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

“Lock it please. There’s shit all in these woods,” Darlene said.

The rustling sound grew louder as I turned the deadbolt and it slid home with an ominous THUNK. We followed Darlene into a den that reeked of weed as she gestured to a half-smoked blunt burning away in the ashtray.

“Help yourself,” she said, gesturing to the blunt. She took a seat on the sofa and muted the large flat screen TV mounted to the wall in front of her. “Now… how can I help?”

I cleared my throat and replied, “We were told to expect a Will Sawyer. Is he coming?”

“He killed himself last night, so probably not.”

“Oh my god. I am so sorry…” I said.

“Yeah, SO… How can I help you?”

“Well…” I held up my phone and showed her Troy’s picture. “We were wondering if you remember seeing this guy out at the orchard recently,” I said.

Darlene examined the photo. “Not that I recall, but I never went out there much after the incident with the Toy Box. It’s my fault that godforsaken room got built in the first place and every time I see the thing, I wanna fucking cry,” she said.

Erin tilted her head, her tone curious when she asked, “It was your idea to build the Devil’s Toy Box?”

Darlene slowly shook her head. “No, I was sick. Like REALLY sick and that shitty demon or whatever told him he would make me better if Willy built a room of mirrors and got people to go inside it. If your friend went in there, I can tell you one of three things happened. He’s either dead, catatonic in a hospital, or out in those woods. The one’s that end up out there, something happens to them…like when a pig gets loose and grows tusks. But if it’ll help, you’re welcome to look for him here.”

“Here as in your house?” Erin asked.

“Yeah.” Darlene stood, slid her coffee table out of the way, and pulled the rug aside to reveal a crude trap-door cut into the hardwood floor. “Will brought a few of the ones that went in back home. I think he felt sorry for them. Anyway, he kept ‘em down here.”

The woman pulled open the trap-door and I was hit with a stench that was so potent, I don’t know how we didn’t notice it when we were outside. It was the smell of human filth en masse. Darlene nodded at me.

“You got a flashlight?” I returned the nod and handed it to her. She switched on the light and aimed it down at the open trap door, revealing the upturned faces of four emaciated and completely naked men. “Any of them look familiar?”

One of the men hissed at us. There was more rustling sounds from outside and then something began to scratch at the living room window. Darlene glanced at the window as she said, “You’ve got them riled up tonight. How long were you two out there?”

Before I could respond, a filthy hand with impossibly long fingers reached up and yanked me down through the trapdoor…


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.