By Benjy Cartwright 

I don't expect anyone to believe this.

Most days, I don't believe it myself. But I remember. That's the part that matters. I remember everything, but Eden Falls has a way of making adults forget. 

I remember the smell of the wet leaves under our shoes, the way the mailbox creaked when it opened, the look on Ace’s face when the door unlatched on its own. I remember the cold hum of the house, the basement that wasn’t there until it was, and Tony Freeborn screaming through a wall like he was underwater.

And I remember how no one else does.

Not the cops. Not the teachers. Not even Tony’s parents. They said he ran away. Said he was “going through something.” Then one day, just like that, he came back. Like nothing had happened. No scars. No stories. No explanation. Just a smile that didn’t reach his eyes and a town that didn’t ask questions.

Except us. Me, Katie, Elijah, Ace. We asked.

We went in after him.

That was the fall of seventh grade. That was the year we found out the stories about 109 Slumber Street weren’t stories at all. That was the year the Letter House opened its door for us. And I don’t think it’s ever really closed it since.

So yeah. I’m writing this down.

Because someone has to.

Because if you ever get a letter postmarked Eden Falls, Virginia…

 and the return address just says Slumber Street…

Don’t open it.

Or maybe do.

I did.