There is something wrong with Greensdale Volunteer Fire Station
I've always wanted to be a firefighter, my grandfather was a captain in Philadelphia and would always tell me stories about his adventures, riding the stick up high-rise buildings to save a baby dangling from a fire escape (okay so they were a little exaggerated. When I was 10, my family moved up north to Greensdale, Pennsylvania, and I didn't really talk with my grandfather much after.
I lived a block away from the Greensdale Volunteer Fire Department and I always wanted to meet the firefighters there, but was too shy to approach them. I was 14 when I learned about the Junior Firefighter program and wasted no time joining.
The first month was covered in a thin veil of wonderment and excitement, I felt like I was really a part of the team, and the firefighters were very friendly and welcomed me in with open arms. It didn't take long before the cracks started to show however.
I could tell you about the time I was on call with a man who died in 1933, or about the hundreds of times we get ambulance calls from elderly women talking about the, "Picket Man" in their yard (I haven't had the pleasure of going on these those calls though). So I'll tell you about Ryan. Ryan was another Junior, I didn't talk with him much and he didn't me, mostly due to a mild speech impediment and a southern accent that stuck out this far north, but he didn't seem like a bad kid.
I had been working with the company for about a year at this point, and he asked me to teach him about the stuff on the apparatus. "Cool, I can do that." It was refreshing to see somebody actually interested in the fire service, as our other 2 juniors were only here for community service and would often shirk duties, straight up leave on calls and steal equipment, all these problems and more are my problem since I was 'Chief of Juniors,' a fake title/position given to me because our lieutenant couldn't be bothered to babysit juniors.
I went over the equipment on our truck and when I started to move to the engine, he stopped me and asked, "Wait, what's in compartment D-4?" I stopped and looked back at him with a blank face and replied, "You don't need to worry about that."
Our truck isn't supposed to have a compartment D-4, but from time to time, somebody mentions a rectangular compartment labeled D-4, we don't ever open it, mostly because we can't. We've tried everything to force it open, whenever it shows up, but it never does, which speaks leagues about us because forcible entry is supposed to be our bread and butter.
He kept asking about it and I finally replied, "Yes, we have a compartment D-4, but we shouldn't." That shut him up.
Occasionally from the off-duty room or game room as we call it, you will hear a old call box ring, most firefighters reading this will know what it sounds like, but to those who don't know, it's a bell rapidly being rung pretty much. Ryan asked where the call box was and I pointed to a part of the wall where there was a rectangular area with no paint, in the shape of a call box. "It was right there."
We haven't had a call box for years, the department sold it at an auction in 2001 because we really had no use for it and it would go off for no reason despite having no power connected to it. Apparently it wasn't done with us yet. Ryan stopped asking questions altogether at that point, you learn to accept the weird shit that goes down here.
One last story, this happened last night and I can say it is the first time it has happened. I'm currently studying to take my firefighter 1 class when I'm 18 and as most firefighters know, those can be stressful. I crashed at the station despite the curfew instated for juniors, but nobody really enforced it except the Chief.
I awoke to see a silhouette outside the window of the door. I rose quickly to try to identify who they were, when my vision began to focus, he vanished. Okay, kind of weird. I got up and left the room quietly as to not awaken the live-ins who desperately need their sleep.
I faintly saw the figure cross a corner leading to a turnout gear storage closet. We aptly dubbed it 'The Graveyard,' I had been in there a few times, but I was always with a senior member, they don't like juniors being on their own because of some recent thefts. I entered the room and immediately I almost tripped. In front of me was a stairwell. A fucking stairwell. Our bunk room was on the second floor and this should have led into the social hall. I sighed and descended the stairs accepting my situation.
The floor was sticky, when I got down I thought I could hear the faint sound of keys jingling mixed with footsteps in the distance. The room was dimly lit, though I couldn't find the source of the light. I saw wire shelves stocked with random stuff like plates, light bulbs, toy trucks, folding chairs and soap. There was no pattern of items. I was looking at all these and I didn't notice a nail on the floor, I stepped on it and screamed in pain.
I heard the keys shift suddenly, whoever was down here with me just turned towards me. The dim light went out and I could hear the shelves and their contents stilling onto the floor. I turned to where I thought I came from and hit a wall. Somehow the thing was still in pursuit of me, like it could see me. I heard a deep distorted voice say behind me, "What's in compartment D-4 Matthew." Not said like a question, like a regular statement.
Laughter erupted around me, high pitched, grainy laughter, like it was being played on an old recording. I spun around to see a man of average build, likely six and a half feet, towering over my 5 foot 9 stature. His face looked like a marshmallow left in the fire for too long. I passed out and landed on the cold sticky floor I awoke in the bunk in a cold sweat.
"Thank fuck, it was just a dream." I thought as I looked towards the door, in the window I know I saw that face again. I assumed it was a hallucination until I put my hand on the back of my head and felt my sticky hair and noticed my foot was bleeding all over the sheets
Submitted July 11, 2018 at 05:55PM by Sal4Sale