The Polite Town

Ida Smith had been against the move from the start. Leaving the life she loved in Birmingham to settle in this backwater village felt like a betrayal by her own family. They'd told her it was temporary, that they needed to recover financially, and that this quiet town, with its small houses and polite neighbors, would be the perfect place to start over. But Ida couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong here—something nobody would talk about.

This town sat by a vast body of water, almost like a sea but too small to be named. The villagers were unusually cautious and polite, always whispering strange warnings to their children: "If you ever hear a voice calling you at night, don't answer. And always be respectful to strangers." When she asked why, they'd only give a forced smile and change the subject. Over time, Ida learned the town's unspoken rule: strangers could be dangerous. Sometimes, strangers weren't strangers at all—they were visitors from an old, submerged town rumored to lie just beneath the waves, only surfacing when the moon was right.

For the most part, though, nothing strange had happened in the months since her family arrived, and her resentment had settled into dull disdain. But all that changed one evening when her father sent her to fetch a carton of pineapple juice he'd forgotten at the local store. Grumbling, Ida took her dad's old 2003 truck and drove down the narrow, dimly lit streets, cursing under her breath. She had just reached the intersection near the store when a figure appeared out of nowhere, darting into the road. She slammed on the brakes, but too late—the impact was inevitable.

The figure flew over the hood, landing with a sickening thud. Heart hammering, Ida scrambled out to see if they were okay. As she approached, she realized it was a girl, barely older than her, drenched in mud, with long, wet hair obscuring her face. Her clothes looked worn, as if she'd been lost and wandering through the mud for days. Ida knelt down, breathless, reaching out. "Are you alright? I didn't see you—"

The girl said nothing, her head hanging low, hair veiling her face like a shadow. Just as Ida reached out to touch her shoulder, the girl jerked upright, her face still hidden, and pulled away. Without a single word, she bolted down the road, vanishing into the darkness.

"Wait!" Ida called after her, "I'll pay for any hospital bills!"

But there was no response. The girl simply disappeared into the night, leaving Ida standing in the road, shaken and confused. Trying to steady her breath, Ida headed to the store. Tom, a local teen who had taken a noticeable liking to her, was working the counter. Noticing her pale face, he insisted on helping her with the carton, and they walked back to her truck together. As Ida unlocked the door, her heart stopped.

Sitting in the back seat was the girl. But this time, she wasn't alone.

Around her, figures loomed, each stranger and more haunting than the last. Their faces were smooth, blank, with no eyes, no mouths, as if they wore masks fashioned from darkness itself. The girl lifted a mud-stained hand and pointed directly at Ida, her lips curling into an unnatural, twisted grin.

Tom's eyes widened, his face ashen. Without a word, he dropped the carton and bolted back to the store, leaving Ida rooted in terror, unable to move. Her senses screamed at her to run, to escape, but her legs felt locked in place. With every ounce of willpower, she broke free from her fear and ran to the truck, slamming the door and speeding all the way home.

When she finally burst through the front door, her breaths came in ragged gasps. Her family turned to look at her, startled, but Ida was beyond caring how she looked.

"Dad!" she cried. "There's… there's someone following me! This girl—and all these people without faces—they were in the truck! They followed me from the store!"

Her dad's face darkened, and he sighed, shaking his head. "Ida, enough of this nonsense. Just because you hate this place doesn't mean you get to make up ghost stories. Is this your way of trying to convince us to move back to Birmingham?"

"No! You have to believe me, please!" she pleaded, looking desperately at her mother and siblings. But they only exchanged glances, sharing a silent skepticism. Her mother placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Ida, honey, maybe you're just tired. It's late, and this town can play tricks on you. Try to get some rest."

Furious and defeated, Ida stormed up to her room, slamming the door shut. Tears of frustration stung her eyes as she sat on her bed, replaying the horrifying events in her mind. Why wouldn't they believe me? She paced the room, trying to convince herself it was just her imagination, that maybe her mind was playing tricks on her.

But then, an odd sensation prickled her skin—a cold, crawling feeling that drew her gaze to the window. Her heart stopped.

Pressed against the glass was the girl's face, half-hidden beneath wet strands of hair. Only this time, Ida could see her eyes, wide and staring, unblinking, with a hollow darkness that seemed to stretch beyond this world. And around her, more faces appeared—pale, distorted, blank. They pressed in closer, smudging the glass, as if trying to push through.

Ida stumbled back, her heart hammering wildly as their faces pressed against her window, their empty eyes fixated on her. She could hear faint whispers now, like murmurs from the depths, calling her name, their cold voices echoing from beyond the grave.

She backed up against her door, a scream rising in her throat. The shadows beyond the glass multiplied, closing in on her, and with every passing second, the whispers grew louder, so did her scream.