Chapter 1: The Warning

He paused in the doorway, rainwater dripping from his cuffs, and scanned the room with eyes that looked too old for his face.

He cleared his throat and croaked, "Somebody died in here, right?"

It was a muggy August evening, the kind that pressed down on Maple Heights like a damp wool blanket. The air outside was heavy with the promise of rain, and the neon OPEN sign in the front window flickered in the half-light. The homeless man shuffled in, tracking in the smell of wet newspaper and alleyway cigarettes, his sneakers leaving muddy prints on the faded linoleum. He didn't look at the shelves or the candy jar by the register—just locked eyes with my grandpa, his voice carrying the chill of some old secret.

My grandpa froze for a second before answering, "Two years ago, we’d just installed a ceiling fan in here. Folks from all over Maple Heights came by to check it out. My second son was tall and insisted on sitting right under the fan, said it was cooler there. After dinner, he forgot about the fan. When he stood up, the fan sliced off his head. Blood sprayed across the linoleum, painting everything red."

His jaw tightened, and for a second, he stared at the counter as if he could see the blood still pooled there.

The air went still as Grandpa’s words hung there, heavier than the humidity. The old man’s wrinkled face didn't flicker; he just nodded, like he’d been expecting the answer. I remember feeling the hairs on my arms stand up, even though I’d heard the story before. It was just the way Grandpa said it this time—like he was confessing to the air itself, not just this stranger. Somewhere in the back, the freezer compressor hummed, the sound too loud in the silence.

The old man spoke in a chilling, eerie voice, "He’s still here. Tonight at midnight, he’ll come out to hurt someone. You’d better get ready."

As if on cue, the store lights flickered and a deep, thunderous boom shook the air, making the jars on the shelves rattle. Even the plastic American flags by the checkout shivered. It was the kind of thunder that made you want to pull the covers over your head, no matter how old you were. The power lines outside buzzed, threatening one of those summer blackouts everyone in Maple Heights dreaded.

The thunder hit so hard, I felt it in my teeth.

The sky went dark in an instant, and a cold wind started howling past the front porch, sharp and icy.

The sudden change in weather pressed against the big glass storefront, making the whole place feel smaller. The wind whistled through the warped window frames, and the porch swing out front groaned on its chain. The kind of wind that seeps into your bones and makes you want to lock every door twice.

My grandpa furrowed his brow and said anxiously, "Sir, our family relies on this store to get by. Please, is there anything we can do?"

The old man squinted, pulled a piece of red paper from his pocket, and said low, "Tape this up on the beam. Get a bowl of clean water. No matter what you hear tonight, don’t come downstairs. Stay upstairs until morning. When the sun’s up, check the water. If it’s still clear, you’re safe."

He held out the red paper with shaking fingers. It looked out of place, like a warning from another world. The kind of thing you’d find blowing down an alley after a street fair, only somehow it felt heavier.

I wanted to laugh, but something about his shaking hands made my stomach twist. This wasn’t just some crazy story.

After saying this, the old man left.

He didn’t ask for food or shelter—just vanished into the storm, his faded army jacket flapping behind him. The bell above the door jingled once, and then there was nothing but the sound of the wind and rain.

My grandpa and grandma exchanged a look. Grandma asked, worried, "Do you really believe what that guy said?"

She twisted her wedding ring, a habit she had when storms made her nervous. The storm outside rattled the glass, and the fluorescent lights buzzed like a swarm of bees.

Grandpa frowned. "With stuff like this, better safe than sorry."

He taped the red paper to the beam.

The paper was the kind of red you see in warning signs or stoplights—loud, angry, impossible to ignore.

He pressed it up with a strip of duct tape, hands steady but pale. The paper almost seemed to pulse in the dim light, a strange new centerpiece in the old store.

Boom! Another clap of thunder rattled the windows, making them buzz.

Outside, rain splattered the sidewalk so hard you could barely hear yourself think. The gutters overflowed, and lightning lit up the empty street in ghostly blue.

The rain drummed so hard on the roof, I half-expected the ceiling to start leaking like it did every spring.

Grandma said, "Let’s close up early. Nobody’s coming out in this weather."

She looked over at the cash register, worry lines etched deeper than usual across her forehead. Her voice was soft but firm, like she was trying to comfort herself as much as Grandpa.

Grandpa glanced at the old wall clock. "It’s only nine. Too early. Let’s wait a bit."

The pendulum on the clock swung back and forth, echoing in the stillness. He always stuck to routines, storm or no storm, as if breaking habit would invite more trouble.

A faded Cleveland Browns pennant hung behind the register, fluttering every time the door opened.