(000) 000-0000


The sweat from my brow rolled down the arches of my face, turning ever so slightly before reaching my lips. As the proof of hard labor slips off my chin, I mutter angrily, “This damn machine.”

“This damn machine” is the car my father had as a wild haired teenager, a 69′ Camaro, to be exact. There were always minor problems with it, but never nothing he couldn’t handle. However, I find myself stumped. Nothing is working. Even when I turn the key over to “Start” and try to crank, nothing.

“That b*****d would have known how to get this thing going again,” I thought to myself, “why did you do it?”

My father was a drunken piece of s**t, he only got that way after my mother divorced him, taking everything away from him, and running away with “Manuel”, f*****g prick. My dad did what he always does best, drown his sorrows in cheap liquor, watered down beer, and coke that is probably just mainly baking soda.

This time, however, he didn’t make it back home from the local watering hole. The car was going 75 MPH when he struck that tree. He didn’t even attempt to slam on brakes and stop, a by-product of his inebriated state. He was pronounced dead at the scene, in this very same car.

Glass encompassed the front interior, along with blood constantly soaking in the retro shag carpeting he had custom installed, more than likely to relive his “golden years”. The front was demolished, and twisted metal is the only thing that was recognizable. I managed to retrieve it from the auto shop, and over the years rebuilt it from essentially scratch. Now, this damn machine isn’t even attempting to crank.
“What do I need to do?” I ask myself. At that exact moment, my wife entered into my dimly lit garage.

“Dinner’s ready, honey. Why don’t you come up here and eat?”

“Just a minute,” I said, with a voice of concernment.

“Okay, just don’t wait too long. It will get cold, and we both know you hate cold food,” she exclaimed, with an undertone of annoyance.

The door closed, and I was back to my work.


My cell phone displayed a notification that I have a text message in the status bar,

“Come alone. 1314 Masters Ct.”

The number that sent the text was “000-000-0000”.

“Who the hell is this?”, I wondered profusely. I quickly opened my maps application on my smart phone, and searched the location the unknown entity provided.

“This is the cemetery my father is buried at!”

I got up, with new a renewed vigor, and walked over to my other ride one that actually works. The engine roared as I turned the ignition switch and the stereo blared to life. After allowing my vehicle sensor in my garage door to register my vehicle and slowly open, I backed out of my garage and headed to the cemetery. The whole way, I was assaulted with thoughts and questions about why anyone would want me to meet them there, as anyone who actually knew me knows I hated him for what he had done. What kind of man decides to leave this world with children behind? The a*****e didn’t care about me, I finally came to that conclusion the night he decided to be a dumb a*s. The sun had already started setting in behind the thick wave of clouds, a omen that rain is coming soon, which means I better hurry.

I arrive at the cemetery, just before the night started to embrace me in her presence. The wind has now picked up some, enough for me to feel it gently whip across my face. The entrance gate was already closed, which made me all the more suspicious. I scanned the area with the flashlight from my smartphone, thankful to live in this age of modern technology. I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and I haven’t received any new messages. I turn, aggravated and annoyed, and head back to my car. I pull the handle and open the door, sit down, and turn the key.

*Click, click, click*

“S**t,” I said under my breath.

*Click, click, click*

Still nothing. There goes my other ride. As I gather my belongings and prepare for the hour walk back home, I discover a poorly folded piece of paper tucked into my backpack. I unfold it, and began reading the paper.

“(000) 000-0000,” is all it says.


The sound from my phone startled me so much I jumped out of my skin and hit my head on the roof of the car.

“Ow, dammit!” I proclaimed in pain. As the pain subsided, and the throbbing increased, I unlock my phone and see a new message, from whoever is “(000)-000-0000,” stating,

“Your father would like to see you now.”

Goosebumps run up my spine and down my shoulders, reaching down into my arms and making their way to my fingertips. My breath hastens, and my eyes widen with shock.

“Who the f**k is this?” I ponder.

Staring at my phone in disbelief, I didn’t notice that the front gate was now unlocked and slightly open until I heard a quick slam.

The iron gate was well oiled, and moved easily from the ever increasing wind. I twist my body to look at the gate, and noticed its tall, lanky frame still open. I approach carefully, and take my time to scan for scary monsters like I was still a child.

No monsters, but only brick walls with the home of the dead inside.

I arrive at the gate, only to become intimidated by the sheer size of it,

“I swear it wasn’t this big the last time I was here.”

I recall in my mind the last time I was here, two years ago, when I came to bury my piece of s**t dad. It was in late October, when everyone in town goes to coffee shops exclusively for “Pumpkin Spice” lattes, and goes to pick out last minute Halloween costumes for their children. Today is the two year mark, things seemed to be the same today as it was then, except for the unusually chilly breeze.

With a slight pull, the wrought iron gate comes alive with the noise of 200 years, amazed I did not notice the sounds when the gate closed so suddenly a moment ago. I step in with the text message from that mysterious number on my mind,

“Your father would like to see you now.”

I shuddered from a ghastly chill in the air and continued forward into where the dead dwells. The flashlight from my smartphone cuts through the darkness like a hot knife through butter, and I see the headstones and plots of open land illuminate under the bluish white cone of light.


Another message. This time, unlike the previous, seemed personal.

“Your father loves you, and he misses you. He said to find him, he has a gift for you.”

Thinking to myself, “How does this person know who I am?” I start for my father’s burial site. I use the flashlight to scan my area in front of me, careful to watch where I step to avoid disturbing the peace of the fallen. The wind shifts again, and I feel a cold embrace that seems to push me along and follow in my footsteps. I stop at my father’s grave, after some time of contemplating whether I should even go, or return home to my beautiful wife and a cold dinner.

“Rodger Pickens
Age 50
Beloved father and friend
You will always be in the arms of God”

The headstone was beautiful, granite stone with a golden trim and a golden cross centered on the lower part of the stone. A beautiful grave, for a ugly person.


Another message, one that can’t be real, and it’s one that shook me to my very core.

“From: (000) 000-0000
“I’m in here, please let me out. I love you son.”

Still in shock and disbelief, I start to grasp the earth at my father’s grave, and dig.

I dig.

And I dig.

And I dig.

I dig so much that my fingers have become numb from the exceptionally cold dirt. I throw the dirt behind me as I dig like a madman, eager to find his treasure. The whisper of the wind calls to me, begging me to leave.

But I can’t.

Not yet.

I must find the answer.


I reached his casket. Looking down upon it brings back bad memories, a heaviness on my chest, and a lump in my throat the feels like a baby’s fist.

This is it.


I had thought the message came to my phone, but the sound came from inside the casket. Led by my curiosity and stupidity, I slowly reach down and open the casket.

What I saw there would change my life, and give me a new profound fear…

My eyes dropped to the casket, and I opened my mouth to scream in horror of what I see, but no sound came out.

I was petrified in place…

It was a spooky boi.

  • Puddin Tane

    Good story. Needs some editing, though. Love the plot. Hahaha. Yeah, read it aloud to yourself and you may hear where your mistakes are. Then the number of stars just might go up. Makes for a good Halloween story.

  • Courtney Johnson Reynolds

    I don’t get it…. Spooky Boi? What’s that

    • Pae


  • Hannah Beebe

    Damn…. But oml it was so good. I have never felt inverted about a story. In my life. But oh my gentle jesus it was descriptive

  • Yolonda

    What is a spooky boi? I am really curious.

  • Myru Lace

    It does need a little editing, but is other wise well written and really hope to see more of your short stories. Good work.

  • Cali_Katrice

    Its was a spooky boi