Our Small Town

Altonville

The story begins in Ohio.

In a small town called Altonville, the hustle and bustle of daily life occurred. Babies screeched, mothers hushed, cars honked, teens skateboarded, men smoked, and teachers taught. You or I would find Altonville a perfectly charming place, similar to where we grew up.

But everything was not as it seemed.

And maybe, if you or I had looked a little closer at the details of Altonville- the grains of wood, the price of gasoline, the cigarette smoke flavor- you or I might have been able to stop Rowan and Jenna from going where they did and seeing what they saw.

But some things are just unavoidable.

I should really stop rambling about the hypotheticals the grief of this story has laid upon me. The peculiar nature of this tale, everything in it, and how I came to be responsible for penning it are of no consequence at the moment. 

Due to aforementioned circumstances, I shall not reveal my true name, form, or nature, but you may call me M. If you wish upon a name to call me, call me Gerard, though Gerard M. is simply an unfortunate combination of letters, and not a true name.

When you are snuggled into your bed, deep within the covers, holding a flashlight above this book, or maybe when you open it casually by a warm, crackling fire on a lonely, cold December night, for your own safety, please- turn on another light. Do it.

Have you?

Good.

Now we shall get on with the telling.

A/N Oh, hello there. It's me, M. That's what I'm going by now. Oh, well.

Anyway, if you believe in this story, pleeeeeease drop a vote!