“It Got Away from Him, That Numb Shit.” — Ellie Creed

In her past life, she was Ellie Creed. Now, only her family and friends know her as Libby Michin.

She remembered nothing before the age of eight, when she was adopted and moved to San Jose, California. All her life, she had wondered where she came from and what had happened to her former family, though she had never taken her adoptive family’s love for granted.

After a major family event, old memories began creeping back in. At twenty-one years old, was she finally old enough to understand what kept pulling her back to the small Maine town that had once destroyed her life?

 

I sat in my car outside the church as my sister’s car finally pulled into the parking lot.

“Damn, Alex, it took you long enough. I’ve been here for an hour. Only you would be late to your own wedding rehearsal,” I teased as I climbed out of my car.

“My tire was low again. I had to wait for Dad to bring me an air tank. Besides, you know me, Lib—I’m never early or even on time for anything in my life,” she laughed.

A few hours later, after rehearsal dinner had ended, Alex and I wandered through the church cemetery, talking quietly like we always did when life slowed down enough to let us breathe.

That was when I stumbled over a headstone.

“Victor Pascow. 1969–1989,” I read aloud.

Alex froze beside me.

“You know,” she said carefully, “I remember when you first came to live with us. You had horrible nightmares about someone named Pascow. Mom and Dad thought he was an imaginary friend. Eventually, you stopped waking up screaming in the middle of the night, but for years you were terrified of the dark… terrified of cemeteries.”

She paused.

“I was only eleven, but it scared me too. I just wanted my little sister to be okay. Eventually, you were. But seeing his name now… maybe you should look into it. Figure out who he was in your life before us.”

 

Alex’s wedding was beautiful.

After a year and a half of planning, life slowly returned to normal. I pushed the whole Pascow thing out of my mind and buried myself in studying for finals.

Four weeks after the wedding, I came home to find a letter from a law firm in Maine sitting in my mailbox.

Confused, I stared at it for several minutes.

I had never even been to Maine. I’d grown up in New Jersey before we moved to San Jose when I was thirteen.

I immediately called my parents and told them about the letter. The silence on the other end of the phone stretched long enough to make my stomach twist.

Finally, my mother spoke.

“Can you bring it over? I think… I think we need to talk.”

 

A few hours later, I sat across from my parents at the kitchen table.

“So my biological parents died in a murder-suicide?” I asked shakily. “Why did you tell me it was a car accident all these years?”

My mother opened a worn folder and sighed.

“You were so young when we started fostering you. We didn’t know anything about your home life. We didn’t know if you’d been abused, neglected… if you witnessed the murders.” Her voice trembled. “You were terrified all the time. You woke up screaming almost every night about fire… about your daddy… and then there was Pascow.”

“Pascow?” I asked. “Alex said I used to have nightmares about him.”

“You did,” my father said softly. “But we thought it was just childhood nightmares. Eventually they stopped, and you became a happy, well-adjusted little girl.”

I shook my head slowly.

“Pascow wasn’t imaginary. He was real. Alex and I saw his headstone at the church cemetery.”

The color drained from my mother’s face.

“That can’t be possible,” she whispered.

“Did you know who my biological parents were when you adopted me?” I asked.

“All we were told was that your father was a doctor and your mother was a stay-at-home mom,” my dad answered. “No names. No ages. No location.”

“Well, now I have a location,” I said quietly. “What about grandparents? Family friends? Anyone from my past who ever tried to contact me?”

My parents exchanged a look before my mother answered.

“No. There was nobody. You became a ward of the state in 1989. We started fostering you in 1990 and officially adopted you in 1993.”

She handed me copies of the adoption paperwork.

I left their house more confused than ever.

 

I called Alex on the drive home and asked her to come over.

She arrived twenty minutes later carrying tea and immediately sat beside me while I explained everything our parents had told me.

“So your biological parents didn’t die in a car accident?” she asked quietly. “What about Pascow? Did you tell them about him?”

“Yeah. They had no idea he was a real person until I mentioned the headstone. They also confirmed my biological father was a doctor.”

I walked into the living room and turned on my computer.

“What are you doing?” Alex asked.

“Research,” I answered. “If he was a doctor in Maine and there was a murder-suicide, there has to be records somewhere.”

For three straight hours we searched through newspaper archives and old reports from around Bangor, Maine.

Nothing.

No names. No matching stories.

Then Alex suddenly pointed at the screen.

“Lib…”

I leaned closer.

Ludlow, Maine — June 15, 1989

Two-year-old Gage Creed pronounced dead at 3:45 p.m. after being struck by a semi-truck on a county road.

I read it aloud slowly.

Alex looked horrified.

“Do you think that’s connected?”

 

The next day I dug deeper.

Eventually I found two names: Irwin and Dory Goldman. Chicago, Illinois.

Possibly my grandparents.

I had no idea if they were even still alive, but two days later Alex and I boarded a plane to Chicago.

 

After checking into our hotel, I stared at the phone number I’d found online for almost twenty minutes before finally dialing it.

No answer.

“Just go over there,” Alex said from across the room. “If they aren’t your grandparents, we’ll figure it out. But it doesn’t hurt to try.”

So we took a cab across the city.

The house was small but well-kept.

I knocked on the door several times, but nobody answered.

As we turned to leave, a voice called out behind us.

“Can I help you girls?”

An older woman stood in the neighboring yard watching us curiously.

“Yes,” I said nervously. “Is this the Goldman residence?”

“It is. Mr. Goldman passed away last year, though. Mrs. Goldman went out this morning.” She hesitated. “Can I ask what this is about? She doesn’t get many visitors.”

“We’re only in Chicago until tomorrow,” I explained. “There are some things I really need to ask her.”

The woman nodded.

“I’ll try calling her.”

A few minutes later she returned.

“She said she’ll be back in about ten minutes if you’d like to wait.”

It wasn’t long before a car slowly pulled into the driveway.

An elderly woman stepped out carefully and smiled politely.

“Hi, Robin. Are these the girls you called about?”

“Yes,” the neighbor replied. “They said they really needed to speak with you.”

The woman turned toward us.

“Hello,” she said kindly.

“Hi,” I replied nervously. “I’m Libby, and this is my sister Alex. I’m sorry for showing up unannounced, but… I was adopted as a child. Recently I started researching my past after receiving a letter from a law firm in Bangor, Maine.”

Her expression shifted slightly.

“I’m not sure what this has to do with me,” she said cautiously.

I swallowed hard.

“I think… I think I may be your granddaughter.”

The color drained from her face instantly.

“You girls are sick,” she snapped suddenly. “Do you know how many people have come here over the years pretending to be Eileen? Asking questions? Do you know what it’s been like losing my daughter and grandchildren?”

She pointed toward the street.

“You need to leave. And don’t come back.”

“Mrs. Goldman, please,” I said desperately. “I truly believe I’m Ellie. I have no reason to lie. I’ve spent my entire life not knowing who I was.”

With shaking hands, I pulled an old adoption photo from my purse.

The moment she saw it, she gasped.

“Oh my God…” Tears filled her eyes. “Ellie?”

Before I could answer, she wrapped her arms around me.

“My beautiful Ellie…”

 

“What can you tell me about my parents?” I asked later as we sat around her kitchen table. “Do you have pictures of them?”

“I do,” she whispered.

She disappeared briefly before returning with several old photographs.

I stared down at them silently.

A dark-haired woman with warm eyes.

A tall man with a tired smile.

My parents.

“So your research brought you all the way to Chicago,” my grandmother said gently. “Where do you live now?”

“San Jose,” I answered. “We moved there when I was thirteen. I just finished my freshman year of college. I’m starting pre-med next fall.”

A sad smile crossed her face.

“Just like your father.”

We spent hours talking.

By the next morning, Alex and I were heading back to the airport.

On the ride to O’Hare, Alex looked over at me carefully.

“So what are you going to do with all this information?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Something still feels wrong. Grandma wouldn’t lie to me, but none of this makes sense.”

Alex studied me for a moment.

“You want to go to Maine, don’t you?”

I stared out the cab window.

“Yes.”

 

An hour later, Alex and I stood at the ticket counter booking two flights to Bangor, Maine.

We barely made it to our gate in time.

As the plane began descending toward Bangor International Airport, an overwhelming feeling settled over me.

Heavy.

Dark.

Like something had been waiting for me to come back.

The moment the plane touched down, a sharp pain shot through my chest.

I grabbed the armrest hard enough for my knuckles to turn white.

“Lib?” Alex asked quickly. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I lied, swallowing hard. “Just nerves.”

But it wasn’t nerves.

The second we crossed into Maine, something inside me had shifted. It felt familiar in the worst possible way, like a memory pressing against a locked door in my mind.

The passengers began filing off the plane, but I stayed seated for a moment, staring out the small oval window at the gray sky hanging over Bangor.

Rain.

Of course it was raining.

“You coming?” Alex asked gently.

I nodded and forced myself to stand.

The airport itself was small and quiet compared to Chicago. We grabbed our bags and made our way outside to the taxi line.

“Where to?” the driver asked after loading our luggage into the trunk.

I froze.

Alex looked at me.

“You already know where you want to go, don’t you?”

The truth was… I did.

“Ludlow,” I answered quietly.

The driver glanced at us through the rearview mirror.

“Passing through?”

“You could say that,” Alex answered before I could.

The drive felt endless.

The farther we got from Bangor, the more uneasy I became. Endless stretches of trees lined the roads, thick and dark, swallowing the fading daylight. Every few miles we passed old houses sitting far back from the road, most with peeling paint and sagging porches.

Then I saw the sign.

WELCOME TO LUDLOW

My stomach twisted violently.

Suddenly flashes hit me so hard I gasped.

A red kite.

A little boy laughing.

Blood on pavement.

Fire.

“Libby?” Alex said sharply.

I realized I was gripping the door handle so tightly my hand hurt.

“I—I saw something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.” My voice shook. “It was like memories. Just flashes.”

The cab finally pulled up outside a small motel on the edge of town. The glowing vacancy sign buzzed faintly in the rain.

Inside the office, the old woman behind the desk smiled politely while checking us in.

“You girls visiting family?” she asked casually.

I hesitated.

“Something like that.”

She handed over the room key.

“Well, not much happens around Ludlow anymore. Quiet town.”

I almost laughed at the irony.

Quiet.

If only she knew.

 

The motel room smelled faintly like old carpet and coffee.

Alex dropped her bag onto one of the beds and looked at me carefully.

“You haven’t stopped shaking since we got here.”

“I know.”

“You sure you want to do this?”

“No,” I admitted honestly. “But I have to.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled the photographs my grandmother had given me from my bag.

Rachel Creed.

Louis Creed.

Gage Creed.

And me.

Ellie Creed.

My fingers traced over the family picture carefully.

For a moment, another memory flickered through my mind.

My mother laughing in a kitchen.

My father carrying Gage on his shoulders.

I sucked in a sharp breath.

“What?” Alex asked immediately.

The room went silent.

“That’s… oddly specific,” Alex muttered.

“I know.”

Thunder rumbled outside.

Then, without warning, every light in the motel room flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then darkness swallowed the room completely.

Alex groaned. “Perfect.”

A second later the emergency light outside the window cast a faint red glow through the curtains.

And that was when I saw him.

Standing outside near the tree line.

Tall.

Thin.

Wearing scrubs.

My entire body locked up.

“Alex,” I whispered.

“What?”

“There’s someone outside.”

She moved toward the window, but the moment she pulled the curtain aside, the figure was gone.

“There’s nobody there.”

“I saw him,” I said immediately. “I swear to God, I saw him.”

Alex closed the curtain again slowly.

“What did he look like?”

I felt cold all over.

“Like he was dead.”

Neither of us spoke for several seconds.

Then quietly, almost afraid to say it aloud, Alex asked:

“Do you think it was Pascow?”

add more to the chapter

I couldn’t answer her.

Because deep down, I already knew it was him.

The lights flickered once more before finally coming back on. The sudden brightness made everything feel strangely normal again, but the feeling crawling under my skin refused to go away.

Alex walked back toward the bed slowly.

“Maybe you’re exhausted,” she said carefully. “You’ve had your entire life turned upside down in less than a week.”

“Dead people don’t stand outside motel rooms because someone’s tired,” I muttered.

Alex didn’t argue.

That scared me more than if she had.

 

Neither of us slept much that night.

Every creak outside the room made me jump awake. Around three in the morning, I finally gave up trying to sleep and slipped quietly out of bed.

The rain had stopped.

Fog rolled low across the parking lot as I stepped outside.

The cold Maine air hit me immediately.

Something pulled at me.

Not physically, but deep inside my chest, like instinct guiding me somewhere I already knew.

I started walking before I even realized what I was doing.

Past the motel office.

Past the empty road.

Toward the woods.

The farther I walked, the quieter the world became. No cars. No voices. Just the sound of my own breathing and the crunch of wet leaves beneath my shoes.

Then I heard it.

“Ellie.”

I froze.

The voice was raspy and distant.

Male.

Behind me.

Slowly, I turned.

Victor Pascow stood several feet away.

He looked exactly the way I somehow remembered him and yet far worse than any nightmare. Blood covered one side of his face. His head sat at an unnatural angle, and his eyes looked hollow with exhaustion.

But there was something strangely gentle in the way he looked at me.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said softly.

Every part of me wanted to run.

Instead, I whispered, “You’re real.”

“I was,” he answered.

My throat tightened.

“You used to come to me when I was little.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

His expression darkened.

“Because something terrible happened here. Something that never should’ve been touched.”

The wind moved through the trees around us.

I stared at him, barely breathing.

“My family?” I asked shakily.

Pain crossed his face.

“Your father tried to change death.”

The words sent a chill straight through me.

“What does that mean?”

Before he could answer, another sound echoed through the woods.

A laugh.

Small.

Childlike.

Pascow’s entire expression changed instantly.

Fear.

Real fear.

“You need to leave Ludlow,” he said sharply.

“What was that?”

His eyes locked onto mine.

“That place beyond the deadfall… it still knows you.”

My blood ran cold.

“What place?”

But he was already backing away.

“Don’t follow the path,” he warned. “And whatever happens… don’t let it speak to you.”

“Wait!” I shouted, stepping forward.

The fog shifted.

And he was gone.

Just gone.

I stood alone in the woods trembling violently.

Then I heard it again.

A child laughing somewhere deeper between the trees.

Not playful.

Wrong.

Like someone imitating what laughter should sound like.

Branches cracked nearby.

I turned sharply toward the sound, my heart slamming against my ribs.

For one horrifying second, I saw a tiny figure standing between the trees.

Small.

Broad shoulders.

A blue jacket.

Then lightning flashed overhead, and the figure disappeared.

I ran.

 

By the time I burst back into the motel room, Alex was already awake and halfway to the door.

“Jesus Christ, Libby!” she yelled. “Where the hell did you go?”

I slammed the door behind me, breathing hard.

“I saw him.”

“What?”

“Pascow.”

Alex stared at me.

“What do you mean you saw him?”

“He was outside. In the woods.”

“Libby—”

“No, listen to me!” I snapped. “He warned me about something beyond a deadfall. He said Dad—my biological dad—tried to change death.”

Alex’s face slowly lost color.

“You’re serious.”

“I know how it sounds.”

“No,” she whispered. “I believe you.”

That answer honestly shocked me.

“You do?”

Alex sat slowly on the edge of the bed.

“Ever since we got here, things have felt… wrong. And after seeing your reaction tonight?” She shook her head. “I don’t think you’re making this up.”

I sat down beside her, trying to steady my breathing.

“What if I’m losing my mind?”

“You’re not.”

“But I’m seeing dead people.”

Alex gave a nervous laugh.

“Honestly, after everything we’ve uncovered this week, that barely cracks the top five weirdest things happening right now.”

Despite myself, I laughed weakly.

Then the room fell quiet again.

“What are we going to do tomorrow?” Alex finally asked.

I looked toward the dark window.

“I need to find my old house.”

The moment the words left my mouth, the air in the room suddenly felt colder.

And from somewhere outside, far off in the darkness of Ludlow, came the sound of a child laughing again.

Neither of us said another word after that.

Alex eventually turned off the lamp beside the bed, but sleep never came. I lay staring at the ceiling while the sound of rain slowly returned outside the motel room.

My mind kept replaying everything.

Pascow.

The woods.

The laughing child.

And the warning.

Don’t follow the path.

Around six in the morning, pale gray light finally began creeping through the curtains. Alex sat up with a tired groan and rubbed her eyes.

“You look awful,” she muttered.

“You don’t exactly look refreshed either.”

“Fair.”

For a few moments, neither of us moved.

Then I reached for the folded photograph sitting on the nightstand beside me.

The Creed family photo.

My family.

I stared at my father’s face for several long seconds.

“You think he really did something?” Alex asked quietly.

I swallowed hard.

“I think something happened here that drove everyone insane.”

The words hung heavily between us.

Finally, Alex stood and grabbed her hoodie.

“Then let’s go find out.”