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Big Bird and Other Terrifying Stories About Cryptid Birds and Bugs
Published 3 years, 2 months ago
Description
Good evening, it's Spooky Boo Rhodes from Sandcastle, California. Tonight I have for you spooky, scary stories about cryptid bugs and birds. Birds can be very creepy when they want to be and these birds will make you want to take cover. Bugs are even worse! Ewww!
I have a story about birds of my own. It's called Hungry Little Mouths and is set in Sandcastle, California - the spookiest town in America. It is available either on my Sandcastle Horror Podcast and YouTube channel or on amazon in paperback and Kindle. A signed copy can be found on my Etsy store Spooky Boo Rhodes.
Subscribe to my YouTube channel and join our Splatterday Nightmares get together where you can sit around a campfire and listen to spooky, scary stories with the other chatters. Subscribe at www.youtube.com/@spookyboorhodes
A Childhood Memoryby CtrlAltDelete
When I was a kid, I would visit my Uncle Nathan every month or so. He lived in the middle of the woods in Washington, in this big aging Victorian house. I still remember driving up there the
first time, seeing the tall spire, its shadow seeming to envelop us as it approached. Nathan wasn't much older than my dad, who was in his late 30s, but he certainly looked older. He'd traveled all across the world and, much to my delight, he'd often regale me with stories about his time abroad. He'd talk about how he camped on the African Sahara or how he'd sailed through the Arctic Circle.
He was a bit eccentric, yes, but my Uncle was one of the finest men I knew. He was the kind of person who'd give you the last dollar he had, even if it meant he had to go hungry. He always talked about the people he met or the culture he experienced, often times while we fished for cod in the nearby river. Nathan would always talk about that old phrase "walk a mile in another man's shoes" and how I should always see both perspectives. He was a good man and, even today, I respect him infinitely.
There is one night, though, that stands out in my memory of him. I was eight at the time and the two of us had just finished working on Nathan's old jeep. The sun was just about out of sight, peeking over the mountains and casting an orange hue across the sky. Nathan sent me to bed, since we needed to be up early the next day. He hoped we could squeeze some fishing in before I had to go home. As I pulled the covers up, I heard a small clattering outside. I was curious, so I hopped out of bed and crept downstairs. The drapes were pulled back, allowing me to see Nathan, sitting on the edge of the porch. He seemed sullen, breathing heavily as he scanned the tree line. It was then that I noticed the shotgun in his right hand, cold steel shimmering in the sunset light. A small plastic bucket sat on his left, filled with some kind of indescribable red sludge.
I looked around the small clearing, noting its various landmarks. The jeep, the large rock near the trees that Nathan let me climb, even mountains in the distance. One thing that caught my eye was the shed, just off the right of the house. It was a shabbily built mess that Nathan had always kept locked and bolted tight with several chains. He'd forbid me from going inside, saying that it was filled with equipment and I could get hurt. I only remembered this because it was one of the few times Nathan had been stern with me.
Now, the shed was wide open and I could barely see the glint of metal in the darkness. The sun had finally disappeared, casting darkness across us. Nathan checked his watch and started looking around. A rustling in the bushes caught our attention; Nathan's grip on the shotgun tightened. A white form emerged from the woods, straddling across the clearing like a wounded deer. It had to have been seven feet tall, its limbs stretching and morphing as it moved. Its body was deathly white, composed of some amorphous substance not unlike gelatin. Human-like eyes peppered its form, moving to and fro in a bizarre frenzy until eventual
I have a story about birds of my own. It's called Hungry Little Mouths and is set in Sandcastle, California - the spookiest town in America. It is available either on my Sandcastle Horror Podcast and YouTube channel or on amazon in paperback and Kindle. A signed copy can be found on my Etsy store Spooky Boo Rhodes.
Subscribe to my YouTube channel and join our Splatterday Nightmares get together where you can sit around a campfire and listen to spooky, scary stories with the other chatters. Subscribe at www.youtube.com/@spookyboorhodes
A Childhood Memoryby CtrlAltDelete
When I was a kid, I would visit my Uncle Nathan every month or so. He lived in the middle of the woods in Washington, in this big aging Victorian house. I still remember driving up there the
first time, seeing the tall spire, its shadow seeming to envelop us as it approached. Nathan wasn't much older than my dad, who was in his late 30s, but he certainly looked older. He'd traveled all across the world and, much to my delight, he'd often regale me with stories about his time abroad. He'd talk about how he camped on the African Sahara or how he'd sailed through the Arctic Circle.
He was a bit eccentric, yes, but my Uncle was one of the finest men I knew. He was the kind of person who'd give you the last dollar he had, even if it meant he had to go hungry. He always talked about the people he met or the culture he experienced, often times while we fished for cod in the nearby river. Nathan would always talk about that old phrase "walk a mile in another man's shoes" and how I should always see both perspectives. He was a good man and, even today, I respect him infinitely.
There is one night, though, that stands out in my memory of him. I was eight at the time and the two of us had just finished working on Nathan's old jeep. The sun was just about out of sight, peeking over the mountains and casting an orange hue across the sky. Nathan sent me to bed, since we needed to be up early the next day. He hoped we could squeeze some fishing in before I had to go home. As I pulled the covers up, I heard a small clattering outside. I was curious, so I hopped out of bed and crept downstairs. The drapes were pulled back, allowing me to see Nathan, sitting on the edge of the porch. He seemed sullen, breathing heavily as he scanned the tree line. It was then that I noticed the shotgun in his right hand, cold steel shimmering in the sunset light. A small plastic bucket sat on his left, filled with some kind of indescribable red sludge.
I looked around the small clearing, noting its various landmarks. The jeep, the large rock near the trees that Nathan let me climb, even mountains in the distance. One thing that caught my eye was the shed, just off the right of the house. It was a shabbily built mess that Nathan had always kept locked and bolted tight with several chains. He'd forbid me from going inside, saying that it was filled with equipment and I could get hurt. I only remembered this because it was one of the few times Nathan had been stern with me.
Now, the shed was wide open and I could barely see the glint of metal in the darkness. The sun had finally disappeared, casting darkness across us. Nathan checked his watch and started looking around. A rustling in the bushes caught our attention; Nathan's grip on the shotgun tightened. A white form emerged from the woods, straddling across the clearing like a wounded deer. It had to have been seven feet tall, its limbs stretching and morphing as it moved. Its body was deathly white, composed of some amorphous substance not unlike gelatin. Human-like eyes peppered its form, moving to and fro in a bizarre frenzy until eventual