—————-
A wild man
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Lost in the Kentucky wilderness, a hunter becomes the hunted.
Something massive stalks the trees — watching, waiting, closing in.
A story inspired by Kentucky Bigfoot legends.
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Clara, my wife. Rosie and Morgan, my two little ones. I had a life, a family.
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Just saying their names makes my chest throb. But the forest has ears; it mocks the thoughts playing in your head.
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The throbbing in my chest isn’t just love; it’s betrayal, the weight of a promise I can’t keep.
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“I love you is forever,” the wedding vow, and “I promise I’ll be home” — all lies now.
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Mosquitoes feast on my legs, the legs that follow trails leading nowhere. The rivers have dried up, and the breadcrumbs are long gone.
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I was supposed to be home at 5:00 PM after a hunting trip, three days ago.
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The cold… it chills me to the bone in this unholy forest.
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I long for the feeling of being alone, but something is out here with me.
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In the dead of night, I hear a horrifying sound, something not human.
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I catch glimpses from the corner of my eye, things I can’t fully see, choosing to stay hidden.
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I was the hunter, but I’m no longer the only predator; I’m prey.
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I look for light, but the only light I’ve seen is the glowing in its eyes.
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It watches me, mocking my tears, keeping me on my feet. I can feel its eyes throughout the day and night. I know you feel them too.
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I sit next to a fallen tree, the giant roots offering little shelter.
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My eyes barely hold up, heavy with exhaustion from wandering blindly through this merciless place.
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It holds me by the throat, feeling like a cry. I went from having everything to nothing.
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Blinking is a struggle; I’ve been driven mad. Resting my eyes leads to images of my daughters, the ones I promised to be home to.
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Awake for days, running, running from something I can never fully escape.
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The sun rises through the leaves that stand high in the giant oak trees.
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I see another hunter in the distance, an eerie silence following him.
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He wears a bright yellow vest, and the fog is almost swallowing him.
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I scream, losing breath fast. He looks my way, worried, his eyes widening; I can see his heart fall to the ground, but something’s off.
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His eyes are widened, but they’re looking to my right, not at me.
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I glance to my right: a creature running fast at the hunter.
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I reach my hand out as if I could reach him. I feel defenseless; there’s nothing I can do.
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It was inexorable. I aim my shotgun at the creature but don’t pull the trigger.
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The hair on my back stands high above the trees.
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It’s hair all over its body, matted and tangled.
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The macabre being almost shakes the ground as it leaps at the hunter like a cat with a mouse.
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The screaming echoes and follows the fallen leaves on the ground.
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The unnervingly still trees tower over us, making me feel trapped.
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I sit. I stare. I watch.
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His head was yanked far off his body, the grisly scene adding a pit to my gut.
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I’d throw up if I had any food in my stomach.
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The creature plays with the corpse as if just to tease me, to show me there’s no way out.
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It throws the hunter’s mangled body into the limbs above me.
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Suffocating in my own space, I forget to breathe, just another thing lost in my fractured mind. Every breath a struggle.
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It faces me, slowly walking towards me, breathing heavily.
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The mangled, gutted corpse hangs in the trees. The body’s arms almost fully off its shoulders, its vibrant vest bloody and ripped to shreds, like a threat, like it’s setting boundaries.
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I drop to my knees, forgetting the world before I was trapped in this forsaken forest.
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Holding the gun to my mouth, I close my eyes, squinting hard, anticipating the gun being the only thing I control here, the only way I have out.
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Holding the gun to my mouth is a fight to reclaim my life by ending it on my own terms before it gets to me.
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The sounds it made when ripping the hunter to shreds embroidered in my mind.
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The look it gives me when approaching, facing my exact direction… I could tell you what it looked like, but I pulled the trigger before I could remember.
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————————————-
He has horns
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A search for her boyfriend leads Alice into the darkness beneath an old trestle where the Pope Lick Monster waits.
A story inspired by the legendary Kentucky cryptid.
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Come on, David, where the hell are you?” I scream,
my lungs burning,
the inside of my cheek raw from nervous biting.
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My own voice startles me.
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It’s dark,
my headlights slicing through the trees.
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“David, stop messing around!”
My voice cracks as I sit in the driver’s seat, window open.
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“Whatever,” I mutter, annoyed.
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I get out of the car, toss my purse onto the passenger seat,
and slam the door.
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Using my phone’s flashlight, I look in the direction he went.
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“David!” I yell again.
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I stumble upon a red trestle, covered in scrapes and peeling paint,
like it’s been abandoned.
It towers over me,
my flashlight unable to illuminate the whole thing.
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“Alice! Help me.”
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My heart drops,
the color draining from my skin.
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“Alice! Help me,”
the voice repeats, seeming to come from above.
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“David, where are you?”
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I look up, almost spinning, trying to locate the voice.
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The tracks.
He’s on the tracks above me.
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I see the silhouette of a man,
the full moon stretching across the trestle behind him.
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“How did you get up there?”
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I look around for stairs or some way up,
waiting for a response.
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“David?” I say, hoping for an answer.
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The voice stops.
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I climb up a steep side of the hill, trying to get higher,
grunting as I nearly slip,
tiny rocks falling beneath my feet.
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When I reach the top,
I get onto the trestle and walk the tracks directly ahead.
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⸻
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The height stresses me out even more.
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“David, where the hell are you?
You know I hate heights,” I say, annoyed.
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The tracks glisten in the light of my phone.
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Looking down makes my mouth fill with saliva,
like I’m about to throw up,
my stomach knotting from the tension of the drop.
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I see the silhouette again just ahead,
my phone light not reaching it.
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“Alice, come here,” the voice says, toneless.
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“David, what are you doing?” I reply,
nervous and shaky,
as I make my way slowly.
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“David…”
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My words stretch out,
sounding like a full sentence,
my stomach tying itself even tighter.
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The silhouette grows,
as if morphing into a beast,
its eyes glowing,
the only light in front of me besides my terrible phone light.
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It gets closer,
inching toward me as if it’s about to grab me—
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then it walks away.
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I turn back and head down,
not believing what just happened.
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When I get down the hill and off the tracks,
I hear a loud horn
and feel the ground rumbling.
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Above me, I see a light on the hill.
A train’s coming.
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The loud horn makes me cover my ears.
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Drip.
Drip.
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I feel a raindrop hit my head,
then run down my forehead.
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I look up; I’m under the trestle.
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I raise my hand and place it on my forehead,
shining the light on my hand as I bring it down
in front of my face.
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My throat tightens,
my breath shallow.
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It’s blood.
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Then it goes dark.
My phone dies.
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It feels like an anchor was tied to my feet.
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⸻
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I was frozen in place
as the blood continued to drip onto my blonde hair.
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Collecting myself, I finally moved from that spot.
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The only light was the full moon,
perfectly set on the horizon.
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I got to my car, trying to start it.
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As I hummed to calm my brain,
the humming grew louder
as I became more nervous.
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The car started,
and the headlights illuminated a tall figure in front of the car.
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I couldn’t see his head,
only his body.
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His arms and legs were covered in patches of fur.
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“Hmmhmhmmm,”
the beast hummed the same tune I had been humming.
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His feet were hooves,
like those of a goat.
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He leaned his head in,
and it came into view as the headlights shone on his mesmerizing slit pupils.
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Oh my god—
he has horns.
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I pressed the pedal down, ramming into him,
then immediately slammed on the brakes.
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My head almost hit the wheel as I squeezed my eyes shut.
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When I opened them,
he was gone.
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My brain spiraled as if I had whiplash.
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I continued driving, not looking behind me.
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I reached the trestle again,
knowing I had to look for David.
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As I parked and slowly opened the car door,
my thoughts were interrupted by a crash.
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The car shook so hard I thought I was already dead.
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I felt something touch my hair,
sending a shiver down my spine,
reaching every muscle in my body.
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I turned to my window,
and a hand was on the car roof.
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The hand was covered in blood,
callouses,
and dirt,
and the smell of death crept up my nose.
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Climbing to the passenger side,
I opened the door and gasped.
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⸻
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I open the door,
and a gasp escapes my blue lips.
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My heart stops.
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A human body is on my car—
mangled and distorted,
bones sticking out of its skin.
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The face is so mutilated
I can’t even make out who it is,
but I’m guessing it’s David.
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Before I can even cry out,
my body is lifted into the air,
big hands wrapped around my throat.
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I claw at them,
trying to pry the beast’s hands off me.
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I can’t breathe;
I’m gasping for air,
my face red and swollen,
feeling like it’s about to burst.
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Then,
he lets go.
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I fall to the ground, shaking,
finally able to breathe.
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I look behind me and see nothing,
but I can hear a voice—
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a voice so mesmerizing
it hypnotizes me,
putting me under some kind of spell.
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It’s like my legs start moving on their own,
my eyes blinking independently,
my heart beating without my will.
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I’m a witness in my own body,
only peering through my eyes.
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I watch as my body makes its way up the side of the hill effortlessly,
no struggle,
no pain.
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I get to the tracks,
staring at the train tunnel
as it slowly lights up.
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A train is getting closer.
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I’m frozen,
unable to move a limb.
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I can’t close my eyes
as the train makes its way toward me,
the horn blaring,
growing louder
as it echoes through the tunnel.
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Just as the train is right in front of me,
the trance is lifted.
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I can feel my blood pumping,
and I can close my eyes,
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but it’s too late.
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Humming is the last thing I hear.
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⸻———-
Gravedigger
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A fresh grave. An empty coffin. A long-armed creature clicking through the cemetery fog.
Tonight, the Gravedigger has chosen its next hole.
A story inspired by Kentucky’s Gravedigger cryptids
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Emotionless, beady eyes peering at me through the fog that lays low on the church property.
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The obnoxious cawing of the murder of crows swarms the cemetery, some resting on the half-standing fence around the headstones.
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I walk up to the church, dreading the inside, knowing it’s going to require a lot of work.
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I open the big wooden door, the white paint chipping off the oak.
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To my surprise, the inside is far more intact than I thought it would be.
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It seems like my grandfather took good care of this place.
Which would make sense, seeing as he was always spending his time here.
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I run my hands down the row of benches leading up to the lectern, the dust quickly gathering on my fingertips.
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I look up, noticing the light fixtures fit for candles that vary in size, the wax frozen in time from when it was last lit.
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I firmly grasp the broom I was dragging behind me, immediately sweeping the floor while light comes through the arched windows.
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I sweep the dust I’ve gathered from the broom into the cracks between the wall and floor.
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I glare out the window, looking at the headstones with my late family members’ names, the repeated last name Forrow engraved on every tombstone but one.
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My grandfather was a very kind man.
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Two years ago, a woman had stayed after church and walked up to my grandfather, who was the owner and pastor of the church, and asked that when she passed, if she could be buried on the property.
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She had no family left, was a widow, and was very much alone.
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Of course he accepted. He was a very good soul.
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Three months later, the old woman passed away from a sudden heart attack, and he kept his word and had her buried on the property.
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But for someone buried quite a bit ago, the grave looks so fresh, the dirt looking freshly dug.
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It looks fresher than my grandfather’s grave, who was buried only two weeks ago.
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A crow rests on the woman’s grave.
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I continue sweeping and wiping down the windows. It’s getting darker.
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I reach into my pocket and grab a lighter, lighting most of the candles, the warm orange flames displaying on the aged walls.
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The light flickers, creating a cozy atmosphere.
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The silence is interrupted by the sound of clicking, like that of a clock, the noise coming from outside.
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I turn to the door that leads to the graveyard, walking to it.
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The clicking gets louder.
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Then louder.
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Until the sound is bouncing around in my head like a pounding drum.
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I open the door and am immediately met by a cold shiver, the noise abruptly stopping.
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I peek around the graveyard, holding a candle, the hot wax dripping on my thumb.
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The shallow candlelight does nothing but get swallowed by the fog.
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The door creaks behind me as I step further into the patchy yard.
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The closest grave to me is the widow’s.
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I almost lose my balance.
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Her grave has been dug up.
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Piles of dirt surround the poor woman’s headstone.
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Her casket is open and her bones are missing.
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I place my hand over my mouth, maybe because I’m surprised, or maybe to keep myself from throwing up.
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I can smell the rotting of her clothes and flesh, but no remains are left.
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I immediately head back for the door, but just as I reach it—
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“Click. Click. Click.”
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The sound comes from behind me.
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I turn around and am met by a creature, around five-foot-something, almost my height.
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It’s covered in a thin fur and has arms so long they almost reach the ground.
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It turns around and jumps almost twenty feet in the air, over all the graves, before being swallowed by the darkness.
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I get back inside and immediately curl into a corner of the room.
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I sit there for what felt like minutes that turned to hours.
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I’m too afraid to make a run to my car.
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I sit in that corner until the sun has risen, until I build up enough courage to leave.
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I walk up to the window, peering over the graveyard and the woods behind it.
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Most of the fog has cleared, and I notice huge holes in the ground, like from groundhogs, if groundhogs were ten times their regular size.
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My face is still pale, my hands trembling like it just happened.
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I look at the widow’s grave once more to assure myself it wasn’t a dream, and, low and behold, the six-foot-deep hole is still there.
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I step outside, looking around, making sure the creature is gone.
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The crows caw as I exit.
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Am I going mad? Her grave looks normal.
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Already over it, I head to my car, shuffling my feet in the wet, dew-stained grass.
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The clouds cast a shadow over the church as it begins to rain, and quickly the dew-soaked grass turns to mud.
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I hurry to my car and stop dead in my tracks.
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There are crows surrounding my car like some kind of cult.
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I yell at the crows, “Shew, shew!”
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I throw my arms at them.
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When most of the crows are gone, I notice there’s someone in my car.
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My heart drops to the mud-filled path.
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It’s the widow’s body.
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Her body is in my car, rotting into the driver’s seat.
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I don’t know what to do. I just stand there in the rain.
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I make the decision to go back inside the church and think, think of something.
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I’m miles away from civilization and my phone is in the car.
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I make it to the giant heavy wooden doors and hear it again.
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“Click. Click. Click.”
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The sound gives me déjà vu.
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I peek around the corner of the weather-beaten church and slowly approach her headstone.
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The giant hole is filling with water.
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I lean my head further over the hole to peer down,
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And I feel a heavy shove to my shoulders, like I was just hit by a truck.
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My jaw smashes against the edge of the hole on my way down.
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Before I can even move my arms to get up, I feel the dirt falling on me.
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It’s burying me.
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I see the creature looking down into the giant hole, shoveling dirt over my body with its hands.
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I can’t do anything.
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The dirt covers me throw by throw.
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Soon it covers my head, and I feel my throat tighten, trying to breathe as my air pocket fills with mud and blood from my jaw.
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My breaths get faster.
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And faster.
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Until there’s silence.
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⸻—-
Mutt
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In the quiet Kentucky woods, something feral walks on two legs.
Something that watches. Something that hungers.
And when night falls, it comes scratching at the door.
A story inspired by the Bullitt County Beast of Kentucky.
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You know those scenes in cartoons where one of the characters gets a whiff of pie and suddenly levitates toward it?
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That’s exactly how people feel when they smell the apple pie my mom used to make.
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She made one hell of a dessert.
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When she passed away, I stopped eating anything sweet.
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I moved out of my house and changed personas—I was depressed, no doubt.
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But the woodland Eden I’d moved into had so much whimsy and was so secluded, with hundreds of apple trees surrounding the rustic home.
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The sweet, sweet smell of crisp cider was like nectar to a bee.
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When I found it, I felt my heart beat again.
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My mom would’ve loved this place.
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I tried to put the old life behind me, so I bought this house.
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I thought it would be the perfect place to write with no distractions and maybe stop grieving my mother.
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I missed writing stories and her reading them with that light in her eyes—like she was genuinely into the book.
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She was my motivation to continue.
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My office window looked over the front yard, the hedges following the porch.
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Just looking out that window kept my mind flowing, watching the birds fly around the feeder.
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It’s beautiful.
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I get up from my chair and close my laptop.
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I walk into the kitchen, take the packaged chicken that’s thawing in the sink, throw it on an old skillet, and place it in the preheated oven.
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I make my way to the living room while it cooks, throw my feet on the coffee table, and reach over to turn on the lamp.
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The dim yellow light covers half the living room.
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I pick my book off the armrest and begin to read from where I left off.
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The book swallows me; I get lost in the intense pages filled with terror and screams.
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When the book is finished, I look at the clock above the window.
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My eyes freeze when they land on the yard—eyes staring back at me, yellow and feral, fixated on me while standing in a pile of apples beneath the trees.
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I feel the color melting off my face like paint dripping from a canvas.
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I forget to breathe.
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My fingers and toes go red from clenching the couch cushions.
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I sit still until I can imagine what it could possibly be.
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A wolf?
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I live in Kentucky—there aren’t wolves around here—but it’s so lupine.
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It’s too big to be a regular dog.
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A… human?
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No.
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It has the ears of a canine and eyes sallow and sentient, uncanny almost.
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It has a snout like any canid; its fur is shaggy and blends into the dark that surrounds it.
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I close my eyes and try to steady my breathing with slow, deep breaths, like some yoga instructor.
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I open my eyes again—it’s gone.
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I try to chalk it up to some trick of my mind.
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Maybe I’m hungry.
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Oh crap.
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I hastily turn my head toward the kitchen.
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Smoke is rising, mostly hitting the range hood but some flooding the rest of the room.
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The smell hits me and I crinkle my nose.
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I jump over the back of the couch and run into the kitchen, fling open the oven door, and swat away the smoke.
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I grab oven mitts patterned with little red roses and reach into the smoke pit.
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Not being able to see what I’m grabbing, I pull the tray out and throw it on the stove; the intense heat almost burns through the mitts.
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I open the window next to the stove to let the rest of the smoke out and sigh in relief—until there’s loud banging on the door.
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I practically jump on the counter.
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The noise startles me; the bangs grow louder and more violent.
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Panic settles in.
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I can practically hear the paint being scratched off the door.
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Then it stops.
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I stand in shock, my heart pounding out of my chest.
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Slowly I start to calm, but the silence is interrupted by the nasty sound of a snarl behind me.
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The wild beast’s head smashes through the window, slavering and foaming at the mouth like some rabies-induced creature.
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It gets halfway through, digging long black claws into the wood as it struggles to pull itself up, still chewing the burnt, charred chicken—bone and all.
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I run upstairs, my head dizzy from adrenaline.
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I make it to the top and look down: the mutt is at the bottom, ravenous, slobbering and growling while showing crooked teeth.
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It stands up almost six feet tall.
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The feral beast rises on its hind legs like a man in a suit, its ragged fur matted.
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I get to the bedroom and lock the door.
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I swear I can feel the doorknob rattling, like it somehow grabbed the knob and is trying to open the door.
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What the hell is this thing?
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It goes quiet again and I can almost breathe.
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“Click.”
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The room goes dark—it flipped the breaker.
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I can hear the manic brute walking back upstairs like a grown man.
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The room fills with rattling and scratching again.
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I curl up behind my bed, my hands clawed in my hair, wanting it to stop.
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The door crashes open.
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I snap my eyes open and stop rocking back and forth.
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The silence is unbearable in this dark pit of a room.
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I feel tangled fur wrap around my ankles; a scream rips from my lips.
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It drags me out from behind the bed.
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I grab the leg of the bed; claws dig into my skin, peeling it back.
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I hear my blood hit the hardwood floor.
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My jeans rip to shreds.
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I can’t see anything—I only hear every rip and the scrape of claws on bone.
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My hand loses strength and slips from the cold metal bed leg.
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As I lie helpless on the floor, the beast’s silhouette looms over me, slinging parts of my clothes and layers of my skin all over the room.
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A rotten smell from its mane mixes with the metallic tang of my blood, slithering up my nose.
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I’m too weak to fight back.
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I try to get up, but my hands slide on the puddle of my own warm blood.
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Slowly losing consciousness, I can feel my organs sliding down my stomach and onto the floor where I lie defenseless.
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———
Stone
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Some creatures are meant to stay in legends… until you see them descend from the rooftops.
A tale inspired by the Demon Leaper cryptid of Kentucky.
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“Oh come on, don’t do this to me now…”
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The car sputtered before coming to a complete stop.
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I lay my head on the steering wheel out of frustration.
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I’ve never had a knack for cars — I’m more of an office cuticle kind of guy.
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“Knock, knock.”
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I look to my left — a man in a wife beater squints from the bright sun reflecting off the car.
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I open the car door slightly, waiting for him to clear from the door, then fully open it.
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“Yea?” I ask, my hand just above my eyebrows, blocking the sun.
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“Car troubles?” he asks with a deep southern accent.
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“Yea. Having a bit of a bad day,” I reply, stepping out of the car.
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“Well I can fix it up for you, I won’t charge much of a buck,” he replies, cracking a bit of a smile.
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“Oh that would be amazing.”
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A full smile playing on my reddened face.
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“Well alrighty, I can get my truck and haul it on to my shop.”
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He starts walking over to his truck.
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I begin gathering some things out of the middle console and back seat.
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He pulls over right beside me, rolling his window down.
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“It might take a bit, do you live around here?” he asks.
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“No, I’m headed to Teeneese,” I reply, slipping my phone in my pocket.
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“Well, you might want to get a room for the night…”
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He looks around the street for oncoming cars.
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“If you want I can drop you off at a motel,” he adds, throwing bottles from the passenger seat to the back.
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“Sounds good.”
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I hop in the truck, closing the door as he pulls off.
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Along the way to the motel I get to see the small town.
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The buildings full of architecture.
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The courthouse taking away my breath, two gargoyles perched on each side of the building, their stone wings stretching out over the clear sky.
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It looks so out of place with the tiny dinky buildings that surround it.
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We pull up to a small motel with a glowing sign that reads “Blue Rose Inn,” some of the bulbs blown.
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“This is the cheapest motel in town… also the only one in town.”
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He looks over at me with a smile before quickly looking straight at the parking space in front of us.
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He sticks the truck in park.
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“Well here you go,” he looks back at me.
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“Thank you, really, you’ve helped a lot,” I reply.
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“Ahh don’t mention it, I’ll swing back by here when your car is done.”
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He fixes his hat, placing it perfectly back on his head.
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“Sounds good!” I exclaim, before hopping out of the truck, closing the door with a heavy push.
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Giving him a small wave before he drives off.
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I look around the half-empty lot, walking towards the small rundown office, the blinds in the window crooked, the open sign flashing green.
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I walk into the office, a bell ringing above my head.
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The owner sitting at the counter in front of a computer, clicking the keys quickly.
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“How can I help you?” he asks, not looking away from the screen.
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“Uhh I’d like to get a room for the night,” I reply, walking up and placing my card on the counter.
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He stops typing, grabbing a key off a hook on the wall behind him.
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He swipes my card and hands it back to me.
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I put it back into my wallet then slide it into my pocket.
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“Room 109.”
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He hands me the key and goes back to typing.
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“Thank you,” I say, walking out of the office, the bell ringing again as I exit.
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I walk through the lot up to the old metal stairs, the first step creaking under me.
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I analyze the numbers on the door until I get to 109.
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Inserting the key into the lock, a soft “click” as I turn it and open the door.
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The smell of old linen immediately hitting me.
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It’s not a bad smell, more like a familiar one.
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I travel a lot so it’s nothing new.
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A fresh made bed waits for me.
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I throw my backpack onto the floral duvet before sitting down on the foot of the bed.
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Letting a deep breath out while turning on the TV.
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Settling in early, turning on some old channel — just something for noise.
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Untying and taking my shoes off and laying back on the bed.
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All the driving today made me a little tired, my eyes feeling heavy.
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I curl up on the king sized bed before falling asleep rather quickly.
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⸻
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I wake up, the room dark besides the dim glow from the TV.
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I sit up, picking my backpack up from the floor.
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I look at the alarm clock on the nightstand next to the bed.
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“2:43” displayed.
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I turn on the lamp, the glass base filled with seashells, my eyes adjusting to the light.
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I can feel the emptiness in my stomach as it growls.
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I decide to get something to eat, which nothing is open as of now.
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I take my phone out of my pocket, looking for places that might be open where I can at least get a snack.
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A 24-hour gas station “Sunnyside,” just 2 blocks away, walking distance.
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I put my shoes back on and walk over to the door, the nice outside air hitting the sweat on my forehead.
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I make my way down the long veranda, the lights next to each motel room door leading to the shabby stairs.
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Carefully walking down them, still drowsy.
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I walk the sidewalks leading away from the weather-beaten inn.
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The next block over is the edifice somber courthouse.
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The architecture is beautiful, absolutely stunning, the stone walls streaked with centuries of rain.
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I stop.
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There’s one gargoyle perched on the left side of the courthouse.
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I could’ve sworn there was another on the other side when we passed by it earlier.
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I continue walking slowly, still confused.
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Above me I hear a low, gravelly, craggy growl.
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I look up and there it is — sat on a different building, its cracked and graven wings starting to flap, shuddering, the stone grinding together.
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The beast diving down at me.
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I run towards the row of small buildings.
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The gargoyle looping, hovering above me like a vulture finding roadkill.
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Raspy growls following me.
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I run to the nearest open place, my hands grasping the cold steel door handle before I’m grabbed, the stone claws digging into my side, carrying me above the courthouse.
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The pressure from the grip on my sides restricting my air.
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As it carries me higher and higher, I feel the talons start to slowly lose grasp.
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The grip loosening.
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And suddenly dropping me.
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I plummet to the ground like I’m chasing the road.
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I feel weightless and helpless, the whistling from the wind getting louder as I hurtle to the ground with a thud…
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⸻
and then Add to home screen.