I Went With My Best Friend To Our Childhood Hangout Spot, And We Really Should Have Just Stayed Home


We came to The Shack every year, yet we never seemed to be able to remember exactly where it was on the first try.

“I think I found it,” I heard the high-pitched voice of Jeremy call out from ahead of me in the brush.

Jeremy was right. A few more steps forward revealed a dilapidated wooden shack almost completely covered in moss and the dead fallen branches of the fir trees that were all around us. The thing was filthy, filled with potato bugs and could collapse at any moment, but it was our Shack and it was where we became men. It was also where we came every year to remember what happened in our lives – the good and the bad, the light and the dark.

I walked inside to see Jeremy already busted out the R&R whisky. He was one of those guys who needed the numb of alcohol to be sentimental, and it seemed to become more of a necessity every year we came. He poured a horn (whiskey, Pepsi, ice) as fast as he could into an old McDonalds cup.

The more cautious one, I first went to my little bed in the back corner and started setting up my bedding on the old army cot where I would rest my head for the night. I spread out my old scratchy GhostBusters sleeping bag and was fluffing my Jurassic Park pillow when I noticed something amiss about my usual bunk.

“Ah, what the fuck?” I yelled as I realized what I had just picked up was a used clump of toilet paper.

I threw the foul clump across the room and almost hit Jeremy in the back of the head.

“I think someone might be using our chilldhood playhouse as a toilet man.”

I thought about it for a second and a cold wash of sudden fear washed over me.

“I think someone might be living in here.”


Jack has written professionally as a journalist, fiction writer, and ghost writer. For more information, visit his website.

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