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 Roadkill Alley, but they never found a body. I like to think that he’s still out there, but I know he’s never coming home. Mom does too, and she’s not the same because of it.“That’s why we’re strays, right?” I said, ticking the cat’s ear as it perked to the sound of the scraping shovel, scooping up the cooking entrails that caked the street. Randy looked up at me with a blank and curious look across his face—and it doesn’t take a high IQ to know what happens to curious cats, especially out here.“Is…that your cat?” he said, a crack splitting his voice.“No,” I simply said, “not yet.”He flashed me a smile of yellowed teeth, about as genuinely as he ever had, pouring the contents of the shovel into a bucket that bordered the street and his yard’s grass.“D-don’t let her wander off,” he said, wagging a finger at the feline, “the road’s not a safe place for a kitty cat.”I nodded in understanding, hoping to dismiss the man who was now swaying from side to side by the arches in his boots, still eyeing me with that toothy grin. After a long and awkward silence between the two of us, Randy’s smile tucked away beneath his splotchy beard, and with a nod of his head, he began sauntering toward his pick-up, snatching the bucket filled with the opossum guts as he did. A flick of his wrist later, and the engine rumbled to a start, flashing a set of faded headlines against his garage door and throughout his darkened house.And that’s the second time I noticed it: the figure. It was, what appeared to be, the outline of a person, standing somewhere within Randy’s house. The first time I saw it, I thought I was just seeing things. I was nine years old and trying to catch a rabbit in my backyard. The little hare bolted past me, and I scrambled to catch it but was too slow. It shot underneath our fence, and, despite my mother’s best wishes, I hopped it—not unlike a rabbit, myself.I was in Randy’s backyard and, just as the sun was setting, the yellow glow from the horizon allowed me to make out the likeness of someone standing, ever so stilly, in his home. It could’ve been him, but it didn’t quite resemble Randy—the arch of his back. As soon as I saw it, the blinds were drawn shut, and Randy emerged from the backdoor with a wild look in his eyes. My mother scolded me harshly after he returned me to our home, insisting to nine-year-old me that Randy lived alone.But I knew now that he didn’t.The headlight beam that flashed into my eyes broke my concentration on the past as, presently, Randy was waving a silent ‘goodbye’ to me through the open window of his truck, putting it into drive and rumbling down the road of Roadkill Alley. I turned back to the house which, through the window, was bathed in nothing but sheer blackness where the figure once stood. I squinted, both to shift through those shadows in the window and to wonder—should I knock?I clacked onto the rustic and wooden door three times; the feline at my feet rubbing against my jeans and purring. After each of my taps, only the reverberated knocking from within the dormant house answered me. I was about to attempt my fourth when I noticed my shadow begin to spread across the chipped paint. Headlights. I snapped into a ducking position, hearing the rumble of Randy’s truck approaching as I jabbed myself into a nearby thornbush, biting back a whimper and only praying its dense leaves might conceal me and the kitten.But I knew what curiosity had in store for the both of us.The engine rumbled as I watched Randy rush inside his home, only to, moments later, emerge with a brown paper sack, sopping with some unknown liquid like a mushy tea bag. He mumbled something to himself, put the truck in reverse, and high-tailed it out of the driveway once again.Only, this time, he didn’t realize that he had two stragglers booking it behind him.Screw curiosity.I refused to give the cat a name after what happened to Grover all those years ago. But if I had to, I’d’ve called her Mittens, ‘cause of the cute little white tips on the ends of each of her paws. That cat, which sat plumply in the basket of my bike, didn’t so much as meow for the entirety of the ride, despite the herky-jerky terrain as I distantly followed Randy in his pick-up.It was dark now, and all I had to follow was the disembodied trail of red brake lights that’d flash every now and again, and the smell of the festering animal carcasses that streamed from out of that bucket. Had the limit for these country roads been even ten miles an hour faster, I would’ve been left in Randy’s dust. Thankfully, he was a slowpoke, and the turn signal up ahead led me to the conclusion that he was almost at wherever he was headed—which must’ve been the place called Jim’s Body Shop, just up the road on the right.All this way for a couple of truck repairs.Randy hopped from the high-rise pick-up, still clutching that soppy bag in his hand, and, with the other, lifting the roadkill bucket from the bed, carrying it inside with a jingle of the front, glass door chime. I dismounted the bike and popped the kickstand for the cat, which followed me with its one-seeing eye as I snuck up to the hazy window of the auto shop, carefully positioning myself behind a sun-bleached window painting of Santa Claus.It was June.The little room that Randy entered was timber and dank. The walls were lined with rusty wrenches, sockets, and other tools. The carpet was stained and gritty. It seemed that, as he walked across it, Randy fit right in.“H-how’re you, Jimmy?” I heard Randy’s muffled voice say through the glass, setting the bag on a similarly colored brown countertop and dropping the bucket to his feet. The man behind the counter, assumedly Jim, leaned forward and took a non-consensual noseful of the infectious stench, puckering his face as he looked out the glass windows probingly. When he saw no one and heard only crickets, he settled his eyes on Randy.“Well, look who the cat dragged in,” Jim half-assedly smiled, biting a cigarette in his mouth
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The original Spooky Boo's Scary Story Time telling spooky, scary stories since 2016. Here you'll find true scary stories, fiction stories, urban legends, creepypasta, and other tall tales from the darkest corners of the internet.
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