text: When I was young, my friends and I would go to The Pink Barn. It was an isolated building past the woods that lay behind the playground of our small (almost deserted) suburban neighbourhood I remember we were all around 11-14 years old. It was our little hideout. Our place to stay when our parents would shoo us away from our cartoons. It was always sunny, where we lived. Not anything like where I am now. The days we would visit The Pink Barn always started the same: I would be the first one to be shooed out by my dad. He had to watch his football, and I tried to fake protest just so he wouldn't get suspicious. Then I'd make my way to Dennis's house. He was always dressed and ready by the time I rang the doorbell, looking at me with a smile money couldn't pay for. We'd then go to Maya's, then to Tom's house, dragging them out with promises of adventure and mischief. Things only The Pink Barn could provide. Eventually, we'd all spend a small amount of time on the playground, mostly so that Tom and Maya could check if we weren't being watched by one of the nosy neighbours like Mrs. Dachman. Once the coast was clear and a few cars passed by, we'd all book it into the woods. A few giggles and someone tripping over a branch or rock (mostly Dennis) later, the woods would make way for a clearing, revealing a green field and a vibrantly pink barn smack dab in the middle of it. It was out of place, for sure. We all knew that it didn't belong where it was, but none of us knew how much of a red flag that was. The barn was always empty. But it still had stalls and bars to swing on. Rusty bars. One thing that stood out to us was that there was always fresh hay in the barn. We would play with it and throw it around, scattering it all around the barn. But the next day, the hay would always be where it was before we touched it. Tom told us that it was because the owners came at night and cleaned up our mess. Since then, we have decided not to scatter all the hay around. But we would still play with it. It was the same thing, every time we went to The Pink Barn. Every time. Until it wasn't one day. Dad was shooing me out of the house again and I was grumbling again (as per routinely facade), sliding into my purple-pink glittering shoes when Mom yelled from the kitchen that it was going to rain later and I should be back earlier. But I was already fixed on spending the usual time in The Pink Barn, so I pretended I didn't hear her and waddled out the door, headed for Dennis's house. When I opened the door, his mother told me Dennis had headed to the playground already and gave me a bag with bottles of water. The bag he always brought with him. I took the bag and headed over to Maya's place, telling her that Dennis had gone ahead without us. She muttered threats against Dennis in a half-playful way as she put on her shoes, and we made our way to Tom's house. Tom shrugged when he heard the news and just said he hoped he made sure no one saw him. When I asked him why, he didn't answer. As Tom pulled the gates open, we peered into the barn, expecting to see Dennis belly flopping into the pile of hay, like he always did. It was his whole thing. We called him Flat-Belly-Denny because of how he poured his heart into it. It was an art to behold. But he was nowhere to be found. We searched the barn, where we could. Even around the walls. Nothing but mold, rust, dirt, hay and a strange mixture of pinkish slime paired with a black substance we had never seen before. Something was very off. Maya called the two of us back into the barn while we were getting distracted by a piece of metal buried in the ground. She pointed at the hay, not saying a word. But the tears on her eyes and her trembling knees said all they needed to. And as Tom parted the hay to reveal a bloody heart buried inside, I retched, hunching over and hugging my belly. It was still beating. Tom immediately buried it back in the hay and said that we had to leave now, in a very monotone voice. He was just about to shove me and Maya past the gate when we heard cracking. Bones cracking. It sounded like how Tom would pop his neck, but louder. And more gut-wrenching. We slowly followed the sound. Me and Maya have a fair distance behind Tom. The sound came from a stall. As he opened the wooden door, a grimey pink tendril with inky black liquid stickily hanging around it stuck itself into Tom's head. Penetrating through his skull. It took Maya's shrill screaming and her full force to get me to move from my sudden paralysis and we sprinted back home, screaming until our vocal chords gave out. Four days later, we held a funeral for Dennis and were packing to move countries. Police were called to The Pink Barn. They never told us what happened or what was in there. A day after their investigation, the barn disappeared, leaving behind a crater where it once stood. The Pink Barn was gone. Part of me was relieved, but there was a sense of dread twisting and turning in my stomach, a feeling I can't explain to this day.