The Town That Vanished Every Sunday

The Town That Vanished Every Sunday

First-person journal entries by Thomas Bellamy, Investigative Reporter

Tuesday, March 4

I stumbled across the story by accident. A throwaway line in a local forum caught my attention:

"Don't bother visiting Darnell on a Sunday. It's not there."

It was followed by a dozen cryptic comments:

"It’s safer that way."

"Don’t ask too many questions."

"Darnell isn’t for outsiders."

The town of Darnell, population 1,043. No official website. No tourism board. Just a dot on the map surrounded by dense woods and a two-lane highway nobody seemed to use. I booked a room at the only bed-and-breakfast listed online. Something about the place tugged at my curiosity—and I've never ignored a good mystery.

Friday, March 7

Arrived in Darnell this afternoon. Quiet, almost unsettling in its stillness. The B&B owner, Mrs. Clarisse Weldon, greeted me with forced warmth. Her hands trembled when she handed me the room key.

“You’re just passing through, I hope,” she said.

“Staying a few days. Writing a piece on forgotten towns.”

She didn’t smile. “Leave by Saturday night.”

I asked her why.

She blinked. “There’s nothing here on Sunday.”

And that was that.

Saturday, March 8

Spent the day interviewing locals. Everyone was friendly—until I asked about Sunday.

The barista at the coffee shop dropped her cup.

The librarian said she closes early Saturday to “prepare.”

The mayor, whom I managed to catch outside city hall, gave me five minutes and said only,

“People come and go. But Darnell stays the same. Except on Sundays.”

He turned and walked away before I could press further.

I’ve covered ghost stories, urban legends, even a cult once in Colorado—but this was different. It wasn’t fear in their eyes. It was resignation. As if Sunday was a storm they’d long since stopped trying to outrun.

I’ve decided to stay through Sunday, despite Clarisse’s visible dismay.

Sunday, March 9 – 6:15 a.m.

Woke up to silence. No birds, no distant cars. The clock was still ticking, but the world outside the window looked... flat. Dim.

I got dressed and stepped outside.

The town was gone.

The buildings stood—but faded, transparent. Trees had no leaves. Roads no texture. I reached for the doorknob of the diner, and my hand passed right through it. Like it was made of fog.

Only one thing felt real: the stone clocktower in the town square. It was whole. Solid. Its hands frozen at 12:00.

I called out. No answer. I was the only person here.

Sunday, March 9 – 9:40 a.m.

Still no signs of life. I wandered past the bakery—its shelves filled with ghostly loaves. The post office, untouched. A dog barked in the distance, but I never saw it. Everything feels like a memory caught between moments.

I returned to the B&B and found my room exactly as I left it. But my reflection in the mirror didn’t follow my movements right away.

Something is wrong with time.

Sunday, March 9 – 11:58 a.m.

I walked to the clocktower. I don’t know why—maybe instinct. As I approached, I heard whispers. Not from around me, but from within the stone.

They said my name.

I pressed my ear against the cold surface. It pulsed.

"Thomas Bellamy..."

"You shouldn’t be here..."

"You need to choose..."

And then the world shifted.

Sunday, March 9 – ???

I don’t know how much time has passed. I’m not in Darnell anymore. At least, not the version I knew.

The sky is an oily gray. The buildings are skeletal—dripping shadows like wax. A man in a black coat walks backward down Main Street, smiling with no mouth. Children sit on rooftops, humming songs with no words.

Every time I blink, something changes. My notebook writes itself. My thoughts echo before I think them.

There is no Sunday here. Only forever.

I found Clarisse. Or what was once Clarisse. Her face is cracked like porcelain, her eyes empty but kind.

"You stayed," she said.

"Now you remember."

And suddenly, I do.

Monday, March 10

I woke up in my bed at the B&B. My watch reads Monday. Darnell is bright, normal. People are walking dogs, opening shops, sipping coffee. Clarisse serves me breakfast like nothing happened.

“You sleep well, Thomas?”

“Like a rock,” I lie.

Because if I tell the truth—about the place where Darnell goes every Sunday, where time dissolves and voices live inside stone—I’ll vanish like the others.

I looked in the mirror. My reflection still lags behind.

I’m not sure I left.

Postscript

I filed no article. Darnell doesn’t exist on Sundays. But part of me... does.

And every Sunday at noon, I feel the pull. The tick in my bones. The call of the clocktower.

If I go back again, I might not return.