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TOMMIE Old Mucky

KENDALL

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NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

BEWARE: If you’ve read my first three novels, then you

might be in for a surprise with this story. You will find no

correlation between Old Mucky and that of 101 Letters,

Forgotten Secret or The Beating Heart. This elates me, but also

frightens me. Not to mention, this is my first attempt at much

shorter writing, and at horror, too.

This story is dedicated to my father, Joe Kendall, who

provided me all the ghost stories a boy could handle growing up,

plus a little more. Though most of his stories ended with

someone, or something, headless, I always found them enjoyable.

He helped mold my imagination. He once told me a story (it was

true, as all his stories were!) about a guy who shot at him from a

tree house. Believable. Then, he said he had one eye. Believable

still. But then, he said that one eye was in the middle of his

forehead. They seemed to always have a comical twist to them,

even if unintentional.

And so it was Joe Kendall who gave you this story, because

if it weren’t for him, perhaps I never would have indulged myself

in such a disturbing plot. My hope now is that you delight (even

if it is in an unsettling way) in this story as much as I did my

father’s.

Tommie Kendall

December 2016

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This is for my family, and all of our memories on Scrabble

Road – it was the best of times

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Old Mucky

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Front page from the Shelbyville (Ky) Sentinel News,

September 1, 1937:

ONE DEAD, ONE MISSING ON SCRABBLE ROAD

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One

937.

It was the year of Old Mucky.

This was just two years prior to the start of another world

war and it was as if there was a depression within the depression

in towns all across the country. It was also the year of a dry spell

that swept across the land in the southeast. In the United States,

Franklin D. Roosevelt was sworn into office, the Hindenburg

exploded, Amelia Earhart went missing, and Snow White and

the Seven Dwarfs premiered. Mostly around these parts though,

1937 was known as the year that Old Mucky showed up on the

small Monroe farm, wreaking havoc.

The details could be read in the local papers during the

months that followed, and in later years on the anniversaries of

the tragic events. They remained there for anyone who cared

enough to look. And the remnants of those strange eight days

were found in a Kentucky mental hospital some forty years later,

where an old man by the name of Jack Monroe was whittling

away, still searching for Old Mucky – if only in his mind. Just an

afternoon’s drive from that same mental hospital, off of Scrabble

Road deep within Shelby County, sat a large, boarded-up home

that was eerily empty. The only visitors were snakes, rats, other

creatures of the night and the occasional teenagers whom worked

up enough courage to squeeze their way through the front door

on a dare, only to be sent running back to the now-paved road.

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Tires could be heard screeching on that road from time to time,

and that’s when you knew Old Mucky got the best of them.

The neighbors say they hear it every so often – the squeals

that come from an animal that seems neither living nor dead.

Sometimes, even, they say they can hear screams from a little

girl. They swear to it. It’s worst on those nights when a full

moon is visible through the tall trees.

Drive north on Scramble Road to the old cemetery that

hasn’t seen a new body in decades, and one small tombstone is

also a reminder. It’s just another piece to a puzzle that’ll never

be solved. It’s the puzzle of Old Mucky and the little girl.

Rewind to 1937, to that same house on Scrabble Road, to

that small Kentucky town – if you could even call it that? – and

the Monroe family was normal for the times. Jack was a hard-

working, ill-tempered brute of a man in his late 40s. He prided

himself on three things: his beautiful wife, Francis – nearly 20

years his junior – their six-year-old daughter, Martha, and the

ground he farmed on.

Jack and Francis were married in 1927 and claimed a large

piece of land. It was just the way they wanted it. They were

newlyweds with what seemed like a lifetime ahead of them. It

took Jack three years to lay the last board and put on the final

coat of paint on their plantation-style dream home, as he

promised he would provide the day he proposed. And it was just

in time for baby Martha, who was born a healthy baby girl in

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1931. The three lived secluded among the trees and, despite the

sadness that engulfed the entire country and the fear of another

long war looming ahead, they were satisfied with their world.

That was, until Old Mucky decided to show up. It came

without warning, leaving a family torn apart and questions with

answers that never came. After Old Mucky arrived and left, the

Monroes were never the same again, and it took a long while for

the community to get over those tragic events, too. Jack,

Francis, Martha and Old Mucky – for decades to come, the tales

would scare anyone who dared to know the truth behind that

mysterious week off Scrabble Road.

Those screeching tires, the squeals of the animal, the cries of

a little girl and an old man locked away in a mental institute are

proof to it. But the real truth is that eerie feeling one gets when

walking down Scrabble Road in the dark, because it’s impossible

to not feel the presence of Old Mucky – even if you’re unaware

exactly what you’re feeling. It’s always there, waiting in the

dark, behind each tree.

This is the story of Old Mucky. And as unlikely as it seems,

these events are true.

Two

“Ma, I don’t want to leave you and Pa,” Martha cried into

her pillow as her mother stroked her back with her free hand. It

was nearing nine o’clock and the only light in the house came

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from the lantern Ma was holding. “It ain’t fair! It ain’t fair at

all!”

“Now it’ll be all right, and you know it,” the girl’s mother

reassured her. “Schooling ain’t so bad. You can meet other kids.

I bet you’ll like them all right.”

“But what if I don’t?” the girl asked between sobs. She was

shaking now, a side effect of trying not to cry, afraid of what Pa

would say if arrived home and heard the commotion. She didn’t

want the belt.

“Oh you will like them all right.”

“Ma, you promise?”

Ma hesitated for a moment. Honestly, she wasn’t so sure

herself, but didn’t want to tell her daughter this. She insisted that

everything would be okay. “You will like them all right. I

promise.”

It was the night before little six-year-old Martha started first

grade at Cropper School. Her father never attended any

schooling when he was younger in the late 1890s, and her

mother went through the third grade some twenty years later

before dropping out like most of her classmates.

Martha buried her face back into the pillow, weeping once

more. A breeze picked up, flowing into the upstairs room

window that was slightly cracked open. It had been one of the

hottest summers on record, and though the sun was now out of

sight, the heat loomed behind.

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“Don’t you want to learn? To be smart?” Ma asked. “Don’t

you want to grow up with a big old brain?”

“Pa said he didn’t go to school a single day of his life,”

Martha argued, “and I think he’s smart enough.”

“Well that’s true,” Ma said. “Your Pa is smart enough.

But…”

“But…” Martha urged her on, trying to find a hint that it was

possible she didn’t really have to go to school and could stay

home with Pa and Ma instead.

“But you ain’t going to stay here your whole life, work on

this farm and live with Pa and Ma. One day you’re going to be

on your own, and you’ll need to make your own decisions and

you’ll need to learn as much as you can now so you make the

right ones.”

“Well, I want to make my own decision now,” Martha

demanded, growing louder than she wanted, or intended. “And

I’ve decided that I don’t want to go to school tomorrow, the next

day or any day for that matter.”

“I said you can make decisions one day, but not now,” Ma

said, and kissed the back of Martha’s head. “Now that’s enough

for tonight. Get your rest, you’ll need it. You have a big day

tomorrow.”

“But Ma—”

“But nothing,” she said, the sorry now parting her voice,

leaving a hardened tone behind.

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The debate would be over soon, or Pa would have to deal

with Martha the best way he knew how. Neither of them wanted

that.

“Now get your rest, Martha. And you better be asleep before

Pa gets home, or else.”

Martha knew what that meant – the or else part – and also

knew this was an argument she couldn’t win. With watery eyes,

Ma walked away from her. Holding the lantern, Ma took the last

traces of light away, as well.

Three

Martha had a dreamless night that went way too quickly –

once she was able to fall asleep that was. The sunlight that came

shining into her room woke her before Ma could. Meanwhile,

though Pa arrived home well after she was sound asleep, he was

already outside on the farm.

The plan for Martha’s first day of school, as they discussed

at the dinner table the day before, was for the nearest neighbors’

boy, Johnny, to stop by the house at eight o’clock. Johnny was

ten years old and this would be his fifth year in school. The two

would walk to the bus stop a little more than a mile away, where

Scrabble Road met Cedamore Road near the old cemetery. In the

new yellow bus, which shook and rattled, it would be about a

thirty-minute ride to arrive at Cropper – or that’s what Pa

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estimated anyway. With stops, he calculated, maybe forty-five

minutes. Being the first day and all, he finally said, maybe sixty.

Martha ate two eggs and a slice of bread quickly, took a big

gulp of fresh milk, and ran down the driveway when she spotted

Johnny. She liked Johnny. He was big and strong for his age, and

seemed to always have kind words to say to both adults and

children. Even Martha knew that was uncommon for a boy his

age. Unlike the other kids who walked up and down the gravel

road or played in the fields or nearby creeks, Johnny was nice to

her. Plus, he’d walked to school hundreds of times, Ma had told

her yesterday, so he would know what to do.

“Well hello, Martha,” Johnny said with a smile, not even

breaking stride as Martha ran up beside him, a lunchbox in her

hand. Johnny held a sack lunch and his long strides allowed him

to take one step to Martha’s two. Spot, the Monroe’s dog, ran

alongside them for a few minutes before abandoning that

decision and running back to the house instead.

“You excited for school?” Johnny asked, after looking over

his shoulder to make sure Spot was headed in the right direction.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“You scared?”

“A little,” she said.

“Don’t worry, I was too,” Johnny assured her.

“You are?”

“Well, I’m not scared now,” he said with a chuckle. “But I

was my first day. It’ll be okay though, you’ll see. The teachers

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can be a little mean at times but it’s for our own good, and most

of the kids are nice and all.”

They walked on in silence for a few minutes, Martha jogging

every few minutes to close the gap to Johnny.

“And I’ll tell you what,” Johnny said. “If you have any

problems with anyone, anyone at all, then just let me know. I’ll

take care of it.”

Martha looked up at Johnny as they walked and smiled. She

liked him – liked him a bunch.

Four

It was later that day – another hot one! – when Ma and Pa

were in the garden, pulling weeds and checking on the

vegetables. After Pa attended to the chickens, cattle and horses,

he would typically help Ma in the garden. This was one of the

chores Martha would assist with normally, too. The dry summer

wasn’t helping the garden much, which seemed to put Pa in an

even grumpier mood lately.

Francis was whistling and softly singing hymns when she

engaged a conversation about Martha.

“I wonder how she’s doing?” she asked.

“She’s fine,” Pa said.

“Well she was all worried last night.”

“That’s normal, Francis.”

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“I know, but she was just so worried. It’s her first day and

all.”

“That’s your problem,” he said. “You worry too much. Now

I’m telling you, she’ll be fine.”

Pa stopped what he was doing with his hands, rose up and

used his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. It was a

hot day – he was guessing at least ninety-five with not the

slightest hint of wind – and he was looking forward to drinking a

big cup of ice water during their break for lunch. Ma went back

to whistling and thinking about Martha at school – wondering

what she was doing at that exact moment. But she kept those

thoughts from her husband.

Just then, there was a noise coming from the bush just off

from the garden. Ma heard it and stood up. Pa did the same.

They heard the noise again, sounding as if it was getting closer.

Ma wanted to speak but knew better. Pa started to say something

just as a large hog appeared in a small clearing.

It was big with dark, brown fur and a slight shade of pink on

its snout. It had pointy ears – ugly as snot! – and had to be more

than one-hundred pounds. Pa thought it might even be as big as

two-hundred pounds as he slowly took two steps to his left. He

picked up a nearby rake and lifted it over his head like he was

Babe Ruth in the World Series.

“Martha-don’t-move,” Pa said in a low and slow voice.

There hadn’t been any wild hogs in the area in a while but Pa

knew they meant trouble when they showed up. During a

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drought, it meant even more trouble. They were nothing but a

nuisance.

The two – Pa and the wild hog – looked at each other just

long enough for Pa to get uncomfortable. In a moment of furry,

he ran after the pig, taking five steps to quickly close the gap

between the two. With the rake still over his head, he swung it

across his body in one fluid motion. At that exact moment, the

hog realized what was going on and put its head down. It

stormed toward Pa. The rake missed the hog and went flying

through the air instead, barely missing Ma.

Pa fell on his elbow, and the weight of his body caused him

to roll over a few times. By the time he regained his balance and

stood up, the hog was trampling its way through the garden. A

whole line of vegetables was already destroyed before Pa started

screaming.

“Get the hell outta here!” he yelled as loud as he could,

chasing the hog with fists balled up. “Get out! Get out!”

By then, Ma – at first shocked by the events – was

screaming, as well. Between the loud sounds, Spot could be

heard barking from the front yard at the top of the hill, adding to

the commotion.

The hog ran to the other side of the garden, turned to look at

the two, and traced its steps backwards until it was in the bushes

again, squealing the entire time. Once it was out of sight, and

they could hear the god-awful squeals no more, Pa surveyed the

damage. He shook his head.

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“Just our luck, and it had to happen today, and it had to

happen during the hottest month these parts had ever seen, in the

middle of the driest summer,” he said, to no one in particular.

Ma stood by, silent. “That’s got to be the ugliest damn pig I’ve

ever seen, and a dead one at that.”

Pa fingered through some vegetables to see what was

salvageable. It was already going to be a tough few months

ahead – now even worse.

“I tell you what, Francis,” he said, even though his words

weren’t really attended for her. “I’ll kill that pig. Mark my words

– that pig will die.”

Five

Martha had little to say when she arrived home from school.

She seemed to have no feelings one way or the other toward her

first day. This was surprising to Ma, mainly because that was all

Martha talked about for the last year.

“So how was it?” Ma asked.

“It was all right,” she replied, seeming unsure of what to say.

She fiddled with her fingers at the kitchen table as Ma made

dinner.

“And…”

“I said it was all right,” Martha reiterated. “I don’t want to

talk about it. I’m tired.”

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“Well did you meet any friends?”

“Johnny.”

“You already knew Johnny,” Ma said. “I meant did you meet

any other friends?”

“Yes.”

“What were their names?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Martha!” Ma shouted, wiping her hands on a red, hand

towel. She wore a matching apron. “Don’t you go off getting

sassy with me.”

“I’m sorry, Ma, I said I’m tired. Can we talk about this later?

Please?”

Pa came in the kitchen just as Martha stood up and walked

out.

“What’s wrong with her?” Pa asked.

“I don’t know.” Ma faced the stove again. “She says she’s

tired.”

“Well she better straighten up,” he said. “It’s been a long day

for all of us.”

Six

Just prior to bedtime that night, Ma went to Martha’s room

to tuck her in – their normal routine. But she couldn’t find her.

She checked the other rooms upstairs. Nothing. She walked

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down the stairs. They creaked with each step. Martha wasn’t in

the living room. She wasn’t in the kitchen. Ma nearly stepped on

a mouse that quickly ran past.

“Martha,” Ma called out. “Martha. Where are you?”

She heard sniffling from the kitchen so retraced her steps.

The sniffling grew louder. She reached for the doorknob on the

counter cabinet and opened it to find Martha curled in a ball,

crying. Ma should have known that’s where Martha would be.

Anytime something was bothering her then that was her go-to-

place, where she could escape. When asked why, Martha said it

was her safe place. Pa didn’t like it too much but Ma didn’t see

any harm with it so let her be.

“Martha, do you know what time it is?” Ma asked. Martha

always was an emotional girl, but it wasn’t like her to be so

upset. Lately, she seemed more sad than happy.

“I know Ma,” she said, still sniffling. “But I’m scared.”

“Now you get out of there,” Ma said. “There’s absolutely

nothing to be scared about.”

“But Pa’s going to kill me,” Martha said.

“You know Pa’s never going to kill you,” she said. “Why in

the world would you even say words like that?”

“I did something awful,” Martha said.

“I’m certain it ain’t that bad and I’m even more certain Pa

ain’t going to kill you,” Ma said. She grabbed Martha by the

arm, pulling her out of the cabinet. She stood Martha to her feet,

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dusted off her legs. She looked her in the eyes, seeing the

sadness.

“Now listen to me. No matter what you did, I’m certain it’ll

be okay.” She paused for a moment. “Was it something that

happened at school?”

Martha shrugged.

“I want to help you, honest to God I do,” Ma said. “There’s

nothing I dislike more than when Pa wears you out with that belt

of his. But if you don’t talk, then I can’t listen, and I can’t help.

So you gotta tell me what’s wrong.”

Martha nodded her head up and down. She began to speak

but just then they could hear the front door open and close. Pa

appeared in the room.

“Martha, what are you still doing up?” he asked as soon as

he noticed her. “You have school tomorrow, young lady.”

“She was just getting a drink,” Ma said. “She’ll be back in

bed soon.”

Ma gave Martha a look like we’ll-talk-about-this-later and

then led her upstairs.

“Ma, one more thing,” Martha said after climbing into the

bed. “I had an awful dream. Pa was so mad at me that he wanted

to kill me. I was playing in the trees and then there he was, and

he wanted to hurt me, hurt me badly. He looked so angry, so

mad, and I didn’t even know why. He was screaming and yelling

and wanted to hurt me. And then he…”

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“Now Martha,” Ma cut her off midsentence. “You know

that’s only a dream. You need to stop all this nonsense of Pa

trying to kill you. There is absolutely no reason to ever think

your Pa is going to kill you.”

Ma pulled the blanket to Martha’s neck. When she realized

how hot it was, she lowered it to her waist. She kissed her

forehead. Martha flinched.

“Stop worrying, will you?” Ma said, more demanding than

asking.

“Ma,” Martha added.

“Yes.” More mice could be heard, this time in Martha’s

room.

“You were there, too.”

“I was where?” Ma asked.

“In my dream, in the trees, with Pa and me,” she answered.

“You were there. And Ma, I think you wanted me dead, too.”

Just then, there was a loud stomp on the floor downstairs.

“Got the bastard!” they heard Pa say.

Martha’s eyes sunk into her head, even more frightened.

Seven

The next three days came and went without much incident.

Pa kept an eye out for the hog but it never showed up. The

damage to the garden wasn’t nearly as bad as he initially

thought. Martha talked much more about school in the evenings;

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she actually seemed excited to be going. Johnny picked her up

each morning and walked her to the bus stop. She sat next to

Janice – her new best friend – on the bus and at school. This

made her excited. There were no nighttime fits or visits to her

safe place. For the most part, everything seemed to be back to

normal.

But on Friday, as Martha was sitting in the first-grade

classroom at Cropper School, everything was about to change

once again on the Monroe property. It was all due to that hog.

At midday, Pa and Ma were at the creak washing off when

they spotted the large hog roaming around the embankment. It

wasn’t paying the Monroes any attention. Ma was fine by this.

As for Pa, he desperately wanted that hog dead. He wished he’d

brought his rifle to the creak that day – he thought about it before

they headed down the hill, just in case that hog showed up again.

Pa kept quite – they both did. They thought the hog was

going to wobble off into the woods but when Pa splashed his

hands in the water in front of him, it turned back toward them.

Pa whispered, “Francis, get out of the water.”

Ma did just that. Pa and the hog were starring at each other;

Pa was still waist deep in the water and the hog on the land. The

hog stepped its front foot into the water, then its next, then all

four, causing mud to instantly form around his body. Pa looked

for something to grab. He picked up a branch that was floating

past. The mud expanded away from the hog, which engulfed the

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clothes they were washing. This infuriated Pa even more. He

mumbled under his breath.

The hog snorted twice and then slowly stepped toward Pa.

“Jack, be careful,” Ma said.

The hog seemed to think about lunging toward Pa for the

briefest of moments, but then thought differently and turned

upstream instead. Pa could had let it be at that point – he was

certain of it – but he had so much anger toward the hog that he

wanted to wound it, or at least teach it a lesson. He squeezed his

fingers tightly around the branch.

Pa moved toward the hog’s backside, slowly at first and then

faster as he crept toward the embankment until he was ankle

deep in water.

Without warning, Pa ran towards the hog as quickly as he

could, splashing through the water with every footfall. He

smacked the branch against the hog’s side with enough force to

snap it. The hog let out a loud snort and wail that echoed through

the trees.

The hog lunged away, but Pa moved quicker and kicked it

on the side – the hog snorted and wailed. It was angry now, and

just as Pa went for another kick, the hog moved away and Pa fell

on his back into the water, smacking his head against a rock.

Blood instantly filled the shallow water around him. This time, it

was Pa who moaned. He grabbed for the back of his head. He

felt dizzy as darkness crept into his vision. It took all his might to

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keep his face from falling underwater. Eventually, he lost all

strength; his face was now submerged under the bloody water.

“Jack!” Ma cried out and ran into the water. The hog looked

over at Ma, snorted three times, and wobbled off into the woods,

leaving Ma and her injured husband behind.

When she reached him, Ma grabbed Pa by the shoulders and

lifted him up. She was afraid he wouldn’t be breathing, but he

gasped for breath. She reached around and felt the back of his

head, her fingers feeling a large gash. She tried to pull and hold

his skin together.

It took her the better part of two hours to get him back to

their home – all the while he was moaning and groaning – and

when he refused a trip to the hospital, she laid him on the couch

and put a washcloth on his forehead instead.

“Oh Jack,” she said. “Let me take you the hospital. You’re

hurt. Please let me take you to the hospital. At least, let me call

the doc.”

For the thousandth time, he shook his head no. Pa didn’t

need the hospital or a doctor – he just needed rest.

“That damn hog…” he started to say, in a voice barely

louder than a whisper.

“Now hush it,” Ma said. “Don’t worry about that hog. You

need your rest. Just relax.”

He tried to stay awake, blinking variously, but eventually

gave in and darkness overtook his surroundings once more.

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Eight

As night reached the Monroe home late on Friday, it had

been a slumber fest all evening. Pa was in and out of sleep since

the accident. Ma kept a watchful eye over him as much as

possible. Martha arrived home in low spirits and, out of

character, took a lengthy nap, as well.

It was Martha’s first non-school night since she started at

Cropper, and because Pa was in no condition to make such non-

consequence decisions, Ma took it upon herself to hash out a few

rules for such occasions. She said Martha could stay up later than

normal, she could listen to the radio and they could eat dinner in

the living room. But even this had a small reaction on Martha,

who had little to say since school.

With Pa on the couch, Ma sitting next to him and Martha

cross-legged on the floor, the Lone Ranger was playing on the

radio. The storyline was heard despite the static. Typically,

Martha would be ecstatic to be able to listen to the Lone Ranger

with Ma and Pa – except for special occasions, they only listened

to news broadcasts or baseball games – but she wasn’t feeling

very well on this night. She picked at the plate of food in front of

her. Ma thought she was worried about Pa.

“What’s the matter with you?” Pa asked, not bothering to

even look her way.

“Nothing,” Martha said.

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“You better snap out of it. I ain’t got no energy to deal with

you tonight.”

Ma rubbed Pa’s legs. The three listened to the radio for a few

more minutes as the Lone Ranger continued.

“Can I be excused?” Martha asked. “I’m not feeling well.”

“No,” Pa said. “We’re having family time. Now listen to the

radio and eat your cotton-picking food.”

Martha tried a bite of corn but couldn’t seem to swallow

anything. Her stomach was hurting and she felt nauseated.

“I’m taking my gun with me down to the creak tomorrow,”

Pa said to Ma, paying no attention to Martha. “That damn hog is

going to be a dead hog.”

“Now hush, Jack, don’t worry about that hog right now,” Ma

said.

“I’m telling you,” he said. “He trampled our garden, got our

creak water all muddy and attacked me – almost sent me straight

to the hospital. We can’t be having no wild animal running

around these parts.”

Pa’s head was bandaged up. Ma did her best to clean the

wound and hold the gash together. She was insisted that he visit

the doctor but finally gave up on the argument when she knew it

was one she wouldn’t win.

“I’m going to take a gun with me every single day until I see

that hog again. It’ll come back, and when it does, I’ll kill it

dead.”

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Just as the Lone Ranger ended, Martha asked if she could be

excused again. Pa said yes this time. She turned back around

when she got to the door.

“Why do you want to kill the pig?” she asked. “From talking

to Ma, you attacked it anyway.”

Pa looked at her with a stone face and eyes that could pierce

through fire. He looked at Ma, then back to Martha.

“That pig attacked me, and it’s a dead pig the first time I get

a clear shot. And that pig isn’t even a pig at all, it’s a wild hog. A

wild hog that could do harm to this farm and this family and a

little girl like you. I can kill anything I want to on this farm.”

Martha looked back at him. “So, would you kill Spot if he

attacked you?”

“Spot is a pet, a dog. Spot ain’t a damn fool to attack me like

this wild hog. And Spot has a name.”

There was silence for a few moments.

“Old Mucky,” Martha blurted out after giving it thought.

“What?” Pa asked, confused.

“Old Mucky,” she repeated quickly this time. “The pig or

hog or wild hog, whatever you want to say it is. Its name is Old

Mucky. So now you can’t kill it.”

“Have you lost your ever-loving mind, young lady?” Pa

asked.

“It’s your rule,” she said, “so now you can’t kill the pig

because it has a name.”

She turned, and walked away.

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Nine

Martha finished her business in the wooden outhouse that sat

a hundred or so yards behind the house. She grabbed the lantern

so she could see her way back. It was after midnight and both Pa

and Ma were fast asleep inside.

Typically, Martha wasn’t the type of kid to be spooked out,

even when it was pitch-black out like tonight, but she had been

thinking about the pig all day on Saturday and was thinking what

would happen if Old Mucky really was a mean, wild hog and

came at her like he did Pa two days earlier.

Pa wasn’t well enough to go out on Saturday morning like he

planned, but he did later that evening. Old Mucky never showed.

Martha was thankful for this, but part of her really wanted to see

the pig. Pa said that he would take his gun out again on Sunday,

Monday and each day thereafter until the hog came back. When

Martha insisted that she wanted to see it, Pa said she would but

only when it was dead. Martha thought it was silly that Pa

wanted to kill the pug so badly.

But now, with Pa asleep and his gun next to his bed, Martha

was scared of Old Mucky for the first time.

She closed the wooden door behind her and stepped onto the

moist grass with bare feet. The door creaked shut. When it

29

closed all the way, there was a faint noise. She jumped, dropping

the lantern to the ground.

Just as she bent over the pick it up, she heard a louder noise

coming from the trees just behind the outhouse. It got closer. She

could hardly breathe. It didn’t help when she heard a snorting

sound from the same direction.

“Old Mucky,” she said, as if it knew its name and would

somehow be a gentler pig if she was nice first. “Hello. Old

Mucky? Is that you? Don’t be afraid, boy, it’s only me. Old

Mucky?”

She bent down the rest of the way, felt for the lantern,

grabbed a hold of the handle and stood back up. She debated to

look the direction of the trees – where the noise was coming

from – but opted against it. She decided she would rather not

know if something was actually there or not – be it Old Mucky

or something else entirely.

Instead, she took a deep breath and ran as quickly as she

could to the house, like something was chasing her – maybe, it

was. She almost fumbled with the lantern as it swung next to her

side, nearly dropping it twice but catching it each time. Her legs

turned over as quickly as they could. Her breathing got heavier

and heavier as air filled her lungs. She could hear something

behind her, getting closer and closer. It was nearly right up on

her, she figured, when she reached for the doorknob of the

backdoor and swung it open. The door slammed behind her.

That was close, Martha thought, panting for air.

30

There was scratching on the door and what sounded like

heavy snoring on the other side. Something was trying to get in.

She stood and slowly backed away, almost knocking over the

coat rack. She covered her mouth with her left hand to keep from

screaming.

She knew better than to wake Ma or Pa, so she crept her way

into the kitchen, opened the cabinet door to her safe place and

climbed inside, closing the door behind her. She flicked on the

lantern. The back door opened slowly, so she pulled her legs to

her chest and started rocking back and forth. She had a sick

feeling in her stomach and was now shaking. A mouse ran across

the inside of the cabinet but she didn’t even notice.

“Pa,” she cried with a low voice that barely escaped the

small space she hid. “Help me, Pa. Don’t let Old Mucky get me.

Kill it, Pa, kill it dead.”

She heard something on the kitchen floor now, like whatever

it was, it was circling; it casted a shadow inside the cabinet so

she turned off the lantern, taking all the light with it. The sound

got closer to the cabinet door. There was sniffing. The heavy

breathing was back. Martha wanted to scream but she was too

frightened. She squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could,

praying.

“Please God, don’t let Mucky in; please God let Pa save me.

Please God, don’t let Mucky in; please God let Pa save me...”

31

She lowered her head between her legs and cried, wanting

more than anything for her Pa to kill that mean, wild hog. She

hated it. She despised it. She, too, now wanted Old Mucky dead.

“Old Mucky,” she cried out, “leave me alone. Please, please,

please leave me alone. I’m sorry, Pa. I’m sorry, Pa.”

Ten

It was Monday morning – the start of the second full week of

Martha going to Cropper School. When Ma went into her

bedroom to wake her, Martha was already awake. She was

sitting up in bed but facing the opposite wall. Ma was worried

about Martha. She slept most of Sunday and was acting as if she

was scared of something. It had to do with that hog, Ma would

swear to it, and Pa’s insistence that he had to kill it soon.

Ma walked over and touched Martha on the back. Martha

jumped like she was stung by a bee. But her face remained

facing the opposite wall. She didn’t make a sound.

“It’s time for school, Martha,” Ma said. “Are you okay?

Why you so jumpy, baby?”

When Martha turned around, her face was as pale as snow

but her eyes as red as fire. There were dried up tears that stopped

streaming down her face sometime in the middle of the night.

Her hair was matted in sweat. Ma shook her shoulders. Martha’s

expression was blank.

32

“Martha! Martha! What’s wrong, dear? What’s wrong?”

“I… I… I don’t know,” Martha finally said, struggling to

speak. Her voice was hoarse. “I feel… strange. I don’t… know,

Ma. I really… don’t.”

Martha didn’t cry this time. She just starred at her mother

with a void look on her face. Ma hugged her, and then pulled her

away so she could get a better look. She didn’t look like her baby

girl at all.

“Oh Martha,” she said. “I don’t think you can go to school

today. Maybe it’s the flu or something. You want to stay in bed

today, honey?”

Martha didn’t respond. She just starred. In that instant,

somehow, her face seemed to be even whiter and her eyes

redder.

“It’s… awful,” Martha finally said. “It’s awful and Pa… he’s

going to kill me. I promise… you, Ma, Pa’s… gonna… kill me.”

Eleven

“Jack, I really think something’s wrong with her,” Ma

pleaded as they walked alongside the creek bed, with Spot by

their side this time. Martha was sleeping back at the house and

Ma was trying to hurry with the clothes today so she could check

on her.

33

“What have I told you about all that worrying?” he asked,

though didn’t expect an answer. “She’ll be fine. She probably

just came down with something. She’ll be back to herself in no

time. She probably could have gone to school today. I told you I

didn’t want her missing.”

“Nonsense,” Ma said. “You didn’t see her this morning. She

looked… looked… I can’t even explain the way she looked. Her

face. Her eyes. I mean –“

“That’s enough, Francis,” Pa said, and he meant it. “She’s

fine. Don’t you go making a bigger deal than what it is.”

Pa placed his riffle next to a big bush and started to help Ma

with the clothes.

Meanwhile, Spot seemed to notice something in the trees. He

barked and ran off into the distance, but Pa and Ma didn’t pay

him any attention. Spot was never seen again.

Twelve

Ms. Morris – the first-grade teacher at Cropper School –

knocked on the Monroe’s front door for ten straight minutes. She

made the trip to their home right after classes let out to make

sure she had the opportunity to speak with them. It was no use.

She walked one lap around the house, left a note on the rocker by

the door and walked down the gravel driveway, hoping she’d run

into them on the way out.

34

Thirteen

The Monroe house was now completely empty. It was

nearing four o’clock in the afternoon and Pa and Ma were still at

the creek. They both supposed their six-year-old daughter was

sleeping in her room. But they were wrong. The clothes that

Martha was wearing earlier that morning were tossed around on

top of her bed, but she was nowhere in sight. Unknowingly to

everyone else, Martha was gone.

Fourteen

At the exact same time Ms. Morris was departing the

Monroe farm, Ma and Pa were in the creek at the bottom of the

hill. They had no idea that Ms. Morris had stopped by and left a

note, and there was no indication that Martha was anywhere

other than in her bed. There was a lot they didn’t know that day.

Ma was anxious to get back to her ill daughter. Pa was still

bandaged up but was eyeing the riffle every so often, anxious to

get a clear shot at that hog. He had revenge on his mind. Little

did he know, his big chance was right around a tree.

35

Old Mucky showed itself on the embankment. It was as if

one moment it wasn’t there, then the next it was. Ma froze –

ankle deep in water – and Pa lunged for his riffle. He picked up

the riffle, placed it to his shoulder and when he turned to face the

hog again, Old Mucky had vanished.

“Where’d it go?” Pa asked Ma.

“Oh Jack, let it be,” Ma said. “Please, just let it go. You’re

gonna get yourself hurt again. Please, just let it be. I beg of you.”

“Francis,” he said, softly, “where did that hog go?”

She didn’t respond.

“Where is he?!” he yelled. He heard a noise coming from his

right side, and when he pointed the gun in that direction, a few

birds flew away instead.

“He went that way,” Ma finally said, pointing to the opposite

direction.

Pa, who was barely out of the water now, spat on the ground

and turned left toward the direction Ma pointed.

“Be careful, Jack,” Martha warned.

“Its fine,” he said, and took two steps toward the trees.

Pa thought he saw the hog but noticed it was only a tree

stomp. At that moment he felt his feet lift off the ground and he

flung back in one quick motion. The rifle flew from his hands.

He splashed into the shallow water.

When he regained his composure, rising to his knees, Old

Mucky was snorting at him, just feet away. Pa didn’t move at

first. Somehow, Old Mucky appeared even bigger and uglier at

36

this close of a distance. Pa felt the hot breath from the hog blow

across his face with each snort. Its slightly pink nose was

twitching.

Slowly, Pa started to stand but Old Mucky moved forward,

knocking him back to the ground. Pa was the one frightened

now. Ma watched what was going on but was motionless. Inside

though, she was begging for Pa to be okay.

Old Mucky let out the loudest snort Pa or Ma ever heard. It

blew the bandage off of Pa’s head, revealing the large gash in the

back of his head. Blood instantly poured down his backside and

into the water. The snort echoed throughout every tree in the

forest, it seemed.

(Ms. Morris, who was now more than a mile away from the

Monroe farm, heard the snort, as well, hesitated for a brief

moment, but continued walking.)

The snort was the kind of sound that had meaning, like Old

Mucky was trying to tell Pa something. Old Mucky let out a few

quieter and shorter snorts, and turned away from Pa. The old hog

walked back onto dry land, wobbling away.

Once it reached the tree line, Pa jumped up, grabbed his

riffle and pointed it at the hog’s backside. He placed his right

pointy finger on the trigger.

As if he knew what was happening, Old Mucky stopped in

its track. It slowly turned around. Pa and Old Mucky made eye

contact, and for the briefest of moments Pa thought he

recognized those eyes. Pa blinked hard to shake those thoughts,

37

closed his right eye and aimed. Finally, Old Mucky was in his

sights. Old Mucky was all his.

Pa pulled the trigger.

Fifteen

The blast from the riffle seemed to make time stand still all

around them. Pa had a ringing in his ear and he could see Ma’s

mouth open from the corner of his eye, though he couldn’t hear

any noise coming from her.

Old Mucky was hit with the first shot, stumbling backwards

as soon as the bullet entered the hog’s side, ripping flesh. There

was a splatter of blood that hit a nearby tree. Old Mucky fell to

its front legs, snorted, shook its head, and stood tall again. The

hog shook when Pa aimed a second time.

The ringing in his ear was still there when he pulled the

trigger again. The second shot hit Old Mucky close to the first

wound, tearing flesh once again. This time Old Mucky fell all

the way to the ground. The hog moaned in agonizing pain.

Eventually, the hog rose to its feet once more. Pa aimed for a

third time but didn’t pull the trigger. Exhausted, he dropped the

riffle at the same time that Old Mucky stumbled off into a

clearing in the trees.

38

Ma ran over to Pa just as he fell, his back hitting against a

tree. There was blood pouring out of the back of his head. On the

opposite side, where Old Mucky was shot, it looked as if there

had been a slaughter.

“I got the son of a bitch,” Pa said. There was a small grin

that formed on the right side of his lips. “Old Mucky is as good

as dead now.”

Sixteen

Ma helped Pa across the creek. The two began a slow walk

up the hill, toward their home. There wasn’t much said between

the two – what could they say? The Old Mucky saga was over

and they would soon be home to their daughter. After a day of

rest, Ma figured Martha would be as good as new. Their life, as

they knew it, would be back to normal.

As they were cresting the hill, they noticed Johnny running

toward them. He was coming from the direction of his place. Ma

and Pa were confused as to why he would be out that way on a

Monday evening after school. When he saw the Monroes, he ran

faster.

“Everything okay?” Johnny asked as he ran over to the two.

Pa’s shirt was covered in blood and he had the riffle slung over

his shoulder. Ma also had a few splattered spots on her clothes.

They left the rest of their belongings down by the creek.

39

“Its fine,” Pa said, out of breath.

“Yes, its fine, Johnny,” Ma said, sounding more coherent

than her husband “There’s just been an accident, that’s all. But

we’re fine. It’s okay now.”

“Is this why Martha wasn’t at school?” Johnny asked. His

eyes were glued to Pa’s blood-stained shirt.

“No,” Ma said. “Martha was sick today. But she should be

back in school tomorrow. Thank you for helping her last week.

She really likes you, Johnny.”

Ma and Pa had stopped walking, leaning against a tree. Pa

could hardly hold up his head.

“She wasn’t feeling well last week either, right?” Johnny

asked. “Is that why she missed two days last week, too?”

“No Johnny, she missed today,” Ma said. “This was the only

day she missed.”

Now the boy was confused. His glance went to Ma.

“I don’t want to disagree with you, Ms. Monroe, but Martha

missed the first day of school, on last Monday, and again on

Friday. She said she was sick so headed back home shortly after

I stopped by to get her. I thought that would be fine. I thought

you all knew, honest to God I did.”

Ma and Pa looked at each other.

“And then she missed again today,” Johnny continued. “Ms.

Morris said she was going to stop by to have a little chat with

you all after school today. But when I saw her down yonder (he

pointed back toward his house), she said you all weren’t home. I

40

told her I’d check on Martha, and then I ran into you’ll on the

way.”

“Johnny?” Pa said, doing his best to raise his head.

“Yes, Mr. Monroe.”

“So you’re telling us that Martha skipped school on Monday

and again on Friday without our knowledge?”

“Yes sir, but I wasn’t aware of that. Honest to God, I had no

idea. If I did, sir, then you would have been the first to hear

about it.”

Seventeen

Ma and Pa could see their house in the distance, between

two large trees, when they noticed red on a tree branch in front

of them. Pa instantly put his arm across Ma’s chest, stopping her.

“What the hell?” he said, rubbing his hand across the spot of

red. He smelt two fingers. It was blood – fresh blood.

“Jack?” Ma questioned. He had no response.

When they looked up toward the house again, they realized

there was more blood. The red seemed to be on each branch on a

direct line to their home.

“Jack?” Ma asked again, more frantic this time. “What do

you suppose this is from?”

Pa, still holding his riffle, grabbed Ma by the hand and

started in a trot toward their house without saying a word, his

41

heart beating fast. When they got within twenty yards of the

front door, Pa could see a trace of blood along the stairs and into

the front door, which was opened for some reason.

“Ma, look at me,” Pa insisted. She looked at him finally,

though her eyes seemed to be in a million other places. “I’m

going to take this riffle and go in there. Something’s not right. I

need you to stay out here. Stay behind this tree. Okay?”

“It’s Martha, isn’t it?” Ma said, more pleading that it’s not

the case than asking the question. “Something’s wrong with our

little girl. Somebody’s got her. Don’t they?” Ma whimpered.

“Oh Jack.” She fell to her knees and hugged the tree, looking

away from the house. She couldn’t bare the thought of knowing

something was wrong with Martha.

Pa knew he didn’t have much time. He flung his gun over his

shoulder and ran toward the house as quickly as he could,

leaving Ma behind. He slipped on blood on the way up the stairs,

falling to his face. When he looked up, he saw that the doorknob

had a small blood handprint on it, as well. The note that was

sitting on the rocker – the one Ms. Morris left a little earlier –

flew off into the wind when he ran past, unnoticed.

He pointed the riffle into the living room when he slowly,

cautiously walked inside the front door. The odor was sick and

rotten. The breeze smelt of urine and feces.

“Who’s here?” he yelled out, but there was no sound. “I have

a gun.” Again, nothing.

42

He almost slipped once more when he noticed there was a

line of blood leading to the kitchen. He turned back to see

someone standing in the doorway. He blinked to clear his vision.

It was Ma. Her eyes were that of someone who had seen a

ghost. She was gasping for breath, unsure of what was going on

– of what to expect.

“Is she hear?” Ma asked. If there’s a stage beyond frantic,

that’s where Ma was.

“I… don’t… know,” Pa said, a pause between each word.

Ma walked behind Pa, sobbing, and held his elbow as the

two of them, bit by bit, followed the trail of blood. The light

from the sun that shined in through the back window was

blinding.

“Stay close by,” Pa said, “and if I say run, then you run. By

God, you run.”

Ma sobbed so he knew she heard. When he poked his head

into the kitchen, he noticed the line of blood led to the cabinet

door. When Ma noticed this, too, she ran around Pa and loudly

shrieked.

“Nooooooooo!” she screamed. “No! Not my baby!”

Ma was the first to the cabinet, and before Pa could pull her

away, she opened the door. There, naked and in the fetal

position, was Martha. Blood covered her from head to toe and

though she would never say the words, Ma instantly knew her

baby girl was dead.

43

Pa strained to move Ma out of the way. Ma reached out her

right arm for the girl but before she could touch her Pa grabbed

Ma by the waist and flung her behind him. She shrieked.

“Nooooooo!”

Pa pulled Martha from the cabinet. Her legs and arms

flopped like a ragdoll. Her hair was now a shade of red that was

tangled and matted to her forehead. Her pupils were barely

visible, rolled toward the back of her head. He laid her on the

wooden floor in front of them.

Pa starred at her lifeless body; a headache formed in his head

that was so bad that it felt as if someone put a knife in his skull

and turned it.

“No,” he said, and repeated it over and over again. “No. No.

No. No. No. No.”

Ma screamed so loud that a small crack formed in the

window over the countertop.

When Pa turned Martha to her side, he saw two bullet holes.

He starred at those wounds, as if his mind was playing tricks on

him and he would come back to reality at any moment. It didn’t

happen. He shook his head. While his wife continued to scream,

until she was hoarse, he squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he

could, hoping when he opened them then those holes would

somehow be gone, but they weren’t.

Ma slumbered over Martha’s body. She took Martha into her

arms, pulled her tightly to her chest. Blood was now covering the

both of them. She rocked back and forth, kissing Martha’s

44

forehead, tasting the blood of her daughter, hoping and praying

and pleading that this nightmare would be over soon, but it never

was.

My baby! Ma thought, the words echoing throughout her

head.

Pa stood, dusted off his pants and picked up his riffle. He

walked through the kitchen, toward the living room.

“Jack!” Ma screamed out, voice cracking. “Jaaack! Don’t

leave me Jack!”

But there was no answer. Pa would never talk to Ma again.

He stopped at the front door, paused just long enough for Ma

say his name one more time, and then ran out of the house and

down the bloody stairs, his riffle still in hand.

He wasn’t sure what he was running toward at first but knew

he needed to escape – to somehow get out of this world. So

that’s what he did. He started in a jog and then quickened his

pace. He ran down the hill, in and out of trees – the same trees

that were splattered with his daughter’s blood. Branches reached

out for him and smacked against his body and face as he went

on. But he didn’t care. There was a tiny moment when he felt as

free as he’d ever been – possibly, as free as before he was even a

Pa at all, when it was just Francis and him and they didn’t have a

care in the world. Somehow while he ran he even managed a

small smile as the wind flew through his hair.

45

Pa eventually reached the creek, crossed it as quickly as he

could, and came out the other side still running.

And then he had an idea. It was the notion of what he was

running toward; and that made him run even faster. He felt a

presence surrounding him, that of a dark figure on all four, but

no shape was ever there. If he tried hard enough, he thought,

then he would eventually find it somewhere, somehow, and that

would bring back his daughter and set him free for good.

Jack Monroe came out on Scrabble Road on a Monday

evening, crossed it within a few strides and entered the trees on

the other side. He was alone again – alone in his own little

world, alone as he would be for the rest of his days. He would

never stop until he found it – the one thing he was searching for.

Old Mucky, he thought, and ran on.

THE END

46

By Tommie Kendall

NOVELS

101 Letters

Forgotten Secret

The Beating Heart

COLLECTION

Tommie Kendall Trilogy

SHORT STORY

Old Mucky

TOMMIE KENDALL is the author of three books, all previously

published as individual novels and bundled together in the

Tommie Kendall Trilogy. Tommie graduated from Shelby County

High School in Kentucky in 2000 and Cumberland College in

2004. He was then a sports editor for eight years before turning

his writing path to fictional stories. Old Mucky is his first short

story. Currently, he resides in Shelbyville, Kentucky, with his two

young children, Emma and Cruz.

More information – www.tommiekendall.com