4 Scary Stories: Urban Legends, Cryptids & Cursed Rituals with DEMONS

Welcome back, my spookies. Tonight, the last street light is behind us, and every road leads somewhere the locals warned us not to go. In the Adirondack Pines, something enormous shakes a rattle in the dark. Beside an abandoned barn, a red octagon offers one final warning. Beyond a marked creek, an ancient hunger waits for its offering, And in a candlelit bedroom, a lonely question reaches the wrong side of the spirit world. These are places where folklore has rules, rituals demand payment, and even the most ridiculous legend can bear very real teeth. Oh lock your doors, leave the stop signs where they belong, and keep your hands off that planchette.

Turn down the lights, turn up the volume, and prepare yourself for four terrifying tales of monsters, forbidden bargains, and cursed curiosity. And then make sure you're subscribed on your favorite podcasting app because there's a brand new scary story right here on Weekly Spooky every single Wednesday. Now, let's begin the legend of Oopsy Poopsy by Joe sulmo. I first heard about Oopsy Poopsy by the locals. When I'm moved to the small Adirondack town of New Ellsworth, the town only had a handful of street lights and not a single sidewalk to be seen. One gas station was in the middle of town, across from the Baptist church that was built before the abolition of slavery.

But there were five bars around the local lake. I lived down the road a bit from one of the bars, on my own island of small house and yard, surrounded by a virtual ocean of evergreens. Even in the crisp fall air, the trees remained green. They were all lined up in rows. Those pines planted there by a lumberyard that had cleared it many years ago. It was at that lumberyard that I first heard of Oopsie Poopsie. I had blown a fuse in the garage, back when you could still find fuses, no circuit breakers in this house.

I was in the electric aisle when a man approached me. He had a name tag sewn into his shirt that said Sleepy Carl, Not just Carl, but sleepy Carl morning. Can I help you? He said in a helpful voice. His accent was a little bit off, like he had seen the words written, but maybe he hadn't heard them all used before. Well, I might be giving him too much credit. I'm not sure he could read. Looking for some fusees, friend, I said, rifling through the plastic containers holding loose fuses. Where do you live, he asked, leaning over me.

I could smell the chewing tobacco on his breath, and unfortunately watched as a small river of brown saliva raced down his chin like it was being chased by a rabid dog. And by a rabid dog, I mean that lonely incisor left in his mouth. I made eye contact with him, then both eyes half closed. Ah, yes, I thought, sleepy Carl. It all made sense. Here they are, I said, holding up a pair of thirty amp fuses. He didn't even look at my offering and kept weird eye contact with me. You the new guy over in the house on Sinclair, he asked, blocking my way to the register.

I couldn't tell if it was intentional or not. He seemed more stupid than intimidating. That would be the place, Sleepy Carl, I replied, Sleepy Carl, leave that guy alone. Came a woman's voice from the other side of the building. She wandered over to us. I was shocked at her beauty. I wasn't expecting such a sight in a backwoods town like this. Her long, wavy red hair flowed over her shoulders and down her work shirt, almost to her skinny waist. Carl jumped at the sound of her voice and wandered off into the plumbing aisle across the building as the woman approached.

Sorry for my brother. He likes to talk to people, learn about them, she said. He knows all about the folk that come in here. The woman extended her hand. I shook it. From this close, I could smell her shampoo, and it smelled nice. My name is I Dinah, she said John, I replied. Now that we are acquainted, I can go ring you up, she said over her shoulder. As she made her way to the register, I noticed sleepy Carl watching me from the inside of a toilet seat. He was holding it up at eye level and peeking through it inconspicuously.

Of course, he could have been called sly Carl with spy instincs like that. I couldn't help but smile. As I placed the fuses down on the counter, I picked up a folding utility knife from a display and put it with the fuses. I turned back to see Sleepy Carl still looking at me. His sister noticed me looking and her eyes followed my gaze. I watched her face redden in embarrassment. Sleepy Carl, get your oversized head out of that shitter seat. With a crash, Sleepy Carl woke up enough to drop the seat and run out the front door to the icy breeze of an early November morning in upstate New York.

He grabbed a rake and started gathering up the fallen leaves in the gravel parking lot. The sounds of scraping gravel drifted through the open wooden doorway. That'll be eight bucks, she said, with a smile. She opened a paper bag and shoved my items in. I rifled through my pockets and found a crumpled twenty and forked it over to her with a smile. She handed me my change and I thrust it into my pocket, still watching her brother fight with the leaves out front. Someone had pulled in and was yelling at him for being in the way.

Dnah sighed and ran past me out the door. I followed, but jumped in my car to get out of there instead of getting involved in whatever was happening. As I was putting on my seat belt, Sleepy Carl poked his head in the passenger side window. You meet OOPSI POOPSI yet, he asked, nearly dropping his tobacco spit on my passenger seat. What's an oopsie POOPSI? I asked, putting the car in gear. I can come over and explain, Sleepy Carl said, as he spat what was left on the parking lot. Leave him alone, and Dinah called over.

Let the poor man get back to his business. She grabbed Sleepy Carl by his ear and gave a yank. Apologize to this man for wasting his time. Sleepy Carl his head and mouthed sorry and walked slowly into the building. I gave a Dinah a quick wave and a smile and headed home forgetting all about a Dina, Sleepy Carl, and Oopsie Poopsie at least for a few weeks. I was working in the yard towards the middle of November, avoiding the call from the family to come to Thanksgiving dinner, when I noticed something in the tree line, a stark white in contrast to the dark green needles and the darker forest within.

I put down my rake and left my wheelbarrow full of pine cones and walked to the edge of the towering trees. There was a branch that had fallen in the last storm, about four feet long. I gave my rake a glance before picking up the dead branch. I poked at the white object and was horrified to find that this thing on the ground was a large diaper. Used Who the fuck, I asked out loud. Disgusted with my find I looked back at my wheelbarrow, contemplating loading the loaded diaper into it for disposal. With a sigh, I walked back to my yardwork supplies and picked up the handles on the wheelbarrow to bring it closer.

A gust of wind blew by me, and I heard a faint noise on the breeze. In hindsight, I knew what it was, my brain just couldn't fathom it. Back then, what I heard faintly was a baby's giggle. I continued to where the diaper was, and it was gone, nowhere to be found. Just then I heard another sound, the uneven steps of someone approaching. I turned back towards the yard and watched Sleepy Carl making his way across my yard and up to me. I gave him, I'm a quick wave as I turned around, looking into the trees.

Did you see a I started? What, Sleepy Carl asked? A diaper? Did you say a diaper? He asked with a spit of tobacco. I winced when I saw the glob land on the handle of my rake. I guess it was time to get a new one. I can just burn that one. Yeah, a diaper about this big, I said, holding my hands out like showing the old timer down at the bait shop, the size of the one that got away. Sleepy Carl frowned. He's already starting his shit. Who is I asked, closing the gap between us.

A bit oopsie, poopsie. He's taken a like in to you, Carl, Sleepy Carl, he interjected, pardon me, Sleepy Carl, what the fuck is an oopsy poopsy? We should find him, get him to stop before it gets out of hand. Sleepy Carl said, you've been in those woods. I looked at the rows of pines. Sleepy Carl was pointing at with a dirty finger, the tip of which was missing. Yeah, I walked through them a bit, checking it out. You shouldn't have, he said, with sadness in his voice. You got his attention. Who oopsy poopsy, we both said at the same time, but only he understood what we were talking about.

Listen, Sleepy Carl, I gotta finish up out here so I can get some dinner on the stove before dark. I explained. It looked like I only had about an hour left of sun and what little warmth it gave this time of year. Come with me, Sleepy Carl said in a store voice, and headed into the pine trees. I shook my head as I watched him walk deeper into the forest. After a moment of indecision, I gave chase. Wait up, Sleepy Carl, I called after him. Gotta keep up so we can make it back before the sunsets.

He explained what happens after the sunsets. I asked, he'll come looking, The local said, looking for me. Yep, was his monosyllable reply. I looked down at my hands and realized I was still carrying the rake with me. I felt silly at first, but as we walked deeper into those neat rows of pines, it was almost a comfort having it in my hands. The forest sure got spooky fast. After about ten minutes or so, walking in silence, Sleepy Carl stopped and ran his fingers over the bark of a tree. This way, he said, cutting to the right and up a slight rise.

I stopped at the tree and saw faded carved initials in the old bark c W loves e W. At the top of the rise, I could see there was a worn path through the woods leading down to a valley floor about thirty feet below, and heading deeper into the woods. I tried to look up at the sun to get a feel for the time, and all I could see were branches of pines blocking out most of the light. I was beginning to have a hard time seeing in front of my own face. How much farther is it?

I asked him. I placed a hand on his shoulder to get him to stop. For a moment. I was out of breath. Just over here, he said, pointing at a boulder on a small hill. The trail wrapped around the boulder had a white birch tree growing on the top of it like a unicorn horn, and I realized at some point we passed through the pine forest into a regular one. The autumn leaves had already fallen from the tree, leaving its bones pointing skyward. I tried to get a visual on the sun to figure out where we were, but the cloud cover and the bare deciduous trees blocked my view of it.

Sleepy Carl made a motion for me to wait here, and I leaned against one of those trees. As he made his way to the boulder and peaked around it. I noticed my heart wasn't pounding in my ears anymore, and I could breathe normally. I placed the rake I had been carrying against the tree. I curiously watched as Sleepy Carl stared off around the hill. He looked a little different, more attentive to his surroundings. I guess, less Sleepy Carl and more irregular Caral. He turned and looked at me before disappearing behind the boulder. I reached into my pocket for a cigarette, out of habit I had quit just before moving to New Ellsworth.

I turned my head listening for Sleepy Carl, but couldn't hear anything past the cold breeze going through the branches. I shuffled my feet, making the crisp leaves rustle underneath. This is when I got the feeling I was being watched. It didn't so much as creep up on me, as it just happened. I gave a quick look around and didn't see anything. I thought, maybe Sleepy Carl might be playing a trick on me. I didn't see him around. The hair stood up on my arm, but I couldn't tell if it was from the breeze or the feeling.

I heard that giggle again, like back in the yard, faint, almost inaudible. Maybe I should quit smoking the other stuff, I thought. I took a careful step towards the boulder, cautious not to rustle up the leaves too much. I heard the giggle again, this time a little louder closer. Sleepy Carl, you there, I whispered harshly. After another step. I listened for his response. Carl, A horrid stench drifted on the breeze. Pee ba doo baba, came a high pitched voice, just a bit louder than the giggle I heard. I swear if I find Sleepy Carl standing behind the boulder with one of those voice changer things laughing at me, I would beat him to death with my rake, my rake.

I took a step back and reached for it, not taking my eyes off that boulder, with that birch tree horn. I felt something soft in my hand and spun around, and that's when I saw him. It had to be him. The name now made sense. Oopsie poopsy, I forgot all about the rake. He looked me right in the eye from his left one. Anyway, The right eye kinda drooped a bit, kind of like sleepy Carls. But unlike sleepy carl Oopsy POOPSI had an oversized head that kind of wobbled on too small of a neck. It stood as tall as I did, wearing a filthy striped onesie a six foot bobble headed baby.

It opened its oversized mouth, revealing the largest and sparsest baby teeth I have ever seen in a gapped tooth smile. In his hand was a rattle the size of a baseball bat. Dried blood and matted hair adorned its bulbous end. It took an unsteady step towards me. At first, its head flung back by his momentum, then carried forward in a nodding motion as its large met the hard ground. I turned to run to escape the monstrosity behind me. Was it real? Could Sleepy Carls somehow have climbed into a giant baby suit to pull a fast one?

I really wanted to rip its head off and see what was inside, but my body was in full flight mode and my brain was just along for the ride. Got go, Boodoo Chase, I heard it say behind me, as the giant toddler began to lurch after Where the fuck was Sleepy Carl? I ran around the boulder and down the path that sank over a ridge and lost my footing sliding in the carpet of leaves about thirty yards before hitting a tree trunk with my ribs. I heard the air escape my lungs, and I couldn't even cry out in pain.

All I could do was clutch my side and WinCE. My vision was blurry for a few seconds. I heard he tried to blink it away. I could hear the damned thing shambling its way down the hill, giggling like this was some kind of game. I never did like kids, although I couldn't reason why, Well, now I had a reason. I got to my feet, still a bit unsteady, and headed farther down the only path through the forest. I could see in the growing darkness. Stumps, half buried, roots and rocks all jumped out to slow me down, and I could hear that top heavy toddler gaining on me.

Ahead in the darkness was a large wooden building. There was light coming from the broken windows and a door that stood open. I ran as fast as I could, hoping someone was inside to help me, anyone. I burst through the door, gasping for breath, clutching my ribs. I spun and slammed the door shut behind me and leaned against it for a minute as I took in my surroundings. Big rusty saws lined the wall, Machinery littered the floor. Or it looked like the place hadn't been used in years. Piles of leaves were in the corners from the wind whipping through that open door for years.

I made my way to a dusty and damp desk and sat in the chair to catch my breath. I heard nothing coming from outside. Maybe I lost that little bastard, well not little, it was as tall as me. I once again reached for the pack of cigarettes I didn't carry anymore. I rummaged through the drawer in the desk and found an old hunting knife. It was better than nothing you made it, I heard from behind me, and jumped so quickly the chair broke when I landed back on it. I picked myself up off the floor and looked at Sleepy Caral watching me.

What the fuck was that? Sleepy Carl, you just left me with that thing? Oopsy poopsie, he said, and spit tobacco onto the floor. You knew that thing was out there, and you brought me into the woods to do. What feed me to that thing? I asked him suspiciously, while gripping the handle on that hunting knife. No, you got me all wrong, Sleepy Carl said, and took a step closer, closing his hands up to show he was unarmed. Stay the fuck there, I responded, and showed him the knife. Wait a second, let me explain, will you, Sleepy Carl said.

He stepped backwards to show he was not a threat to me. From there, I said, putting my back to the wall so no Shenanigans could sneak up behind me. You want to explain how a fucking six foot baby with a rattle bat just chased me through the woods, giggling. He's not really a baby. It's complicated. He was a baby. The body grew, but the mind never did. He never lost his baby features, they just got bigger. It was account of the inbreeding, some say. Sleepy Carls started to explain with another spit of his chew. Had to be about twenty years ago.

Now that's when it happened, right here in these woods. His mother birthed him out of shame. She had hid her pregnancy and came out here to get rid of him. She was going to throw herself off the ravine, thinking it would cause a miscarriage or maybe even kill her. Then she wouldn't have to face anyone. Something went wrong with her plan, I asked. The father didn't want her to get rid of it. He followed her. Neither of them knew then what she carried in her belly. Just as she was about to jump, he grabbed her tried to save her.

She went into labor, hanging there from the cliff like an ornament on a Christmas tree. He tried to pull her up, but he wasn't strong enough. She begged him to let go, but he wouldn't. Then her water broke. They heard it splash the rocks thirty feet below. Jesus fucking Christ, I said, shaking my head. What do those two banging have to do with it? Carl asked. I didn't have the heart to tell him those names were just one person. I heard a bang on the door. Both Sleepy Carl and I turned our heads. There was no mistaking the rattle shaking before it hit the wood.

I didn't have much faith that the door was going to hold up. She gave birth right there on the cliff side. The baby dangling from the umbellical cord like a screaming chandelier from her lady parts smacked into the rocks. I gather that's how it got so ugly, Sleepy Carl said, as he raced over to the door, sliding an old filing cabinet in front of it. Help me. I made my way over and helped him put the cabinet in front of the door. Now failure, Goo bye do, I heard in a baby voice from the other side.

The rattle crashed into the door, splintering it. I could make out the baby's one good eye through the opening. Go on, get Sleepy, Carl said. I frowned. Really, you think that'll work, I asked. Couldn't hurt? Was his reply. Bye bye do eytime came its voice from the other side of the door. Then it let out a whale that made me WinCE and curl into the fetal position. The force of the whale sent the cabinet away from the door, and the woods splintered, showing us a six foot fetal monster framed in the doorway. He sounded hungry to you, Sleepy Carl asked, I wouldn't know.

Wait, no more pissed off if anything, I responded, as I realized the thing was walking towards me. Oopsie poopsy, Sleepy Carl called out. The baby turned towards him and raised its fingers to its lips, telling him to be quiet. Oopsie poopsy, he called out again. This time the larger than life baby turned towards him. It raised its rattle, about to strike now, it yelled at Sleepy Carl. OOPSI poopsy, he called out a third time. The baby frozen place after hearing its name a third time. We actually all frozen that moment. Not a sound stirred until the damn thing shit its pants right there in front of us.

The wettest of baby mustard shot up its back inside its striped onesie in an internal chocolate fountain, splattering the worn wood on the wall of the sawmill as it erupted from the back of the neck hole. Oopsie, the baby called out, dropping his rattle and clutching his cheeks. Change doodo. Don't look at me, Carl said, incredulously. Find your mother, he called out. The baby did a full diaper shuffle out into the forest. That should buy us some time. We need to get the fuck out of here, I said, climbing to my feet. The acrid smell of the diaper detonation still hung in the air.

I covered my nose with my sleeve. We can't not yet, sleepy Carl said. He pointed to the gang saw sitting there. He walked towards the control panel on a stand next to the machine. It still works. I tried it earlier. We have a chance to end this. What do you mean we, I asked him. No one in town will do anything about Oopsie Poopsie. I was hoping you, being an outsider, help help me kill it. Sleepy Carl explained, with a spit of tobacco. Why are you the one in town that wants to do something about it.

And how did you know saying his name three times would make him spurt a shit fond up its back, I asked him. A door opened on the second floor Foreman's office and outstepped a Dinah. Because he is Oopsie Poopsy's father, she dropped the bombshell on me. And you've met his mother, Sleepy Carl said, pointing at her with a sigh. Wait. I thought you too were brother and sister, I asked, confused, we are, they both said at the same time. That explained a lot. I thought. Let me finish my story, Sleepy Carl said. You see, with his love hanging there, with the screaming, angry faced pile of hate swinging from her like the pendulum on a grandfather clock, I realized that the child wasn't right.

It looked up at me with one good eye and gave me a look of pure brutality. How can something so new to the world hate so much? Then it gave me an evil smile and began to pull itself up on the umbellical cord, one hand over the other. He droned on as he relived the moment. I couldn't tell if it was coming for me or to unburth itself an abortion. I asked, tell him what you did next, A Dinah said, As Oopsi Poopsy entered the doorway behind her, she reached out her hand and gave him a loving pet, running her hand through his sparse hair.

I let go, Sleepy Carl said, absently. Oopsy Poopsy made the sound of an airplane going down and crashing. That's right, sweet child, A Dinah said, with a sad smile. Then she faced me. I fell down that ledge, landing on my baby. I heard him grow silent, and in that moment, I knew it was wrong for me to wish for my baby's death. I prayed that night, prayed to anything that would listen to save my baby, to allow him to grow up. A Dinah explained, something answered her. Sleepy Carl took over the story, something dark and primordial.

I couldn't make it down there in the ravine with her. These old woods are full of evil shit, just trying to fuck with you. I didn't hear the deal they made. By the time I made my way down to her, she was clutching Oopsie in her hands, crying as he took shallow breaths. Then he cried that whil we heard earlier the wail of the hungry I call it to feed him. That's what brought me out here tonight. A dinah said, I heard my hungry child's scream. She unbuttoned her shirt and pulled one of her breasts out.

Chunks of flesh were missing, and healed over, giving it the look of a breast shaped lumpy mashed potatoes with a chewed bubblegum nipple. Those are some tattered titters, Sleepy Carl said. Oopsie Poopsy ducked down and latched on with his one big tooth. A Dinah let out a sign that seemed forty percent pain and sixty percent ecstasy. It was about this time I got a bit creeped out, if I'm honest, but that boy ain't right. It's an abomination, Sleepy Carl said, looking around for something before grabbing a broken board. He should have died, then, How can you say that about the product of our love?

A dinah yelled over the top of the large head of her baby boy. What love? We boned in the hay behind old Man Thompson's barn after stealing mom's peach snops. She hid it under the porch when Pau took her back. I could barely stand up, let alone know who the fuck I was fucking, Sleepy Carl said, heading towards her. You know there was something between us, A Dinah yelled out, Oopsie poopsy let go of his mother's breast and began to cry as blood and milk ran down the front of her Mommy and daddy. No fight by goo, the monstrosity called out.

It threw its hands down in frustration before plopping itself down on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, blocking us from his mother, who was tucking herself back in and buttoning up. Please, EDNA help me make this shit right. You know this isn't a normal kid. It's like a baby balloon filled with hatred and shit, Sleepy Carl pleaded. But he is. Look at him, A Dinah said, with an adoring look on her face. He looks like someone smacked him with a towel while dropping the ugly tree on his face. He's murdered before. You know that.

I can't have that on my conscience When I die and face old Pete up there at the gates, I don't want him, saying I fathered a child murderer and let him run free. Sleepy Carl was all fired up. Now does he kill other children? I asked, what? No? Just outsiders? Really a Dinah answered, confused by my question. I was beginning to see that no matter which way the DNA fell, oopsie POOPSI had no chance to be a rocket scientist. Ah, child, that is a murderer, I said out loud. Now understanding, maybe I shouldn't look up any careers at NASA either.

It's time to end this, Sleepy Carl said, and charged awful infused offspring. He swung that board and bounced it off the moon sized forehead of Oopsy with a crack. The kid fell back into his mother's legs as she stood there in shot. It took only a few seconds for Oopsy to recover and begin to cry. What do men? It called out, and got to its feet. He grabbed Sleepy Carl and shook him hard, before pulling on his arm like a rag doll. I looked around for something to help him with and saw the baby blue of the rattle sitting by the door.

I ran over and grabbed it, the motion making a noise worthy of its namesake, oopsy POOPSI turned to face me. With a quick yank, he dislocated Sleepy Carl's arm and dropped him to the floor. He had found a new toy. He wanted to play with wine, he said in his baby voice. But sternly, come and get it, I said, said, raising it like I was looking to hit a home run. He hobbled towards me, feet slapping the floor as he thundered nearer. I was waiting for my moment to strike, and swung with all my might at his neck.

I figured that was his weak spot, since he had such a giant head. Crack yep, that stopped him, I thought, As the six foot obsentity crumpled to the floor, I cheered out loud before heading over to Sleepy Carl to see if he was okay. My baby a Dinah called out and ran towards me with her arms out to choke me, but a second swing of the bat dropped her too. I was not fucking around anymore. Carl, you okay, I asked, as I bent down next to him. He was whimpering in pain. Sleepy Carl, he whispered, seriously, you're gonna correct me, I asked, as I tried to help him to his feet without pulling on his bad arm.

How bad is it? I think you dislocated it. You're gonna have to reset it, Sleepy Carl said, bad toy, came Oopsy's voice from the floor. As it stirred. It looked down at a dinah laying on the floor, bleeding from where I cracked her with its rattle. Oh shit, did I kill her? I didn't mean to. Did I hurt mommy? It said, through drooling lips. As it got to its unsteady feet, the large bobble head swung around precariously. I wonder if I broke its neck. I raised the rattle and got between Sleepy Carl and his putrid progeny.

It took an ungainly step towards me. I gripped the handle tight, waiting for it to strike. It looked down at its mama. Sadness crossed its features. First it nudged her with its foot, then it kicked her. Mommy, hop it said, you leave her alone, yelled Sleepy Carl. One eye looked up at us, then returned to the motionless Adnah, mommy up, it said again, and kicked her hard. She slid a foot or so on the age worn wooden floor. Now knock that off, Sleepy Carl said, stepping around me. Oopsy snarled and came after us. I panicked and swung the rattle.

I missed Oopsy by a mile, but I did connect. Sleepy Carl went down with a scream. As I made contact with his shoulder. He crumpled into a muling pile next to a Dinah. Shit, sorry, sleepy Carl, I said, and took a step back from Oopsy as it looked at his parents lying on the floor. I backed against the saw I was running out of space to move. In desperation, I climbed up onto the platform. He followed me up, grabbing at me. I managed to keep him at bay. As I worked my way backwards, I knew that giant saw blade was somewhere behind me.

I saw a sleepy Carl stir and make it to his feet. He rubbed his shoulder. Son of a bitch, you knocked it back into place, he said, with a smile. I used the distraction to whack the watermelon head of our adversary. He fell to one knee. I cracked him again and jumped over the log, lined up for the saw to get some distance. The teetering, perpetual toddler tried to follow me, and I watched as Sleepy Carl knifed his son just under the ribs. I checked my pocket. That cheeky bastard had stolen the knife I had stolen from the desk.

How dare he? The baby tried to turn on its attacker and lost his balance, falling onto the log. I gave him a quick crack to the face. Blood and snot shot out of his now flattened nose, and he fell limp, his arms dangling on either side the log. Look said Sleepy Carl. Baby on board. He looked at me so damn serious. I cracked right up. I shook my head, trying to stop laughing and pay attention to the task at hand. You know what we have to do, right, I asked him. He nodded and pointed to the control panel.

I'll get the rope, he said. I kept an eye on our sleepy little guy until he came back and helped me tie Oopsie Poopsie onto that log. Once we were sure he wasn't going anywhere, I slapped my palm against the green switch and the machinery jumped to life. The giant blade started to spin. I yanked on the lever next to the console, and the log lurched into motion, slowly making its way towards the saw. Soon, the teeth of the blade bit into the old wood and sawdust began to fly. Sleepy Carl towered over his son, watching him intensely as I stood the lever.

It was a good thing I did, because I saw the motion he would have missed. I called out to Sleepy Carl and warned him as a Dinah tackled him and they went over the other side of the machine. He carried their momentum and rolled on top of her, trying to hold her hands down, but she overwhelmed him. I looked at Oopsy Poopsy. There was only a foot of wood to go now before its giant bulba's head. Leave my baby alone, a Dinah called out as she landed a hell of a punch into Sleepy Carl's face.

You may be my baby's father, but you're still my little brother, and I can still kick your ass, she yelled with another swing. I watched as he struggled to get out of her way. He fended her off the best he could, afraid to strike back. I had no reservations, though, and I clocked her with the rattle. She took an unsteady step back and slipped on the uneven moving log and landed right across Oopsy Poopsy, only an to go. Suddenly, the kid woke up and began to thrash around until his eyes fell on his mama laying on him.

He gathered her up in his arms and squeezed my boy. She cried as the tears started to run down her face. Soon it wasn't just tears, but the blood of her unnatural offspring. As the blade sliced into the large skull, shaking its splitting head like Michael J. Fox. As the blood coated everything in a five foot radius, I noticed neither mother or son was moving anymore. I walked over to the switch and hit the big red button just as the blade was working its way through Oopsy's chest and his mother's ribs. Holy shit, Sleepy Carl said, Holy shit.

I agreed as I walked close to the scene of the carnage, looking for any sign of life from either body. Oopsy Poopsy, Oopsy Poopsy, Oopsy Poopy I said, and looked at the corpse expectantly. A few seconds passed and I started to get disappointed. Then hah, I said. The stop sign Man by Bryce Gibson one for guys that grow up around this part of South Carolina. Stealing stop signs is a rite of passage, all for the sake of an old urban legend. It is something some of us do on our seventeenth birthday. If you choose to do it, there are three rules to follow.

One do it alone. Two, don't tell a soul about what you see. And three, the most important rule of them all, never get caught. If you do, the stop sign Man will make your life a living hell. I Stratton Duke failed at number three, and the folklore is right, My life sucks. Two. Most everybody around here has heard the legend at some time or another. If you haven't, you're either too young or you've been living under a rock. It goes something like this. On the night of your seventeenth birthday, steal a county stop sign, take it out to the old Williamson Barn, and you will see him for yourself.

The first time I ever heard the story, I was seven years old. I was sitting with Dad at the barber shop on Main Street. It was midafternoon and I had just gotten out of school for the day. Halloween was right around the corner. Mister Perry, the barber, had the shop decorated with paper jack o' lanterns, green faced witches, and spooky black cats. After telling Dad that he'd heard a stop sign had been stolen the night before, the two of them discussed the fact that it had been so and so's birthday. None of it made sense to me at the time.

Then mister Perry looked at me and asked, do you know about the stop sign? Man? I told him I had no idea. Well, the barber continued, he has eyes shaped like octagons. They glow red and twirl around and around. After we got home and I was lying in bed with the blanket pulled up to my chin, I asked Dad if mister Perry was just saying those things to scare me with it being Halloween. I figured it was possible. It's just an urban legend, Dad said, a ghost story. It's something that gets passed down and told again and again.

After that day, the legend was ingrained deep in my mind, even though I didn't know many details. I thought about it often, and it wasn't just me who fell under the spell. Soon I realized the other kids at school knew about it too. Sometimes at recess we'd play a game we called stop the stop Sign Man. One of us would be him and the others would be his adversaries. We played the game on the wobbly roundabout, from which we tried to fling the stop sign man off of Octagons play a big part in the weird mythology, from the signs themselves to the strange locale.

Over the years, I'd seen the Williamson Barn many times in passing. I always knew something was a little off kilter about the construction, but I couldn't pinpoint what the building stands on a stretch of overgrown land next to a cow pasture and dense woods. Not long after learning about the stop Sign Man, I realized the truth. The barn has eight sides of equal length an octagon. Needless to say, with the knowledge of the story, I was terrified to go anywhere near that place. Three boy, how things change. Between the ages of seven and sixteen, I became a completely different person.

My body grew in ways I never imagined. Over those years, I shot up like a weed. Now I'm nearly six feet tall. I don't fit in with any particular group at school. That's not to say I don't have friends. I do, but for the most part I linger on the outside looking in. Ten years ago, nobody would have been able to drag my skinny ass anywhere near the Williamson Barn. And now I'm sitting here offering myself up like it's the great sacrifice that will save all of humanity. And really it's about a girl. Her name is Alison Weaving, new to our part of Crow County at the beginning of senior year.

From the moment I saw her, with her long blonde hair and perfect body, she was everything I wanted to put it simply, I would have done almost anything to have a chance with her. Unfortunately, what Alison wanted was far removed from the likes of me. Right off the bat, she became besties with Becca Mansfield. Becca, a literal beauty queen, liked to hang out with a slightly rougher crowd than the atmosphere me and my friend Greg Collins could provide. The group was led by Mark Taylor every day after school Mark and his gang liked to congregate behind the Big Courthouse on the town square.

There they smoked stolen cigarettes, drew half asked graffiti on trash cans, and dared each other to do stupid shit like flipping mid air from a picnic table. One Friday night in early fall, I dragged Greg to a party at Mark's house because I knew Alison would be there. Mark's parents were out of town and the place was slammed. Greg and I pushed our way through the crowd. We found Alison and Becca sitting on the countertop in the kitchen. They were watching Mark and his friends do the latest viral challenge, placing a penny on the prongs of a halfway plugged in phone charger.

As sparks flew, I couldn't help but to notice how both Alison and Becca laughed at what they were witnessing. At that moment, one thing became glaringly clear to me. For Alison Weaving to notice me, I needed more of an edge. Four. I'm gonna do it, I say, Thursday night, It's on my seventeenth birthday, is only three days away. According to the legend, you only get one shot if I don't do it. I might regret it later, I add. Greg and I are sitting in one of the study rooms at the library, which is located in a flat brick building on the square.

He's on one side of the wide wooden table and me on the other. Greg throws a pencil and it hits me upside the head. You could have put my eye out. I yell out and retrieve the yellow number two from the floor, promptly flinging it back in his direction. Greg ducks out of the way. The pencil bounces off the cinder block wall behind him and rolls underneath the radiator heater. Greg sits up straight and stares at me. The stop sign, man is just a lame ghost story. You know that, He says. You need to grow up, man, pack up our belongings and walk outside.

Greg reaches into the front pocket of his book bag and pulls out a pack of cigarettes he'd lifted from his older brother. Without asking, He hands one to me. I just don't want you to get in trouble, he says. Chip Wagner is the most recent guy we know of to perform the ritual, and that was ten years ago. Chip was caught and charged with theft. With the common knowledge of the legend, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who to bring in for questioning. After all, it was Chip's birthday. I placed the cigarette between my lips, light the tip with Greg's lighter, and inhale.

The smoke makes me cough, and Greg laughs at my lack of experience. Besides, if you're that desperate for some action, I'm sure Roxy is ready and willing. Just take your ass over to the filling station. By the time we were young teenagers, we'd already heard the rest of the stop sign man folklore. After entering the barn with a sign as an offering, a woman appears. People say, she takes your innocence, she makes you a man. They say, no, one really knows what that means. Though obviously, with what Greg is suggesting to me now, his takeaway leans more towards something of a sexual nature.

The girl he's talking about, Roxy is someone who grew up in the boggy land on the other side of the railroad tracks, swamp rats we call them. I glance across the square. The filling station is visible from here, and I see her. She's sitting on an old wooden church pew that's pushed up against the side of the store, I groan in disgust. I'm sure she is, but I don't want to catch some kind of disease. Later that night, after having birthday dinner with my dad, I drive all the way out to Layman Road to where an intersection sits deep in a long stretch of pines.

Over the past few days, I've been scoping things out and making a plan. Anybody who does this has to choose his own sign, and the one I've picked has a spray painted X on the back. With a wrench from the toolbox on the back of my truck, I remove the sign from the metal post. After I have the sign taken down, I place it flat on the bottom of my truck bed. I drive out to the Williamson Land and pull off the road, parking in a secluded, unused red dirt driveway located on the far side of the barn.

Admittedly, the exterior of the barn is creepy as all get out, even at seventeen years old. Briefly, I'm taken back to several years earlier, when I thought the stop sign man might be real. Just as quick as those stories begin to resurface in the back of my mind. I push all the nonsense away and focus on the present. Here's the kicker about all of this. Tonight, I'm going to one up Mark Taylor. My visit to the stop sign man is going to be recorded. If the girl's got a kick out of Mark's penny trick, Allison is going to flip the f out when she sees this.

With the stop sign held under one arm and my phone in the other hand, I walk toward my destination For dramatic effect, I hold the phone at a low angle, recording the tall weeds that slap and brush against my jeans. Once there, I lift the wooden latch and push the door open with the toe of my boot. The rusty hinges creak in the still dark night. The door makes a soft slap against the interior wall. Finally I step inside. Narrow slants of moonlight come through the gaps between the boards. Of the wall. The smell of old old straw hangs heavy in the air.

Not knowing what else to do, what step I'm supposed to take next? I toss the sign onto a loose scattering of hay, and nothing happens. I'm about to leave when the wall on the far side of the barn begins to shake, like a set of shutters in a thunderstorm. As the boards clatter, a shower of thick dust falls from the rafters, making me cough and sneeze. Finally, the wall literally folds in on itself, and I'm able to see what is on the other side, a wet, boggy swamp. This can't be real. I think this has to be a prank.

Greg, I call out, I don't know how you're doing this, but you need to cut it out. I imagine him around the corner or high above in the hayloft, looking down on me, watching and laughing. Movement within the wetland catches my attention and I look. A girl is standing on the end of a moss covered wooden dock. She's wearing a white tank top that's way too small and a pair of jean shorts that fit tight over her thighs. Roxy A moment later, I'm standing on the dock in front of her. I have no idea how I got here.

I look down and see the bottom half of my jeans are covered in thick, dark colored muck. Obviously, I walked through the water, but I don't remember any of it. I wonder if I'm hallucinating Greg. I call out again, enough is enough, Joke's over. Roxy speaks. There's nobody here but us. Her voice is soft and strangely seductive. At first, I think she's talking about me and her, but the then I notice her eyes look over my shoulder. I turn to look. A shadowy figure is standing in the barn. I can't make out any particular features, but I can tell it's a guy with a body built like an athlete.

The tips of Roxy's fingers brush against my neck. The length of her nails causes my skin to crawl for some reason. When I turn back around, I'm looking at her exposed midriff, a cubic zarconia, belly button piercing catches a sparkle of light. Logically, I know I should run far, far away. But there's something else deep inside of myself, a pull that makes me stay. It draws my body closer to hers. She slides her fingertips against my lips. It is done, she says, you are a man. Five. I wake up the next morning, still wearing the clothes I had on the night before the inside of my mouth feels like I've been chewing on a sheet of coarse sandpaper.

My head pounds, and when I sit up, I feel dizzy. Sitting on the edge of the bed, it takes me a moment to gain my composure. I stumble into the bathroom to take a leak and brush my nasty ass teeth. That's when I noticed the crumbly, crusty MUDs smeared across my shirt and jeans. Dry leaves are stuck in my messy hair. I look like crap. My eyes are bloodshot below them dark bags. My skin has a washed out, sallow look. To someone else, I might look like I've been on an all night bender. After looking for my phone, which is nowhere to be found, I change clothes and then go into the kitchen for a glass of water.

Dads, Sit. Rita is here. Aunt Rita lives next door and comes and goes as she pleases. Currently, she's sitting at the kitchen table talking on her phone. She acknowledges me with a brief smile. I pull a glass from the cabinet and fill it with tap water. This is just like nineteen ninety six all over again. Aunt Rita says to whomever it is she's talking to. I'm clueless to the reference, but I can tell by the sound of her voice that she's upset. Did you hear about that girl, aunt Rita asks. Now, her voice has a different tone the one in your class.

It takes me a second to realize she's talking to me. I pinch my eyes in confusion and shake my head. Alison Weaving. She explains she had a crash last night. She died. My heart slams against my rib cage. The glass of water nearly slips from my grip, but instead I slam it onto the countertop. What do you mean another car t boned hers? They say she died on impact. I feel so terrible for that girl's parents. The loss they must be going through is impossible to fathom. This can't be happening. I think the room is twirling around me.

I need to sit down, aunt Rita continues. They say the stop sign was gone. The driver of the other car didn't even know they should stop. What I'm hearing can't be true. It all makes me feel like I could puke. Finally, I fall into the seat of the chair opposite aunt Rita, where where did it happen? What road was it on? Her answer solidifies the thoughts churning through my head way out on Layman. Later that day, English class is interrupted by the secretary from the Principal's office. After tapping on the door, Missus Brown leans her head in and calls my name.

I stand from my desk and feel the entire room watching me. Missus Brown escorts me down the hall. It's the middle of fourth period. All the other students are in class. It's just me and her. The heels of her shoes clomp on the tiles. The sound is loud and echoes in the long, narrow space. Missus Brown opens the door to the office and I notice right away that two uniform police officers are standing next to the principal's desk. And Dad is here too. I can tell he's pissed. Stratton Duke. One of the officers steps forward.

There's something we'd like to talk to you about. You turned seventeen last night. Right six, I'm sitting in the back seat of the officer's car. The old Williamson Barn looks even creepier than it did the night before. Now, the mystical ambience of the setting is long gone. It seems real. It is real, I remind myself, and the reality of all this terrifies me. The repercussions of my actions are gut wrenching. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I say, it's just a silly urban legend. We get out of the car and I lead the officers inside.

Dad follows us, but he remains quiet the whole time. He stands with his arms crossed, watching. And you say, you drop the sign, and that wall there. The officer nods across the space. You say it opened up. I can tell by the look on his face that he doesn't believe a word I've said. Look, I know it sounds crazy, but yeah, that's exactly what happened. And this girl, roxy you call her, she took your innocence. I notice a smirk on the second officer's face. Yes, I say, it's not anything raunchy, well, not like sex, or I don't think so.

Anyway. Look, I'm not sure what happened, but I'm telling the truth. The second officer walks across and pulls open a wide door, revealing a second room. This one is full of stop signs from floor to ceiling. Is a menagerie of red octagons. Some of them are lying on the floor, while others are nailed to the walls and the support beams. With both doors open, wind barrels through the space. The hanging signs swing and clatter against each other. Look, kid, what you're telling us. All that mess about the stop sign man is nothing new. I've heard it all before.

Don't forget. I grew up in these parts. I've heard the stories. Hell, when I was your age, I was tempted to do it myself. But the thing is I didn't. What we're dealing with now is something else altogether. The other man speaks up. A girl is dead because of what you did. I ride home in the back of the cop car after being issued a citation for theft. I stand on the porch and watch the cruiser pull out of the driveway. The horrifying truth of the matter hangs over my head. I could be charged with involuntary manslaughter.

After telling me I'm grounded for the rest of my life. Dad heads back to his job. He's working a double and can't get out of it. While he's gone, I decide to sneak out and make a quick visit to Gregg's house. I pull into Greg's yard and spot him sitting on the porch swing drinking one of his dad's cheap beers. I've been worried, sick about you, he says, what's going on. I'm sure the gossip of me leaving with the police spread like wildfire through the school, and I can only imagine the assumptions people have already made.

Greg offers me a beer, but I decline. I take a seat on the steps and tell him everything. Seven they say, if you get caught, the stop sign man will come after you. You can't sleep because he invades your dreams, and staying awake doesn't help either. He constantly stalks every corner of your mind, turning every peaceful thought into a nightmare. Even when I was talking to Greg, my attention was broken by the shape of the porch tiles octagons. Greg didn't believe my story. In fact, he suggested I seek mental help. The knowledge that my best friend no longer has my back hurts me deep inside.

After leaving Greg's house, I have an idea. My phone I recorded everything night before. I wasn't able to find the phone in my room this morning, and I hadn't seen it in the barn this afternoon. There's one person I can think of who might have an answer. Finding the phone won't change what I did, but it will give proof that I'm not crazy. Instead of going home, I make a stop at the filling station where I spot Roxy today. She's leaning against the wall by the bathrooms. I get out of my truck and charge across the parking lot, not stopping until I'm standing directly in front of her.

Her hair is damp from a recent shower. I can smell the flowery scent of shampoo other than the wet hair. She looks exactly like she did last night. Where's my phone? I cut right to the chase. Roxy laughs and stands up straight. I don't have your phone, Stratton, My name on Her voice is like finger nails on a chalkboard. Oh yeah, well, where is it? Then? I just happened to lose it. Huh. I throw up my hands. That would be really convenient, wouldn't it. Roxy reaches out and grabs my forearm. The sleeve of her shirt rides up and I notice a sketchy red tattoo spread across the underside of her wrist.

The artwork is badly done. It's like something someone would get in prison. But the symbol is clear enough, a stop sign. Let go of me, I jerk my arm away. What you did take someone of a certain character, she says, Why did you do it? Anyway? Was it to prove a point or to show that you're It was because of a girl. My voice cracks. Roxy laughs again. This time it sounds like a cackle coming from an old witch. You came to the barn with one goal in mind, and you got it. That girl was standing in your way.

She would have held you back. I realize now that Allison's death wasn't just an accident caused by what I'd done. She was payment. I'm not sure what for, but I know it's something I don't want. That's messed up. I say. If I would have known there was a price, I would have never You're part of it now, Honey. From here on, it's between you and him. You have to finish what you started by him. I know she means the stop sign. Man, If facing him is what I have to do, so be it fine. My breath is coming and going out of my lungs in deep rhythmic puffs.

I'll do it eight. The first rule in the legend of the stop sign Man is that you have to go alone. I look at it like this. If I got myself into this mess, I'm the only one who can get myself out. I'm still not sure how or why, but the octagon shape is significant. I think I can use that bit of folklore against him. When I get home, I go into my closet and find an old work book from when I was a kid. One of the multiple choice questions was to select an octagon from a group of shapes.

I'd picked one, but it was wrong next to a red X. The teacher wrote, an octagon must have eight equal sides. Then I go into the garage, where I find the hatchet Dad uses to chop firewood. Later, I park in front of the Williamson Barn. I go inside. Not long after entering, I hear movement in the hayloft above me. I turn to face the wooden steps that lead upward, and I wait for the stop sign Man to appear. Finally he does. The steps creak under his weight. His thin legs are bare. The skin on his feet is thick, calloused, and cracked.

The toes are gnarled. And bent like the knots on an ancient tree stump. He's wearing a pair of white boxers. It's obvious he's built from pieces of different men. His torso is defined with muscle, despite the fifties era greaser haircut. His face is wrinkled and spotted with age. The story mister Perry told me ten years ago is true. His eyes are spinning red octagons. Who what are you? I ask? When he speaks, his voice has an eerie timber of a teenager and a ninety year old speaking at the same time. We're an organization that stretches all across the southeast, from Virginia to Texas and everywhere in between.

Right here in South Carolina just happens to be the epicenter a secret society. Some might call it, or a cult or In a flash, he's standing in front of me. I can feel his breath against my face. So are you the president of the whole thing? I ask? He scoffs at my question of this particular chapter. Yes. The idea that there are others like him makes my head spin. Everywhere all over there are boys, young men looking for ways to achieve their wildest dreams. But This is not about them, This is about us. Let me show you.

He grabs hold of my arm. His grip is strong, the palm of his hand feels like hot asphalt against my flesh. Ssh. Look deep into my eyes, really really deep. I don't want to, but I'm transfixed. I stare into his face and her eyes lock. His octagon shaped eyes light up in a traffic light glow of green, and I fall into them. Go, he says, go, go. Go, and I do. I let myself go. It's as if the interior of the barn melts away from us. In my mind, I'm speeding through space and time, through the years of my life that haven't happened yet.

I see myself with what seems like everything a man could want. It's different for everybody, he says, what you imagine won't be the same for the next. In the vision, it all goes on and on. There's no stopping us. He says, you see the potential, You see what you can be, the things you can do. An octagon symbolizes a rite of passage. Eight is a number of transcendents. I recognize the truth. All of what he's showing me only looks good on the surface. None of it is worth the price he tricked me into paying. Somehow, my thoughts break the spell.

You weren't tricked, he snaps. You wanted to steal that sign. It was your idea. You wanted to prove you were a man. I shake my head. No, not like this, I didn't. I think about the page from my grade school workbook and all the various shapes that were drawn on it. Do you know what the opposite of an octagon is? A surprised looks reads across his face. His eyes fade to yellow, and then the red they were before. Stop, he demands. I answer my own question. It's a concave polygon. I pull the hatchet from the waistband at the back of my jeans.

It means one of the sides is angled inward. At the sight of the weapon, the man's mouth drops open, impossibly wide. I notice his teeth for the first time, there the yellow of corn. I swing the axe against the wall. The first blow only cracks the wood, but it's enough to cause the stop sign. Man to pause. He cries out in pain, clutching his side with both hands. His body bends. I swing the axe again, harder this time. The wood splinters. The stop. Signed man hollers. This time. His voice is so loud it cuts deep into my essence.

Dark blood gushes through the gaps between his fingers. Stop, he yells, jerking his disproportioned body back and forth, moving toward me. With the hand not holding his side. He reaches toward me. Put the axe down, you little shit, I don't. I swing a third time, harder. Now the sharp end of the blade crashes through, and I jerk it free. The broken slats are jagged and sharp. My nemesis body folds over on itself, like the snap of a mouse trap, and as his bones crack, it sounds like that too. The vocals of his agony pour from his throat in a torrent of pain.

Still, he reaches for me. He's not giving up. I'm on the other side of the space, And just as he returns to his unsteady feet, I swing the axe through this section of lumber. His body slams over. This time a deep fissure cuts into his abdomen, pulling his upper half horizontal to the floor. Now I'm sure what I have to do to finish this once and for all. Each of the next five walls are met with the blade, and each time my ears are assaulted with the agony of the stop sign man being reduced to a broken and splintered pile of nothing.

On the eighth wall, I chop the blade through the boards and then twist the handle so the axe had catches on the other side. Then I pull with all my might. The wall splinters inward, and the screams are finally silenced as the stop sign Man's head splits in two. I stand for a moment, catching my breath, when the entirety of the barn begins to rattle around me. Nine on my eighteenth birthday, I go out to the intersection on Layman Road. Now a wooden cross stands by the road, marking the spot where Allison died on that night the year before.

After I brought down the barn and destroyed the stop sign man, I drove out here and reattached the sign to the post. I was taken into custody for destruction of property. Thankfully, Dad bailed me out. He told me it was the one and only time he'd ever do it. My actions didn't bring Allison back, and my phone was never found, but the evidence from a nearby game camera, and the analysis of the skid marks at the intersection revealed the truth. The fatal wreck wasn't because of the missing sign. The car that hit Allison was coming from the opposite direction.

It's been one year since all of that happened. One plus eight is nine. Recently I learned that one of the meanings behind the number is wisdom. After dropping a single flower next to the wooden cross, I drive away the end. Old Bones by Joe Salmon. Old Bones is what my grandpa used to call him back in the days of black and white TVs. I've never seen him myself, but I was sure he existed. Nothing scared my grandfather, nothing but old bones. That is. Most of the local folk will tell you they seen Old Bones here or there, but most of them are full of shit.

For a while, one of them TV crews came in and filmed the town telling stories, but that's all they were shit. Even farmer Kendrick over on Route seventy had a story, and that son of a bitch never left his house. His fields were all overgrown like seventies bush. Our family and the neighbors next door we had a special deal. My grandfather said, our lands butted up with the state forest, but Pappy called that his territory. He told us we could hunt in there, but we had to leave the first kill for old bones, kind of a sacrifice of sorts and offerings.

So we would leave us alone when we were out there, as long as we didn't cross the markings along the creek. We would shoot a nice buck and have to leave it in the clearing. It pissed me off, but not enough to cross old bones. Usually a day or so later we'd find the carcass, most of the meat gone, strung up in the damned trees. Of all places. Could it be a mountain lion? They are around, but rare, and I've never seen one in these parts, but I have seen the tracks of old bones left on the tree.

I would ask my grandfather all the time what old bones looks like? He'd always say, if I ever saw him, I was sure to shit my pants and run if I was lucky. Not very descriptive, I know. I pressed him once when he took me hunting on my sixteenth birthday. He had gotten me a nice thirty hot six and we had sighted it in the night before. He had gone hunting without me two days prior and gave up an offering to old Bones, so my kill would be ours. We reached the tree where he had lain our buck, and we saw the tracks come into the clearing as fresh as this morning, big tracks, looking like a giant moose's print.

We get moose now and again in northern New York, but I've never seen a bull that big. The tracks were over a foot long, twice as big as I've ever seen myself in these here woods. His old bones just big moose. Is that what you're afraid of? I asked him. Don't be simple, boy, There ain't a moose i'd run from when I got a loaded rifle, was his reply. As I studied those tracks, the left track had a bit of a crack in it, like the foot had an old injury. The right one dragged just a bit in the dirt.

Then it hit me there were only two legs. He stands up like we do, I asked, looking at the circular hole in the ground an Inchu're so deep? There seemed to be one every twenty feet or so. Sometimes there was a little bit of a drag there as well. What could it be? Never mind how he stands, Just give him no reason to come looking for you, And you'll be just fine, he told me as he placed his hand on my shoulder. He had lost a foot a long time ago, and the artificial one never quite was comfortable for him, but it was and inconvenience enough for him to keep from taking care of the deal with Old Bones.

I kept my eyes peeled that trip, but never got a peek at Old Bones, even though I got the feeling something was peeping on me. But then again, I always got that feeling when I was in those woods. The deeper in the darker the forest got. Some of those trees were one hundred feet tall or more. The old growth forest kept out all but the most persistent sunlight. It was the best hunting ground most of the time, but once in a while there wouldn't be a damn thing around. No birds, no game, nothing, just dead silence in the forest.

On those trips, we learned to give up early and come home. We'd have better luck another time. My uncle Jim once said he caught a glimpse of what had to be Old Bones. It was a foggy morning, and he said the forest just got real quiet, like he stood still as the hair raised on the back of his neck. He said he knew Old Bones was near because the rest of the animals had the good sense to fuck off somewhere else. He stood there peering into the forest, and he said, standing next to a large pine tree was Old Bones, about fifty yards out, barely perceptible in the fog.

He said, it slid through the forest, its great limbs having no problem as it traversed the uneven forest floor. He was too scared to get a closer look. He said. It stopped between the trees and sniffed the air for a moment, two large sniffs, before turning to face my uncle. He said its eyes smoldered even in the fog. Cutting through it stared a hole into him for about ten seconds or so, before nodding and moving on through the forest. Uncle Jim said he sat there waiting for Old Bones to go on about his business. Whether he was too scared or was playing it smart was anyone's guess.

He listened as the thing moved through the forest, creaking branches and heavy footfalls fading into the distance. He told me Old Bones was tall, like really tall, and if he didn't move, he would have mistaken him for a tree. At that distance. I asked him if he saw a bigfoot, and he told me it was nothing like that. He said it was something older, much older. Now I must tell you Uncle Jim was a drinker, but we'd like to give him the benefit of the doubt since he doesn't usually drink in the am. He died about a month after that, so we can't ask him now.

The neighbor boy Neil, saw him once. We didn't believe him at first on account of the kid is slow in the head, but I guess his eyes worked just fine. His daddy came run and over all excited to talk to my father about it. I watched him from the doorway to my room because it was past my bedtime. It was the second week of deer season, but neither family had managed to get out there yet. He said. Neil was out back of the house putting away his toys because a fog had rolled in and his mother was worried he would get lost out there.

Said it was standing there next to the barn, looking at him, its eyes burning straight into his soul. Neil pissed himself and started to cry. I listened as he described old bones to my dad from Neil's account, it was almost as tall as the gable roof on the old two story barn. They had said it just stared at him until his mom came out of the screen door looking for him. That thing hadn't been oiled in ages. The creek probably scared him off, if he asked me. Anyway, They said it took long strides and moved off into the woods past the field behind the barn, taking one of their sheep with it, held it in one large hand.

That was the last time one of our families didn't get Old Bones some meat on opening day. Let me tell you, it didn't hurt to offer up some other times as well. It never went to waste. Old Bones always found what we left for him. Was it a creature or a man? I may never find out myself, and I think I'm okay with that. I was fascinated as a kid, but after everyone's stories, I think i'm good. You know, as an adult, I really don't want nothing to do with it. But that's not always my choice, now, is it.

I wanted to let you know that about ten or so years ago, there was a couple of campers that went out there and went too far cross an Old Bones Creek without any regard or offering. They really didn't know any better, mind you. Like they say, ignorance is no excuse. The search party never found them, but we sure did. Can you guess where? No up in the goddamn trees. I just wanted to let you know that you ain't the first I looked over at the unlucky camper. He came to my door an hour ago seeking help because something got his friend out in the woods.

I knew what it was, Old Bones. I almost felt bad for the guy until he told me a story. You crossed the creek, your fair game. But even that wasn't enough for this guy. You see, there are these totems out there. They kind of mark Old Bones sacred grounds. This guy comes to my door seeking help and says they burned some weird carved wood for warmth last night. It had to be one of the totems, for sure, these dumb pricks. Now I gotta march this asshole back into the woods gunpoint, because there's no reasoning with him.

Got to get him to the clearing and let Old Bones take him. You got a second gear there, You're awfully slow, I said, I don't understand why you're doing this. If you didn't want to help me, I could have gone somewhere else. The camper said to me, you gotta learn that's not an option. You know what got your buddy, It was old Bones, and Old Bones has a certain way of doing things. And damned if I'm gonna be the one to cross him. I've heard too many stories about what happens. I explained, what's Old Bones?

The camper asked, It's everything. It's older than the forest. It is the forest. It's an inescapable hunger that roams these here woods. I told him, yeah, but what is it? The annoying fuck asked. Around here, we say it's a god. We revere it, we take care of its needs, and it lets us hunt his land to feed our families. It really ain't nothing personal. I gotta make it right with Old Bones. I don't hate you or nothing, I said to the guy. Don't hate me. You're bringing me out into the woods at gunpoint to feed me to something you call a forest god.

Don't hate me, but you're gonna just kill me. The camper yelled. First of all, I don't like that tone, and second of all, I don't have no choice in the matter. Old Bones will want the trespassers who entered his sacred groves and disturbed his totem. You sealed your own fate when you crossed the creek. I said, just let me go. I got eight hundred dollars in cash in my wallet. It's yours if you just let me go, the camper said. I shook my head at his stupidity. That money is already mine, Old Bones has no use for it.

Hand it over, I said, pointing the barrel of that thirty odd to six I got so long ago at him. He sighed and handed over the cash. What did we learn here today, I asked. He just stared back at me with anger. We learned to keep our mouths shut, I finished for him. We walked further down the path my grandpa walked all those years ago. I knew it pretty well, but he knew it inside out. It's a shame he's gone. He would have gotten a kick out of this camper's predicament. I could hear the sound of the creek now we were close.

Once we reached it, the path followed it south for about a mile or so. Then comes the clearing what's gonna happen to me? The camper asked, now that he had calmed down. Well, old Bones will take you and open you up, gobble up the bits he wants, and whatever's left he'll toss into the trees. Why he does that, I don't know. Maybe to feed the birds. They got to eat too, you know, I explained, matter of factly to the camper, whose eyes grew larger with every word. You're joking, right, he asked me. I stopped on the trail and gave him a look.

What did Old Bones do to your friend? I asked him. He it pulled him right out of our tent. It was dark. I just heard the screaming. By the time I found the flashlight, there was nothing but a blood trail. I followed it for a bit, but then it just it just ended. The camper said, forlorn, Did you look up in the trees? I asked him. Why the fuck would I do that? He queried, I bet that's where Old Bones stuck him, had his fill, and tossed him to the clouds, like the early season stags we leave for him.

Your friend is up in the branches, I'd bet you well, I'll bet you eight hundred dollars. I joked with the camper. You're demented, you know that right, There's something off in your brain, the camper said. I smacked him with the barrel of the rifle and pointed it down the trail first seme. I thought he was going to try something, but he gave up and started walking off. Why should I keep going, he said defiantly, and stopped in the path A moment later. I'm gonna die either way. I'd rather get shot than ripped apart. He reasoned.

Well, it ain't your choice, son, I explained, and pointed yonder with the barrel of my gun. The clearing was just ahead. He looked like he was going to make a run for it, but I kept the barrel pointing right between his eyes. I figured he was bluffing anyway. I took him for a coward and eight hundred bucks. Get on in there by that stump, I commanded him. He waited a second or so before following his orders. I took the rope from my pocket and followed him over. I tied him up against the stump, eyeing the carvings on it.

Grandpa said it was the natives that lived here a long time ago that carved into the stump. It sure was weathered enough. Grandpa said, the carvings tell how to leave offerings for old bones. It's how our family figured it all out. Live food gets tied up, but the dead won't run away. I've never left live food before, but there's always a first time. I remember my Grandpa telling my father how to do it when we came across a stag with a broken leg. It was crazy to try to grab the thing, but it had to have been struggling for days and was just tuckered out.

We got it to the clearing. Then they told me to leave, to go home and tell mom they'd be back soon. I can still see my grandpa pointing to this very stump and explaining to my dad what to do. I first made the camper tie up his own feet at gunpoint. I didn't want him to kick me, after all, that's what my kin did with the stag so many years ago. Then I tied his arms around the stump, with his chin resting on top in a little groove, facing deeper into the forest. I made sure he was good and tight before I stepped back and gave the clearing a look over, only one more step left.

I drew my knife and came up behind the hiker. You're just going to leave me here with that thing in the woods, the camper asked, Yeah, that's the plan. Haven't you been paying attention? Look, man, I told you it's nothing personal. If I don't get the transgressor to Old Bones, then my family will pay and I can't have that, I said, as I sliced into his flesh. Not too deep, not in a vital spot, mind you, just enough to make him bleed, to get the scent out into the air, to let Old Bones know we were ready.

You're a murderer, the camper yelled out. I ain't gonna murder you. That's for Old Bones to do, I explained. Leaving me here is murdering me. I ain't arguing semantics with a person that got himself tied up. I told him, all you're saying is what you ain't going to do. Well, what are you going to do? Then, the camper asked me, followed by an exasperated sigh. Just then Old Bones made himself known with a cry out in the forest, followed by the boom of a large footfall. I moved in front of the camper. I'm gonna take my leave, give my regards to Old Bones, I said, and turned towards the trail back home.

Don't fucking leave me, he yelled. As I left the clearing, I stopped and turned around. The footfalls from Old Bones were getting closer really quick. I got myself an idea and ducked down in the small bushes that lined the clearing, peeking through at my offering, this might be a good chance to finally see what Old Bones looks like. I listened to the sound under the trees creaking, as if they were making way for Old Bones to walk among them. In the distance, he could see the branches swaying. He could be here any moment. The hair on the back of my neck stood as a wave of chills ran through me.

The camper started to scream as the primordial aura of Old Bones took over the clearing. All those years of wondering, all the stories from the townsfolk, even the bits and pieces of information I got from my own family, couldn't prepare me for what I saw step into the clearing. It stood almost twenty feet tall, standing like a person would, Thick muscles adorned its body. There were parts where white bone was exposed in holes in the flesh. Its huge feet were cloven, just like the prints I had saw so long ago. The long arms were thin but strong.

The left pushed off the tree trunk of a pine tree. The right clutched a gnarled walking staff made from some ancient wood. Resting on top of its shoulders was a huge head, a moose's head, scarred and scraped with countless years of existence. The large antlers had stains and scrapes as well. I tried to take it all in, but my eyes kept focusing on its gaze. The fires of Prometheus burned in the orbs. As it looked down on the offering before it. It was like looking at a whacked out moose version of a minotaur. Old Bones had a smell about him, like fresh turned dirt, just an earthy smell about him.

It was like he was part of the forest. He blended in so well, except for those eyes currently focused on the camper. It cocked its large head like a dog and raised the staff in the air. Old Bones poked the camper with the weathered end. When the camper screamed out in terror, Old Bones raised an eyebrow. He seemed pleased by the live offering. Even from my position, I could smell the piss on the camper. How disrespectful. With a large hand, Old Bones grabbed the camper and raised him into the air, snapping my ropes like they were nothing.

He opened his large moose jaw. Inside weren't the teeth of a moose, but sharp fangs of a carnivore. It bit off the camper's head in a snap, and I nearly lost my lunch. I would have been sad too. My wife makes a mean chicken salad. I watched his blood poured out the side of his mouth. He chewed on the head for a few seconds and swallowed. He huffed twice into the air With a pointed finger. He dug into the chest and ate the organs by dumping the chest out all over his head into his mouth.

A lung missed and splattered on the ground. It exploded like a water balloon. I wretched and tried to keep it down. Old Bones must have heard me. Our eyes met for a second. The eons of burning earth before it had cooled branded my brain. I felt the ebb and flow of the magma below the crust. I thought I was going to die, that Old Bones was going to kill me. My own stupid need to see him was going to do me in. He tossed the camper's corpse into the air. It landed in the branches of the large pine trees.

He picked up his staff and took a step towards me. I didn't have it in me to move. I was just trying not to break down. He took a massive step and was now in front of me. Mortal Old Bones muttered. He commanded my attention. His voice came from nowhere, but from everywhere. At the same time, the ember stare burned into my head. I thank you for the offering. It has been some time since I have had flesh of a man. I think I would like some more. I forgot the taste of the arrogance of the young race.

We need to amend the deal, it spoke into my brain. No, humans are hard to get a hold of, and it's wrong, I replied, I can't do it. Shame mortal. If I do not receive a live offering of manflesh by the longest day of the year, then I shall take my payment from the farms. Anything else, please don't ask this of me. I begged, I have spoken. Full Bone said, and turned from me. He walked into the woods without another word. I looked at the camper in the trees, almost envying him if I was being honest.

Now I had to go home and explain to our families the new terms. We dare not go against Old Bones, not if we want to protect our loved ones. At least, now I know what old Bones looks like. If only I had left the clearing, I never would have seen Old Bones or interacted with him. Every One that has seen Old Bones has had to pay a price, and mine will be paid in man flesh. Why am I here? By Morgan Moore. Bruce Evans sits on his knees in his bedroom. In front of him is an old coffee table with a Ouigi board on top of it.

Around the mystical board were candles burning away. Bruce closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath and exhales slowly. Oh spirits, If anyone or anything is present, please answer my question. Bruce opens his eyes and looks at the board. The question he had wanted to ask was lodged in his throat, unwilling to come out. It was something he wanted to ask many people, but was afraid to. He was always told to not question certain things, and it was fear of repercussions that left him unable to ask those he trusted most the question. But with this board, the spirits could answer him.

It would not judge, it would not punish. The board would give him his answer and clarity. Spirits, tell me why am I here? He asked somberly. The boy was the youngest of the Evans family. He had one sibling, an older brother in his teens named Mark. Bruce had been something his brother wanted, and his parents, after a while, were able to give him that, But it had been clear since Bruce could remember that he only existed to be a plaything for his brother. Once Mark got older and started spending more time out with friends and with girls, he had no more use for his younger brother, his personal toy.

Not being the most social of children either, meant Bruce had a hard time making friends. It left him depressed, lonely, and made him question the reason he even existed. Did he have a purpose other than to be a plaything for somebody, only to be discarded like any other toy. He stared at the wigib board with one hand placed on the planchette. Bruce had heard about wigi boards and how they could communicate with another plane of existence. From what he gathered, people mostly used them to ask questions and get answers. He thought that maybe, just maybe it could answer his question and tell him what his raison debt was.

The Only problem with getting one was just that getting one. His family were heavily steeped in religion, as was the majority of people in the area. Bruce himself attended a Catholic school. Mister and Missus Evans would never approve of him buying something so supernatural and evil. Mark wouldn't be able to help either, since he was always busy with his social life. If Bruce wanted to get a hold of a wigi board, have to do it himself. So for a month, Bruce saved his allowance until he could afford to buy one via a mail away ad he found in the back of a Monster magazine.

The weeks leading up to its arrival were ones of suspense and fear. Bruce was afraid that his brother, or worse, his parents, would see it in the mail and punish him for it and for his temptation to interact with the dark side. He watched for the mailman like a hawk on Saturdays, and would run home from school to be sure he was the one to check the mail. After a month, it finally arrived. Bruce was ecstatic and sprinted up to his room with the package. Now it was nearly dinner, and here he was waiting for his answer.

The planchette did not move though. Am I doing something wrong? Bruce asked himself. He had done everything he'd heard about candles, the prayer at the beginning, how he addressed the board and the spirit. He did everything he thought was necessary to make it work. Yet here Bruce was in his room staring at the board. Why why isn't it working? He asked aloud. Isn't it obvious? A voice came suddenly. Bruce gasped and shock and turned around quickly. It was Mark. He sighed in relief. Mark, Bruce started, those things are just toys, a child's plaything. You really think stores and all these major companies are actually selling something that would let you talk to ghosts and goblins.

Man, you are so stupid, Mark said snarkily. But but the younger Evans stammered out he couldn't believe what he was hearing. How could Mark say that ouiji boards had been a thing for sauries, people swore by them. Or maybe maybe Mark was telling the truth. Finish up your little game and then come down for dinner. Mark told his younger brother before starting to close the door. He didn't get far in his action. Wait if this isn't real, then what how would I get an actual one? I mean, these things have been around forever, Bruce questioned his brother, almost pleading in his tone.

Mark stopped with the door half shut. Why do you want to know? You know Mom and Dad will kill you if they find out about it. I I have something I want to ask, but I can't ask anybody else. It's private, Bruce explained as best he could without divulging what his question was. His brother scoffed some before answering, well, if you're the expert on wuiji, you should know already you have to kill your whole family and use their blood and bodies to make the board and that pointer thing. Only then can you truly communicate with the divine spirits or it's all a bunch of hocus Poke is bullshit.

Come on, it's time to eat faster. We're done with dinner. The faster I can go out with my date. And with that, Mark left Bruce alone. He couldn't believe it. All is hard work to save money. All the time spent waiting for the Ouiji board to come was for nothing. A toy, a board game, That's all it apparently was. Bruce felt depressed at the knowledge his brother imparted on him. I'll never get an answer to my question. The only way I would is if I no. I'd never do that, Bruce quietly said to himself. The boy sighed and stood up.

Depression flowed through him at the revelation. Bruce couldn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it, but he seemed to have no other choice. He turned to leave his bedroom when he felt a chill. Bruce turned around to find the candles were no longer lit. I didn't blow them out, he told himself. He looked to the window but found it shut, and thus ruled out that a gust of wind had gotten through and blown them out. Yet he had felt a chill. Bruce heard his name being called and shrugged off the occurrence. Closing the door behind him, The grandfather clock in Evans's living room sounded off.

It was two in the morning. Mark opened the front door as quietly as possible to not alert his parents to his late homecoming. He slid off his shoes and crept into the house, making sure that he closed the door as quietly as he opened it. Mark stood still while he listened to the house and tried to pick up on any sign of his parents. Nothing quiet as a church the day after Christmas, He sighed in relief and started to make his way to the kitchen. As he walked towards the entrance, he saw that the light was on.

Weird. Somebody must have forgot to turn it off. He entered the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks, mouth twisting open in horror. The kitchen floor, normally a purlescent white, was splattered with blood and viscera. Mark's eyes darted around the kitchen to find the source of the mess. Eventually, his eyes and feet took him to the source. On the other side of the island was the Evan's dog, Scruffy. The dog was torn completely open, with its organs piled in front of it. Its blood everywhere. Mark doubled over and vomited onto the floor, adding to the mess.

He continued heaving as his mind tried to make sense of what he just saw. Who would do such a thing to a poor dog, he asked himself. Then another thought came Mom, Dad, the eldest of the Evan boys, found his strength returning at the thought of his parents being in danger. He jumped to his feet and made a mad dash to the stairs and quickly found himself on the second floor. Mark looked over at Bruce's door and found it closed. He shook his head and carried on down the hallway toward his parents room. The door was wide open, with faint light illuminating it.

Mark burst in like a speeding bullet and found a scene much mud worse. Splayed out on the bed were his and Bruce's mother and father. Much like Scruffy, Their blood and organs were all over the room. The mattress soaked so much it was beginning to sink into itself. Mark held a hand over his mouth as he went to investigate. He didn't make it far before throwing up again. The sight of their bodies having chunks of bone broken off triggering his gag reflex. Unable to take more of the sight, Mark vacated the room. Mom Dad, He choked out his vision.

Turned down the hall to Bruce's room. Mark found himself almost gliding down to the door, only vaguely aware of what was going on. At this point. He reached out and turned the knob, watching as the door creaked open. In the middle of the room sat Bruce, surround by lit candles. Before him was a large chunk of bone. Painted on it were the letters of the alphabet and various numbers, all of them painted in blood. Bruce was covered in blood head to toe a bread knife sitting beside him. Bruce Mark started in fear. Bruce looked up at his brother and smiled a little.

Hi, Mark, what what have you done? Mark asked his brother. I did what you said to do. I killed them all, and I've made the board out of their blood and bodies. I have a question that needs to be answered. This is the only way, Bruce explained, I would have answered it for you. Mark said, no, you wouldn't have. He would have made fun of me, belittled me, just like everybody else would. Besides, he wouldn't care anyways. I'm just a toy to you, Bruce told his older brother. Mark stared at his now ghoulish and psychotic little brother.

He had no way to answer him. Mark could only start to slowly move towards Bruce. What Bruce said wasn't untrue to some extent. Mark had to admit that he did make fun of and bully him, but Bruce being a toy to him was totally not true. It couldn't be, he told himself. He remembered asking his parents for a little brother to play with constantly. A lot of people did that, though, Was it really that selfish to ask for a sibling? Yet there was the fact that he would shrug off Bruce to do stuff with his friends or on his own.

It was something Mark did evermore so as the years went on. Maybe he had used his little brother as a place and Bruce just never got to feel loved and wanted. Bruce. Mark started, It's not done yet, his little brother said. Suddenly, Mark stopped in his tracks. What do you mean I still need the planchette, he responded. What Mark asked, I believe you called it the pointer thingy earlier. I still need it, Bruce explained, cautiously, Mark walked up to Bruce and knelt down. He placed a hand on one of Bruce's shoulders and gave him a small smile.

His little brother returned the smile. The head of a hammer cracked against the side of Mark's head. A second later, Mark fell to the floor and started spasming as he looked at his brother and Bruce's hand was the hammer. He moved on his knees over to Mark and smiled down at him. Now, then let's play big brother. Bruce raised the hammer and quickly brought it down against Mark's head again and again and again and again. The repeated blows broke into Mark's skull. More and more bones chipped and then broke, while blood and brain matter flew into the air.

Bruce carried on hammering his brother until he felt the hammer's head smashing against the floor. The now lone Evans tossed his weapon aside and picked up a piece of Mark's broken skull. He smiled and went back to the gruesomely made Ouiji board. Bruce set the makeshift planchette on top of it, keeping his hand placed on it as well. Trembling. He fights back, smiling in excitement and closes his eyes. Oh, spirits, if you're here, come to me, he cries out. The flames that danced on the tips of the candles shot up wildly. Bruce's hand lost its gripped on the planchette, and he watched as it started to move around the board at a frantic pace.

His eyes darted with the piece of skull, only slowing down when it did. The planchet came to a crawl as it began to spell something out m oh l oh c h mollick. Bruce spelled, and then said. A gust of wind went through the room and blew out the candles. Afterwards, the board began to glow red, first lightly and then blindingly. A moment later, the light was gone, and its place was a person. A snap of his fingers lighting the candles once more. Bruce stared at the stranger who now stood in his room. They had black hair that reached down to their shoulders, curled all along the way.

The clothing they wore reminded Bruce of the costumes people would wear in plays based on Shakespeare. They were colored in a swirl of black and navy and red. Most striking of all was the face of the stranger. Their features were well defined and gave off the appearance of a man, while the candles made it hard to fully tell. Their skin looked ashen. Yet what drew the most of Bruce's attention or the eyes. They were colored dark amber, but somehow shimmered. Who who are you? The boy asked, I am Mollik. You called for my presence. The entity, now identifying themselves as Molok, answered, it worked, Then I did it, Bruce exclaimed in glee.

Molik smirked slightly at the excitement of the child. What do you desire my services for? They asked. Bruce looked up at Molik. I have a question I need answered, he said, solemnly. What is it? Why? Why am I here? Bruce asked timidly. Molick looked down at the boy. They placed a hand on Bruce's head and closed their eyes. The pair stood there in quiet, Bruce looking at the entity while Mollik concentrated. Soon, Molick opened his eyes and stared into the boys. I have seen your mind, your soul, your entire being. I can answer your question with the utmost clarity, they explained, and Bruce questioned, you are here?

You exist to work for me. I have seen your work, and I quite enjoy it, really, Bruce said, surprised and delighted that somebody liked something he did. Molik knelt down and put their hand on Bruce's shoulder. You and I were meant to work together, my child, and you and I are going to do such wonderfully lurid things together, Molik explained. Bruce smiled widely in joy and wrapped his arms around Molik in a hug. The entity returned the embrace, their face twisting into a devilishly macobre smile and their eyes glowing intensely. Well, my spookies, I guess we made it back.

But the woods are still watching, the barn is still standing in somebody's memory, and some questions may be safer without answers. Tonight proved that every local legend begins somewhere, every ritual has a price, and every warning sign deserves a second look. So make sure you're subscribed to Weekly Spooky on your favorite podcast app. We bring you a brand new scary story every single Wednesday and have for over four hundred wednesdays. Also leaving us a rating or review on Apple Podcasts or Spotify helps the show grow, and if you have a spooky in your life who loves something scary all year long, well share this with them.

I do appreciate it helping more horror fans find their way into our dark little corner of the world. Until next time, stay out of the forbidden woods, never steal a stop sign, and please, whatever starts giggling behind you, do not turn around until next time. Stay safe, spookies,