Old Man Whitaker

"Don't go into the forest," Old Man Whitaker told me.

"Why not?" I asked.

He said darkly, "Legend has it that every person who goes into the forest never returns. But every night at dusk, a loud moaning noise arises from the woods."

I rolled my eyes. This was just another one of Old Man Whitaker's tall tales. "The horror," I said sarcastically.

He nodded, not picking up on my sarcasm. "They say that the voices belong to those who are stuck there, trapped there forever in the forest. And if you were to go inside, you would join them."

"Yeah, right. But, Gramps, why did you tell me this anyways? Telling me this just makes me want to go into the forest to prove you wrong."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said slowly, "That is exactly what Ralf said. He went into the forest one day and never returned. He has been missing for twenty-seven years now, I believe."

"If you say so," I sighed. Who would actually believe that outlandish story?

"Promise me," Old Man Whitaker said, staring at me fiercely and determindedly, "That you will never enter that forest."

"I promise, I promise," I said, backing away from him slightly. Of course, my fingers were crossed behind my back. I was going in the forest tomorrow to see if this story was true or not. I wanted to find out- not for my sake, but for Old Man Whitaker and his sanity.

The following day, I walked into the forest. Everything was silent. No birds chirped. No leaves rustled. Silence. It made me feel uneasy, but I remained calm. I looked around the forest. Everything seemed to be dying or decaying. Most of the trees were burnt and blackened. I must have looked in that forest for hours. I lost track of time.

But I knew it was dusk when the moaning began. Instead of running away from the noise, I decided to see where it came from. Strangely enough, it was coming from the ground. I dug up some of the lose dirt, trying to find what was moaning. I uncovered a small clay jar.

I held it in my hand, staring at it. How could a glass jar make a moaning sound? I unscrewed the lid to the jar and held my breath. What would I find?

It was a Bluetooth Speaker. I squinted at it, trying to make sense of everything. How? Why? What even? I couldn't even form proper questions in my head.

I heard rustling in the dead leaves behind me and spun around. "Who's there?" I called out. Of course, no one answered me. I was alone, right? Right?

Wrong. Old Man Whitaker lunged out of the bushes towards me, lifting the ax in his hand. Wait a second.... Why was there an ax in his hand!?

"I told you," he huffed, "not to go into the forest. But you just had to come here, didn't you?"

I backed away from him slowly, trying to think of the best escape plan.

"You want to be the next victim? Fine. You'll be my next victim!" he lunged at me again. He was not even three feet away from me. Was that....dried blood on his ax? And what did he say about victims? He had other victims? Was he a serial killer? Was I in trouble!

I turned and bolted towards the end of the forest. I heard the air move as something passed by my ear very quickly. Then I saw it fly into a tree just in front of me. It was Old Man Whitaker's ax! How could he throw it? I thought he was a feeble old man!

I tripped on a dead tree root and tumbled to the ground. Just my luck. I got up and looked around me. To my surprise, there were twenty Old Man Whitakers surrounding me! They each had an ax!

"How? What? When? Why?" I asked, starting to panic even more.

"Join us. Join us. JOIN US!" They said in unison. I turned back around and ran towards the safety of my house.

"We know where you live. We know where you live. WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE!" they called after me before chasing me. I could hear the thunder of all their boots running on the packed ground.

"HOW MANY TWINS DO YOU HAVE?" I asked, as they somehow cut me off from my escape once again.

They laughed, "Join us and see. Join us and see. JOIN US AND SEE!"

Then, they all began throwing their axes at me. Just great. I was a dead man. Or, so I thought.

One of the Old Man Whitakers lunged at me and pushed me to the ground. At first, I thought he was attacking me directly. But then I realized that he was actually protecting me. This was very bizarre.

"Not this one. Not this one. NOT THIS ONE!" the man on top of me yelled before getting off of me, "Run, Jackson. Run, Jackson. RUN JACKSON!"

I didn't even question how he knew my name. At this point, that was the least thing I was worried about. I ran to the edge of the woods and made it out alive. Ha! Take that, Old Man Whitaker!

I ran to the Police Station, where I told them about how Old Man Whitaker tried to kill me with an ax. I might have "accidentally" forgotten to tell them how many Old Man Whitakers there had been, but I am sure they figured that much out when they went to the forest to arrest him (all of him). It is said that he was convicted for 23 murders, and one attempted murder. I am so fortunate!

But sometimes I have to wonder why that one Old Man Whitaker spared me when the rest tried to kill me. Then again, none of this really makes sense. But, if you ever figure out anything, please let me know. Some day, I want to track down that one kind Old Man Whitaker and thank him. But I would like to stay away from the others. At least for a while.