The Boogeyman Will Get You (mm hypno)

It’s September in a small town. The days are still warm, but the sun remains low in the sky and the afternoon shadows stretch far. The leaves are turning bright autumn colors and starting to fall, blowing along the empty streets, making small drifts along the walks.

It’s a quiet time of year. It’s a peaceful time of year. It’s a restful time of year. It’s September in a small town and the days are getting steadily shorter and shorter, and the nights are getting steadily longer and longer.

And spooky stories are being told. Something strange is afoot. Whispered rumors are spreading and making people shiver, but on this fine, sunny afternoon, the rumors are merely fun fodder for a young man to use to tease his more susceptible friend.

“And if you don’t watch out, The Boogeyman will get you!” said Jack with humorously exaggerated motions and a playfully frightening grin.

He circled poor Alan slowly, using his hands to make tauntingly scary gestures.

“He sneaks up beside you, ambushes you in the dark, stops you in your tracks. He grabs you and he can Hypnotize you right there on the spot! He won’t let you go, and he won’t let you move until he has your mind completely under his control! And then you become his zombie sex slave and you have to obey his every command – and he can make you do anything he wants!”

And with almost playful adolescence: “And You Know What He Wants.”

Jack’s hand ran a line down Alan’s chest and stomach, and made an arrow pointing to his crotch. “Yes, yes, That is what he wants.” And Jack let go a loud a maniacal laugh.

Then Jack slapped Alan’s butt and added “And he wants That too!”

But Alan wasn’t a total stooge. He pushed Jack’s hand away, laughing at his friend’s teasing: “Yeah, right, Jack; he’ll want you first. And he’ll get you first too, and you know it!” Yet his humor wasn’t without a small shiver of real fear. There was talk of weird things going on in this town.

Ours is a town of old clapboard houses, and old wooden fences, and old people, and the old people were talking. The younger generation was a small, close knit bunch, and the guys had heard the older folk speaking of things seen in the shadows at night, behind sheds, behind trees, and down by the stream, uncomfortable, nervous talk, talk of things happening that aren’t supposed to happen in small towns like ours.

Strange things had been seen – down by the stream, down in the woods.

Yes, down in The Woods.

There is a wide, wild parkland that runs through our town, right down the middle like a knife. It is all thick with tall trees and overgrown brush and is dark, even under the sun. And there is a small stream running through it that is picturesque by day but silently foreboding by night. The paths that run here and there through the trees connect the east and west sides of the town, and also continue to a clearing down by the water. The paths can be quite confusing. A person could get lost.

And strange things were happening in The Woods at night.

“It’s not really funny Jack,” continued Alan. If there is somebody out there stalking us, it could be bad. Gary is actually scared about it. (Gary’s their friend whose dad finally kicked him out of the house; he rented a room up the street.) “Tom won’t come out at night.” (Tom just got his own place too.) Alex stays in his house all day and won’t be seen. (Alex still lives with his mom.) “Mark has changed – Everyone is getting weirded out by this.”

Jack interrupted with yet another silly, make-fun, spooky expression: “That’s because they’ve all been HYP-notized!” wiggling his fingers in front of Alan’s eyes, but to no effect; Alan didn’t respond to the funny face this time at all.

“And when was the last time you saw Rob? I haven’t seen him in days.” Alan had watched too many of his friends change lately. There they all were: finally old enough to be striking out on their own, yet suddenly afraid of the dark. And they weren’t talking about it.

“Things are not right. It doesn’t feel safe in this town anymore.”

Yet, for the most part, we do have a safe town and there is hardly any crime. Sure, there’s some petty vandalism by the youths, as in any town, but eventually, they all just seem to grow out of it. Why, most of those young men don’t give our town’s only police officer any trouble at all. Old Officer Jim keeps them under his tight control.

And he keeps a sharp eye on all the potential trouble makers too, the ones finally out living on their own for the first time, the ones old enough to be stretching their freedom, and causing trouble, like Jack and Alan.

Officer Jim was just now walking down the far side of the street when he saw them and waved. “Jack! Alan!” he shouted over to them by name. He knows all the youths by name. “How’re you two doing? How’re your folks?” Jim is an old family friend. In fact, he’s a family friend of every family in town.

But then again – everyone is a friend of everyone’s family in this town.

“We’re ok!” shouted Alan back. “Jack is just trying to scare me with more ‘Boogeyman’ stories! You know, the ‘rumors’ that have been going around!”

Old Jim laughed aloud: “Well, don’t you boys worry about no Boogeyman, not so long as I’m in charge. More’s to worry from young, no-good hoodlums like you two out on a Friday night. Don’t you get in any more trouble like last week! I don’t want to hear of you getting into any more beer. No more fake I.D.s, ok boys?”

“No Sir!” shouted Alan, almost playfully mockingly, and waved the officer away, then turned back to Jack with a hidden grin: “I still got some beer left in my fridge, wanna come?” Alan had his own place above the general store now, and the new freedom was sweet but the beer was still illegal. A couple cold late-afternoon brews were gonna taste good.

And this time they’d keep the music low. They didn’t want the neighbors calling old Officer Jim on them again like last time. So with talk of cold beer, and sports, and what they’d do if they ever won a ton of money, they turned and walked along down the street, and the dry autumn leaves swirled along around them as they went.

A warm wind blew and the low sun felt so good. It was a fine, lazy September afternoon, a quiet, peaceful afternoon, the kind when you and your friends just want to sit back, relax, dream, and wait for the evening. And forget all about those silly rumors about boogiemen.

But this afternoon at the lady’s church social, the rumors had been the subject of much hushed gossip.

There were stories of things that were going on; whisperings of what others said that someone else might have seen in the shadows – in the dark of the night. Some of the men were doing things they aught not be doing, improper things, unnatural things, unholy things. In whispers, the ladies spoke of men meeting under the bridge, or in the shadows of the empty lot, and they were doing unspeakable things.

These good women kept their own husbands and sons at home safe at night, of course, but –

But their men often had their late night card parties, or their all-night fishing outings, or other reasons for being gone. And boys will be boys and sneak out at night, climbing out their windows – to carouse around with their friends. The ladies couldn’t always know where they were. The ladies could never quite be sure what their men might be up to.

And there were such terrible things going on, too. And, what, with the new rumors of some stalker, well it was better to keep the men home.

“It’s best to keep them all home, safe,” said Aunt Margaret to the other church ladies over her hot coffee.

Why, just that very morning, she had hollered up to her nephew: “Jack, I want you to stay in tonight. Don’t fuss about it. It’s just not safe out there at night.” Aunt Margaret meant well for Jack. And he should mind what she told him, after all, she didn’t charge him for the room or board.

But Jack was out this afternoon, looking forward to filling himself with lots of cold beer. And as he and Alan kicked at the dried leaves, they crossed the street, and made their way to Alan’s place, and his full fridge.

And the two paused for just a second to wave a friendly hello to all the old men hanging out across the town square.

On the far side of the square, outside Butler’s Filling Station, the usual group of men were engaged in talk; men’s talk. The old geezers were doing their own daily gossiping, a couple of guys in rockers, old Mr. Ray sitting on a barrel, and old Mr. Bradley leaning against the pump. And Officer Jim had just joined them, too.

What were they all laughing about? The men had been watching them, Jack was sure; had the geezers been talking about them? The men were sure chuckling about something funny. Then Mr. Berry waved back at them and called out a “Better be gettin’ home boys. The sun will be going down soon and you don’t want to be caught by The Boogeyman!” (Everyone was talking about it, it seemed.)

And the men all laughed again but Jack and Alan weren’t sure of why.

But the two reached the general store at last, and went ‘round back and up the stairs. Alan’s apartment was small, but fun, and the beer was nice and cold. (Forbidden beer always tastes the best.) They talked for hours about what they would do when they finally got out of this nowhere town, and they guzzled down the beer, one bottle after another, and the sun slowly sank down through the trees. And then the sun disappeared altogether, and a gray twilight crept across the town. Nice silence. Peaceful night.

September stars are the prettiest, don’t you think?

It’s about time for you to be going home now, Jack.

But Jack was old enough to do what he wanted, and he stayed out as late as he wanted. It was a Friday, after all, and he didn’t care what his old Aunt Margaret had told him to do, no matter if the room and board was free. But eventually, Alan’s beer ran out anyway, and Jack was feeling buzzed, and tired from working all day. It was finally time to head home.

Jack stopped at the bottom of the steps and peered into the gloom. It was dark and a little more eerie than he had thought it would be, and he had a long walk ahead. Suddenly, he was feeling a little less bold. Perhaps he should have peed one last time before he’d left Alan’s.

Oh well, he could hold it in. He’d be home soon enough anyway.

The streets were empty and still; those old men at the filling station were long gone. Maybe it was a little too still – and so Jack made his way down the block beneath the street lights, glad of those few lamps overhead. Past the one lamp, then a stretch of dark, then a second lamp, he moved from bright patch to bright patch as though jumping from lily pad to lily pad, always moving faster through the dark and always slowing a little under the light.

A chill rose up his spine. So many blocks to go. The dead leaves blew about him, followed him, circling his shoes, making small drifts for him to walk through.

Where was everybody? House porches should have people on them but the people were absent. Homes should be putting out light and noise and music, but the windows were all shut and the curtains drawn. All the doors were closed and locked. The only noise was his own: the sound of his footfalls shuffling through dead leaves. He was really quite alone in the middle of this darkened town.

Spooky, this feeling of being so alone, and his mind returned to the rumors. He tried to put them out of his mind, but the stories began to haunt him.

And now he remembered his own silly taunts earlier that day: “The Boogeyman sneaks up beside you, ambushes you in the dark, stops you in your tracks. He grabs you and he can Hypnotize you right there on the spot! He won’t let you go, and he won’t let you move until he has your mind under his control.” The story didn’t sound quite so funny anymore.

“And then you become his zombie sex slave and you have to obey his every command – and he can make you do anything he wants!”

This afternoon, those had just been silly words to tease Alan, but now it was Jack who was becoming afraid.

“And you Know what he wants.”

Jack remembered all too well. Everyone Knows what The Boogeyman wants. Now he was getting scared, and now he really needed to pee too.

Just one more block over and one more block down, then a quick short cut through The Woods and then he’d be home safe. The Woods. Did he have to cross the woods? They’d be dark but at least he knew the paths by heart. He could walk – or run – through them blind if he had too. And it was the shortest, quickest route home. Safe.

So he crossed over the street to the edge of the woods, and paused a moment at the top of the path, peering down the path, squinting to see anything through the trees. Total darkness ahead. It was so black in there, maybe this was a good place to take a piss. No, not here. He didn’t have far to go, and he really wanted to get home soon. He’d hold it in. He’d make a run for it.

Run for it, Jack.

He took his first step down into the gloom. Why, he wondered, had the town never installed a lamp or two along the path? He took a breath and took a second step between the trees and the leaves brushed past him. He would have to cross the woods quickly.

Why has the town never installed a lamp or two? Good question. It has been proposed so many times at town council meetings. Councilwoman Thelma Snodgrass has often argued for it, as has Mrs. Schneider. And the ladies want the brush cut back too, and the woods cleared and made into a safe and proper park.

But there’s always been someone opposed to the measure: old Mr. Johnson, or maybe Mr. Hansen, or one of the other men. They always bring up the tight budget. The town simply can’t afford it, they say, and Mr. Hank adds with a wry smile that clearing the woods would harm the wild life.

Martha Jenkins once worried aloud that it was dangerous in there and that one of the young women in town might be accosted in the woods some night, but Mr. Smith just chuckled and winked: “Don’t worry, the young women are safe.”

So for what ever reason, the lamps have never been installed, and the trees and shrubs have never been cleared; it’s awfully dark down there in The Woods.

You’ll just have to run in the dark, Jack.

And Jack was breathing harder now as he ran down the path. Forty steps to the brick stairs. Then down the slope, now buried in leaves. Twenty steps to the old wagon wheel, then thirty steps to where the path makes a fork. Count them: one, two, three, four – The brush rustled against his quickly moving feet.

Run faster, Jack.

Bear to the left; follow the trail, fifty steps to the streambed, and then across the old bridge. Just another hundred steps or so.

And then suddenly he stopped hard. He jumped backwards, even. His breathing stopped altogether and he let out a gasp; the silhouette of a tall man towered before him. It didn’t move. It didn’t speak. Jack didn’t move. Jack didn’t speak. Jack’s heartbeat ceased. The woods became totally silent.

The two stood motionless in the dark for a split second. And then Jack breathed again. He breathed with relief.

First fright, then recognition, then relief. See, Jack recognized the old man, the old friend, the familiar face with the easy smile. He took a gulp of air. “Damn!” he cried, “You scared the living shit out of me!” and he breathed a little easier.

But those few seconds were the key. As his fear faded, Jack passed briefly through that moment when his guard was down. And that moment was all it took.

The man moved quietly right up to him, entering his space, invading his space, and stood so close to him and spoke so soothingly: “Now Jack, what are you scared about?” He spoke Jack’s name; he knew him well. After all, he was a friend of the family.

But then again – everyone is a friend of everyone’s family in this town.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of out here, tonight, Jack. You’re completely safe out here.” He purred in such a smooth, silky voice. “Why, it’s a wonderful night, a beautiful night, so pleasant and warm,” spoken in a tone that just seemed right, just seemed to ease down inside Jack’s mind. The voice eased on down, easing away the fears, easing away the concerns. “It’s a very special kind of night; don’t you think?” The voice was so calming and reassuring.

“Yes,” replied Jack, slowly becoming warm and comfortable, “It’s very nice,” and feeling a little disoriented.

They stood totally alone in the dark of the woods and Jack found himself paying more attention to the old friend’s voice. Somehow, it just seemed so easy to do.

Don’t listen to him, Jack.

But the man continued: “Listen and you can hear the wind through the trees. Relax and you can hear the leaves falling, falling so gently. Clear your mind and you can feel them drifting around your feet.”

The leaves, yes the leaves. They were dancing in the breeze, slipping, sliding through the dark around him, falling steadily, spiraling around him, and collecting around him, so soft, so warm. They had grown into a small drift over his shoes, holding his feet safe and securely to the ground, as though under a blanket. And his feet became warm under that blanket, and then they became heavy, so very heavy, and then they became as though they were made of stone. And the leaves began to drift a little higher, reaching his ankles.

And somehow, it put him at ease. And the shadow of the man began to walk around Jack while gently adding: “Don’t move, Jack, just stand there a moment and listen to the trees. Hear the wind? Hear the trees? Listen just a second, and listen to what I’m saying.”

No, Jack, don’t.

But Jack did listen, and as the shadow circled him, casting its spell over him, the blanket of leaves continued wrapping around Jack’s legs and now his legs began to feel heavy, so very heavy, and his thoughts became sluggish, thick and slow.

“Listen to me and relax. Relax your muscles, one by one, up your legs to your knees.” The leaves continued to pile higher around him, holding him more firmly in place.

Transfixed, he was, by the tall, strong shadow in the dark; transfixed by that ever so seductive voice; transfixed and ever more relaxed as he felt the blanket rising higher around his legs. And his thighs became warm, and then heavy, so very heavy, and then they became like stone. And his thoughts came to him slower still, as though through some fog.

But though it was such a peaceful night, such a wonderful night, and though it was so nice to just listen to gentle night air, and the leaves falling, spiraling so softly, so heavily around him, Jack struggled up through the steadily increasing thickness of his mind. Perhaps he shouldn’t be here. Perhaps he should move along. Why was he being held here? Why was he being kept here?

That’s it, Jack, fight it.

But “relax,” said the voice oozing down deeper through his brain, “relax and focus on what I’m saying to you. Relax, and focus on my voice. Relax and focus your whole being on my voice.”

And the autumn leaves continued to fall silently about him, and the blanket of warmth reached up to his waist and began to tickle the tips of his fingers. Then his hands. First warmth, then a heavy weight, so very heavy, and then his arms became locked and as still as though stone, safe beneath the blanket. And the blanket reached still higher.

Stop, Jack, now, before it’s too late.

A trickle of realization and fear struggled somewhere inside him. He should be going. He needed to be going. He must be going.

But “your body is becoming more and more relaxed, limb by limb, each muscle in its own time, reaching up higher and higher. It feels so good to just relax.” Those words seeped down inside and seduced all other thoughts out of Jack’s mind for a moment. He was barely aware that his legs and arms would no longer obey him and that his whole body was becoming stilled. But it didn’t really matter anymore; he was safe now.

“Focus on my voice and know that you’re completely safe out here with me. Focus and relax and know that everything is all right.”

Jack didn’t really need to move along, at all; no, he didn’t want to move along, so wonderful it was to just let go of his fears, to forget his worries, to not think at all – for a little while longer, and listen to the voice in his head, and feel the warm, safe blanket covering him.

Jack, no.

“Relax your muscles, one by one, yes.” And Jack’s chest became buried in the heavy blanket of warmth. He exhaled a deep sigh.

You like the way this makes you feel, don’t you, Jack?”

“Yes,” responded Jack, totally content to listen to the sweet sound of the evening breeze, and the pleasant voice describing the leaves piling up around him. He was so safe and warm.

“And now the feeling reaches your neck.” The blanket was so soft. “And the feeling reaches up to your face and now into your mind, and as it does, your head relaxes, and your mind lets go, and now you have no thoughts. Let your thoughts go. No thoughts. None. All gone. So empty. And that feels good to you too, doesn’t it Jack?”

“Yes,” he replied, now completely stilled, locked tight in his warm blanket, his body limp, his arms hanging loose, his head hanging low, his whole being focusing on each and every word of the magical voice, waiting so patiently for the next command. As the voice moved yet deeper into his mind, he opened up to it and let it in and felt nothing but the pleasure of surrendering completely.

Behind him now, there was the soft sound of light, bare feet. Someone was approaching quietly from behind, silently, a naked waif of a body, walking, almost floating, his head nodding pleasantly from side to side, like a spirit in the dark, and it passed by lost in its own blissful trance. And that one was followed by a second, and still a third, each naked, each in his own deep slumber, padding quietly past, altogether unaware of Jack. And now Jack was altogether unaware of them as he slipped still deeper into his own the wonderful sleep. And the spirits joined yet others and they all continued their slow march down to the clearing where the men waited.

Oh, Jack. The Boogeyman has you now.

And you Know what The Boogeyman wants.

But Jack didn’t care. He didn’t have a care about anything in the world. His whole body was safe and warm and as still as stone. Everything was all right.

And the shadow said: “I will now tap you on your shoulder, and when I do, when you feel that tap on your shoulder, then every last muscle in your body will completely let go, and finally, once and for all, untie, and relax, and you will let yourself fall into my arms.”

“Ok,” Jack agreed, a vacant smile, and a peaceful, dreamy look on his face.

And with the tap on his shoulder, Jack’s whole body became as limp as a rag doll’s, and he collapsed into the waiting arms, safe and content, and as the last knot of muscle finally came untied, a dark wet spot formed in his crotch, and soon a warm wet stream of pee ran splashing unheeded down his leg.

No, he didn’t have a care in the world.

Jack was not even aware of it. He didn’t know a thing.

He was only barely aware of the cool night air, the sound of crickets, the bright stars twinkling overhead, and the feeling of total, complete happiness as he followed his leader down to the bottom, down to the clearing, down to where the men were waiting. He was nothing but a zombie now, a mere plaything for the old men, and he heard gruff laughter, and he felt rough hands, and he felt his clothes pulled from him and tossed aside, and yet he felt so safe.

And the autumn breeze continued to rustle the tops of the trees and the night grew late.

And then, suddenly, it was the next day.

Jack awoke with a start. He was in his own room and the early afternoon sunlight was shining through his window. Brief amnesia gave way to muffled memories of odd dreams of the night before. When had he got home? How had he got home? Jeez, how much beer?

There was a chill somewhere that made him remember the dreams. There had been a silhouette of a man. Yes, remember the man? He shivered a second with fear. There had been a big pile of dead leaves and even as he tried to remember the night, his legs began to feel heavy and his arms began to feel like stone, and his body sank down into the bed. Jack stared at the ceiling trying to make sense of it all.

He listened for a moment to his wall clock ticking above him.

What had he dreamed? Unnatural things, unholy things; what had he seen? Unspeakable things.

He had dreamed of men under torch light: old men, toothless men, men he knew by day but whose faces he could not remember; faces he should have remembered.

They were laughing and carrying on, and they were grabbing after him and others; his friends. There had been men leaning back against the trees with him and his friends on their knees begging to serve. There had been men by the railing and his friends bent over the railing pleading aloud for more. And his friends had lain prone, naked, on the ground while being laughed at, and fondled by calloused hands – and worse. He could still remember the calloused hands. What a nightmare. At least, now the nightmare was fading from his memory.

It had all happened under torch light. He remembered the look of all his friends’ empty, hollowed eyes reflecting the flickering fire light.

His clock continued ticking above him.

And yet, in the dream, he had not tried to fight it, nor to run from it. In fact he had loved it, wallowed in it, and enjoyed each and every humiliating moment of it. When the old men had laughed at him, he had laughed along with them. And they had all been faces he should have known, men that he was sure that he knew.

What an incredibly horrible nightmare!

And then he pictured an image of him and all his friends standing in a line, still naked, now covered with dirt, their heads bowed low, listening to their leader, and in unison, agreeing to his commands. What had been the commands? He couldn’t remember. Every part of the dream was slipping beyond his grasp.

Damn, it had been one fuckin’ hell of a weird nightmare! It had to have been a nightmare, a nightmare brought on by too much of Alan’s beer. Gotta give up drinking beer.

Then he paused, then he stopped thinking altogether, and then slowly, with great courage, he pulled up his left foot and checked underneath. Both feet were black with soil. And he saw that his knees and elbows were covered with soil too. After a minute of breathing slowly, counting to ten, he eventually got up the nerve to look in the mirror and confirmed that he was completely covered with filth.

There was even a dry, dead leaf in his hair.

He began to shake. Then he remembered again the rough hands groping his body while he had stood so totally motionlessly in placid submission, obediently repeating those commands. And thinking of it, his cock began to rise.

He stared down at himself in disbelief: so naked and so dirty, and now inexplicably, his cock was rising up in anticipation. Don’t touch it. You’re not permitted to touch it. Leave it for later. Later, when? Leave it for the men. Men, who? Oh god, what was happening?

He became scared and glanced back at the window. Whatever had happened had happened outside. And it happened at night. How many hours were there left before night? He didn’t dare look at his own clock.

It had to be mid afternoon by now. He saw the sun lowering in the trees, shadows of the limbs reaching higher up the clapboard of the house. And the clock was still ticking towards nightfall. What would happen to him when night fell? His cock was beginning to pulse harder with excitement but Jack was becoming more afraid.

From out his window, below his window on the street, he heard noises. He could hear Alan’s voice holler: “Hey Officer Jim, you seen Jack today? I knocked on his door but he didn’t answer. Damn, all my friends seem to be disappearing. I sure hope ‘The Boogeyman’ didn’t get him.”

And Jack heard old Jim holler back a confident: “Maybe he just went away for the day. And don’t you worry about no ‘Boogeyman’; so long as I’m in charge, he won’t come around.”

Upstairs, Jack wanted to scream out to Alan: ‘Run. Leave. Get away. Don’t come out at night.’ But the words were locked in his throat. Who would believe him? Did he even believe himself?

But his heart began to pound inside him. The afternoon was waning away and the clock continued its steady march towards nightfall. What then?

He sat on the edge of his bed those last couple hours, aware of his fears, and aware that his cock was still raging erect, standing upright, begging for his hand, and that his hand was forbidden from answering it. The sun sank lower to the hills, and he felt a breeze on his skin. It brushed his chest and teased his nipples tingling hard, but he must not touch them, must not squeeze them. He felt an aching need within the crack of his ass that he dared not explain.

And as he sat waiting in confused, frightened anticipation, the evening shadows eventually reached up to his window sill and entered his room. They crossed the floor to his bedside where he sat so still, though shaking, and finally the shadows reached up and tapped him on the shoulder.

And all went dark for him.

Downstairs in her parlor, Aunt Margaret was busy knitting and listening to her favorite radio show. She always keeps the volume turned up loud so she can hear it better. She never heard the heavy thud against the floor above.

And so the night falls.

All over town, concerned fathers lock the doors and women close their windows and check that their children are safe.

But not everyone in town is staying home. Supposedly, there’s an all-night Poker game goin’ on down at the sportsmen’s club tonight. Some of the men say they’ll be out on an all-night fishing trip. A few old drunks are down at the town tavern downing their last drinks and watching the clock above the bar. And then they get up to go.

A stillness settles over the town, except for the wind and the crickets and the sound of the blowing leaves. It’s only a matter of time now. Just wait and listen.

There, look, it’s started. Look.

All across the town, windows begin to rise and figures climb down ivy trellises. Around the town doors open, one by one, and figures emerge and begin padding slowly across the open streets, moving silently, wordlessly forward towards the woods. They step lightly, blithely without concern, without worry, lost in their peaceful slumbers. They are obeying the call.

At the edge of the woods, they quietly remove their clothes: their shirts, their jeans, their shoes; their underwear slip off leaving them comfortably, appropriately, totally naked. Yet they do not know it. And there is a chill in the air tonight yet they do not feel it. The autumn air brushes their skin, strokes them, and their nipples tighten and their cocks harden. And they continue in their direction. They are obeying the call.

They are all mere zombies now, unthinking beings, proceeding as commanded, obediently down into the woods.

And as they follow the paths, they pass by Alan. It doesn’t matter how he came to be here, the shadow has chosen him tonight and he stands motionless before the tall figure, and he stands transfixed under a spell. A sweet feeling of submission is engulfing him, and he believes that his legs are being buried in leaves, and that his legs are turning to stone, and he is very happily sinking into a trance.

He doesn’t even notice the naked spirits making their way past him; his mind is now so totally focused on the soothing sound of the shadow’s voice. And with a tap on his shoulder, he surrenders and falls into his master’s arms.

Just then, the youth known as Jack quietly passes him by, not seeing him there. Jack is gazing vacantly forward at nothing at all; content, blissful even, obediently joining all the other zombies that are quietly plodding past. They are all obeying the call.

Poor Jack; poor Alan; they should have heeded their own warnings.

So, now you ask, who is it who is doing this to all the youths in town? Who is it who ambushes them in the dark, stopping them in their tracks? Who takes them and Hypnotizes them and turns them into a mindless zombies, mere playthings for all the old men to enjoy?

I suppose you think it is old Officer Jim, and yes, it might be. It could be Officer Jim.

But it just as easily could be anybody else. It could be old Mr. Johnson, or Mr. Hanson, or Mr. Hank, or any of those geezers over at Butler’s Filling Station for that matter. I’ll never tell.

See, that’s the whole point; you can never know who is behind you, stalking you. Perhaps it is a stranger, perhaps it is an acquaintance; it may even be an old friend of the family, but you can never be sure who will catch you unaware some dark night – and tap you on the shoulder.

You can never, ever know who your Boogeyman will be – so be careful when you’re in the woods. Strange things are happening in those woods at night.

And tonight the woods are full of all sorts of strange things.

The zombies, at last joined by Alan, are obeying the command. They are being drawn down deep into the woods; legs bared, asses naked, balls full and swinging freely in the dark, their arms outstretched and floating before them as they obey the call. Their cocks are growing ever harder with anticipation, bobbing freely from side to side with each slow step.

They are mere spirits of the flesh now, walking so softly, smiling so sweetly in their peaceful trances, ready to obey, ready to serve, happily making their way down to the torch lit clearing below where the old men of the town are waiting for them and laughing.

And you Know what the old men want.