A Horror Anthology

How I Came Undone - @Feiyue149

My name is William Geary. This story of mine has never before been told. And honestly, I don't mean for anyone to actually read this. I'll just write it down as best I can and be done with it. I'll tell it as it happened; no going around the truth. Maybe it'll help me somehow. More likely not. 

I was raised in the suburbs of New York. Just about thirty miles north of the big city. My parents were of the best stock; they loved me much and there was never any tribulation that went unforgiven. We got on fine, is what I mean to say.

We lived in hilly Westchester County, New York and in the winter I'd go sledding with my father on Parson's Hill. Sometimes even my mother came along. One winter—nineteen thirty something, if memory serves correctly—my father bought me a toboggan. It was a long wooden plank of a thing, but it was the fastest ride this side of the Hudson. Only problem was, there was no way to steer it. One day I'm sitting on my sled at the top of Parson's, looking down and preparing myself for the ride. That was some steep hill Parson's was, and only a fool would treat it lightly. Just as I was about to push off, some dumbwit jumps on the back of my sled and forces us over the crest and down the hill at a breakneck pace. I don't think my dad even noticed. It was the most out of control downhill I had ever done. Looking back, it was also the most fun.

The whole way down I never once looked back to see who had disrupted my sledding routine. It wasn't that I didn't want to; it was just such a crazy run, what with us practically knocking anyone in front of us out of our way. The only thing I could be sure of was that it was a girl. I could tell by her lovely, excited screams that were silenced only in place of hearty giggling. I wasn't happy about going down the hill so haphazardly mind you, nevertheless, I wore a big stupid grin on my face for the duration.

We came to a stop a little ways from the bottom of the hill, so I turned around to see who my passenger had been, but she was gone. Looking farther back toward the base of the hill, I saw that she had bailed out just short of the flat and was already starting her climb back up. My heart sank. I couldn't explain it, but it was true. She remained in my sight, as I trudged up Parson's myself, wondering who she was and why she had done what she had. As my elation began to subside, to my surprise the young girl suddenly turned and waved. I returned the gesture at once, all the while trying to see what she looked like under those bulky winter clothes and that great big hood she had worn. Undoubtedly, other, more assertive boys, may have run over to make her acquaintance, but that just wasn't me. I must've been ten or eleven then, still a simple boy whose interactions with the opposite sex had been either innocent or awkward.

She disappeared over the crest of the hill and I stopped, milling over who she was. After some time, my father's call broke my thoughts and I continued uphill toward him.

That evening I sat on the floor by his feet as he listened to the evening news, a boy completely enraptured by the day's events. Soon after, I went to bed, still transfixed by the excited feeling stirring inside me.

The next morning, which must have been a Saturday, came and went, showing no sign of the girl—my girl—on Parson's Hill (or any other hill in the neighborhood for that matter; trust me I checked). In fact, I can't recall seeing any girls out sledding that day. Maybe I'm wrong. It was so many, many years ago. An old man can't be expected to remember everything, after all. These days I've got to file away certain things in order to remember certain others. But one thing is for sure: that day I didn't find the girl I was looking for.

Winter bowed down to spring as Mother Nature woke from her slumber. The days were warmer and the nights crisp and buzzing with life. I had mostly forgotten about my one-time passenger, as boys of that age tend to do with things that once so strongly held their attention.