If You Ever Hear Your Child Talk About ‘The Bloody Monsters’ Be Very, Very Afraid

All that came out of the speakers was static. I scanned through more stations. Nothing but static.

I stopped the dial when I finally reached a station which appeared to have sound. The nasally drone of a newscaster speaking in a monotone leaked out the blown speakers.

“Tornado warnings have been issued for Shelby, Brockton and Ogden Counties. Residents are advised to seek shelter immediately,” the newscaster’s voice announced.

“Shit!” I yelled.

The world outside had seemed to maintain an eerie calm all night, but I noticed the tall tree which lined the highway were swaying violently. Large piles of debris and shrubs were skating across the highway in front of us. We drove into a tumbleweed which lodged in the grill of my truck.


A branch broke off a tree and landed in the bed of my truck with a hard thud.

The world outside the truck had turned into complete chaos as we drove into the meager downtown of Branchford. Branch after branch was falling off of trees and crashing down, smashing into parked cars and buildings.

A strangely familiar sound cut into my ears as I slowed the car next to an abandoned church. It was that siren screech from the VHS tape where my sister and I were in the playroom at Barbara’s house. It was a tornado warning siren, bellowing from the fire station in the middle of the town.

I parked the car in front of the church.

“Come on,” I screamed as loud as I could as I opened the door and let in a horrifying gust of wind.

I pushed myself against the wind and out the door. I dodged a small row boat which was rolling end over end through the grass front yard of the church.

I kept running until I reached the open front door of the church and dove in to avoid a wheelbarrow which flew in my direction.

On the ground of the church, I struggled to breath and looked back out the open door where I saw no sign of Mandy. I waited for about five seconds before I crawled over to the rows of wooden pews and tucked myself under the first one I could reach.

About the author

Jack Follman

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

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