“Got one last story in you Gramps?”

I couldn’t help but smile as I shot the old man the question and tipped the beer bottle to my lips, downing the last few drops of precious brew.

I smiled because it was rhetorical, redundant. A question I already knew the answer to. Ya see, Gramps always had a story.

I’d been visiting with Gramps and listening to him weave his wild yarns my entire life. From tales of adventure, to comedic experiences with some of the town’s local oddballs, to the occasional terrifying splatter show that rivaled any horror picture.

To put it simply, I’d literally grown up on the old man’s entertaining ramblings.

The thing was, Gramps’ stories were always true. That’s what made them special. That’s what kept me captivated over all the years and years that I heard them.

It didn’t matter if we were doing something boring like adding the umpteenth coat of paint to his rotting and weather-beaten barn, or choking back tears from the dust as we organized his collection of musty old post cards.

Gramps always made it worthwhile because there was always a story. Truly, the best memories of my life.

He was getting old though. He’d always been old - Gramps had seemed ancient my entire life. As weathered and warped as that old barn we’d paint over and over. The last few years though, his health was on a decline.

I’d moved two towns over about three years back. Got a job on a large farm and then started seeing a girl I really liked. I was enjoying my twenties as any honest man should. Thinking about me and my future and my world.

But the truth of it was, I didn’t get back home near as much as I should’ve. Near as much as I thought I’d want to.

It had been about a year since I’d seen Gramps when mom called me last week, talking real sad about the old man and how he “wasn’t doing well.” Told me I should come see him soon as I could.

Told me there maybe wouldn’t be so many chances left.

The guilt I felt, the hurt in my heart, I don’t mean to dwell on it or beat myself up. But as soon as she told me that Gramps’ health was on the decline, I thought about the stories. The memories. All those wonderful years, and how easily I’d let them become just that - memories.

I took some days off from the farm right away, and headed home fast as I could.

So here we sat, me and Gramps. For the first time in a long time. Two men sharing a cold beer together (a tradition we’d adopted around the time I turned about 17 or so - a fact we’d both take to the grave).

It saddened me to say that the old man really was the worst I’d seen him. Gramps had always been a tall and powerful man, even in his old age. But now, he was fully withered. His eyes had become nearly totally sunken, two black pits rimmed with wrinkles. His rail thin arms were mottled with blue veins, head hairless.

A constant stream of brown tobacco juice still dripped from his quivering jaw, and he still wore his faded orange and white trucker cap on his liver spotted head. But it looked like the weight of the hat, the effort of chewing the tobacco - any slight level of exertion at all - would cause him to collapse into dust.

Gramps didn’t have quite his usual level of vigor and spunk, but we still got on like we hadn’t spent a day apart.

We talked about the old times, the good times, the current times. He asked me about work and my car, and smiled wryly when I told him about my girl. We bullshitted, we caught up, and for those few hours it felt like the old days again. Like I was a little boy holding a paintbrush and the world was as vast and limitless as one of Gramps’ stories.

The stories.

I couldn’t help myself.

It was getting late, and I could tell Gramps was tired. A few times as we sat on that front porch , watching the summer sun settle into dusk, I caught him closing his eyes a bit longer than a standard blink.

I’d have to leave soon, leave Gramps all alone, and I just got this nagging feeling that I wasn’t gonna see him again. Even if I came back tomorrow, even if I came back in an hour. Once I got in that car and the farmhouse disappeared on the horizon, Gramps would be gone too.

And so I asked him.

One last story. Somehow I think we both knew that I didn’t mean for the night.

Gramps sighed, and he chuckled. An ancient, wheezing chuckle of great effort. But genuine and real.

“God damn fuckface,” he finally answered, my old insulting-yet-endearing family nickname a good indicator that a story would in fact be coming. “Ya stroll back in here from your fancy job, and can’t even let an old man rest?”

He smiled, and I couldn’t help but sheepishly do the same, my cheeks reddening.

“Hell,” he continued. “I dunno that there’s one story I ain’t already told. Best I can recollect, ya’ve heard every one I got. Well…”

Gramps went silent, a serious look crossed his face as he seemed to think long and hard. His dark eyes blackened even further as the thoughts consumed him.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of contemplation, he spoke.

“How ‘bout one from when I was a kid?”

My eyes widened. Gramps was probably right - I had heard all of his stories. But not this one. To my memory, and it was a good memory, I’d never heard a single tale from Gramps’ childhood.

Though Gramps body language and demeanor indicated that he wasn’t sure this was a story he should be telling his grandson, I couldn’t hide my excitement. If this was our last story ever, it had to be something special. Something wild, maybe something no one else had ever heard.

“Come on Gramps, let’s hear it!” I exclaimed. Gramps’ face was still twisted in that contemplative look, eyes cast down at the ground and away from me. Slowly, in a way that almost seemed reluctant, he nodded and began.

---

I reckon I was about 11 years old, maybe 10. Couple of us kids used to play the whole summer down the creek. It was a big marshy pit, almost more like a swamp. Past the old junkyard and through a hidden and twisted path that snaked through the dry grass.

Me, Gertie, Simon. We’d all of us play down there damn near every single day. Dunkin’ each other and spittin’ water and swimmin’ and acting like a bunch of fools. Sometimes see a frog or scream “Alligator!” And get everyone running.

Morning til dusk we’d be there. I think about those days and sometimes it’s like I can still feel the sun on my skin, the dry boards of that hidden walking path ‘neath my feet.

‘Course, the watering hole wasn’t exactly the safest. We’d hear stories - a lady drowned there with her little baby, local crooks and thugs might would use it as a dumping ground since the creek would eventually flow into a larger river outside town.

We didn’t worry so much - what the hell did we care? Little kids always think they got super powers. Like nothin’ can hurt them. The few rumors made the place more exciting.

That was, until Gertie drowned.

Day was like any other, nothin’ out of the ordinary. The three of us had met up outside Simon’s parents’ chicken farm, then headed to the creek. We’d goofed the whole way there , shovin’ each other and deciding what games we’d play. Hot that day, hot like it is now.

Wasn’t long after we’d stripped down and jumped in that Gertie yelled about her leg.

We thought she was kiddin’ at first, we all played cruel little games like that on each other.

But those tears in her eyes, the panic in her voice as she screamed that something was wrapped around her leg… no child could take that. We rushed over to her, tried to help, tried to pull her out.

We couldn’t really see beneath the water, see what had her. It was too murky and dark, even on a sunny day like that. The whole time she cried and screamed that somethin’ had her ankle so tight, so hard that it was bein’ crushed.

Then, she vanished. Sucked under like she damn well disappeared.

The two of us screamed and we ran the hell out of that murk and mire fast as our little legs would take us. Ran back home to Simon’s parents in our soakin’ wet underwear, crying and snot runnin’ down our little noses, tellin’ ‘em what happened.

They launched a search, whole town got involved.

Gertie’s body didn’t turn up til three days later. We didn’t see it. No one did, ‘cept the searcher who stumbled on it. It was floating face down in the creek, right where she’d disappeared. It was like she got sucked away and spit back up.

The sick part, the thing us kids heard that weren’t s’pposed to, is that Gertie’s head was missing. Gone. Torn clean off.

What kinda drowning does that?

Her funeral was a closed casket. And we were forbidden to ever go to that creek again. Not that we needed much convincin’.

Thing was though, that didn’t stop us. ‘Course it didn’t. Not cuz we wanted to swim or play - those memories were tainted. Ruined. They weren’t worth a shit without Gertie.

No, we wanted to know. Wanted to know how a creek disappears someone and rips their head off. Wanted to know why that happened to our friend.

That curiosity, it’s dangerous sometimes. You got that curiosity in you fuckface. Always have. I have it too, I think. But at first I was too scared to act on it.

I thought about that creek damn near every night. I’d see those murky waters in my night terrors, when I laid down for bed. Gertie’s big brown eyes peeking out of that black mire. Just the top half of her head staring at me, like she wanted something.

Simon convinced me, one day. We were at the chicken farm, cleanin’ up the dead newborns from inside the coop. It always felt like goin’ through the motions after Gertie died. “Ah hell with this,” Simon exclaimed as he threw down the sack of baby chicks. “Let’s go to the damn creek. Let’s see if we can find it.” I stared at him quizzicamally.

“Gertie’s head.”

Boy, did my mouth drop to the damn floor. We all wanted to investigate the creek, but I’d never thought of it that way. Never thought about findin’ her.

“Havent you seen her? At night , when you’re dreaming I mean.” Simon continued. I nodded, even more surprised that he’d been havin’ the same dreams as me!

“I think it’s like, she needs us. She can’t rest unless we find it.”

It seemed logical enough to me. Same kinda thing I’d seen in horror pictures, sneakin’ into the old drive in. It was worth it just for a shot to make the damn nightmares stop. Silently as we could we crept off the farm and made our way to the creek like old times. Only one man short.

When we got there that day, the whole place just didn’t quite feel right. No life there. No noise. A wrongful stillness in the air.

It happened almost immediately.

The two of us were slowly inching around the creek’s edge as the surface of that black, inky water broke, and a tiny head of golden hair emerged.

Gertie’s brown eyes locked with mine and hell if I didn’t freeze in place like the devil was staring right into my soul.

I couldn’t even scream, the terror gripped me so deep.

But Simon could.

He screamed at the top of his lungs, collapsing to the ground as I saw a dark stain forming on his shorts.

Somehow, findin’ exactly what we’d expected was the most terrifyin’ thing in the world.

Then, Gertie rose up.

Worse than the dream, worse than we imagined.

On my soul, on every story I’ve ever told you, that was not Gertie in that swamp.

Oh it was her head - her blond hair and coffee colored eyes, dimpled smile and missin’ front tooth.

That angelic head sat on top a twisty and gnarled body, a hideous sight that revealed itself the taller it rose from those depths.

It was human like, but not quite - it’s torso and arms and legs were unnaturally long, bony and spindly. It had sagging and veined breasts, its sallow yellow skin covered in weeping orange boils and browning scabs.

The hands, those knobby claws endin’ with cracked and sharpened nails as black as the water it rose from. Tufts of black animal hair covered it’s shoulders and wrists and just below it’s waist, foul and dripping wet.

All in all, the thing stood probably 7 feet tall fully erect.

And at the top of its massive, elongated and twisted neck sat the too small, pinprick head of our best friend. You could clearly see the point where Gertie’s head had been attached to the thing’s neck - a raw and red strip of glistening gore divided the spot where that hideous veined yellow flesh met Gertie’s.

The thing of it was though, was how perfectly Gertie was preserved. She didn’t look rotted or bloated or like she’d been at the bottom of a creek for 3 weeks. She looked fine as the day we’d last seen her - she looked alive!

Gertie opened her mouth, but it wasn’t her voice. It was some awful, strangled sound. Wet and hollow and rasping. A voice no ears were ever meant to hear. A voice from the bottom of a creek. A voice that ain’t of this world.

“I DONT WANT THIS ONE!” It bellowed as Gertie’s face twisted into a visage of pure hatred, eyes bulging from her head.

Lightning fast, the thing bounded out of the creek and onto the shore, and it shot its massive claw at Simon’s leg, wrappin’ him tight.

God he screamed bloody murder, he screamed the worst scream I ever heard. The thing stared intently at him with Gertie’s eyes, full of hate and somethin’ else. I was frozen in place, my feet cemented to the ground beneath me.

It picked Simon up by the leg, hangin’ him upside down and bringin’ him up to its face. Starin’ right into his eyes.

The whole time Simon screamed, piss runnin’ down his whole body, tears and snot dribbling to the ground.

The hideous creature glanced at me from the corner of Gertie’s eye, turning its attention from Simon.

Then suddenly, with its other claw, the thing reached up and palmed the top of its head - of Gertie’s head - and with a dull and wet riiiiip it tore her head clean off its tree trunk neck.

I couldn’t stifle the scream then, god I screamed. A scream that could’a split the sky.

The thing was, once it had torn off Gertie’s head and thrown it to the ground - her head that I’d just seen talkin’ and movin’ like it was alive, only now the eyes were just lifeless and dead and starin’ up at the clouds forever - and reeking black ichor cascaded from its freshly mangled neck hole… It kept movin’.

You get what I’m saying fuckface?! It was a giant, grotesque body with no head , and it was alive! It kept that tight grip on Simon’s leg, still holdin’ him upside down as the blood rushed to his head. It lifted him higher and still stared at him, with that empty space where a head should be. Stared with nothin’ there.

Somethin’ somewhere in me woke up.

What else could I do, fuckface?

I ran.

Ran fast as I could, hoping I wouldn’t hear the sounds of giant wet feet slapping the earth behind me. I knew I’d never outrun the damn thing.

But no, all I heard was a wet rippin’ sound in the not too far off distance, as Simon’s screams were cut short.

And I knew. I just knew what it was doin’.

And god, god I wish that was the end of it. It was evening by then, and I simply ran my sorry ass all the way home, washed up and hopped into bed. Mom and dad didn’t ask too many questions - no one even knew yet that another child had gone “missin’” at that damned lake.

As I lay there in bed, mind racing, The worst part wasn’t even seeing what had become of Gertie. And it wasn’t knowing what had become of Simon.

It wasn’t even thinking about that damned creature - thinking about where it came from, where it had been hiding. Was it the malformed and demonic reincarnation of some poor drowned woman? A booger straight from hell?

Had it always been there? Lurkin’ beneath the water, just waitin’ to snatch one of us? To snatch is new head?

‘Cause I knew by then that that’s what the thing wanted - that’s what it had been lookin’ for. An incomplete, wretched thing just wantin’ to be whole.

No, none of that was the worst. The worst was that night, in that most oppressive dark of midnight, dark as the bottom of that creek.

When I heard a tapping on my bedroom window.

And I pulled the covers over my head tight, but I could hear a quiet and awful voice from behind the curtain, muffled by the glass.

But it wasn’t that same awful voice from the depths of the creek , being spit out of Gertie’s mouth.

It was Simon’s voice. A little distant and garbled, but god damn if it wasn’t him.

“I don’t like this one.”

I knew it wasn’t really him. Couldn’t be. It was only a sad and confused imitation. But there was something in that voice, some quiet and needful like desperation. It was like the real Simon layered under somethin’ else. But Simon was there.

I couldn’t help it, I will never know what came over me. But I found myself standin’, my hand wrapped tight around that curtain.

The tapping stopped, like we were both anticipating it. I pulled that curtain back, just a bit and I got a glimpse of Simon’s eyes staring back at me. Peeking from just over the windowsill. I knew that a gnarled and monstrous form was crouched just out of my view, clenchin’ it’s clawed hands into fists and anticipatin’ this moment.

I threw the curtain closed and shielded myself under the covers, as I heard that hideous whispering voice.

“Just wanna be like you.”

---

It was the worst story Gramps had ever told me - the most terrifying and harrowing and awful. I knew it had taken a lot out of the old man, and the look of twisted wistfulness and horror on his face when the tale came to an end was palpable.

He stared into my eyes with this kind of quiet desperation that I’d never seen.

We had been inseparable for so many years. Such a deep trust and love existed between us. I was probably the only person he’d ever told this story to.

Even though Gramps couldn’t say it, he was never one for sentimental words, I could feel what he was trying to tell me. There was this deep intimacy to that look.

I didn’t have too many questions, which was rare for one of Gramps’ stories. Usually once they finished, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. With that dark and almost hopeful look I saw in Gramps’ eyes, I could tell he wanted me to talk. Wanted me to ask how or what or why.

Or ask my usual immediate follow up to one of his yarns:

“Well, then what happened?”

Instead, I just squeezed the old man’s hand as we stared into the country dusk.

After a few more minutes I said my goodbyes, and Gramps and I smiled sadly at each other as I got in my pickup and drove away, watching as his meekly waving form grew smaller in my rearview mirror.

Tears streamed down my cheeks the entire ride home. Gramps had opened up to me more than ever with that story - a deep look into a significant personal trauma he’d experienced. It was a tale of violence and monsters, but it was something that he’d clearly carried in silence his whole life.

We’d always have that, the two of us. All those special and wonderful years of stories and the odd love between a gruff grandfather and his inquisitive grandson.

I had to get out of there and away from that farmhouse as quickly as humanly possible.

Because, ya see, Gramps’ stories were always true.

And when that story ended, I couldn’t take my eyes off the massive, gouged and deep pink scar that had always covered the exact middle of my grandfather’s neck.

The one he’d had my entire life. The one that, way it had always been told to me, came from an accident with a thresher when he was a boy.

I was right about one thing - that meeting and that story was the last time I ever saw Gramps.

Because that night, at midnight in the deep and murky dark, when I heard a tapping on my bedroom window?

I damn sure didn’t open the curtains.