In darker frames, a car moved under street lamps, skipping its blinker and flying through all the stops. There were green rectangular signs indicating the streets. I couldn't read their names. Chobby and friends were swinging the rounds in glee, Fatso at the wheel.

They started singing and clapping. Street lights started passing quicker and they nearly hit a mailbox. While their ties screeched and their engine squealed, I took a moment to head for the window, pulling the curtain aside and checking out of it. Down left, nobody. Down right, not a soul. The street was empty, all but the lights. I could tell where the car was. There were two lanes, a right turn on each side. The glow of the streetlights was distant now, but present. They were on Newman Road. No more than a left turn and 100 metres from my house. I made sure the shades were closed all the way.

I ran everything through my head again. Every lock was shut. The cleaver was in my hand, the remote and the bed. Triple-checking now, I reviewed the house once more. Bedroom shades, windows and doors were all locked. I have the cleaver and the remote. They'll be here soon. Seconds later, I watched the car on the screen turn

and slowed to a halt. Outside, tire squealed. The animals danced and sang no longer. I could hear them outside. I picked the remote up, muting the TV entirely. My breath whisked in and out one more time. The camera hovered above the car a while longer. The animals were going around back to the trunk, hoisting it open.

From the angle, I couldn't see what they were doing. Then they began to pull things out. For Vatso, the giant hammer would do. He held it over his shoulders and stood like a soldier. Bam Bam picked the Tommy gun out, loading up a magazine. He racked the gun and checked the sights. Boomer ripped a knife from the trunk, holding the blade up to the moon. He let it dance through the air, light bouncing off its edges.

For chubby, the axe. He held it tight and stood deathly still. When everyone was ready, Bam Bam slam the trunk. I heard it from outside, staring into the curtains. Then the footsteps began. Just little scrapes on the concrete. They started for the front door. The camera didn't follow them at first.

They went off-screen and disappeared. Then it moved to the front door from the perspective of the peephole. I froze now, sat on the edge of the bed and paid. I turned and looked at the floor at the spot where the vomit had been cleaned off. All I found was the pupe pan. And, staring into it, ghostly white and totally silent, was a boy my age who thought he'd known everything. No, he didn't. I swallowed at my reflection.

The front doorbell rang. My head shot up. In the TV screen, a grainy image produced itself. poor costume beast standing on my front porch they held their weapons at the sides as if the job were no more casual than a package delivery Buma stepped back a foot or two having rang the bell waiting They didn't blink any of them

Nor did they breathe I try to imagine what was inside them Beneath their costumes Flesh couldn't be I thought The demon stood waiting on the porch They held them many inclares at the door And managed to maintain stillness Without a breath or seemingly even the thought

They carried on waiting A minute had passed And then another That was when they walked Without a word Chobby was the first to turn his shoulder And then Bam Bam then Fatso and Boomer The four of them all faced a lawn

Descented the steps of the porch And started off down the lawn their car was off in the distance away's waiting for them in silence they went around the corner in front of my garage store I figured they'd stepped ahead enough to where I could see them again

my grip on the cleaver loosened sweat cooling on its handle my breaths came more shallow chubby and friends seemed to be leaving I sighed my shoulders sloped down I shut my eyes and leaned my head back feeling the whole room spin around me where thoughts of Star Wars characters and homemade comics once roamed.

Now a thousand nightmares seemed to plague me. I rested my head against the wall and check the TV. Chubby and friends were gone. Then I squinted. Their car was still there. Empty. Nobody was walking out towards it. My eyes shot wide open.

My head flipped on itself. No, they weren't leaving. of course they weren't going to. They were probably marching around in circles outside, looking for an entrance. Grayson, Grayson, Grayson, lock all of your doors, lock all over your windows. The kids were screaming to me still, but every window was locked and every door. Unless Chubby and friends thought about busting in, they had no entry. Crash!

I jumped and screamed. Something had shattered. I powered off the TV The room fell back into darkness I sat on the edge of the bed And waited, breathing Softly from somewhere beneath the house There were quiet putsteps echoing off the concrete floor

Little clicks, ones that danced through the air From the basement They'd shattered the downstairs glass I heard the door to the stairs open They stepped up them maintaining silence. All I heard was my own breath and the crunch of carpet. Not a voice dared to speak.

Nothing was breathing but me. I saw them again. They're breathless, motionless chest, standing unblinking on the porch. They stared with black eyes and held their weapons patiently. They were nearly up the stairs now. Their feet scraped the floor and weapons drag slowly. I heard the sound of the axe grinding against tile.

That was when I jumped in the closet. I shut both doors, left a crack, and pushed myself as far back as I could go, covering myself with a stacked bins of Legos in front of me. The footsteps were approaching now. From down the hallway, the axe cut through the carpet. A shuddery breath escaped like a butterfly. I caught it in the air and crushed it in my hand. Grayson, don't make a sound, those kids seemed to whisper. There was something comforting about the closet, like thousands of children's hands patting me on the back, embracing me and whispering into my ear.

It's going to be all right, they said. Well, I wasn't an idiot at age seven. I knew that's what they said to one another. Now they were no better than ghosts. I leaned farther back into the darkness, gripping the cleaver harder. The house was still so down quiet. The axe dragged along the floor. They were nearly to the bedroom now.

Their footsteps rumbled the house, the wall seeming to fall over in my head. I wondered if the roof could sustain itself with a weight of the demons. The floor shook again. Feet away, still feet, inches. They stopped. There wasn't a sound anymore, just the noise of the machine in the basement. The one with a giant metal teeth and the alarm red eyes, a conveyor belt carrying me into its moors.

Sweat broke in my forehead. I clenched my jaws together and tried to keep them shut. Opening them meant screaming. In the closet, my breath began to quicken. It huffed in and out like steam loosed from a kettle. I bit down on my teeth harder and grunted. Grayson, Grayson, don't make a sound. Just breathe, just breathe.

You have a knife, you have a knife, you have a knife. I whimpered again, shaking in my skin. A minute had passed, nearly two, and no noise from outside the door, just the ghost in my head and the teeth in the basement. Grayson, don't you make a sound, don't you? Thud, like someone stamping their foot hard. Thud, against the ground. The noise seemed to be coming in quicker succession, faster, as if a bull was slamming on its hooves, or an elephant. Then it stopped.

The room fell silent. The only thing in the house breathing was me. Every breath made my head get hot and cold, like my mind couldn't decide between staying awake or passing out. Then, the TV turned on. The footage was grainy, the hooves stamping closer. In shades of grey, a costume delivant charged down the hallway on the screen and... Grayson...

The door shattered off its hinges. I was still in the back of the closet, screaming. The TV flip channels in a screen of static. Grayson, Grayson, Grayson! The kids again. Grayson, you have to kill them. My heart thudded. Boomer looked straight toward me with wild eyes.

Kill them! I narrowed my eyes. Boomer held the knife over his head. I sprang up and swung the cleaver. It caught him in the gut and Boomer doubled over. The kids in the TV were all slug. clapping and panned in the screen. The box rattled again. There were shapes rushing in through the doorway. Fatso, Bam Bam, Chubby. Fatso came first. He swung the hammer and missed. I caught his arm

with a cleaver and ducked low, hacking at a leg. Fatso's head reared back and he screamed. I ripped him with a cleaver and he fell and stood in the doorway. Bam Bam and Chubby squeezed in at the same time. I swung for Bam Bam Bam and he dodged it. Chubby grabbed me by the arm and tightened his grip on my wrist. I screamed again. Mom, Dad! The cleaver fell from my hand. There were tears welling in my eyes.

Chubby yanked me towards him. He gripped me by the wrist. His fingers were harder than metal. But he wasn't a robot. Some sick pulse flowed throughout his skin. He craned his face down to meet mine. Eyes inches from one another. Chobby held me close and tried to brush the tears from my skin.

cheeks. He soothed me in a voice falsely calm. Oh, Grayson, relax. You're going to learn so much. He leaned back a bit. Bam Bam standing over his shoulder. He raised the Tommy Gun. You're one of the luckiest kids alive. Everything spiraled through my mind again. The playground, my parents, the comics in my room. Jigsaw was my favorite clone I'd ever made. He would play dead, then come back alive to win a fight. Grayson, Grayson! The kids were still screaming. My heart beat in my chest. Run, run away! Run away, I thought. I narrowed my eyes, slammed my foot down. He caught Chubby's toes and he flinched back. I shook his grip off. On the floor was the cleaver. The gun went off.

I zipped out of his way and hacked at his neck with a cleaver. He caught him in the throat and he bled black. Bam-bam gurgled, flopping to the ground. Chubby was across the room for me now, bent forward like a wrestler, waiting to strike. He started to circle around towards me. I went the opposite way, like we stood in a ring. Chubby inched forward a bit, taunting me. There's no use, Grayson, he said. You know we never really die, right? He laughed again. We'll always be around to find you again. The kids on the screen had found. and silent, but the TV still rattled every few seconds. I could hear their voices echoing.

Run! I did. I tucked backwards out of the room. Chobby's feet pounded the floor behind me. I ended the lock on the front door and tried to rush out of it. Wait for me, Chubby hollered. Don't go so soon. Chobby nearly grabbed me.

He moaned swinging the axe. It buried itself on the wall and I was on the porch. With quick feet, I ran across the lawn. The neighbour's house wasn't far. I was past the fence and on the grass, padding up their driveway. The concrete was cold beneath bare feet, scratching and painful. Mr. Harkins? I cried out.

Mr. Harkins! The front door sung open. I turned around. Chubby was in the lawn, dragging his axe to the grass. He froze with me, staring with eyes that hadn't changed all night. Still, they read different. fear Mr. Harkin stepped out on his front porch

he had a gun in hand, the other holding a phone up to his ear. The old man pointed the gun at me and gasped. Grayson? He's right there, Mr. Harkins. He's right there. He's on my lawn. Mr. Harkins started shooting,

rounds cracked in the night. He wasn't a good shot for his age. Chubby charged across the lawn like a soldier and threw the axe behind him, landing it in the grass. Mr. Harking stepped down his porch and peppered Chubby's car with bullets. The gun went empty. Harkins cursed and let the pistol fall to his side.

He took the phone from his ear and screamed across the street at Chubby. He was hopping into the car, spinning the keys in the ignition and slamming hard on the gas. I hope you rot in hell, Harkins hollered. I'll see you there and I won't miss this time. Chubby hit the end of the street, hardly waiting at the stop sign. seconds later he was gassing it to the right, disappearing behind the row of houses. His engine roared, but the night was otherwise silent. Moments later, he was all quiet, except for the sound of Harkin tonight breathing.

He turned around, standing in the drive a few feet ahead. Phone and pistol lowered at his side. He must have heard everything, I figured. Harkins was always up late in the night, polishing weapons or watching movies. He never admitted it, but it was better than lamenting of his wife. The man's stonehard eyes seemed to crack a little. He frowned beneath a handlebar mustache. My throat fell apart.

I whimpered and something bit in my eyes. The police had already been on their way. Harkin to call them long before. He'd figured it was just some bad fight my family had gotten into and he was just a lonely odd man caught in the crossfire. It's a damn good thing I live next door to a paranoid, to a night owl. Might have been dead otherwise. I'm 22 now.

I don't think a lot about the incident, but I know it's why I can't sleep at night. It's the reason I don't leave the TV on anymore. No, I don't think about it. There's nothing for the police to find when I got there. My parents were wide awake, although they couldn't remember a lot. They knew all the important details. They told the cops I've been home all along. As for the bodies, they weren't there anymore.

No blood, no weapons, no sign of entry beside the shattered basement door, and the axe in the lawn. There's no proof the gang had ever showed up. No proof, other than my word and Mr. Harkins. When I tried to show one of the officers the channel I'd clicked on, it was gone. A place with the box, I said, a new station in all caps. He drew the back of his pen, pale. Then he glanced my way and nodded his head. For days, the police checked up on the house again and again

to see if they could find any evidence. There were no fingerprints, no tufts of fur, nothing better than the tears in the carpet and the cracks in the tile. The axe, under further inspection, had no fingerprints either. They found the bullet holes in the ground from the gunfire, but they didn't find any bullets. Jubby and friends had never existed.

The cops had closed the case and labelled it an accident. Nobody in town believed them. Nobody, but my parents. Definitely not Mr. Harkins. I used to go over to his place a lot, after the whole thing had ended. Usually he made me a cup of coffee, the older I got. We'd sit in his dusty old living room and talk for a while.

I tried to ignore the towels direct over picture frames here and there. There were only two, but I noticed them. It's like trying to leave a body in your house and expect it won't stink. Everything smells worse when he's your dead wife. Mr. Harkins would do a lot of the talking. Give me wisdom, encourage me not to waste my life, try to teach me what a man was like. He said he liked my dad.

He just thought he wasn't good at that. He said he thought I was... Scared. Like most kids are. but more than usual. Harkins would lean back in his chair, sip his mug, and stare at me all the while. Then he leaned forward again,

steam blowing out of the cop. There are sick people in this world. Your, uh, father wouldn't like me using these words. He sniffled. There are some real sick assholes out there, kid. He restated. Harkin stared into his coffee mug, watching the steam boil out of it.

Then he took a slower sip, leaning his head back and wiping his lip. He stared back at me, eyes getting thin, growing grey, and he pursed his lips together, watching the floor. He seemed as if he'd fallen down, woken up somewhere in the past. They'll use you, he told me. The kids are the easiest to take. He frowned and swallowed.

They can scream, but they can't throw a punch. Harkins lifted his gaze again. eyes towards me. Then he threw his head back and took another sip of coffee, gulping it down.