Next week being All Hallows Eve, the creepiest time of the year, I thought it would be fitting to give you all a little fright. Here’s a story I wrote a couple of years ago for a contest. I’m quite proud of this one. It’s going to be part of an anthology which I’ll be publishing soon; a collection of weird tales I’ve written.
I sincerely hope you enjoy this chilling tale from my archives of fright.
November 2, 1961
I’ve had the most unusual experience over the past two days, which I am still processing. I recently came into possession of a cottage in West Virginia. Heh, “possession” is a good word for it. I feel as though I need an exorcism after all that’s happened over the last two days. My uncle had left it to me in his will, and I meant to go visit the place, but between work and everything I didn’t have time. My uncle was strange, but most of my family were strange. I’m the black sheep, you see. I turned out relatively normal and took up a career in journalism. I’m a man of facts, which is why I’m writing this journal, in the hope that whoever finds it will believe what’s written herein.
It’s a weird place, the Appalachian countryside; full of folk traditions and magic. In the eyes of those who live there, woodboogers still roam the hills and hollers looking for unsuspecting travelers to devour. One can still find witches willing to do a bit of conjuring, or hex your adversaries for the right prince. Even still in this modern age of science, in some places of the world, magic is king.
My brother, Marty, and my wife Janet drove out to Crooked Horn, WV on October 30. The mountains stood glowering over the highway in what could almost be described as a threatening manner if geologic formations could be considered threatening. Meanwhile, the lower elevations decked themselves in shades of yellow, orange, and scarlet, interspersed with fields of ripe corn, the ever-present scarecrow standing guard over the crops. I wouldn’t find out until later how important those scarecrows were.
“What a gorgeous place!” exclaimed Janet. “We should’ve had our honeymoon here!”
“Had I known that, we could’ve saved a ton of money,” I remarked.
“Oh, stop it, Peter!” replied Janet, playfully slapping my arm.
“Antigua ain’t cheap!” responded Marty, grinning.
At the edge of town stood a dilapidated country church of the type one sees in little towns. I recalled that an ancestor of mine had been a Methodist preacher around these parts. Had this been his church? What had become of his congregation?
The locals were busying themselves as we approached the center of town, preparing for some sort of festival, or so it appeared. Folks piled lumber and straw into a large pile in the village square. The next day being Halloween, I mused that it must be some sort of masquerade ball. I was not entirely wrong.
“Looks like a bonfire,” commented Janet. “We should go.”
“Seems like a good idea to me,” responded Marty.
“Agreed,” I added. “We’ll find out more about it. Someone at the country store ought to know.”
We stopped at a filling station and country store to fuel up. The saloon doors opened with a loud creak as we sauntered in. It was a typical country store for this part of the country; barrels and boxes filled with various goods were scattered around. Signs advertising fresh fruit, vegetables and pickled foods stood here and there.
A black barn cat lay on the countertop near the cash register, eying us with a suspicious expression; much the same expression as the customers and staff.
“Howdy,” I said, tipping my hat to the shopkeeper.
“Afternoon,” returned the clerk. “Welcome to Crooked Horn. What can I do for you?”
“Just some gas and a little information, if you don’t mind.”
The shopkeeper squinted at me like Lee Van Cleef.
“What kind of information?”
“What’s going on in the middle of town?” asked Janet. “Are you having a party of some sort?”
The clerk looked into her eyes, and grinned.
“Yes, ma’am,” said the clerk. “Have it every year on Halloween. We start about sundown, and we don’t quit ‘til midnight.”
“Sounds like a great time to me,” I said.
“We’d be delighted to come,” said Janet.
“We’d be delighted to have you! We don’t get too many visitors in this town. What brings y’all here?”
“We inherited the McCormac cottage,” said Marty.
“I don’t recall Old Cyrus having any younguns,” said a middle-aged woman nearby. Something about her sent a chill through my bones. She reminded one of a witch that one might find in a book of fairytales. I would only find out later how right I was.
“We’re his nephews,” I clarified.
“I see,” said the clerk.
“We figured we’d at least come out and see what we’d inherited.”
“You have a lovely town,” said Janet. “We’re looking forward to spending more time here.”
“Yes ma’am!” said the clerk. “Nice, quiet town. I think you’ll like it here.”
I smiled. “I think you’re right.”
As paid for our gas and a bit of the local produce, my brother reached over to stroke the sluggish feline lying next to the cash register. The animal bared her teeth, batting his hand away aggressively.
“Nancy don’t take kindly to strangers,” said the witch.
“He has that affect on a lot of women,” I remarked with a smile.
The clerk laughed. Marty pursed his lips.
“Real funny there, Pete. You’re just lucky you found Janet in the first place.”
“Found me?” said Janet. “He wouldn’t have found me at all if I hadn’t found him first!”
We all had a good laugh as we left the store and made our way to the car. As I set foot in the vehicle, I spied a scarecrow in the field across the road. I could have sworn I saw him move.
I pulled into the short, dirt road to the cottage, which lay nestled between two hills, and surrounded by trees. The caretaker, Howard, sat on a bench on the front porch, strumming an old guitar. He was a black man, tall and lean, his straw hat tilted jauntily to one side. Smiling broadly, he rose from his perch and descended the front steps to meet us.
“You must be the McCormac boys,” he said.
“You must be Howard,” I replied, shaking his calloused hand. “I’m Peter, and this is Marty, and this is my wife, Janet.”
“Howdy,” said Howard, shaking hands with everyone. “I’ll take your bags inside.”
Howard lived in the shanty just down the road and cared for the cottage and the surrounding land when it was not in use. My uncle let him live there for free, and he had the run of the land to hunt and fish as much as he wanted. I had no reason to change the arrangement.
Up the front porch steps we went while Howard unloaded the car. I noticed an old horseshoe over the door frame as I turned the ornate handle. Knowing my uncle’s propensity for superstition, I wasn’t surprised. Taxidermied animals and antlers lined the wood paneled walls, and an old grandfather clock stood in the corner, ticking softly. Rustic wood furniture was the only furnishing.
“How charming,” said Janet as she looked around the cottage.
“Nice place,” said Marty. “How's the hunting in these parts?”
“Mr. Cyrus and I were usually successful,” said Howard as he entered with the bags. “You packed quite a lot.”
“We’re staying a week,” I replied.
“I wouldn’t recommend that,” replied Howard.
“Why not?”
“This time of year, with harvest and everything, it wouldn’t be a good time for out-of-towners.”
“The locals seemed friendly enough,” said Janet.
“They seem that way,” said Howard. He spoke no more on the subject, though I pressed him during supper.
I woke up the next morning, October 31, to a horrific scream. Leaping fromI from the bed in the master bedroom, I raced down the hall, where I found Janet, dripping wet staring in shock into the bathroom. Marty came bounding down the hall to investigate the commotion. Seeing that Janet was unclothed, he turned his back.
“What happened?” I asked as I draped her in a robe.
“I saw someone looking in the window!” she said pointing at the bathroom window. The curtain was pulled across it.
“Maybe it was an animal,” offered Marty.
“It was a person, I swear!” said Janet emphatically.
“I’ll take a look,” said Marty.
While Marty went out to investigate, I escorted Janet back to our room to dress.
“You believe me, don’t you?” said Janet.
“Of course I do, darling,” I replied. “What did he look like?”
“The shade was drawn; I could only see his shadow, but he looked... round. Like he was overweight. And he was wearing a wide-brimmed hat.
Once Janet was dry and dressed, we exited the bedroom, finding Marty in the hallway, a concerned look on his face.
“There was definitely someone at the window,” he said.
“Who would do that?!” said Janet. “Spying on a lady while she’s trying to take a bath! The nerve!”
The front door creaked, followed by the deep, resonant voice of Howard.
“Breakfast!” he said. “I hope I ain’t too early.”
We all entered the dining area, where Howard stood, carrying a basket of eggs.
“Fresh eggs!” he said, bouncing his eyebrows.
“Howard, you wouldn’t happen to have seen anyone creeping around the cottage?” asked Marty.
“No, sir,” said Howard. “Why? Didja see someone creeping around?”
“I did!” said Janet. “There was someone at the window while I was trying to take a bath!”
Howard’s eyes widened in a sort of horrified expression which he was trying to hide.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Positive,” said Marty. “I found tracks.”
“Folks around here tend to be curious of outsiders,” replied Howard.
“Oh, sure, very curious!” said Janet. “Perverts!”
“You talk about the locals as if you’re afraid of them,” I said. “Is there something I need to know, Howard?”
“Nothing you would believe.”
He left it at that. My reporter instincts told me to press him on it, but I didn’t want to be rude to the man. I should have. I should have demanded answers.
That afternoon, Marty and I decided to go out for a hike in the hills while Janet went to town to do a little sight-seeing and shopping.
“Do you suppose Howard was the one spying on Janet?” I asked.
“Naw,” said Marty. “The tracks were the wrong size. Howard has big feet. Whoever was spying on you was smaller, lighter.”
I trusted Marty’s tracking skills. If he said Howard didn’t do it, then he didn’t.
“Maybe some teenage boy,” I offered.
“That’d be about the right size,” said Marty.
We came to a hollow between two hillsides, where a little stream ran. There were strange markings carved into the trees. Bits of rags hung in the branches. Animal skulls were placed at certain strategic locations.
“What a weird place,” said Marty.
The place was eerie in a way I can’t adequately put into words. My skin crawled just from being there. I realized then why Howard was so spooked by locals. If this is the sort of thing they’re up to, it’s no small wonder.
“We should go back to the cottage,” I said.
We turned around and went back the way we came, saying nothing.
We had spent the greater part of the afternoon wandering in the woods, and it was getting on evening when we arrived at the cottage.
“Janet!” I called as we entered the front door. There was no reply. I called her name again to no avail.
“Surely a shopping trip couldn’t have taken this long.”
“You know women,” remarked Marty, shrugging.
“Afternoon, gentlemen!” said Howard as he entered the front door behind us.
“Howard, have you seen Janet?” I inquired.
A concerned expression clouded Howard’s face.
“You left her here alone?” he asked.
“She went into town,” said Marty.
Alarm replaced concern on Howard’s features, such as I’d only seen on the face of shell-shock victims.
“What in the world has you so spooked, Howard?" exclaimed my Marty.
Howard heaved a heavy sigh and sat down in the old rocking chair.
“I suppose I can’t hide it from you much longer. Do you believe in curses?”
I paused, not sure how to respond. As I said, I am a man of facts; curses and hexes were not part of my vocabulary. Still, in my travels here and there chasing a story, I’d seen some odd things.
“Let’s say for the sake of argument that I did,” I replied.
“Crooked Horn is a cursed place,” continued Howard. “It started back in 1861. This town went through a run of bad luck. First, there were the locusts, and then came the blight, then the Yankees came and burned what was left of the crops and pastures. The town was on the verge of total starvation. Then an old farmer named Jonah O’Toole started dabbling in black magic. His grandmother had been a witch back in Ireland, and some of her knowledge had been passed to him. He... conjured a familiar spirit that he contracted to protect the town; they call him the Corn Man.”
My mind reeled. Witchcraft? Familiars? This didn’t belong in an age of reason. But modern man is not so far removed from his primal ancestors as he would like to think, and there are still things in this universe that science cannot adequately explain. Howard continued his story.
“Things got better. The crops grew. The animals stayed healthy. There were no more plagues. But once the minister at the church caught wind of it, he wanted to have O’Toole run out of town, but O’Toole used his powers against him. He was the first victim of the straw-men.”
“Straw-men?” asked Marty.
“The straw-men are living scarecrows. The minions of the Corn Man. They do his bidding and the bidding of the witch of the town. Right now that’s Morrigan O’Toole, Jonah’s granddaughter. Well, after that, no one dared cross Jonah O’Toole, or Old Buggard as he came to be known. That minister was Hezekiah McCormac, your great grandfather.”
“What does this have to do with Janet?” I asked. “Where is my wife?"
“I’m getting to that. The Corn Man exacted a terrible price for his services. Every ten years, the citizens of Crooked Horn must perform a blood sacrifice. The victim must be a person with green eyes.”
I stared in horror as I thought of Janet’s flashing emerald irises.
“This is crazy,” said Marty.
“It’s all true. Every word,” said Howard.
“Then what do we do?” I demanded.
“We interrupt that party,” said Howard.
The roaring fire illuminated the otherwise pitch black night. The band played lively dancing tunes on fiddle, banjo and washboard. All the townsfolk had gathered to celebrate the harvest. All of them were wearing elaborate masks and costumery. The whole resembled one of those Renaissance paintings depicting demons in Hell.
Marty and I entered the revelry, armed with pistols concealed in our jackets. We hoped it wouldn’t come to violence, but we were prepared should that occur.
We split up, looking through the crowd, calling Janet’s name. I grabbed one of the revelers by the arm. Something was wrong; it felt too soft. There was no feeling of muscle or bone underneath. The creature looked at me with black button eyes. I grabbed the burlap sack mask (or what I thought was a mask) and pulled it off, but there was nothing underneath. I held in my hand the creature’s head; a sack full of straw! The headless thing just stood there. Dropping the head, I staggered away from the being, shocked. The thing bent down, picked its head up and placed it back atop its torso. To my horror, I realized that a large number of the revelers were not human at all. The straw-men were real!
I heard Marty’s voice calling my name over the music and pressed through the throng toward it. There he stood near the center of the jubilant party, staring in astonishment. There was Janet, wearing a white dress and dancing among the masquerade, if one could call it dancing. She staggered back and forth in a drunken fashion. Clearly they’d intoxicated her somehow.
Lurching forward, I took her gently by the arm, intending to lead her away.
“Peter!” she said, her eyes lighting up. “Am I glad to see you!”
She tapped me on the nose with her finger.
“We need to get you back to the cottage,” I said.
“Why?”
“Janet, you’re drunk,” I replied brusquely.
“Oh, Peter, don’t be such a fuddy-duddy! Have some punch! Enjoy yourself!”
“Janet, we’ve got to go!” I demanded.
The music stopped. The partyiers turned to face us, closing in around us in a tightening circle. The witch, Morrigan O’Toole, came to the forefront.
“Stay back!” commanded Marty, drawing his pistol. The mortals obeyed. I took hold of Janet around the waist, picking her up and carrying her toward where we’d parked the car, Marty and his pistol leading the way.
“Oh Peter, put me down!” said Janet. “You’re embarrassing us!”
The straw-men, however, were not so easy to intimidate. They formed a wall of horror between us and Each of them were armed with sickles, pitchforks and other farming implements. They marched toward us, slowly. Marty fired his pistol, hitting one in the chest. Nothing happened. He fired again before realizing that you can’t kill something that was never really alive.
“Leaving without saying goodbye? That ain’t gentleman-like!”
I spun around at the sound of the voice. There stood Morrigan O’Toole, grinning wildly at us as the straw men closed in. A shot rang out, and one of the straw men fell. Just on the edge of a nearby cornfield stood Howard, a shotgun in his hand. He fired again, and another straw man fell to earth. I found out later that the shells were filled with rock salt, which is detrimental to evil spirits. With the straw men distracted, we raced to the car as fast as we could. I loaded the inebriated Janet into the back seat. Looking out the window, I saw the gruesome circle tightening around us, as straw men and masked townsfolk gathered. Marty was nowhere to be found. Howard could only do so much against so many.
I thought this was the end, until Marty came running in, a burning stick in his hand. He threw it at the straw men, setting them ablaze. Howard had evidently followed Marty’s lead, setting fire to the ranks of the evil beings. The witch screamed. Marty jumped into the passenger’s seat. I floored the gas, and we drove out of there as fast as we could.
Two days later, I found out that the fire we’d started ravaged Crooked Horn, leaving little left to salvage. The witch, Morrigan O’Toole, had apparently died in the blaze, and with her the terrible reign of the Corn Man had ended. The cottage was still intact, but I wished the place had burned down too; I have no desire to return there.