The Tar Paper Nest

I’ve always had a taste for the strange, a hobbyist of the uncanny, but nothing in my collection of ghost stories and folklore prepared me for that night at my great-aunt’s crumbling farmhouse in the dusty folds of western Kansas. The place had been in the family for generations, but it had the feel of a mausoleum, every floorboard groaning underfoot like a tired old joint. The air inside was thick with the smell of mothballs and dried lavender, and an inexplicable chill clung to the corners of every room, even in the July heat. My cousin, Dale, and his wife, Carol, had insisted we stay, but as soon as I crossed the threshold, a voice in my head—a rational, sensible voice—whispered, ‘Leave now.’ But I didn’t. I stayed, because I thought I was beyond fear. I was wrong.

The house had only two bedrooms, so we shoved the mattresses together in the larger of the two, a chaotic nest of quilts and pillows on the floor. The window faced east, and a sickly sweet smell of decay drifted in from the overgrown orchard beyond. My aunt and uncle—Carol’s parents, actually—took the far side, and Dale settled in the middle, his snoring a low rumble that vibrated through the floor. I lay on my back, a loose spring poking into my spine, staring at the ceiling. The moon, a pale sliver, cast a faint glow through the dusty blinds, and the shadows danced in a way that made me think of fingers reaching out. I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. Every time I drifted off, a sound would jolt me awake—the creak of a stair, the scuttle of something in the walls. I blamed the old house, the wind, my own imagination. But then I saw it.

I was half-awake, my gaze fixed on the window, when the blind moved. It wasn’t the wind—the air was still, heavy as a held breath. The slats parted, and for a moment, I thought I saw a shape pressed against the glass from the outside. It was tall, impossibly thin, with limbs like knotted branches. Its head was featureless, a smooth oval of pale, almost translucent skin, and it seemed to be looking at me. Not with eyes—it had no eyes—but with a hunger that made my stomach drop. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was the moonlight, a trick of the shadows. I forced my eyes shut and focused on the sound of Dale’s snoring, but the image lingered, burned into my mind like a photograph.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, the room was darker, the moon having been swallowed by a cloud. A sound brought me back—a soft, wet, sucking noise, like something being pulled from a mud puddle repeated over and over. I sat up, my heart hammering, and scanned the room. Dale and Carol were motionless lumps under their covers. My aunt and uncle were snoring in harmony. Everyone was accounted for. But the sound was coming from the corner, near the closet. I turned my head slowly, and my blood ran cold. The closet door was ajar, and from within, something was emerging. It was the same thing I had seen at the window, but now it was inside, and it was bigger than I had imagined, its head brushing the ceiling. It moved in a way that defied anatomy, its joints bending in directions that made my stomach lurch. Its skin was not skin—it was a patchwork of tar paper and old photographs, scraps of newspaper clippings, and fragments of faded fabric, all stitched together with thick, black threads.

I tried to scream, but my voice was gone, strangled by terror. I watched, paralyzed, as it crawled across the ceiling, its limbs making wet, sticky sounds against the plaster. It moved directly over me, and I could smell it now—a mix of rot, old paper, and something metallic, like blood. It paused, its head tilting down, and I saw that what I had thought was a blank face was actually covered in tiny, writing-like marks, as if someone had etched a language into its skin. It reached down with a hand that had too many fingers, and it touched my forehead. The touch was cold, like the kiss of a frostbitten corpse, and in that instant, I saw everything: the house as it had been a hundred years ago, a family living there, a little girl who had gone missing. I saw her in the basement, playing a game, and then the walls closing in, the house itself swallowing her. I saw the thing that had been born from her grief and her rage, a creature made of the house’s memories and secrets, feeding on the fear of those who entered.

I woke up gasping, drenched in sweat, the morning light streaming through the window. The room was normal, my family still asleep. But my forehead throbbed, and when I looked in the mirror, I saw a faint mark, like a scar, in the shape of a spiral. I told myself it was a nightmare, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was still being watched. I didn’t tell anyone, not even Dale, who asked why I looked so pale. I just wanted to leave. I packed my bag and said my goodbyes, and as I stepped out the front door, I glanced back at the house. In the upstairs window, just for a moment, I saw a figure standing there, its head tilted, and I knew—I knew it wasn’t done with me.

That was three years ago. I’ve moved across the country, but the mark on my forehead has never faded, and sometimes, in the dead of night, I feel a cold touch on my skin, and I hear that wet, sucking sound. I’ve learned to live with it, but I’ll never go back to that house. And if you ever find yourself in a place that feels wrong, a place that makes your skin crawl, don’t stay. Don’t stay for curiosity. Run. Because some houses aren’t just haunted—they’re hungry. And they will find the cracks in your mind to get in.

I still dream of that thing, wearing the tar paper skin, and I know it’s still there, waiting for me, because I’ve seen the way it looks at me in the reflections of windows and the glint of spoons. It’s not a ghost; it’s something older, something that was born from the house’s own rot. And it’s patient.

I think it’s waiting for me to come back, to finish what it started. But I won’t. I’ll die before I step foot on that land again. But if you ever go to Kansas, and you see a farmhouse with a tar paper roof that seems to sag in the middle like a tired mouth, turn around. Don’t look back. And whatever you do, don’t touch the walls.

Because some things are better left buried. And some names are better left unspoken. But this creature, I’ve come to learn, has a name. It’s called the Tar Paper Nest, and it’s always hungry.

I only hope that by writing this, I’m not calling it to me. But it’s already too late. I can feel its presence even now as I type these words, a cold draft on my neck. The mark on my forehead is burning. And I know that tonight, it will come again. This time, I might not wake up.