There is a damned part of town. Most folks try to look the other way when they walk by the crumbling houses, some like to mutter about infrastructure when they see it, but I know it well. That rotting neighborhood holds more than raccoons and mildew, more than creaky floorboards and broken windows. That place is cursed, evil. But like all evil things, it has a story. Only a few people who remember what happened on Greene Street are left. Unfortunately, I am one of these.

Greene Street was a dead end. A few blocks removed from Main Street, Greene was where the well-to-do members of our small community lived. On one side, there was Mr. Charles, the mayor. On the other side, there were the Rhodeses. Mr. Rhodes was the manager at our bank and Mrs. Rhodes was the owner of a florist shop on Main. At the very end of the street was the home of Josiah Wilson, an elderly widower.

No one really knew much about Josiah except that he had been very wealthy years ago, and he had lived in town longer than anyone else. What most people did not notice was that he always closed the blinds at half past four and that he often walked up and down the street during the early hours of the morning. No one else seemed to notice him, except me of course. My family lived next door.

That summer when it happened was hotter than any I can remember. We would cluster in the kitchen, sitting by the fan and sipping lemonade, praying for the weather to cool. But days grew into weeks and still, the heat did not relent.

One morning, during the worst part of the heat wave, my family's breakfast was interrupted by a loud knock at the door. Being a curious child, I spied out the window when my father answered the door. Mr. Wilson was talking to him. I couldn't tell what they were saying, but I saw a pained expression on my father's face. I ran back to the kitchen as Mr. Wilson's gaze wandered to my window. A moment later, my father returned.

"Who was that?" my mother asked, absently washing a pan.

My father hesitated a moment before replying, "Our neighbor, old Josiah. He's inviting people over for dinner tomorrow night."

"Really? That's nice of him. I didn't take him for the social sort."

"That's what I thought too, but apparently, the whole neighborhood is invited."

"Dear, what's the matter?" said my mother, noting his troubled look.

I watched as my father sat back down at the table. "Josiah said he was going to announce something big; something that would 'shake up the world' as he put it. Jess, has he ever talked to any of us about a project?"

My mother crossed over to the table. "No, come to think of it, he barely even says hello when I see him. But he seems decent enough."

"Do you think we should go?"

"Well, I suppose it would be a shame to turn him down when he's trying to reach out."

"Alright, but if he starts asking for investors, we are leaving."

"Can I go too?" I asked.

My father gave me a wary look, sizing me up. "How old are you Junior?"

"Nine and a half."

"We'll see when you're ten. Grown-up parties would be boring for you."

Despite my protests, it was decided that I would stay home that night while everyone else enjoyed a meal at one of the finest homes in town. When dinner came, and my parents left, I passed time staring at that house from my window. According to Josiah's usual habit, the blinds were down and I could only see silhouettes every now and then as the night stretched on.

Around ten o' clock, I heard a scream. Startled out of bed, I looked out my window again and saw Mrs. Rhodes banging her fists on the window next door. Besides her, I couldn't see anything else. It looked like all the lights had been turned off. For a second, I thought Mrs. Rhodes had seen me, she seemed to calm, then she was gone. The blinds were lowered once more. No more screaming, no more people. Just the blackness of night and a quiet house.

As the seconds crept by, I realized that my parents hadn't come home. I began to shake with fright, but then a plan began forming in my mind. Arming myself with a steak knife and my flashlight, I stepped into the darkened street.

The door was locked. I tried peering through the windows but the blinds were still drawn. Taking matters into my own hands, I threw my heavy flashlight at the living room window. The sound of shattering glass screeched into the silent night, but if anyone heard it no one responded.

It took me a minute to retrieve my flashlight, but when I did, I noticed that the handle was sticky with something. Turning on the light, I saw why. Blood was everywhere: in crusty pools on the floor, in smeared handprints on the walls. I swayed unsteadily on my feet at the sight of a fresh-looking trail leading deeper into the house. I should have left then.

The trail led to the basement steps. A light was on below.

I don't remember what happened next, but I do remember waking up in the police station with a blanket draped over me. Part of me remembers what happened. Every night, I dream of a terrible creature without skin, gorging itself on the flesh of my parents in that basement, and every morning I try to forget.

No one ever heard from Josiah again, but for some reason I think he still lives on Greene Street, waiting to shake up the world.