Good evening, it’s Spooky Boo Rhodes coming to you from the KSND radio station from the lighthouse in Sandcastle, California. Tonight I have for you 2 very weird stories about children that will make you wonder if the children in your neighborhood are up to something weird. Here in Sandcastle, the children are always up to no good. They’re probably up right now past their bedtimes listening to spooky stories.
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Now let’s begin
I Was Born on a Child Farm
“There is no free will.”
Those are the first words I ever read. I woke to them every day for many years. They were written on a sign. The sign was hung above the opposite row of bunks in the Sleeping Barn. I have no memories from before the farm; I assumed I was born there.
None of the children there knew why we were here or where we came from…nobody even knew how long we had been at the farm. Some children aged. Some didn’t. I can’t remember much, but that’s what happens when you are not given too much to remember.
I remember always being deliriously hungry. We would be fed three small meals a day, but before every one Headmaster Ranon Xinon would make us watch him sprinkle a few drops of clear liquid from a label-less brown bottle on the food. Then he would serve behind a steel door and slide out each meal through a window so you never knew if your meal was poisoned. Most of us danced around the edges of their food. Nobody was eager to dive in, not when we had seen a dozen kids turn blue and die in front of us after picking the wrong meal. Several of us rarely ate the food; I NEVER ate from my plate. I would scavenge what little clean scraps there were in the garbage. I ate 4 crows (they are just as disgusting as saying implies), and I would go full Renfield and eat flies, ants, dandelions, cockroaches, clovers, pillbugs…anything living and somewhat edible. I would keep the spiders. I had a special place for those.
The 20 boys and 30 odd girls worked the fields that provided all the food to “the farm”, a crumbling wood compound fenced by tall barbed wire and the surrounding woods. Past that, the wilderness. Even though there wasn’t spotlights or guards, the farm was much more inescapable than a prison.
Every few weeks Headmaster Xinon would take the near 100 of us to the edge of his farm, where he would blow a strange brass whistle; bloodshot German Shepards sprang from the underbrush as if they had been waiting for his call, mouths foaming as they gnashed their teeth on the rusted barbed wire, threatening to break in and chew us alive as the Headmaster coldly smiled and spoke with a voice that sounded like gunshots fired far away:
“They’re old guard dogs gone rabid. I have learned – through one of you – how to train them so they only obey me, and if you run, they will kill you, or make you wish you stayed here with ME.”
The farm never had answers. Very few people came, the rare delivery trucks, a prison bus, a black tinted window Thunderbird that made a powerful turbine roar, as if rocket engines were installed under the hood – and they only dealt with the headmaster. The only person to leave with the driver of the Thunderbird.
There was a rumor that we were not real kids at all, that Headmaster Xinon was a demon who crafted us all from blood and ash. We never dared speak to the Headmaster and asking a question was ludicrous, as a question would mean a touch from his hard, cruel hand, an hand that made the surrounding air a pin-cushion of pain that would sting your skin even if his hand grazed yours.
But above the poisonings, backbreaking labor and cleaning, scavenging for food and never knowing a single day what was going on, we feared the nights worst of all. Being exhausted from working in the fields all day wasn’t enough to overcome the fear to sleep. When it was darkest and the air had fallen still, we would hear the headmaster’s creaking footsteps just…appear in the center of the drafty barn without any kind of warning. Sometimes we would hear him walk on the roof. Up the walls. On the ceiling. I can still hear his breathing if I close my eyes, that sick pig’s wheezing agonized breath that sucked air in and out in a guttural exhaust. The breathing and the footsteps would circle and circle until he heard someone cry. That’s when the taken would give one last cry before they were gone, along with the Headmaster. The missing child would return to their beds in the morning bearing new marks- a glancing finger left a nasty red and purple smear on one’s side, sometimes a black fingertips dotted their bodies. We would never say anything about these marks to anyone; we were always afraid the headmaster would hear, and give us matching marks to boots.
Sometimes he would touch you with his entire palm, leaving a wrinkled imprint as raw and painful as hot iron brand. I had a few marks as well, but I considered myself lucky that I only had a few marks, as far as I could tell.
I was one of 4 boys and 5 girls who cleaned the headmaster’s home, the farmhouse. I cleaned the bathrooms and emptied out the shit cisterns by slop-bucket and rope. I cleaned the bathrooms and eventually I found a few loose ceiling boards above the toilet when I was scrubbing for mildew, standing on the windowsill. They were right above his toliet. I began thinking.
This was my life for what felt like many years- I swore I could have named 25 separate times the frost came, but we had no way to keeping track of time, not even by our ages. I swore sometimes we would see a kid go from looking 13-14 back down to looking half that. Time made no sense at the farm, and I knew that I wasn’t going to get out by waiting. When I had woke one morning to find a searing red hot handprint of headmaster Rannon Xinon on my upper arm, a hazy starvation-induced plan emerged from the fog of my brain.
I went to the “special place” by the cisterns where I had kept every black widow spider I had come across. I kept them behind a false brick on the side of the farmhouse, where I had once collected 8 of them and discovered that black widows were cannibalistic when grouped together. Only the strongest survived. I kept hosting “tournaments” until 108 black widow spiders were reduced to 26 of the most toxic, twitchy and bite-crazy widows you never want to meet. I was bitten only twice, and came very close to an agonizing death both times. I knew one bite wouldn’t do a monster like Xinon in. I was set- I was ready to enact the last stage of my plan when everything changed on a cold day in early December when a helicopter as black as the Thunderbird made a couple of low circles over the farm.
Ranon Xinon went insane. He poisoned half of the meals the day after the helicopter came, and after breakfast, he took us all outside to form a queue outside the chicken slaughterhouse. When he began leading us in 1 by 1, a few joined me and ran. Judging from the screams, he caught most of the runners, but he didn’t catch me. I spent many nights fantasizing about this moment, when I wasn’t listening to his footsteps of sick breathing.
I put the black widows inside an old compartmentalized chocolate box scavenged out of a wood pile, perfect for keeping each one locked away. I went up through the floorboards and hid in the space in the bathroom. The Headmaster may not sleep through this paranoia, but everyone’s gotta go eventually, even monsters. Those cisterns didn’t shit themselves.
It was dark by the time that he arrived with his candle. The sound of him pulling down his trousers and his simultaneous grunt masked the sound of me moving the planks above him aside and pulling the lid off the box of 26 nightmares, showering the headmaster with ravenous, crazed gladiators. My beauties began biting the Headmaster as soon as they landed. The terror of the child farm, the demon named the Ranon Xinon lied curled around his toilet, eyes swelling shut, a mouth locked in a disgusted, surprised outrageous gurgle of horror as spasms racked his whole body. Before his eyes swelled completely shut, he saw my small 7 year old face peering down the hole in the darkness. The missing child. The headmaster began to cackle.
“I knew this could happen. There is no free will. It’s fine. I lived ten thousand years already. I lived YOUR happy summers, wonderful marriages, fruitful successes. Your life was beautiful beyond compare. That’s why I-” he smashed a few spiders scuttling around his face but I could tell he was fading fast. “…You and I are ghosts now” where his last intelligible words before the Headmaster’s breathing stopped.
I hid for 4 hours before carefully making my way to the window; the safest place in the room. The spiders were done and gone.
The chopper returned with a convoy of armed men right before sunrise. I was the only survivor of the farm. The captain of the operation was a man named Clinton Moxley, Chief Field Investigator for the Hermetical Office. He adopted me, and I took his last name. He was the one who named me Howard.
I told my father what little I knew. He corrected me on a few things- the headmaster’s name wasn’t Xinon, it was a man named Clark P. Ganes, an “anomalous individual”. The office he worked tracked the headmaster down here…my father was the one in the Thunderbird.
Elder Moxley had told me about the time the office had captured the Headmaster for study within one of their field labs. The subject grabbed Frank Bernwiest’s wrist, one of the team’s eldest members. They saw Frank’s 79 year old face twist and contort until the winkles disappeared and the flesh had lifted up on his face; in a few seconds of agony, Frank was a middle aged man again.
My father said that he personally stopped the other agents from interacting, as they were gathering film evidence of the unique phenomenon associated with Clark P. Ganes. Frank was known to be a formidable fighter but was helpless to the touch of the Ganes. Every time Ganes’s hand would land on Frank’s bare flesh, Frank would scream, turning more pubescent every second. Clark only let go when Frank was a child again squirming in old man’s clothes.
“He chooses victims who had good lives” my father would explain as he would tuck me in, “His existence is the greatest evidence that Time is a physical dimension, something that exists, and has always existed. He lives YOUR years in just a few seconds. Frank was left with 9 bad years out of 79. You would think being young again is a great, remember that he was left with the mind of a 9 year old, without care of friends or family…you know that pain well, Howard. The office didn’t have the resources to care for Frank…we believe Clark Ganes is responsible for over a hundred thousand homeless children across the world. Frank was just one of them, another human with a used-up timeline…”
I asked the only father I knew why he adopted me. He brought me to the master bathroom’s dual mirrors and told me to take off my shirt.
“Because I owe you. You were an old man once, Howard. You were my mentor and my partner within the office. You went into the farm by yourself to try to shut it down. I had hoped that you would remember… anything about your past, but, I see the Headmaster got to you too…” I looked behind me, using the set of mirrors to see my own back for the first time, and seeing it covered in handprints.
That was many years ago. True to Headmaster’s words, I had been a ghost among the living since then. It’s been hard even sleeping, especially now. For the past few nights, I have heard both the Headmaster’s footsteps and rasping breath next to my old-man bed. My father never said they found the Headmaster’s body. I know he wants his farm back. He wants me back- he wants ALL his children back.
Dog Children
by Umbrello
I’m going to tell you about a town—a town you should never go to. For your protection, I won’t tell you the name or location. But I’ll tell you this: if you ever think you might be in this town, get the hell out of there and don’t look back.
It happened some years ago. I was on my way to visit an uncle I’d never met—meandering around, trying to read a rather confusing map—when I ran out of gas. Stupid, I know, but I can never make heads or tails of those damned things. The dangers of hitchhiking were disconcerting though there wasn’t much choice, so I didn’t bother fussing about it and started up the road.
The midday sun was oppressive. My forehead ached from all the squinting and my clothes were soaking up a gallon of sweat. My tired arm hung lower and lower, as did my hope of hitching a ride. But in the distance came into view a red pickup truck. “Please stop. Please stop,” I repeated, sticking my thumb out as far as it would go. As the truck grew closer, I waved my arms around until it eventually slowed down and stopped in the road.
“That your car back there?” asked the friendly old coot from behind the wheel.
“Yes, sir. Ran out of gas.”
“Hop in. We’ll get you some at the next stop.”
Cappy—what a nice guy he was. He sure liked to talk about his family, but they were entertaining stories. His son was fighting overseas and I could tell his kindness was inspired by the admiration he felt for my generation. Heroes, he called us. You wouldn’t catch me on the front lines though—always been one to shy away from danger. I didn’t tell Cappy that—didn’t want to disappoint him.
After some time, I started to wonder when this town would show up and I expressed my concern that it might be too far away. It didn’t seem to bother Cappy. I guess he had nothing better to do—still never found out where he was headed. The road was getting bumpy, then turned into two brown strips with grass down the middle. I could finally see a town peeking over the wild fields.
Pitiful yet quaint, it was textbook small town America: faded blue houses with white trim, a few brick and mortar businesses with hand-painted signs, town square, big red barn, white chapel on a hill. Cars were parked here and there, some without tires; though I didn’t see any people around. It wasn’t surprising for such a remote hamlet, but what did surprise me was that, despite the barn, I didn’t see any animals.
There was no official fueling station but we found an old garage with a gas pump out front. Cappy kept apologizing for lending his gas can to a neighbor while we searched through the cluttered garage. A rancid odor would come and go, making me sicker each time. “I’d better go find someone,” I said, “and tell them what we’re doing so they don’t think we’re robbing the place.” Really, I just wanted to get away from that smell.
“Look for a gas can in case I don’t find one.”
“Roger that.”
The town seemed deserted but I could hear voices echoing from somewhere, so I followed them. Two children appeared from the tall grass, chasing each other down the road. In the distance was an apple orchard with kids running to and fro, tossing apples at each other—some of them on all fours. As I approached, laughter and playful screams came from all sides. It seemed like normal child behavior, but then I noticed they were all wearing dog masks.
There were a few children sitting at a pint-sized picnic table playing with something that looked like cake—smooshing it in their hands and smearing it on their clothes. I assumed from the cake, the masks, and the occasional party favors that there was a birthday party going on. Trying to seem as nonthreatening as possible, I strolled on over and attempted to question them.
“I’m sure someone baked that cake to be eaten, not played with,” I said, trying to sound like an authoritative parent. The children stopped what they were doing and looked up at me. I got the shivers—the way they all turned their heads at the exact same moment, all wearing those dog masks. And these weren’t cute cartoon dog masks. The attempt at realism lent them a disturbing quality.
“I’m sorry, but could you nice children take off those masks for a minute?” The kids looked at each other, then back at me. I started to feel embarrassed. “So who’s birthday is it?” One of the children made a little yipping noise. “Oh, it’s you?” Another child mimicked the other. “Then it’s you? Hmm? Is it your birthday?” A third child joined in. “Maybe it’s all your birthdays?” They didn’t seem to be listening and continued to imitate puppies.
Finally, I got a little testy. All that walking in the heat had already worn me down, and now these kids were poking at a beehive. “You listen here. What would your parents say if they saw you being so rude? Why don’t you take off those masks and act like children, not dogs.” The kids started to yip louder, then transitioned to woofs, followed by short barks. “Stop that. Where are your parents? I have car trouble and I need an adult right away!” The children didn’t heed my requests and instead threw cake in my face; it tasted horrible. In hindsight, I don’t think it was cake.
“Fine then. But when I find your parents they’re going to hear all about this.” It was like they didn’t even know what I was saying. I turned to leave but all the children that had been frolicking were now standing side by side, blocking my way. Instead of telling them to move, I simply walked to the left in an attempt to go around them. But as I went one way, so did they. And as I went the other way, so did they.
“Cut it out!” I didn’t want to push them; they were just kids. “I’ll give you brats to the count of three to move or I’m going to walk right though you!” The children stood there and said nothing; there must have been more than a dozen. Gaping at them all in those masks; it was surreal. No two masks were alike—each one a different breed of dog, with expressions ranging from docile to enraged. As I started counting, “Three…” a few of the children began making faint, low grumbling noises. I continued to count down, “Two…” and more children joined in with nasty growls. I gave a heavy sigh, knowing they weren’t going to move.
“Alright then… One!” All at once, the children began barking loudly. I was startled by how ferocious and angry they sounded. “Stop that!” I commanded, but they only barked louder. One of them chucked a rotten apple at me—it hurt. The other kids followed suit and soon I fell victim to the spoiled fruit version of an old fashioned stoning. I started to yell, “Wait till I find your parents!” but took an apple to the face before I could finish. A few kids pushed me while I was distracted and I lost my balance. They all rushed me, kicking and scratching.
“That does it!” I was done fooling around. “What the hell is wrong with you kids?!” I yelled, shoving them one by one to the ground. But they remained unfazed, continuing to kick and scratch and make those irritating noises. The cacophonous howling and fierce barks made my blood boil. I started striking the children, not caring about their safety or what their parents would do in retaliation. After realizing what I had done, I ran off to find Cappy.
The children chased me into town. They were just kids but I was spooked as all hell. The masks, the noises—they didn’t even stop when I hit them. I caught sight of Cappy’s truck but I didn’t see him. The children were gaining on me as I tripped and fell. Again, I was surrounded by those violent brats. I tried to get up but there were too many kids on me, and my cries for help brought no assistance.
“Take off those goddamned masks!” I hollered, attempting to pull one off; it was tied on tight. The barking turned to laughing and I feared there might be other adults watching—mocking me instead of shooing away their insane offspring. My anger was just reaching its threshold when the children suddenly stopped attacking. They all turned their heads in the same direction and ran off together, howling and cheering joyfully. I stumbled to my feet, inspecting myself for scrapes and bruises.
“Cappy!” I shouted, looking all around. My voice echoed for miles. The children were out of sight so I ran back towards the truck hoping to find him still searching the garage. I stopped at the general store first to see if anyone could help us, but no one was inside. They didn’t seem to be in business—shelves were mostly empty and caked with dust. I checked in the back—nobody there. Then I heard some kind of uproar coming from outside.
I peered out the window but didn’t see anyone, so I opened the door a little and turned my ear. I was sure something was going on with those kids. The only noise in the whole town was coming from that one direction. Part of me knew I should go back to the garage but I wanted to see if the children were being scolded for their behavior. I followed the echoes until I clearly heard a guttural, anguished scream.
The screaming continued as I banged on the nearest front door. “Hey! Is anybody home?! Please!” I jiggled the knob aggressively—locked. There was another house about thirty yards away so I banged on their door as well. Still, no one home; or they just weren’t answering. I circled the house, pounding on the windows, but it was no use. I had to make a decision. What would a hero do? I asked myself, and hurried towards uncertainty.
The commotion was coming from a farmhouse at the bottom of a hill near the orchard. I ran so fast I nearly fell head over heels, though I hesitated when I got to the house. The door was wide open and there were dog masks on the ground. I needed to know what was happening but wasn’t prepared to find out. I thought about yelling for help again, or for Cappy, but I couldn’t make a sound anyhow. When the screaming died down a little, I crept up the porch steps and peeked in—but didn’t see anyone inside. Masks littered the floor.
God help me, I couldn’t just leave. Where would I have gone without a vehicle? It’s not like I could have hot-wired Cappy’s truck. I had to go in. My footsteps made the boards creak but I knew they wouldn’t drown out the ruckus. A trail of masks led me closer to the disgusting sounds and through the dilapidated house to an open door leading down into the basement. A stench beyond foul almost knocked me over.
Listening closely, I tried to identify what was happening. It was those kids for sure—growling, barking, whimpering, slobbering. Now and then a gurgly, desperate moan of agony would come through. I didn’t want to go down there but I had to see it with my own eyes.
Crouching a bit, I crept from one wet, sticky step to another. A single light bulb illuminated most of the room but didn’t quite reach the stairs, so I knew I’d be hidden in the darkness. The floor was covered in muck that sloshed around as a few of the children scampered through it, tossing handfuls of it at each other. Most were gathered in the center underneath the light. It seemed like they were eating something—or feeding, rather.
I watched in disgust as the children tore at the meat—blood dripping down their chins and squirting on their faces. And oh God, their faces! How can you have an underbite and an overbite at the same time?! The turned-up noses and far apart eyes—it was hideous! Beyond that, they all had various facial deformities of which I’m not equipped to describe. The laughter was almost more horrifying than anything because it meant they were having fun. I say this because I knew what they were eating; I just knew. I couldn’t see what was left of his face, and his clothes were ripped to shreds, but I knew. I knew they were eating Cappy.
I covered my mouth and tried not to scream or wretch; gagged a few times but I didn’t draw attention. My body tensed up so bad I could hardly move, but I willed it to inch backwards up the stairs. Through the kitchen and the front room, I prayed to God those kids wouldn’t follow. I assumed I was free once I reached the door, but the most gruesome fellow was standing there at the bottom of the porch steps. He wore a ghastly beard and a toothless, shit-eating grin. His frame was massive and I could smell him from nine yards away. At first we just glared at each other; I swear he had a wooden eye. I expected him to lunge at me. Instead he pulled a small whistle from the front pocket of his overalls. He pressed it to his lips and seemed to blow into it, but there was no sound.
Sobbing and stumbling, I ran from house to house banging on every door. The joyful roars of the children were drawing closer so I took refuge in the store. They raced all around like it was a game of hide and seek while I barricaded myself in the back room, waiting for those monsters to give up the search. The front door rattled a few times and I suddenly realized I was a sitting duck in there if that big guy broke in. I still don’t know why he never came after me. Eventually, the voices and footsteps faded away and the town fell silent once more.
Night came and the children could be heard howling in the distance. I wondered if they knew where I was and were simply waiting until I came out to terrorize me. I thought of poor Cappy and how delighted he was to help a total stranger. He didn’t deserve to die in such a grisly manner. I wanted to find that gas can now more than ever. Not so I could escape, but so I could burn that house down. Hell, I wanted to burn the whole damned town.
The howling had passed so I snuck out the back door and crawled on my belly to the woods, planning to wait for sunup then hike to a main road. There were no lights on in town as I spied from the trees. I worried the children might go wandering at night but I’d never find my way in the dark. A single silhouette could just barely be seen coming closer and I could hear the rustling of the weeds; it was one of those savages. I hesitated to run, fearing they’d hear me and alert the others. There were a few rocks of substantial weight near my feet so I picked one up and held it tight.
I listened as the child snatched up an animal that leapt from the brush. As they gnawed at the poor creature, I moved in. They snarled and growled as they ate, masking the crinkle of dead leaves beneath my feet. I held my breath, stepping into arms length while slowly lifting the rock over my head. Over and over, I bashed that child’s head beyond recognition. I never thought I could do that to a child, especially with such abandon. But I didn’t do it so much for my own safety as I did it for Cappy.
The sun began to rise and I observed the boy’s body. When I saw him laying all limp on the ground—head caved in and bloody—I regretted what I’d done. Sure I wasn’t a damned cannibal, but I felt like I’d stooped to their level. I murdered a child and I can never take that back. Bits of laughter echoed from the town. Startled, I ran off in the wrong direction.
Tired and hungry, I trudged through fields and over hillsides until the sun was directly overhead. Now and then, I’d hear the faint sound of an engine, though I couldn’t find a road. The weight of everything that had happened made it difficult to go on, but that weight lifted a bit when a ranch came into view on the horizon. As I approached, the unwelcome sound of children playing echoed across the meadow. A few were galloping here and there, making strange noises. It seemed like normal child behavior, but then I noticed they were all wearing horse masks.
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That’s all for tonight. I’ll see you in your nightmares.
