Bogeyman

A short story by Riley J

 Down by the river we used to fish. Me and Jack’s parents would say that there was this fish creature, the Bogeyman, that lived in the river off of the main road leading into town. 

They made up this elaborate story for the Bogeyman, of how like a hundred years ago, near the river lived a little boy and his parents. And every Saturday in the spring, the little boy would go fishing in said river. The boy’s parents trusted him, and let him stay out all day until dusk.

  That was their rule. “Never stay out after the sun sets,” his parents told him, and jokingly added “or the Bogeyman will get you”. 

And he followed this rule. Well, that is until he got a little older, and as most older children do, he got a little more rebellious, a little more careless. So one day he told himself that he was going to stay out after dusk. Just a little bit. Just to see what would happen.

That morning was the last anyone heard of him. And he left without a trace, too. No rod, no nothing. The Bogeyman got him.

I guess that was our parents’ way of keeping us away from trouble; to not stay out too late. We were good kids, Jack and I, and we never stayed out longer than we were allowed.

  It had been eleven years since I last saw Jack. We kind of grew apart after middle school. I guess that’s what happens with friends sometimes.

I went back to my hometown to see my parents for the holidays. I started driving there right as I finished work on Friday, slept over at a motel, and arrived the next day.

Just for the fun of it, I went back to the river. It felt odd--a place I spent so much time at in the past, and even as I stood on the riverbank, I had never felt farther away. Farther away from anything. I felt so heavy, but weightless at the same time. 

It was getting dark by now. I turned around and started to head along the trail leading back to the road. I don’t really remember it that clearly, but I think I tripped on a root. And I remember my face hitting a rock. 

Between my unconsciousness, I could feel blood trickling from my forehead down to my lips. And--I think--there was a person, yeah. There was a person. And they were dragging me along the ground by my ankles.

  I woke up in my childhood bedroom, resting on my bed. My feet hung over the footboard. I felt a cold wetness in my pants pocket. I reached in, and took out a waterlogged piece of paper folded in two. I unfolded it, careful not to rip it in half. It only had one thing on it: “--Jack”.