“Don’t go into the woods after dark.”
If you live in Ramsey, these were some of the first words your parents taught you, right after Mommy, Daddy, and your own name. It’s a warning so woven into the fabric of the town that it might as well be added to the Ten Commandments plaque in City Hall. A piece of advice the elderly have imparted to the town’s youth ad infinitum, because they were young once too, and they’ve seen firsthand what happens when people ignore the warning.
Bob Stovert knows the cost all too well. Had his older brother heeded the warning, Bob wouldn’t be the second-generation owner of Stovert’s Sundries and Pharmacy, a town landmark since 1900. The soda fountain is recently gone, and you can’t buy patent medicines anymore, but the gumballs still only cost a nickel and the meat and produce are all grown local. The family business was supposed to go to Bob’s older brother, Bill Junior, the firstborn Stovert and Bill Senior’s pride and joy. Everyone who knew him said Bill Junior was destined for great things. Even at that young age, you could see it. Perfect teeth, broad shoulders, strong jaw. He had the look, you know?
Bill Junior was a freshman when he went into the woods on a dare. The next day, all that remained of him were ribbons of skin intertwined with lengths of intestines strung along his family’s fence. His ribs were driven into the ground in the shape of a quarter-moon, his neck and head impaled on a fencepost within the arc, tongue lolling over his jagged jaw in an expression of perpetual surprise.
They never did find his teeth.
Ramsey sits deep in Appalachia and minds its own business. It’s the type of town people move from, not to. Considering its history, though, it’s surprising how many more people stay than leave. Maybe they’re bound to the land by their shared sacrifice, a familial connection born of blood and bone. Since its founding in the early 1800s, the people of Ramsey have buried their victims, but never their warning. That’s why “Don’t go into the woods after dark” are the first words out of Bob’s mouth to anyone who enters his store, and the last thing he says when they leave. The younger children all listen. Most of the older ones, too.
But not all of them.
Because I know Jenny is going into the woods soon.
Last week, Theresa Erwin, Ramsey’s lone librarian, told Jenny about what happened to her best friend Maryanne when they were in ninth grade. Theresa and Maryanne were inseparable growing up and co-captains of the freshmen cheerleading squad. The official story was that Maryanne had gone into the woods to make out with a boy after a football game. Theresa knows this is a lie, though. There was never any boy. It was just something Maryanne’s parents told people to cover up the truth.
Theresa knows it’s a lie because she was supposed to meet Maryanne under the bleachers that night. But she was running a few minutes late—she always did in those days. She doesn’t know why Maryanne went into the woods alone. Why she didn’t wait for her.
The sheriff hadn’t bothered looking for Maryanne until the next morning, when he found her remains strewn along old Bixby Road. Her breasts and uterus had been removed and placed atop her pompoms beneath one of the oversized NO TRESPASSING signs he’d hung up every twenty yards on the edge of the forest after Bill Junior’s death.
It wasn’t hard for the powers that be to keep Maryanne’s story out of the news, just as they’d always done. Like I said, Ramsey keeps to itself. Maryanne’s parents buried the truth deeper than they buried their only child. They’d rather have people think their daughter was a stupid slut than admit she liked girls.
Theresa doesn’t want this to happen to girls like Jenny. That’s why she shares Maryanne’s story, leaving out her part, of course. Why she places a slip of paper in every book checked out of the library warning people not to go into the woods after dark.
And why she’s never, ever late to anything.
Jenny is convinced Theresa and Bob are both lying. She told me so the first night we met at the edge of the woods. She says there’s no way their stories could be true. After all, there’s no official record of anything ever happening. Not in the police files or newspaper clippings at the library. Just old wives’ tales, she says, meant to keep the kids in line.
When she asks what I think, I bite my tongue. The blood is warm and sweet.
Last night, Jenny told me a new story she heard from her grandmother about Jerry, the town drunk. Yes, Ramsey really has a town drunk.
At least it did, before Jerry disappeared into the woods many years ago.
Orville McPherson, who still runs Ramsey’s lone gas station and service garage, was the last person to see Jerry alive. Orville told the sheriff he saw Jerry go into the woods, but the only person he told about what came out of the woods was Jenny’s grandmother.
According to Orville, Jerry was drunker than three skunks the night he died. And he had good reason to be. Earlier that week, the mayor’s son had run over Jerry’s dog. Jerry said it wasn’t an accident, either. That, he could’ve forgiven. No, he said the kid swerved to hit Smokey and didn’t even slow down afterward. Told that to the sheriff, too. Of course, knowing which side his bread was buttered on, the sheriff told Jerry there was nothing he could do. Said it was Jerry’s word against the mayor’s son, and since he knew Jerry was probably hammered when it happened, it wasn’t worth the headache.
Orville, however, swore Jerry wasn’t drunk that day. Said he’d been sober for nearly a week on the day his dog was killed. Orville knew this because he let Jerry sleep behind the station most nights. Orville used to be a heavy drinker too, so he tried to help when he could.
But after that day, Jerry’s drinking got worse than ever. Orville was working on a new Studebaker the night Jerry went into the woods. He’d just popped the hood when Jerry stumbled into the garage, reeking of rye whisky and threatening a trip to the mayor’s house to get a little payback for Smokey. Orville tried to talk him out of it, of course, but that kind of hurt you can’t reason with. When Orville went outside to fill a customer’s tank, Jerry made his move. Made it a hundred yards down the road before Orville noticed he was gone. Orville immediately took off after him. Jerry panicked and ran into the woods. By the time Orville reached the spot where Jerry had left the road, the screaming had stopped. Even the crickets and peepers were still.
Orville stood there, frozen under the full moon. He heard something rushing toward him through the brush. It was Jerry, naked and bleeding from head to foot. His flayed skin hung in strips from his torso, and his eyes were gone. He blindly reached for Orville, who grabbed him but pulled back in revulsion when his fingers touched bone. Something had completely stripped the flesh from Jerry’s hand. A tentacle slithered out from the woods, wrapped around Jerry’s neck, and pulled him back into the dark.
Jenny wants to believe her grandmother. But she wants to prove her wrong even more. She wants to prove all of them wrong. Needs to. I don’t know why it’s so important to her. But she’s at that age when everything is a cause, and nobody can tell her otherwise.
I get it. I was that age once. A long, long time ago. Long before the townsfolk started warning people about monsters in the woods. Long before the town was even here, if I’m being honest. I didn’t tell Jenny that part. I want her to come into the woods with me. And she will, soon. I can feel it. It’s hard to contain my excitement. I haven’t told her everything, but I haven’t lied to her either.
Unfortunately for her, neither has anyone else.