Outhouses

Somewhere, in an unassuming and God-fearing holler, deep in the Appalachia’s, something untoward had silently slunk into the midst of the kinfolks residing there.

‘He said what!?’ Jameson Bounderville’s face cracked in disbelief, his fingertips resting on the iron handle of the cabin door.

Wade Scott managed to catch his breath enough between his fits of drunken laughter to sturdy himself and raise a hand, to continue, but Jameson cut him off.

‘I gotta piss, hold on.’

The cabin door banged shut behind him. Wade wiped tears from his eyes.

The boys in the cabin had heard many wild ideas and bizarre claims from Wild George over the years, but the brief, chaotic interaction they had with him, on the road up to Jameson’s, a half hour or so earlier, had taken its place among the top competitors.

Wild George was a puzzling man, harmless, though.

He seemed to be related to everyone, in some way or another, but no one was sure how. Nobody knew exactly where he lived either, he was always just out there.

He was a friendly type, just as mad as a barrel of snapping turtles.

The laughter faded, giving over to the stronger, more current fixations of whisky and cards. It wasn’t until halfway through their first hand that Wade straightened up, took a curious look towards the door.

‘He’s taking a little while…don’t you think?’ Wade asked, casually, to Bobby Brafford, by his side.

Bobby shot a coy glance to his own side, at Garret Humm, before they both burst into laughter.

‘Wade, don’t even tell me you’re worried about Wild George’s bullshit?’ Bobby roared.

Wade’s cheeks flushed as he slapped his cards down on the table.

‘Fuck you, Bobby. I was just sayin’, is all.’

Garret laughed along with Bobby, but not for as long.

‘He has been gone for a while now…’

‘Well, someone go check on him, if you’re so worried’ Bobby resigned.

The door slammed shut behind Wade. Drinks were poured in his absence.

After two or three, or four, maybe five, it was Bobby’s turn to start thinking.

‘Those boys are pulling our leg, Garret, ain’t they?’ Bobby asked.

His voice didn’t know if it agreed with his statement, neither did Garrett’s face.

The door banged close behind them, as they stumbled out into the dark night.

The sky disappears, some nights, out there in the woods. Someone up there throws a heavy blanket over it. Bobby and Garret slowly, unsurely teetered their way down the few short steps in front of the small, log cabin.

It wasn’t until they started scuffling up the dirt at the bottom of the stairs that they realised how dark it really was.

‘Garret, go grab Jameson’s lantern from in there.’

The cabin door banged in the dark.

Bobby started slowly feeling his way in the direction he thought was right, he was confident he was headed the right way, regardless of the dark, he had made the trip a million times, over the years, if not more.

By the time Garret had found the lantern he was looking for, drunkenly fumbled it into operation and returned to the heavy, dark night outside, it was silent.

‘Bobby?’ He called.

Nothing, not even a cricket, not a toad.

Garret felt much better in the light of the lantern, but he was still getting a queasy, scared feeling in his stomach. Maybe he was the one getting his leg pulled. He was hoping, when he turned around that corner, that the boys would all jump out at him and give him a great big fright, then they would all go back inside and laugh about it.

When Garret’s liquored feet eventually wobbled around the corner of the cabin, there was no fright waiting for him, just more silent darkness.

Sweat had begun to bead on his forehead.

In the lanterns beam, he could see the ominous, darkened rectangle up ahead of him, cast in shadow just outside of its reach.

‘Boys?’ Garret called, twice, three times.

Nothing.

Garret walked hesitantly towards the looming silhouette. The night was getting chilly enough to see his breath float ahead of him.

The leaves underfoot felt frosty, as he approached the old outhouse.

The damp, mossy wood glimmered in the light of the lantern, disappearing into the dark cracks between the planks.

The creaky door lay slightly ajar; it was clearly empty.

Garret scratched his head in confusion, looking from left to right, before loud, frantic shouting pierced the quiet night.

‘GET AWAY FROM THAT, YA’ FUCKIN IDJIT!’

Garret jumped out of his skin, whipping around and raising the lantern, scanning for the source, only to see Wild George emerging from a bush around 20 feet away, in a panic.

By the time George looked back towards the old outhouse, it was too late.

Two long, dripping, red tentacles had wrapped themselves around his throat, yanking him violently into the darkened shack and slamming the door with the ease of a bear whipping a salmon out of a river.