Satanic Rituals in the Old Country Barn

This is another true story from my particularly marvelous childhood.

In the late 80’s there were three girls in my grade  – the 7th grade – that I hung out with, and two other girls in the grade below us that we hung out with. The 6 of us all hung out together. Little snots, they were, the sorry lot of them. They were really not nice little girls; but that’s another story. We weren’t the biggest fans of each other but we hung out because we were the country kids – 5 or 6 miles outside of the pitiful tiny excuse for a town in which we were poorly schooled. The poor grammar I see demonstrated on Facebook daily by graduates of said school proves my point about the poor schooling – I’m not just being snide. It is beyond appalling.

We lived way out in the country… in a place of rivers and streams and silver minnow swimmin’ holes; a place of windswept fields artfully dotted with manure-stinking cattle, horses or pigs; a place with 40 year old garbage dumps in the hedgerows between the fields, filled with collectible antique colored glass bottles and other neat old treasures – if you were wailing to go diggin’. A place of forgotten, untended, grown-over graveyards, abandoned houses and barns. A place where at midnight it is a true and impenetrable black outside on a starless night – no electric lights strung every where. No electric lights strung anywhere. It was (and in some ways still is) a wonderful place – too bad about the residents though. On certain nights the air up there can still smell like a fresh-snapped pea pod. So green. I may never get up there again –  I don’t know – I may never smell that sweetness again. A mere 8 miles or so away, everything in town here is saturated in pesticide and fabric softener and it makes me livid!

Four of the girls in my group of so-called friends lived in extremely close proximity of each other – a  cluster – around the base of a pitiful old dirt road that lead up into a large State Forest (where a certain rude and arrogant local family is famously known to have been growing copious amounts of weed for years. Decades, even. Why do they never get caught? I wonder…). It is a very remote area, if that weed story helps to demonstrate how much so.  The other two of us in our group lived about a mile away – a fast trip on our trusty bikes. We lived on our bikes, those summers.

There were several abandoned, dangerously slumped and rotting houses up that old dirt road. We foolishly explored them all; it’s amazing that none of us ever got hurt – there were ample opportunities for us to have done so. Interestingly, way up the old dirt road, maybe 2 miles or so into the State Forest lands, there was an entire, multi-building, abandoned and over-grown dairy farm. Farmhouse, shack, silo, a couple of different barns  – it was amazing. It was so authentic and rustic, so shabby chic, so remote and so real – these days Tumblr and Instagram enthusiasts would shit and die for a place like that in which to take their artsy-fartsy photos. Places like these still exist, of course, but less and less now… unless you live in Detroit, apparently… and that’s a different flavor of decay, anyway. Urban flavored, not country flavored.

We were typical idiot kids – between the 6 of us we would effectively snatch a nice pile of cigarettes or maybe during a bolder venture, a single pitiful beer or wine cooler (between the 6 of us – lol!) from our collective set of parents, along with bags of chips, soda, candy, Slim Jims, Teddy Grahams, cookies, a boombox (this was the 80’s) and a pile of cassette tapes, cosmetics, nail polish, comic books, and whatever pleasurable little items that we could get our bitchy little hands on. We would smuggle our yummy, ill-gotten stash up to the loft in the big barn in the long-abandoned and decrepit cluster of buildings at the old, forgotten dairy  farm and partake of all that crap and just try to have a good time. Our idea of a good time of course, included talking merciless shit about the “cool kids” – who we were very much NOT a part of. One time we got out hands on a can of whipping cream and we all did whipped cream mustaches and beards. We were a fucking sticky mess! We laughed so hard that day. One time we made a big sign that said “YOUR CAR IS CHEAP!” for no reason other than it was bizarre, rude, off-the-wall and random, and we and posted the big sign on the post at the busiest traffic corner in our area – which was not very busy at all – ( it is a couple of miles away from the old dirt road to be sure). We hid in the cornfield to spy and gauge people’s reactions to the sign. I also recollect that there was also more than a bit of arguing over whether we were calling ourselves the fucking Unicorn Club or the fucking Teddy Bear Club! There were 6 of us and we were split 50/50 on the matter. It was all so sparkly girly silly! So Lisa Frank! I don’t think we ever did decide on he name of our stupid little club. Sad…! We were never even near so cool as “The Losers Club” from Stephen King’s It.

One of the girls that lived at the base of the old dirt road – she had a very serious problem – her kiddie-diddling creep of a daddy had been diddling her older sister for years (a girl who was, in fact, one of my snooty sister‘s best friends) – and now he was starting to try to diddle her. She was.. we were… only about 13, maybe 14 years old. Fucking pedos everywhere! I hate them!

This was not very long before my own episode with a different pedo would change everything.

She fled up to the old barn to get away from him one day when none of us other kids were around – summer had passed, school had started back up, and the weather was rapidly turning to shit – it was too cold and soggy to be fucking around with deep woods bike expeditions and whatnot anymore. One day she came to school with big little eyes and whispered furiously at us that we must all try to come to her house after school – she had to talk to us about something she dare not breathe a word of inside of the school.

We figured that she was FINALLY ready to report her kiddie-diddling daddy – we certainly had been encouraging her to do so – and that she wanted and needed our support. With great trepidation and alarm we went to her house after school, all of us.

What happened was NOT what we expected to happen – none of this had anything to do with her diddling daddy, other than the fact she probably wouldn’t have found what she found if he hadn’t driven her from her home with his sick horny freakiness during cold rainy late autumn weather – effectively forcing her to seek shelter in the barn. I remember now! – the girls that lived right next to her, one had a hyper-religious family that forced her into church activities (!) and the rest were engaged in other after-school activities, Junior Softball or band practice or some shit like that. She didn’t dare to try to explain to their parents why she wanted to seek refuge in their home in the absence of their daughters – she didn’t want to open that can of worms which is totally understandable. She was hiding her daddy’s rampant pedophilia. Poor kid! Fuck! She was a bitch, but man… fuck.

😦  💔 😥

I am still friends with her on Facebook to this day. She turned out alright, all things considered. She’s doing a fuck of a lot better than I am. A nice house – a job – a vehicle – a family. I don’t have any of that.

Anyway, during the gray day trudge up to the barn through the cold and rotting mush of the unkempt dirt road covered in its thick layer of rotting leaves – this was NOT a tended state road, it was nearly an afterthought – she would not even tell us what we were doing. We walked because our bikes tires would not have fared well in that mess, we would in fact have slung a slick streak of wet, leafy, muddy shit up our own backs with our rear tires if we even tried it.

She said that we had to SEE what it was that she had to tell us or else we’d think that she was pulling a shitter on us. Like many molested kids, I suppose, she had a sick, twisted and very disturbed and dark sense of humor. She was one seriously fucked-up kid. (She used to draw extremely graphically detailed pictures of male genitals, and she would fuck her cat with the eraser end of a pencil when it was in heat. It would crouch there, yowling and permit her to do it. She molested the poor animal front of me just once – I had to leave in a hurry. That shit is a little too goddamned weird for me). I can see where she would think that if she told us what she saw without us seeing it for ourselves, that we wouldn’t believe her, and that we would accuse her of trying to pull a shitter on us – it is the exact kind of thing she was often liable to do. I can see why she’d think that we wouldn’t believe her. Due to her weird sense of humor and her many strange jokes, stories and provocations, that is exactly what would have happened had she merely told us – we wouldn’t have bought it. “The Girl Who Cried Wolf” and shit, right?!… I  guess we really did have to see it to believe it

We saw it.

Now, allow me to regress. That same day at school, some freckled little punk-ass boy in our class had been crying. I found this surprising as at 13 and 14 years old, the boys were really testing out their newfound machismo and a scant few of them were even starting to sprout whiskers and muscles – a boy hadn’t cried in class like that for about 4 years – since back in the 3rd grade. I was way outside of the cool kids circle so nobody would tell me why the dude was crying, but I didn’t really care why. He made merciless fun of my poor stupid harelip and he contributed to the overall misery of my life, so frankly, I was pleased to see the little creep crying. Good! Enjoy the pain, bitch.
Even though she was outside of the cool kids club herself, the molested girl avoided his bully wrath by virtue of living very near to him and their parents being friendly neighbors with each other . I found out later that she knew why he was crying but she didn’t tell me even though I was more her friend than he was, due to what I call “Kid Politics” – the reasons that no one told  anyone about her pervert pedo-daddy were the same – Kid Politics.

Kid Politics are very real and daring to fly in the face of them can be deadly. The smaller the town, the deadlier. This town?! – Did I say town? – Hardly!! – This place makes Riverdale look like a city center, ok?!!

It’s suicide to attempt a violation of Kid Politics, even if only of the social variety.

How many of you read Stephen King’s Cujo? Not saw the movie, but read the book? Do you remember how at the end, Donna Trenton was beating Cujo off of her? The baseball bat that she was beating him with splintered and shattered, so she shoved the wooden splinter deep into his eyeball and into his rabid brain, finally killing him. After that, she discoverd that her darling Tadpole (son) was dead, so in a fury, she beat the shit out of what was left of Cujo’s corpse with what was left of the other part of the baseball bat. If anybody cares, that scene can be reviewed in all of its glory —> HERE.

I always wondered, in a macabre way, if whoever did whatever the fuck it was that happened up at that barn had read Cujo and tried to emulate that particular scene.

The little freckled bully bastard’s beloved Beagle dog was dead up in that barn… but it was not just dead. It had been brutally beaten to death, flattened, even, and with the splintered end of a baseball bat shoved deeply into its brain – via its eyeball, of course. Have you ever heard that Beatles lyric, “yellow matter custard dripping from a dead dog’s eye”? Of course you have. Everybody has. I’m guessing that either Paul or John saw something similar to this once, as it was a very apt description.

But all of that? That was just for starters.

There were also the extinguished black candle-nubs dripping now-solid wax drips down the sides of the stalls.. and the chicken heads… and the goat heads… all arranged neatly, pointing snoot-inward on the blood pentagram drawn on the floor. It appeared that everything had been there for several days, at least. What was left of the dog was badly bloated, misshapen and fly-blown from the beating, the build-up and release of gasses, and the other processes of decay. The thing was writing with maggots, as to a lesser degree were the goat and chicken heads. There was a stained burlap sack full of headless chicken bodies a few yards away. No idea where the goat bodies were.

The piggy-faced, freckled bully-boy didn’t know of his dog’s definite demise yet – he just knew it had been missing for days, which was why he had been crying, apparently. I was not a part of the scene, as the freckled bully bastard and I did not like each other at all – not even a little bit – but the molested girl told me that she told him what she had discovered a day or two after we saw it, so that he could at least stop wondering what happened to his dog.

She told us that she went back up there alone the day after she showed us the sickening mess – I can’t imagine why she would go up there ever again – especially alone! – unless it was to get away from her pedo-daddy. Again. She claimed that it was to retrieve a pack of cigarettes and her older sister’s brand new “Open Up and Say… Ahh!” Poison cassette that she had accidentally left in the loft, but, that’s just stupid… isn’t it?! ! ?!!

She claimed that while she was there, smoking in the loft, she heard a motorcycle engine. That wasn’t so unusual; even though it was clear the Christ in the middle of nowhere, there was still a pathetic little local chapter Harley Davidson clubhouse less than two miles away from the deserted ruins of the dairy farm – they held their macho manly biker meetings in an old-timey converted boxcar!

That rude and arrogant family I mentioned earlier, the ones that grew all that marijuana up in those state-owned woods – they were (and still are) big people on the local biker scene and apparently they had enough money (weed) friends (weed) and influence (weed) to attract the local HD chapter clubhouse to way out in the middle of nowhere; less than a half-mile from where they resided (and still, in fact, reside to this day). This particular motorcycle was alarmingly close… too close… right outside… and then it stopped RIGHT OUTSIDE THE BARN!!!

zShe heard the stomp-clomp rattle of heavy chained boots… she heard somebody enter the barn! She extinguished the cigarette and ducked down behind the hay bales and didn’t dare to make a sound. She said that she was terrified that he would smell the cigarette smoke and look for her – and find her and then, most likely, rape, torture and kill her. She was in the upper level of the barn – the loft – and he was below, and smoke tends to go up, so it was an unlikely scenario – and luckily, it didn’t happen. She claimed that there was a convenient crack between the moldy and rotted hay bales that hid her, through which she could watch undetected the terrifying filth and leather encrusted moose of a man who had entered the barn, looking for all the world like Leonard Smalls from Raising Arizona!

She said that while wearing leather gloves which he never removed, he snapped what he could of the melted candle nubs and most of the wax drips off of the stall railings and chucked them – along with the chicken and the goat heads – into the bag of chicken bodies, which he had peeled with a thick and horrible SCHLUK! sound off of the concrete floor where it had dried into a brown pool of blood-glue. She said that next, the dude dumped some water from a flask onto the floor and he shuffle-stomped at the blood pentagram with limp old hay and water until it was a largely unrecognizable mud-brownish pasty mess. Then he jumped on his motorcycle and left, boldly hanging the foul bag of dead critter bits off of one handlebar, presumably to be whipped deep into the nearby woods, or maybe down one of the old wells up there that out parents purported to be so terrified that one of us would end up falling into (it never happened).

He left the blown dog corpse there, with the severed bat handle still somehow popping at a jaunty angle out of its maggot-blown custard matter eye. I guess there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot he could do about it at that point, it was obviously much larger, and it was in much… runnier and… uh, much more fragrant shape than the poor, decapitated heads had been. Ew!

I was never sure whether to believe her about the biker man that she said she saw cleaning up that mess that day, but fuck, she wasn’t lying about the dead animals and the pentagram and the candles. I saw that shit with my own eyes, and I smelled it, too. I smelled it very well. She did NOT make that up, so, the biker-man part of the story is most likely true as well. Also, one of the other girls, (not the molested one) told me that the freckled bully went to the barn to confirm that the maggot-bloated, malformed ruptured mass was in fact his missing dog. It was. He didn’t see the rest of the stuff she told him about, the severed heads, the candles or the blood pentagram – but he did see wax traces and a dark, smeary stain on the floor that was too large, too obviously smeared in a circle, and too far away from his bloated dog to have possibly leaked from  the poor, mangled thing.   I guess telling me what he said wasn’t a technically true violation of Kid Politics that time, as he and I had both seen the mess, at different times, fortunately – whether we liked each other or not (we very much did not).

All of us enjoyed the run of the hills that we had – most of us were free to do as we pleased from after school until suppertime, and then often beyond. My mother, for example, didn’t give a shit where I was or what I was doing or who I was doing it with. The further away from her the happier she was – (me too) – I don’t think she would have minded much if some Satanist weirdos had abducted me. Most of the semi-normal mothers would be concerned, though, and we knew that if if we told our parents what we had seen we would lose our free rein of those miles and miles of sweet, rolling hills – the autumn blaze at that time fading away to the darker browns of winter and decay; the fields speckled with round hay bales like giant shredded wheats. We knew that if we told, we would NEVER AGAIN be allowed the freedoms that we all enjoyed.

So, the lot of us made a sort of a kid pact not to ever tell our parents or other kids – not our siblings or our classmates – what we had seen (in case one of them violated Kid Code and told an adult – it was a pretty explosive story, after all, and one with easily locatable, bloated, and rotting evidence if somebody really cared to look for it). Even the punk ass freckled bully with the murdered dog agreed not to tell what we had seen.

His own freedom was at stake, too. He lived closer to that barn than any of us, and he liked to go dirt-bike riding, snowmobiling, ATV-ing, hunting, and fishing, quite often alone. What can I say? The little prick was a sporty kid! His daddy wouldn’t allow many – or maybe ANY – of those solitary, sporty activities if he had known that there were animal mutilating Satanist fucks leaving palpable evidence of bizarre rituals in an old, dilapidated, over-grown dairy barn EXTREMELY near by his home, right?!!!!! Satanist fucks that had in fact appear to have tortured, mutilated and murdered his kid’s pet Beagle.

As far as I know, none of us kids ever did tell what we saw; not at least until so many years had gone by that we were old enough that it didn’t really matter anymore. Our freedom could no longer be revoked.

Many years later my Lhasa Apso dog Hobo was dog-napped off of an adjacent road, no more than a mile and a half away. Somebody in a car snatched his little chubby little boy body and stole him forever away. 😦

I wasn’t there and my mother, who was walking home from my grandmother’s house on foot like she always did, was too slow and too far away to prevent it. Her vision was shot so she couldn’t even get a license plate number – not that the self-centered bitch really would have cared enough to do so.

I just hope some thieving asshole that really likes dogs snatched him – not one of those murdering Satanist fucks! I will never know. 😦

I have seen a lot of sick and disturbing shit, and to this day, the contents of that barn remain one of the worst things I have ever personally seen… or smelled.

All of this is unfortunately very true.  No creepypasta bullshit here – this happened.

 

 

 

 

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