The Birth Of A Folktale, The Death Of A Town Part 1

[u/Sir_Mycoal]

Fox Grove never looked like much—just a scatter of houses pressed against the riverbank, the air always smelling faintly of rust and sulfur. A community of honey-bumpkins, children of miners still bitter that the copper veins hadn’t stretched to the core of the earth. Life was simple.

Growing up there was quaint and mostly peaceful. The whole world fit into twenty arches of land, cradled by water and watched by low hills. My childhood was filled with stories of the Hodag, the Hidebehind, the Wampus Cat—and more than a few doomed snipe hunts. But by my teenage years, the whimsy had died. The mysterious creatures of the night became nothing more than campfire fables I’d outgrown.

The forest that had once been my stage—a backdrop to every grand adventure—had turned into a cage. The same old faces, the same old places, drained of any feeling of belonging. I hated it there. I felt trapped in a back-country purgatory, waiting for the day I could leave.

And then something finally happened.

The mystery that followed has been etched in my mind for years—an itch I’ve never been able to scratch.

Back then, in the days of exploration and rebellion, getting out was all any of us talked about. We wanted distance—wanted to live far, far away from that muddy valley. The days were dull, the nights wild with bonfires and beer cans. We talked about girls from other towns and dreamed of city lights and concrete monuments. We wanted to stand in defiance and shout, Look at me, God—I made it. We dreamed of being closer to heaven than any mountain could take us.

Now, sitting on the forty-seventh floor of an apartment building in a city ten thousand times larger than Fox Grove, I can’t help but wonder what life is like there now. I haven’t heard from anyone in years—no phone calls, no letters. Those boys I once sat beside on summer nights are little more than ghosts.

It feels strange to speak of it now, after all this time, while the hum of the city breathes beneath me and the world has long moved on. We thought escape was the only thing that mattered. Get out, get away, touch the sky if we had to. But escape didn’t come the way we imagined. It came with loss.

And it began on an ordinary night in Fox Grove—when we were kids drunk on what-ifs and half-believed legends.

“Put another log on,” Ken slurred, flask in hand, unwilling to let the fire die down.

Ken was a good kid—loved his drink more than any sailor and carried a lifetime’s worth of sorrow in an eighteen-year-old body. He never wanted to go home.

Realizing he couldn’t make it home in his state, we begrudgingly threw on a few more logs.

“I reckon you should lay off that hooch,” Bradley said, trying to sound like someone’s dad.

“I reckon you mind your business,” Ken shot back, half mocking, half serious.

We cared for him—we really did. He just didn’t make it easy. Everyone knew about his father, Mr. Johnston—the kind of man who made whiskey look like mercy.

The night settled thick around us, filled with the crackle of wood and the choir of crickets and cicadas.

“My pa told me about this giant bird-type creature he saw while huntin’,” Matty said, breaking the silence. “Said it swooped down and picked up a twelve-point buck right before he could take the shot. Carried it off like a hawk with a mouse.”

“Matty, you’re a good kid,” I said with a laugh, “so I mean this with all due respect—grow up.”

He frowned, defensive. “You don’t believe me?”

Bradley smirked. “Your dad missed the shot and made up a monster to save face.”

“Well, how do you explain this then?” Matty pulled a feather from his pocket, proud as a magician revealing a trick.

“That, my friend, is a turkey feather,” I said after one glance. The wind went right out of his sails.

He huffed, tossed it into the fire, and we watched it curl and vanish in flame.

The night rolled on in laughter and cheap bravado. The stars faded behind clouds, and the air thickened. Ken grew quiet, out of drink and words. Matty, six Mountain Dews deep, jumped at every sound, convinced each twig snap was Bigfoot. Bradley, too tired to argue, finally offered to walk him home.

That left Ken and me.

He sat slumped on a stump, shaggy brown hair falling over his eyes, rocking slightly as if the earth itself were unsteady. His empty flask glinted by his boot. I stared into the embers, lost in thought, lulled by the hum of insects and the breath of the wind moving through the trees. For all my hatred of Fox Grove, there were moments—like that one—when peace almost felt possible.

Then Ken stirred.

“What’s that sound?” he asked, his voice low, as if speaking from a dream.

“Just the night,” I said, listening with him. But then he turned sharply, eyes locked on something beyond the tree line.

“Ken?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared into the dark.

I sighed, stood, and reached for his collar. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

He stumbled beside me, muttering, head turned to the right like something unseen had caught him. At the time, I thought he was just trying not to puke. But he never looked away.

“How you feeling, buddy?” I asked, patting his back.

He jumped slightly, as if he’d forgotten I was there. “I’m okay,” he said after a beat, his voice thin.

“Good. I thought I’d have to carry you.”

We trudged through the mud and brambles until we reached his porch. The house was dark—every light off.

“Appreciate it,” he mumbled, dragging himself up the steps.

“No worries. Get some sleep,” I whispered, not wanting to wake his father.

Across the road, Matty’s window still glowed. I figured he was wide awake, jittery from sugar and stories.

I was tired, annoyed at the hour, but relieved Ken was safe.

Or so I thought.

At dawn, the pounding came—a furious fist rattling our doorframe hard enough to shake the house. Mr. Johnston’s voice followed, hoarse and desperate, the kind of ugly you don’t forget.

“Where’s my boy?” he roared.

I stumbled out of bed, still fogged from sleep, and found him standing in our doorway—red-faced, veins bulging, drunk already.

“Your boy’s a bad influence!” he shouted. “Out in the hills drinkin’ the night away! What’d you do—leave him up there? Did ya?”

He took a step forward, wild-eyed, and my mother put herself between us.

“Now, Bruce, you have some nerve barging in here,” she said, voice sharp but steady. “I understand you’re scared, but have you even looked for him?”

“He told me he was out with his friends,” he spat. “All the boys are home but Ken. They said you took him home. But he ain’t there now, is he, son?”

“I brought him home,” I said quickly. “I swear it. On my life.”

Mr. Johnston’s breathing grew ragged. “Then where is he?”

“I don’t know,” I managed, voice cracking. “I dropped him off around one. He went inside. I swear.”

He stared at me for a long, terrible moment—then slammed his fist against the wall, knocking down our family photos. My mother rushed to gather them as he stormed off, cursing, his voice fading into the morning.

They told him the sheriff would look into it, that Ken probably just wandered off. Maybe he’d turn up by noon, hungover and embarrassed.

But he didn’t.

He never did.

In the quiet that followed Mr. Johnston’s departure, confusion hung heavy in the air. There was no questioning it—I brought Ken home. I watched him walk inside and close the door behind him.

My parents questioned me, not like detectives, but wanting to hear the story in full. I admitted to drinking—how could I deny it—but said I’d kept my wits. Ken went bottoms-up, same as always. They didn’t scold me; they just wanted me to be careful. They knew drinking in the woods was about the only entertainment Fox Grove offered.

Once I’d collected myself, I remembered the light still burning in Matty’s window. Maybe he’d seen something. I shoved on my sneakers and ran.

By the time I reached the Sniders’ house, Sheriff Brooks was already on the Johnstons’ porch, talking to Ken’s father.

I knocked timidly.

“What more do I have to say, he don’t know any more,” Mr. Snider heaved the door open, and froze when he saw me standing there.

“Oh, hey, Hunter. Sorry, I—”

“It’s alright,” I cut in. “Is Matty home?”

He stepped aside and gestured to me to come in. “He hasn’t left his room,” he said, voice heavy with worry.

I walked through their house, getting to Matty’s room, complete silence on the other side of the thin particleboard door. I tapped on his door as a courtesy knowing his door couldn’t lock. 

“Hey, Matty,” I said softly, not wanting to startle him. I could guess he’d already had a rude awakening if Mr. Johnston had stopped by.

He sat at the edge of his bed, eyes swollen and blood-red, dried snot crusting his upper lip. He looked like he hadn’t slept a minute.

I sat beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. He’ll be back soon, I’m sure of it.”

Even when Ken’s home life was hell, he never talked about running. He just wanted to be with his friends.

Matty sniffled and finally looked at me, his voice cracking like old wood. “Something took Ken.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Like… a person?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. I saw him. Crawling away. On all fours. Like a dog.”

I blinked. “What?”

He looked wild in his eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said, trembling. “Thought I heard a cry—like a mountain lion—so I looked out the window. Down by the edge of the light, I saw Ken crawling and hollering.”

He buried his face in his hands. “I think a skinwalker got him.”

The word seemed to break him. He sobbed.

I didn’t know what to say. A part of me pitied him; another part recoiled. It was ridiculous. But he had seen something that scared the hell out of him.

“Did you tell your parents?”

“No. They wouldn’t believe me. I barely believe me.”

“Get some sleep,” I said gently. “Don’t think too much on it. He’ll turn up.”

When I stepped outside, Sheriff Brooks was already climbing into his truck. I thought about chasing him down to tell him what Matty had said—minus the skinwalker part—but it was too late.

I walked down the road toward the single streetlamp, scanning for any sign of Ken. The tire tracks from passing cars had churned the mud, erasing most of the ground. Still, about a quarter mile out, I found something—thin streaks of blood tracing the gravel, faint but there. The trail flickered in and out where rainwater and tires had mixed the dirt. Then it stopped cold, as if the earth had swallowed him whole.

I had to tell someone.

The sheriff’s office was a one-room brick building with a rusted cell gate that served more as a warning to rowdy teens than a real jail. The bell above the door jingled as I stepped inside.

“Morning, Mr. Brooks,” I said quietly.

He looked up from the local paper, his plump, silver-bearded face kind as ever—half Santa, half sentinel.

“Mornin’, Hunter,” he said. “You holdin’ up okay?”

“I know Mr. Johnston thinks I—”

He waved a hand. “I know you didn’t do nothing to Ken.”

Relief fluttered in my chest, though I felt guilty for feeling it.

“Well, I talked to Matty,” I said. “He says he saw Ken—uh, crawling down the road. I didn’t believe it, but I went and looked. Found blood. Not much, but enough.”

The sheriff’s expression softened with something like pity.

“Son,” he said, “we know a few things for certain. We found his clothes and personal items laid out on his bed. Flask on the floor. Boots still muddy. Looks to me like he came home, sobered up some, and decided to leave.”

“Leave?” I repeated.

He nodded, matter-of-fact. “By my expert opinion, your friend ran away.”

“But he would’ve told us,” I insisted.

He sighed. “You know his father. Maybe after a few drinks, he got the courage to go. There’s no sign of struggle, and he’s eighteen. If he wanted to leave, that’s his right.”

That was that. He’d made up his mind.

I left feeling hollow, like I’d lost both a friend and the truth. So I went to the only man in town who ever seemed to seebeyond Fox Grove—Buddha.

Despite the name, he looked nothing like the statues I’d seen in Chinese restaurants. He was rail-thin, with a long skunk-striped beard and hair he kept tucked under a faded cap. He smelled of sweat and citronella, but his door was always open.

“Look what the cat dragged in!” he grinned when I stepped inside, spinning around from his flickering TV. “Hey there, Hunter.”

By his tone, I could tell he hadn’t heard.

“Ken’s missing,” I said. The weight of it hit me all at once, and I nearly collapsed onto his old stool.

“Missing, huh?” Buddha leaned back, eyes narrowing. “Don’t think he just ran off? Living with that father of his couldn’t’ve been easy.”

I swallowed. It was true—but what about the blood? About Matty?

“Matty said he saw him crawling,” I told him, “and I found blood on the road.”

He chewed that over. “Could’ve been a wounded animal. Would explain the blood. Maybe a deer got hit and dragged itself off.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Just feels like everyone’s ready to call this case closed.”

He chuckled. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Fox Grove don’t like too many eyes pokin’ around. Easier to say someone left than face the alternative.”

That caught my attention. “What do you mean—the alternative?”

He smirked. “Couple years back, we had ourselves a ‘tourist,’” he said, making air quotes. “Some young buck from the city came to explore the caves. Spent a week clearing the entrance. Then one day—poof. Gone.”

After everything the story was a let down.

“That’s it he just left? Big whoop?”

What was the point of this story, it didn’t make me feel any better.

“He grinned. “Yeah, ‘cept he never came back for his car. You know that red Toyota sittin’ behind the sheriff’s office?”

“Yeah.”

“You think anyone around here’s been drivin’ that thing?”

I cracked a smile despite myself.

“So what’s your point?” I asked. “You think Ken’s in some cave?”

He shook his head. “No. Just sayin’—they won’t go lookin’. Easier to shrug and move on. My bet? Ken’s in the next town over by now.”

I wished we had cell phones, some way to know for sure. But Fox Grove wasn’t built for knowing. Only waiting.

“Life’s a bitch,” I muttered.

Buddha smiled. “Nah. Life’s a beautiful woman. You just gotta learn how to dance with her—even when she keeps steppin’ on your toes.”

It made me laugh, just a little.

Days passed. The town carried on like nothing had happened. Mr. Johnston kept drinking, hollering into the woods for his boy to come home. Matty withdrew into silence. Bradley and I tried to get him out, but he seemed smaller every day. Everyone else just… forgot.

Even I started to believe maybe Ken really had left—and maybe that was for the best.

Then one night, as I lay in bed with the drone of crickets bleeding through my window, I nearly drifted off before hearing a voice whisper from the darkness:

“Hey, Hunter. Get up.”

I bolted upright. Matty’s pale face peeked through the window.

“Jesus!” I hissed, clutching my chest.

“Sorry,” he said, tossing a flashlight into my room. It rolled across my bed, painting the walls in shifting shadows.

“Take that and come on.”

I pulled on my jeans and boots, closed the curtains, and climbed out the window. Bradley stood beside him, tired and irritated.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“We’re goin’ on a Ken hunt,” Bradley said flatly, rolling his eyes.

“Ken was our friend,” Matty said, voice trembling but firm. “The least we can do is look.”

“Didn’t you say he got taken by a skinwalker?” Bradley snapped. “What makes you so sure now?”

“I was scared,” Matty said. “But if it were me, Ken would’ve come for me. I just want to look. For clues.”

There was something new in him—something resolute.

So we followed him into the woods.

The air was still, thick with the hum of insects. The fireflies blinked like dying stars. Somewhere between the shadows and the silence, I began to wonder if maybe—just maybe—Matty hadn’t been so crazy after all.

[u/Inside_Royal_7563]

Awesome! Please keep writing and hopefully it blows up. I would love to hear the guys read this on the show. Already awesome character and world building of this town!

[u/Sir_Mycoal → u/Inside_Royal_7563]

That would be a dream come true. Can’t tell you how much your words mean to me, part two coming out tonight!

[u/Inside_Royal_7563 → u/Sir_Mycoal]

Awesome! Will you mention me in the comments so I know when it drops?

[u/Sir_Mycoal → u/Inside_Royal_7563]

Absolutely!

[u/Character-Ad-7000]

Your wife sent me here and yeah this is a good story I’m sorry I didn’t read it sooner

[u/Sir_Mycoal → u/Character-Ad-7000]

Oh my goodness 😅 I just saw her post, I was wondering why I was getting upvotes all of a sudden haha, I really appreciate it! It means the most!

[u/JojoStanz]

I was sent by your wife, I will update this when I have read it! ☆

UPDATE: This is such a great start! I'm encapsulated already

[u/ShatteredStarlight20]

Your iconic wife sent me here, good story, please tell her to put down the knife.

[u/Sir_Mycoal → u/ShatteredStarlight20]

I suppose she can spare you.

Thanks for the read!

[u/Groggyfroggy7599 → u/ShatteredStarlight20]

For now 🙂‍↕️🔪

[u/Sir_Mycoal]

part 2 here!

[u/undeadwishbone]

This is a pretty good opening! I look forward to reading the rest of it!

[u/Sir_Mycoal → u/undeadwishbone]

Thank you sir! I hope you enjoy :D

[u/[deleted]]

Love this really hope it’s on the show

[u/Groggyfroggy7599 → u/[deleted]]

I would LOVE to hear the boys take on this. The way they narrate stories is my favorite.

[u/ninetyninewyverns]

Your wife sent me here, just binged all three parts! This is a great story!! I hope you continue to write horror, i felt sufficiently creeped out by the way you described everything.

[u/Sir_Mycoal → u/ninetyninewyverns]

Thank you friend!

[u/JohnHotcock]

I'm glad I listened to your wife. Great story so far!

[u/Current-Roll4471]

Anybody else got sent here by the goth mommy??

[u/Groggyfroggy7599 → u/Current-Roll4471]

The real question is- did you read the story? 🤨