Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - The February Men

Episode Date: October 13, 2025

Every February, the Men come to Jackson Crossing, and the town knows better than to get in their way. Support the show and get rewarded with Dr. NoSleep Premium: get early access, ad-free stories, and over 80 bonus episodes. Try it free for 7 days here: ⁠patreon.com/drnosleep⁠ Wake up or stay up with NoSleep Coffee! Check out ⁠NoSleepCoffee.com⁠ to get 20% off fresh roasted coffee delivered straight to your door. Just use promo code NOSLEEP20 at checkout for 20% off your first order! * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Monday. The men were first spotted by the gas station, the one just off Miller Street, heading south toward the highway. Andy Cartwright said he spotted a few of them walking along the road when he first clocked in that morning. Through the unshakable darkness of a February dawn, he had caught them through the glow of the gas station sign, their long coats, blowing like banners in the freezing wind, and their faces cold and dirty with slush. Loretta Wilson said she had seen one or two men coming down the road past her house at around 6.30. She had looked out her window to see if the mail had come, and, in the gloom, they were trudging single file through the unplowed snow like lost soldiers. At around 7.15, Leo McCarthy had claimed to have

seen five of them on his way to work, five dark shadows and filthy rags by the drainage ditch out near where the warehouses used to stand. At around 8 o'clock, the men, a dozen dozen of them soaking in grimy had arrived at the Willow Tree Inn. As per custom, a room was left open for them on the fifth floor and was prepared accordingly by the time the first man appeared in the lobby. By 9.30, the whole town knew that the men had arrived and, although there was the usual fretting and worrying, everyone understood by now that it was best to continue as per usual. The men had arrived just as they had last year, and the year before that. So there was nothing else anyone could do. Life in Jackson Crossing would go on, just as it

usually did. This is why Jeannie Davis was able to go into the ABC drugstore that very same morning, pick up her prescription and a quart of milk, and say hello to Robert Taylor behind the counter. Bobby was a nice young man only just in his senior year, and he always had a good word to say to her. The morning was slow and there were very few customers, perhaps due to either the earliness of the day or the lingering unease around town. But this was no concern to either Jeannie or Bobby, and they spent the good half of the morning talking about weather, the local basketball team, and of course, the arrival of the men. So, do you see any of them around yet, Mrs. Davis? Bobby asked, checking the inside of his

cash drawer to see if he still had any change left. A couple people in here saw him. They're here little early this time, ain't they? No, it's always around this time. Last week in February, or at least close enough to it. Jeannie scratched her chin and thought, looking out past the displays of winter gloves and snow shovels and the front windows to the main street. Already she could see more ambulances out than usual, scurrying around the slush-covered streets with a nervous anticipation. Did you hear if anything happened yet, or is it still too early? Well, Mr. Schrored, Sherman was in here earlier, and he mentioned something about his neighbor's dog going missing. Bobby shrug.

So far, nothing else has happened. You think that's a good sign? If nothing happens the first day, it'll happen the second day. Jeannie said, making a face as if she remembered an unpleasant thought. You're probably too young to remember this, but back when I was your age, oh, around 1976, I think. The men came like they usually did, and they stayed quite. quiet for the whole first day. On the second day, Jeannie's voice trailed off.

Whatever she was about to say seemed to catch in her throat, and she took a moment to compose herself. Things were much better after the men came, so it all evened out in the end. Did you know that the town was able to get the roads repaved after that? We couldn't have afforded that without the men. Oh, I understand. I remember when they came about eight or nine years ago and... Bobby softly, tapping his knuckles against the counter in a slightly nervous way. My dad had his hide in the cellar after the second day. We slept on the floor on mattresses. Couldn't go upstairs or turn on the lights. Bobby gave us soft, almost nostalgic smile. But after that week was over, when everything was cleaned up, we had a huge carnival.

Biggest one I ever went to, they gave us a whole week off school just to go to it. Exactly. The men. The men always make sure things work out for us in the end. We just have to make sure they get what they want first. Jeannie snapped her fingers together in realization, looking down at her bag of milk and heart medicine. Oh, shoot. You know what I forgot?

I have to swing by the store and stock up on groceries. I hate going out whenever the men are in town. I'd rather be safe at home than out and about when they're doing their business. Nah, you're probably out of luck going. From what I heard, the stores got cleaned out pretty early this morning. Seems like a lot of people had the same idea as you, Mrs. Davis. Bobby pointed over to a small section in the back of the tiny drugstore. A section of canned goods and non-perishable items clustered as neatly as possible.

We got some stuff here, not a whole lot, but it's basically all the essentials. If you want, I'll even try to snag you a discount or two. Oh, bless your heart, Bobby. Hopefully things work out well for you by the end of the week." Jeannie loaded a small shopping basket with some essentials, a loaf of bread, some toiletries, canned fruit bandages, and Bobby, true to his word, was able to secure a 15% discount. The two wished each other a pleasant rest of the day and, should they not see each other, the best of luck before Jeannie walked out back into the freezing gray of the afternoon.

Meanwhile, across town, many had noticed that their pets had been missing for quite some time. Empty leashes attached to wooden stakes blew carelessly in the wind. Cats both stray and domesticated didn't return. Some children cried over the loss of their beloved pet. Others were assured that they would come back in the morning. The dusk swallowed what little light was left in the day, and the town of Jackson Crossing went silent again.

Tuesday. Joe Schuster looked for any more broken glass. giving the porch another cautious sweep, just to be sure. He would need to find plywood to cover the windows. He had a few sheets left in the garage from where he and Eddie fixed up the back deck, didn't he? There were three windows on the front of the house, two in the back, and one each on the sides. He was lucky enough that he didn't have a sunroom like the Richards down the block. God knows what they were doing about the mess.

Up and down Chamber Street, the houses stood, their yards, twinkling with fresh snow and shattered glass. Every window on every house was completely and utterly shattered, the result of the men's handiwork last night. And from where Joe stood, he could see his neighbors drift back and forth through the empty window frames like ghosts. In some houses, curtains blew out in the freezing wind, and in other yards piles of garbage and broken mailboxes littered the curb, letters and empty soda cans scattered across the ice. One particularly impressive feat, the men did, was at the Scott's house, a large stone sculpture of an angel, weighing about 120 or so pounds, and used to mark the grave of a family pet, had been picked up and tossed with such force

that it smashed not only the ornamental glass of the patio door into thousands of multicolored gemstones, but had impaled the statue directly through the wooden door behind it. Beth Scott was, of course, rather distraught about it, and sat on the patio steps in a robe, while her husband tried to reassure her. Warning, Joe, came a familiar voice from behind. Walking up along the driveway, carrying a broom of his own, was Elliot King, who lived right behind him, a yard over. He stopped at the patio steps and looked over the house.

Seems like you got hit too, didn't you? Need any help sweeping up? No, no thank you, Eli. I just finished. Yeah, everyone on chamber got hit pretty bad. leaned on his broom, watching as a few of his neighbors pulled what was once a decorative mailbox, now a mangled heap of wood and tin from a sewer grate. Hell, I didn't even hear anything last night. I only noticed it when Jenny almost cut herself on glass when she woke up. Folks on Jefferson Street got whacked too. From what I heard, most of Laurel too. Elliot stopped and spat a wad of black tobacco under the pristine snow. I heard him last night. Tore up my back porch got awful. I was afraid

they were going to come in. Both men relaxed at the avoided scenario. The question of why Elliot didn't stop the men when he had heard them went unasked. They knew the answer to that question. Everyone in town did. If anyone hadn't had the common sense to know not to interrupt the men during their business, then that was their fault. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it, that purple shop pay button, and just like that, you're done in seconds.

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See less carts go abandoned and more sales go with Shopify and their shop pay button. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com slash DNS. Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com slash DNS. I'm just lucky all they got on my house was the windows. Joe swept off what looked like more glass into the cracks alongside the patio wall. Across the street, a man who had stepped on a fragment of what used to be his bay window was getting his foot bandaged.

The blood glittering in the dim rays of winter sun. You hear what they did to Jerry's truck? He called me at six in the goddamn morning, sweet. screaming his head off. Oh, you want any coffee, by the way? Jenny just made a fresh pot. Nah, I'm fine. I'm fine. Eli politely waved his hand at the offer. He shook his head and spat again, reaching into his coat pocket to pull out the small sleeve of Indian fire tobacco chew. Jerry shouldn't be getting upset like that. I mean, I understand. I don't want to wake up to broken glass and trash thrown into my living room, sure, but... He took a finger full of tobacco

and put it in his bottom lip. You know, you never know if the men hear you or not. Remember what happened to Will Turner? I know, I know. I helped organize the fundraiser dinner for Allison and Robin. Joe sighed and laid his broom down. But Jerry knows not to say anything. He's not an idiot.

I understand where he's coming from, though. He just got that truck back in November. Sure, everyone's on edge. We're all going to have to put up with it until Sunday morning, one way or another. Elliot spout again, and he grimaced as it landed on his boot. Windows, trucks, flowers. Everything's replaceable, you know? Yep. The men stood there in silence for a few moments, looking up at the endless gray horizon

above them, as if seeking God behind it. Elliot swung his broom back over his shoulder and thumbed to the narrow streets across from them. All right, I promised I'd help the Christian sweep up their front room, or well, what's left of it anyway. They have that new baby and all. Elliot turned on his heel and prepared to walk away before looking back at his neighbor. Oh, and by the way, if you and Jenny need a place to stay tonight, me and Marsha got that spare bedroom. Joe gave a wistful smile and nodded his head.

Thank you, Eli, but I'm sure it will be all right. I don't think it'll be so cold. Nothing, some extra blankets and plywood on the windows won't fix. Later that evening, the temperature dropped 15 degrees by 5 p.m. and another 16 by 7 p.m. What had been warm, glowing houses just a night before were now dark rows of battered ice boxes, with gaping windows that constantly sucked in the bitter cold air. Most families either moved in with neighbors fortunate enough to have been spared from the men, or stayed in the hotel on the outskirts of town.

Those who had nowhere else to go may do however they could. Some slept around a space heater in a single, windowless room. Like cavemen gathered around a primitive fire. Others chose to sleep in their cars, running the heat for so long that halfway through the night the batteries died. In certain homes, faucets and showerheads froze over, and exposed water pipes had already begun to show signs of expansion and leaking. Those who had decided to stay in the hotel were, of course, in a slightly better position.

There was abundant heat and running hot water, but overcrowding had quickly developed, and rooms had to be shared at two families each. No one dared to go anywhere near the fifth floor, let alone near the room where the men stayed. Throughout the evening, there came from above them sounds of the men as they worked, the slamming of heavy boots, the tuneless, hacking songs, and the putrid odor that wafted through the vents. One child, young enough to not understand his own. parents' fears had ventured out to see one of the men for himself. He was found only 30 minutes later, huddled in the elevator and face red from crying. His constant screaming and sobbing, unfortunately,

kept his fellow neighbors up through the night. Wednesday. The Jackson Crossing Elementary School had been in place for well over 63 years. It had, at present, 412 students, nine teachers, a principal, and four custodians. It boasted a full gym, an impressive playground, and had very recently opened a new computer room for students to use for the beginning of the school year. Mrs. Steiner's fourth grade class had just finished making spring-themed greeting cards to send to the Quiet Glens Nursing Home across town, while Mrs. Baker students were preparing for an upcoming field trip to the local historical museum. When school was not in session, its wide auditorium would be used for local meetings, swap meets, and sports like basketball or volleyball. The Jackson Crossing

Elementary School was now a smoldering stretch of bricks and rebar, a hideous black scar against the pristine snow. Someone had spotted the fire around 4 a.m. The glow of the fire was so intense that it was believed there was a rupture in the underground gas lines. By the time the firefighters had arrived, there was nothing left to save. It burned for four hours. hours until it was put out around eight. And even then, smaller fires had to be extinguished even later in the day. The few frames of the building that were left standing teetered in the wind, with the rest of what had once been the kindergarten and preschool rooms collapsing into a charred pile shortly after the last of the fire had been put out. The cause of the fire was obvious.

Gasoline canisters were found scattered around the singed playground, and the smell of was strong enough to already solve the mystery beforehand. Everyone knew who the culprits were. Charlie Burke had spotted the men from his bedroom window the evening before, skittering around the schoolyard like roaches under the streetlights. Diane Wilmot, who worked at the Sonoco station up the road from the school, had sold the gas to the men that same evening. They came in, huddled together in their natural way,

and they flatly demanded $35 worth of gas. Of course, Miss Wilmot had her suspicions, but she also knew better than to refuse the men. $35 filled three gas canisters, and the men paid and crumpled up dollar bills that were damp to the touch. No one would blame Miss Wilmot. If she hadn't given them the gas, the men would have gotten it another way somehow. He just had to let these sorts of things happen. By mid-afternoon, a postal worker doing his daily rounds found the collage. alongside the road, 10 or so blocks going south from the school grounds. It was called a collage because of its composition, a kaleidoscope of art projects, macaroni pictures, and decorations

befitting of a first-grade classroom scattered in the dirt and snow like common litter. Clay's sculptures smashed, fingerprint drawings smeared with what looked like dirt, blood, or excrement, crayon drawings torn and shoved into the knot holes of dead trees, and, perhaps most surprising, was the fish tank from Mrs. Sterling's classroom. It was in relatively pristine condition, though the men had emptied the water from it and filled it with a foul-smelling sludge. Inside, torn up pictures of Mrs. Sterling's husband and children

floated in the viscous murky discharge. Where the fish had gone, nobody had any desire to know. The children were no doubt excited to learn they wouldn't be going to school for a while. It was like another Christmas break, or so their parents told them. The adults pretended to be happy for them, both to keep up an act of normalcy and out of fear a man may hear them. There were some who expressed anger, as anyone would, but more reasonable voices prevailed.

Yes, the school would be deeply missed, and yes, the teachers and staff would need to find work again soon. But this was good for the down in the long run. The men always made sure things worked out. They'll build a new school as soon as March starts. In all the excitement, however, there was one man who, ironically, wasn't present to express his concerns. That would have been the principal of Jackson Crossing Elementary, John Baxter. The alarm was only raised when Mrs. Baxter called around, asking if anyone had seen or heard from her husband in the past 12 hours. He had not come home the previous day and, what with the matter concerning the school,

She was worried something had happened to him. His car had been found in the parking lot that same morning, parked in its usual spot. His wallet and satchel were still in the passenger seat, though the keys were missing, and the snow around the wheels indicated it hadn't moved since it was first parked. If you ask Mr. Brenner, who was the former music teacher, he'll tell you that the search for Harvey Baxter went on for several hours all through Jackson Crossing. He'll tell you that there was, if not for a brief period, some form of hope that Baxter was alive in the first few hours of the search. That there was a desperate attempt to believe that, somehow, some way, the man who dressed up his Santa Claus every year for his pupils was alive, and this was all just a terrible misunderstanding.

Mr. Brenner will also tell you that he was one of the first people to have learned that Harvey Baxter was found in the smoldering wreckage of his workplace. He was found, he heard, curled under a desk, buried beneath a half ton of charred brickwork. His body was in too severe a state to be properly examined, but it brings everyone some comfort to hope that it was quick and painless. Mrs. Baxter, on the other hand, is currently in the rehabilitation clinic in Woodvale. She is doing well, and, should her behavior continue to improve, it is hoped she will be out as late as autumn. Thursday.

Dad? Yes? Why do we have to stay in here? Because there's someone looking around the house, and they don't want us to bother them while they're looking. Christopher DiAngelo wished that he had a better explanation to give Mark, the six-year-old boy who was currently sitting beside him on the bed, looking down at the floor as if he could see directly into the living room below him.

What could he possibly explain to him? That they were sitting here, locked in the bedroom, because there was something stomping. around their house and he couldn't do anything about it. Just 35 minutes ago they were in the middle of a peaceful, ordinary dinner. Angela had made a pot roast, and Christopher had just gotten back from helping the Chester's down the street, put some new plywood in their windows. The discussion about what to do with Mark until the town found a new place to host his class was interrupted by the sound of glass shattering in the spare room down the hall. At first, they thought one of the branches from the tree beside the house had broken and smashed into the window.

But the telltale scent of a dying campfire and the crashing of heavy boots immediately gave away the real culprit. They were lucky to have made it upstairs in time. Christopher had seen the pale, vainless hand of the man clutching at the hallway doorframe, fingers, nailless, and smooth, right as he ran up the steps. The man, fortunately, had not seen them and had taken to wandering aimlessly from the den to the kitchen. His bootsteps echoed through the house, and every so often there would be a tumultuous crash and splintering before fading back into frenzied stomping.

What's he even doing down there? Mark asked, listening to the sound of something heavy, being thrown under the floor. He's making a mess, isn't he? Yes, yes, he's making a mess, said Angela, trying with all her might to force a smile in her face. But that's okay. because we can clean it up later.

But when I do that, you say I shouldn't. This is different. Christopher knew with all his heart that he should go down there and force the man out. There was a shotgun under his bed, single shot. And if he was lucky, maybe a warning shot or two would drive the man out. It would be so easy to go down there and hold the gun to him,

to tell him that he had 60 seconds to leave or else he would put one clean through his filthy chest. But both he and Angela knew, better. If the men could be hurt by things like bullets, they wouldn't have come back from all those years ago. The men were capable of God only knows what, and to anger them would only make things worse. How long are we going to be up here? I don't know. Can we go meet him? The man downstairs? No. Angela shot forward, her eyes wide with fear at the thought. I mean, he's just very busy, and he doesn't want to be bothered. Remember that nice man who came in a man.

and looked at our house in the summer? He's like that. But can't Dad talk to him? Christopher gulped, and his heart fell like a stone to the bottom of his stomach. God, Mark thought of his father as a strong, unstoppable hero, a man afraid of nothing and no one. Why couldn't he just go downstairs and tell the bad man currently smashing their plates to leave? That's what Nick Cooper thought he was too. He wasn't a bad man by any means. He was a a cop for 20-odd years and he volunteered his time coaching the Little League team. But he had a terrible habit of speaking out when he shouldn't have. One year, the men came as they usually did, and they went about their business. Everyone knew by then to stay quiet and keep out of their way.

Nick didn't. He started talking about how it wasn't fair that they let the men do this to them every year, that it was humiliating, that everyone let those things walk all over them. There was no guarantee they'd even repay them for it. If anything, Nick said, everyone would be better off if they just shot the men the next time they came around. And one overcast Friday morning, Nick put his theory to the test. No one is to this day sure what exactly happened between him and the man. Nick claimed that he shot him while he was prowling around his house, crawling in the dirt underneath the window of his daughter's room. Point blank, right in the head, between the spaces where eyes would be, and it bled murky white. But it died, Nick said. It dropped dead right in front

of him like how a deer would. Nick left behind his wife and daughter. No one is sure where he went or what even happened to him. His father got Nick's baseball cap, bloodied and battered, sent to him in a musty, torn-up box with no return address. His cousin in New York claimed that he got his torn-up driver's license in a urine-scented envelope. About two years, years ago, they found bones out back near the spillway, dressed in what looked like Nick's old jacket. The jacket was indeed his, but the bones were unable to be tested. Christopher looked down at his son and faked a chuckle. That's because he's doing something very important, kiddo. He probably doesn't want me asking him questions when he's working. Mark looked down at the floor again and then

back at his father. But what's he working on? Nothing. But... became another terrible loud crash, most likely the cabinet by the couch or the heavy oak bookshelf. It echoed through the house like thunder, and Angela bitter lip, trying not to look too scared in front of her son. There was, for only a second, a deep, piercing silence, and then came the bootsteps again, louder this time, heavier and more deliberate. Is he? Angela's eyes widened in terror. No, no, tell me he's not coming up the stairs. There was a muffled thump as the man's boots hit the first step, the dirty souls ripping into the carpet, another thump,

then another. They could hear his long, slender fingers brush against the wall, leaving filthy stains against the paint. His voice, low and mumbling obscenities in either an alien language or a thick, inhuman tongue, could be heard echoing just beyond the door. Christopher looked to his wife and son, then below the bed. He told Mark to get behind his mother and stay there, bending down to pull a long shotgun from beneath the bed frame. Chris, please, don't do this. Angela clung to Mark, tucking him behind her as best she could. If the man came in through the door, at least he'd see her first.

Her voice trembled. Her eyes following how the barrel of the gun opened to receive a single slug into the chamber before snapping shut. You don't know what'll happen. Another bang as a boot crashed down onto the top step, and a great weight stumbled after it. The smell was overpowering, raw and putrid. Christopher looked at his wife of seven years with a somber, determined expression, exhaustion in his eyes. I don't want to know what'll happen if I don't do anything.

Maybe we'll get lucky, maybe. Taking an extra second to look over Angela and Mark, as if it would be the last time he'd ever see them again, Christopher closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The sound of banging, the man's body lurching and slamming against the walls as its staggered close. only became louder and more violent. It sounded like any moment the man would throw his weight against the flimsy wooden door, and then he would see them, a starving fox seeing three helpless rabbits. Christopher grabbed the doorknob and flung the door open.

In an instant, there was a flash of light and a single, deafening bang that filled the hallway with a plume of white smoke. There was no scream, no gasp, no thud of a body falling against carpet. There was nothing even there at all. all. Friday. Nothing happened that day. The staff at the Willow Tree had noticed that it had gone eerily quiet in the men's room on the fifth floor. Usually there would be stomping, hooting, or growling, maybe even the sounds of furniture and heavy objects being dragged back and forth across the floor. But today there was silence, and that was the most concerning thing of all.

After some debate and drawing sticks, one attendant was chosen to investigate. When he finally gained the courage to open the door to the men's room, expecting to see all sorts of grotesque and horrible things, the young man was pleasantly surprised. The room was not only empty, but in a pristine state. The bed had been well made, the floor was spotless, and the furniture was exactly where it had always been. Even the trademark smell of the men was gone,

replaced by a light, floral smell, that gave the room its usual air of normalcy. While it was admittedly strange that the men had not checked out as they traditionally did, for many there was a sense of long-awaited relief. Perhaps, they told themselves, the men had made the decision to leave town early this year. It was uncharacteristic, sure, but who knew with the men anyway? Their behavior was always unpredictable. It wasn't as bad as it had been in other years, so it was a small mercy that there was only one fatality. But in all the excitement that the men had left, no one had noticed that other events had been happening around town.

No one would notice that the tools from Al Phillips' shed had mysteriously vanished overnight, as did the hacksaw and chains from the Walker's garage. No one would notice that on certain houses, placed just out of view on back doors or beneath window, windowsills was a dark, misshapen handprint made from either ash or soot. There would especially be no mention of any murmuring or harsh whispering from the concrete drainage ditches out near the end of town. On Friday, nothing happened. Saturday. Fire chief Bradley Hendrickson desperately wanted a cigarette. He wanted to feel something, anything, other than this constant disgust and exhaustion that had swept over in the past several hours. He sat down on the back fender of an ambulance, the freezing night air brushing over him to remind him that, no, he wasn't dreaming.

All around him were the sounds of people shouting, some screaming, and the endless din of radio chatter. The night sky, starless and endless, was illuminated by a sea of colors, red, blue, violets, orange, all coming from the various lights and beacons that went up and down Cherry Street. To his right, the sidewalk was littered with a river of blue tarpaulins, underneath which was either a body or what was left of a body. To his left, police and paramedics were moving house to house, some carrying the critically wounded out on stretchers and others helping hysterical civilians to the safety of waiting ambulances or police cruisers.

Hendrickson knew these people. For God's sake, he went to school with most of them growing up. He knew every name in every house, whether one house had kids in it, or if the house across from it had any pets. Right now, he was sitting directly in front of Donald Thompson's house. The one with the door ripped off its hinges and the blood smeared like paint across the back. Each of them, a sledgehammer straight to the head. Gina with such force that her head was almost completely taken off. Across the street from the Thompsons was the Morrison house.

On the porch, naked, save for a blanket, was Grace Morrison, sobbing to a sympathetic police officer. Paramedics buzzed in and out of the house with various tools. From what he had heard, they found what was left of Neil Morrison, shoved halfway through his chimney, bent, and contorted at such an angle that the hardest task was trying to remove him. The kid was in stable condition, thank God, but whether or not he'd talk right again was still up for determination. And there were the McDonald's up the block. He hadn't seen what had happened to them, but it made a younger paramedic run outside and vomit. It must have been unspeakable for the people of Cherry Street.

31 houses all in the span of a single evening, exposed to the most unimaginable brutality. The men had attacked when everyone least expected it, when they let their guards down. Any other day of the week, they might have been a little more prepared, not that it would have stopped them, of course. But it would have still been better to go down fighting. Hey, Chief, the voice of Martin Burns broke Hendrickson from his stupor. The older paramedic, smelling of blood and antiseptic, walked over to him. You, uh, feeling all right? Yeah, Marty, I'm fine.

Hendrickson was a god-awful liar, and Burns knew it. I'm just, I don't know. It's a lot to take in. I've been here when the men were around before. But this is just a whole other level of it. A deep sigh escaped Martin's lips. His breath freezing into a wispy cloud that hung in the frozen air. I know what you mean, Brad.

I just got done helping Earl and Wanda out with the Curse folks. The three of them, we couldn't do much for. But Sam is in transit right now, and we're hoping he pulls through. What about the Gibson's, did they? No, they didn't. They were still in their chains in the living. room. Martha died right when we got there. She lost a lot of blood, but she held on just long enough for us to, he trailed off, kicking loose snow with his foot. If we just got there a little sooner,

maybe we could have saved her. There was silence between the men. Hendrickson looked up and led out a small, soft squeak of a cry that was only just barely muffled by the humming of the ambulance's engine. Why do we do it, Marty? God damn every year we let them come in here. here and they do this to us. Every year it's the same thing. And what do we get out of it? They repay us every year, Brad. You know this. You can't deny that things get better for the rest of us every time the men come here. Remember the year they came in 81 or later in 89? None of us thought anything, anything would be worth going through what the men put us through. But every year, in spite of all of it, it all works out in the end.

and we're happier for it. Bradley Hendrickson gritted his teeth, and a pained expression washed over his face. He watched, as a paramedic, carried a small body out from a house under a blanket and laid the short, legless form onto the pavement. What could be worth all of this then, Marty? They've been here for 82 years.

82! Back when our town was just farmhouses and weeds, how has any of this been worth it? To put up with all of this? What they'd do to us? It helped our grandfathers out, and their grandfathers too. But we don't need their help anymore, Marty. Whatever they offered our grandfathers?

Hendrickson banged the side of the ambulance in frustration, as if he was trying to explain a simple fact to an ignorant child. Whatever they offered them, we don't need now. Martin looked at Hendrickson, and then back and forth, scanning for anyone who may hear. He leaned in close, close enough that his breath would brush against his companion's ear, before it froze over.

I get it, but you can't go against tradition. You just can't. Yeah, well, what if I wanted to leave? I'll take Ella, and we'll go somewhere else where those goddamn men can't find us. Bradley! Martin's voice was stern, a combination of pity, sorrow, and strictness that came out in a few short words.

You know you can't do that. Hendrickson looked back at Martin. His eyes glittered in the glow of the evening. ambulance lights with a dim resignation. He opened his mouth slightly to say something, but closed it when he felt a hand on his shoulder. We need your help over here, Chief, said a fireman, his face haunted and distant. He thumbed to a corner house where a group of their colleagues were finishing putting out what had been a small but intense fire. Bradley Hendrickson looked back at Martin, who simply shook his head, shrugged, and promised to talk to him later. Then,

slipping his helmet back on and saying a quiet prayer to whatever God still looked down on Jackson Crossing, he walked away to help. Sunday. It was quiet again. The men had left again, though this time everyone was sure it was genuine. Alex Whitaker had seen the last man wandering up the road out of town, hunched over and wobbling, right around early dawn. At the stroke of 9 a.m., it was over for another year.

Jackson Crossing began to pick up the pieces. Weather reports that morning said that March would be unseasonably warm this time of year, and it would finally end the awful overcast cold that had plagued the town for most of the month. The snow had begun to melt in some places already, and through the grime and mud, little green sprouts appeared in the thawed soil. There was talk that the men had left a generous payment. Several suitcases were taken from the men's room in the willow and much speculation abounded over what riches could possibly be inside of them. Already surveyors were looking over the burnt remains of the elementary school, and men in suits stood with blueprints of potential designs.

Bigger classrooms, a larger gymnasium, a new teacher's lounge, any and everything was discussed. The Harvey Baxter Elementary School would be a wonderful name for it. That's what he would have wanted after all. Mrs. Baxter, or more appropriately, Miss Baxter, would enjoy it when she came home. The houses on Chamber, Jefferson, and Laurel were getting their windows repaired. Some houses suffered water damage when their pipes froze and burst, while others had been looted by animal or man. As for the houses on Cherry Street, there were plans on the annual town hall meeting to bulldoze the whole lot.

They were still finding index fingers and teeth along the sidewalk. And a few hours ago, the scalp of a middle-aged woman was pulled from a clogged sewer drain. It would be much better to bulldoze the whole damn street and make it into something better. A memorial park might be nice, wouldn't it? They certainly had the money to do it. No one ever found what was beyond the town limits, and the woods to the south where the creek flows in. The amalgam of mangled carcasses, of neighborhood dogs and cats that had been smashed and stumped together

into a single furry mass and tossed into the shallow depths of the half-frozen creek. The snow had frozen them together like a rat king, and the ice that clung to their stiff, gnarled bodies had kept them preserved in a grotesquely impressive display. They would have only been there for a week, if not less. But it was springtime now, and March would wash away all traces of brutal winter. Jackson Crossing had paid its price, as it did, and, will always pay, and it would enjoy it until another February came around again.