Scary Stories

Scary Stories

Written by Ron Ripley

Edited by Kathryn St. John-Shin and Michelle Reeves

Copyright © 2020 by ScareStreet.com

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Enter the Realm of Terror…

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Table of Contents

Walking

The Bridge

Squatting

Maker’s Hill

The First Bad Thing

Voices from Beyond…

Walking

Keith Bowen walked from railroad tie to railroad tie, his boots making a soft ‘thunk’ with every step. His pace was steady, his stride confident, and Keith enjoyed the warmth of the fall sun on his face. He could smell the crisp scent of snow in the air, and he knew that when he made camp for the evening he would need to pull the extra blanket out of his hiking pack.

A glance at the sky told Keith he had another hour, maybe an hour and a half before he would have to find a safe place. Somewhere protected from the wind, and near a source of water. He had been sick on the trail before, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. Especially with the threat of dehydration looming over his head.

He chuckled at the memory and absently adjusted his right shoulder strap. It was developing an annoying habit of cutting into his shoulder the longer he wore it.

I’ll have to take a look at it tonight, he decided. Don’t want to have it prove to be a real pain and start cutting off circulation.

Keith had repaired the strap before, and he knew he might have to jerry-rig something to get it to last until he reached a town.

What is the next town? he wondered. A memory flashed in front of his eyes where he saw the hiking map unfolded. His path, following one of the many defunct railroad lines further into New Hampshire, was clearly marked in red Sharpie. The line trailed up, and the first name he saw in his recollection was Anger. It was a small town, not notable for anything other than being a town named Anger.

And who the hell decided that was a good idea? he thought, shaking his head.

Ah well, none of my business, Keith reminded himself. I just need to make sure I can get in and out of the town quickly.

Keith disliked being around other people any more than he had to. He had worked hard early in life to free himself of the burden of others and their money. With his funds secured in various financial institutions, and no bills to pay, Keith was free to wander and avoid the company of other human beings.

Two of his favorite activities.

Reading was a third, and he knew that he could find something to read in whatever town he might stop in. There was always a thrift store or a church, a public library or a convenience store. If things ever got bad and he finished a book, Keith kept a copy of Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flat in his backpack. He never tired of reading that particular book.

He smiled at the thought of the story and lost himself in the memories it provided. Soon, the sun was lower than he had thought it would be, and he began to glance at the forest on either side of the tracks. His eyes sought out signs of a trail, and soon enough he spotted one. It ran off to the right, and he stepped down from the tracks. He followed it easily, and soon the thin trail widened, passed through a small glade, and then Keith heard the sweet whisper of a brook.

Grinning, he followed the curve of the trail and stepped into a small clearing. Soft sand appeared and lead the way to the edges of the brook, the water running clear and smooth over sand and rocks and forest debris. To one side was a large pine tree, its roots bare and exposed to the sun. The tree was large enough for him to put his small one-man tent up against, anchoring it should a sudden storm come in.

Keith looked around and saw small animal tracks. Mostly squirrels and rabbits. He spotted the scat of a deer and what looked to be the wide paw of a wildcat. The last sign made him wary. Cats weren’t usually aggressive, but they were every bit as curious as their domesticated cousins.

While he knew the basics of first aid, Keith had no desire to perform emergency stitching on himself. Or amputation, he added.

He shrugged off his knapsack, squatted down and took out his tent. With easy motions born from long practice, Keith pitched his tent against the pine, securing the pegs and the guy lines. When he finished, Keith spent almost an hour gathering deadfall and stacking it close to the tent. He dug a firepit, lined it with smooth rocks from the brook, and soon had a pleasant fire burning. The flames kept back the darkness and sent waves of warmth rolling towards him. Keith set a pot of water to boil and undid the laces on his boots. The knapsack he placed in the tent, and soon enough he would join it.

When the water boiled, he added a soup mix and took out a package of natural beef jerky. He chewed it contemplatively, and occasionally took a sip of the soup to help moisten any meat which was too tough. By the time the sun had set and the moon had begun its ascent, Keith had finished his dinner and was drinking a cup of tea. His boots were in the tent and his feet were stretched out toward the fire. He felt good as he took out his battered copy of Tortilla Flat and flipped it open to the beginning.

Keith had a Tom Clancy book in the knapsack, but he did not feel as though he had the wherewithal to read a completely new work. Especially not one by Clancy, whose works were so focused and technical.

Need a little more brainpower to do that,