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Marget and Rich Scenepack
Margret had learned, at a young age, that Derry liked to watch you.
Not in any way you could point to—not a face in a window or a shadow that stayed too long—but in the way the town seemed to listen. Conversations ended too abruptly. Laughter died mid-breath. The air itself felt nosy, like it leaned closer when secrets were spoken.
Rich didn’t notice things like that.
Rich noticed diner menus, the quality of the coffee, and whether the waitress smiled when she refilled your cup. He noticed Margret’s silence, though, and that was why he squeezed her hand as they crossed the bridge into town.
“Just a visit,” he said. “We check out the house, we’re gone by Sunday.”
Margret nodded, eyes fixed on the gray water below. The Kenduskeag River slid past too slowly, thick and patient. She had grown up in Derry. She had left at seventeen. She hadn’t looked back once.
Until now.
The house was smaller than she remembered. Everything in Derry shrank when you returned—dreams, streets, even fear, condensed into something denser. The realtor chirped cheerfully, keys jingling, oblivious to the way Margret hesitated on the porch.
The door opened with a sigh.
Inside, the air smelled old. Not dusty—remembering. Rich wandered from room to room, commenting on the hardwood floors, the light through the windows. Margret stayed still, her chest tightening as memories crept out of the walls like mold.
She was ten again, sitting on the staircase, listening to her mother cry in the kitchen for reasons no one ever named. She was twelve, watching a boy from school punch another kid until his knuckles split, teachers turning away. She was sixteen, hearing laughter from the sewer grates and convincing herself it was just echo.
“Marg?” Rich called. “You okay?”
She forced a smile. “Yeah. Just… colder than I expected.”
That night, she dreamed of balloons.
They bobbed against the ceiling of the guest bedroom, red and shiny, strings dangling like veins. One by one, they popped—not loudly, but wetly. When she woke, her pillow was damp with sweat, and from outside came the distant sound of children laughing.
Rich slept through it.
The next day, they walked downtown. Derry looked festive—paper banners, bright storefronts, a banner stretched across Main Street: WELCOME TO DERRY. Rich snapped photos like a tourist. Margret noticed how no one stood still for long, how people avoided the shadows even under full sun.
At the drugstore, an old man stared at her too long.
“You came back,” he said softly.
Margret’s throat tightened. “I’m just visiting.”
The man smiled without warmth. “Nobody ever is.”
That night, Rich finally heard it.
They were lying in bed when something thumped beneath the floorboards. Not a pipe. Not an animal. A rhythm—three slow knocks, a pause, then three more.
“Tell me you hear that,” Rich whispered.
Margret sat up, heart pounding. “Don’t answer it.”
Another knock came, closer, as if something had moved. A child’s voice drifted up, sweet and broken. “Mrs. Greene? Can I come in? I’m lost.”
Margret shook violently. “That’s not real.”
The floor bowed.
Rich grabbed her hand, terror sharpening his face into something unfamiliar. “Margret—”
“Run.”
They didn’t pack. They didn’t lock the door. They ran as the house groaned behind them, laughter bubbling up from the drains, the walls breathing. The town seemed to resist them—traffic lights stalling, streets looping—but Rich drove like escape was a promise he intended to keep.
They crossed the bridge at dawn.
The river flowed on, indifferent.
Rich didn’t speak until Derry disappeared behind them. “You knew,” he said quietly.
Margret nodded, tears slipping free. “It doesn’t let go of everyone,” she said. “But it never forgets.”
Rich reached for her hand again, gripping tight. Behind them, unseen, a red balloon rose above the treeline and drifted, patiently, back home.
Derry would wait.
