I was twelve years old when the fire started. At the time, I didn’t really grasp the concept of human tragedy, and as such, only knew two things about the event:

1) Fire is hot, and therefore, bad for you.

2) We had to move soon.

Fifteen years and three political coups later, they finally got around to putting it out last week. For the hell of it, I went back to the area. Maybe I was just trying to find out what exactly happened.

There are people who can tell you what happened. They remember every precise detail, down to what you were wearing the Day Of. You should never, under any circumstances, listen to them. These people can charm you in six languages (two of which are secret languages I don’t understand) before they beat you and rape you and steal your wallet.

The week before I went down there, rumors were running rampant: Evil Space Zombies had claimed the charred husk of what used to be a bustling Megalopolis as their new home. People who had somehow survived by eating their own friends and family were trying to kill firefighters and police officers and news anchorwomen (Betsy Diamond of Channel 14 News, in particular). The Devil Himself had emerged from a hole in the middle of town to start Armaggeddon. The usual bullshit like that.

I knew better than to listen to the lunacy of the homeless heroin addicts who live at the institution I work at. I knew these people were completely fucking crazy, and yet, I wanted to believe these rumors; I wanted to think something Weird and Dangerous was happening two hours away from my apartment building. I called in sick that day.

It was hotter than you can possibly imagine. Smoke was everywhere, with small fires being dealt with here and there. There were a few fat onlookers yelling at their kids to help them figure out how the hell the Goddamned camera works, but it was surprisngly empty. Then I saw it. A small building that used to sell fashion mannequins for clothing stores, a bizarre chain that I have never been able to make sense of, regardless of the amount of time and vodka I’ve poured into it. I was a bit nervous of going anywhere that the cops or firemen didn’t want me to be (they didn’t want people in town period, let alone snooping around a strangely intact building that only a few people have ever seen the inside of), but since there was nobody looking, I tip-toed inside.

I remember watching a movie when I was younger that absolutely scared the shit out of me: it involved wooden marionettes left behind in a house that an entire family was murdered in. Somehow, the souls of the family had entered the dolls, bringing them to life. Now naturally, the family was pretty pissed that they had been murdered, and the dolls went out and got revenge on the family of the murderers (the killers themselves had been caught and hung already). This movie made me afraid of any puppet. Go ahead and laugh.

So here I am, inside a building that hasn’t even had any fire damage full of mannequins. Normally, I’d be scared shitless, but you know what they say: Buck Up, Buttercup!

These statues just lounge about, making supposedly hip body language (The men say: Hey, I’m with it! I’m hip. Let’s all go and play some Tennis! The women say: I want you to fuck me and not look me in the eyes when you do.). They’d have to speak in body language, since they had no faces. Despite this, they look so real, like they actually have souls and lives and feelings and maybe they do want you to look them in the eyes when you fuck them.

I move on, seeing what else is here. Then I hear the sound of feet shuffling. I…

I drove back to my home, trying to see over tears filling my eyes. I’m choking on my own saliva, having to stop sobbing to clear my throat. What doesn’t get cleared runs over in a bubbly, syrupy line that catches onto one of my pant legs.

What I saw that day will always remain a secret with me. I will die never having told a soul what goes on inside that building. Anyone who I told would most certainly go mad anyway, so what would be the point?

And I- I will always be that building’s secret.