The Third Diamond

When I first moved to Millbrook, I didn’t think much of the old fairgrounds. My sister would drive me past them on the way to the grocery store, and I’d catch a glimpse of the weathered bleachers and the overgrown outfield. Something about the place made my stomach clench, but I chalked it up to the unsettling emptiness of it all. It wasn’t until last month that I learned the truth.

My sister and I, in a fit of boredom, decided to do some paranormal investigating. She sent me a link about the Millbrook Fairgrounds, and as I read, a chill crept up my spine. The story said the fairgrounds had been built on the site of an old school that had burned down in the 1950s. A student had died in the fire, trapped in the basement. They never found his body. After the fire, they leveled the ruins and paved over them with the parking lot and the baseball diamond. As I read, I realized that the baseball diamond was where I always felt the most unease.

That evening, we drove past the fairgrounds on our way home. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the field. I stared at the pitcher’s mound, and suddenly, a sound filled my ears—a faint, guttural sobbing, like a child trying to suppress a cry. My eyes welled up, and I gasped. ‘It’s not a baby,’ I said, my voice trembling. ‘It’s someone older. A boy.’ My sister looked at me, puzzled, but I couldn’t explain. The feeling was overwhelming, a mix of sorrow and terror that made my skin prickle.

When we got home, I frantically searched for more information. I found a forum where locals had shared their own experiences. One person said they’d heard a voice calling out for help from the outfield. Another claimed to have seen a boy in an old-fashioned coat standing near third base, only to vanish when they approached. But the most chilling account was from a groundskeeper who swore he’d seen a shape crawling out of the drainage grate near the bleachers, leaving a trail of ash behind.

Determined to understand, I decided to visit the fairgrounds myself the next night. I parked at the edge of the lot and walked to the baseball diamond. The air was cool and still, but I could sense a presence. I stood on the pitcher’s mound, and that’s when I noticed something odd: the baseline between third base and home plate was slightly darker, as if someone had recently traced a line in the dirt. I knelt down and touched it. My fingers came up black with soot.

A voice whispered behind me, ‘Third base.’ I spun around, but no one was there. The whispering continued, growing louder, like a radio picking up a distant signal. ‘Third base is where they buried him. Not the basement. The basement was a lie.’

I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and I jumped back. I looked down and saw a small, charred footprint in the dirt. Tears streamed down my face as I realized the truth: the boy had not died in the fire. He had been trying to escape through the basement, but they had sealed it. The ballpark was built on top of him, and his remains lay directly beneath third base.

I stumbled backward, my heart pounding. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from third base. The ground began to tremble, and the dirt around the base started to sink, forming a shallow depression. A faint, agonized moan rose from the earth, and I knew I had to leave. I ran to my car, not looking back.

Since that night, I haven’t driven past the fairgrounds. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still hear the sobbing, and I see the imprint of a small hand reaching up from the ground. I know now that the ghost of that boy is not at rest, and he’s waiting for someone to find him and give him a proper burial. I’m afraid that person might be me, and I don’t know if I have the strength to help him.

Last week, I received an anonymous letter with no return address. Inside was a single photograph, old and faded, of a school building with a basement window. In the window, a boy’s face was visible, his eyes wide with fear. On the back were the words: ‘Find me. Before it’s too late.’ I haven’t told my sister, and I don’t know what to do. The fairgrounds are calling to me, and I’m afraid that if I go back, I might not be able to leave.