The Shed

The Shed

One day, little Sarah's mummy called little Timmy's mummy on the telephone, and invited little Timmy over to her house. Little Sarah was happy about this, because she was bored, and wanted to someone to play with.

They began to play.

They played in the dirt, they played in the grass. Little Sarah showed little Timmy her toys. Timmy told her about the Really Big Moth he had seen the other day. Sarah listened happily.

They wrestled and fought and threw dirt at each other. And then little Sarah's mummy called for them to come inside for lunch. They ate their sandwiches and drank their juice as quickly as they could, and then they raced back outside to play in the backyard again.

Little Timmy had thought of a new game to play. He told Sarah to shut her eyes, and hurried off the old shed, standing forlornly in the darkest corner of the yard. Giggling, Timmy opened the door of the shed, paused for a moment, and then stepped into the dark interior.

Five minutes later, Sarah asked her mummy where Timmy had gone. The pair of them searched the house first, and then the yard. Sarah's mummy approached the shed and opened the door. It was empty. Little Sarah began to cry.

They called the police.

But little Timmy Spate was never seen again.

And then Timmy's mummy hanged herself.

"I had the dream again."

"You're a fucking nut."

"It keeps happening. Every night. Like clockwork."

"Maybe you should go see a psychiatrist."

Adam sighed loudly. His friends were being assholes again.

"I think it might mean something," he said, at last.

"Yeah. That you're a fucking nut," repeated Miles, lying lazily on the brick wall, his arms behind his head.

"I'm serious, though. Freud had all sorts of theories about dreams and shit. If you're having the same one, every night, it's probably unhealthy or some shit. You know." This contribution came from Anderson, who was sitting next to Adam, leaning against the wall.

"I'm sure it means something," continued Adam after a thoughtful silence, "that same shed. Always the same. And an inexplicable feeling of dread."

Anderson laughed.

"That sounds like the blurb on the back of a book," he said, grinning. Miles cuffed him over the head with his arm. Anderson never shut up about his books.

"What do you think it means?" Anderson asked, finally. He seemed interested, now. Miles rolled his eyes. Talk about girls or sports or something and Anderson would stare blankly. Mention that you've been having a recurring dream about a creepy shed, and he'll ask so many questions you'd wish he'd trip and smack his head on the pavement.

"I have no idea," replied Adam, in reply to the question, "it's just a shed. And there's something bad about it."
"Freud was big on, like, metaphors and symbols and stuff," continued Anderson, frowning slightly, "any idea what a bad shed is supposed to symbolize?" Miles was ignoring the conversation, resolutely staring at the clouds above.

"What the hell could a shed mean?" Adam asked, quietly.

"I dunno. If it's bad, it probably represents your fears. Or something. Have you been dreading anything lately?"

Adam shook his head.

"Maybe you're supposed to find this shed," Miles finally mumbled.
There was a thoughtful silence.

"Yeah," said Adam, standing up.

"Yeah, maybe I should."

"What, now?" asked Anderson incredulously. Miles hopped off the wall.

"I ain't got anything better to do."
"You? I thought you didn't believe in prophetic dreams and shit," Anderson pointed out. Miles sighed loudly.

"Look, just because I haven't read Lord of the Rings twenty times doesn't mean I've never heard of supernatural shit before. I say we pursue this. Maybe it's just something Adam has gotta do. Maybe if we look for this shed, Adam will stop having his dream. Even if there isn't a shed, and it's all just made up. Maybe the simple fact that we're looking will be enough."

Anderson was silent for a moment. His two friends were looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. They did things together. He shrugged.

"Why not? Maybe we'll find a treasure or a dead body or something," he finally said.

For a moment, Adam wondered what the hell they were doing. But then, he thought, we've got nothing else to do. I've gotta mow tomorrow, and the day after, but today I've got nothing to do. Besides, he thought. He wanted to know what was in the shed.

They set off. Their destination? They didn't know. But they were already heading there.

"So."

"So what?"
"So what the hell do we do now?" asked Anderson, annoyed, as they walked.

Miles smirked at him.

"You tell us," he said, "you're the one who reads about this sort of shit."

"It's not like there are exact details on how to track down a shed from some recurring nightmares in every fantasy book. I have no idea what the hell we're supposed to be doing."

"It's a bad shed. Something bad happened there," said Adam.

There was a pause.

"Well, there's your trail right there," said Miles.

Another pause.

"We check the news for anything bad that happened near a shed in the last…year or so," Miles continued, "and I'm assuming this shed is somewhere in this town, right. It's not, like, halfway around the world. Right?" he asked, glancing towards Adam. Adam nodded.

"Define 'something bad'. What, are we talking rape, murder? Embezzlement? Some dude making a bomb in his shed? A horrible accident?" asked Anderson, skeptically.

"Can't be too much bad shit happening around here. We'd have heard about it, right?" answered Miles, again looking questioningly at Adam, who seemed to be thinking deeply.

"We'll know when we find it."

They dropped past the Shop to pick up a round of cokes, and then they wandered over to Miles' house, which was closest. He also had the fastest internet.

"Are your parents home?" Miles shook his head. His parents were rarely home. He unlocked the front door and the trio trudged into the unnaturally silent house. It was a big place, and every room was filled with junk. Old mattresses, boxes of books, broken televisions, everything heaped together in the sides of the rooms, leaving a clear path that lead through the house. The place was so big, but you could tell that only a small part of it was actually being actively used for something other than storage. Entire rooms were blocked off by stacks of random crap. The kitchen was relatively clear of clutter, although the sink was filled with pots and plates, and the living room was filled with chairs and couches, each covered in books and old newspapers.

Miles lead them through the stacks and down some steep stairs into his horribly messy room that smelt abominable. Protesting that he couldn't smell anything, he reluctantly – and with some difficulty – pushed one of his windows open. Finally, he sat down on a rickety looking chair and booted up his surprisingly new computer.

Within a few seconds, they were on Google.

"What should I search?" Miles asked, resting back on his swivel chair. Adam seemed unsure.

"Try…'Tragedy' or 'Death'." Anderson suggested.

Miles searched for anything like that in their immediate area, but found nothing relevant.

"Throw 'news' or 'newspaper' or something in there," said Adam, "it's news articles we'll be looking for, probably."

Miles tried, but again found nothing.

"Should I try some of the news sites?" he finally asked.

"No," said Anderson, shaking his head, "we're not doing this thoroughly. Try rape or murder or…or…pedophile…or…uh…disaster or accident, you know, stuff like that."

Again nothing.

All three stared at the screen for a moment, thinking hard. Adam had closed his eyes, and was humming slightly. Miles seemed slightly bored, as though this adventure was turning out to be less interesting than he had thought it would be.

"Try 'suicide'," suggested Anderson, with a shrug. Adam's eyes snapped open. Miles tried it.

All three eyes scanned the result. Anderson was the quickest reader.

"Well, there's this…" he said, pointing at one of the hits. Miles clicked on it. It was a newspaper article. A picture, to the side, portrayed a middle-aged woman, looking tiredly at the camera. The title of the piece read 'Woman commits suicide after loss of son'.

"This is it," said Adam, with certainty.

"Last Tuesday, Miss Georgina Spate (46) hanged herself in her house in the small town of New Brasco. She was discovered by one of her neighbors, who had come to check up on Miss Spate.

'We were very concerned about her health ever since she lost her little Timmy,' says one of the neighbors. No suicide note has been found, but the neighbors have confirmed that the woman had been severely depressed ever since her 7 year old son, Timmy, had mysteriously disappeared some weeks before. The local authorities seem to…"

Anderson stopped reading aloud and silently skimmed over the rest of the article.

"There's not much else," he finally said.

"According to the date of the newspaper, she died about…3 months ago," said Miles, his face blank. He threw a glance at Adam.

"This has to be it," said Adam quietly.

"Are you sure?" Anderson asked, after a lengthy silence.

"Yeah. The shed…it's probably at her house. Maybe she hanged herself in it." Adam's friends regarded him strangely.

"What…what do we do?" Anderson asked, finally.

"We could…well, I guess we could have a look at her house," said Miles, "just a look. To see if she has a shed in her backyard, or something."

Anderson seemed worried.

"What if she did hang herself in a shed? Then what?" The other two didn't reply.

"Besides," Anderson added, almost relieved, "we don't know where she lives. Lived."

"Well…if it's only been three months, they mightn't have sold the house yet," began Miles, slowly, "especially if she hanged herself in it. Lowers the marketability of it all."

"What are you getting at? That her house is empty?" Adam asked, interested.

"Well, I can check the internet directories," said Miles, "the house is probably still listed under her name. Or her husband's name."
"She wasn't married. It says 'Miss Spate'."

Miles checked.

"This is insane," hissed Anderson, gripping Miles' arm.

"We have to make sure," said Adam.

"What if there's someone in there?" Anderson hissed, more desperately. It was dark. The best time for this type of thing, they had all agreed.
"The neighbor seemed pretty sure that it was empty," replied Adam, staring at the abandoned house. They had asked one of the neighbors about the house, under the pretence that they had accidentally knocked out a window with a ball and no one seemed to be home when they had tried to explain to the owner of the house.

"Maybe she was wrong!" exclaimed Anderson, fearfully. He had agreed to come, but once they were here…it all seemed different.

"Shut up, Anderson," said Miles, calmly surveying their surroundings, "we're going in. You already agreed."

Adam crept up to the rusty old gate and climbed over it. The others followed.

"So how are we going to get there?" asked Miles, as they crept up towards the front door. By "there", Miles meant the backyard. Adam had seemed pretty adamant about the shed being in someone's backyard. They had run around to the next street in order to check the backyard, but had only found more houses. If it was there, the shed must be buried somewhere between these cramped suburban houses.

"We have to go through the house somehow," suggested Adam, trying the front door. It was locked; just as it had been locked when they had tried this afternoon.

"We can't just break in through a window," said Anderson, frowning in the dark. This entire affair was too risky for him.
"Why not? The owner of this house is dead," said Miles, eying the dusty windows.

"We'll climb onto the balcony and try the doors there," suggested Adam suddenly, from the darkness. They all looked up at the rickety balcony above them.

"We can grab onto the edge if we stand on the fence…but it looks pretty dodgy," Miles observed.

"It'll hold. Probably," replied Adam, quickly.

"We only need one of us to get up there, so they can unlock the front door for the rest of us," Anderson pointed out.

There was a momentary silence.

"I think we should do it together, or not at all." Adam said, at last. Miles murmured his agreement. Anderson sighed loudly.

Like a monkey, Adam leapt from the fence and slammed into the edge of the balcony with a painful-sounding thud. He grunted, swinging from his hands for a moment, and then pulled himself up and over the wooden rails. He stood there, on the balcony, leaning against the rail for a moment, breathing hard. Then he swung around and tried the balcony door. It was locked. He tried the windows.

"The second window can be opened," he said, as loud as he dared, down to his anxious friends.

Within a few seconds, they stood next to him on the balcony, also breathing hard.

"I can't believe we're doing this…" Anderson whispered to himself. Adam grinned at him, and then climbed through the rickety window.

They were in some sort of bedroom. The streetlight from outside shone a bit of light into the room, but it was only enough to see the contours of the furniture. An old desk stood in the corner, covered in various knickknacks. A large dusty bed dominated most of the room, the covers strewn aside, as though the owner of the bed had only just gotten out of bed.

And then all three of them thought the same thought at the same time:

She would never get back into this bed.

And then they all wondered the same thing:

Whether she had died in this room.

Anderson moaned faintly. Outside, the streetlight suddenly gave, plunging the trio in darkness. There was fumbling, and suddenly, a bright light lit up in Miles' hand.

"Phone light," he explained curtly, sweeping the strangely powerful light across the room, as though looking for clues.

"Let's go," said Adam, and he tiptoed over to the door. It creaked as he opened it. They exited the room, and found themselves on a landing at the feet of some stairs that led down, into the darkness. There were two more doors on this landing.

"Bathroom and the bedroom of her kid, probably," ventured Miles, his face expressionless.

He tried one door, revealing a dirty old bathroom. The trio gazed at the remaining door. The children's room, probably. The article said she had hanged herself over her missing son.
In which room would she have hanged herself?

Silently, Adam walked across the landing. He seemed to take an age. His hand rested on the door knob. Unconsciously, he took a deep breath, as though he was about to throw himself into a deep pool of water. Then he twisted the door knob and the door slid open without a noise.

The trio gazed into the room, Miles' phonelight illuminating the room.

It was pretty empty.

"Of course. They took her body out," said Adam, entering the room. It hadn't seemed quite so obvious out in that dark hallway.

"But has she really left?" Anderson asked, the tone of his voice indicating exactly what he meant.

"Now why did you have to go and say that?" Miles demanding, slowly backing away to the door.

A sudden noise echoed through the house. The three head whipped towards it.

"I think it came from downstairs," whispered Anderson, his voice quavering. They hurriedly backed out of the room as quietly as they could, and closed the door again. Miles switched his light off.

"Why the hell did you do that?" Adam whispered, furiously, in the dark.

"Just be quiet for a few seconds," came the calm reply, in the dark.

They waited in silence, waiting for another sound, for movement, for something. It never came. After a while, Miles switched his light back on. Everything was utterly silent. The trio felt somewhat foolish.

"We have to go downstairs, if we want to get to the backyard," Anderson finally said. Adam nodded.

They descended the stairs as quietly as they could, arriving in a cluttered, yet dusty living room. Ahead of them, they could make out the front door in the gloom. An empty doorway behind them led, no doubt, towards the backyard.

They crept through it, arriving in an empty kitchen. Outside, the street light flickered back on, illuminating everything further. There was no more doors in the kitchen; it was a dead end. Adam bounded up to a window, more loudly than was necessary - Miles and Anderson thought.

"Bring me the light!" he said, urgently. Miles slowly approached the murky window, and cautiously shone the light out of a window. The light illuminated a brick wall. Of another house.

The trio was silent for a moment.

"I don't think this house has even got a backyard, Adam," said Anderson, after a while. Adam grabbed the light off Miles and checked again, checking the tiny alley that led between the backs of the two houses. No grass. No backyard. And definitely no shed.

"I think you may be right, Anderson," he said, finally, sighing loudly. The house was a lot less scary, now.

That night, Adam dreamed of the shed. It was more vivid, more lifelike than ever before. He was approaching the shed. He held out his hand, and grasped the old door handle. Was he finally going to find out what was inside? Heart pumping, he turned the door handle, and awoke, swearing. Still, they had come some way. He had never tried to open the shed before, in his dreams. It had all seemed realer, this time, as though he was getting closer. In the morning, they would find out more about the woman and her kid. And then they would find the shed. And with that thought, he went back to sleep.

Adam liked to mow lawns. It gave him time to think. He'd wear earphones under his earmuffs and listen to music and think while he did people's lawns. The whole thing had started off with just the neighbors, but now he was mowing lawns all across the town. Well, sorta.

He opened the boot of his shitty old car. New house today. Struggling, he began to lift his equipment out of the car.

The Spate house had been a dead-end. But he had been so sure. The suicide felt connected, somehow. But in none of it all had there been any sign of any shed whatsoever.

Knocked on the door, said hi to Mrs. Hart. Was a teacher at school, for the little kids. He recognized her face from there. She'd heard about him from a neighbor.

He had checked the news article again, and had done a quick search on all the names. Georgina Spate, Timmy Spate, nothing. Just that one article. He'd look again with the guys. Miles would probably know of some kind of specialized search engine they could use, or something.

Earphones on, music on, earmuffs on. Everything silent, cut-off, muffled. Except the music blaring in his ears, of course.

It was inexplicable. The article mentioned little Timmy disappearing, but Adam had been unable to find anything on him. Maybe he was just searching the wrong way, or something. Miles could probably help.

The music grew louder, swirling around him. Music changes people, inspires them, makes them want to move in rhythm. Makes them see the world differently. This song was pretty epic. Dark and melodious. It was reaching the crescendo. He dragged the lawnmower over to the side-gate that led to the garden, feeling more cool and edgy because of his music.

And if the internet failed them, he could always start asking people. A boy disappearing in a town as small as this – someone was bound to have heard about it. A young boy…maybe he could ask his new client, Mrs. Hart, the teacher. Maybe she had taught Timmy.

The climax hit. The music lifted him. He fumbled the latch, and finally undid it. Grunting with the effort, he backed into the gate, pulling the lawnmower into the yard. He felt strangely light.

The boy was the key, he thought. It wasn't the mother that was important. It was the boy. He had gone missing. But where? And what did it have to do with the shed? How did he even know all of this?

He turned around, and saw the shed.

The paint was peeling, the wood looked old. It was an old shed, standing in the darkest corner of the yard as though someone had wanted it overlooked, forgotten.

It looked exactly as it had been in his dreams. This was his dream. Except there was no inexplicable feeling of dread. Only excitement. He had found it. He had found the shed! It wasn't a lie! It was all real!

He couldn't hear the music – he wasn't aware of taking the steps that led him right in front of the shed. He couldn't hear the urgent shouts, so entirely focused was he on the shed. His hand reached out to the doorknob, and everything seemed to intensify.

A small hand grabbed his, pulling him away with surprising strength. Reality snapped back. The loud music was giving him a headache. He ripped the earmuffs off and the earphones came tumbling out with them.

The little girl was staring at him solemnly, her large eyes looking up at him, filled with fear.

"What?" Adam said, as she pulled him away from the shed.

"Don't open it," she said, still tugging furiously at his arm.

"Why not?" he asked, throwing the shed a look. A cloud passed in front of the sun, and the light dimmed. In the temporary gloom, the shed looked almost sinister.

The girl didn't answer.

"My name is Adam," he said, finally, as she had finally dragged him into the other corner of the yard.

"What's going on here?" he asked, confused, and afraid. He threw the shed another glance; whatever hold it had had on him had disappeared.

"The shed is bad," the little girl said, solemnly.

"How do you mean?" Adam said, and pulled out his mobile phone. He texted a quick message to Miles:

Found shed. At 54 mistwater rd. Brng Andrson.

"I'm just telling my friends to come here. So we can talk about what to do," he explained to the little girl, who was staring at the phone.

"You mustn't open the shed!" she shrieked again, panic on her face.

"We won't. But we…we want to find out about it. We're the good guys. Really."

The girl was silent. Adam sat down on the grass, and smiled at her. Or tried to, at least. He was feeling quite shaken.

"So I need you to tell me everything you know about the shed."

"You mustn't open it!" she said again, more softly this time.

"What happens if you open it?"
"The monster grabs you!"

"What does the monster look like?"
"I don't know. I haven't seen it."

Adam considered this for a moment.

"Then how do you know there's a monster?"

The little girl was quiet for a while.

"It watches me, sometimes. From the shed. I always play in this corner of the yard, never near it. But it still watches me. It wants me to open the shed, but I never will!"

"So…if you open the shed, the monster comes out and grabs you?" Adam asked, to clarify.

"Sometimes."
"Sometimes? Not all the time?"
"It only grabs some people. Only kids. Mummy and the men looked in the shed, and nothing happened to them. The monster wasn't there for them."

"But it's there for you?"

"All the time."
"Right now?"

She nodded. Adam shivered and suppressed the urge to turn and look at the shed. It hovered at the edge of his vision; a vague feeling of dread covered everything. And Adam knew with a sort of undeniable certainty that he would eventually have to open the shed.

"Does…does the monster ever come out of the shed?" he finally asked. The little girl shook her head. There was a moment of silence, punctuated only by the far away sound of car driving a few streets down.

"What happened to Timmy?" Adam finally asked, softly. The little girl began to cry.

Adam heard voices. He peered over the fence and saw his two friends running down the street towards him. He quickly unlatched the gate for them, and they entered the yard, breathless and red in the face.

"Is that it?" asked Miles, gesturing at the shed. He was frowning slightly, as though he could sense that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Adam nodded. He gestured to the little crying girl.

"She says there's a monster inside that nabs kids who open the shed," he explained. Anderson raised an eyebrow.

He took the pair of them aside.

"Look, I know that sounds stupid. But you guys weren't there. That shed isn't…isn't right." All three of them stared at it. Anderson hefted something in his hand.

"You brought a camera?" Adam asked, incredulously, as Anderson hit record, and silently filmed the shed, dramatically zooming in on it.

"Yeah," he said, distractedly, as he slowly panned across the yard, "I thought we might want to catch this on tape." Adam nodded.

"Good thinking," he admitted.

"So the monster just eats kids?" Anderson asked, zooming in on the crying girl.

"Looks like it, remember –"

"What is going on here?" demanded Mrs. Hart, stepping out of the backdoor of the house, hands on her hips. She looked confused, and angry. Anderson lowered his camera, looking ashamed. Little Sarah continued to cry.

"What is going on here?" she demanded again, more loudly this time. Miles stepped forward.

"What happened to Timmy Spate?" he asked, softly. Mrs. Hart stopped, and looked as though she had been slapped.

"He disappeared in this very yard, didn't he?" Miles continued, before she could answer.

There was a momentary silence, punctuated only by the ragged sobs of little Sarah Hart.

"Is that why you're here?" Mrs. Hart asked, looking at Adam accusingly.

"No mam," he said, startled, "I just came here to mow the lawn."

"We think we know what happened to little Timmy," Miles said, boldly.

Mrs. Hart stared at him, unblinking.

"He was playing in this very yard, with little Sarah here, no doubt, when it happened. You were probably inside, busy with something. The next minute you know, little Timmy Spate has disappeared from the face of the earth."

Mrs. Hart continued to stare at him, her face a mask.

"Have you talked with your daughter about his disappearance? Have you heard what she has to say?" Miles asked, accusingly.
"The police checked the shed countless times. There's nothing in there!" Mrs. Hart exclaimed, looking distressed.

"Your daughter says a monster lives in that shed. A monster that only eats children. Maybe that's why the police didn't find anything?" Miles continued, his voice almost hypnotic.

"This is nonsense! There's no such thing as monsters! Look! I'll show you!" Mrs. Hart screamed, and marched over to the shed.

"No!" screamed little Sarah, and Adam grabbed Mrs. Hart roughly by the arm.

There was a pregnant pause.

"Let me do it," Adam said, holding Mrs. Hart's arm firmly. He let go of it, and approached the shed. She didn't follow him. He could feel everyone watching him, all their eyes upon him. He glanced back, and saw Anderson holding the camera up again, filming. He nodded.

This was his dream. Now it was his dream. The feeling of dread consumed him, was washing over him, like waves in the sea. A profound sense of wrongness arose in him, as he approached the shed. He grabbed the door handle of the shed. He had never in his whole life been so afraid. But he had also never been so alive.

He turned the doorknob, and pulled the door open. And in that moment, Adam Dimond died, in horror and in shock.

They all saw what happened. Even Mrs. Hart. Something was in the shed. They couldn't see it, not in the conventional sense of the word. But they sensed it, and knew it was there, nonetheless. The invisible being within reached out and snatched Adam inside in the blink of an eye. Then the door slammed shut, and no one ever saw Adam again. He had been taken so quickly they could not believe it.

Sarah screamed. They fled. Anderson and Miles fled. What else could they do? What can any man do when faced with such pure, unimaginable horror? How could they fight something they could not see? How could they fight something that moved so incredibly quickly? And, above all, they wondered, how could they fight something that was so undeniably alien, so undeniably abstract, so undeniably horrific that the very knowledge of its existence would rock the very foundations of the world? There was no question of staying. It had taken their friend. They fled.

Nonetheless, a decision was made. They came back, that very day. They couldn't have faced the night, not knowing what they did now. Not with that creature out there, not with the specter of their dead friend hanging over their shoulders. So they came back in the early afternoon, with fire and with petrol and with revenge in their hearts. And they came with the hope that it was all some kind of sick joke, and beneath that they came with the hope that maybe, Adam was still alive.

The house was empty, as far as they could see. Mrs. Hart and her daughter were no longer around, that was for sure. They had fled. The boys undid the latch and entered the yard cautiously, keeping their eyes fixated on the Shed. It looked almost innocent, standing in the afternoon light. But they eyed as though it was a tiger, ready to pounce. Anderson placed his video camera on the floor and aimed it towards the shed. He hit the record button. If they died now, they wanted people to know what had happened to them. If they died now, they wanted people to know about the Shed. They had left their own messages on the tape, just in case.

They had canisters of petrol. Without a word, they both approached the Shed, their canisters held before them like shields. When nothing happened, they flicked the caps off their canisters, and started hurling the petrol. They did not stop until the Shed was covered. They did not stop until the canisters were empty.

And then Miles stepped forward, a zippo lighter in his hand. He flicked it on, and held it out in front of him, the wrath and terror on his face clearly visible. He took another step forward, closer to the Shed, and then the doors burst open with a loud bang.

It was belief. Adults simply don't believe. But children, you see, children, they truly do believe. They don't know the world they way the adults do. They don't see the way the adults do. The adults see what they expect to see. Because they have been in this world long enough to know what to expect.

But children? They have no idea what is out there. They don't know what to expect. And so they see what really is there. They see the darkness for what it is, and they fear it.

The monster wasn't there for Mrs. Hart, or the countless policemen who searched the Shed, over and over. It wasn't there because they didn't believe, they didn't expect it to be there.

But Miles, he believed. Now, he truly did believe. And it was his belief that opened the doors. It was his belief that allowed the Shed to claim its third and final victim.

The boy known to the world as Miles Klub had only enough time to let the lighter slip through his fingers before he was taken into the Shed and was completely erased from this world.

But the lighter did fall, and the door slammed shut again. It all happened in the blink of an eye. Anderson, the last, screamed and threw himself away from the Shed in horror, just as the lighter struck the grass and the Shed burst into flames.

And Anderson watched, alone, cowering in the opposite corner of the yard, as it burnt and burnt until there was nothing of the Shed left to burn. And then he grabbed his video camera and ran.

The dreams weren't a sign, or a warning. They didn't indicate a quest, or something that had to be found, or a wrong that had to be made right. The dreams didn't mean anything. The dreams showed Adam his own death. They were dreams of dying, and nothing he, or anyone else could have done would have prevented his death. In fact, had he never had the dreams at all, he would still have mowed the Hart's lawn, and would still have opened the Shed on a whim, and still would have died at the hands of the creature within.

Indeed, the dreams succeeded in doing only one thing: they ensured that Adam would bring his friends into this. And it was they that managed to destroy the Shed, in the end. It had cost Miles his life, and Anderson a good deal more, but the Shed was purged by fire and by vengeance.

What of Anderson? He never showed anyone that tape, for as long as he lived. He didn't show the police when they came asking questions, nor did he show Adam's and Miles' parents, as they continued to hope that one day, their children would be returned to them. He was too cowardly to make the decision. Too cowardly to choose whether or not to show the people. Too cowardly to show them the Truth, and with it the Fear.

When he finally did die, some years later, he arranged for the tape to be sent to little Sarah. It was her choice to make, now, he had decided. Because she had been the bravest of all.