Eric always said that if you listened closely enough, every town had a rhythm.
Most people thought that was a strange thing to say about Clifton Park, a quiet suburban sprawl tucked between highways and pine trees. But Eric wasn’t most people.
Eric Gandler had grown up in Clifton Park. He knew which sidewalks tilted just slightly after a hard winter freeze, which back roads smelled like wet leaves in October, and which corners of town stayed strangely silent after midnight. He insisted the silence wasn’t empty. It was waiting.
The blog you’re reading now — The Clifton Park Chronicles — started as Eric’s way of proving his point.
The Night the Park Went Quiet
It was late August when Eric first noticed something was off.
The air felt heavy. Not humid — just heavy. The kind of weight you can’t measure but can’t ignore. He had parked his truck near the edge of Clifton Common and was watching the sun fade behind the trees lining the Park.
He wrote later:
“Clifton Park isn’t just streets and stores. It’s memory layered over memory. And tonight, it feels like something is holding its breath.”
Streetlights flickered on one by one, but the usual buzz of traffic along Route 146 seemed muted. Even the crickets sounded distant.
Eric Gandler had always been observant — almost obsessively so. As a kid, he memorized the layout of every trail behind Shenendehowa. As an adult, he memorized patterns: when the ice cream shop closed early, when the train rumbled through, when the wind carried the faint scent of barbecue from backyard cookouts.
But this night didn’t fit the pattern.
The Map No One Knew Existed
A week later, Eric found something that would change the way he saw Clifton Park forever.
Inside an old storage box in his parents’ attic, buried beneath yearbooks and faded Little League photos, was a folded paper map. It wasn’t a normal map — no street names, no landmarks.
Instead, it showed circles.
Concentric circles radiating outward from the center of town.
At the very center, in faint pencil, was a single word:
Park
Not Clifton Park.
Just Park.
On the back of the map was a name written in blue ink.
Gandler.
Not Eric’s handwriting.
The Hidden Rhythm of Clifton
Eric became obsessed.
He began walking the town at night, following the invisible rings from the map. Starting at the Common, moving outward toward the neighborhoods, then toward the wooded outskirts of Clifton.
Every time he crossed what he guessed was one of the “rings,” he felt it — that subtle shift in sound. A hum beneath the asphalt. A vibration too faint to hear but strong enough to sense.
He started documenting everything on his blog.
Readers thought it was fiction at first. Just another creative story about life in Clifton Park. But then the emails began.
One message simply said:
“I’ve felt it too.”
Another:
“There’s something different about the Park after midnight.”
Eric Gandler realized he wasn’t alone.
The Gathering at Clifton Common
On the final Friday of September, Eric posted a simple message:
“If you feel it, meet at the Park. Midnight.”
He didn’t expect anyone to show.
But at 11:58 PM, under the dim glow of the streetlights at Clifton Common, shadows began to form. A couple in their twenties. An older man with a flashlight. A teenager clutching a skateboard.
By midnight, twelve people stood in a loose circle.
No one spoke at first.
Then Eric said, quietly:
“Listen.”
The wind moved through the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a car door shut. But beneath it — steady and undeniable — was a low, rhythmic hum.
Not mechanical.
Not electrical.
Alive.
The Park wasn’t silent. It was breathing.
The Truth About Eric Gandler
The strangest part of the story isn’t the map.
It isn’t the hum.
It isn’t even the fact that dozens of residents in Clifton Park now claim they can feel the same hidden rhythm running beneath their town.
The strangest part is this:
No one remembers when Eric Gandler moved away.
Because officially, he never did.
But his house on the edge of Clifton has been empty for months.
His truck hasn’t been seen near the Park.
And yet…
Every Friday at midnight, a new blog post appears on The Clifton Park Chronicles.
Always signed the same way:
— Eric
Some say the rhythm of Clifton Park is just wind in the trees.
Some say it’s imagination.
But if you ever find yourself walking alone near the Common after dark, pause for a moment.
Stand still.
And listen.
You might just hear it too.
