The Town That Forgot Sunday
Season 1, Episode 3episode order
27 minduration
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Episode notes
About this episode
A journalist travels to the isolated village of Dunmere, where no one can ever remember Sunday. Every Monday, residents wake with mud on their shoes, unexplained injuries, and signs that their dead loved ones have been inside their homes.
After recording the missing day on an old cassette, the journalist discovers that the dead return every Sunday. But they only become more human by feeding on the memories of the living. The more people remember them, the more they forget themselves. In the end, he realizes these visitors are not truly the people they lost, but something using grief to build faces, voices, and lives of its own.
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It is Monday morning. Six seventeen.
I am sitting inside my car, three miles beyond the edge of a village I do not remember leaving. The engine is running. The headlights are on. Rain is moving slowly across the windscreen.
I do not remember starting the car. I do not remember driving here. And I do not remember Sunday.
There is black mud across my shoes and beneath my fingernails. Both of my palms are bleeding. Somehow, there is mud on the ceiling above me.
Across the inside of the windscreen, someone has written a sentence backwards so I can read it from the driver's seat. The letters are uneven, as though they were written by a shaking hand.
It is my handwriting.
The sentence says, "Do not let her ask what you remember."
Then someone knocks on the driver's window.
A woman is standing outside in the rain. She is wearing a blue coat I have not seen in twenty-three years. For one impossible second, I know her face before my mind can protect me from it.
She lo
I am sitting inside my car, three miles beyond the edge of a village I do not remember leaving. The engine is running. The headlights are on. Rain is moving slowly across the windscreen.
I do not remember starting the car. I do not remember driving here. And I do not remember Sunday.
There is black mud across my shoes and beneath my fingernails. Both of my palms are bleeding. Somehow, there is mud on the ceiling above me.
Across the inside of the windscreen, someone has written a sentence backwards so I can read it from the driver's seat. The letters are uneven, as though they were written by a shaking hand.
It is my handwriting.
The sentence says, "Do not let her ask what you remember."
Then someone knocks on the driver's window.
A woman is standing outside in the rain. She is wearing a blue coat I have not seen in twenty-three years. For one impossible second, I know her face before my mind can protect me from it.
She lo
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