Howdy, y’all! Name’s Earl, and I reckon it’s about time I shared some truths that might just set your city-folk minds a-spinnin’. Somebody’s gotta do it eventually, so I figure why not have it be me?
I’m a farmer. Born into it, Just like my pa and his pa before him. Now, his pa? Well, that no-good scoundrel was a sorry excuse for a man, more interested in swiggin’ booze and rollin’ them dice than any honest work. Lucky for us, my great-gran showed him the door, booted him right out to the curb, and kept this ol’ farm plowin’ ahead till her last breath. Her hands, calloused and weathered from years of toil, had a tendency to thwack my noggin whenever I dared to grumble while hunched over those fields, hoe in hand. Yet, I surely do miss that ornery lady, I surely do.
Our humble farm’s nestled right near the cusp of that great ol’ forest, which stretches and stretches ‘til it unravels into a swamp the further ya venture in. Them science folk, they’ll yap on about how it’s a unique stomping ground, untouched by man’s paw for centuries. Well, I reckon they’ve done their fancy studyin’ and all, so they’re likely right. But lemme tell you this – there’s a whole lot of touchin’ goin’ on in them woods, and that’s a bona fide fact, yessir!
I’ve even got a fair share of stories about gettin’ cozy with the wild in them woods, some that’d have your eyebrows shootin’ sky-high. But that ain’t what I’m aimin’ to put front and center in this piece of writin’. Nah, siree! I’m here to crack open your noggin and pour in some honest-to-goodness truth!
You know them stories floatin’ ‘round ‘bout them peculiar critters and oddities dwellin’ in the swamps and forests of our mighty fine country? Yeah, them ones! Well, I’m here to vouch they’re as true as grits on a breakfast plate. I’ve laid eyes on ‘em all, except for Bigfoot, mind ya – that was just ol’ Bob’s buddy wrapped up in a fancy suit.
And, don’t you dare call me a liar, ‘cause I ain’t one, neither is my pa or my grandpa, they too laid eyes on them critters slippin’ ‘round. My great grandpa, well… he’s another story altogether. Folks say he spied somethin’ too, but more likely it was that sweet bourbon cloudin’ his vision.
Now, enough about that. Let’s get to the nitty-gritty of what the heck’s been brewin’ up ‘round these parts. So get ready to be taken on a little journey through the pages of history, and for this first tale? Well, It is one Granpa spun, back when I was knee-high to a grasshopper, hanging on his shoulder as we strolled the farm checking the animals and fields.
I can’t give you the precise date, but what I do recall is that it was autumn. ‘Cause earlier that day, we’d been tending to the pumpkin patch, seein’ them prize-winners puffin’ up like champions just waitin’ to be plucked.
We were movin’ toward the livestock, gettin’ close to the Goat’s pen when a foul smell hit my nose. I tell ya, if it wasn’t for the terror of my great grandma’s fiery temper, I mighta lost my lunch right onto my granddad’s bald noggin. She was particularly nasty ‘bout wasting food you see.
Granddad must’ve caught a whiff of it too, no doubt, ‘cause I remember him jerkin’ to a halt, ploppin’ me off his shoulders and onto the ground in a hurry.
Before you start jumpin’ to conclusions, let me tell ya that I can vouch with all my heart that what hit my nose wasn’t no stink of manure, no sirree.
And before you start doubting my memory, let me tell ya more, I carry that smell in my mind like it’s been branded there, so yea I do know what I’m talking about.
Picture this: you ever left a ripe melon out to bake under the sun till it splits wide open? That overpowerin’ sweet stench, enough to turn your stomach. Now imagine that, but with an undertone of death, like somethin’ rottin’ in the gutters. That’s what was out there pestering my nose!
We carried on slow and steady toward that pen, my grandad leading the way, his hand stretched out like a roadblock, signalin’ me to hold my horses. He was quieter than a mouse in church, not his usual self at all. I coulda sworn I saw big, fat beads of sweat clingin’ to his shiny noggin, glintin’ in the sun’s gaze.
We must’ve been just a handful of paces from the pen when he put the brakes on and told me to hang back and keep hush as a mute. He then continued toward that fence like a cat on the prowl, glanced over it, and let loose a stream of words that if my great ma’ heard, Lord help him, he’d be sittin’ on a hard seat for a good month! Then he swung his gaze my way, motioned me closer, and dropped down to my level.
“Earl, there’s evil things roamin’ them cursed woods. You might be a young ‘un, but this land’s gonna be yours one day. You’d best square up to that reality,” he told me, his voice colder than a frozen pond, grip tight on my shoulders. I didn’t rightly know what to say, so I just gave a nod, my throat dry like a dust bowl, feelin’ the weight of it all on my shoulders, like I’d just been handed the keys to the kingdom.
“Put this ‘round your mug, son. You don’t wanna be suckin’ in that air yonder, it’s turned sour by now,” he advised, pullin’ a red checkered scarf from his back pocket.
Like the good, obedient boy I was, I did just that, hustlin’ alongside my granddad as we slipped into that pen.
But oh boy, even with that scarf clamped over my mug, that putrid stench knocked me for a loop, and a wave of bile surged right up my throat.
“Hush, Earl, it’s gonna be alright…” Grandad patted my back as I heaved my guts out.
“Please don’t go tellin’ great ma’,” I begged, and that drew a chuckle from my grandpa.
Still feelin’ my stomach doin’ somersaults, I took stock of the pen, and lemme tell ya, it was a pure nightmare. Every last goat in there had keeled over, dried to the bone like all their juices had been sucked right out of ‘em.
“You got any inklin’ as to what might’ve done this, boy?” my grandpa asked, his eyes locked on me with a steely seriousness that sent shivers down my spine.
I, of course, didn’t have the foggiest notion, so I just gave my head a little shake and got a gentle pat on the noggin for my trouble.
“Well, have you ever heard tell of them vampires?” he asked, his voice turnin’ all serious. “It’s somethin’ like that, but it ain’t after folks, it just goes after critters,” he explained in a solemn tone. “Things like this crop up from time to time, but usually, we don’t lay eyes on ‘em, ‘cept I did, once, ‘bout 30 years back. Back then, we didn’t have no name for it, and even now, we can’t be rightly sure what it is.
It all went down on the final night of that year’s summer. I was out there on the porch, takin’ a drag from my smoke, when all of a sudden, it got quiet as the grave. I thought it peculiar, but nothin’ to be fretting over, until I saw somethin’ skippin’ ‘cross the grazin’ field. I didn’t get a real good look at it, just that it was a big ‘un, I mean real big, the size of a calf, and it moved faster than a scared cat on hot coals. It glided ‘cross that field, not makin’ a peep, like it was floatin’ above them blades of grass.
“Fetch me the rifle, woman!” I hollered, jumpin’ to my feet, my heart drummin’ in my chest as I traced that critter’s path, tryin’ to figure out where the heck it was headed. Your grandma, she sprang up right beside me, handin’ me the rifle without so much as askin’ what it was for. I reckon she must’ve seen the color drain from my face, ‘cause soon as I had that rifle in hand, she scurried right back inside without utterin’ a word.
It was one of them colossal moonlit nights, the kind where you can see just about everythin’ as clear as day. So, I could make out that the creature had sauntered right on over to the cow barn. As I drew closer, a foul whiff hit my nostrils, the very same sickening smell we’ve got lingerin’ here.
I followed the stench, but it grew so potent, so quick, that I had to stuff a wad of tobacco up my nose just to keep from hurlin’ my supper.
I reckon that’s how the critter incapacitates its prey. That musk, it must send them poor critters’ minds driftin’ off into a fog while it goes about its nasty business.
The barn door stood wide open, as it usually did on hot nights, to let some breeze in, you know. Nowadays, we use nets to keep the air flowing and the critters at bay, but back then, we didn’t have such worries. We only started lockin’ things up once this fiend began rearin’ its ugly head.
Anyhow, I crept closer to that door, movin’ as quiet as a cat stalkin’ its prey. Beyond it, there was nothin’ but pitch-black darkness. I wasn’t too keen on stepping inside, not when I couldn’t see a blessed thing. So I grabbed a handful of straw, bundled it up, and set it ablaze to make myself a torch.
At first glance, apart from that stomach-churning stench, everything seemed normal. Darcy, was standin’ there with her hind end toward me, not showin’ any sign of trouble. I let out a sigh of relief and started gettin’ closer to the cow, just in case, ya know?
But as soon as I took a single step forward, two gleaming yellow eyes appeared right beside Darcy. I recoiled, stumbling backward and landing square on my behind, droppin’ that makeshift torch of mine. Lucky for us, I’d cleaned the barn floor earlier that afternoon, ‘cause otherwise, I reckon we’d have been wrasslin’ a big ol’ fire.
Still sittin’ there on the floor, I fumbled to aim the rifle at them malevolent eyes.
My hands, however, were shakin’ like young saplings in a storm, so I couldn’t get a clear aim. But desperation coursed through me, and despite the blurry shot, I let it fly. Thank the stars, I missed Darcy, but alas, I also missed that sinister critter, strikin’ the barn wall behind it instead.
Moonlight poured in, unveilin’ the evil menace that’d been lurkin’ in the shadows. It looked like a wolf, but bigger, a whole lot bigger. On its back, there sprouted a mane made of quills, black as night. Its mouth, now, it had no teeth to speak of, just two monstrous canines that reached nearly down to its chest. In that split second, it raised its head, unhingin’ its jaw wide open, wider than any regular creature oughta, like it could swallow you whole.
I squeezed off another shot, and once again, I missed, but this time, that beast took off. At first, it dashed straight at me, and in that moment, I figured I was a goner. I tried to lift the rifle, but my hands were shakin’ somethin’ fierce. But the critter didn’t pounce on me, no siree. It darted right past me into the night, leavin’ me all alone, shiverin’ and whimperin’.
Took me a spell to collect myself, to muster up enough gumption to haul myself back to my feet and go check on Darcy.
That poor critter was still in a daze from what had gone down, her neck all crimson with blood spillin’ from two holes in her jugular. Sadly, the poor thing didn’t make it through the night. She just keeled over, dead as a doornail, a couple of minutes after that critter took off
For ‘bout a month after that night, every other day, we’d find our livestock dead, every last one of ‘em bone-dry with two holes in their necks, spaced ‘bout five inches apart. And I’ll betcha, if we were to check each and every one of them goats, we’d find that same mark on ‘em all.
We took to callin’ the critter “Quill-hound,” and since then, no one else has laid eyes on it. But its presence, as you can plainly see, still hangs heavy ‘round these parts,” my grand father said, giving my head another pat as he straightened himself up. He then got to work hollerin’ them dead goats into a pile, which he later set on fire. Them flames shot up quick as a wink, like he’d struck a match to some paper. And just as fast as they rose, they disappeared, leavin’ nothin’ behind but a few whispers of ash floatin’ on the breeze.
For the rest of the month, I remember watchin’ my grandpa light them fires every so often, well aware of the reason behind it. At night, I’d perch by my bedroom window, starin’ out at the field, hopin’ to lay eyes on that devilish fiend. But luck never did favor me in that regard.
After that, it’d happen again sporadically, sometimes with spans of over five years between, and other times just a few months apart. Heck, the last time it reared its head was ‘bout a good six years ago, so I figure the Quill-hound must be workin’ up a powerful appetite. Any day now, it might just come a-knockin’. Any day now, you’ll see.
Now, my dear friends, don’t you dare thinkin’ we’re done, oh no siree! There ain’t just the Quill-hound, lurkin’ ‘round these parts. There’s a whole mess of these cryptid creatures roamin’ these lands, and I got a mind full of tales ‘bout ‘em. So, allow me to share another nugget with ya’.
The next tale I’m sharing with y’all today happened to my pa when he was ‘bout fifteen years old.
Now, earlier that day, he’d had the audacity to roll his eyes at his grandma, and that landed him a one-way ticket to cleanin’ out the drain ditch all by his lonesome. And let me tell ya, that meant clearin’ out all them weeds, yankin’ out the muck, widenin’ the ditch wherever needed, and even addin’ or replacin’ gravel for a ditch that stretched over a mile. This was durin’ the scorchin’ heat of summer, mind you, and he didn’t even have a mule to lend a hand haulin’ them tools and gravel around. That’s a filthy job, one usually tackled by three folks, and as expected, after the sunset, he was still out there, toilin’ away in the dirt.
Thankfully, it was a well-lit night, not a single cloud in the sky, and the moon was shinin’ brightly, even though it wasn’t quite full yet. He’d made it to the last stretch of the ditch, the one leadin’ to the edge of the forest, just beyond the grazin’ fields, when he heard a sound echoin’ from deep within them trees, like something whistling.
It gave him a good start, it did, but he shook it off, decidin’ to put it out of his mind and get back to the job at hand. It was probably just some bird trying to get lucky, is what he thought.
But then, it happened again. This time, though, that whistlin’ had a more melodic tone to it, somethin’ like a lullaby.
“You better quit your jokin’, right now, I’m tellin’ y’all!” he hollered, droppin’ his shovel and crossin’ his arms over his chest.
Now, his buddies knew he’d got himself in hot water earlier that day, and you know how boys can be, always ready to pull a prank on each other. So my pa figured it was either his pal Jeb or Willy tryin’ to give him a scare.
But them woods, they stayed as silent as the grave, not givin’ a lick about my pa’s demands. So, reckonin’ he wasn’t gettin’ nowhere with it, he bent down to pick up that shovel and get back to work.
As his fingers brushed the handle, that whistle sang its eerie lullaby again. Half spooked and half infuriated, instead of grabbin’ the shovel, he scooped up a rock from the ground and hurled it into the black depths of the forest.
But as soon as that stone disappeared into them trees, it came right back at him, smackin’ him square on the shoulder. That did it, though. He was all fire and brimstone now. With a swift move, he snatched up that shovel from the ground and bolted into the woods, ready to give whoever was playin’ these tricks a good thrashin’.
As he passed through them trees into the heart of the forest, that whistle came back, its source just a few steps deeper into the woods, but too far away for him to make out who might be makin’ that eerie tune.
Fueled by anger, he charged after that sound. Just as he was about to reach the spot where he’d last heard it, the sound shifted, movin’ deeper into them woods. Now, this oughta have set off some alarms in his noggin, but my pa, bless his heart, unlike his son, was always more brawn than brains. So, before he knew it, he was in deep, deeper than you’d ever wanna be in them woods after sundown.
That whistle, it came again, but it’d changed into somethin’ different, a wicked sort of laughter. Finally, a lightbulb lit up in my pa’s head, but by then, things were lookin’ downright grim.
Regrettin’ his poor choices, he turned tail and bolted back towards the farm. But that whistlin’, it came again, this time in front of him. So he swerved to go ‘round it, but it came again, and again, blockin’ his path.
“I’m a goner!” he blurted out, feelin’ sweat pourin’ from every pore in his body, makin’ that shovel in his grip as slippery as a greased pig. He was plum outta options, so he did what any fellow would in his shoes. He made a run for that whistlin’, shovel in hand, ready to swing at whatever came his way.
But he didn’t get too far, ‘cause outta nowhere, somethin’ hit him hard in the gut, and then again on the noggin, sendin’ him tumblin’ toward the forest floor.
By then, he was wailin’ like a newborn callin’ out for his momma. Through his blurred vision, he saw somethin’ approachin’, taller than any man, standin’ upright on two legs, with arms so long they almost touched the ground.
The creature whistled again, that same eerie lullaby, as if it was mockin’ my pa for his foolishness. My pa’s hands scrambled in the dirt, his body inching away from the creature on pure instinct, his eyes wide with terror as he fought to put distance between himself and the nightmare that had him in its grasp. But that creature’s freakishly long arm shot out toward him, grabbin’ him by the shoulder.
A searin’ pain exploded in my pa’s right shoulder as them creature’s claws sank deep into his flesh. He howled like a cornered wolf. The creature’s eerie whistling laugh echoed through the dark woods, sending shivers down his spine.
Panic coursed through my pa’s mind as his eyes finally focused on the creature’s face and form. Its skin was dried and wrinkled, more like tree bark than any animal hide. On its face, there was a wide gash, openin’ up to reveal row upon row of needle-like teeth. It had no eyes, no nose, no hair, nothin’ but them creases in its bark-like skin.
My pa wailed, he begged for help, but none was comin’, or so he thought.
Thunderin’ through the night, a loud bang exploded behind my pa, and the creature let out a gruelin’ howl, instantly lettin’ him go. Another bang followed, a shot, my father realized, as he swiftly turned to see who was doin’ the shootin’.
There stood my granddad, silent as a tomb, not sayin’ a word, his hands steady as he cocked another bullet into the rifle. The creature screeched and skittered back into the night, leavin’ ‘em both behind.
“Are you alright, boy? Can you stand?” my grandfather asked, not takin’ his eyes away from the forest ahead of him.
“What in God’s earth was that thing?” my father blurted as he rose to his feet, brushin’ off his pants and shirt.
“Tree-man,” my grandfather revealed, jerkin’ the rifle, signalin’ to my father to move.
After snatchin’ up that shovel from the ground, my father hustled past my granddad. With my granddad close on his heels, they dashed through them trees, not stoppin’, not utterin’ a word, until they reached the grazin’ field, puttin’ a good fifteen feet between ‘em and the edge of them woods.
“You were lucky, boy,” my granddad started, takin’ a deep breath and finally uncockin’ the rifle. “If your grandma hadn’t noticed you gone from the field, no one would ever have seen a single speck of you again. How could you be such a fool? Don’t you know about them things that prowl in them damn woods? Why’d you go and jump headfirst into it?” My granddad demanded, fixin’ my father with a stern stare that demanded an answer.
“I thought it was Jeb messin’ about,” He replied, sinking his chin to his chest, “What’s a Tree-man anyway?” he muttered.
“People say it’s a demon, or somethin’ of the sort,” my granddad began, “but I think it’s just a beast, no different from a bear or a wolf. It lures its prey into the woods, mimickin’ sounds it’s heard over its lifetime. They’re shifty creatures, you know. Folks say they can climb up them trees, jumpin’ from one to another, messin’ with your head before they pounce.
My father’s pal, Jeremy, used to spin tales ‘bout nabbin’ one back in his youth, but most folks thought he was talkin’ pure hogwash.
These creatures do their huntin’ at night, so never, and I mean never, go trackin’ a sound you hear among them trees after the sun’s gone down. I’ve heard they can even mimic people’s voices. So, if you ever hear one, don’t you dare stick around, just hightail it outta there and don’t utter a sound. I sure as shootin’ don’t want you fillin’ up that thing’s arsenal.
My dad nodded, then hurried toward home. There’d be no more toilin’ that night. He’d rather take a switchin’ from his grandma, he had told me.
The tree-man’s trick, it still happens every now and then, but we folks here, know better than to chase it. Regrettably, most of them tourists tend to treat this story like a tall tale. So, some of ‘em, they venture out yonder into them cursed woods when they hear somethin’ out of the ordinary, and more often than not, we never lay eyes on ‘em again. They call it a mysterious tragedy, but we know the truth, and we tell ‘em, but they just won’t heed our words.
I’m hopin’ y’all are listenin’ though. What I’m sharin’ with you, it’s for your own good, to open your minds to the peculiar and sinister that lingers in our world. I’ve got more tales to spin, but let this be the first installment, a kind of introduction, if you catch my drift. So, with no more dilly-dallyin’, I bid y’all farewell until my return. And remember, never go into them woods alone, especially after the sun dips below the horizon.