GROUNDHOG DAY

 Just revisiting and revamping old bits O scribbles. - MM

He had always loved Groundhog Day. 

It was the day Phil made his prediction.

It was also his grandfather’s birthday.

He had never quite decided which mattered more.

He really loved Groundhog Day.

Not loudly. Not with hats or souvenirs. He loved it quietly, the way some people love ghost stories — because beneath the silliness, there was something older.

A small animal dragged from the earth.

A crowd gathering before dawn.

A prophecy.

It sounded ridiculous when you said it out loud. But when you thought about it too long, it felt like something older than reason.

Punxsutawney was only seventy-five miles from his house. He had never gone. No one ever wanted to make the trip. Too early. Too cold. Too pointless.

Until she suggested it.

The call came Thursday afternoon. Simple. Casual.

"We should go."

By Saturday, plans were made. They'd leave around three in the morning. He tried to sleep beforehand but couldn’t. The anticipation sat in his chest like too much caffeine.

The roads were empty. Pennsylvania before dawn in February always felt heavier somehow. The hills seemed closer. The darkness thicker. Headlights didn’t push back the night so much as carve narrow tunnels through it.

By the time they reached Punxsutawney, the town was already awake.

The Sheetz parking lot glowed under fluorescent lights. People moved quietly through the drizzle. Steam rose from coffee cups. Laughter echoed in the cold air, louder than it should have been.

They bought snacks and drove to the shopping plaza to wait for the bus.

There was more waiting than expected.

The parking lot filled with tailgaters. Grills hissed. People drank in the darkness. The drizzle clung to everything - coats, hats, eyelashes.

It didn’t feel like a party.

It felt like a gathering.

They boarded the bus around five.

Gobbler’s Knob was mud. Thick, sucking mud. Straw scattered across it like something meant to cover tracks.

The trees surrounding the clearing were bare and black, reaching upward like skeletal hands.

Thousands of people were already there.

Standing.

Waiting.

Bonfires burned low. Smoke drifted through fog. Vendors sold fried food. Rows of port-a-johns lined the edges like silent barricades.

Music played.

Two emcees shouted jokes into microphones. A troupe of young girls danced endlessly, mechanically smiling into the mist.

They danced too long.

Then the cauldrons ignited.

Fire burst upward. Fireworks cracked overhead. The Star Wars theme blared across the clearing.

Smoke and drizzle merged into something unreal. Firelight flickered across thousands of faces.

The cheering rose.

And suddenly, it felt less like entertainment and more like ritual.

The men in top hats looked less like hosts and more like officiants. The crowd swayed. The fog held the firelight too long.

He imagined the ground opening.

Something ancient rising.

A horned groundhog, red-eyed and enormous.

The crowd offering something in exchange for spring.

The thought lingered.

Then the Inner Circle arrived.

Black coats. Top hats. Slow, deliberate movements.

They looked like undertakers.

Or high priests.

The crowd quieted.

Then the delay.

A medical emergency near the stage. Someone fainted. EMTs pushed through the crowd. The pause stretched longer than it should have.

When the music resumed, it sounded wrong.

Then Phil appeared.

Sedated. Quiet. Held carefully.

The scroll was placed.

The crowd fell silent.

Six more weeks of winter.

Groans. Cheers. Laughter.

The ritual was complete.

They began walking toward the buses.

Halfway across the clearing, she slowed.

"Did you hear that?" she asked.

He listened.

At first, nothing.

Then…

A rustling.

Not loud. Not close.

But everywhere.

Soft movements beneath the trees. Low to the ground. Dozens of faint shifting sounds.

He glanced toward the tree line.

Shapes.

Small.

Still.

Watching.

The fog moved.

Then they were gone.

Probably just shadows.

They boarded the bus.

As it pulled away, he glanced back one last time.

Along the edge of the clearing, the shapes were there again.

Dozens.

Maybe more.

Still watching.

Then the trees swallowed them.

They reached home mid-morning.

The sky had cleared, leaving a thin crust of old snow in the yard. The kind that lingered in shaded places long after everything else had melted.

He stepped out of the car first.

That's when he saw them.

Tracks.

Small.

Hundreds of them.

They crossed the yard in tangled paths, pressed deep into the remaining snow.

From the woods.

To the house. His grandfather's old house.

Back again.

His stomach tightened.

She stepped beside him.

"You see that?"

He nodded.

They followed the tracks with their eyes.

They all led toward the small patch of woods behind the house.

The trees there were thin and crowded. The snow lingered beneath them, untouched except for the tracks.

And then he saw them.

At first, just shapes.

Low.

Dark.

Still.

Then...

Eyes.

Red.

Bright red.

One pair.

Then another.

Then dozens.

They didn’t move.

They just watched.

So many of them.

Waiting where the light faded into shadow.

He felt her hand tighten on his sleeve.

Neither of them spoke.

The shapes remained still for a long moment.

Then, slowly, silently…

they slipped backward into the trees.

The red eyes faded.

One by one.

Until only the dark remained.

He stood there a long time.

Later, inside, he turned on the television.

The smiling announcer appeared.

"Punxsutawney Phil has predicted six more weeks of winter."

The footage rolled.

Fire.

Fog.

Crowd.

Top hats.

And for just a second - barely noticeable - the camera caught the tree line.

Small dark shapes.

Waiting.

Watching.

He turned off the television.

Outside, beyond the yard…

something was moving in the woods.

copyright notice © 2015/2026 Michael C. Metzger

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