Homebrewed Horror: Tales of the Hills

The woods of rural Massachusetts are full of terror. Gangs of rampant, unfettered turkeys roam where ever their twisted wills take them. Phantom bears and moose stalk the darkness of the forests, striking fear into the hearts of hundreds. Coyotes howl and yip to each other in the hills, after the fruitful discovery of a child's corpse. 


It's madness.


The only thing that stands between these raging beasts of insanity and the complete and utter destruction of the human race is most likely the hilltown law enforcement:

Hilltown police force in its entirety. 

  

Thus, you can understand how terrifying it is to live here when there's nothing between you and the dangers of the wilderness except some guy with an organic chai latte.

One night, long ago, my dear brother and I were chilling out at the house after a long day of partying. We ventured into the kitchen at some point, probably to eat some of my bro's infamous stick-o-butter grilled cheese sandwiches.

Whatever the case, we were just sitting around, minding our own levels of saturated fat, when suddenly we heard a weird noise.

It wasn't just strange, or mysterious, or peculiar. 

It was eerie.

It sounded like the offspring of a coyote and a woodpecker who fell deeply in love and made a baby. 

My brother, ever curious as a clam, threw down his spatula dramatically and decided to investigate.


Because my brother and father tainted my innocent mind at an early age with tales of aliens, monsters, and Bigfoot, it was only natural that my thoughts turn to the supernaturally horrifying abomination that is...


THE CHUPACABRA!!!


Perhaps thou doth not know about the fabled goat-sucker. To clear things up, it does not look like this:

No. What I'm talking about here -- the only thing that could possibly sound like the child of a coyote and a woodpecker -- is more like this:

Yeah, he be suckin' them goats dry.

It was then that I realized my brother's life was in danger. I ran to my trusty home utility closet and retrieved my weapon of choice: the cat-hair-caked broom. Then, I rushed to Bro's aid.

I found him in the gravel driveway, flailing a flashlight beam back and forth through the moist summer darkness, rake in hand.  

The trees loomed on all sides menacingly.

Me: What is it?

Bro: Shhh! 

Just then, a shriek sounded off in the forest. A mere moment later, SOMETHING SCUTTLED across our flashlight's pool of light. SCUTTLED. FAST.

Me: IT'S THE CHUPACABRA!!!

Bro: Ahhhhh! 

And with that, he charged into the darkness after the beast, brandishing his rake like a mace of death.

Me: NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

That was it. My brother was going to die and I knew it. But what could I do? I mean, this is Chupacabra we're talking about here. I just stood there, clutching onto my hairy broom for dear life. In my small, nine year-old mind, this was Armageddon. This was the end. Of everything.

Moments passed, punctuated by rustling of bushes and trees. 

Then my brother returned.

Me: What was it?

Bro: I don't know. Must've been a coyote.

Haha. Ha. Of course. A coyote. That's what it was. Yep. Makes sense.

We went back inside to devour some much-deserved sticks of butter with a side of bread and cheese. I felt so giddy and reassured. Of course there was no such thing as the Chupacabra. It was just a stupid story made up by someone who wanted attention like me.

...But I swear... As I was ascending the steps of my front porch, I felt a tiny little nagging feeling inside that all kids feel when they're unsure. For some reason, just my brother's word wasn't good enough. I needed to know, for sure, that there wasn't some hideous beast lurking out in the night. 

So I looked over my shoulder for a just a second. Just one last glance, to affirm the fact that a gruesome monster wasn't dribbling on my neck, waiting to eat my brains... 

I swear to this day... I saw something, but it wasn't a coyote.

Whose stupid idea was this?

Whenever a strange, unfamiliar car or bicycle or pedestrian creeps up the driveway and my dog starts going nuts, I usually make the mistake of walking into the kitchen to unlock the front door, thinking it’s my mom getting home from work.  At this point, it is usually too late.  I have French doors, which are almost entirely made of glass.

I once informed my father of the seemingly obvious pointlessness of a glass door.  I was distressed by the safety issues attached to our fragile, breakable portal to the outside world: 

Me:  “But Dad, it would be so easy to break a glass door.  A murderer could come right in and kill us!”

My dad:  “Well at least you would see him coming.”

My parents say such reassuring things. 

Anyway, that point relates back to the point I just was distracted from:  it’s a bloody clear door.  So that random creepy FedEx man/charity collector/unwanted neighbor/religious person/police officer/murderer who happens up my driveway can see that I’m suspiciously watching them from my kitchen, and knows there’s someone home even after I flee upstairs.

You see, I am terribly socially awkward.  I don’t have any mental disabilities or anything like that... At least not that I know of... but I am not so good with conversation.  I don’t like talking on the phone.  I don’t even like calling my friends on the phone.  I’m deathly afraid of that awkward moment when you realize you don’t want to be on the phone any longer, and you’re both just like “Yup...yup...yup...okay bye.  Bye.  Bye.”  Or is that just me?  Am I the only person damned to phone-phobia? 

Can you imagine my paralyzing discomfort when facing a potential face-to-face interaction with an actual, in-the-flesh stranger who could possibly be out to rape me and my cats then sell us to slavery?  And all because my stupid door decided it wanted to be completely transparent.  I bet it thought it was real cool and all that.  “Oh, look at me in all my glory!  Just kidding, you can’t, because I’m totally composed of invisible glass.”

By the time I escape from my foreign trespassers by ducking behind my counter and crawling on hands and knees to my stairs to stay out of their line of vision, I am already feeling the shame of what I have just done.  I can feel the eyes burning critical holes through my house, and I know they know I’m in there, avoiding them.  I can feel the judgment seeping through the ventilation ducts, the floorboards, and the plumbing.  I know they’re standing out there, feeling rejected, all because I don’t know how to talk like a normal person.  I practically start hearing their thoughts:  

I see how it is.  Another douchebag who won’t donate to support breast cancer patients...

Well she looks suspicious.  I better add her to the suspect list...

So good of you to thank me for tirelessly delivering your useless packages every month.  Skank...

I love living next door to you!  Why won’t you love me?!

The burning embarrassment of the incident often almost drives me back downstairs to right my magnanimous wrong, but then I remember that they could all be axe murderers.  I figure that it’s just safer to wait for them to leave.  I keep clutching onto my trusty machete until I’m sure they’re not going to turn around and bust through the French doors because of their hatred of lazy delinquents like me and arrogant windows that pretend to be doors.

I should just probably hang a sign that says “Trespassers will be shot on sight” to avoid future mishaps.  Although... that seems a little too tame to get the job done.  I have very persistent neighbors. 

AHA!

"Trespassers will be ravaged, maimed, mutilated and sold into slavery along with their cats."

That'll hit 'em where it hurts. The old ladies of Leverett are tight with their cats.