__________________
This has been on my mind for a couple of days now. I looked over at the yard beside my family's house and I remembered something I haven't thought of in years. It's creepy and true.
When I was a little girl, the neighbor's daughter was my best friend. They had a long stretch of property, and I often walked through their horse field to go see my friend. Near to my house, there was a medium sized wooden hut. It wasn't too tall or anything, but it seemed looming and foreboding when I was in my single digits.
I didn't know what they kept in there. It was in the middle of the property, no where near their horse barn or house. Just in the middle of the property, standing like a horror movie scene waiting to happen. It was made of old, dark wood almost black from the years. The trees that grew around it cast shadows on it that only served to frighten me even more. I just KNEW there was a creepy man living in there, with some kind of mutilated appearance, sharpening tools like scythes and hoes and anything that he could use against me.
I rocked those lavender overalls
I never looked at it when I crossed the field. If I did, I knew the scary nightmare man inside would become enraged and chase me down. I only looked at it when I stood outside my house's door, so that if he tried to get me I could always run inside and lock the door. Sometimes I would see shadows moving inside the mildewed 4-panel window. Realistically, I now believe it must have been shade from trees when a breeze passed through. However, my little self was convinced that the nightmare man was inside his little hut, sharpening metal to prepare for the day I finally looked at the hut when I crossed the field.
FUCK THAT HUT
One night, a bad storm came through. There was a horrible noise in the middle of the night, the whine of nails being ripped from wood. To my child's mind, the nightmare man had caught some other child. I was frightened, but I didn't dare look out the window. If he was attacking, surely he would feel bold enough to come to my house if I dared catch him in the act. I hid my head under my Rainbow Brite pillow and pulled the sheets over the pillow. That way, if he pulled back the covers, he would see the pillow and think I wasn't there. I was a genius five year old.
The next morning when I looked at the field, I could see that the hut had fallen over. It was crumpled into a pile of disgusting brown-black boards. I wasn't relieved of my fears, though. It was obvious to me what had happened: The nightmare man had taken a victim in the storm, and then destroyed the hut to hide the evidence. Now I didn't know where the nightmare man was when I crossed the field. If he wasn't in the hut, he could be anywhere!
I stopped crossing the field, reducing that friendship to phone calls or having her come over instead. Our friendship eventually dissipated, and her family moved away. I forgot why exactly I was scared of the field as I grew older, but I knew I was afraid of it. Sometimes my family's horses would jump the fence and get into that field, and I would have to chase them down. I was uneasy, but I wasn't sure why.
This last year, one of our horses got out of our pasture. We later found out she had been picked up by the sheriff, but for a few hours we were clueless. Feeling rather brave during this period, I decided I would go to the back of our property and see if she had jumped the fence. The property directly behind ours has been seemingly abandoned for years by whoever bought it, so I had a lot of overgrowth to push through. There were horse tracks, so I followed until they faded. After a few minutes, I had an uneasy feeling, but I couldn't place it or understand why I felt like I did.
I walked around, noticing nothing more than wild dog prints in the mud. There were no more hoof prints, so I turned to leave. I followed the footsteps I'd left in the mud, but I soon realized this was not the way I had originally come. These were not my footprints.
The moment I realized I was following someone else's footprints, I came across a small little campsite. Old, dark, dirty brown wood was haphazardly stacked up to about half my height, covered with rusty sheet metal. There were gardening tools sitting by the little shelter. All at once, I remembered everything. Why I hated that other field. Why I was scared to cross. I had forgotten entirely about the nightmare man and his hut of horrors, but it was all back now.
My adult mind rationalized that this was just the makeshift home of a wandering hobo.
The child inside of me screamed, "IT'S THE NIGHTMARE MAN! THIS IS WHERE HE WENT WHEN HE DESTROYED HIS HUT!"
He's fucking back, I swear to God
I could rationally see that the footprints must have been a few days old, certainly not fresh. This evidence for some strange person hiding and living in the overgrown field behind our property sent adrenaline pumping through my legs. Very quickly, feeling like I was being watched with no evidence for it, I fast-walked opposite the direction the footprints came and left from.
I ended up bursting from the overgrowth onto a street that ran parallel to my family's house. When I returned to the house, I forgot about the creepy campsite and the nightmare man when I was reminded that the horse was why I went out the first place. It was then that I was informed that the sheriff had picked her up. and I had the task of calling Pie (who was out driving around looking for her) and letting him know the search was called off. I totally forgot about that whole expedition until just today.
You see... Last Thursday morning, I noticed that there was a small pile of branches and sticks gathered over on the property next door, near the tree that the hut used to stand by. A church has owned the property for a few years now, and they've been clearing the yard. It was that pile which reminded me of the story, of how something used to be there many years ago. It's been on my mind since Thursday, and I figured I ought to share. I never went back there. I'm afraid to.
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