Chapter 1: The Drifter’s Warning

When I was a kid, an old homeless man wandered into our family store in Maple Heights. His voice was rough and low as he warned, "At midnight, a vengeful spirit who died a horrible death will come to claim a life. Close up shop early tonight."

The bell over the door jingled as he left, battered sneakers squelching across the faded linoleum. The scent of rain and wet cardboard clung to the air, mixing with the sugary smell of penny candy by the register. I remember how his shadow stretched long across the welcome mat, leaving behind a chill that settled deep in my bones.

After the warning, the old man disappeared into the drizzle, leaving behind only the memory of his voice and a trail of muddy footprints.

Nobody moved for a long moment. Grandma wiped her hands on her apron, her brow creased in worry. The neon sign in the window buzzed, painting her face in ghostly blue. Even the old Coca-Cola fridge seemed to hold its breath.

Grandma frowned and muttered, "You really think we ought to listen to some old drifter’s ghost story?"

She looked over at Grandpa, nervously twisting her apron’s hem, the way she always did when something unsettled her. Outside, a pickup truck rumbled past, headlights sweeping across the quiet street. Maple Heights was never this still—tonight felt like the world had hit pause.

Grandpa replied, "Carol, we’ve done right by folks and built up plenty of goodwill. I reckon the old fella meant well, coming out in this mess to warn us. Let’s just close up early."

He reached over and patted Grandma’s hand, trying to comfort her, but I caught the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He was practical, but he knew when a warning was meant to be heeded—especially the kind that made your skin crawl.