A Saskatchewan Creepypasta
Somewhere on the Canadian prairies, a town has been disappearing one memory at a time.
Chapter 1: The Missing Tuesday
The first thing the town of Bellweather forgot was Tuesday.
Not the word. Not the calendar day. The people simply forgot that a particular Tuesday had ever happened.
Bellweather was a small Saskatchewan farming community about two hours south of Saskatoon. It had a population of 1,842, a grain elevator taller than the church steeple, and a diner where the coffee was terrible but nobody complained because there wasn't anywhere else to go.
I moved there in October 2025 after my divorce. My name is Daniel Mercer, and at forty-six, I wanted somewhere quiet to start over. Bellweather seemed perfect. The rent was cheap, the people were friendly, and the surrounding prairie stretched so far that the horizon looked like the edge of the world.
I rented a small house on Railway Avenue and found work repairing computers at the local electronics shop.
For the first few months, everything was normal.
Then came February 10.
I remember the date because it was my birthday.
I woke up that morning, made coffee, and checked my phone. There were no birthday messages, which wasn't unusual. My family and I weren't particularly close anymore.
I went to work.
The shop owner, an elderly man named Harold, greeted me with a strange expression.
"You're early," he said.
I looked at the clock. It was 9:02 a.m.
"I start at nine."
Harold frowned.
"No, you don't."
I assumed he was joking.
Then I noticed the calendar behind his desk.
February 9.
I checked my phone again.
February 10.
"Your calendar's wrong," I said.
Harold stared at me.
"What do you mean?"
"It's Tuesday."
He shook his head.
"Today's Wednesday."
I laughed.
"Harold, it's Tuesday. Look at my phone."
He examined the screen, then glanced at the wall calendar.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he did something that made the laughter die in my throat.
He began to cry.
"I remember Monday," he whispered. "I remember Wednesday."
He looked at me.
"But I don't remember Tuesday."
I thought he was having a medical emergency and called his daughter to take him home.
Before leaving, Harold grabbed my wrist.
"Daniel, listen to me. If you remember something nobody else remembers, don't tell them."
"Why?"
His eyes darted towards the shop window.
"Because that's how it finds you."
Then he walked out into the snow.
That afternoon, I discovered something else.
My birthday cake was sitting on my kitchen counter.
I lived alone.
There was a single candle in the middle, and someone had written a message in chocolate icing.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DANIEL. WE'RE GLAD YOU REMEMBERED.
I hadn't bought the cake.
I hadn't told anyone it was my birthday.
And the handwriting looked exactly like mine.
Chapter 2: The Photographs
The next morning, Bellweather was behaving as though nothing had happened.
The school bus ran on schedule. Farmers drove their trucks down Main Street. Children played hockey on the outdoor rink.
When I asked people about Tuesday, they looked at me strangely.
"What Tuesday?" a woman at the grocery store asked.
"Yesterday."
"Yesterday was Monday."
"No, it wasn't."
She smiled politely, the way people do when they think someone is confused.
I showed her my phone.
She stared at the date.
Then she dropped her shopping basket.
Inside were three cartons of milk, a loaf of bread, and a birthday card.
The card was addressed to me.
She picked it up with trembling hands.
"I don't know why I bought this," she whispered.
I opened it.
Inside, in neat blue handwriting, were the words:
Daniel, please stop looking for yesterday.
That evening, I searched my house for evidence of Tuesday.
I found it in my bedroom closet.
A shoebox sat on the top shelf. I didn't remember putting it there, but inside were photographs of my life in Bellweather.
There was one of me standing outside the electronics shop.
Another showed me eating breakfast in a restaurant.
The third showed me standing beside a little girl I had never seen before.
She looked about eight years old, with dark hair, pale skin, and a yellow winter coat.
She was smiling at the camera.
I turned the photograph over.
Someone had written:
DANIEL AND EMILY. FEBRUARY 10, 2025.
I had arrived in Bellweather in October 2025.
The date on the photograph was eight months before I moved there.
I examined the picture closely.
The girl was holding my hand.
And I was looking at her with an expression I hadn't seen on my face in years.
I looked happy.
On the back of the photograph, beneath the date, someone had written another sentence.
You promised you wouldn't forget me.
I had never had a daughter named Emily.
I was certain of that.
But when I looked at the photograph again, I noticed something that made my stomach turn.
The little girl had six fingers on her left hand.
And all six were wrapped around mine.
Chapter 3: The Woman at the Library
Bellweather's public library occupied a small brick building beside the town hall. It smelled of old paper, dust, and floor polish.
I went there on Thursday morning to look through the town's historical records.
The librarian, a woman named Margaret, had worked there for thirty years.
When I explained what I was looking for, she didn't seem surprised.
Instead, she locked the front door.
"Come with me," she said.
She led me into the basement, where rows of filing cabinets stood beneath flickering fluorescent lights.
"Every twenty-seven years," she said, "Bellweather forgets something."
"What do you mean?"
"Sometimes it's a day. Sometimes it's a person. Once, it was the entire month of August."
She pulled a folder from a cabinet.
Inside were newspaper clippings dating back to 1917.
One headline read:
FARMER CLAIMS WIFE HAS NEVER EXISTED; FAMILY DISPUTES HIS ACCOUNT.
Another read:
SCHOOLCHILDREN FORGET CLASSMATE; EMPTY DESK REMAINS THROUGHOUT YEAR.
A third was dated February 10, 1971.
BELLWEATHER RESIDENTS REPORT SHARED MEMORY LOSS. TOWN COUNCIL DECLINES COMMENT.
I looked at Margaret.
"What causes it?"
She shook her head.
"Nobody knows. But the old people say there's something beneath the town."
"Something underground?"
"Something that remembers what we forget."
She opened another folder.
Inside was a map of Bellweather.
Beneath the grain elevator, marked in red pencil, was a large circular shape.
At its centre was a handwritten label.
THE ARCHIVE.
"What is this?" I asked.
Margaret's face had gone pale.
"My grandfather drew that map. He was one of the men who helped build the original grain elevator."
"What's the Archive?"
She closed the folder.
"An underground room. They found it while digging the elevator's foundations. It wasn't made by people."
"What was it made by?"
Margaret looked at me.
"Nobody knows. The walls were covered in writing. Not words. Memories."
She swallowed.
"My grandfather said the walls changed whenever someone in Bellweather forgot something."
I stared at the map.
"And what's down there now?"
Margaret began backing away.
"Don't go looking for it."
"Why?"
"Because the last man who went down there came back without his shadow."
She turned towards the stairs.
"And three days later, everyone forgot he had ever existed."
Chapter 4: Emily
I began dreaming about the little girl.
Every night, I saw her standing in a field of snow beneath a grey sky.
She always wore the same yellow coat.
She never spoke.
She simply stood there, watching me.
On the fifth night, I dreamed that I was standing beside her.
"Who are you?" I asked.
She looked up at me.
"You know who I am."
"No, I don't."
Her expression changed.
For the first time, she looked angry.
"You said you'd come back."
I woke up sweating.
My bedroom clock read 3:17 a.m.
A noise came from the living room.
Someone was knocking on the front door.
I grabbed a baseball bat and crept down the hallway.
When I opened the door, I found a woman standing on my porch.
She looked about forty, with tired eyes and a knitted scarf wrapped around her neck.
"Daniel?" she asked.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Sarah."
She looked past me into the house.
"Have you remembered her yet?"
I tightened my grip on the bat.
"Remembered who?"
Sarah began to cry.
"Emily."
She stepped inside without waiting for permission.
"She was your daughter."
I stared at her.
"That's impossible."
"No, Daniel. What's impossible is what happened to her."
Sarah sat on my sofa and explained.
According to her, I had lived in Bellweather for years. I had married a woman named Claire, and we had a daughter named Emily.
Emily had been eight years old when she disappeared.
It happened on February 10, 2025.
She had been playing outside during a snowstorm. Claire had gone inside to answer the telephone. When she returned, Emily was gone.
The police searched the fields, the ditches, and the frozen ponds surrounding the town.
They found nothing.
For months, I searched for her.
Then, according to Sarah, something happened.
I began forgetting Emily.
First, I forgot the sound of her voice.
Then I forgot her birthday.
Eventually, I forgot that I had ever had a daughter.
Claire couldn't bear to watch it happen.
She left Bellweather.
I never saw her again.
"You moved away," Sarah said. "You came back in October 2025, but you didn't remember any of it."
I shook my head.
"Why would I forget my own child?"
Sarah looked towards the window.
"Because Bellweather took her."
She leaned forward.
"And now it's taking the rest of us."
Chapter 5: The Grain Elevator
Sarah told me that the grain elevator was the entrance to the Archive.
The building had been constructed in 1916, but the underground chamber beneath it was much older.
Every twenty-seven years, something happened inside that chamber.
The town forgot.
And whatever had been forgotten became part of the Archive.
Sarah had spent months studying old records. She believed Emily hadn't died.
She believed the Archive had taken her memory and given it a physical form.
"That doesn't make sense," I said.
"I know."
"How can a memory have a physical form?"
Sarah looked at me sadly.
"How can you explain a dream? How can you explain remembering something that never happened?"
She handed me a photograph.
It showed the grain elevator in winter.
Standing beside the building was a little girl in a yellow coat.
Emily.
Behind her was a dark doorway that shouldn't have been there.
Sarah pointed to it.
"That's where we have to go."
We drove to the grain elevator just before midnight.
Snow blew across the empty fields.
The building towered above us, its wooden walls black against the night sky.
The entrance was locked.
Sarah produced an old key.
"My grandfather kept it."
The lock turned.
Inside, the air smelled of dust and damp earth.
We descended a narrow staircase into darkness.
At the bottom was a circular stone door.
It had no handle, no hinges, and no visible opening.
But as I approached, I heard a child's laughter coming from the other side.
I placed my hand against the stone.
It was warm.
Then I heard Emily's voice.
"Daddy?"
I fell to my knees.
I hadn't heard that voice in my dreams.
I hadn't heard it in years.
But somehow, I knew it.
I knew exactly how she sounded when she was happy.
I knew how she sounded when she was frightened.
And I knew how she sounded when she called me Daddy.
The stone door began to open.
Beyond it lay a staircase descending into the earth.
Sarah grabbed my arm.
"Whatever you see down there," she whispered, "remember that it wants you to stay."
I stepped into the darkness.
And the door closed behind us.
Chapter 6: The Archive
The staircase descended much farther than seemed possible.
We walked for what felt like an hour, though neither of us was certain how much time had passed.
There were no lights, but the walls glowed faintly.
They were covered in moving images.
A woman laughing at a kitchen table.
A boy riding a bicycle.
An elderly man holding his wife's hand.
Each image appeared and disappeared like reflections on water.
Memories.
Thousands of them.
Millions.
I saw a woman giving birth.
A child taking his first steps.
A man saying goodbye to his father in a hospital room.
Then I saw something that made me stop.
A little girl sat on a swing in a backyard.
She wore a yellow coat.
Emily.
I reached towards the wall.
The image rippled beneath my fingertips.
Suddenly, I remembered.
I remembered her first birthday.
I remembered teaching her to ride a bicycle.
I remembered the way she used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms.
I remembered her laughter.
And I remembered February 10, 2025.
The snowstorm.
The empty backyard.
The police officers standing in my kitchen.
My wife screaming.
I remembered searching until my feet bled.
I remembered sitting in a hospital waiting room, begging a doctor to tell me my daughter was alive.
Then I remembered something else.
Something I had spent years trying to forget.
Emily hadn't simply disappeared.
I had seen her standing beside the grain elevator that night.
She had been crying.
She told me someone was calling her from inside the building.
I told her to stay where she was.
Then I went to investigate.
I left her alone for less than five minutes.
When I returned, she was gone.
I had never told anyone about the voice.
Because I had heard it too.
It had sounded exactly like me.
Sarah was watching me.
"You remember now," she whispered.
I nodded.
Tears ran down my face.
Then the walls began to shake.
A voice filled the chamber.
It sounded like thousands of people speaking at once.
WELCOME BACK, DANIEL MERCER.
The images on the walls stopped moving.
Every face turned towards me.
And somewhere in the darkness ahead, a little girl began to scream.
Chapter 7: The Girl Who Never Grew Up
We found Emily at the centre of the Archive.
She stood inside a circular chamber surrounded by towering walls of black stone.
She looked exactly as she had in the photographs.
Eight years old.
Yellow coat.
Dark hair.
Six fingers on her left hand.
She was holding a stuffed rabbit.
When she saw me, she dropped it.
"Daddy!"
She ran towards me.
I caught her in my arms.
She was warm.
She was real.
I held her so tightly that she complained she couldn't breathe.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry."
She pressed her face against my shoulder.
"I waited for you."
I closed my eyes.
"I know."
"No, Daddy. You don't."
She pulled away.
Her eyes were full of tears.
"I waited for you every day."
I looked around the chamber.
"What happened to you?"
Emily glanced at the walls.
"The people here don't know they're dead."
My blood turned cold.
"What?"
"They're all the things people forget. People, places, days. Everything."
She pointed towards the walls.
"They live here."
I looked at Sarah.
She was standing perfectly still.
Her face had become strangely pale.
"Sarah?"
She didn't answer.
Emily took my hand.
"We have to leave before it wakes up."
"What wakes up?"
The chamber shook.
A deep sound rose from beneath the floor.
It wasn't a voice.
It was something enormous breathing.
Emily began to cry.
"The thing that remembers everything."
A crack appeared in the stone floor.
Then another.
The walls began to glow.
Every forgotten face turned towards us.
And together, they spoke.
YOU CANNOT TAKE WHAT BELONGS TO US.
Sarah screamed.
Her body flickered like a television losing its signal.
For one terrifying moment, I could see through her.
Beneath her skin was a hollow space filled with moving images.
She looked at me.
"Daniel, I need you to remember something."
Her voice was breaking apart.
"I wasn't the one who found you."
She reached towards Emily.
"I was the one who took her."
Then she disappeared.
A photograph fell to the floor.
It showed Sarah standing beside the grain elevator in 1971.
She hadn't aged a day.
Chapter 8: The Price of Remembering
Emily pulled me towards the staircase.
We ran through the chamber as the walls began to split apart.
Images spilled from the stone like water.
I saw people I had known throughout my life.
My parents.
My old friends.
My former wife.
And hundreds of strangers whose faces I somehow recognized.
All of them were screaming.
At the bottom of the staircase, a doorway appeared.
Beyond it was my old house in Bellweather.
The front door stood open.
I could see the kitchen.
The birthday cake.
The chocolate icing.
Everything looked exactly as it had on February 10.
Emily stopped.
"Daddy, don't go through that door."
"Why?"
"Because it's not the real world."
I looked at her.
"What do you mean?"
She began to tremble.
"The Archive doesn't just keep memories. It makes new ones."
She pointed towards the doorway.
"That's where it puts the things it wants you to forget."
A figure stood in the kitchen.
My former wife, Claire.
She was crying.
"Daniel?"
I took a step towards her.
Emily grabbed my hand.
"That's not Mommy."
Claire walked towards us.
She looked exactly as I remembered her.
The same face.
The same voice.
The same little scar beneath her chin.
"Please," she whispered. "Come home."
For a moment, I wanted to believe her.
Then she smiled.
And I noticed something wrong with her hands.
Each one had six fingers.
I backed away.
The woman in the doorway began to scream.
Her face stretched.
Her mouth opened far too wide.
Behind her stood hundreds of copies of Emily, all wearing yellow coats, all staring at me.
The staircase began to collapse.
Emily squeezed my hand.
"There's only one way out."
"How?"
She looked at me with an expression that no child should ever have.
"You have to give it something it can't keep."
I stared at her.
"What?"
She whispered the answer.
"Your memory of me."
Chapter 9: The Forgotten Father
I understood what Emily was asking.
The Archive had taken her because I had heard its voice.
It had kept her alive inside a world made of forgotten things.
And now, to free her, I had to forget her again.
I couldn't do it.
I had already lost eight months of my life without remembering my daughter. I had lived in a house where her photographs sat hidden in a closet. I had eaten meals, gone to work, and slept peacefully while she waited beneath the earth.
I couldn't abandon her a second time.
"No," I said.
Emily began to cry.
"Daddy, please."
"No!"
The walls shook.
The enormous thing beneath the floor began to rise.
I couldn't see its body, but I could feel it pushing against the chamber, pressing against reality itself.
The voices returned.
EVERYTHING IS FORGOTTEN EVENTUALLY.
I looked at Emily.
Then I remembered something.
A tiny moment from years earlier.
Emily had been sitting on my lap while I read her a bedtime story. She had asked me whether I would remember her when she grew up.
I told her that I would remember everything.
She had laughed.
"Even when I'm a hundred?"
"Even then."
She had kissed my cheek.
"Good. Because I don't want to be forgotten."
I held her hand.
"I won't forget you."
She smiled through her tears.
"Then you'll have to give it something else."
I looked at the walls.
At the millions of memories.
At the faces of everyone who had ever lived in Bellweather.
And I understood.
The Archive wasn't hungry for memories.
It was hungry for people who remembered.
It needed someone to keep the forgotten things alive.
Someone who could remember what everyone else had lost.
I stepped away from Emily.
"I'll stay."
She shook her head.
"No!"
"I'll remember you."
The chamber fell silent.
The thing beneath the floor stopped moving.
For the first time, I heard its voice clearly.
It sounded like my own.
THEN YOU WILL REMEMBER EVERYTHING.
I nodded.
The floor opened beneath me.
I fell into darkness.
Emily screamed my name.
And then, for the first time in her life, she forgot her father.
Chapter 10: The Town Remembers
Bellweather woke on February 11, 2026, to a strange discovery.
Nobody remembered February 10.
But this time, something was different.
People remembered everything else.
The farmer remembered his wife.
The children remembered their classmates.
Harold remembered his birthday.
And every person in Bellweather remembered a little girl named Emily Mercer.
They remembered her yellow coat.
They remembered her laughter.
They remembered the day she disappeared.
They remembered the search parties, the police officers, and the desperate father who had never stopped looking for her.
But nobody remembered Daniel Mercer.
His house was gone.
His job no longer existed.
The town's records showed that no man by that name had ever lived in Bellweather.
Only one thing remained.
A photograph.
It showed an eight-year-old girl standing in a snowy field, holding a stuffed rabbit.
On the back, someone had written:
My daddy promised he would never forget me.
Emily kept the photograph in her bedroom.
She grew up, left Bellweather, and eventually had children of her own.
She never forgot the man in the photograph.
Sometimes, when she was sad, she would look at his face and feel a strange warmth in her chest.
She couldn't explain why.
But she knew he had loved her.
More than anything in the world.
And far beneath the Saskatchewan prairie, in a chamber older than humanity, Daniel Mercer remembered.
He remembered every person who had ever been forgotten.
Every child who had disappeared.
Every mother whose name had vanished from family photographs.
Every man who had died alone.
He remembered their voices.
Their faces.
Their lives.
And every twenty-seven years, when Bellweather forgot something new, Daniel was there to remember it.
Forever.
Or so he thought.
Epilogue: February 10, 2053
Emily was thirty-six when she returned to Bellweather for her mother's funeral.
The town had changed very little.
The grain elevator still stood above the rooftops, and the church steeple still pointed towards the endless prairie sky.
She hadn't visited in years.
On her last night in town, she walked to the grain elevator.
She didn't know why.
Something seemed to be calling her.
The entrance was unlocked.
Inside, she found a staircase descending into darkness.
At the bottom was a circular stone door.
She placed her hand against it.
It was warm.
A voice came from the other side.
"Emily?"
She froze.
She knew that voice.
She had heard it in dreams for nearly thirty years.
"Daddy?"
The door began to open.
Beyond it stood a man with tired eyes and grey hair.
He looked exactly like the man in her photograph.
He smiled.
"Hello, sweetheart."
Emily began to cry.
She stepped towards him.
But before she could reach him, he raised one hand.
"Wait."
His expression changed.
"There's something you need to know."
The walls behind him began to glow.
Millions of faces appeared in the stone.
Every face was staring at Emily.
And every face was smiling.
Her father took a step backwards.
"Emily, you must never come here again."
"Why?"
He looked at the walls.
"Because the Archive has learned something new."
"What?"
He swallowed.
"It has learned how to forget itself."
The lights went out.
And somewhere beneath the earth, something enormous began to laugh.
THE END.
Source: Some or all of the content was generated using an AI language model
Pilots, like professionals in any field, have certain practices and behind-the-scenes activities that they prefer passengers not be aware of, either to maintain an air of professionalism, ensure passenger confidence, or due to the complexities and nuances of their job. Here are some of these practices:
