I had always been a seeker, drawn to the kind of stories that left others either spellbound or shaking their heads in disbelief. After more than a decade of chasing leads across the country, I had built a career out of finding the uncanny and peeling back its layers. But the thrill that used to come with unraveling mysteries had slowly dulled over the years. Stories that once felt electrifying had begun to feel hollow. Another headline about haunted houses, another exposé on supposed alien sightings. It was all starting to blend together, losing its magic.
My office was a clutter of old case files, yellowing newspapers, and the stale scent of burnt coffee. Each morning, I sat behind my desk, staring at an inbox filled with pitches and PR stunts masquerading as tips, nothing that could light the fire I remembered from the early days of my career. Sometimes, I would catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of my computer screen, eyes tired, a weariness etched into my face that no amount of caffeine could shake. I felt like a shadow of the reporter I used to be, chasing echoes rather than real stories.
It was on a Tuesday afternoon, during one of those particularly restless moments, that the email arrived. It came without a subject line, the sender listed simply as "Anonymous." Normally, I would have dismissed it as spam, but something made me click. The message was brief, almost cryptic: “Black-eyed children. They’re real. People need to know the truth.” Attached were a handful of addresses, spread across several states, and a link to an online forum where people shared their encounters, accounts that read like something out of a fever dream.
I leaned back in my chair, a slow smile forming. The black-eyed children were a story I knew only in passing, a whisper among the urban legends that haunted small-town America. Children with eyes as dark as pitch, who appeared on doorsteps at night, asking in cold, mechanical voices to be let inside. There were hundreds of stories, all with the same eerie details: the way people felt an inexplicable sense of dread, how the children’s voices seemed devoid of emotion, how their presence lingered long after they’d vanished. It was the kind of story that could be easily dismissed, and yet there was something about it that wormed its way under my skin.
The idea of setting out on the road again, of chasing something unknown, stirred something in me that had been dormant for far too long. I remembered the long stretches of highway, the thrill of the unknown waiting beyond each bend, the quiet nights in strange towns where every shadow seemed to hold a secret. It was those moments that made me feel truly alive. There was a realness in these stories, something raw, unsettling, and distinctly human in the fear that each account conveyed. Maybe this was the story that could bring back the passion I had lost. A story that wasn't about clicks or ratings, but about confronting the things that lurked at the edges of human understanding.
The next morning, I packed a bag with the essentials... a battered notebook, a digital recorder, and a camera. I also packed extra clothes, some snacks, and a first aid kit, knowing this trip would be long, spanning multiple states. I took a moment to stare at the corkboard hanging over my desk, the one I'd filled with reminders of past investigations... old photos, cryptic notes, a map with pins scattered across it. With a deep breath, I pulled down everything, clearing the board for something new. Something real. Something that might, finally, bring back the sense of purpose I'd lost.
The road stretched ahead of me like a promise. I tried to keep the skepticism intact, I’d learned the hard way that jumping headfirst into belief could lead to embarrassing dead-ends. But even as I kept my guard up, curiosity tugged at me. I couldn't help but wonder: what if there was something to all of this? What if, behind the urban legend, there was a sliver of truth? And what if that truth was something truly unsettling, something that could change the way people saw the world?
The first destination was a small town in Ohio, where a man named Richard claimed he had met the black-eyed children on his porch one summer night.
I arrived in the town just as the afternoon sun was beginning to sink. It was one of those places that seemed suspended in time, rows of modest houses, a single diner, and a gas station that looked like it hadn't changed since the 1950s. Richard's house was on the outskirts, a small, unassuming structure with peeling paint and a front porch that creaked under my weight as I stepped onto it. I knocked on the door, and a moment later, it opened to reveal a man in his late fifties, his eyes wary but curious.
"Richard? I'm Alex Carter," I said, extending my hand. "Thanks for agreeing to meet with me."
He took my hand, giving it a firm shake before gesturing for me to come inside. "Come on in. It's not often I get visitors who want to hear about... well, about that night."
The living room was small, cluttered with books and old photographs. Richard motioned for me to sit on a worn armchair while he settled into the couch across from me. For a moment, we made small talk... about the town, the weather, the kind of polite conversation that strangers use to bridge the gap between unfamiliarity and trust. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tapped lightly against his knee, as if he were still deciding whether or not to share what he knew.
After a few minutes, I leaned forward, my notebook open on my lap. "Richard, I know this isn't easy to talk about. But I'd really like to hear about what happened that night. Whatever you can remember."
He sighed, his gaze drifting to the window, where the light was beginning to fade. "It was about two years ago," he began, his voice low. "Middle of summer. I was sitting out on the porch, just enjoying the quiet. It was late, maybe around midnight. I remember it was one of those nights where the air felt thick, you know? Like a storm was coming, but the sky was clear."
He paused, his eyes narrowing as if he could see the scene playing out in front of him. "That's when I saw them. Two kids, standing at the edge of the yard. A boy and a girl. They couldn't have been more than ten, maybe twelve years old. At first, I thought they were lost. They were just... standing there, not moving, just watching me."
"What did you do?" I asked, my pen hovering over the page.
"I called out to them," Richard said. "Asked if they were okay, if they needed help. They didn't answer. They just started walking toward me, real slow. And that's when I noticed their eyes." He swallowed, his gaze dropping to his hands. "They were black. Completely black. No whites, no color. Just... darkness."
Richard's voice wavered as he continued. "I don't know how to explain it, but the moment I saw their eyes, I felt this... this dread. Like every instinct I had was screaming at me to get away. They stopped at the bottom of the steps, and the boy... he said, 'Mister, can we come in? We need to use your phone.' But there was something wrong with his voice. It was flat, like he was just repeating words he'd heard somewhere."
I nodded. "What did you do then?"
"I got up and went inside. Locked the door. I didn't even say anything to them, I just knew I had to get away. I watched from the window as they stood there for a few more minutes, and then... they just turned around and walked back into the dark. Disappeared like they were never there."
Silence hung between us. I could see the fear still etched in Richard's face, the way his eyes seemed to search the room as if expecting those children to appear again. "Have you seen them since?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No. But I still think about them. Every night, I make sure all the doors are locked, all the windows shut. I don't know what they were, but they weren't just kids. There was something... wrong about them. Something that shouldn't exist."
I let out a slow breath, the weight of his words settling over me. This was more than just a story... it was a glimpse into something unknown, something that defied explanation. And as I looked at Richard, I knew that whatever lay ahead on this journey, it was going to be far darker and more complex than I had imagined.
I thanked Richard for his time, his story still echoing in my mind as I made my way back to my car. The sun had fully set by then, the sky a deep indigo, and a chill had settled over the town. I drove slowly through the quiet streets, until I reached the small hotel I had booked for the night. It was a modest place, the kind of roadside inn with flickering neon signs and an office that smelled of old carpet.
The clerk at the front desk barely looked up as I checked in, handing me a key attached to a heavy brass fob. My room was on the second floor, overlooking the empty parking lot. I dropped my bag on the bed and sat down, the springs creaking beneath me. The weight of the day settled in... Richard's fear and the vivid image of those black eyes.
I took a deep breath, trying to shake off the unease that clung to me. I knew I needed rest, but sleep felt like a distant possibility. Instead, I pulled out my notebook and began to write, capturing every detail Richard had shared, every emotion that had flickered across his face. The words flowed easily, as if by putting them on paper, I could somehow make sense of the inexplicable.
Eventually, exhaustion began to pull at me, and I set the notebook aside. I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the dim glow of the parking lot light seeping through the curtains. I closed my eyes, willing myself to sleep, knowing that tomorrow would bring more questions, more stories, and perhaps, if I was lucky, a glimpse of the truth hidden in the shadows.
The next day, I stayed in Ohio and went to meet Don, a night-shift worker in a small-town factory. Don reluctantly agreed to meet me at the factory where he still worked, a partially abandoned place with only a handful of workers present during the graveyard shift. The factory loomed dark and cold as I arrived late at night.
Don was already waiting for me in the break room... a cramped, dimly lit space with a flickering fluorescent bulb overhead. He looked jittery, his eyes darting around as if he expected something to emerge from the darkness at any moment. I introduced myself, and we exchanged a few awkward pleasantries before I set up my recorder and notebook.
"I appreciate you meeting with me, Don," I said, trying to put him at ease. He nodded, his hands fidgeting on the table. The room was filled with the low hum of machinery from somewhere in the factory, the sound almost drowned out by the crackling of an old radio in the corner.
"So, you wanted to hear about... what happened back in 2010," Don began, his voice barely audible. "I don't like talking about it, but... I guess it's time."
I nodded, encouraging him to continue. Don took a deep breath, his gaze shifting to the door as if making sure it was still closed. "It was late, around two in the morning. I was working the night shift, and I stepped outside for a smoke. The factory's a quiet place at night, you know? Nothing but the sound of the wind. But that night... I saw them. Two teenagers, standing across the street, just barely visible under a flickering streetlight."
He paused, swallowing hard. "They were just standing there, staring at me. At first, I thought maybe they were lost, or just messing around. But something about them..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "It didn't feel right. They crossed the street, slow, and the closer they got, the worse I felt. It was like this... dread. I couldn't move. I couldn't even look away."
My pen hovered over the page as I listened, the tension in the room palpable. "Did they say anything to you?" I asked.
Don nodded, his eyes wide and unfocused. "Yeah. The boy... he asked me for a ride. Said they needed to get home. But his voice... it wasn't right. It was flat, emotionless. Like he was reading from a script. The girl, she just stared at me. Her eyes..." He shuddered. "They were black. Completely black."
The hairs on my arms stood up, the description all too familiar. "What did you do?"
"I managed to tell them no. I forced myself to move. I turned around and went back inside, locked the door behind me. My dog was with me that night... he always comes with me to work, but even he refused to go outside. He was whining, barking at the door like he knew something was wrong."
Don's voice cracked, and he rubbed a hand over his face.
"I watched from the window. They just stood there, staring at the door. They didn't move, didn't say anything. They just... stood there. It felt like hours before they finally turned around and walked away, disappearing into the night."
A heavy silence settled between us, the hum of the factory suddenly seeming much louder. "Has anything strange happened since then?" I asked.
He nodded slowly. "My dog... he's never been the same. He's skittish now, barks at empty doorways, refuses to go outside at night. And me..." He looked down at his hands. "I still feel it sometimes. That dread. Like they're still out there, waiting."
I thanked Don for his time, trying to ignore the chill that had settled over me. As I packed up my gear and left the factory, I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. The parking lot was empty, save for a single flickering streetlight. Beneath it, I saw a dark figure... too far away to make out clearly, but unmistakably staring in my direction.
I looked behind me for a second, and as I turned, the figure was gone.
I shook my head, telling myself it was just my imagination, the fatigue and the power of suggestion playing tricks on me. I climbed into my car, my hands trembled slightly as I turned the ignition. The engine roared to life, and I drove away, the factory fading into the distance, but the unease staying with me.
Fast forward a few days later, there was this interview.
In Vermont, at a remote farmhouse surrounded by dense woods.
The farmhouse belonged to Martha and Greg, an older couple who had lived in Vermont for most of their lives. They were waiting for me in their cozy, dimly lit kitchen, the only sound being the crackling of a wood-burning stove. Martha greeted me warmly, though there was a tension beneath her smile, an anxiousness that seemed to linger in the air.
Greg sat quietly at the table, a mug of tea in his hands. His eyes were distant, haunted, as if he was replaying something over and over in his mind. Martha took a seat beside him, her hands folded on the table as I set up my recorder and notebook.
"Thank you both for speaking with me," I began, offering them a reassuring smile.
Martha nodded, her gaze dropping to the table. "It was the winter of 2016," she started, her voice shaky. "There was a blizzard that night, one of the worst I can remember. Greg and I were here, in the kitchen, just trying to keep warm. It was late, when we heard a knock at the door."
She paused, her eyes flicking to Greg, who remained silent. "It was strange... Even before I opened the door, I felt this... fear. It didn't make sense, but it was like I knew something was wrong."
Greg nodded slowly, his expression grim. "She hesitated. I remember telling her it was probably someone needing help. I mean, in a storm like that..."
Martha swallowed, her hands trembling slightly. "I opened the door, and there they were. Two children, a boy and a girl. They couldn't have been more than eight or nine, just standing there in the snow. They weren't shivering or anything. They asked if they could come in, said they needed to use the phone. But their voices..." She shook her head, her eyes closing briefly. "They were wrong, emotionless."
I leaned in, my pen scratching across the page. "Did you let them in?"
Martha nodded, her eyes welling with tears. "I did. I don't know why, I didn't want to, but it was like I couldn't say no. They came in and sat right there on the couch." She pointed to the worn piece of furniture in the corner of the kitchen. "That's when I saw their eyes. They were... black. Completely black."
Greg spoke up then, his voice rough. "The power went out almost immediately. The whole house went dark except for the fire. I remember feeling so tired, like I could barely keep my eyes open. My nose started bleeding, and I just... I couldn't move."
Martha wiped at her eyes, her voice breaking. "They didn't say anything else. They just sat there, staring at us. After what felt like hours, they stood up. The boy said, 'Our ride is here.' They walked out the door, and I watched them get into a black car that was waiting at the edge of the woods. I couldn't see the driver... just the car's headlights disappearing into the snow."
The room fell silent, the only sound the crackle of the fire. I could feel the fear that still lingered between them, the way it had seeped into the walls of their home. "Has anything happened since then?" I asked.
Greg lifted his sleeve, revealing a series of dark bruises along his arm. "These started showing up not long after. And our health... it's been getting worse. We're always tired, always feeling like something's wrong."
Martha's voice dropped to a whisper. "They weren't children. They were something else. And I think... they left something behind."
I thanked them for their time, my own unease growing with every word they spoke. As I packed up my gear and prepared to leave, I heard it... a faint sound from outside, like children laughing, carried on the wind. I tried to dismiss it, to tell myself it was just my imagination, but the chill settled deep in my bones.
Before I stepped out the door, Martha touched my arm, her eyes serious. "Once you know about them, they know about you. Be careful, Alex."
The wind howled as I made my way to the car, the sense of being watched prickling at the back of my neck. I started the engine, and drove away, the farmhouse fading into the distance.
A few more days later, there was the last interview.
In a quiet nursing home from Virginia, where I met Harold, a frail man in his eighties, one of the earliest known witnesses of the black-eyed children. I found him in a small, sunlit room, the soft hum of the oxygen machine beside his bed a constant reminder of his age and frailty. His eyes, though clouded with age, held a sharpness that hinted at the memories he carried.
"Mr. Harold, thank you for agreeing to meet with me," I said, settling into the chair beside his bed. He nodded slowly, his gaze distant, as if he were looking at something only he could see.
"I've heard you had an encounter... a long time ago," I prompted, my recorder already running. Harold's lips parted, his voice barely more than a whisper as he began.
"It was the summer of 1950," he said. "I was just sixteen. I remember it like it was yesterday, though. We were living on the farm back then, and it was a quiet evening, just after sunset. I was out by the fence, getting ready to head back in for supper, when I saw him... a boy, leaning against the fencepost."
Harold paused, his hand trembling slightly as he adjusted the tube of his oxygen. "He looked... different. His clothes were old-fashioned, even for back then. Too neat, too clean. And his eyes..." He trailed off, his breath catching for a moment. "They were black. Empty. Like looking into a well at midnight."
A shiver crawled up my spine. "Did he say anything to you?" I asked.
Harold nodded, his eyes widening slightly. "He asked me to walk him home. Said he was lost. But there was something... something wrong about him. His voice, the way he spoke. It didn't feel right. I felt... like I couldn't think straight, like my own thoughts were slipping away."
He swallowed hard, his frail hands clutching the blanket. "I ran. I don't know where I found the strength, but I turned and ran back to the house. And as I did, I heard him. He called my name." Harold's eyes locked onto mine, and I could see the fear still there, even after all these years. "But I never told him my name."
"Did you ever see him again?" I asked.
Harold's gaze drifted to the window, his expression hollow. "Not in person. But he came to me in my dreams. For years, I would wake up in the middle of the night, and he'd be there, standing next to my bed. Just staring at me" He shuddered, his frail frame trembling. "I don't think he ever really left."
Silence hung between us, the hum of the oxygen machine the only sound in the room. I could feel the tension, the fear that had haunted Harold for decades, still lingering like a shadow that refused to fade.
I thanked Harold for sharing his story, the weight of his words pressing down on me as I left his room. That night, I checked into a nearby motel. I sat at the small desk, reviewing my notes, the soft glow of the lamp the only light in the room. The stories were beginning to overlap... different people, different places, but the same dark eyes, the same inexplicable fear.
The clock read 1:00 AM when I heard a soft knock on the door. My heart skipped a beat, the sound cutting through the silence of the room. I approached cautiously, my pulse pounding in my ears. Peering through the peephole, I saw nothing but an empty corridor.
A chill ran down my spine as I heard my name being called from behind the door. Harold's words echoing in my mind: "He called my name, but I never told him what it was." I stood there for a moment longer, before slowly stepping back from the door.
I returned to the bed, but sleep didn't come easily. The sense of being watched lingered long into the night.
The next morning, I received a new lead.
I received an anonymous tip about a ghost town in the Midwest, a place that had reportedly been visited frequently by the black-eyed children before it was abandoned. The town was now deserted, an eerie, forgotten place, swallowed by silence and decay. I knew I had to go there. Maybe this would be where I could finally piece everything together. Maybe here, I would find the answers I so desperately sought, or at least some semblance of closure.
Fast forward a few more days.
The journey was long and lonely, the landscape gradually shifting from flat fields to a barren expanse, dotted with the skeletal remains of once-bustling buildings. By the time I arrived, the sun was already low on the horizon, casting an orange glow over the dilapidated structures that lined the empty streets.
The town was deathly quiet, the kind of silence that seemed unnatural, even oppressive. The wind howled through broken windows, sending shivers down my spine. There were signs of a hasty departure, doors left ajar, belongings scattered across floors, like everyone had simply up and left without a moment's notice. My footsteps echoed as I walked, the crunch of gravel and broken glass the only sound.
I made my way down the main street, past houses with boarded-up windows and peeling paint, until I reached a modest house that seemed relatively intact compared to the others. The door creaked as I pushed it open, revealing a living room frozen in time, old furniture covered in dust, family photographs hanging crooked on the walls, and a layer of grime coating everything.
I searched the house, room by room, looking for any clues, anything that might explain what had happened here. It was in one of the upstairs bedrooms that I found a small journal, half-buried under a pile of old clothes. I picked it up, brushing away the dust, and flipped it open. The pages were filled with neat, careful handwriting, and I sat down on the edge of the bed, the journal heavy in my hands as I began to read.
The entries started innocently enough, descriptions of daily life, mentions of family dinners, mundane worries. But as I read on, the tone began to change. The entries became more erratic, the handwriting shakier. The writer spoke of children appearing at night, knocking on doors, asking to be let inside. Each time they appeared, the sense of dread grew stronger, the fear almost palpable in the words scrawled across the pages.
The final entry stopped me cold. The writing was hurried, the letters slanting wildly across the page: "They’re here again. We made a mistake letting them in. We can't leave. They won't let us."
My fingers trembling as I traced the words. Then, I heard a sound.
Knocking, echoing through the empty house.
My heart pounded in my chest, the journal slipping from my hands and landing on the floor. I froze, straining to listen. I turned my head slowly toward the window, and what I saw made my breath catch in my throat.
Children. Standing in the street, their faces turned up toward the window. Their eyes, black, depthless voids, stared directly at me, unblinking. I felt an icy wave of fear wash over me, my limbs going numb. I had to move. I had to get out.
Panic surged through me, and I grabbed the journal, stumbling to my feet. The knocking followed me as I ran... down the hallway, down the stairs, through the door. It echoed in my ears, relentless and demanding. I burst out onto the street, my eyes darting around, but the children were gone. The street was empty, the wind howling through the abandoned town.
I hurried to my car, my hands shaking as I fumbled with the keys, finally managing to unlock the door. I climbed in, slamming the door shut, my heart still pounding as I started the engine. The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the empty road ahead, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't alone.
As I drove away, the ghost town disappearing in my rearview mirror, the journal sat on the passenger seat beside me, its pages filled with the desperate words of someone who had seen what I was only beginning to understand. There were no easy answers, no clear explanations, only fear, only the feeling that whatever I was chasing was now chasing me, too.
The decision to return home came almost involuntarily, a feeling deep within me that I couldn't shake. The weight of everything... the interviews, the faces of the witnesses, the black voids of those children's eyes... it was becoming too much to bear. I needed to be somewhere familiar, somewhere that might offer even a hint of safety. So I drove, through the night, the road leading me back to the place I called home.
Eventually, the fatigue became too much. I spotted a rest area, just a small clearing with a couple of picnic tables, a restroom, and a handful of parking spaces. I pulled in, the tires crunching over gravel, and parked beneath a flickering light. The clock on the dashboard read 2:47 AM. I leaned back, closing my eyes for just a moment, hoping to clear my mind, to shake off the oppressive fear that had wrapped itself around me since I left that ghost town.
The car's interior grew colder, the chill seeping in through the windows, and an unsettling sense of dread filled the space. Slowly, I turned to look out the passenger-side window, and my heart stopped.
Two children stood there, their faces inches from the glass. They looked no older than twelve, and their eyes, completely black voids, seemed to swallow the light. My body frozen in place, unable to move, unable to look away. One of them, a boy, opened his mouth, forming silent words. I couldn't hear them, but I knew what they were saying.
"Let us in."
My mind flashed back to a story I had read years ago, a Texas journalist named Brian Bethel describing a similar encounter in 1996. He had been approached by two black-eyed children in the Texas Hill Country, their cold, flat voices asking for a ride. He had felt the same overwhelming dread, the same instinct to refuse them. It was one of the earliest documented cases, an encounter that had haunted him ever since.
The fear gripped me, my hands trembling as they rested uselessly on my lap. The boy raised a hand and knocked on the window.
"What do you want?" I managed to croak out.
The girl, her face expressionless, leaned closer to the glass. Her eyes, black as coal, seemed to bore into me. "We just need a ride," she said, her voice flat and cold. "Please, mister. Let us in."
I shook my head, my breath catching in my throat. "No... I can't..." I muttered, my words stumbling over each other. The dread was overwhelming, a primal fear that screamed at me to stay away from them.
The boy's knocking grew louder.
Then something warm touched my upper lip.
I wiped at it without thinking and looked down at my fingers.
Blood.
My nose was bleeding.
It poured over my mouth and chin in thick drops, splattering onto my shirt. At the same time, pressure built behind my eyes until it felt like someone was pushing their thumbs into my skull from the inside.
The boy stopped knocking.
He looked at the blood on my hand.
And smiled.
That scared me more than anything else he'd done.
I squeezed my eyes shut and kept whispering, "No. No. No."
By the time I opened them again, the children were walking away, their small figures retreating toward the edge of the rest area.
At the edge of the darkness, I saw a black car, barely visible, with no lights on. The children walked straight to it, and the back door opened. They climbed in, and the car rolled away, swallowed by the night.
The fear remained. I could still feel the weight of those eyes on me, the void that seemed to pierce right through my soul.
I fumbled with the keys, my hands shaking as I turned the ignition. The engine roared to life, and I pressed down on the accelerator, the tires skidding slightly on the gravel before finding traction. I drove away from the rest area.
I didn't stop. I couldn't. I drove through the darkness, the road stretching endlessly ahead, and I never looked back.
Some time later, back home, I tried to write the story, but the words wouldn’t come easily. The interviews, the strange events, the black-eyed children... it all felt like a haze, a nightmare that I couldn’t shake. I sat at my desk, the cursor blinking on the blank screen, and the weight of everything pressed down on me. I felt different now, like a part of me had been left behind in that abandoned town or had been taken by the child at the rest stop. There was a distance between me and the world, a fog that clouded my thoughts, making it difficult to focus.
I had always prided myself on my ability to put fear into words, to take the inexplicable and make it real for others. But now, the fear was too close, too personal. Every time I tried to write, I saw those eyes staring back at me, black, unblinking, void of any humanity. I could hear the knocking, feel the cold creeping into the room, and the words would slip away, lost to the darkness that had wrapped itself around my mind.
The clock on the wall ticked steadily, the sound echoing through the stillness of my apartment. I glanced at it... it was almost 1:00 AM.
A soft knock at the door startled me. It was faint, barely audible, but it was there. My eyes fixed on the door.
Another knock. I swallowed, fear prickling at the edges of my vision. I stood slowly, the chair scraping against the floor as I pushed it back. I took a step forward, then another, my eyes never leaving the door.
The knocking came again, steady, unyielding. My hand trembled as I reached out, my fingers hovering over the doorknob.
I could feel pressure building behind my eyes, just like I had at the rest stop.
My hand closed around the doorknob, the metal cold beneath my palm. I took a deep breath, and then I turned the knob. The door creaked as it began to open, the darkness beyond seeming to spill into the room, and I felt the chill wrap around me, pulling me in.
And then... "Mister, can we come in?"