I live in a small town that has its charm. It’s quiet, peaceful, and everyone knows everyone. Most of the days here are just like any other, except for Tuesdays—trash day—a day we all dread.
It started a few years ago, out of nowhere. Every Tuesday, just as the first light of dawn peeked over the horizon, things in our town went abnormal. No one knew why or how.
The garbage truck would roll into town, the first vehicle to disturb the stillness of a Tuesday morning. PJ, our old, jolly garbage man, would hop out of the truck as usual. But it was his demeanor after that, which sent chills down our spines.
PJ, known for his friendly banter and joyful laughter, would suddenly turn silent and robotic. His eyes, usually warm, twinkled with a cold metallic glint. All normalcy washed away. His friendly chit-chat replaced with eerie silence. He’d methodically gather the trash, his movements calculated and mechanical.
Once he’d gone, the town would slowly start coming back to life. But, not as before. The houses seemed colder, the roads more desolate. The air had a disconcerting stench, not the usual smell of garbage but something else, something more distressing.
By afternoon, people started getting sick. Headaches, nausea, and a deep-seated fear that no one could explain. No one ever died, but this sudden sickness had become a weekly ordeal, tying our bodies and souls to an inexplicable dread every Tuesday.
Our pets reacted bizarrely too. Dogs would whimper and hide under beds, cats would hiss at nothing, birds would squawk relentlessly. Even the flora seemed to be affected, with trees and shrubs appearing visibly wilted as the day came to an end.
Honestly, we tried everything. The police patrolled with PJ for one Tuesday but reported nothing unusual, apart from the unease and sickness they felt later. The Environmental department found no hazardous waste or radioactive material in our garbage that could explain the occurrences.
The town’s council brought in garbage men from other areas, but as soon as they entered our town, they behaved just like PJ. Silent, cold, mechanical.
We tried confronting PJ, pleading with him to reveal if there was something he was doing differently on Tuesdays. His usual jovial self outside of the dreaded day, he claimed ignorance — “It’s just another work day for me, folks. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.”
Finally, in desperation, we decided to stop garbage pickup completely. But the next Tuesday, the garbage truck entered our town on its own, seemingly driving itself. PJ was missing, though. We found him later in his home, just as terrified as the rest of us.
Now, we await every Tuesday with a silent prayer, hoping that this week things will be different. But the morning breaks, and with it comes the rumble of the garbage truck, casting its grim shadow over our existence.
That’s our town’s trash day. Stripped of supernatural elements, the horror remains raw and real. No evil spirits, no phantoms, just an inexplicable phenomenon tied to the most mundane of tasks - taking out the trash.