FooDaddy's Horror

I believe I’ve mentioned Stephen King recently. By weight, he is the most popular author of scaries in the library system I work for.

So I thought to myself, “why let Mister King have all the fun? Might I too be able to cash in on the lucrative ‘making people jumpy’ market?”

Yes. The answer is yes, of course I can. All I need to do is to turn off all the lights, ask my cat to turn black and make his back all archy, and pretend I’m a frail, unarmed, easily frightened woman in, like, a forest or something.

You might want to turn off your own lights, time-wasters, to add to the effect.


Kristen Wispy picked her frail way through the forest. Damp leaves clung to the bottoms of her sneakers. A lone werewolf howled lonsomely in the lonesome distance as she approached the mansion’s driveway.

The trees on either side of the narrow gravel path hung skeletal limbs overhead, creating a really creepy tunnel of skeletal tree limbs. An evil owl chuckled high above as Kristen crunched by on the gravel.

She climbed the rotted stairs to the mansion’s porch. The boards, all bent and splintered, seemed almost like arthritic knuckles all too ready to clutch unweary trespassers and shove them into some unspeakable ravening maw. Kristen’s fingers touched the doorknob, leaving her fingerprints in the dust. A gust of wind threw leaves and twigs into the side of the house, and the old rocking chair to her right creaked as the wind set it in motion. She looked back at the door.

“Aye, so ye want to enter, do ye?” said a dry, hollow voice from the chair. It sounded like angry wind blowing over dead squirrels. Kristen’s head snapped to the right in surprise, and she gasped. There was an old man in the chair! He was dressed in a red-and-black checkered coat, and here and there straw poked through the tears in its fabric. She couldn’t see his face, as he was looking straight ahead through the torn screens of the porch and into the night.

“Oh, uh...yes, I do. I’m sorry! I didn’t know anyone still lived here. You see, my friends and I were, um...well, we were exploring, and Jason wandered this way, and his footprints led to your driveway, and…” she trailed off.

The old man turned to face her. His eyeless face contorted into a grin that showed far too many teeth. “Oh, yes, that’s what they all say!” he cackled. “I hate to bring thee such bad tidings, missy, but thy friend is already gone to the land of farts and spirits!”

“Of—of what?” Kristin stammered.

“Pull my finger!” said the old man, and he was suddenly engulfed in a screaming vortex of cold fire. Kristen shielded her face with her hands, and when she lowered them again, the chair and the surrounding walls and floor were coated with frost. There was no sign of the old man.

She pushed open the door. Moonlight dribbled into the vast catacombs of the mansion’s entrance hall. Kristen screamed when she saw what was laying on the floor not six feet from where she stood.

It was Jason’s severed right buttock!


Oh, man! Talk about creepy! Owls, werewolves, crazy old ghostmen! This story’s got it all. Now I’m going to go turn on all the lights I own and watch Sesame Street until I stop shaking.