I don’t believe this, but I suppose you deserve to hear what really happened that summer, when the vacant lot at the end of the cul-de-sac started to attract more than stray cats and lost baseballs. Shadows can’t multiply, can they?

I don’t believe this, but there’s a story in our city everyone pretends not to know — about a storm, looping alleyways, and a bell that tolls for no one.

I don’t believe this, but there was a soldier I once knew who swore a bell tolled thirteen times where no bell should exist – somewhere deep below a highway diner, in a tunnel not marked on any map. What happened that night stripped more than his courage; it peeled off the very edges of his name.

I don’t believe this, but I once came across a police ledger that spoke of a traveler who found the house no one thought was occupied. What happened in those woods still leaves a chill whenever I see ash on the wind.

I don’t believe this, but there was a time when the clocks stopped at midnight, and every reflection hid a question I couldn’t answer. Someone once told me the dead can speak through the living — I laughed, until I read the diary, and the world began to unravel.

I don’t believe this, but… they said no one should go there after dark. My notes are all that remain of what happened to Thomas, though sometimes I wonder if the story ever truly left those cliffs.

I don’t believe any of this—except that night after night, the same vacant lot refused to stay vacant, and someone always came back wrong. These are the letters that convinced me: I wish I could forget them.