The Shed : Scary Stories – Short Horror Story

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“You left the robot vacuum in the pool,” Sarah informed me, as we were getting ready for bed. “It needs to go in the shed before someone steals it.” 

Mildly peeved and grumbling that I had put it away earlier, I moved to take care of it, but she stopped me. “That’s fine, I’ll get it,” Sarah said flatly.

I let her.

I usually try to avoid my backyard in the evenings. Although we have a significant amount of mosquitoes, biting insects, snakes, and other critters from the nearby swamp that tend to creep past my fence, they aren’t my chief concern. My problem is the shed. Well, actually it’s the rotting shed behind the shed.

When we first moved into our fixer-upper house, we discovered the new yard required a decent amount of work. We had this massive, non-functioning, murky water-feature filled with debris, frogs, mosquitoes, and god-knows-what-else. Seated at the top of its seven-foot tall, rock waterfall, was a toddler-sized, cement statue of a boy with a fishing pole. His face was twisted into an expression which the previous, elderly homeowners must have thought was a charming smile. 

“It’s the Guardian of the Yard. Don’t you like him?” one of the workers had laughed sarcastically. Ultimately, he followed Sarah’s orders, burying and removing it all—boy and pond.

Well…almost. 

One day, as I was putting some of the extra construction materials into the decrepit, second shed—which sits flush against its much nicer, white-painted neighbor—I saw it staring back at me: the decapitated head of the little boy statue. Someone had put the head on a shelf in the corner, facing the door. Sarah said she didn’t know anything about it. It was more than creepy, so whenever I later had to deal with that shed, I’d unlatch the door, throw in whatever I needed, and get the hell out of there. Sarah always laughed at me.

One day, I noticed the head was missing. Had Sarah thrown it out? She hadn’t. I surely hadn’t. It was a disturbing development, but mostly I was grateful that it was gone.

That night, I waited in bed for much longer than I should have for Sarah to come back from the shed. Finally, as dread slowly mounted in my gut, I decided to check on her. 

I should have turned on the pool light, but I was in a rush. I never go out there in the dark like that.

As I neared the shed, I heard the low, gurgling sound only a split second before I tripped over Sarah’s body, lying just outside the shed’s open door. 

“Sarah?” I whispered, the scent of freshly-spilled blood filling my nostrils as I bent down and reached for my wife. I felt a jagged, wet, sticky hole in her neck.

A sudden sound of movement, a rustling of leaves from beneath the second shed and a pair of glowing, red specks—eyes?—peered back at me. 

Then came the small voice. 

“My yard,” it said. 

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