The Jelly Cucumber

Only spoken of in whispers, a certain tale of woe haunts the family with a spirit of squalor. It's hotly debated over whether this event actually occurred, or if it was just a tall tale spun to spice up an otherwise boring day.


My mom swears it never happened, and unfortunately, I was not present to bear witness. So, perhaps I may never know what truly went down on that fateful night...


The night...

of...

...THE JELLY CUCUMBER!

  

So, I have taken what I've heard of the incident and formed my own formal opinion about its legitimacy. 

Since I only have my father's word to go on (and that's not the best source for accuracy), I am forced to present the best understanding of the event I can manage. 

It was just an average evening at the house ("house" is an exaggeration; it was more of a tiny stand-alone apartment with a basement that smelled like poop and mold). 


My father, ever the healthnut (Cheetos is his idea of a mustard green) decided to whip up a deliciously nutritious salad to go with dinner that fine evening.

My father in the midst of intense salad excitement.

He cut up some lush, green lettuce; he diced up some fresh, bright carrots; maybe he even threw a dash of lovely sliced tomatoes. 


His salad was finished. As he beheld it in all of its leafy glory, he took a moment to absorb its sheer beauty. However... It lacked something...


But what?


He checked the refrigerator to see if there was anything to polish up the fine salad and make it shine. Eggs? No. Milk? No. Ham? Probably not. 


He dug around for ages, and finally... 


he beheld...

The heavens opened up to reveal a gloriously delectable cucumber, perched poised and perfect in the vegetable drawer. It was simply begging to be sliced up and thrown into a salad to fill it with the glory of the gods.


My father went to work.

He held the knife suspended over the magnificent cuke, basking in its phallic splendor. Could he really do it? Could he possibly deface this pure specimen of perfection? And at that, toss it into a salad full of unworthy plebeian-veggies?  

He pondered this. It took an immense amount of willpower and strength to battle this decision. But, in the end, the fatherly desire to put dinner on the table won out.


He touched the knife blade to the cucumber's skin, ever so slightly, and this is, as I understand it, what happened:

The skin parted and the gelatinous contents of the satanic cucumber exploded all over the kitchen, as if under extreme pressure. 

You may be wondering how there could possibly be so much crap stuffed into one cucumber. The truth is, I have no idea. Also, I remind you that I was not there when it happened and I do sometimes have a tendency to maybe exaggerate. A little.


Now, my mom insists that it never happened, and I suppose I have no way of truly validating the story as a legit horror tale of my childhood. However, one can dream. And I would prefer to think this one is true.

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.

The Sentinel Lady

It's a dark, stormy night. The wind howls. The trees tremble. The thunder rumbles and shakes the Earth to its core. The darkness closes in, all around, devouring any speck of light left in this desolate place.


And she's there. You can see her. In this mass of horror and woe, that one pair of beady eyes is all you can make out in the grim darkness. Though the foreboding and pernicious night, perched on her reading chair, purring evil angora cat in lap, tea steaming suspiciously on the table, she waits....


And she watches. 


I was twelve years old. Thirteen, maybe. My family lived in a peaceful house in the middle of the woods. In the backyard, there was a path into the forest. You could walk through the gently rustling trees and see all the pretty squirrels. You could close your eyes and listen to a symphony of birds chirping. A chipmunk would skitter by. The mountain laurel would swish quietly in the breeze. A pretty doe and her new little fawn would stroll by, nibbling shoots and leaves. 


All was calm and all was beautiful...


Then she came. 


Like a gigantic, vile cloud of smog and poodle hairs, she descended on our peaceful existence and began to construct her evil lair about 100 feet away from our dear little homestead.  My mother and I could only sit and watch with horror as our benevolent backyard scene was turned into a horrifying nightmare.


At the end of the summer the shack was done. 


It was shaped like a mushroom. It sat right smack in the middle of my old fantastical fairyland of forest. No more twittering birds or swishing mountain laurels. No more magic. 


And it had big picture windows that faced our house. *Shudders*


Sometimes, as I walk down the stairs in the dim light of the pre-dawn, I look over across the way before I can stop myself. And there she will be, head bent over a steaming mug of tea and something suspicious on the table.


Sometimes, she's not even there. But I can feel her lurking. I know she's somewhere deep within the bowels of her lair, cackling and brewing yellow-spotted salamanders and feline tumors in a boiling cauldron of chicken broth and used tampons whilst picking at her hairy moles.

At least that's the impression that I get. And I can feel this one in my bones.


Frequently, when I chance a glance at her window to make sure she's not spying on me through a scope of a sniper rifle, I lock eyes with her evil white cat sitting on the sill. The heinous thing just stares at me with malevolent intent burning deep within its dark, soulless eyes.


Then there's the hellhound that lives outside the house. When the Sentinel doesn't have her young, attractive male slaves running around the exterior of the house raking up her leaves and doing her cougarish bidding, that demon dog is out on the watch. It barks at me when I walk down the street to get to the bus stop. I know it would love to eat my pretty little face right off if only it wasn't tied to a tree with a heavy steel chain.


With the known dangers of living in such close quarters with a witch, there also comes the unknown. Does my neck hurt because she was whacking my voodoo doll with a soup ladle last night? Did my cat really get eaten by a coyote or was he barbecued alive in her basement? Can she see me picking my nose in my underwear if I sit on the couch right here? 


There's a distinct possibility that she picks through our trash. Or maybe it's just raccoons.