"The Forgotten" by Ricardo D. Rebelo

The Forgotten 

by Ricardo D. Rebelo 

“You don’t want to be found frozen in your sleeping bag come morning,” I told every new face at the camp.

November is the first freeze. This time of year, out here in the sticks, you start thinking real hard about what to do between now and April. Every year, I have a plan. Plans for winter hibernation. The weird thing about this country is, the less people can afford a place to live, the more places get built that no one can afford.

That’s where I like to stay. Empty McMansions. Empty condos. Empty subdivisions. Places left behind. Never lived in. They have an energy to them. Like babies waiting to meet their parents. No memories to give. No deaths to grieve. No holidays or celebrations. Just the blank, paint-fresh walls staring back at you.

I had heard about a new build on Third Street. Packed my kit and hit the road one evening, late.

Perfect. The place was mostly finished. Inside done. Outside wrapped in Tyvek. I circled the block, scoped out the bulkhead leading to the basement. Picked the lock. Minutes later, I was in, acclimating to the darkness. In and out, like a wraith in the silent house.

White primer walls. Hardwood floors sheathed in paper. Generic. Beautiful. 

Found a cozy nook upstairs. Probably the master bedroom. It had an ensuite. The water worked. Showered. Peeed. Toileted. Luxury most people take for granted. To me, that’s heaven. 

Fed and clean on cold beans, I crawled in to sleep.

Knock at the front door. 

The cold crawled up my spine. Security patrol? Did I leave something open? Light on? Door unlocked? No. I’m meticulous. I stayed perfectly still, hoping whoever it was would go away.

Minutes later, I drifted back to sleep. 

Only this time, I was woken not by sound, but by cold.

Listen—I’m not a stranger to cold. I’m homeless in New England. Cold is an old friend. But this? No. This was different. This cut through. Skin. Bone. Soul. My breath was fogging out like a smoke machine. The windows had frosted over. 

Footsteps. Coming up the stairs. 

I froze. Could be a cop. A night in jail sounded heavenly at that moment.

Crept. Toward the staircase. 

No one. No one at all. 

Was this all in my mind? Was it time to move on? Was I just so damn cold that the idea of moving sounded wonderful? I turned to head back for my rucksack—

—and froze. 

In the windows. 

Faces had formed in the frost. Faces just … watching. 

I pissed myself. And it froze on me. 

Rolled to run—and ran into something. I staggered back. Reached out. Nothing there. But I must have hit something. Or someone. 

I sighed. And my breath hit the invisible being in front of me, fogging up his face, revealing the features of an old man. Frost forming a death mask across his cheeks.

“Why did they build this?” he said. “Why have they desecrated us?” 

I couldn’t speak. But I knew that face. 

“Gus?” I said. “Gus, is that you?” 

No. No. No. It couldn’t be. Gus died in a fire last year. Him and three others. Shared wine. Shared cold nights. Kept each other alive. 

“I did nothing,” I said. “I’m just a bum.” 

Three more shadows sifted through the frosted windowpanes, phased into the interior. Tattered clothes. Hollow eyes. Translucent, like ice statues. 

“This is our place,” one woman said. “This is our land. This is our purgatory.” 

“You can have it,” I said. 

I looked back at Gus. He still did not recognize me. Or maybe whatever he’d become could not remember.

“I’m sorry,” I said. I meant it. 

Gus reached out. Touched my cheek. 

His fingers leeched me of all warmth. All hope. Like every iota of heat in my body had been siphoned off and pulled into him. I went down. Nerves screaming. Eyes going dark. 

Was this it? Was I being whisked away to this land of the forgotten?

Then— 

“He is one of us,” the woman said. “He is one of the forgotten.” 

Gus released me. 

He remembered me. 

“I…I’m sorry, Gus,” I said. “I should have stayed.” 

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “Go. Now.” 

I ran. 

I don’t even recall my feet hitting the stairs. The entire house rumbled as I bolted. Behind me, I heard the woman’s voice. 

“This place shall not stand.” 

I barreled out the front door, sprinted halfway down the block, then looked back.

The upstairs window was aglow. Orange and flickering behind the frosted panes. 

Two days later, the house was a shell of ash. A tomb, like the one before it. 

Guess that’s what happens to the forgotten. 

We haunt what no one else wants to remember.