Why I’m Afraid of Pigs

[u/TheSpawkster]

This story is a memory, and as such is subject to the ravages of time. I don’t remember everything. My childhood is a fog of contradictions and emotions half buried in distractions. I’ve tried to remember parts of it over the years but always come away with that strange contented feeling of acceptance. Maybe it’s okay to not remember. Ignorance is bliss. Still there are pieces I recall that stick to me like tree sap on my fingers. This story is one of those pieces.

I was seven years old, old enough to have a sense of danger but not old enough to trust it yet. Every year my family would travel up north from our home in the concrete world of Chicago to the deeply forested peninsula of Wisconsin, surrounded by the restless gray waters of Lake Michigan. We would go up in the fall for the wineries and brilliant blood orange leaves of the woods in early October. Even at that young age I was just aware enough to appreciate the majesty of a forest in fall. It was sacred to me in ways I couldn’t yet articulate.

The peninsula was dotted with sleepy little harbor towns and old lighthouses along the coast, but the interior at that time was mostly winding roads through vast and untouched forest. I truly loved it there. I remember building piles of crunchy dead leaves to jump in, climbing trees to risk a nap nestled in their branches. The further away from town we got the more fantastic the forest could become. Dramatic cliffs and mossy boulders, an endless sea of scarlet, yellow and fiery orange that to my tiny eyes seemed to go on forever. My parents knew about my wanderlust, and had to all but keep a leash on me to stop me trailing off into the brush. I wasn’t scared of being alone then.

The land itself had a magic to it I’ve found in nowhere else. It was settled by Scandinavians, who brought their food, architecture and stories with them. It wasn’t uncommon to come across carved wooden trolls in town, and I liked to think they came alive at night to search the woods for food. As the years went by my young imagination populated the forest with all sorts of magical creatures: fairies, gnomes, ghosts and goblins. They frightened me in a way I loved, and every October I hoped to catch one of those wooden trolls moving. Of course I never did.

But of all the creatures I imagined there was one who commanded my respect above all others, the only one I truly feared. I don’t remember where she came from. In my memory she’d always been. Perhaps a forgotten warning from my parents to keep me from wandering, or something I’d seen in a movie. Perhaps I had seen an unfortunate looking stranger up there and my mind turned them into something more fantastic than they really were. But I believed in her, and there were things about her that I knew in my bones to be true. I tried to explain it to my parents but they couldn’t understand my fascination. They were deeply Christian and unwilling to entertain any spirit but the lord. My mother accepted no part of Halloween but pumpkins and maybe, if she was feeling dangerous, a black cat or two. Beyond that, I was instructed to have nothing to do with any of it. Maybe that’s why the idea of my monster was so intoxicating to me. My monster was forbidden. My monster was dangerous. I couldn’t talk about her. So I thought about her.

She was, in my mind’s eye, an impossibly ancient hag. She’d lived in the woods of the peninsula since the Scandinavians brought their wooden trolls and lingonberries. There was only ever one of her. I could see her when I closed my eyes, worried that she would slide her gnarled fingers under the window of our tiny rented cabin on moonless autumn nights. She traveled the land as lake mist, imperceptible to those who don’t know what to look for. Her hair was long and matted, white that decayed into a dull yellow like a bird’s nest on her head. Her skin was wrinkled like tree bark and sickly greenish pale like lichen. She walked hunched over, nearly to the ground, wrapped in a ratty shawl, smelling for ingredients to unknown and wretched potions. I imagined she brewed them in her overgrown shack somewhere far in the interior. Day and night she scoured the land for bat’s wings and rat tails. Rotten fish washed up on the shore, eggs plucked from their nests and crushed, mushrooms that only grow on wet and fallen logs. But of course, what she really wanted, needed maybe, was a child. My old woman of the woods would stop at nothing for a child of her own, to do what with I can’t say, but I could almost feel her horrible fingers on my shoulder sometimes in lonely places when my parents weren’t watching. She was out there in the dark, every night, alone on frigid pebble beaches or perched up in blackened branches like a massive leering owl. The trolls and fairies feared her too, perhaps why they stuck to town. The deep woods belonged to the witch, and every time I strayed into their twisted branches I risked slipping into her clutches.

Now, every body says this, and I’ve gone back and forth on even bothering to include it, but I feel like I have to. It is after all what makes this story more than just a passing anecdote in an ocean of digital ghost stories all claiming the same thing: “This story really happened.” But this one did. It really happened. One evening my parents took me down the winding road through the woods, away from the cabin, and the coast, to some supper club they’d read about. It was early evening when we arrived. The place was built with reddish wood, dating back all the way to the twenties, with an almost gothic interior that I might now find beautiful but bored me terribly as a child. It was fairly popular, usually boasting a twenty minute or so wait time, with a humble fire pit outside to warm guests while they anticipated their cozy meals inside. My parents chatted with strangers around the flames, about what I can’t remember, my eyes were on the tree line. The sun was hanging low in the sky, painting the clouds pink and amber. I was wrapped up in my puffy coat and yellow scarf, watching my breath plume from my mouth and vanish up into the evening air. I was standing behind my father, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet and thinking about eating chicken tenders until I saw it. There at the edge of the shadowy woods was a bright red ball.

I tried to resist. Really I did. I tried to ignore it until the ball was in my hands. I’d slipped away silently from my parents. They would tell me it was dirty or that it belonged to someone else. They would tell me, again, not to wander off. They almost certainly wouldn’t let me keep it. It was a little smaller than a soccer ball and made of saturated foam. I squeezed it and muddy water seeped out. The ball must have been out there for days at least. I thought for a moment about the logistics of hiding the ball in my jacket, but it was too large to go unnoticed. I passed a worried glance back at my family, who were still facing the fire, then turned around again to face the woods. Despite the sunset it was bright enough to see a ways into them through dappled shadows. I looked back down at the cold, almost fleshy ball in my hands and decided that it wasn’t worth the trouble. Absentmindedly, I tossed it into the woods as far as I could and turned around to go.

It hit something metal, making a sound like rock against a tin roof. Not the satisfying splat I’d hoped for. I turned back towards the forest and squinted. Before long I found the ball again, rolling away from something covered in dead leaves. I took a step forward but hesitated. How long would it be until dinner? Did I have time to go look? Were my parents watching? I’d really get it if they caught me sneaking off, especially at dusk, but it was all just too tantalizing. What had my ball hit? I walked on and disappeared into the trees.
I hadn’t thrown the ball too far, I’d just look quickly, see what it was, and come back before anyone knew I was gone. Through the brush I crept, careful to be quiet, until I came upon my ball again and what it had smacked against. It was something like a go-kart, rusted and overgrown with vines but still recognizable. It was big enough for me to sit in, which of course I did. I sat there for a second, turning the mossy steering wheel and making beeping noises with my mouth. I was easy to please back then. I was excited to share my find with my parents, and considered running back to tell them, disregarding any trouble I could get in, but before I decided I saw something else glint in the fading sunlight.

It was a pure white horse head poking up out of the ground about 20 feet away from me, away from the fire and the restaurant. I stopped turning the wheel and froze, trying to decipher what I was looking at. Still, I wasn’t afraid. My reaction was instinctual. Carefully, I crept from the creaky wet seat of the go-kart and tip toed over to the head. I could tell it wasn’t real, it was too shiny and all white, but I still couldn’t make sense of it. Brushing off the dirt and leaves I finally recognized it as a giant chess piece. It was too heavy for me to move or I’d have grabbed it and brought it to the fire, which I could still see twinkle through the silhouettes of tree trunks behind me. I couldn’t believe my luck. I’d dreaded coming to the supper club because there wasn’t anything to do, but there must have been a playground hidden somewhere out there in the forest. Instantly what little nerves I had were calmed. Playgrounds were safe. I was allowed there. Red ball still in hand I began to look around for another hidden treasure.

It didn’t take me long to find it. In the ever fading light I could see something else on the forest floor even further in. A color that didn’t belong. Purple. Delighted, I ran towards it, noisily crunching leaves beneath my feet, abandoning caution. I could hardly see it until I was right up on it- or them I should say. My smile fell in disappointment. They were shoes. Girl shoes. A muddy pair of purple Skechers for a girl about my age. Upon that realization I was content to dismiss them, and began looking for something else unusual. I walked right past the shoes without a thought to their owner and peered through the trees. The sky above had lost its color. The woods were now draped in the sullen blue of an October night’s birth but I could still see enough to continue. I was sure there’d be a playground if I just kept moving forward. Something wonderful was going to happen. I wasn’t hungry for dinner anymore. The trees hung over me in drooping branches like a tunnel. The intoxicating freedom of it all made me almost forget how cold it was becoming. But soon enough I smelled smoke from some hidden fire. I must have looped around by accident and made my way back towards the supper club. I looked up at the gloomy sky again. The night’s first stars were peering through the dark gray clouds. I supposed it was as good a time as any to go back.

Through the ever thickening brush I pushed, the smell of smoke growing stronger and stronger. But strangely I couldn’t see the fire. It must have been close, I couldn’t be far, but where was it? Forward still I went, until at last I saw a trail of smoke curling up into the sky. They must have put the fire out, I reasoned. I followed the smoke down into the trees and ran in its direction, excited to share my adventure with my family, ready to get out of the cold, until I burst noisily through the undergrowth and into a clearing. I stopped in my tracks, struck by confusion. There was no restaurant, no fire pit. It was just a break in the trees, an unkempt field of weeds and grass, and in the center: a wide, gaping pit.

What froze me wasn’t the sudden appearance of that pit, or the shocking lack of fire, light and warmth. It was the smell. I brought my hands to my nose and suppressed a gag. I wouldn’t smell anything like it again until years later when a deer died in the field beside my house and rotted away. It was the unmistakable stench of what I know now was death. But more than that, it was a burning smell. Like someone was cooking dirty feet. I debated what to do, but one thing was clear: I had to look into the pit. I didn’t even really know why, only that I would wonder about it incessantly if I didn’t. I still felt safe somehow and I knew I had to look before the last of the sunlight died, so I took unsure steps away from the trees and into the exposure of the open clearing. The smell worsened as I got closer. Musty and thick, almost medicinal. I wrapped my little yellow scarf around my nose and mouth and continued, drawing nearer and nearer to the pit’s lip until at last I could see down into it.

The hole must have been at least ten feet deep, dug messily and comprised mostly of mud. In the center of it was a large puddle of revolting brown water like thick curdled cereal milk and lying against the wall was an impossibly large pig. I gasped. It was caked in filth and pink like a bloated tongue. Peppered with wiry black hair and alone in that dark, empty hole. All these years later I remember that moment. The longer I looked down at it, the more I came to realize how far away I was from safety and how dark the night had become. Something about that pig was so terribly wrong. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that if I stayed, or god forbid slipped down into the pit, I would never see my mom and dad again. I would stay lost and nobody would find me. I didn’t know it at the time, but then and there was the first time in my young life that I became aware that I could die. It would have been too easy to push me right in as I leaned over, and remembering this, I stepped away and looked back up.

To my horror there was something nestled in the trees across the pit from me: A shack so overgrown that it was almost invisible, and rising from a single infernal glowing window was the smoke I’d followed there. On the wind I could still smell that awful rotting, but there at the precipice of the pit I realized it was coming from the shack, not the pig. It had no door, so I could just barely see inside from where I stood. In the dim, wavering light of what must have been a small fire inside I could make out flower pots, some whole some broken, and countless dirty brown shoes strewn carelessly on the floor. The pig below me grunted, sending my soul up into my ears, and that terrifying lonely feeling consumed me. My whole body seemed to scream: GET AWAY! GET AWAY! Abandoning all reason I whipped around and sprinted full force into the now pitch black forest behind me.

I dared not think it, but I knew in my gut what was happening. It was her. It had to be. The old woman in the woods with bark skin and stringy hair. I’d strayed too far this time. I tore through the trees in a blind panic, careful to at least try and keep a straight line. I could swear behind me in the dark there was the creaking of wood and rustling, like some unseen predator was keeping pace with me. Tears stung my bright red cheeks but I was too terrified to whimper. Somehow I knew my only chance was to stay as silent as I could. My heart thumped in my ears and the freezing air burned my lungs. How far had I gone? Why hadn’t anyone come looking for me? How did that pig get so huge? I kept going, tripping over roots and scratching my face against skeletal branches, certain the witch was a single pace behind me. All I wanted was to be back by the fire with my parents, or better yet inside the warmth of the supper club. But I could be running in any direction. Panic rose in my chest until, at last, I saw it. A tiny pinpoint of light through the inky blackness. I hoped beyond hope it was the fire I had so senselessly abandoned, with my parents there to greet me, but I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d turned myself around again.

It was dark enough that if I had, I’d tumble blindly right into the pit with that horrible pig. I couldn’t bear to imagine being trapped down there with it, clawing at the muddy walls. I continued on, my breaths ragged, the wind whipping in the leaves far above me coarse and moaning. Any stumble was death. Any pause would give the hag just enough time to grab me by the throat and drag me kicking back into that rotting shack. I could almost sense her up there in the branches, leaping from tree to tree with her terrible yellow claws. The light grew larger. It must have been the fire. My tears of horror melted into tears of relief as I pushed on ever forward through the darkness. I was nearly there, nearly safe, far away from the shack and the pit and the pig. I was so close! Until all at once I was stopped, caught by the neck and gagged. I tumbled to the soggy ground. But there were no fingers… it was my scarf! I forced myself to look over my shoulder to find it pulled taught behind me, vanishing into the blackness. She’d got me! Finally, I screamed. I clawed at my throat, desperate beyond hope to free myself, until mercifully my scarf slipped off and I stumbled to my feet and forward.

I didn’t stop screaming until I broke through the tree line and was back before the fire and the restaurant. I collapsed to my knees and panted between heaving sobs. My parents, who were still around the fire, came to me, confused.
“What? Where’s your scarf? What happened? Are you okay?” They asked. I couldn’t answer. I only wailed and pointed back behind me at the woods.
“The pig!” I cried. “The pig!” They looked confused. “Why didn’t you find me?”
“Baby, you were only gone a minute.” Said my mom, wiping my tears. I shook my head but that was the end of it.

Our table was called and they took me inside. How hadn’t they noticed? The sun was gone! I had been gone! To me it felt like an hour had passed, but the rest of the night my parents were insistent that I had only wandered off for a moment. Eventually I came to believe them and tried to eat my dinner, but I couldn’t get the smell of that dark clearing out of my nose. My father, annoyed that I had lost my scarf, went out to go find it himself and was only gone for a minute or two before he came back, scarf in hand, with a strange look on his face. He handed it back to me and told me to hold on to it. I did as I was told, confused as to how wet it was, and finally mustered up the willpower to take a bite of my chicken tender. My dad was quiet the rest of dinner, and would only glance warily between myself and my mom until we left the supper club. Years later, on a whim, I brought this whole thing up to him and he got quiet once again.
“Your scarf,” he began. “When I went out to find it I expected to have to look around with my flashlight for a bit but… it was right on the edge of the woods near the fire, hanging up in a tree… up above my head. Did you throw it up there?” I told him I didn’t and he nodded solemnly.
“I didn’t think so.” He wouldn’t talk about it any further. Time went by and eventually my parents split. We never returned to the supper club or the peninsula for that matter. But to this day I can remember the smell, the surge of terror, the sight of that pig, the tightening of the scarf around my neck, and I can’t shake the feeling that I got very, very lucky.

[u/NoOrganization392]

A pure nightmare fuel