Episode Details

Good evening, it's Spooky Boo Rhodes coming to you from the KSND radiowaves of Sandcastle, California. KSND, the sound of the sea, is how we like to say it. During the day it's all classic rock and in the evening, well I entertain the residents of Sandcastle with a story or two. Stories that make their lives a little easier to live in the world of Purgatory.Today's story is by a favorite author of mine named MakRalston, also known as Haunt Former on YouTube. he enjoys writing stories that are frightening with a bit of humor and today is no different. I'm sure you'll this gruesome story both fun and creepy.Before I scare you with today's story, I'd like to thank the listeners and Patreon members including madjoe, Bobbi Elliott, PA Nightmares, Ivy Iverson, John Newby, and Patrick. If you would like to get the podcast commercial-free, visit my Patreon page at www.patreon.com/spookybooscarystorytime.Now let's begin...Roadkill Alleyby MakRalston“What do you…do all day?”The tabby looked up at me with one curious eye, the other being like a polished jewel—I could see myself within it, but I knew she couldn’t see me. I ran my fingers through the feline’s soft coat until they became ensnared in a matted clump of fur. The cat let out a little whimper before resuming its daily licking of itself.“No, seriously—what do you actually do all day?” I said, both to the cat and myself. “Sit around, eat mice, lick your puss, screw…am I missing anything?”The cat meowed an obvious ‘no’ as I nodded in agreement, still caressing the thing’s clumpy back as I watched its eyes tighten with each stroke.“Where’s your boyfriend, huh? Haven’t seen him in a while- “I looked up and squinted against the sun that was just beginning to set on Roadkill Alley—the highway just off the highway. The sign reads ‘55’ but no one around here would be caught dead traveling under ’80’. Nope—all the people caught dead around here were doing, at least, above that—85, 90…I can count.Unfortunately, most of the claims that the Alley has made over the years weren’t the jackasses booking it 105 down a residential strip. Nope—it was all the critters that paid the toll.Ssccrraappee! The sound of a snow shovel chafing the pavement only reaffirmed the aforementioned toll. There was no snow in Brackett County, but on Roadkill Alley there always seemed to be a fresh two inches of flattened fauna. And today, the type of precipitation was opossum—two to be exact—and they clearly weren’t faking it, either.We liked to call him Roadkill Randy, the proud owner, and operator, of that dark red—once bright, metallic silver—snow shovel, wrapped in his right hand with a missing pinkie. Nobody ever got his actual name, but the nickname stuck as it quite suited him—both for his unusual pastime of collecting dead animals and because his hair, or hairpiecemore likely, looked like a dead raccoon. He was an older man, maybe mid-50s to early 60s, and he seldom spoke. When he did, however, it was typically so thick and jargoned that it was hard to understand, so most of us just stuck to the niceties: smiling and waving, and maybe the occasional “great weather, huh?” My mom claims he’s hooked on pain meds or something, and that’s why his speech is so slurred. But no one knows for sure.I’ve lived on Roadkill Alley my entire life. And Randy—well, whatever his real name was, has always been here. When I was six years old, it was Randy that knocked on our front door to tell my dad that he had found Grover, our German Shepard, stapled to the highway. Dad never told me that, of course, and instead fibbed the usual “he just ran away” to soften the blow.It was my mom who told me a similar lie—that dad had gone into the military when I was eight. I believed her, for a while, but then one day—out of the blue—mom sat me down and told me the truth: dad was dead. The cops found his blood about a quarter mile down