Chapter 2: The Legend and the Knock

I asked, confused, “What’s Old Mo?”

I hugged my aching ankle, glancing from the woods to Derek’s face, searching for a hint he was kidding.

Uncle Derek, panting, replied, “The one your grandma always talks about—the Old Mo that eats naughty kids. That’s what we just saw.”

His voice cracked. Even as a grown man, he sounded like he was five again, terrified of something under the bed.

I stammered, “No way? I thought it just looked like a person.”

I replayed what I’d seen, trying to convince myself it was just some hunter or a neighbor in heavy winter gear.

“Shut up, don’t say a word.” His voice was thick with fear, and he ran even faster.

He clamped his hand over my mouth again, nearly dragging me up the steps as if he could outrun the memory.

As soon as we entered the yard, he slammed the door shut and bolted it.

The slam echoed through the house. I heard the old deadbolt slide home, the same way Grandpa always did when a blizzard rolled in.

My grandpa, Grandpa Joe, came out to greet us.

He was still in his flannel shirt and suspenders, pipe clamped between his teeth, clearly surprised to see us back so soon and so shaken.

“Derek, why are you sweating so much? Go warm up by the fire, don’t—”

Before Grandpa could finish, Uncle Derek interrupted, “Dad, I saw Old Mo.”

He practically shouted it, his words tumbling out in a rush.

Grandpa Joe’s ruddy face instantly darkened.

He pulled his pipe out and gave Derek a look that could freeze water. His jaw clenched, and all the warmth left his eyes.

“You went into the old woods?”

His voice dropped low, almost a growl.

Uncle Derek replied guiltily, “Yeah.”

He stared at the floor, shuffling his boots like a kid caught sneaking out after curfew.

Grandpa slapped him hard across the face.

The sound cracked through the room, sharp as splitting firewood, and I smelled the faint tang of tobacco from Grandpa’s hand. The crack echoed, and even I flinched. That was the first and only time I ever saw Grandpa hit anyone. It was as if the word alone was enough to bring down punishment.

“No one’s set foot in those woods for over twenty years, and you just had to risk your neck.”

Grandpa’s words were sharp, but I could hear the fear behind the anger. For him, those woods were sacred and dangerous, like a warzone you never talk about.

The old woods are an unspoken forbidden zone in our town.

Every kid grows up knowing: you don’t cross that boundary. Not for dares, not for lost pets, not for anything. It was as serious as stepping onto the thin ice in January—everyone knew someone who’d gone in and never come back.

The last person who accidentally went in never came out.

That story was always whispered on snowy nights, never told straight out. We all pretended not to believe, but when someone vanished, people locked their doors a little tighter.

The whole town heard his blood-curdling screams for half an hour, but no one dared to go in and check.

It was the kind of thing folks never forgot. People gathered on porches, listening in silence, not moving a muscle, praying it wasn’t their own kid. The police wrote up a missing person’s report, but everyone knew better than to go searching.

Uncle Derek and I had broken a serious taboo.

It wasn’t just superstition—it was a line you never, ever crossed, like stepping onto the railroad tracks after midnight.

Holding his swollen cheek, Uncle Derek tried to explain, “We were chasing a rabbit. The fog rolled in and we couldn’t see, so we wandered in by mistake.”

His voice was small, regretful. I could see him wishing he’d turned back sooner, or never set out at all.

Grandpa took a deep breath and asked, “How do you know it was Old Mo?”

His eyes drilled into us, searching for some hope it was all a mistake.

“He stretched out his arm and waved at Natalie. That arm was nearly seven feet long.”

Derek’s voice was raw, hands trembling as he recalled it. He looked at me for backup, his bravado gone.

I thought for a moment. “Maybe the waving arm hit a tree branch, so it just looked that long.”

I wanted to believe it was nothing, that our imaginations had gotten the best of us in the fog. But I wasn’t sure anymore.

Uncle Derek said, “That fur, it was black, with a yellow ring around the neck. Isn’t that exactly what Old Mo is supposed to look like?”

He glanced at Grandpa, as if begging for him to say no, to dismiss it all.

I said, “That yellow thing—I thought it looked like a scarf.”

A little bit of hope crept into my voice. Maybe someone was just bundled up against the cold.

Grandpa said, “Derek, did you see clearly or not? Old Mo coming out of the woods is deadly serious. Christmas is almost here—don’t mess up, or no one will have a peaceful holiday.”

He spoke with the authority of someone who’d lived through more winters than I could imagine. Christmas, in our town, was about family, warmth, and nothing bad ever happening.

Uncle Derek thought for a while, then became less certain. “I think it probably was.”

He glanced nervously out the frosted window, as if expecting to see a seven-foot monster on the porch.

Grandpa paced back and forth for a long time, head down.

His boots thudded on the old floorboards. The living room was silent except for the ticking of the clock and the hiss of the wood stove.

Finally, with a grave expression, he said, “You two shut all the doors. I’m going to find the town councilman. No matter who comes, don’t open the door.”

He gave us both a look that brooked no argument, then started hunting for his boots and hat.

Grandma Carol went into the house and grabbed several packs of skyrocket fireworks, stuffing them into Grandpa’s coat pocket.

She moved quickly, hands steady. Fireworks were for scaring off bears or the occasional nosy coyote, but this time, it felt like she was arming Grandpa for war. The familiar sulfur smell filled the air for a second.

Grandpa, pipe in mouth, left the house.

He didn’t look back, just squared his shoulders and marched out into the fog, the door slamming shut behind him.