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priestessofspiders · 2 months

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Old Man Stickbones

I grew up in a small town called Pinewood Grove. It’s a tiny little community, its population couldn’t have exceeded more than a couple thousand souls at the most, and it’s surrounded on all sides by untold miles of dense forest. I remember it as a beautiful place, with trees as far as the eye could see, a veritable sea of greenery stretching out to the horizon. The air was cleaner there than it is in the city, and the sun seemed the shine brighter in the clear blue sky. But something has forever tainted that town for me, and I fear that until I die I shall be unable to look back upon my otherwise pleasant childhood without feeling a twinge of horror at the tragedy which ended my time living there.

I was always something of a tomboy as a child, feeling more comfortable playing outside with the boys than spending time with the other girls on the awkward playdates my somewhat anxious mother tried to set up for me. It’s really rather silly looking back on it now, how worried she was that I wasn’t going to get a “normal” childhood, but times were different back then. I had much more fun coming home with torn jeans and dirty hands anyway.

I was lucky enough to have many friends, but chief among them were a pair of boys by the names of Myles and Antonio. We first met by a creek in the woods where we had both been hoping to catch crayfish, and from that day forward we were practically inseparable. Despite the long stretch of years, I can still remember them both quite clearly, though I admit that perhaps this is only because of the terrible thing which occurred at the end of our friendship.

Myles was short and blond, with a freckle covered face that I sometimes (perhaps cruelly) joked looked as though it were covered in mosquito bites. In my defense, given how much time we spent near streams and creeks, it very often was. He fancied himself something of an explorer, and I swear that the khaki safari hat he wore may as well have been permanently glued to his head. He never went anywhere without a Swiss army knife and a compass that had been given to him by his grandfather. I must say I was somewhat jealous of the compass, it was quite the fancy piece of kit, perhaps some military surplus, with a shiny metal lid. He took great joy in closing it one handed with a satisfying snap. He often referred to our little woodland excursions as “expeditions”, and sometimes would put on a faux British accent and pretend to twirl a nonexistent mustache in imitation of the two fisted heroes from the pulp adventure novels he read.

Antonio was a bit taller than Myles, with slightly messy black hair and big round spectacles that led Myles to often refer to him as “the professor”. He seemed to take on the moniker with pride, and carried around a pocket guide to insects and arachnids which he used to identify the various creepy crawlies we found during our sylvan ramblings. He would note them down by their scientific names in a little journal, with surprisingly well-drawn sketches alongside them. I wonder if he ever became an entomologist when he grew up, or perhaps an illustrator. He always seemed a little bit shyer than Myles, but in retrospect I think it’s possible he may have just had a crush on me, something that I would have been utterly oblivious to at the time. I was young, and didn’t have time to think about romance, all that existed to me was the forest, my friends, and long summer days that felt as though they would last forever.

We’d often come up with little objectives for our excursions, and Myles would write them down in a small leather bound notebook he carried in his fanny pack. This would range from simple things like “follow the creek till the end” to elaborate fantasies such as “search for the forgotten temple of the forest gods”. We rarely ever actually achieved any of these goals, but it added to the immersion of being globetrotting adventurers, so we played into it. Out of all of the missions we found ourselves embarking upon, however, the one we most frequently repeated was searching as deep in the woods as we could for a very particular cabin.

You see, there was something of a legend in Pinewood Grove, one passed on for as long as anyone could remember, perhaps from the very founding of the town itself. I heard it from my uncle, Antonio from his grandmother, and Myles was told it by his father. The details changed from telling to telling, but the core of the story always stayed the same. They say that deep, deep in the woods, past any sign of civilization, there lives a very old man. Ancient, in fact, older than the forest itself, from when the world was young and nothing was quite finished yet. They say that when he was born, people didn’t yet know how to die, and in all his long years of existence, he still hasn’t managed to figure it out. He could age though, and the cruel years have warped his body almost beyond recognizability as anything that could have once been considered human. In his impossible decrepitude, every movement makes his joints creak and crack with a sound like branches snapping in half. He lives alone, making strange little shapes out of tied together sticks which he litters near his cabin as a warning to keep away. Antonio told me his grandmother actually showed him one of these objects, a strange little figure, like a doll made by someone who didn’t quite understand what humans were supposed to look like, held together with sinew and bits of hair. He said that just looking at it felt wrong.

Nobody knows the old man’s real name, if he ever had one to begin with, but his creaking joints and gaunt, aged figure have earned him a number of nicknames. The Snapstick Man. Old Stickbug. Grandfather Brittleback.

To me though, he will always be Old Man Stickbones. That’s what Myles, Antonio, and I always called him. We joked sometimes about finding the old man and bringing him back to civilization, putting him on display as the 8th wonder of the world and charging admission to see him at 5 dollars a peek. It wasn’t serious of course. I don’t think we actually believed in Old Man Stickbones, but it was a good enough excuse to pass the time in each other’s company, and frankly the story had an air of authentic woodsy horror about it which made the morbid parts of our imagination run wild with delight.

I remember once that the three of us were having a sleepover at Myles’ house, and I managed to sneak away while the others were watching some scary movie that we were all too young for. I hid just outside the light of the television set and began snapping in half some sticks that I’d smuggled in my jacket pockets. It took only a couple snaps before Antonio and Myles paused the movie and started looking around with absolute terror in their eyes. When I jumped out and yelled “Boo”, I swear to God I thought the two of them were going to wet themselves. Antonio actually started to cry, which made me feel a little bad.

There’s no point in beating around the bush any further. As pleasant as it is to remember those bygone days of my youth, all of my recollections invariably end with the same, terrible memory. Perhaps putting it down in words will provide me with some sort of closure. One can only hope.

It was nearing the end of the summer break, and the three of us knew that fairly soon our woodland romps would be once again limited to weekends and the occasional holiday. So, we decided to try and go deeper into the woods than we had ever gone before. “Right up to Old Man Stickbones’ front door!” as Myles put it, something which made Antonio seem slightly nervous. We left earlier than usual, choosing to head off in the late morning rather than the early afternoon, and made sure to bring enough snacks (or “rations” as Myles insisted upon calling them) to last us till the evening.

I don’t remember exactly which route we were taking, but it was somewhat meandering. Myles had the compass so he was the one who led the way. Antonio and I, as always, followed behind, though frankly with our longer legs it was sometimes a tad bit annoying to deal with Myles’ slower pace. Antonio frequently found himself accidentally kicking the back of Myles’ shoes before sheepishly apologizing. This had always been the case, and usually nothing worse came of it than an annoyed comment, but this time, Antonio’s accidental treading of Myles’ heel caused our fearless leader to trip on an exposed tree root, falling to the ground in a heap.

It feels awful in retrospect, but I did laugh. Myles had been in the middle of singing a marching tune, and the song was cut off with a sudden “Aurgh!” followed by a clattering of metal which was frankly comical.

What was less comical was the realization that the loud clattering sound was that of poor Myles’ compass, the one given to him by his grandfather, being dashed to pieces on a protruding rock as it fell.

Though largely unhurt, Myles’ bravado had been deflated once he realized what had happened, and he was beginning to sniffle a bit. I’ve always felt awkward comforting my friends as they cry. I never know quite what to say. Myles adored that compass, and I felt genuinely terrible for laughing when it broke. Antonio apologized profusely, and in a display of maturity that was frankly uncommon for someone of such a young age, Myles told him it was alright, and that he knew Antonio didn’t mean any harm.

“It’s my fault,” he said, “I know I should’ve been in the back of the group, I’m the slowest. I just like being the leader is all.”

We helped Myles up to his feet and gathered up the broken remnants of the compass. I tried to reassure him that we could maybe get it fixed when we got back to town, and that did seem to cheer Myles up a bit. We realized that it was starting to get a little late in the day for exploring anyway, and that we should probably turn around. It was then that Antonio remarked “Um, sorry, but… which way did we come from?”

It was with dawning horror that we realized we had no idea which direction was the way back to Pinewood Grove. We had been relying on Myles and his compass to get back home, and frankly none of us properly had any real sense of direction. For a moment we all stood in silence, trying desperately to think of some way to navigate. We knew that we had headed South initially, and so we needed to find out which way was North in order to reach town.

“We could use the setting sun to figure out which direction to go, maybe?” suggested Antonio.

“That’s a great idea,” I agreed, “it rises in the East and sets in the West, right?”

“No no, it’s the other way around,” insisted Myles, “that’s why they call Japan ‘the land of the setting sun.’”

“I thought it was the ‘land of the rising sun,'” said Antonio, sounding a little unsure of himself.

The discussion went round and round in circles for what must have been at least half an hour, Myles and I arguing over which way the sun rose and set. Antonio, meanwhile, kept switching sides anxiously, desperate just for someone to decide upon something we could use to get home. In the end, we were so worried about getting back before dark that we just decided to set off in a random direction that we all hoped was North and prayed that we could find some recognizable landmarks.

We had successfully managed at least one thing; we had gone deeper into the forest than ever before. As the light grew dimmer, I’m certain that each of us felt that the surrounding woods were becoming less and less recognizable, but none of us said anything. I think we were all secretly hoping that the others knew where they were going.

The trees were taller, the foliage thicker, and the air seemed almost imperceptibly fouler, like the stale smell you get from opening a long-closed cupboard, but tinged with the musty scent of soil and damp leaves. As the minutes turned to hours, eventually it grew so dark that we had to pull out the flashlights we had brought with us in our backpacks, just in case of emergencies. I didn’t know how long the batteries would last, so I insisted upon keeping mine in reserve, letting the boys use theirs for the time being.

It was Antonio who spotted the first one. He had stopped marching and was simply staring upwards at one of the trees, flashlight shining high up at an angle. His mouth was open slightly, and he was trembling.

“What is it?” I asked, looking up at where the beam pointed. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary at first, even with the flashlight, as it was difficult to see well in the dark. Antonio pointed with one shaking hand, and I looked closer, squinting slightly. When I saw what he was staring at, I immediately understood why Antonio was afraid.

Dangling from a string of some sort, suspended in the air, was a strange bundle of sticks. It was arranged in some sort of star-like pattern, but with too many points, maybe seven or eight in total. It was small, and blended in well among the leaves, so it wasn’t particularly surprising that I hadn’t been able to see it at first. Frankly it was a miracle that Antonio had.

“Guys, c’mon!” shouted Myles from up ahead. He hadn’t stopped his march while Antonio and I were looking at the strange star.

“Should we, y’know, tell him?” asked Antonio, voice quavering.

“No, it’s probably just, I dunno, some guy doing a prank or something. Trying to scare people. If anything it probably means we’re closer to town,” I said. Antonio nodded, and we hurried to follow Myles, shouting for him to wait up.

As time went on, both Antonio and I began to notice more and more of the strange shapes crafted from sticks hanging from the trees. They came in a wide variety of shapes and sizes; vaguely humanoid outlines, triangles, crosses, stars, jagged spirals, and even stranger designs which we couldn’t quite find the words for, but made us uncomfortable to look at nonetheless. If Myles noticed them, he didn’t show any sign of it. He simply kept marching on, tired and upset to the extent to which he no longer was paying any attention to his surroundings.

Every so often Antonio would get an odd look and slow his pace for a second or two, looking about nervously. After he had done so four or five times, I asked him in a whisper what he was doing.

“Listening,” he said in reply, “I keep thinking I hear something, like, well…” his voice shrunk to a low mutter, “like sticks snapping.”

I was about to try and come up with some sort of rational explanation when we heard Myles call us from up ahead. We hurried towards him and quickly saw what had gotten his attention. Myles was pointing towards a distant light shining through the trees. It was admittedly quite faint, but decidedly a sign of civilization. We could also smell the faint scent of something burning.

“A campfire maybe?” I asked.

“It’s gotta be”, said Myles, picking up the pace as he headed towards the light. Antonio and I followed, but there was a hesitance to our movements. With every step I took, I began to get increasingly uncomfortable, and I could tell that Antonio felt the same.

After a few minutes we were greeted with the source of the light. It was a rough cabin, built from logs and crudely mortared stone, with a faint wisp of smoke emanating out from its chimney. Despite its relatively simple construction, it seemed quite large, at least the size of a typical suburban home. It seemed oddly crooked, all the angles subtly off, like something out of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Its windows were made from cloudy, cracked glass, very roughly set high in the walls of the building with some sort of rudimentary cement. From behind the translucent glass there came the warm glow of a fire.

“Let’s knock on the door and see if whoever lives here can point us back to Pinewood Grove,” said Myles excitedly.

“I uh, don’t think that’s a good idea Myles,” Antonio whispered, starting to take steps back away from the cabin.

“What are you talking about? This could be our best bet to get out of the forest! Do you want to get eaten by a bear or something? Besides maybe they’ve got a telephone. I’m sure our parents are all worried about us by now, they’ve probably called the police,” replied Myles, a hint of frustration in his voice.

“I think Antonio has a point, Myles, I mean, doesn’t this all seem a little… I don’t know, creepy?” I said, trying to choose my words carefully.

Myles stared at me bleary eyed like I just told him I was from the planet Mars.

“Myles, we didn’t tell you because, y’know, you already seemed kind of upset, but…” Antonio trailed off.

“We’ve been seeing these weird stick sculptures, in the trees. We thought maybe it was someone doing a prank, y’know? But, c’mon, look at this place. Don’t you think it kind of looks like-” I started to say, before Myles cut me off.

“Are you seriously trying to tell me you want to stay out here, in the dark, alone in the woods, because you’re scared of Old Man Stickbones? Come on.” Myles huffed, rolling his eyes.

Antonio and I looked down at the ground, embarrassed a little bit by Myles’ tone. We knew it sounded stupid, being afraid of a campfire story like that, but it didn’t make us any less afraid. Our silence started to make Myles angry.

“Are you serious? Are you both babies? There’s no such thing as Old Man Stickbones, he’s made up, he’s a fairy tale! Are you gonna tell me you believe in Santa Claus next? It’s just a stupid game. Did you think that when we went looking for secret treasure last week that there was actually hidden gold out here too?” Myles was starting to yell, getting angrier and angrier. I understood we were all tired, stressed, and afraid, but I’d never seen him act like this before, and frankly I was starting to get pissed off.

“We wouldn’t even be out here if you didn’t drop your stupid compass,” I muttered, mostly to myself, but just loud enough that Myles could hear.

“Well maybe I wouldn’t have dropped it if this moron,” Myles said, pointing an accusing finger at Antonio, “could watch here he was going! Or maybe, y’know, if you’d just agreed with me about which direction the freaking sun sets.”

Antonio looked like he was about to cry, and my hands tightened into fists. It was then that I said something I will forever regret.

“Well Myles, if you’re so brave, why don’t you go knock on that creepy cabin door yourself.”

To this day, I still cannot forgive myself. I shouldn’t have said it. I don’t know what else I should have said, what I could have done to prevent what happened, but I can’t help but blame myself. I told him to go knock on the door, it’s my fault.

Myles grew slightly pale, and I could tell he was afraid. But he didn’t say anything. He just turned around and started marching towards the front of the cabin. I stood there, watching him go, while Antonio tried to whisper for him to come back, that I didn’t mean it.

Within a few moments, Myles stood before the wooden door of that strange cabin, trembling slightly. I hadn’t been able to tell from a distance earlier, but now with Myles standing next to it the door seemed huge in comparison to his short stature. It was easily 8 or 9 feet tall, and looked heavy. He looked over to us for reassurance, and Antonio kept shaking his head, trying to get him to come back. I just stared. I wish I had done something, but God help me, I just stared.

Myles turned back to the door and raised a shaking fist, before rapping his knuckles against the wood three times.

Knock.

Everything went quiet. All the faint sounds of chirping crickets, hooting owls, and rustling leaves seemed to die in an instant. For a few seconds, all was terribly, impossibly silent. Then I heard it.

It was a loud, harsh, crack. First just one, as though a single branch being snapped off a dead tree. Then another, and another, a cacophony of cracks as though of a thousand arthritic joints being popped. Myles seemed paralyzed with fear, and Antonio and I gasped as we saw strange shadows move with stuttering, stop-and-start motions behind the clouded glass of the cabin’s high windows. Then the door began to creak open, the hinges rusty and loud. From our vantage point, we couldn’t see inside, we could just see the light from within illuminate Myles when the door was fully ajar.

Myles’ jaw dropped open in horror as he inhaled, preparing to cry out in abject terror at whatever it was he saw inside the cabin. But he didn’t have time to scream before a gaunt, pallid limb reached out from inside, grabbing him by the waist with fingers as thick as broomsticks and pulling him into the cabin, the door slamming shut in an instant.

Antonio and I both ran, screaming and crying as we fled through the woods at top speed. He dropped his flashlight at some point and we both kept tripping through the dark, I was too afraid to stop to pull my own out of my backpack. We couldn’t be sure that the sounds of crunching underfoot came from fallen leaves or the creaking joints of a monstrous pursuer.

Eventually we both collapsed, unable to flee any more with our burning muscles and countless bruises from stumbling about in the dark. As we sat, catching our breath, I could hear the distant sound of cars. We were near the highway. Finally pulling out my flashlight, I led the still crying Antonio by the hand, following the sounds of the automobiles.

Antonio and I made it back alright, mostly unharmed aside from the bruising and shock. Myles had been right; our parents did call the police, and we had to give our statements as to what happened to some rather skeptical officers when we got back to my house before he was allowed to go home and I was able to go to bed. Of course they didn’t believe us, why on Earth would they? They figured we were too scared to properly remember what had really happened, and that maybe some animal or homeless person had frightened us. They sent out search parties the following day.

They didn’t find Myles, nor did they find the cabin that Antonio and I described. Myles’ parents blamed us of course, and accused us of taking their son out into the woods to murder him. Antonio’s family moved away not long after in the wake of Myles’ disappearance, and when school started up again I became a subject of ostracization and bullying, which frankly I felt that I deserved. I blamed myself, and still do, for what happened to poor Myles.

Nevertheless, I tried to persevere, and despite the alternating shunning and taunting from my classmates and teachers alike, I stuck around in Pinewood Grove for about a month after my final expedition into the woods. The straw that broke the camel’s back, however, was the object that was left on the front porch of Myles’ parents’ house. After that, my parents became so concerned for our safety at the hands of small town “vigilante justice” that they decided it would be best to move away.

You see, one morning Myles’ father was getting ready to go to work, when he almost tripped upon something left right at the front door. It was roughly pyramidal in structure, with three sides leading up to a point at the top, constructed from sticks and twigs, tied together with leather cords. There was a little gap, a window of sorts, cut into one of the sides. Dangling in the center, strung up with some knotted hair, was Myles’ broken compass.

Forensic analysis revealed that the leather and hair used in the construction of this object was human tissue.