During my childhood, my grandparents resided in an aged, rustic farmhouse nestled in the beautiful countryside of Todd Co. Ky. It was a simple dwelling without air conditioning, characterized by its abundant windows that allowed for natural ventilation. Down the hall from the kitchen was one room in particular, brimming with shelves, which housed my grandmother’s jars of preserved vegetables and fruit. Concealed within that room was a door, once opened, it revealed a stairway ascending into the shadowy realm of the attic — a place we children dared not venture due to the rumored presence of a terrifying creature known as Bloody Bones.
The origin of the rumor remains a mystery. Perhaps Bloody Bones was merely a figment of our imaginations, or maybe it was a clever invention by Grandpa, devised to scare us. I even had a vivid mental image of what he looked like. He had elongated limbs and a hunched frame. Its dark eyes would pierce one’s soul, while its sharp teeth suggested an insatiable hunger to eat kids . A mass of hair hung from its head, partially obscuring a tormented face.
Occasionally, with no one around my sister Karen and I would dare each other to poke our fingers through the door’s crack, proving our bravery to each other.
However, whenever our grandma ventured into the attic, Karen and I would timidly follow, perching at the top of the stairs, hearts pounding with fear, as she attended to her tasks. The mere thought of venturing up there alone would send shivers down our spine. But we knew Bloody Bones would not harm us while Grandma was with us.
As time passed, Early 1974 marked a significant change: our family purchased the farm from my grandparents and prepared to move in. The house contained two bedrooms, one designated for my parents and the other, a spacious large room, to accommodate my sisters Donna, Karen, and Kristy. To my utter dread, it was decided that I would sleep upstairs, where the dreaded Bloody Bones supposedly lurked.
Eager to move to the Bluegrass State and embrace the country lifestyle, I was nevertheless haunted by the unnerving thought of sleeping in the attic. During our first few weeks, I avoided my inevitable fate by sleeping on the couch, until my father sat me down for a reassuring talk. There were no monsters or Bloody Bones in the attic, he insisted. I suspect that he may have told me a white lie to bolster my confidence, as he claimed to have slept in an attic himself when he was young. The thought of him facing a similar situation in his youth provided me with a sense of courage. Gradually, I mustered the resolve to face my fear.
The prospect of ascending those eerie, rickety stairs and entering my bedroom felt akin to signing my own death warrant. The attic was essentially an inverted V, nestled within the house’s roof. The walls and ceiling, instead of modern sheetrock, were made of rudimentary cardboard nailed to the studs and rafters offered little comfort.
On the fateful day, I armed myself with an excessive number of quilts, despite the balmy June weather, to shield me from the unknown. Finally, after procrastinating long enough, I climbed the stairs that night, darted into my bedroom, and buried myself beneath the heavy quilts. The crushing weight on my toes made it impossible to sleep on my back, and I began to question my choice of protection, besides if Bloody Bones was determined to get me, a few extra layers wouldn’t make a difference.
The weapon of Bloody Bones remained a mystery, I always pictured this bloody creature carrying an ax and Karen envisioned a bloody sickle, but I was certain of one fact, it was intent on killing me. As I lay there, drenched in sweat, the sound of what I hoped was a mouse scratching behind the walls sent me into a panic. Was it truly a mouse, or was Bloody Bones clawing his way through the wall?
I’ll be honest, every fiber of my being urged me to flee from that attic as fast as possible. In my mind, living as a coward seemed far better than meeting my end as a brave kid. Yet, despite the overwhelming fear, I was determined to confront and overcome my anxieties.
After what felt like an eternity of listening to every unnerving sound, exhaustion claimed me, and I drifted into a fitful slumber. Awakening the following morning, I was overwhelmed with relief to discover that I had survived the ordeal, although having lost a significant amount of weight through perspiration, I was still alive to live another day!
I descended the stairs, greeted by my awestruck sisters who treated me like a celebrity. When they inquired about my experience, I nonchalantly brushed it off as “no big deal.” My mother’s skeptical glance suggested she wasn’t convinced, Still, I had earned the admiration of my sisters and that’s all that mattered. As the days and weeks passed without any sign of Bloody Bones, my fear subsided. In time I would leave my unscreened bedroom window open at night, allowing the soothing sounds of crickets and frogs to lull me into a peaceful slumber, finally able to enjoy life in our charming farmhouse.
The tale of Bloody Bones, while forever etched in my memory as a childhood fright, ultimately served as a reminder that the unknown can be faced, and that fear, like the creature in the attic, often dissipates when confronted with the light of understanding.