The Baba Hut

The Horrible Old Shack In Pocket Hollow

  I grew up on a farm in a place called Pocket Hollow, on the banks of the White River. That's due west of Deadman Hollow and Greasy Hollow. My family moved to that farm in the spring of 1962. By summer's end my dogs and I had roamed the whole farm and as much of the surrounding woodland as was possible to reach and still get home in time for supper. I had two dogs, Bandit, a black and white rat terrier, and Tramp, a light brown fox terrier. They went everywhere with me that summer, as stalwart companions as any young boy could hope for.         
  There was this one hill that lay just beyond the gulch where we usually stopped and turned back toward the house whenever we roamed out that way. That hill always called to me, somehow, but the dogs would always start barking and growling if I stared too long in that direction. They did not want me going up there. In the fall, school started, and I only had time for exploring on Saturdays. So it was about mid October before I found the old shack.
  The dogs weren't with me that day, since my Dad took them into town with him. After trekking alone all morning I found myself at the edge of the gulch, staring up at the lonely hill. The call was strong, to go in deeper, probably owing to the full moon. The dogs weren't there to stop me this time, and I was sure that I could find my home, even if I wound up staying out past dark. So through the gorge and into the thicket I blazed my trail, then on up the thickly wooded hillside.  As I pushed through the brush, following only that strange call, I eventually stumbled into a small clearing. The sky above could barely be seen because the treetop branches were growing so close together, but there was just enough light to see the shape of the old shack. It was small, like an outhouse or toolshed, and the wood was strange and dark. It had only one door. It leaned a bit, and I could tell that the dimensions of it's sides didn't quite match up. A small boulder had been placed in front of the door, as though discouraging entry, or maybe to keep something inside. After a few minutes of looking it over, I discovered an odd symbol carved into the door. It was a shape consisting of intersecting lines and curves. I thought it might be a letter in some foreign language, or a pictogram of some kind. It was mystifying, and the mystery pulled at my young imagination irresistibly.  Standing atop the boulder, I placed my hand on the wood of the door and traced the symbol with my fingers. It felt somewhat slimy, as though it had been wet recently, although it hadn't rained in a week. I could smell the distinct, musty aroma of fungus. Suddenly, a green glow started to shine out from the cracks in the wood, and my fingers detected a faint vibration. Then I heard the wailing. It started faintly, but soon grew to a much louder volume, as a full throated cry of anguish. The loneliness in that wail almost broke my heart. It still haunts my nightmares. I had to get away. Covering my ears with my hands, I made my way back down the hill as quickly as I could. When I reached open ground on the other side of the gulch, I broke into a run and sprinted as far as I could before jogging the rest of the way home. It was easy to find the way, since I could hear my dogs barking from the moment I left the hill, and just followed the sound.
  The next day, the cows had stopped giving milk. My Daddy was cross all day, and our entire household was in a somber mood. When the sun started to go down, and the full moon was visible again, the dogs, who we kept in the house, started to whine and scratch at the door. Daddy let them out. Soon they started barking furiously, and before long we could all hear the wailing of the old shack. Daddy went out and looked around until he figured out the direction that the noise was coming from. Then he came back inside and fetched his shotgun and a box of shells. When I saw him headed back out, I knew he was going out to the old shack, and I was filled with dread. I felt deep in my gut that if he went out there something terrible would happen to him. I grabbed his arm and begged him not to go, and he stared at me as though I had lost my mind. I had to tell him the whole story. He took it all in, then went out to the porch. He sat facing the hill all night, and in the morning he called some men to help him tear down the shack. They burned the wood right there on the hill, hoping that would put an end to the disturbances. For a time, it seemed to have worked. We never heard the wailing again, but that part of the woods grew strange. There were large, hideous toadstools growing all over the hill now. Sometimes I could see shapes of strange creatures moving in the dark. I think, somehow, that horrible old shack has survived in some form, and is haunting the hollows. That's why I never go any further in than my own fence line, now.