Everyone always talks about the black eyed children, but people rarely talk about the green eyed kids. Don’t miss understand me. When I say green, I don’t mean simply their iris bares hues of hazel, sea foam or jade. No their eyes possess no natural greenish tint. You see, they have these eyes, unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. They shine luminous green, like fireflies, that’s how my grandpa described them in all his stories.
When ever they’d appear, you see them first, those funny glowing orbs, moving in the darkness of night. Like two fireflies dancing a parallel dance, side by side. Only those lights, they aren’t bugs and the dance is not for them but for you and I. To lure us closer, draw us further into the dark, away from our friends, from the safety of our homes and beds. That’s what grandpa used to say, in his old smokers croak.
I didn’t believe him of course. Like all children, I thought I knew it all, and he was simply trying to stoke some primitive fear in me, to get me to come home before dark, not stay up to late and do as I was told. But that all changed when he told me what they did to him.
So let me cast you back to my childhood years.
….
I was about to storm out after an argument, when he forbade me from leaving. He declared it wasn’t safe for me to be going out, not at the late hour that it was. When I pressed him on what he meant, he seemed hesitant to response fully and truthfully. Instead he just kept stating it was too late. But when I pulled open the door, he shouted something that I will never forget.
“Don’t you go out there, those things are out there.” he wheezed, his voice gravelly and grave in tone.
I slowly closed the door and turned to face him, my worried eyes wordlessly pulling the next response from him. With a deep sigh, he said it was time. Time for what I wondered, time to grow up I had imagined, time for me to get out from under him, to escape a life shackled to a kitchen sink or vacuum cleaner. It wasn’t time for those things, it was time for me to know.
Looking around himself, as if worried someone might catch him talking about things he shouldn’t, he aimed a finger toward me, coiling it up and gesturing me closer. Obligingly I did as my grandfather wished and edged closer and closer, so that his whispering voice might find my ears.
“Those things, those green eyed kids will be out there.” he warned, his voice shaking as though throttled by anxiety.
“There’s no such thing!” I snapped. I told him his stories didn’t scare me anymore. That he was full of it and I knew better. I didn’t believe in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy or made up green eyed Boogeymen. And though I’m not proud to admit, I told him he was just an old drunk, who didn’t want to be left alone.
He didn’t raise his voice, I think that was the worst part. There wasn’t a shred of anger in his face, not even frustration. No, instead of roaring back at me, he just shambled his way back to the comfort of his rat bitten arm chair and cracked open another can. With a swig from the can and a quick puff on his cigarette, he spoke.
“Lad, I’ve got something to show you. And if you see it and you still want to leave, then you can go.” grandpa promised.
I tried to mask my confusion and the slight worry building within me, with a cocky response.
“Fine then.” I snarkily spoke.
Once I was sat in front of him, he took a deep breath in and then another gulp of his beer. His eyes weren’t on me, they seemed unable to look at me as he spoke, but I could see beneath the flickering flames from the fireplace, they were swimming with genuine anxiety.
“I’m not lying to you lad…” grandpa began, only to paused, his lip quivering with worry.
“Grandpa?” I spoke, attempting to snap him out of his pause.
“As I said lad. I ain’t lying to you. I’ve got the proof right here.” he said, lifting his jumper to reveal a sickled scar. Curving upward from navel, to nipple, it ran up the length of his torso, starting off thick and shimmery, narrowing the higher the silver trail got. It was truly a terrible sight, and a wound that undoubtedly was horrific.
There was a moment of silence between us. My voice which at that time, rarely struggled to make itself heard, had been stolen from me. The moment I saw that nasty scar carved upon my grandpa’s body, I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. I guess my grandpa saw I was startled and so covered his old wound up once more and spoke.
“This, this is nothing compared to what they did to little Benny Palmer.” my grandpa declared, before drawing in another puff of smoke from his cigarette.
Still I had no voice. A smothering atmosphere haunted the spaces between our conversations and I didn’t know what to say, mostly because after seeing that scar, what was once worry, had turned to fear. A dreadful fear which clung to me with ever tightening coils. I knew if I didn’t say something soon, I’d loose the ability all together. So I summoned up the courage and asked him.
“So what did happen to little Benny Palmer?” I questioned. I stumbled over each word with a growing dread, barely managing to speak.
I don’t know why asked, I should have known it would bring no comfort, but curiosity has always been mankind’s greatest flaw. We never cease to trundle towards harm and self destruction in the pursuit of knowledge, whys and what ifs. Perhaps I was just hoping that knowing would lessen the frightful images and scenes my mind had begun to conjure within the dark spaces.
“When I was around your age, there was this lad, Benny Palmer. Folk used to say he was simple, less kind folk used to say crueler things and a few actively made that poor boys life hell. He didn’t have many friends. But little Benny found a sort of peace away from the nastiness of the world. You see he loved nothing more than to go down to the creek, to catch fireflies at night.” Grandpa wheezed, pausing only for a moment to draw another puff from his cigarette, before continuing. “Folks told him not to, warned him it was dangerous, but every warm summer night, he’d go down to the waters edge to catch those little glowing things. Catching stars he called it.”
A teary tone welled in the old man and I saw a side to my grandfather I had never seen before. He’d always been a bit quirky, but he was the town drunk, the town fool in fact, so quirky was to be expected. However what I saw in those aged eyes, was a truly mournful sense of loss and behind even that, a fearful despair.
“Grandpa, are you alright?” I asked.
“Aye lad, sorry bout that. Where was I. Oh right, little benny.” the old man rambled, before finding his footing within his own story once more. “One night little Benny palmer goes out, jar in hand, as he had done many times before. However this night things take a turn. Hours pass. It’s getting late, his mother gets to worrying. She’s ringing her hands as his father paces around the room, and then some more hours pass. Now the worries really start and they got the sheriff out. He was a friend of theirs you see, so like any friend, he assures them it’ll be fine, that little Benny Palmer will walk through that door at any minute. Except he don’t. He don’t come back at all. Folks were panicking, and pretty soon the whole neighbourhood was up and mobilised. Whole families out searching for him. Even those less kind folk and the ones who made his life miserable, were out. They don’t find him though. Don’t find any trace of him. Save one thing. Only his jar. It was down by river, nestled amongst the reeds, and roots of an old tree. It even still had a couple of glow bugs rattling inside it, but no Benny.”
That smothering atmosphere fell upon us once more, hanging there, choking us both for awhile.
I’m not certain when I decided, whether it was after the reveal of the scar or the story, or whether my reasoning was prompted by the strangely hushed and certain way my grandfather told it. But I had decided to remain with him that night. Any thought I had to abandon him and join my friends on their bike rides in the dark, faded like the dimming of a dying firefly.
We didn’t speak much after the story concluded, my grandfather’s attention had turned back to his favourite thing in the world, booze. And in a matter of hours he had fallen asleep, drunk in front of the television. So with no one else to help, I got him up, and helped carry him towards the stairs. He didn’t like being woken up, and proceeded to fight me every step we took up the stairs. On more than one occasion he thought I was an old poker pal of his and threatened me, slurred some swear words in my direction for my earlier comments, but despite all that, I made sure he got into bed.
“Love you kid.” He spoke, his words dizzily accented, but the meaning behind them was sincere.
“Love you too old man.” I said, before closing the door.
With him turned on his side and tucked up, I went back downstairs. In no time I got to work, tidying up the cans and emptying the ash from the glass tray in which it sat. And only once everything was cleaned up, did I get myself off to bed, but my mind was still rattling with the story he had told me and as I lay there in the spare room, my eyes dared not shut. I lay awake, praying I didn’t meet the same fate as Benny Palmer.
Once daylight peered through the dusty old windows of that spare room, I was off. I did not wait for my hungover grandfather to stir from his pit, I knew he wouldn’t for many hours and I had things to do. Bolting down the streets on my bike, and over the bridge, it didn’t take me long to get home and once I was, I rushed to my mother in the kitchen. She was washing the dishes and didn’t seem interested in talking, but still I recited what grandpa told me and sat at the table, eager to see her reaction. Only when I told my mother about the scar and the story, she laughed it off.
Not exactly the reaction I was expecting. I was sure she would feel the same dread I did. But then from her smirking lips, came her voice and it told me, how he used to tell her the same scary tales, mostly to get her to behave or to stay in a cook him something.
I insisted she was mistaken, these stories were real, grandpa promised me so. Plus how could someone get a scar like that if not from a monster attack. All these things I hurled her way and all of them she brushed aside with logic. My mother, said that the scar was from an accident in which he fell through a glass table, when he was around eighteen and had gotten to drunk. She added that although Benny Palmer was real, and it was tragic, it was a story that didn’t involve supernatural monsters. It was just an all to common tale of a vulnerable boy being snatched by a very human, not inhuman predator. They even jailed someone for it, so she claimed.
Strangely I felt devastated. Seems silly really, to feel disappointed at the notion of monsters not being real, but it was more that my grandpa had lied and worse still that I had believed him. He used my belief, my fear to make me stay with him, whilst he got drunk and fell asleep in front of the television for the umpteenth time.
….
The following Sunday, when I next paid grandpa a visit, I was ready. Now armed with the truth to counter his stupid stories. I didn’t wait long to unleash this new found knowledge upon him. The moment he opened his door, I started. I told him what my mother said. Shouted how he got the injury from falling into a glass table, when he got drunk one night and that none of it was real, not the monstrous green eyed kids or anything else he tried to fill my head with.
He got angry then, more angry then I’d ever seen him before. He grabbed my shoulders, shook me hard and slammed me against the wall of the passageway. So tight was his grip, I actually thought his nails might puncture my skin. Then with his eyes wide, bloodshot and staring starkly into mine, he began to yell.
“No table did this to me boy. They did! I followed them damn lights into the dark and I nearly didn’t come back out of it.” he slurred. “Even now it stings, even now I hear them, laughing as they rip and tear. Why do you think I drink in the first place. Its the only way to get those hellish things to shut up.”
I called him crazy, accused him of always wanting me to stay, to care for him because no one else would. I said some terrible things. And he never did so in kind. Instead he simply turned to me as I walked out the door and said one last time.
“Don’t go out at night, and if you do, if you see those lights, even if you don’t believe me. You run lad, run in the opposite direction. You run like your life depends on it.” he begged, in a deflated and pitiful voice.
“I’m going.” I replied in a coldness I didn’t know I possessed, until that day.
His words didn’t stay me this time, instead I just kept on walking, with his voice calling out from behind me. Over and over he kept shouting.
“Promise me you wont follow them. Promise me!” my grandpa yelled. Sending his voice after me like a pack of rabid dogs, it chased after me, hounded me down the street, but I never turned back.
….
Feeling betrayed and tricked, I didn’t go see my grandfather again, not for some time and by the time I was ready to go back, having missed his old scary stories and the way we’d butt heads over the simplest of things, it was too late. He was hospitalised with pneumonia, and I never got to hear another of his stupid green eyed kids stories. I thought the tales would die with him, but if that was the case, then I would not be here typing this out. So as you might now suspect, I too came to encounter them. Those Green Eyed Kids and like my grandfather before me, I am lucky to be alive.
This is my story.
….
Summer in the 70s was amazing if you were a kid. Ice cream sundaes, swimming in the river, camping out beneath the stars and long hot days that seemed like they’d last forever. Days you didn’t want to end and so you’d stay out as late as you possibly could, stretch out the hours, just to make sure they didn’t end to soon.
One night however, everything changed. Not for the world, not for any other kid in town, just for me. The hazy daydream of those simpler times vanished on this one, most terrible night.
I was riding back from campfire hill, a local spot where teenagers go to have a campfire and tell scary stories. The tradition goes back ages, since the town was founded apparently. Chasing away the ghosts, that’s what they used to call it. Tell a scary story and chase away the ghosts. If only it was that simple.
With the clarity of cut glass, I can still see it all. My skinny awkward teenage body sat atop the bicycle my parents bought me the previous Christmas. I can hear the whirling of my bike tires, smell the trees at either side of me and hear the buzzing street lights which had come on long before I began my way down the hill. With halogen luminescence, they lit up the road ahead as though it were a runway for a plane to take off. The speed I was going, though brisk, it felt like flying. Do you remember that feeling, the wind rushing past you, over you and through your hair as your legs peddled faster and faster. I can still feel the cold night air on my face, remember its soft touch as my tires began down the road, slowing only to whined round the corners and curbs. There was no sign of anyone else following behind me from the group. I presumed they must still all be up there drinking, partying and doing other stuff of course.
The world was not yet awake, it was a time when even angels and stars slept. And I, a lone teenager mounted atop my cycle, felt like the only person in the whole universe. As such I slowed my pace, enjoying the sights of the ghost town. Only stopping, just for a moment, to take in the fresh woodland air and observe the emptiness ahead. A smile appeared on my face as I found myself remembering how earlier that night, I had found the courage to steal a secret kiss behind a tree, with Betty Delaney. No one else knew, just her and I. Our secret, she had said after breaking her lips away from mine. We had spent the night giving each other little knowing glances and smirks over the fire, as the other conjured forth monsters and maniacs in stories.
Yet as my thoughts dallied in the daze of loves young dream, I had lingered a little too long, alone on that road.
I remember noticing it was quiet. Though not in a frightening way, just quiet. Not a sound to suggest anyone was around. It truly must late, I told myself. Swiftly the next thought to enter my head, was I really should get going, but just before I got back to peddling, that calm silence broke. There was movement, the snapping of a dried twig, a rush of silhouettes darting behind the trees to the left of me.
Deer I thought, it had to be. That’s what I told myself. They were common in these parts, I was sure I had simply startled them. However, again it happened. The minute I turned my back and pressed my foot onto the peddles, ready to ride off, there was movement, the crunching of leaves and for a second I swore I heard whispering.
Focusing my eyes towards the treeline, I searched for any sign, any shape, yet I saw nothing.
When I turned away again, I heard it. Unmistakable, childish shushing.
“Ha ha guys, very funny.” I yelled, before peddling off. Still to this day I can’t say if I truly believed it was my friends simply trying to frighten me or whether I was just trying to convince myself it was them, in a foolish attempt to reassure myself that there was no such thing as monsters.
Down the tarmac I peddled, a gentle ride. There was no cars on the road, not a solitary soul out, and the lights were all illuminating everything, so I had little to fear and less to speed away from. That’s what I thought at least, yet when I rounded the corner into Baker Street. Unlike the rest of the town, the streets lights weren’t working for some reason. The scene was certainly a little spooky, but I figured if I just rode hard and fast, I could be through the street without having enough time to worry about what might be in the dark.
My pause for concern was a little justified, three of the six houses on that row were empty, with a fourth one being unoccupied due to it being in the process of reconstruction. The only two with residents were home to old man Wickles who lost his hearing in the war (though which war is anyone’s guess) and the Bell family home, who were currently on vacation. I say vacation, as that’s the official story, but everyone knows they left to go on some retreat after their eldest ran off. With all that in mind, you can understand my hesitation, for if anything was to happen to me, who would hear me scream. I doubt old man Wickles would come to my rescue even if he did hear me call out for help. Despite all my reservations, I also knew that the quickest way to the bridge, and therefore home, was via a short corridor that ran between the end house and the river. With some internal encouragement and silent hyping, I convinced myself I was brave enough to do it.
Yet no sooner had I begun to peddle, I heard something. I couldn’t be sure at first, that it wasn’t just my mind playing tricks, but I could have sworn I heard someone giggling.
Then it came again, the same giggling, girly and light, not sinister and mostly hushed. I looked around as I rode, but couldn’t see a thing. Then it happened again, another giggle, this time followed by someone else shushing them. Again it was childish and light, in no way intentionally frightening, but still it gave me the shivers. Almost as if despite the fact they tried to mask it with whimsy and gentler tones, my brain, my body sensed the true nature of the giggles was anything but.
Rushing through, my eyes were too busy looking for any and all potential threats. That’s how I missed the curb. With a stuttering series of thumps, my tire hit the side-walk at an awkward angle and caused me to go flying head first over my handle bars. Luckily my fall was somewhat cushioned by the soft green grass outside the Bell’s empty house.
“Shush he’ll see us.” a little voice, boyish and young, chirped from the shadows.
“Whose there?” I asked, my eyes looking to the gloomy alley beside me, the one that ran beside the houses. I expected to see some unsavoury type, stumble round the white fence posts that stood between the river and the end of the house, but no such figure emerged.
“Over here.” another small child spoke, this one was like that of a little girl.
Ahead of me was the river, I couldn’t see anything, then they emerged those small green glowing droplets in the sea of darkness. They danced around the tree and the moment they did, all those stories my grandpa told me immediately came crashing back into my mind. I almost couldn’t breathe, I knew I couldn’t move, even though the fall from my bike had not damaged me, I knew my legs would not shift for fear of those glittering things.
Beating drums, drummed in my ears as my heart thundered ever quicker in its cage. I definitely recall thinking I was going to die, if not at the hands of glowing eyed monsters, then of fright, that was until they spoke again.
“We’ve been catching fireflies, do you want to help.” a little girl spoke. I still couldn’t quite see them, until they stepped out from the shade of the tree on the bank. They were small, two of them. Judging from their voices, one was a boy, the other a girl, neither older than ten. But that was all I could make out.
After chastising myself silently, for believing they were monsters and those lights were anything other than plain old fireflies, I got up from the ground and raised my bicycle.
“Oh right, well just be careful. It’s pretty late and you should probably get yourselves off home.” I said, knowing fine well those words were also for me. For despite, telling myself that I was simply letting silly childish fears and ghost stories get the better of me, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that was still growing inside me.
“Could you walk us home.” the boy asked.
Almost immediately I responded. Replying quicker than I probably should have, for I had not even given it a thought.
“No, I can’t I’m sorry.” I stated, sharply and firmly.
I don’t know why but I didn’t like the gleeful way he asked me to walk him home, there was something in his voice, behind the words. Something ominous.
“That’s a shame. Never mind.” he exclaimed.
They just stood there in the dark, beneath the gentle swaying of the tree branches. The glow bugs had vanished, I couldn’t recall when they disappeared for certain. Though a part of me believed it happened the moment those two appeared. Odd for sure, alarming a little, but I was older than them, stronger and I had a bike. These were the things I told myself.
Strange looking back. Why would I need to reassure myself if there was nothing to fear. I know now, that its because there was something else guiding me that night. Something in the air. A feeling, no not a feeling. A tension, an unnatural tension. And it seeped out from them. From those two strange children, playing the dark by the reeds and the roots of the tree.
I felt, even though I couldn’t see them, that their eyes were on me, fixed on me. And I knew, although again they were hidden in shadows, that their faces were smiling. No veil, no matter how black and how obscuring could hide their amusement.
“You run along home then.” the boy sniggered alongside the little girl, who giggled. It was apparent they were not only aware of fear, but appeared to be enjoying the moment of dread they had caused and could barely contain their laughter.
A little disturbed, I got back on my bike began to ride down the riverside path, back home. My heart thumped a little faster with every push of the peddle. Every time my feet felt tired or I went to slow down my pace, I remembered little Benny Palmer down by the water’s edge, and almost immediately I’d peddle faster.
Wind whipped past me, furiously pulling through my long brown hair and it wasn’t long before those odd kids had been blow to the back of my thoughts. Again I told myself to grow up and in my mind beat myself up for almost thinking my grandpa’s tales were all true. Boogeymen are just a tool, a parents greatest tool to get us to behave, there were no such things as monsters, I told myself over and over like mantra. A protective chant to ward off the nightmares and the scary intrusive thoughts that chased after me.
Before I knew it, I was almost there, just little ways from home. All I had to do was cross a small bridge and I was there.
Feeling safer, I slowly made my way across the bridge, easing my pace with each passing moment. The sound of running water beneath me easing my worries and returning me to how I felt when I came down from campfire hill. Once more I began to take in the tranquil sights, hoping they may soften the beating in my chest.
As I was crossing though, I stopped, my gaze having glimpsed some more fireflies. They buzzed up from below the bridge and through the reeds. They were everywhere, a whole swarm, elegantly gliding the riverbanks, flying through the air almost entirely invisible save for the glow at the end of their bodies. Truly fantastic display of light, one that was almost hypnotic. It certainly held my focus. My eyes followed some as they climbed over the bridge and danced in the dark ahead.
I hadn’t even noticed that the streetlamps nearby had seemingly went out. I should have wondered when that happened, but my focus was still on those small green lights. As if summoned by the situation, I heard my my grandpa’s words in my head
If you see those things, you run in the opposite direction.
Almost instantly my mind snapped back into my body and I realised some of those dazzling lights, weren’t moving like the others, some of the pairs, seemed to move in perfect synchronicity, side by side, parallel. Almost as if they were eyes, I thought. Panic pressed into my chest, as one pair floated closer, with another two pairs following close behind them and another three lingering in the background.
All of them, all of those twinkling emeralds, came to a perfect stop.
They weren’t fireflies at all.
“Hey Mr, would you walk us home.” a small girl spoke. It was the same girl from before, how did she get here so quick, I wondered.
Though they had at first been shrouded by the darkness at the end of the bridge, the lamp post on the bridge, was shining slightly on them. I could see her now.
Pale greyish, the shade of black and white television, that was the tone of her skin and clothing. Her eyes, each of them darkened, haunted pits, with a blackness illuminated only by the tiniest glimmers of green light. Her clothes were made of odd materials and designed in frilly styles that would seem to all normal people to be old fashioned, and almost doll like. The two behind her, were a pair of boys, both coloured in shades of grey and apparelled in the same old timey, out of place clothing. Neither of them looked any older than ten or eleven. It was as if they had jumped straight out of a black and white western, save for those eyes, which despite being predominantly black, held tiny green lights within them. Lights which they seemingly could make larger and brighter at will, for they had certainly shrunk and hidden themselves when I first encountered them.
The other three behind them did not step forward, so their forms remained hidden, but I knew by the placement of their glowing eyes, that they were taller than the other children in front.
“Hey want to come catch some fireflies.” one of the boys said, his lips black and curling into a smile.
“No.” I stumbled, my voice almost failing to emerge. Even without their appearance, I could feel the threatening hiss within his voice.
“Come on, we know this really neat spot. Beneath the bridge, in the dark” the grey boy smirked. With each word that he spoke, a thick inky black substance, spat and dribbled out from between his lips. “There’s other stuff down there too, all kinds of neat things. We can show you if you like.”
This time I didn’t reply, I just shook my head, eyes wide with fear and ready to cry. My grandpa was right, I should have listened I thought. With dread pinning me, I thought I might die, but then something pushed my feet and I found the peddles.
I readied myself to ride away, but he spoke again.
“If you wont come, maybe we will just have to drag you down there ourselves.” he declared, as he grinned. This time, his smile and all their smiles, stretched far and wide, ear to ear. Displaying their grisly gums, and their three rowed maws, stuffed with diseased narrow fangs. They clasped countless cavity riddled corn coloured fangs close together. Each tooth, tightly packed into a garish grin, one that greedily hungered for me.
Wild like beasts, they rushed. Their eyes gleaming in the dark like wicked gemstones. My feet spun the peddles like never before, my hands firmly wrapped to the handle bars as tires tore through the night. Yet even still they were all around me, a swarm of grey shadows and green lights, whose glowing trails streamed off at great speeds. All the time, they heckled and giggled, as though they were a pack of monstrous hyena hungry for my skin and bones.
They bit the air and laughed at my screams and yells for help, that went unanswered. All around me they came, clawing, rasping and gnashing, jetting inky saliva across my face as I raced between their limbs and faces.
Pain swiped across my arm, and I thought for a second I might loose my balance and come crashing down to the ground like some helpless gazelle. Something was with me though, luck or perhaps my grandpa I don’t know. It had been with me all night, helping me, pushing me. And though I don’t know what force aided me, I know it is the thing that gave me the strength to keep on riding and stay true to my course. The attack did not deter my feet, nor cause me to swerve. I continued to pound forward, my feet never missing the peddles, until I was at the foot of my house. I don’t know when they stopped following me, but by the time my bike mounted the porch steps and the front light came on, they were gone from all sides of me.
Not that I stopped to check, for the minute I was at the edge of my only sanctuary, I threw the door open and slammed it shut behind me. Locked and bolted, the door was secure but still I did not feel entirely safe. For a while I sat there, pressing hard against the door out of the fear they might yet continue the hunt and break it down to get to me. But to my infinite relief they did no such thing. I don’t know why they didn’t, maybe like vampires they cant enter uninvited.
And I know you may doubt me. I know most people would question their sanity, question everything, but I didn’t need to. For you see, they left me with a reminder. A memento, which declared that they were most definitely not just an old drunks scary story. For on my arm, was a deep curved slash. from wrist to elbow. The narrowing pattern of which, I had seen before. Though mine was not nearly as long, nor deep, the cut was sickled, and identical to the one that scarred my grandfather’s torso.
….
Now I tell my grand children stories, the same kind as the ones my grandpa told me. And though I never encountered the Green Eyed Children again, I often think about them. On nights, when I’m alone. When all the lights go out. I wonder if they are still out there, playing in the shadows, giggling in the dark. Sometimes I even sight of the occasional firefly or two, from out my bedroom window, and wonder if its them. If they are still out there. I hope you never find out.