(Illustration by: Ian Cleary)
The Daily Mississippian held a scary story contest for the month of October. See second and third place runner ups.
A cool wind blew through the trees, making the crackling fall leaves skitter across the dust and rocks. Windswept branches flung in the breeze, and the sun was setting in the October sky. A man and a boy walked toward the horizon, the man striding wearily along with the boy skipping at his side. As he hopped along, the boy jabbed at leaves with the end of a branch, collecting leaf after leaf on the end of the thin stick.
“Dad, tell me a story?” asked the boy with the curiosity and wonder so many children have.
The man glanced at the boy. Seeing the sparkle in his son’s eye, the man got a spark in his own. Smiling, he turned his gaze toward the horizon again.
“Alright. I’ll tell you about the day the sky people came. It’s a story my Pa used to tell me when I was small, like you.”
The boy’s eyes widened.
“One day, a long, long time ago, some people from the sky visited a little village. They came here in a great, big metal box. There were so many of them. They came with a message of peace. The sky people were much smarter than the village folk, with gadgets and gizmos far better than their own. The village folk were shocked that the sky people would pick them, out of so many other places to visit. They were kind, and a great period of peace calmed the village. There was much healing to be done, as the people of the village were still picking up the pieces after a big war with several other villages.”
The boy’s gaze fell on his father’s face as the father furrowed his brow.
“Then one day, the villagers became greedy. They took the knowledge given to them by the sky people, and they themselves yearned to take to the skies. The sky people told them that, whatever they did, they could not go to the place in the sky. If they tried to, the sky people would take their gadgets and go home,” explained the man.
“Why didn’t they want the people to leave the village?” asked the boy, eyes set on the clouds in the distance.
“Because, my boy, the people from the village were small in mind and savage in nature. Wherever they went, sadness and destruction followed,” explained the man.
He went on.
“The people of the village grew impatient. One day, the village leader, with many of his strongest warriors, stormed the metal box and began to hurt the sky people, one by one. If the people from the sky would not give them the gift of flight, then the village folk would take it instead.”
The man began to look worried. He glanced at his wrist, upon which sat an old timepiece that hadn’t worked in years. Even though the watch didn’t work, he did this out of habit in times of stress. His eyes focused on the horizon as his pace quickened.
“Dad, slow down!” cried the boy, “Aren’t you going to finish the story?”
The man continued.
“The village people rooted out every one of the sky people, until there were none left. But, before the sky people perished at the hands of the village folk, they sent a message to their home in the skies. Soon after, fire rained from the sky and burned the village. Many of the villagers died, but some went into hiding deep underground. When they came back to the surface, long after the fire stopped falling, there was hardly anything left.”
The boy looked anxious.
“Dad, are the sky people ever coming back?”
The sun was flush with the horizon at this point. The man further quickened his steps.
“It’s just a story, my boy,” said the man, “there’s nothing to worry about.”
The boy strode along with his father into the dusk, still stabbing at leaves. All of sudden, he stopped walking when he brought the stick to his face and saw he had poked something that was not a leaf.
“Dad! Look what I found!” exclaimed the boy. He pulled the faded green and gray piece of paper from the end of the stick and held it up to his father.
(Illustration by: Ian Cleary)
“What is it?” asked the boy.
The man took the green rectangle from the boy’s hand, turning it over in his own. He could only make out the letters “God we trus,” as the rest had been lost to the sands of time and the harsh elements.
“Huh, I’ll be. I haven’t seen one of these since I was a boy. My old man used to say they were good luck charms.”
He handed the boy back the paper, and the boy stuffed it in his satchel next to some bruised apples. By this point, the sun had gone down and darkness had taken the sky. They continued walking until they crossed the dilapidated beams of an old rail crossing and into a ramshackle red building. The man bent down and shifted a rusted iron plank to his left, revealing a concrete staircase that led into the earth. He produced a lantern from his pack, and ushered the boy into the shelter, replacing the plank after he, too, had climbed into the staircase so nobody— or nothing— could come in after them.
In the sky above, the stars and other things twinkled indifferently.
