Ni-bo

A short folklore HORROR for Small and Scary

Carlos Felipe Ramirez-Unsplash

Garsted Monroe was the famed Tornado Baby of Pritchert County, found hanging by his soggy diaper from a poplar branch after a tornado-spawning storm killed his Daddy. His Mama, shocked by that whole night, seemed a bit absent ever after, but she doted on Garsted. He’d been treated like roses grew out his behind ever since.

Now he sat in the weak rays of late afternoon sun on a cave floor, loamy, mushroom earth trickling down to dress him in dust, staring alternately at his busted leg and up at the suck hole he’d fallen through, where the edge of his pack teased him from the solid ground above.

He’d wet himself and his pants stuck to him in an acrid, chilling puddle. Though mesmerized by the strange, splintered end of his femur staring up at him, a fried, bloodshot, egg-white eye, his body screamed at him to do something. Life hadn’t prepared him for a situation like this, but he gave it his all. He passed out.

***

When he came to, the sunlight was gone, swallowed by the oil thick night. He cussed himself and the stupid book about local caves, how he thought it would be fun to go look at some, maybe even go in, on his day off from the hardware store. He hadn’t bothered to tell anyone his grand plan.

He sat quiet. His neck ached from straining to see or hear something. No matches, no lighter, no flashlight in a pocket. He felt cold and hot at the same time, his mind trying to make sense of so much nothing all around him.

He heard shuffling behind him. Smelled something sour over the wet dirt odor of the cave. His breath hitched in his chest. “He-hello?” He heard some scraping noise, hoped it was a rat, then changed his mind. “Hello?” He turned his head and there was the softest of breaths, something inhaling, then an uneven tread of that same something scrabbling away in the dark.

What can see in the dark? he wondered. He hunched away from what must be an unseen tunnel behind him. An unwelcome memory welled up in his mind.

***

He and his buddies, middle-school aged, wandering these same woods on a sunny Fall day, not far from the old burned-out school. The one that grew strange stories about strange kids like soppy fungus. Long ago, in the 50s or something. Little malformed, misshapen heads on tiny, deformed bodies. His friend Davy told him they were taken in by a kindly old Dr. Crow who promised to love and care for them. Spare their shocked, sickly mothers. Instead he locked them away. Mike said he experimented on them. Changed them. There were lots of versions of what happened next, but some details remained the same. They escaped and burned the school with Dr. Crow inside. Then they became feral, losing all their peopleness. And they were strangely hungry. Rafe said the ghastly things lived in caves and the woods, multiplying to further their strange line.

That night, as the boys ran home in the dusk, swiping the mosquitoes away, they heard loud noises in the trees and scream-laughed their way to the safety of the road. Raced each other under the streetlights. “The melon heads are after us!” they shrieked, stumbling into each other as they sprinted to reach their front doors. Such a silly name. It sounded like candy. Melon heads.

He remembered every detail now. Lots of people believed in them. People he knew. Swore they’d see them from time to time. Some people even claimed they’d been chased by them out by the Crybaby Bridge where they roamed. Stop thinking about that awful story, he chided himself. Fatigue overwhelmed him and he drifted away again.

***

He was grateful for the morning light after scaring himself half to death. He could hear birds up through the hole. See clouds boiling by. He yelled for quite a while, knowing it would likely make no difference. He was so thirsty. He could see a section of the cave wall was close. Tired of holding himself up, he pushed with his hands and his good leg, slowly scooting his butt and moving so his back was against the wall. It took him a couple of tries, and he nearly fainted, but eventually he leaned against the sloping earth, tree roots from above a living shawl draping his shoulders.

Three rough openings yawned before him in the shadowy dimness of the main cave room. Each dark, each deep, with paths worn every which way. His fever was higher, but he forced his pain way back in his mind. He tried not to think of his leg too much, just looked at the cave walls, searching for another way out. He would drag himself inch by inch if he had to.

From his left, sounds echoed against the stone around him. He looked over and saw he was being watched by a mismatched group of pale faces. Dark circles ringed their eyes and their large domed heads were roadmaps of pulsing veins. They breathed through their mouths, each filled with jagged, jumbled, rotting teeth. Beetle-black eyes regarded him seriously.

Garsted tried to move away as one of them stepped toward him, fear buzzing in his chest to flee. Dressed in ragged children’s clothing, it didn’t get too close but set down a half-busted mason jar holding cloudy water. Garsted didn’t think twice, he grasped the jar two-handed and drank the water so quickly he coughed, nicking his lip. The group mimicked him, “coughing” and making a scratchy approximation of laughter. They watched him warily. Garsted, desperate, said, “Hello? Hello. I’m Garsted. Is there a way out? Can you help me?” They regarded him curiously, but only one responded.

“Ni-bo?”

“Is that your name? Can you help me?”

“Ni-bo.”

“I don’t understand. I need help. I’m hurt,” Garsted offered weakly.

Silently they withdrew down the tunnel, whispering and muttering to each other. The fever took him.

***

He awakened to the bloody, iron smell of meat at his side. Though raw, he couldn’t stuff it into his salivating mouth quickly enough, dirt or no dirt. He gagged a couple of times when he wondered what it was, but kept it down. Two of the melon heads stood in an opening, watching him. One brought him more water in the broken jar.

“Ni-bo,” it said seriously.

“Thank you. I don’t know what you’re saying, but thank you. Is there a way out of here? Can you get me out?”

“No. Ni-bo.”

“My name is Garsted. Garsted.”

“Ni-bo,” said the pale creature, pointing and backing away.

“Don’t leave me here, please!” Garsted called sadly. “I need help!”

He nearly cried. His leg was swollen, purplish and leaking against the hem of his shorts, and a sickly-sweet smell hung in the air. The torn flesh around the bone wound festered while his foot sat dead. He dutifully drank his water. He couldn’t even spare tears now.

He screamed for help. Hope against hope. They didn’t like that. One of them came back and hit him in the face with its tiny, rough hands until he stopped, cowering away from its angry, stinking grimace. It shook its wobbly head at him. Chided him with a string of “No! Ni-bo!”s.

“I don’t understand,” said Garsted quietly, as drops of blood from his injured nose pattered onto his lap. He was so tired and thirsty. He floated in and out of consciousness. The darkness in the cave made it hard to tell what was real and what was a trick of his imagination.

He spent a fair amount of time speaking to Picture Daddy, the man from Mama’s photos who watched him from a nearby rock, but got no response. He saw shadowy figures and something kind of like fireflies floating around. He mostly wanted his mama. He sat, semi-dreaming, remembering what it was like to be so small yet loved so big. How Mama always smiled at him fondly. Told him, “You’re my miracle, Garsted. You’re my special boy.” Then she would hug him and kiss his head. How town folk would wave and smile and say, “Hi!” and “There goes that tornado baby,” and sometimes ask for a photo. He always felt safe. He had a place in the world.

Sharp, tearing pain brought him back to the present like a shot. One of the melon heads was squatting alongside his swollen leg. Its mouth worked while it poked around, but Garsted was too shocked to understand. As it leaned over, mouth gaping, he squeezed his eyes shut. This wasn’t happening. He could hear it chewing, smacking its lips in satisfaction.

“Ni-bo!” Its call brought the others running and they stationed themselves around him. When he could no longer ignore what they were doing, he yelped in pain. They paid him no mind. They chattered their nonsense language around him. It was as if he weren’t there.

He figured it out as he was finally, blessedly, losing consciousness.

“Ah, you’ve been saying “nibble” this whole time. Got it.” They all looked at him happily, nodding their bulbous, bare heads, red mouths grinning.

“Ni-bo! Ni-bo!” they agreed, then went back to their business.

As his eyes closed for the last time, Garsted Monroe smiled. He was going to be famous again.

---

For more Small and Scary /Big and Beastly stories, go to https://www.topinfiction.com/p/ss-bb

I woke up one morning recently with the first paragraph of this story fully in my mind and I jotted it down with no idea what it was for. Then

Garen Marie

created and organized the Small and Scary/Big and Beastly collaboration and the story grew from there.

The melon heads are folklore beings in Ohio, Michigan and Connecticut. Quite the range for something that’s just a campfire story. Steer clear of your local crybaby bridge. They seem to love those.

Thanks for stopping by—it’s good to see you,

Lyndsey