The Crooked Boy

A short story Inspired by the Urban Legend The Crooked Man

• Religion
• Short story
• Spirituality & New Age
• Horror

								
My dad had always been fascinated by the things that go bump in the night. He was a self-proclaimed Demon-Ologist and would spend hours every day piling over websites, forums, and old books trying to learn as much as he could. He was a slight nut job but we all loved him. Me, my mom, and my little brother Rihito. He believed that monsters were just misunderstood and that through his work, he could help the world embrace them. He believed that till the very end. A passion he passed on to my little brother Rihito, who could tell you everything about Wendigos and Wechuge but can’t even pee in a straight line. 

My fathers profession, however elaborate, didn’t bring in good money but he and my mom always made sure we had everything we needed. My mother took on a third job once he passed, and when she’s home she’s like a sunken soul that wafts around the house, unfallen tears edging at her eyes. She works herself to death to make sure me and Rihito live a good life. 

Rihito sits in front of me now in our shared room, waiting for me to tell him a scary story, a tradition our dad used to uphold every night. Even as I grew into a teenager I never felt like I was too old for a bedtime story. My father has a way of making the stories come to life, using his words and his body to create such imagery its almost an art. But since my dad passed the  tradition now rests on my shoulders. 

Rihito sits on his four-frame small bed, fitted ironically with Thomas The Train sheets and matching pajamas. He looks up at me and in his big brown eyes I see eager excitement at what’s about to come, as well as this unspoken sadness that drifts within all of our minds. 

“You’re the best brother ever!” Rihito exclaims, more so in an urgent way to get me to stop staring and to start storytelling. He’s a brat but I love him. So I open up tonight's book, one of our fathers hundreds that still linger around our home. “The Crooked Man” it says. Instantly I feel a sense of sad nostalgia. This was the last story our dad had ever read to us. He was always the best storyteller and he was so excited to teach us morals and the humanity behind the horrors he’d recite. 

Looking at the small booklet, I’m tempted to swap it out for another story, but my brother whines insistently signaling for me to hurry up.

So I open the book and start to read.

There once was a Crooked Man 
He Walked a Crooked Mile..

My brother's face scrunches up in dismay, as his eyebrows furrow and a pout sets his rounded face. 

“What’s wrong?” I ask, thinking maybe it’s because he too recognizes it was the last story our father read us.

“You sound dumb.” He says. 

I stare at my brother. “Well F*ck You,” I wish I could say, but I don’t.

I settle for “Well how would you do it Einstein?”

He places his bare feet on the cold ground and sets himself in an awkward stance, feet apart and bent at the knees, with his arms spread like a weird hug with clawed fingers.

“Do it like dad did,” he says. Then with a really bad deep tone growls, “Be the monster.”

So I sigh and shake my head, smiling sadly. I’m no performer like my dad was but remembering how he told this same story I stand up from my old wooden chair, and hold the book firmly in hand. 

“Okay but then straight to bed, alright?” 

My brother jumps back on the bed and nods his head eagerly. His joy is part of why I still keep telling him scary bedtime stories. It’s almost like it makes him feel whole again, if even for a few minutes. 

“There once was a Crooked Man 
He Walked a Crooked Mile
With him a son he loved
A Crooked Boy un-vile 
The Crooked Man loved his son
Even with his Crooked Flaws
His wife had died at childbirth
Tethering their Crooked Claws
One Day He found some Townsmen
And He Smiled a Crooked Smile
He waved excitedly and showed his Crooked Child
His Son beamed happily
And offered Crooked Bread
The father offered friendship
And a rose ripe ‘n Red
They Screamed and threw their rocks at them
Laughing as they fled
The Crooked Man weeped 
as his Crooked Son bled
Crying to his father
He only wanted a friend
The Father took a Crooked rope 
and threw it in the sky
He made himself a noose
And The Crooked Man did cry
He cursed the men
And rose from death
He too would take their children
So If he’s near
he’ll smell your fear
And open his arms wide
There might be a figure walking down the hall
Or a crooked shadow on your bedroom wall
But if he’s really out to get you,
You’ll hear his Crooked Bell
Before he drags your soul to Crooked Hell
So all the Crooked Children 
With him they shall play
Can you hear their Crooked Laughter
For death someone must pay
So speak this tale
Loud and Crisp
And may all learn his name
For once you know
One of you must go
To Crooked Hell and stay”

I stare at my brother as I embody the words on the page like father once had. Contorting and moving my body like I’d imagine father doing. Storytelling has power, and through it we come together. So as my little brother sits, mouth agape and on the edge of the bed, I do what any older brother would.

“BOO!”

Rihito screams as he falls from the bed onto the floor. I laugh as I see him all but cover up his private area telling me he peed himself. 

“You’re mean!” He pouts running over to hit me as I expertly dodge away from his blows and chuckle.

“I was just playing buddy, let’s go get you cleaned up.”

I grab him some new clothes and follow him to the bathroom, turning on the water to the right temperature he likes before making my swift exit. Thankfully, he’s old enough to know how to shower himself, so I wait outside the door until he opens it just enough to hand his soiled clothes. I make a face as I grab them with the tips of my fingers and tell him not to lolli-gag because he still needs to go to bed. 

I take his clothes and put them in the washer before starting a load. Our washer and dryer are conjoined with our small kitchen here in the house. The house is small, but it’s home. With mythical and monstrous depictions all over the walls and on almost every surface. Mom hasn’t moved a single thing of dads since it happened. It’s been about 3 months and everythings collecting dust. 

We miss him. I know she took it harder than any of us. I look out the front window to the treeline, still and daunting just a couple hundred feet away. That’s where she found him. My eyes shift to the self-made driveway where her car is missing. She’s working another twelve-hour shift at the local gas station, trying to pull in as much as she can. I offered to get a job but she lashed out saying she was a good mother and she’d fend for her kids. I didn’t bother pushing after seeing how heartbroken she looked at that moment. Now I fear Rihito will grow up with a woman that won’t be able to be a mom. Not that she doesn’t love us endlessly, I’m just old enough to understand grief is a complex bastard, but he’s just a child. So I do what I can to be the role model he needs. 

								Rate this book:5.0 / 1 vote