Horror & Thriller Stories

The Bridge

Oct 26, 2025 | 0 comments

For one week, I was going to be “Florida Man.” I hoped, of course, that unlike the real ones, I wouldn’t find myself in some disreputable legal situation: apprehended for cruising the Suncoast Parkway, naked, on a riding mower, with an alligator strapped to the hood, and five cases of Coors Light and a pizza full of meth on the back. I was hoping for something much quieter. I’m an artist, and I’d been hired by a pediatrician to paint a mural for her office in Tampa. No lawn mowers would be involved.

I’d visited Florida plenty of times. Growing up, Fort Lauderdale was my family’s yearly vacation destination, but I’d only experienced the Atlantic side. Never the Gulf. So I jumped at the chance to see a new coastline while working on a new gig. My wife often tags along on Florida jobs so she can hit the beach while I’m working, but this time she couldn’t make it, so it was just me and Florida.

On the second day, I wrapped up work, cleaned my brushes, and decided to drive a stretch of the coast road until the condos and hotels no longer blocked the ocean view. I’d catch the sunset, relax a bit, and see what was up there. A mile or two outside the city, I spotted a little roadside produce stand that looked like it had survived a few more hurricanes than it should. Probably couldn’t survive another one. Inside, all I could smell was citrus, delivering the quintessential Florida experience. I grabbed a small bag of tangelos and was heavily tempted by a display case of key lime pies. They looked delicious but not a great idea. I made the decision to pass them by.

An older woman in a dirty Buccaneers cap rang me up. Her face looked like a shriveled hermit crab peering from beneath its shell. I asked how far the highway ran before it hit the interstate. She gave me a look. “Why would you want to do that?”

I explained to her that I was a visitor exploring the area and wanted a more hometown experience, away from the billboards, tourist traps, and themed restaurants. Something more real. She shook her head and tugged the brim of her hat down. “If you want my advice, turn around and go back to Tampa. Ain’t nothing up that way worth seeing.” Weird. I watched her for a second as she walked off to empty some fruit crates. I gave her a polite “thanks” and took my bag out to the car.

One of my friends used to joke that I could get lost driving in a parking lot, and it’s true. It’s actually happened. I acknowledge that I have a terrible sense of direction. Interstate numbers and street names are like math to me, and I’m horrible at math. My GPS is my essential, omniscient co-pilot, and without it, I’m about as lost as a golf ball in high grass. But I figured if I kept the beach on my left, I’m heading north, and when I got ready to travel back south, all I had to do was turn around. If I made a wrong turn, my phone would show me the way. A great plan that lasted about five minutes, right up until my phone dropped service and the GPS went dead.

I wasn’t worried, though. North ahead, south behind. Stay on the road, and there would be no problems. It was a beautiful evening with no traffic on the little highway. I had a bag of tangelos and nowhere else to be.

It was a pleasant drive, but after a few minutes, it started to look like every other small-town backroad I’d ever seen. A few palm trees, but mostly cows and scrap cars. After about forty-five minutes, I figured I’d seen enough “small-town Florida” for one night and decided to head back. It was full dark now— “country dark” as we say in East Tennessee. My headlights found a short, narrow driveway, so I swung in, backed up, and started south again, hoping it wouldn’t be long before my phone and GPS would be restored.

A couple of minutes later, headlights came up fast behind me. Too fast. The beams shot up in my mirror and stayed there. Some jerk clearly wanted me to move, but that was the exact way to make sure I didn’t. If he didn’t like my driving, he could go around. I was doing fifty-five in what was probably a forty-five zone, but this guy was riding my tail like he owned the road. He’d pull up within a few feet, back off for half a second, then close in again until his lights lit up the inside of my car.

I squinted in my rearview mirror, trying to make out what kind of car it was. Could be a cop. Hope not, I was speeding for sure. But I didn’t see any blue lights or a light bar. No cop markings at all. Just one person in the driver’s seat, that was all I could tell. After a few seconds, the car squealed and swerved around me, almost making contact, then blew past like I was standing still. Its taillights weaved ahead, wild and erratic, like he was trying to die. We were on a two-lane highway, and this dumbass stayed in the wrong lane way too long, even over hills and blind curves, not caring that he was putting everyone in danger.

Now that he was off my ass, I eased off the gas to give him plenty of space. The second I did, his brake lights flared. His car slowed hard and dropped right in front of me, close enough that I could see the shape of his head through the rear window. He was watching me in his mirror. He started tapping his brakes. Short bursts at first, then harder, like he wanted me to rear-end him. At that point, I realized this wasn’t random. Whoever this was, and for whatever reason, he was screwing with me on purpose.

My little Toyota wasn’t built for road duels. His big Dodge HEMI could have eaten me alive if he’d wanted to. He had to tone it down just to stay near me. That didn’t seem to matter, though. He drifted back into the left lane, pacing me. Speeding up, slowing down, edging forward like he was daring me to race. Race? Couldn’t he see what I was driving? This guy had to be insane. I kept both hands on the wheel and my eyes locked straight ahead. No sudden moves. No eye contact. I didn’t want to give him any excuse to think I was playing along.

I’ve always heard if you ignore bullies, they’ll eventually go away. So I figured if I pretended he wasn’t there, he’d get bored and drive off. But he kept right beside me, inching up and falling back like he couldn’t decide whether to race me or run me off the road. Then he reached out his passenger window and threw something at me. It looked like a red plastic Solo cup and it smacked the side of my car and splattered across the windshield. If that wasn’t tobacco juice smeared on my windshield, I didn’t want to know what it was. Then came a beer can. Apparently, he was going to unleash all the trash from his car on me. I could hear him laughing. I couldn’t figure out how—or why—I’d become his personal target.

I decided to look at him. Could it be someone I knew? He was a bulky guy, sort of a young, muscle-head type. The kind of guy who was always bragging about his high school wrestling days. The most obvious thing about him was his flaming red hair. Not “Conan O’Brien red”—I mean fire-engine red, like a demented clown. A big teardrop tattoo was permanently inked on the left side of his face, and, I swear, a mouth full of metal braces. Not normal ones, these were the weirdest braces I’d ever seen. In the dash lights, they looked like twisted wire—barbed wire, almost.

He leaned halfway out the window, screaming into the wind. I couldn’t understand what the hell he was saying, but it didn’t matter. I could read his lips enough to know it wasn’t polite. Red Hair flipped me off, shouted something else obscene, and laughed like this was the most fun he’d had all week.

I kept my eyes forward, hands tight on the wheel, waiting for something else to come flying out of his car. A bottle. A boot. A half-eaten bag of Purina Gorilla Chow. Then I glanced over again and saw the gun. A real gun. Small, black, and pointed right at me. Holy shit. Before I could think, I slammed the brakes. The front of his car dipped and swerved, and he howled with laughter, like this was all a glorious joke. Then, just as quickly, he jerked the wheel, shot across my lane, almost slamming into my fender, and peeled into an Exxon station.

I kept going. I wanted to get as far away from that idiot as I could, as fast as I could. I started wishing I’d taken that old lady’s advice and turned around and gone back to Tampa. Maybe she knew something I didn’t. Here I was, on a dark country road, trying to deal with some crazy driver who was dead set on making me roadkill. For the next minute, I steadied my breathing and kept glancing at the rearview mirror, waiting to see those headlights blaring around the bend. But it seemed to be just me and the road. I glanced in the mirror again. I thought I saw a glow getting stronger. Are those… headlights—maybe not. False alarm. Just my imagination.

For the first time in several minutes, everything was completely quiet. Peaceful. No streetlights. Just the glow of a half moon giving everything a grayish radiance. A loud grinding noise under my tire broke the silence. My car had drifted onto the shoulder. And there—right in front of me—someone was walking along the road. I spun the wheel and hit the brakes hard. Tires squealed. I heard a girl scream. I threw the car in “Park” and jumped out.

“I’m so sorry! I couldn’t see you! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Who taught you how to drive?”

The hitchhiker stepped cautiously closer. She was young and dressed head to toe in black. No wonder I almost hit her. She was dragging a black canvas duffel bag with both hands. A bag almost as big as she was. She turned and started walking south again without another word.

“What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere dressed like that? It’s pitch dark. I could have hit you. Anybody could hit you.”

She turned back and shouted through the darkness, “I’m hitchhiking. Isn’t that obvious? And if you’re not going to give me a ride, then leave me alone and let me get the hell on the road.”

I stood there shaking my head. What is going on in Florida? This was officially the craziest night I’d ever had in my life. Red was gone, but now I’d nearly mowed down this runaway kid who didn’t seem to care she was one step away from getting flattened, kidnapped, or worse. The girl couldn’t have weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet, and that duffel bag looked like it weighed more than she did. I couldn’t help it. I felt sorry for her.

“Where are you going?”

“The bridge,” she said.

The bridge? What bridge? This was Tampa; there had to be a thousand bridges around here. Still, if she was walking to it, it couldn’t be very far. “All right,” I said. “Get in.”

She turned and considered the offer for half a second, then hauled her hulking duffel bag to the car. I tossed it in the back seat. She jerked it back out and dragged it to the floor of the front seat. We both climbed in. She planted her feet on the bag, and I eased the car back onto the road.

I know what you’re thinking, so just to be clear, I don’t pick up hitchhikers. Or… I didn’t, anyway. I’ve been tempted to a couple of times, like everybody. Usually when it’s blistering outside and the poor soul looks like they’re about to burst into flames if someone doesn’t stop and give them a ride. But I’ve never gone through with it. This time was different. She was a young person, alone, in the dark. There was imminent danger, in my opinion. This wasn’t Ted Bundy.

Still, the seriousness of the situation wasn’t lost on me. I was in an unfamiliar town with a stranger in my car. A young stranger, but a stranger all the same. She didn’t exactly look like an axe murderer—unless she had a very small axe. I guess that would still do the trick. She didn’t smell like a murderer, either. She smelled like oranges and cinnamon, with a faint sweetness underneath—maybe cherry. Or maybe cheap dessert wine, hard to say. Then again, I don’t actually know what murderers smell like. Just focus on the road, I told myself.

“Have you ever met the devil?” she asked.

“Not formally, no,” I said, “but I think he may have just tried to run me off the road a few minutes ago.”

“That’s nothing. I used to live with the devil.”

As she spoke, I realized this girl was much younger than I’d originally thought—eighteen, maybe nineteen. Possibly twenty, but I doubted it. “In that case, I can see why you would want to get out of that situation. Speaking of which, why are you out walking on a dark road this time of night?”

“Listen,” she said, “the last thing I’m looking for tonight is a daddy.”

“Ouch. Okay, fair enough. But for the record, I don’t have kids, so I’m not anybody’s daddy. Even if I am old enough to be yours. Maybe even your granddaddy… Hold on, no. Let’s keep it at ‘daddy.’”

She stared out the passenger window. “My name’s Kami,” she said, as if she was trying to restart our whole introduction all over. “Don’t tell me yours. I don’t want to know. Once you know somebody’s name, you have to remember them your whole life. And I don’t need to remember a guy who’s just giving me a ride to the bridge.”

Again with the bridge. I really hoped this bridge was close by. I was ready for dinner and bed.

I checked my phone. Still no service. “Forget about it,” she said. “No phones work around here. It’s like 1990 or something.” She brushed lint from her blouse and tucked her black hair behind her ears. She pulled down the visor like she’d been in my car and done it a thousand times before. She clicked on the mirror light and studied her face in it. She ran her thumb along her lipstick, shaping it just right, then flipped the visor back into place.

“Bastard walks out on me—with someone I’m pretty sure I used to be friends with. Then he expects me to hold on to all his stuff until he can come pick it up? Seriously? I have an idea: how about I put all your stupid shit in a big bag and throw it off a bridge, okay? How about that?”

“Ah. Okay, I understand the bridge now.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ve been over him a long time. I moved on weeks ago, and I guarantee you he’ll be calling me before the year is up, what do you want to bet? Do you mind if I smoke?”

I did, but I didn’t want to seem like an uncool dad. “No, go right ahead.”

She unzipped the duffel bag and dug around inside. “You know, I don’t think boys know what love is until much later in life. I mean, think about it. Little girls are holding and rocking baby dolls while little boys are crashing toy cars and trucks into the sidewalk. We’re trained to love from the time we’re born. Then we get a boyfriend and all we want to do is love, but all he knows how to do is crash you into the sidewalk. Can’t blame him, I guess. He’s had no training.”

She pulled out a ten-inch fillet knife in a sheath and laid it on the dashboard. My eyes widened, and my heart raced a bit. She continued digging.

“From what I understand, things are improving in that area,” I said. “There are just as many boys playing with dolls and girls crashing trucks.”

“Just as many? No. There are some, sure, but most of the time a little boy picks up a doll, Mom or Dad takes it away, and hands him a truck. It’s not his choice. It’s this world.”

She struck a match and lit her cigarette. In seconds, I knew it wasn’t tobacco. If I got pulled over, I was screwed. She inhaled deeply, held it in, then steadily blew the smoke out.

“Why is it so quiet in here? Don’t you have any good music?”

“I have lots of great music. I’ll bet your parents would love all of it,” I said. “I usually listen to podcasts, though. Not very exciting. I apologize.”

Headlights appeared in my rearview mirror. My heart jumped. They sped closer until light illuminated the inside of my car. I watched them inch closer. They stayed steady behind me for a minute or two, then passed. A Subaru. Relief.

“If you could have any superpower, what would it be?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Something where I could make lots of money, I suppose. Invisibility. I could go into a bank and take as much money as I wanted, and no one would ever see me.”

“That’s stupid,” she shot back. “Do you honestly think anyone’s going to sit there watching a pile of money float out the door and not do something about it? You might be invisible, but the money’s not. You just wasted a superpower.”

“Then I choose the power to sleep for a week,” I said.

“How is that a superpower?” she asked.

“I’d do it in a cape.”

“You’re not even taking this seriously,” she said. “Ask me what I would want.”

“Okay. If you could have any superpower in the world, what would it be?”

“I’d like to fly,” she said quickly. “You don’t think that would be amazing?”

“I do. Then you wouldn’t have to rely on complete strangers to take you to your bridges.”

She popped open the glove compartment, took a glance, then clicked it shut. “I believe most humans have superpowers they never use. When I say superpower, I don’t mean power as in ‘strength.’ Men are always testing how much power they can get. Big cars, big talk, big guns—whatever.”

“You sound very anti-man right now,” I said.

She laughed. “I am right now, honestly. Not always, though. But women do the same thing. We just use hearts instead of horsepower.”

“How much horsepower does that knife have?” I asked.

She picked it up and pointed it at me, sheath and all. “This is strictly for protection. But ‘protection’ means different things to different people. I need protection when I’m walking out there. But do I need protection when I’m riding in here? Maybe you do. Right now, the only thing between you and the point of this knife is a thin piece of leather. How do you feel about that?”

I knew she was kidding. But I also knew that I didn’t know she was kidding. I was pretty sure she was just trying to rattle me. “I’ll have you know, my invisible cloak of protection would engage automatically if you ever unsheathed your weapon.”

She tilted her head the way guys like to see girls tilt their heads, and she smiled. I took it that I’d won the banter. She held onto the knife, slid it in and out of the sheath a few times, then leaned back into the seat and stared out the window. She was quiet for a few seconds like she was pondering her next strategic move. “Would you like to make out?”

Whoa! I tapped the brakes without meaning to. “Are you out of your mind? And yes, you might just be. How would I know? I just picked you up off the street after nearly running you over because some maniac was trying to shoot me off the road! What the hell is going on tonight? You’re… you’re a kid! Why on earth would you want to make out with an old dude like me?”

“Don’t have a meltdown. I’m just asking.” She sat quietly for a moment. “I would totally do it, though. What can I say? I like older men. I’m not bragging, but I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t have any complaints about me. I like to love.”

“Stop it,” I said. “Just shut up.” She shrugged and took another long drag.

I glanced at my rearview mirror. “First of all, I’m married, okay? And I don’t fool around. Ever. And even if I did, I wouldn’t with you, a complete stranger… who, I’m guessing, still plays with Barbies.”

“Why would you need to tell anyone?” she asked. It’s just me and you out here. Who else needs to know? That’s the thing about strangers. If you don’t know them, you can do anything to them. And it’s like it never happened.”

I drove in silence for a couple of minutes, trying to focus my mind and get a firmer grasp on reason. The secondhand smoke was starting to make my head swim. I ran through it all in my head: everything that had happened that night might have felt like a dream, but it was no dream. It was really happening. As crazy and outrageous as it all was, it was still real. Every person I’d encountered that night was a complete stranger, and I was a stranger to them, but that didn’t make any of it less real. Being strangers doesn’t excuse anything. You can’t run strangers off the road or poke knives at them simply because they are strangers. It’s no different from anyone you actually know.

In that moment, I realized I wasn’t afraid of being run off the road or stabbed with a fishing knife. There was something worse. I was afraid I could screw up the life I had. In a moment of ignoring consequences, I could trash the wonderful things in my life, the important things. The relationships that mattered most to me. It hit me how stupid I’d been to let this hitchhiker into my car, no matter how young or harmless she looked. This wasn’t a good idea. What was I thinking?

“Look, I’m sorry, but I need to let you out here.” Kami looked straight ahead, shook her head, and smiled, like she knew it was coming. “We can’t be far from the city now. It’ll be easy for you to get a ride the rest of the way. Someone will come along soon. You’ll be okay.”

“No problem,” she said. She rolled down the window, flicked out the remaining stump of her cigarette, and slid the knife back into the duffel bag.

I eased the car onto the shoulder and waited for her to grab her things. She hesitated a moment. Then, without warning, she reached over and took my head in both her hands, turning me toward her until I was staring straight into her eyes. “We’re all strangers, you know? Even the people you think you know. The ones you love are the same as the ones you pick up from the side of the street. The ones you’re true to are the exact same as the ones who try to run you off the road. None of us ever truly know any of us.”

She kept her gaze locked on mine while reaching down and unbuttoning the three top buttons of her blouse, letting it fall open just enough. She watched my eyes. Not looking down was harder than passing up that key lime pie. “What do you want to do more than anything right now?” she asked.

I wasn’t going to say a damn word.

She pulled my head toward hers and kissed me. A long, open-mouthed, deliberate kiss that felt much older than she was. I felt her tongue slide along the edges of my teeth. I’m sure I could have resisted more than I did; I can’t remember and don’t want to. All I could think was: I hadn’t been kissed like that since college. Maybe high school. And I wasn’t a hundred percent sure if that was a bad thing or not.

“I need you to get out now,” I said.

She realized the ride was over, but she wasn’t willing to give in completely. She grinned a beautiful, perfect, young grin, leaned in to me, and ran her tongue slowly up my face, from chin to the tip of my nose.

“Goodbye, Daddy,” she said. “It would’ve been fun at the bridge. You’ll never know what you missed.” She hopped out, dragging the heavy duffel bag behind her, and slammed the car door. She walked a few steps in front of my car, stuck out her thumb, and disappeared into the dark. I adjusted my seatbelt and myself, then pulled away.

She was gone, but her scent — orange, cinnamon, and cherries — hung around. It would linger in the car for the next five days.

It was difficult to think about anything else over the next week. Not just the ridiculous string of events, but how to process them. Would I tell anyone? Would anyone believe me if I did? Should I tell my wife? Of course, I should. I hadn’t done anything wrong. But— then again, maybe I wouldn’t. No. There was no sense in getting her upset. I definitely wouldn’t tell her. Come to think of it, no one needed to know what happened. I’d just keep it all to myself.

Toward the end of the Tampa job, I was putting the final touches on the mural when the skies began turning stormy. I pulled up a local news site to check the weather. I scrolled for a couple of minutes, then—wow.

There was Kami.

The picture of her face, clear as day—no shadows, no dim car lights. Just a pretty, young smile, like the one I’d seen up close. Her black hair was tucked behind her ears, dark lipstick perfectly framing her mouth. I knew immediately it was her.

“Woman Charged With Death on Bridge,” the headline read.

What the hell? My eyes raced over the story. Police had found an abandoned car near a bridge just outside the city. In the water, they’d recovered a black duffel bag wrapped around the body of a man, stabbed several times. The man was described as being in his thirties, with braces, a large teardrop tattoo, and bright, fire-engine-red hair.

I knew that description. They could have called me for that description. How that small girl managed to haul that piece of meat and that duffel bag over a bridge was beyond me. She must’ve had help. “Stunned” didn’t begin to describe how I felt.

My stomach twisted as it all sank in. I knew I’d let Kami out on that same road. Red must have come up behind me—he and that big, dumb grin. Maybe he was coming to finish what he started with me. Maybe it was just coincidence. But somehow, he’d found her. He picked her up, took her to the bridge, and ended up being tossed over the side, stabbed, with a duffel bag wrapped around him, sinking deep into black water.

Was it simply because he was a stranger? Because he took her to the bridge? That could have been me. Probably was supposed to be me. I was this close to being the story behind that girl’s smiling photo. The knife had already been pointed in my direction; I’d just refused to go all the way to the bridge.

I don’t want to get too philosophical, but maybe none of us really do know the rest of us. Not like we think. I certainly didn’t know that girl sitting in my car, but when I saw her picture in that article, I couldn’t help feeling a mix of shock, pity, and disappointment. In a strange way, I felt connected to her, even though she was a complete stranger.

A few nights later, driving home after finishing the job, I started getting drowsy. I was exhausted from work and had been on the road too long. I told myself some coffee and loud music would keep me awake, but at one point, my eyes must have closed for just a half-second too long because the rumble strip jolted me awake. My heart was hammering. I pulled off to the side of the road to clear my head and wake up.

The cool night air sobered me quickly. I walked around the car a few times to get my blood moving and heard a pop and crunch under my foot. I looked down. I’d squashed a red Solo cup.

That’s when I was sure I saw a young girl standing ahead of me in the glow of my headlights—thumb out, black hair catching the light. She turned and smiled.

I blinked. She was gone. Only moonlight and moving pine shadows remained. I looked around. Guardrails on both sides. A low trickle of water below. I walked to the edge and leaned over.

Unbelievable.

I had pulled over and was standing on an old highway bridge.

(COPYRIGHT NOTICE – This story is under the full copyright of the author who gives permission for royalty-free performance/readings of the story for non commercial purposes. This story must not be changed or altered in any way without permission of the author. Any performance of this story must credit the author, Rick Baldwin. This story may not be reprinted without permission of the author.)

Death Of The Moon

Oct 25, 2024 | 0 comments

Punky Moon was gettin’ married to Reba Anderson and there wuddn’t nobody less happy about that than Punky Moon.

Truth was, after he got engaged to Reba, Punky Moon fell in love with Willie Mae Snodgrass down at the feed store and now he was in a mess of trouble! The announcement was already in the paper. Reba had the ring, the dress… Punky didn’t know what he was gonna do. There wuddn’t no way out that he could see.

Finally he throwed his hands up in the air and said, “Shucks, I might as well just be dead!” Well! That might be about the best idea he’d had yet! If he’s dead, he don’t have to marry Reba! She won’t get furious and try to kill him, then he can run off far away with Willie Mae Snodgrass. Right then, Punky Moon decides to plan his own funeral.

First thing he has to do is get himself a coffin. Punky’s best friend in the world is Toad McAllister and Toad has a furniture workshop downtown. Punky figures Toad could make him a cheap wood coffin. He explains his plan to Toad and swears him to secrecy. Punky says heck, Toad can use scrap wood if he wants. The coffin only has to last a couple hours.

Punky believes there’s no better time to have his funeral than a week from now on Halloween night. Right by Baneberry Pond. People always say that spot is haunted by the dreaded Pond Wolf, so what better place for a funeral, right? Now, Punky has to get dead real quick. And that he does. Punky owns a small farm so he gets the word out that he’s been the victim of a tragic corn-shucking accident. Punky Moon has fallen into the shucker! And become a shuck-ee!

The news hits the town hard and all the town shows up for the funeral. Toad did an impressive job with the coffin there on the landing by the pond. Punky wears his wedding tuxedo: black coat with tails. He leaves the britches at home since nobody’s gonna see his lower half. He even slathers his hair with pig lard and rubs corn into it so it looks like he’s been in a shucking accident.

At the funeral, Reba Anderson sits right there in front, dressed in all black. Mercipa Skaggs shows up with her honey-glazed, sweet potato casserole as a gift to the deceased’s family. The ladies choir of the Paw Paw Holler Baptist Church starts humming “Nearer My God to Thee” and there ain’t a dry eye in the crowd.

Well, it’s about 39 minutes into the service when Punky Moon feels the first tickle on his left foot. He scratches it very carefully with his right foot. No one sees nothing! Soon, though, Punky feels a tickle on his right foot! And then another! And then another one on his left! Ain’t long before he feels about a billion little somethings crawling all over his legs!

This might be the perfect time to mention that Toad used not only scrap wood to build Punky’s coffin but also termite infested scrap wood. At the very moment the ladies choir of the Paw Paw Holler Baptist Church starts singing “Stand Up, Stand Up For Jesus,” Punky Moon stands up in his bug-swarmed coffin and starts a-yelling “They’re a-bitin’, they’re a-bitin’!” all-the-while dancin’ a pantsless jig in front of the whole town! The ladies choir of the Paw Paw Holler Baptist Church thinks Punky is being chewed on by the Pond Wolf and they start a-runnin’ and a-screamin’.

While he’s contortin’, one of the tails from Punky’s tuxedo jacket touches a candle and bursts into flames! Mercipa Skaggs believes she’s seeing a glowing ghost and she keels over, spilling sweet potato casserole all over the ground. The burnin’, gyratin’ Punky starts a-marchin’ through the casserole. His bare legs get slathered in honey-glaze. He stomps on an ant hill and angry ants declare war on the termites. They reenact the Battle of Atlanta right there on Punky’s upper thighs.

Everyone at the funeral’s a-hollerin’ like cats under a wagon wheel. It’s not long before the fire from Punky’s tuxedo jacket heats up the pig lard in his hair and all that corn starts a-poppin’ everywhere!

Reba Anderson takes one look at the half-nekkid, honey-coated, cootie-legged Punky Moon, all aflame and hoofin’ it, with popcorn exploding off his head and she faints right on top of Mercipa Skaggs! Punky Moon runs off and jumps into the pond, taking with him a lap full of termites, a head full of popcorn and all that honey-glazed sweet potato casserole, far down into the deep, haunted waters of Baneberry Pond.

Well. Folks around town never did see Punky Moon again. Not Reba nor Willie Mae Snodgrass at the feed store or even Toad. Did he get eaten by the Pond Wolf? No one knows what really happened to Punky. In fact, if you asked around, most people in the town woulda told you, “He might as well just be dead.”

The Specter of Red Dog Road

Oct 23, 2023 | 0 comments

Over in Harlan, Kentucky, there’s an old backroad called “Red Dog Road” and you don’t never want to get lost on it. Locals will tell ya there’s all kinds of unexplained stuff on that road at night. They see strange, red lights flickerin’ tree to tree. Some hear footsteps walkin’ around on the road and on the leaves. Worst of all, a lot of people say they see the ghost of a haggard old coal miner, holding his lantern, just a-cryin’ and a-hollerin’ somethin’ fierce! Well, I’m here to tell you, all that stuff is true. I’m going to tell you the real story of the Specter of Red Dog Road.

One summer, Eldon Parkey did work for an old tobacco farmer just across the Tennessee border. The farmer paid Eldon a little bit and he also traded him some tobacco and gave him this red dog that showed up on the farm one day. That dog was meaner than a two-headed snake so the old farmer was more than happy to get rid of it. Eldon loved that dog. Took him home and named him “Red Dog.”

Eldon noticed Red Dog only had 38 of the regular 42 dog teeth. He figured the other 4 of ’em must still be in some poor fella’s hind-end ‘cause that dog would bite you just to see what you taste like! The story was, one bite from Red Dog would keep a man’s soul from gettin’ into heaven or hell. So, didn’t nobody ever want to pet him. Come to think of it, ain’t nobody ever wanted to pet Eldon neither. Eldon said, you know what? That’s the way he liked it!

Eldon was a coal miner and one day word got around town that Eldon found a hunk of gold when he was working underground. That kinda thing didn’t normally happen in Kentucky and anything valuable you found was supposed to belong to the company, but Eldon stuck that gold rock in his lunch pail and took it back to his house. He put it in a steel lock box and set that box right beside Red Dog’s bed. Wasn’t nobody gettin’ that gold.

Most people around Harlan knowed Eldon kinda had a big mouth and, sure enough, he starts to braggin’ in town that he was gonna be a rich man. He took to wearing fancy smellin’ lotion and tellin’ people he was fixin’ to buy a new milking cow and a shiny new pocket watch. Said he’d soon have a clean pair of britches for every day of the week!

Well, I reckon when R.T. Scoggins heard about it, he didn’t like it one bit. R.T. was the Foreman at the mine and he said that gold belonged to the mine! Eldon found it while he was on the mine’s time and on the mine’s property. According to R.T. that gold rock should be in a steel lockbox in the mine office! He decided he’d just better go take it back himself, in person!

So, one night when Eldon was at the church, R.T. grabbed his shotgun and a big ol’ tater sack and snuck over to Eldon’s place down in the holler. It was all dark but R.T. looked through the front window and scanned the room real careful like. He could barely make out the silhouette of Red Dog over in the corner on a blanket; that steel lock box sittin’ right next to him. R.T. lifted his shotgun… pointed it right at Red Dog… Red Dog didn’t move an inch. R.T’s finger squeezed the trigger… BOOM!

There weren’t no sign of Red Dog nowhere.

R.T. didn’t see any blood so he figured he musta missed him and Red Dog got spooked and run off somewhere. Seemed as good a time as any to make his move so R.T. ran into the house, grabbed that steel lock box and hightailed it out the door and into the night.

Well, y’all, I don’t have to tell you, R.T. Scoggins didn’t get 100 yards down the holler road when all he saw in front of him was a mess of red hair and dog slobber! I mean, Red Dog tore him up in ways ain’t no one ever figured out how to put back together. Some people said they found pieces of R.T. over into Tennessee, maybe even Virginia.

Of course, R.T. got more than just bit by Red Dog so he ain’t never gettin’ nowhere near the other side of heaven or hell. His soul ain’t doin’ nothin’ for eternity, ‘cept wandering around Harlan, Kentucky, a-cryin’ and a-hollerin’.

So, if you think you’re brave enough, grab your own shotgun and a tater sack and maybe you can get yourself a hunk of gold. Or… you’ll be keeping company for eternity with the shredded specter of R.T. Scoggins way out there on Red Dog Road.

Farm Fresh Eggs

Oct 30, 2018 | 0 comments

Fiona Blaine opened her eyes, squinting at the glowing numbers on the digital clock. Without her glasses, she could only make out the faint outline of the time. It was 5:29. One minute before the alarm. She reached out and shut it off just in time, not disturbing her husband, Sonny.

She sat up slowly and fumbled for her glasses on the nightstand. A silent prayer of thanks crossed her mind for the extra few minutes of sleep on the weekends. Every weekday for the past fifty-two years, Fiona had been up at 4 a.m. to prepare breakfast for Sonny. Weekends were a brief reprieve, a chance to sleep in until six. But today was different. Today was the Cocke County Celtic Festival, and for the past forty-nine festivals in a row, Sonny had led the parade with his bagpipes and full, dress kilt. She would need to start breakfast earlier this morning.

Fiona wrapped herself in her cream-colored flannel robe and tiptoed to the kitchen. She flicked on the light and froze in her tracks. In the middle of the floor lay Monster, their old black lab, his eyes barely open. She sighed, relieved that at least the dog hadn’t stirred in his sleep. Fiona opened the fridge, scanned the contents, and planned her steps carefully: biscuits first, bacon next, and finally Sonny’s favorite cheese scrambled eggs.

The eggs!

Her heart sank as she scanned the refrigerator’s contents. The egg carton was missing. How could she have forgotten to pick up eggs yesterday? Sonny would be up soon, expecting his usual cheese scrambled eggs.

She knew what he would say, too. He’d remind her this wouldn’t have been a problem if the door to the chicken coop hadn’t been left open a year ago this September when, in the middle of the night, a fox or coyote or something had entered the coop and killed all five of their good-laying hens. Fiona didn’t remember leaving the door open, and Sonny said he certainly would never have done such a thing. It was the biggest quarrel they had had in their marriage. Sonny finally just said to heck with it; he wasn’t replacing the chickens. They’d have to start buying eggs at the grocery store like city folk do.

And that’s exactly what Fiona would have to do this morning. Drive to the all-night grocery store for a carton of eggs. Grabbing her rabbit coat and the keys to the Lincoln, Fiona slipped out the door to the garage. At this hour, there’d be no one at the store to care about her bed hair and disheveled appearance. She adjusted the car’s seat and mirrors from Sonny’s preferences, cranked the heater, and set off down Sussex Road.

Cooper’s 24-Hour Grocery was only three miles away, so she had plenty of time. She’d be in and out, eggs in hand, before Sonny even noticed she was gone. She didn’t worry about Monster waking him up; after all, that dog hadn’t barked in four years.

As she passed the old church cemetery, she noticed something unusual ahead. A faded wagon by the roadside. Her headlights illuminated a cardboard sign: “Ordell’s Farm Fresh Eggs.”

“Thank you, Lord!” Fiona exclaimed, relieved. Local farmers often set up roadside stands, and she was grateful for the shortcut. She pulled over and stepped out of the car.

The wagon’s stand was dimly lit by the full moon, aided by the scarlet tail lights of her car. She approached and noticed a figure wrapped in a blanket, sitting motionless by the eggs.

“Good morning!” she called cheerfully. “Lordy, you have saved me! I was just starting breakfast and realized I forgot the eggs! Can you believe that? I don’t know what’s wrong with my head lately.” She squinted at the figure, trying to make out details. The blanket was too thick to see anything clearly.

“Are you Ordell?” she asked. “Hello? Anyone there?”

A hand stretched from under the blanket and pointed silently at the eggs.

Fiona smiled. “My husband loves his eggs. I’ll take a dozen, please.” She gathered a dozen large eggs into her basket. “Thank you so much for being here. I was about to drive all the way to the store. How much do I owe you, Ordell?”

The blanketed figure remained silent.

Fiona placed a five-dollar bill on the stand and muttered to herself, “He probably doesn’t even speak English.” She felt a twinge of sympathy. “Poor man’s just out here early, trying to make a living.”

Relieved, she scurried back to the car, though a bit unsettled by the strange quiet of their encounter. The eerie silence from the figure on the roadside lingered in her thoughts.

When she returned to the kitchen, Monster had moved from the kitchen floor to the bedroom. She didn’t think much of it. She was too focused on getting breakfast started. She set the eggs on the counter, then retrieved the biscuit dough from the fridge. As she kneaded it, she thought about the comfort of mornings like this; the warmth of the oven and the sounds and scent of bacon frying in the pan. She knew the smell would soon drift to the bedroom, waking Sonny in the gentlest of ways. When the bacon was done, Fiona poured most of the grease into the “Bacon Grease” container, leaving just enough to flavor Sonny’s eggs.

She cracked an egg against the side of the iron skillet. Fiona wanted to scream when the first cold, slimy tentacle emerged from the egg, but she was prevented from doing so as it wrapped twice around her mouth. The second tentacle was thinner and sleeker, resembling a lizard’s tail. It crawled up her neck and sprouted tiny fingers that twitched and spread across her scalp. Two of the finger-like appendages descended her forehead and pierced through her eye sockets. Her glasses fell to the floor, and she got the feeling she would never be needing them again.

From the broken shell in her left hand, a dark, bristly mass emerged, pulsating and expanding rapidly. Veins and filaments spread, its viscous fluids oozing over her hand. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she slumped against the stove, her body growing cold. All she could think was, “Where is Monster? Why doesn’t Monster hear this noise and come running to my rescue?” Then she realized it was, after all, Monster. That dog hadn’t heard a single sound in the past three years.

Fiona’s body convulsed as the mass launched a cord into her chest, injecting a yellowish liquid into her heart. The liquid spread rapidly, dissolving her from within, but on the outside, it exploded into a glob of golden bio-goo that coated the cabinets, the stove, and the oven.

Monster ambled into the kitchen, sniffing at the goo dripping from the oven door. He licked it lazily, then circled twice before settling in the middle of the floor to sleep.

Several moments later, Sonny entered the kitchen, dressed in his usual pre-parade attire. He expected to find Fiona at the stove, but she wasn’t there. Puzzled by her absence, he glanced around. Her robe lay in a heap near the stove. He looked in the living room and the second bathroom, but found no clues to her whereabouts. The car was in the garage, and Fiona’s rabbit coat was draped over the rocking chair. He thought maybe she had gone out for a morning walk, as she often did. “That’s probably what she was doing last year when she left the door to the chicken coop open,” he muttered to himself. “Or, maybe she just went to the end of the driveway to get the mail or the morning paper.” He was confident that Fiona would return soon.

Sonny approached the stove, his eyes widening at the sight of the plate brimming with warm biscuits, crispy bacon, and delectable cheese. He stirred the contents of the iron skillet, then carefully transferred the fluffy, golden eggs onto his plate. Sitting down at the table, he offered a silent prayer of gratitude for the breakfast before him. With a contented sigh, he scooped a generous portion of cheesy scrambled eggs onto his biscuit. The cheese was perfectly melted, just the way he liked it, and the eggs appeared fluffier and sweeter than usual. “Fiona has truly outdone herself this morning,” he thought. As he gazed out the kitchen window, he noticed an old wagon passing by the house, and thought about how Fiona had made his breakfast every day for the past 52 years. “This morning,” he thought, “may have been the best he’s ever had.” With a satisfied smile, he wiped his mouth, knowing that Fiona’s love for him was evident in every bite.

“Damn good eggs!”

The Curse of Brigid McGhee

Oct 22, 2018 | 0 comments

In the mid-1800s, Brigid McGhee’s Pub and Inn stood as the vibrant heart of Clonglash, a quaint town nestled on the edge of Ireland’s Brehon Forest in County Donegal. Farmers, merchants, sailors, and wanderers from across the region would gather around its smoky hearth, seeking solace and camaraderie over a frothy pint. However, its allure extended beyond mere indulgence; it served as a refuge, a bustling crossroads, and, as some whispered, a sanctuary of dark magic.

The townsfolk often whispered rumors about Brigid herself. Some claimed she practiced witchcraft, weaving spells into her daily routines. These whispers lingered in her family history, as her great-grandmother had been executed for sorcery decades earlier. Brigid never directly addressed the accusations, but she didn’t entirely discourage them either. Locals seeking remedies for ailments, amulets for good fortune, or incantations for revenge would often slip her secret requests over the bar.

In 1862, Melvyn Frazier, a dashing Scottish whisky merchant, became a frequent visitor to the inn while traveling between Letterkenny and beyond. With his captivating crystal-blue eyes, wavy gray hair, and vibrant tartan kilt, Melvyn charmed almost everyone, including Brigid. Despite her usual aloofness towards men’s advances, she found herself irresistibly drawn to him. Their undeniable chemistry was evident, but their intimate encounters remained discreetly hidden from prying eyes and gossiping tongues.

Love turned sour. By late September, Brigid confided in her closest friend, Ann Donnelly, that Melvyn’s affection felt like a ruse. He had been pressuring her to stock his Frazier Scotch whisky at the pub. When she hesitated, he became increasingly irritable and demanding. Their final argument erupted in the early hours of a foggy morning. In a fit of rage, Melvyn slapped Brigid, threatening to burn her inn to the ground if she didn’t comply. Clutching a dagger, Brigid drove him away.

On a particularly blustery October night, the pub was filled with locals when Melvyn made a dramatic return, arm-in-arm with a woman adorned in gaudy finery and perfumed. As he approached a table, he made a loud announcement, ordering, “Two Frazier Scotch whiskies! One for me and one for the lady!”

Brigid scowled. “We don’t stock Frazier Scotch whisky,” she snapped, “and judging by the looks of it, there’s no lady here either.”

The room erupted in laughter, but Melvyn remained unfazed. “I hope you’ve freshened the sheets,” he said smugly. “We’ll be staying at the inn tonight.”

“Like hell you will!” Brigid spat. “There are plenty of barns for the likes of you.”

Melvyn smirked, tipped his hat, and sauntered out with his companion. At the door, he turned back. “Happy Samhain to you, Miss McGhee. Enjoy the Scotch whisky.”

Hours later, long after the last patron had departed, Brigid awoke to frantic cries of alarm: “Fire! Fire at the inn!”

Rushing outside, she witnessed her cherished inn engulfed in flames. The roaring inferno illuminated the night sky, consuming the timber walls. Tragically, the guests inside were trapped, their screams soon silenced. As Brigid gaped in horror, someone shouted, “The pub!” Flames danced around its edges, spreading rapidly. By dawn, both buildings lay reduced to smoldering ashes. Seven souls had perished in the inn.

The following day, near the forest’s edge, Brigid stumbled upon a whisky cask bearing the unmistakable Frazier name. The parting words of Melvyn echoed in her mind: “Enjoy the Scotch whisky.”

For weeks, the villagers buzzed with tales of Brigid’s wrath. Some swore they witnessed her soaring across the night sky on a broomstick, vowing vengeance. Others claimed she transformed into a bat, darting between the ruins. Regardless of the accounts, one thing was certain: Brigid McGhee herself had vanished from Clonglash.

Melvyn Frazier returned to the village only once more. On Halloween night, Ann Donnelly stumbled upon his mutilated body in a forest glen near the ruins. His limbs were neatly stacked and wrapped in his tartan kilt, while his torso dangled from a tree by a crude noose tied to his manhood.

Life continued in Clonglash. A year after the devastating fire, Ann and her husband, Mac, embarked on the arduous task of rebuilding the pub. Despite its revival, Ann remained resolute in her decision to refuse serving Scotch whisky, driven by the lingering presence of Brigid. Mac, tempted by the potential financial gain, attempted to persuade her, but Ann stood firm in her conviction.

Five years later, a bartender named Connor Quinn defied the ban and secretly sold Scotch whisky to patrons. One night, as revelers raised their glasses, an unusual fog seeped into the pub. It swirled around Connor’s head, choking him until he collapsed. The whisky barrel beneath the bar burst open, its contents igniting in an unexpected blaze. The fire consumed Connor and every patron holding a Scotch whisky.

As the flames crackled, Brigid’s voice rang out, “I warned ye! Scotch whisky has no place in Clonglash!”

From that fateful day onward, no one in Clonglash dared touch Scotch whisky. Brigid’s curse became legendary, told in pubs and by firesides far beyond Donegal. However, across the globe, there are always the audacious, the skeptical, and the reckless who raise their glasses of Scotch in defiance of her warning.

A century later, on a stormy Halloween night, a pub in Belfast hosted a boisterous celebration. The air was filled with laughter, and glasses of Scotch whisky clinked as revelers toasted their good fortune. Among them was a young man, bold and brash, who heard the tale of Brigid McGhee and scoffed at it.

“Ghosts and curses! What a load of rubbish!” he declared, raising his glass. “To Brigid McGhee! May she haunt someone else tonight!”

The pub patrons erupted in laughter, but as the whisky touched his lips, the lights flickered ominously. The laughter abruptly ceased, replaced by a sudden chill that swept through the room. The fire in the hearth extinguished itself, plunging the pub into an unsettling darkness and silence.

From the darkness emerged a voice, low and venomous: “You dared to toast me with that poison?”

The young man’s glass shattered in his hand, the shards drawing blood. He gasped, clutching his throat, as if unseen fingers were squeezing the life from him. Around the room, glasses of Scotch whisky shattered, their contents spilling onto the floor. The air was filled with the acrid smell of brimstone and smoke.

“Get out!” someone screamed, and the patrons fled into the blustery night. Behind them, the pub erupted in flames, the fire dancing unnaturally, taking the shape of a woman’s face—Brigid McGhee’s face. The young man was never found, and the pub was reduced to ashy ruins.

Legend has it that Brigid McGhee’s wrath intensifies with each defiance. Those who drink Scotch whisky on Halloween are said to hear her voice, feel her icy breath, or glimpse her shadow amidst the flames. Some claim she appears in the mirror behind the bar, her eyes watching, waiting.

So, the next time you raise a glass of Scotch whisky in defiance, think twice. For Brigid McGhee’s curse transcends borders, time, and mercy. And if you hear a faint whisper in the wind or feel the glass grow icy in your hand, know it’s already too late.

The Scarlet Kilt

Oct 18, 2018 | 0 comments

I don’t think it will spoil my story one bit if I tell you upfront that I’m dead. It isn’t the fact that I’m dead that makes my tale most interesting, but how I ended up dead. This is that story.

I started long-haul truck driving the year I was discharged from the Marines. October of ’78, I was driving a load of toothpicks to the East Coast. It was late Halloween night, nearing 2 a.m., and the trick-or-treat goblins had long gone to bed. I’d just passed through Whitefish, Montana, when the logs I was carrying and my eyelids started feeling a couple tons heavier. Making good time on my haul, I figured it was a good opportunity to pull over at the next truck stop for coffee and a cheeseburger.

After miles of pitch-black driving, I finally saw light up ahead. A small greasy spoon, no bigger than a mobile home, sat just off the road, bathed in red neon light. The sign out front read “The Scarlet Kilt.” It could’ve been “The Purple Panties” for all I cared; I was hungry and needed caffeine. I pulled over.

Inside was the kind of place you’d see a thousand times if you’d been on the road as long as I had. Same heartburn-inducing food, same tired employees. But there was something about this joint, something slightly off. I walked in, lit a Marlboro, and took a seat at a small wooden table in the darkest corner.

I propped a menu in front of my face and pretended to read while I scanned my surroundings. An old cowboy in filthy clothes sucked down a brew, while a leathery-faced woman, old enough to be his mom, chewed on his ear. A white-bearded biker with a massive gut stood up, fished his wallet out of his pants, and punched Jim Stafford’s “Spiders and Snakes” into the jukebox, then walked out. Behind the counter, the cook, a hulking, Elliott Gould look-alike, flipped greasy patties and chomped on a stogie. The whole scene was a tableau of roadside stereotypes and eccentricities.

A sharp cackle broke through the haze of smoke and grease. A short, middle-aged waitress skittered to the counter, whipping a rag around like a ninja weapon.

“Arnie, sugar, if your burgers get any blacker, we’re gonna need coal shovels!”

The cook didn’t flinch. The waitress glanced at me, grabbed a pitcher of water, and strutted over with a smile that shifted between sassy and sinister.

“Don’t let that scare you, doll,” she said. “I wouldn’t say it to his face, but Arnie makes a fantastic cheeseburger. I just love busting his balls. I’ve been doing it for 25 years, but between you and me, he doesn’t hear well, so I’m not even sure he knows I’m doing it.”

She poured ice water.

“Welcome to The Scarlet Kilt, handsome,” she said. “I’m Evanora. Owner, CEO, and your waitress tonight. What can I get for you?”

“Cheeseburger and coffee,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Tom. What can I get for you?”

She leaned in, shaking my hand with a crooked smile. “Honey, I think I’ve got everything I need. This place, my little upstairs apartment, and a steady stream of good-looking men like yourself dropping by. Hey, a girl never gets tired of that kind of eye candy, even when it’s not Halloween.”

She winked, and it made my heart skip a beat. “And you, Mr. Tom… well, you’re the type of eye candy that would make a girl happy she brought an extra-large Trick or Treat sack. What’s a handsome guy like you doing out here so late anyway? Don’t you know only maniacs and murderers come out this time of night?”

“That rig out there stacked with timber? That’s mine,” I said. “I don’t know what they’re going to use all that wood for, and that’s not my problem, but me and that wood are currently on our way to West Virginia.”

She tilted her head, eyes twinkling. “That sure is a lot of wood you’re packing there. But I’ll bet you’ve heard that before. Wait, your name isn’t something ironic like ‘Tom Woods,’ or ‘Tom Plank’? Oh god, please tell me you are the world-famous porn star, Tom Logg…”

“Corbett,” I interrupted. “Tom Corbett. Yours?”

She shrugged. “Sugar, there’ve been too many last names. I’ve lost track. Just call me Evanora.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Evanora. Let me guess, you really love peaches.”

She blinked at me. “Peaches?”

I pointed at her necklace, a string of polished peach pits. “Either you really love peaches, or your kid won the arts and crafts blue ribbon at church camp.”

She grinned. “I’m a Georgia peach, born and raised. Haven’t been there in years, though. This necklace reminds me and keeps me grounded.”

“A southern belle?” I said. “I would never have guessed.”

“It’s been a long time,” she replied. “I didn’t fit in down there. Came out here to find myself. I’m a Montana girl at heart now. Anyway, let me put your order in and check on Monty. He’s the one over there wearing the cowboy hat and the whore. I’ll be back with some hot coffee in a couple of minutes.”

She strutted back to the counter, and I watched her go, not even trying to hide the way my eyes followed her. The place did have a weird energy, but Evanora had a way of making everything feel a little lighter. A nice change from the monotonous stretches of highway I’d been driving.

A few more customers came in and out, and Evanora continued to make her rounds to my table, squeezing my shoulder or giving me a flirtatious rub on the neck. I was starting to wonder how to make a move on her when Monty, the cowboy, and his leathered lady staggered out.

“Arnie,” she said, laughing, “your cooking has run off another one!”

She winked at me again. Her flirtations grew bolder with each pass of my table. By the time my burger and coffee arrived, I was more interested in her than the food. As I finished the last of my coffee, she plopped herself onto my lap.

“My shift is over, sugar,” she said, fingers tracing down my arm. “I don’t think I want to go home alone tonight. What do you say you come with me? No strings attached. You hit the road first thing in the morning, no questions asked.” She didn’t wait for a reply. “You look like you could use a shower and a soft bed. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Just wait five minutes after I go out the front, then follow me ‘round the back, up the stairs.”

She kissed my cheek before prancing off. I waited five minutes, paid my bill, and left a generous tip. I made my way around the back of the diner, climbed the stairs to her apartment, and found the door unlocked as promised. Stepping inside, the comforting scent of incense and candle wax greeted me. The place exuded a cozy, museum-like atmosphere, its shelves crowded with eclectic trinkets, Celtic amulets, and a few peculiar stuffed animals. Above the fireplace hung a picture of a younger Evanora sitting on the lap of a smiling, red-bearded guy. A painting of a man with a goat head hung above them. Despite its quirky charm, the place felt oddly welcoming.

Evanora appeared, wearing a cherry-colored satin robe, barefoot and stunning. She carried two mugs of tea. “Hope you’re up for a cup,” she said, giving me a smile. “I make it myself. Helps me sleep. China Black, chamomile, rose hips… a few other things.”

I took the tea and sipped. It tasted earthy, with a faint sweetness. She led me to the couch. “Let me show you something,” she said, digging through a cabinet. She produced a small box, opened it, and revealed a hand-rolled joint. “I hope you don’t mind. Helps me relax.”

She lit the joint, took a long drag, and offered it to me. The smoke made my head swim, and the tea’s warmth spread through my body like a spell.

“My ex, Rory, was Scottish,” she said. “He taught me the craft when I was 19.”

“Craft?” I asked, my voice getting a little sleepy.

“Witchcraft. It isn’t what everyone thinks,” she said, lighting the joint again. “No baby-eating or cat-mutilating nonsense. No one does that kind of thing. It’s about nature and purification. Each of us has our own gift. Mine? Energy manipulation. I transfer energy.”

I looked at her, wondering if I should laugh. “I know, sounds weird,” she said, “but it’s real. In witchcraft, we’re all free to do our own thing, so we concentrate on the things we do best.”

The weed started kicking in. My mind was swirling with abstract thoughts. The witchy talk was making my head spin. Maybe there was something more than tea in my cup. A sudden surge of desire rose up in me, and before I knew it, I leaned in toward her. I wasn’t sure how I felt about making love to a witch, but I was ready to find out.

“I have that same philosophy,” I said. “Free to do my own thing. But to tell you the truth, right now, I’d rather do yours.”

I moved in, and pressed my lips to hers. She tasted like rose hips and vanilla, and the sweet scent of herbs perfumed the air of the room. Her tongue brushed against my mouth, and I loosened the tie on her robe while she undid mine. Our hands searched each other’s bodies as we sank back onto the couch.

We fucked for what felt like an infinity, the details of which are best left to memory, but it was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I wanted more, but Evanora stood up, her body moving gracefully as she began to dance around the living room. Her nude, middle-aged figure still carried the vibrancy of someone far younger, and as she closed her eyes, she seemed to be lost in her own rhythm. I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she swayed like a wood nymph, her movements slow, deliberate, and hypnotic.

She stretched out her arms.

“Dance with me, baby.”

I’ve never been shy, but dancing naked with a witch? That was a new one for me. I stood and joined her, unsure of my own movements. At first, I mimicked her graceful flow, but it was clear she was listening to some music only she could hear. It didn’t matter; I let her take the lead. Her arms rose above her head, and she skipped around as if caught in a magical trance. I followed her, trying my best to keep up.

She ran her hands over her own body, moving like she was making love to the air or some invisible presence. Her dance became more sensual, almost hypnotic. At first, I didn’t hear anything, but then, slowly, the music began to seep into my mind, like it had existed somewhere in the corners waiting to come out. I didn’t question it. We had connected on a deep level, and I could feel her energy wrapping around mine. Sweat dotted my skin, and my heartbeat quickened. We moved faster, spinning and twirling around the coffee table.

Suddenly, she stopped. She lifted her head and arms, her body still, and she whispered something in a language I wasn’t familiar with.

“Naestra, finna, toldor enna candorom! Shallae umstra lammacrom!”

She grabbed a stalk of herbs from the table and held it to embers in the fireplace. It caught alight immediately, and she placed it back on the table, where the fire quickly died, but the stalk smoldered. With a swift movement, she darted off to a closet and returned with what looked like a red kilt.

I froze. “What is this?”

“A gift,” she said. “Something special. Something passed down.”

I stared at the kilt. There was something unnatural about it. It seemed to have a strange, magnetic pull, as though it was waiting for me.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” I asked.

“Put it on,” she said, her voice suddenly hard, almost commanding. “It’s for you. It’s time.”

This woman seemed a little too old for dress-up, but I know a lot of people into role playing, so I didn’t argue. I was reluctant, but somehow… I couldn’t say no. Maybe it was the weed still clouding my head, or maybe it was something else. I was under her spell, and I complied. As soon as the kilt fastened, it began to glow, the red light intensifying. That was freaky. I tried to remove it. The buckles scortched my fingers.

Panic set in as the whole room felt different now. An unexplainable electricity charged the air. Everything about Evanora, about this place, now seemed different. It was no longer a night of lust, no longer an adventure. There was something ancient, something sinister here. I could feel it pressing against my chest, making it difficult to breathe.

Evanora moved slowly around me, her eyes locking on mine. “Do you feel it now?” she asked. “The change? The power?”

It was impossible not to feel it. When she first asked me to put the kilt on, I didn’t know what it meant. I thought it was just some strange fetish of hers. Now, as the kilt pressed against my skin and seemed to burn deeper into me, I began to understand. This wasn’t just a costume. It was a power. A force. It was taking over me. I tried to tear it off, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Don’t!” Evanora said. “You’re ours now, Tom. You belong to me and Rory. Just like all the others before you.”

Her words didn’t make sense to me, but then, through the haze, I remembered the peach pit necklace, the one nestled between the soft curve of her chest. At first, I hadn’t thought much about it, distracted by her beauty, her voice, her… presence. Now I could see it clearly.

Each of those seeds—not pits at all—but trophies. Mementos of conquests in her twisted collection. The men she had seduced, transformed, and consumed. I was simply another name on that long, horrific list. A notch on her belt. Another pit to add to her collection.

“Don’t resist it, Tom,” she said. “You’re giving Rory the gift of eternal life.”

I tried to scream—make any kind of noise, but the kilt had consumed me. It wasn’t physical anymore. It was spiritual. It was as if the very essence of me was being erased, rewritten, and remade into something else. Someone else. This kilt was alive, a vessel woven with threads of ancient magic and bound by blood oaths. It was Rory’s spirit pulsing within its glowing fibers, his unending life fueled by the stolen essence of those who dared to wear it. I became an offering, feeding Rory’s eternity.

The energy of the kilt surged, and Rory materialized. His form was radiant yet terrifying. A menacing smile grew beneath his red beard. He reached out, and I felt the last remnants of myself slip away, leaving only empty silence where once my soul had been.

The kilt fell limp, its glow dimmed. I was gone—no, transformed. No longer myself but a fragment of Rory’s eternal being. The kilt would wait, as it always had, for the next fool to continue its cycle. Rory was alive, and I was nothing more than two charms on a Montana witch’s necklace.

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