“There’s something nasty in the woodshed!”
That’s what we told each other as kids whenever we passed the old house at the edge of town. With its cracked windows and broken frame, it was a vision from a child’s nightmare, but the woodshed was worse; a decrepit lean-to sagging against the back of the house. It had cobwebbed windows, moldy wood and a door that threatened to swing open if ever the wind had enough courage to try. Even if you looked hard, it was impossible to tell if the woodshed was holding the house up, or trying to pull it down.
“No there isn’t,” Billy Pratt argued. He hadn’t heard about the woodshed, so I’d felt it my duty to tell him of its reputation.
“There’s something nasty in the woodshed and anyone who goes in never comes out!” I shouted back.
“I’ll prove it to you,” he’d said smugly before walking around the back of the house.
And that was the last anyone ever saw of him…
That was twenty years ago. Yet, as I stand across the street, the house still looks the same. I can’t see the woodshed from here, but it’s there, I can sense it.
Turning, I see young Billy approach. He stops. He gestures. There’s no-one else there, but I know who he’s talking to. All too soon he walks away.
“There’s something nasty in the woodshed!” I shout.
But he’s already disappeared behind the house.