There's A Shack Called 'The Devil's Toy Box' In Louisiana And People Who Go In There Supposedly Lose Their Minds

There’s A Shack Called ‘The Devil’s Toy Box’ In Louisiana And People Who Go In There Supposedly Lose Their Minds

“How long?” Gretchen asked.

“It varies…but hopefully not forever.” Erin motioned at the thick patch of wilderness to our left and I turned to see a window glowing out there in the distant darkness. “See it? That’s the Sawyer house. They must know we’re here.”

“And that’s a good thing?” Gretchen’s tone was tense and she had a look on her face that said she’d just realized how much she didn’t want to be doing any of this. Before Erin or I could answer, she turned to Jason. “Baby, will you walk me back to the car?” she asked.

Jason gave her an irritated look. “What? Why?”

“Because… All of this just got too real.”

“You knew what we were coming out here to do. I explained it to you in VIVID detail.”

“Jason, please?”

“No. It’s bullshit, Gretch. You do this every time…”

“I know.”

“This is the fucking Dark Knight premiere all over again… I miss everything cool!”

“I’m sorry.” She batted her eyes as she gave Jason an adorable frown Gretchen had honed over many years of getting her way. Jason let out an exasperated sigh and I handed him the keys to the car.

“I’ll be right back.” Jason muttered.

I pulled out a chair and took a seat next to Erin as we watched the beams from Jason and Gretchen’s flashlights shrink off into the darkness. A thought crossed my mind just then: As if this didn’t already resemble an episode of Scooby Doo, now we’re splitting up. That’s just asking for it.

As soon as the words crossed my mind, we heard the crunch of approaching footsteps. Erin and I stood in unison and exchanged a panicked glance before turning to face the forest bordering the orchard. A middle-aged man with long hair and a bathrobe emerged out of the darkness and into range of our flashlights.

Will Sawyer was basically Vincent Price if had starred in the Big Lebowski. He smiled and gave us a thumbs up as he said, “You here for the box?”

“Sort of,” Erin responded and Will gave her a look like he had no idea what that could possibly mean.

“Have you seen this guy?” I held up the photo of Troy that Erin had texted to my phone as Will started to approach us. He squinted at the picture.

“Maybe…” he said.

“When was that?”

“A few weeks ago. He was the one that went in the box. Most won’t go inside anymore. Lasted almost three minutes. Then he ran off, screaming.”

Erin let out a sharp gasp. “Ran off? Ran off WHERE?” she asked.


About the author

Joel Farrelly

When Joel isn’t writing creepy-ass short stories, he can be found scripting and acting in subversive comedy sketches on YouTube. You can follow Joel on Twitter or support him on Patreon, if you’re into that.