For the longest time, my mother told me that ignorance was bliss. And because I was ignorant, I blissfully believed her. But there are things in this world that make it all worth being here. All worth taking the risk and facing the dangers and struggling through the cruelties. There are things, simple things, like watching a movie with your best friend, or eating chocolate ice-cream as it melts into a gooey mush in your hand, or spending all night staring at the stars in the sky alongside your true love, that make it all worth living.
Living in a little town like Ipotua, Wyoming, took that all away. The world, my mother told me, was a nightmare where sinners lurked in the darkness, ready to pounce you and rape you of all the virtue you held within your heart. The world was a place of fears, of worries, of terror.
And as true as that may be, I’d rather face the fear, worries, and terror a hundred lifetimes over before having to face Ipotua for even a day ever again.

Sheila flipped through her parents’ photo album and brushed her light blonde hair out of the way of her curious, frosty blue eyes. She held her breath in an attempt to prevent herself from inhaling the thick dust that clouded the cellar, regretting that she’d forgotten to bring a towel to use as a breathing mask. A creak of the stairs below caused her to glance hurriedly over her shoulder, but it was paranoia, and not a person, that had made the noise.
Thump, thump-thump, thump.
Her heart, pumping harshly against her chest, calmed down as Sheila realized there was no one up there with her. She turned back to the album and placed it back inside the chest; it was filled with old, grey pictures of people she barely knew and was, for the most part, uninteresting.
Her pale hands, still shaking from the previous scare, grabbed another book in the chest. The dust seemed less attracted to it, though it seemed fairly older than the rest: the edges were yellowed with years of age, the cover bore dull brown lettering reading ‘Current Events’, a few bent papers hung loosely out of the book.
She gingerly turned the pages, afraid that by simply touching them they would fall apart. Each page featured an old newspaper article, and occasionally a picture or two of various people with strange, outdated hairstyles and equally odd clothing. The articles seemed strangely recent, and although they were taped to the old, faded pages of the book they didn’t seem themselves to be any older than a few years. The news was unfamiliar to her, and her brow folded twice over as she struggled to understand what some of them meant.
“Stock... market crash?” Sheila read aloud. Her eyes quickly read through the insert, but she didn’t understand a word of what it was talking about. What did cows and sheep have to do with the market? And how could it crash? But she was too intrigued by the mystery behind the strange book to stop, and an invisible force compelled her to turn the page. The next page featured two large pictures of an assemblage of women, holding signs with illegible writing up into the air. She turned the pages again and again, swept through them, even, more confused with each progression. Words she never knew existed blurred by; she bit her lip and wondered if this was all a silly newspaper some people created while bored one day.
Until one page stopped her altogether.
All of a sudden, there was an abrupt creak behind her, very loud and very real. She spun around to see her mother standing at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, the stern motherly glare that told her that she was probably in trouble. Guiltily Sheila smiled, and moved to put the book down. As she opened her mouth in protest, it was snatched from her hands.
“What are you looking at?” her mother asked. It was a stupid question; it was obvious what Sheila had been looking at. But she wanted to hear the confession from her daughter’s own lips.
Sheila said nothing at first. Instead she gestured toward the book, to the last page. It featured a picture of an old man, sweating profusely, his mouth half open and his eyes so focused that she was sure he was about to say something important. That wasn’t what attracted her, though. What attracted her was the color of his skin. It was darker, much darker than anyone would expect. Like he had stood out in the sun for too long, and baked under it as a piece of bread might bake in an oven.
Sheila had never seen someone so dark before, and questions flooded her mind. But the one question that nagged at her insides, that crawled to the edges of her throat in an attempt to escape from her lips, that she had to struggle to hold back- the one question she wanted to ask she couldn’t bring herself to say. So instead she inquired, “Who... is that?”
Her mother glanced precariously at the picture and shut the book, tossing it into the dust-covered chest from which it had come. “No one,” was all she said. She turned toward the stairs. “Come. Your father needs help in the yard.”

Their ‘yard’ was actually a good square mile of land. Their family was assigned to grow potatoes, and that’s what they’ve grown for as long as Sheila could remember. But the potatoes weren’t entirely theirs- they shared it with the rest of the town. And the rest of the town shared their crops with them. Such was the age-old system of tradition- tradition so sacred that it could not be broken by any new generation. The sons and daughters carried out the same plans as their parents had, and their parents’ parents had, until the practice went so far back that barely anyone knew who had started it and why.
Robert Parker was now stooped over some roots, peering steadily towards the ground, the sweat and dirt dripping off his neck and arms. His face was fairly shaded by the old brown cap he wore on his head, a cap that he was rarely seen without. It was warm that day, as it was most of the days, and it seemed as if the sun would boil one’s blood if the unfortunate person stayed outside for too long.
He did not notice his daughter approaching, not until her shadow passed over the light and broke his concentration.
“Father? What are you doing?” Sheila shielded her eyes with one hand, handing him a glass of water in the other.
Mr. Parker looked up and smiled warmly at his daughter, gladly taking the cup from her hand. “Examining these potatoes. I think they need a little more water and a lot less sun.” He downed the glass of water in one huge gulp and wiped his mouth, handing the cup back. “You finding something to preoccupy yourself with? It might be a big help to your mom if you tidy up the living room.”
Sheila shook her head. “No, I cleaned the living room this morning.” She turned to leave but hesitated. “Father? Have you been in the attic lately?”
Her father had already turned away and was scrutinizing the ground again. “What? Oh, yes, yes. It needs some cleaning. I’ll send your mother up there later.”
“That’s not what I meant...” Sheila paused, and then continued. “I found a book up there.” Realizing there were lots of books up there, Sheila explained herself: “It was kind of dark brown. Said something like ‘Current Events’ on the front?”
Sheila didn’t notice, but as she spoke, Mr. Parker had turned his eyes sharply toward her and stared her down. “You’re not supposed to be up there snooping around.” His voice had lost the warm gentleness that it had had earlier, and was now cold and harsh. “I know, father, but I-“
“Did you look inside of the book?” he snapped. His gaze was so intent, so wild and angry, that Sheila shrank back from him, afraid to answer. A moment of chilled silence hung between them before he spoke again. “I asked you a question, Sheila.”
“I... No, father, I didn’t.” Sheila felt guilty the instant the last word left her lips. She had never lied before; had never had a reason to.
Her father glared at her, squinting, and then his shoulders relaxed. The anger was all at once gone, replaced with a shaky and forced smile. “That... that’s good. Don’t go up there again, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Her father paused, looking off in the distance towards somewhere beyond where Sheila stood. His lips pursed and his nostrils flared, but he said nothing, settling a stern gaze upon his daughter again. “Your friend’s coming. You’d better go greet him. Oh- and Sheila?”
“Yes?” Sheila had just turned away, preparing to leave.
“There’s a three sack of potatoes on the porch. Make sure Mr. Sullivan gets them; we’ll have finally caught up with our quota.”
“Of course, father.”
Sheila hurried off, lifting her faded cotton dress over her heels so that it didn’t drag in the dirt and rocks. She looked out towards the house to see Patrick riding up on his dark brown horse, which he called a ‘mighty steed’ though the animal was obviously rather old and worn out. His light blue shirt stuck to his body with his own sweat; his dirty blonde hair sat plastered atop his head.
“Hello!” Sheila called out, waving.
Patrick turned and waved back, grinning wildly as she approached him. “Nice day out, eh?” he asked.
Sheila stopped next to the horse and brushed her fingers through the mare’s coarse mane. “Pretty warm,” she responded. “You planning to go down to the river?” He nodded, patting the rump of the horse and winking at her. “Jump on. That’s just what I came for.”
“Just a minute.” Sheila grabbed the sacks of potatoes from the front porch, and was about to run inside the house to ask her mother’s permission to leave. Mrs. Parker was already standing at the door, nodding in approval and waving her off. As Sheila mounted the horse, she noticed a strange, old brown book in her mother’s hands with tattered edges and loose pages.

“...and just as we rode off, I saw the book in her hands again,” Sheila was saying. Her legs were now halfway into the icy river, resting on the rocks that lined the bottom. The water seemed lower, now; she remembered being able to put her entire leg in the river in the same spot not just a summer ago. A tree off to the side gave her partial shade, but it was dying and gave scarce protection from the ever-fierce sun.
Patrick rubbed his chin in thought. He stood in the river, shirt off, having had enough courage to jump in before testing the water. “You should talk to the pastor about it. I’m sure he could clear things up.”
“They seemed pretty intent on keeping the book a secret,” Sheila said, brushing a few strands of wayward hair from her face.
Patrick laughed. Not cruelly, but it wasn’t the friendly kind of laugh, either. “This is Ipotua, Sheila. There are no secrets here. But it would be good to confess to the pastor. You told a lie.”
“What do you think of the dark man that I saw?” she asked, suddenly.
Patrick blinked. “I’m sure it was a trick of the eye. You said it was pretty dark up there, and maybe the paper was a little old.”
“The paper couldn’t have been more than five years old,” Sheila protested. “The book was pretty old, but the article wasn’t.”
He shrugged, splashing some of the water on his face and over his hair. “It had to be. Dark people don’t exist.”
“Maybe not here...” Sheila said softly. A sudden thought came to her. “You don’t think it was from...Out There, do you?” The mere words of the place sent her shivering, even though the air was scorching hot.
Patrick stared at her fiercely, the blue pools of his eyes glinting like knives under the light of the sun. “Out There? You’re crazy, Sheila. No one knows anything about Out There.”
“But who knows? No one’s been Out There for generations. Maybe... “ her eyes were shining wildly, much like her father’s had earlier but with more of a sense of enchantment and excitement. “Maybe the book’ll tell us what’s really Out There.”
Patrick scoffed, leaning back on the water and floating impassively. “We’ve already been told. The demons and the filth of mankind are all Out There. The evil and the sinners and the devil-worshippers are all Out There. People Out There are suffering, and dying, and are lost. That’s why we were lucky that our forefathers set up a town in here- to be protected from all that.”
“But we don’t know that for sure,” Sheila responded stubbornly, resting her chin on her knees and staring into the water. “They’ve told us those horror stories since we were children. What if... what if they lied?”
Patrick glared at her, shocked. “I don’t like what your obsession over this book is turning you into, Sheila. You’d better pray hard tonight or else the devil might get your soul. You’ve given him a pretty wide door to get to you. Besides,” he paused and stood upright in the water. “Besides, your parents would never have something that blasphemous in their attic. They’re righteous people.” He climbed out of the river and walked toward the horse to grab a blanket to dry himself off with.
Sheila sighed. She should have known she would get that kind of response from Patrick; he was the pastor’s son.
“Come on,” he said, breaking her train of thought by shoving the blanket into her face. “Dry up, I need to ride into the village to get something for my mother.”
Sheila took the blanket and dried her legs off, trying not to let the unsettling feelings that hung in the air get to her.

It seemed as if all two-hundred members of the town were packed in the village that day. The village, like the town itself, was small. It was a single street of about ten or fifteen shops set up on both sides, and one could walk straight through it and back within minutes. Sweating, weary adults dragged their carts and wagons down the street, stocked with food and barrels of water from the ration lodges.
Sheila had already given the sacks of potatoes to Mr. Sullivan, the man who regulates the vegetable shop. They had finally made up for the lack of potatoes for last month, and there was no need to bring any more until the next. She wondered briefly if Mr. Sullivan liked his job, giving out a bag of mixed vegetables to each family during their weekly food rations. But that was the life that Mr. Sullivan’s father had had, and so that was the life he himself had today.
She now sat under the comforting shade of one of Sullivan’s side walls, waiting for Patrick to get back from picking up his dairy ration. A few feet away from her stood a group of children playing in the dirt, writing things with sticks and joyously jumping onto the shapes they created. One group of fair-haired girls played jump rope, singing a well known chant- the only one allowed to be sung during games:

“Nowheretown, Nowheretown USA
Take the dark demons
And chase them away.
Leave the white angel, what do you bear?
Utopia, utopia,
Away from ‘Out There’.”

She watched the girls with amused interest, remembering the time she was that age and sang the very same song among her friends.
Back then, Out There had seemed so unnatural and foreboding that she would have nightmares about it. The Elder Council, a group of 5 senior-aged men who oversaw Ipotua, held a town seminar after church on Sundays exclusively for the adults. The children would be handed over to the Elder Council’s creepy wives, just as old, who told them frightening stories about what the world beyond the boundaries of Ipotua was like. This fear was an invisible border, used to keep all members of the town from venturing to Out There. And even though most of the truth behind the real Out There had been forgotten in the generations and generations that passed as the town continued to function and thrive on its own, the fear had never died.
Before she knew it, Sheila had relented to the overwhelming heat and drifted off to sleep. Rough hands shook her an hour later, and she struggled to pry open her eyes, sealed shut with the crust of sleep. Patrick stood above her, grinning that silly grin of his, a bag of milk in his hand. His horse stood, grunting tersely behind him. “You tired?”
Sheila shook her head stubbornly and stretched out her arms, feeling the length of time she’d been asleep in every muscle in her body. “Let’s stay here for a bit?”
“Of course.” He took a moment to put the bag of milk in an insulation pouch slung over the horse, and then sat down next to her under the shade of Sullivan’s. “Listen, I’ve been thinking. About that book you were talking about?”
“Hmm?”
“I figure that if you really believe your parents have something to do with Out There, you need to confront them. I’m sure it’s not at all what you think it is, and there’s nothing worse than a misunderstanding.”
Sheila nodded. “You’re right. Maybe father was in a poor mood today. I shouldn’t have gone up there and snooped around in the first place.”
“Exactly,” he agreed. In a sudden moment, an idea surfaced in his mind. His eyes glittered excitedly as he voiced that idea. “Mind... mind if I come over and read that book someday?”
She hesitated. Maybe if he saw what she saw, then he would agree that the book was strange and possibly from Out There. It excited her to think that she could prove the book’s possible origin. “Yes. Of course,” Sheila finally answered. The promise she’d made to her father earlier was not even a thought in her mind.
Patrick smiled.

Patrick was invited over for dinner that evening. He was often over for dinner, but this time there was that special occasion in which he had true purpose for being there. A purpose not known to any of the Parker’s but Sheila.
After dinner Patrick and Sheila were left alone. Mr. And Mrs. Parker had to leave for nightly service, and the two, having been friends since childhood, were entrusted to carry out the night alone.
They spent it searching for the book.
At first Sheila hoped it was still in the attic, placed in another chest for safekeeping. But this was not so, and even after checking and re-checking each chest, she and Patrick decided to return back to the main portion of the house.
“Maybe it’s in your parents room?” Patrick suggested.
Sheila hesitated. “It wouldn’t be right to go in there. If my mother hid it, it was probably for good reason.”
He raised an eyebrow. “If your mother hid it, it would need concealing. Now... why would secrecy be required?”
“It isn’t. You said yourself they’re righteous people.”
Patrick nodded and then gestured towards their door. “Then they’ve no reason to hide it. Let’s go.”
It was unlike Sheila to walk right into an entrapment of words, but her curiosity clouded her judgment. She opened the door to her parents bedroom, and lit a candle to shed some light. It was simple: A bed, a chair, and two dressers- a candlestick on each. So it wasn’t hard to find the book wedged between Mrs. Parker’s dresser and the wall.
The book seemed more ominous under the poor lighting of a flickering candle. Sheila set the light down on the floor, and then handed the book over to Patrick. He took it tentatively, and opened it.
They hadn’t gotten past the first five pages when Sheila rose her head; the sound of horses approaching from outside had reached her ears. “My parents are here!” she said, leaping up. She tore the book away from Patrick, breaking him from his trance. With the book safely stuffed behind the dresser, Sheila quickly walked out of the room, motioning for Patrick to follow.
She stood in the front room where the door was, glancing hurriedly behind her to find that Patrick was not there. “Patrick!” she shouted, urgently. He appeared a second later, the candle in hand.
“Forget something?”
She blushed, and blew the candle out. The two then sat in front of the fireplace, as if they had been there the entire time. That was how Sheila’s parents found them when they entered.
“How was the sermon, Mrs. Parker?” Patrick asked, smiling sweetly as he spoke.
She nodded, “It was excellent, as always.”
“Give your father our regards,” Mr. Parker said, yawning.
Patrick nodded, and stood. “I should leave. It is getting late, and I need my rest for tomorrow.”
Sheila followed Patrick to the door as her parents left them alone to prepare for bed. “Remember,” she whispered. “Say nothing of what you saw.”
“Good-by,” Patrick brushed his hand against her shoulder. “We should talk about this later?”
“Of course,” Sheila said. “Good-by.”
Sheila closed the door, sighing, glad that the night was over. She was unaware of Patrick’s sadistic grin as he turned and walked down the steps of the porch. Nor was she aware of the dirty, dust-covered book he held in his hands.

Mrs. Parker shook Sheila awake early that morning. Her nails dug into her daughter’s shoulder; the vigorous shaking created a sense of urgency. Sheila groaned, mumbled something inaudible, and then sat up, unable to see anything but the gleam of her mother’s frightened eyes. It was still dark outside, almost indistinguishable from night.
“Sheila, dear, have you seen the book?”
Still unclear as to what was happening, the drowsy daughter answered, “What?”
“The book. The brown one. Titled current events? Do you know where it is?”
Sheila was fully awake, now. She glanced at her mother fearfully, unsure of what to say. “I... I...”
“Dear, I don’t mind if you took it. But I must know where it is.”
“Me and Patrick were looking at it... after dinner,” Sheila whispered, and struggled to remember what happened earlier.
“Patrick saw the book?”
“Yes. But we put it back, right in it’s place behind your drawer, mother, I promise,” she now felt an uncomfortable bubble of worry rising in her stomach.
“It’s not there... Sheila, I checked. Did you... perchance...” her mother paused, afraid of the answer. “Did you leave Patrick alone? Even for a minute?”
“Yes, I-“
There was a sudden pounding on the front door.
And then there was another sound, barely audible. At first it was a soft gathering of voices, approaching slowly as the first anvil-headed clouds of a storm might come. But more and more voices joined the storm; they clashed and produced a thundering roar that could be heard across the town.
Mr. Parker, already out of bed and about, reached the front door first. Sheila and her mother raced out of the bedroom and stood a ways behind him, near the still burning fireplace.
“Hello?” he called out, opening the door a crack. It was shoved open by a figure, considerably short compared to Mr. Parker’s height. The figure stepped toward the light.
“Patrick...” Sheila whispered.
Patrick nodded and smiled, holding the book up for all to see. He then gesticulated behind him, to where an approaching sea of torches lit the darkness.
“They’re coming for you,” he said.
Blinded by her anger, Sheila advanced on him, throwing the book out of his hands and onto the floor. It laid there in the blood-red light of the fireplace. “How could you?”
“It was for your sake,” he sneered, and then glared at the entire family. “For all of your sakes. Sheila,” his gaze rested on her again, his eyes curving towards a sympathetic frown. “Don’t be afraid. My father will come. He will purge whatever evil you’ve got in you.”
“Evil?” Mrs. Parker cried. “For a book?”
“A book from Out There,” Patrick glared at her, now, the expression of sympathy gone. She felt foolish to shrink back from the fierce stare of a boy. But he was a boy with the power of relations on his side. “It’s a dangerous book for such a small, untainted town.”
“Has the town seen it?” inquired Mr. Parker. He glanced hurriedly out the door beyond where Patrick stood, knowing that the town would reach the house soon.
“No. But my father has. He’s informed the rest that you three are caught up in... unscrupulous activities,” Patrick’s eyes dangerously swept from the three family members to the floor, where the forbidden book sat. He judged his distance and decided that he would not safely be able to retrieve the book until his father arrived.
Sheila had backed away from the door and stood not just a few feet away from the book. She feared the heat-filled effigy of the mob outside; their burning torches were all that could be seen in the darkness. She glanced at her parents, who looked upon a mere child in fear. Her eyes finally rested on the book.
Outside, the pastor and the crowd of townsfolk, all men, stood still outside the house. The pastor quieted their uproars and cries and then turned, climbed the wooden steps and entered into the Parker house.
The pastor’s long black robe flowed down to his feet. His face was pale white, his cheeks bony thin, his eyes hollowed with shadow. He reached up with skeletal like hands to lower the hood of his robe, revealing a balding and equally pale white head.
“I am sure my son has told you why I have come,” the pastor spoke, his deep voice filled with gravity and solemnity.
“We are good people,” Mr. Parker protested. He took a step toward the pastor, his arms outstretched, as though he plead for leniency.
The pastor seemed to wave this off. “Of course you are. But you have been led astray by the devil. Give the book-“
There was a sudden flash in the pastor’s eyes as the fireplace burst with a renewed vigor. He stared, horrified at Sheila, and shouted, “What are you doing?”
“I’m saving the world from Ipotua,” Sheila whispered. Their gazes fell on the center of the bursting fire: a small book, labeled ‘current events’, its torn edges curling upwards and blackening in the hearth.
Sheila stood, unmoving, as the pastor swept by her and grabbed the book from the dangerous fires. He shrieked, flung the book backwards out of the fire, and nursed his scorched hands. The book slid to the center of the floor, opened to the page of the dark man, it’s edges still smoldering with a fiery red glow.
Sheila’s eyes glanced down amusedly at the ruined book; the thin paper burned well, and now all her fears of the weak book crumbling apart had come true. The picture, now twisted and wrecked, was covered in white ash. The book was finally destroyed.

The storm was broken; the town went home. The pastor stood for a moment in the silence and then glared at the Parker family before leaving himself. Sheila looked to see if Patrick had stayed but he had long since left the doorsill.
The following day, the town woke to find the Parker house empty. Empty of conscious presence, that is. The furniture, most of the clothing, even the chest of old pictures in the attic were left. But the family, and the scorched remains of the book, were gone.
Since the incident, the house was burned down to purge the evil and cleanse the area. The ground was fertilized and used to expand the crops.
For many years after, stories were told to wide-eyed children about the Parker family, the poor three souls who were corrupted by the devil and forced to commit evil deeds. “Too far lost to be saved,” the old wives rasped, feeding on the fear of the children before them, “They left Ipotua to the land of true demons and evil, the land they would call ‘home’ for the rest of their lives: Out There.”