As a child, I dreamed of a simple desire that most people take for granted - the ability to walk. Confined to a wheelchair, summertime posed a unique challenge for me. Watching other kids play outside and run around always left me yearning for the exhilaration of going for a long walk or the speed of racing from first to second base. My mother did her best to comfort me, but I knew she couldn’t fully comprehend the loss of leg movement. She used to tell me that God made me this way, but those words never offered any comfort. I’ve always wondered if my condition was inherited from my father’s side of the family.
My father passed away during World War II before I was born, leaving me with an intense longing to meet him. When I imagine him in my mind, he’s a brave soldier fighting courageously on the battlefield, holding a cigar in his mouth and eagerly anticipating the opening of the front door of the Higgins Boat as he clutches his gun. In my vision, he charges into the shallow waters, running towards enemy fire with a determined face as he returns fire and liberates Eastern Europe from German occupation. However, the reality is that my father never got the chance to see actual combat, and according to my mother’s account, he passed away due to a tragic training accident.
Growing up in Kingston, Pennsylvania, my little hometown had always held a special place in my heart. Our charming old-style farmhouse welcomed us with each step up the creaking porch, and inside, the house overflowed with countless memories. While the porch was spacious, complete with a comfortable chair in the far right corner and a cozy two-person swing on the other end, one of the five windows was boarded up, serving as a testament to the memories of little Timmy’s home run through the glass decades ago. Each entrance through the front door was greeted by the familiar squeak that we found comfort in as a unique little “alarm system” that marked our comings and goings.
However, beneath the facade of our small, peaceful town still lurks a spine-chilling and haunting folklore. As my mother told me, forty years ago, when the street lights were first installed, parents used to warn their children to play only until the lights came on. But one fateful night, my mother’s neighbor Jerome was playing under a dim street light when he suddenly collapsed and died. According to his twin brother Gerard, the street light flickered and its warm yellow hue turned into an unnaturally cold blue just moments before Jerome’s collapse. Although Gerard wasn’t directly under the blue light, he knew something was gruesomely wrong. Horrified and panicked, he quickly ran back home to get their mother, but when they got back, Jerome’s lifeless body and the blue light were gone without a trace. Despite the thorough search that followed, no trace of Jerome was ever located, and the case ultimately went cold.
Over the next forty years, the unsettling incident would repeat itself 21 more times, with every account being eerily identical. At first, I dismissed it as nothing but an urban legend intended to scare young ones into coming inside before it got too dark. However, my skepticism was soon shattered when a flicker of a blue light outside my house caught my attention.
In that split second, I saw something that chilled me to the core - all 21 of the missing children were there, playing under the same blue light. Their faces were filled with happiness and an equal measure of sadness as they kicked around a deflated ball. For a fleeting moment, it felt like they were calling out to me to join them. The resemblance to their missing posters was uncanny, and it was apparent that this folklore was far more than a mere scary story. Since then, the blue light and the missing children have become a permanent fixture on my mind.
Another summer had come and gone, and this year, most of my time was spent researching the missing children. Although much of their information had been lost over time, I managed to track down their medical records, which revealed that many of them had some form of disability, whether it was intellectual, physical, sensory, or mental. Unfortunately, my attempts to gather information from the parents were met with skepticism, perhaps because I was a 14-year-old kid in a wheelchair talking about ghosts.
Despite the roadblocks, I remained persistent in my efforts, driven by the need to uncover the truth behind the eerie folklore that had been haunting our town for decades. The more I delved into the mystery, the more apparent it became that there was more to this story than met the eye. As I dug deeper, I discovered a trail of clues and evidence that hinted at a sinister origin story.
The origins of the blue light are traced back to a tale from Iceland. According to legend, a kind old man took in unwanted children, offering them warmth, care, and affection. However, the town’s malicious gossip painted him as a demon who was using the children to summon the devil, and as a result: one fateful night, an angry, bloodthirsty mob gathered outside the home of the old man and his innocent children, demanding that he and the children answer for their sins. Out of fear for their lives, the man stepped outside, attempting to reason with the angry crowd, but as soon as he appeared, he was savagely beaten and his lifeless body was hang from a tree. Meanwhile, the helpless children were left inside, unguarded, as the angry mob lit their home on fire. the flames consumed everything in their path, including the children’s hopes and dreams. As the fire illuminated the sky with an eery blue light, the townsfolk watched in glee as the family’s home burned to the ground. From that point on, rumors of a glowing blue light appearing and taking children from the town began. The incident left the townspeople feeling a deep sense of regret, fear, and despair.
As I delved deeper into my research, my mind twisted with countless unanswered questions, each one more chilling than the last. Driven by an insatiable desire for knowledge, I made the bold decision to approach the children. Armed with a purchased ball, I waited eagerly on the verge of the streetlight, my heart pounding with anticipation. It was then that I spotted the young boy, bathed in the cold glow of the blue light. His hair was darkness itself, his eyes white and hollow, and his clothes stained with the dust of the coal mines.
The thrill of excitement that I felt at finally meeting one of these mysterious children was tinged with a sickening sense of fear, but I pressed on. With a trembling hand, I offered the boy the ball, and to my relief, he caught it. But as we began to make small talk, he vanished before my very eyes, as if swallowed up by the shadows themselves.
Despite my fear, I returned the next night, my curiosity driving me forward. This time, a younger child appeared, eyes the same milky white as the one before. He spoke with a strange passion, his every word sending icy shivers down my spine. This boy, who called himself Eric, spoke of the blue light as a haven for the forgotten and abandoned. It was a sanctuary where lost children could find solace, but as he promised me everything my heart could desire, a sinister voice inside me warned that nothing good awaited me in that eerie realm.