Annual Purge

Woodsbourne should have been a place where life slowed down—a place of quiet streets and friendly faces, the perfect setting for a new chapter. My husband, Matthew, and I had been searching for a home in a small rural town when we stumbled across it: a charming bungalow on the edge of the suburbs, its back garden spilling into a forest that stretched for miles. It felt too perfect to pass up.

I was nearly finished unpacking, fluffing the sofa pillows in the living room, when the doorbell rang. At the door stood a middle-aged woman in a patterned blue apron, holding a steaming casserole dish. “Hello!” she said brightly. “I’m your neighbor, Sandra. I thought I’d welcome you with my famous peach cobbler. Do you have time for a cup of coffee? I’d love to get to know you and catch you up on what’s been happening in town.”

She beamed as she handed me the dish. “Good morning,” I said, taking it carefully. “I’m Riley. Matthew’s at work and won’t be home until later, but please, come in. That cobbler looks incredible. We’ll have a slice with the coffee.”

I led her into the kitchen, and soon we were seated at the table overlooking the street, chatting over steaming mugs and sweet, sticky cobbler. Sandra filled me in on the basics—who lived where, which neighbors to know, which ones to avoid. Then, her tone shifted. She set her cup down and looked at me steadily.

“I only wish I came bearing good news,” she said, hesitating as if weighing whether to go on. I raised an eyebrow, waiting. “One of the reasons Woodsbourne’s population is so small,” she continued carefully, “is because of the annual Purge.” The word hung in the air like smoke.

“It’s exactly what it sounds like—purging the town. Purging the people. Every year, the air is poisoned with a chemical, and those who breathe it in… change. They lose themselves. Violence takes over, and they become uncontrollable. The only way to survive is to stay locked inside. No lights. No noise. Curtains drawn. And if anyone comes knocking, don’t open. Because they will knock. And the later it gets, the worse it becomes. If there’s even the smallest weakness in your home, they’ll find it.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “So please—stay inside tonight. Get cameras if you don’t already have them. And a weapon. Both of you.” She pushed her empty cup forward, giving me a moment to process her words. My mouth had gone dry.

Not long after, I walked her to the door. She hugged me warmly but whispered as she pulled away: “Be safe tonight.”

When Matthew came home, I told him everything. He chuckled, shaking his head. “Sandra’s got a dark sense of humor, huh? Sounds like she’s trying to spook the new neighbors.” I laughed with him, but uneasily. There was no humor in Sandra’s eyes. Behind her smile, I’d glimpsed something else—fear.

That evening, with the curtains drawn and every lock secured, I checked the closet where we kept our sports gear. My eyes lingered on the golf clubs and baseball bats. Just in case. Later, as we ate dinner in front of the TV, Matthew kept joking about our neighbor and her “ghost stories.” I tried to laugh with him, but my eyes kept flicking toward the windows, toward the curtains I had pulled so tight.

Around midnight, I stirred awake. The house was silent, but something felt wrong. A faint hum pressed against my ears, low and constant, like static. I slipped out of bed and padded into the hallway. The air felt heavy, sweet, almost metallic. I coughed into my sleeve, my stomach twisting.

Then came a sound from the front door—a dull thump. Another. I froze, my heart hammering in my chest. A shadow shifted across the frosted glass. My body locked up. My phone buzzed in my hand, nearly slipping from my grip. A notification from the security camera. I swiped it open with shaking fingers. The grainy feed showed two figures in the driveway, swaying as if drunk. One staggered up the steps and pressed his face close to the lens, eyes wide and glassy. His lips moved in a strange, jerky rhythm, as if he were trying to speak but couldn’t form the words.

Behind me, Matthew’s voice cut through the silence, groggy and annoyed. “Riley? What the hell are you doing?” I turned, the phone trembling. “There’s someone outside.” He rubbed his eyes, about to protest, when the knock came again.

Thud. Thud.

Then a gravelly voice followed, muffled through the door. “We know you’re home… waiting for us. Aren’t you going to invite us in?”

Matthew and I froze in the hallway, staring at each other with panic in our eyes. For a moment, there was silence. I thought I had imagined it, until I heard the unmistakable scrape of a window sliding open in the living room. My stomach dropped. Not all of the windows had been locked.

Matthew bolted to the closet, yanking out a golf club. He slammed the closet door shut behind him and rushed toward the living room. The silence shattered. A chorus of sounds erupted at once—manic laughter, screaming, a heavy thud against the floor. Then Matthew’s voice, sharp and terrified:

“Riley, RUN!”

I hesitated, torn between running to help him or bolting for safety. The decision came too late. Footsteps thundered toward me. Heart in my throat, I sprinted upstairs, slammed our bedroom door, and twisted the lock. I pressed my back against it, breath ragged. It was then I realized: I had no weapon. I was a sitting duck.

Hovering in the silence, I listened as the floorboards creaked below.

The voice behind the door sounded familiar, but something was wrong. It was a distorted hiss, a strained plea: “Riley, open the door, it’s me. They’re both dead, but I’m hurt pretty bad.”

Hesitantly, I opened the door and instantly realized my mistake. Looking at me was someone who used to be Matthew. His eyes were dark and hungry, his bathrobe was covered in blood, and a bloody golf club was clutched in his hand.

I ran to the dresser and grabbed the golf trophy Matthew had won after placing first in a national tournament. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I hit him with the trophy until my arms grew heavy.

“Riley… why?” Matthew gurgled, a thin trickle of blood running from his lips.

I blinked, my mind clearing in a terrifying instant. The fog of static that had clouded my thoughts dissipated, and I felt a horrifying sensation of returning to myself, of no longer being a passenger in my own body. He had sounded like himself. Like the real Matthew. My mind screamed for me to remember, to rewind, but all I found was a blank space—a blackout from the moment he had entered the room.

I looked past him and saw it: the bedroom window was open, a thin breeze carrying the sweet, metallic scent of the gas. The wind, which had felt so refreshing, was what had sealed my fate. The truth struck me with the force of a physical blow.

I gasped, feeling something shift inside me. The humming static returned, not in the air, but inside my skull. A low growl formed in my throat as I crouched over Matthew's still form. My eyes, I knew, were no longer my own. He wasn't a monster; he had been trying to warn me, to save me. But now, it was too late. I was the one who had inhaled the poisonous gas.

I had killed an innocent. I had claimed my first victim, and I was hungry for more, suddenly feeling a purpose within me. Wiping the blood from my eyes, taking the trophy with me, I head downstairs. Opening the front door, the night air is calling to me. It´s time to make the most of it.

I wonder how Sandra is doing tonight.