The Son of Uncle John.

June 14, 2025
Dear Diary,

The ramshackle cottage that belongs to Uncle Harold sits at the very edge of our little Yorkshire village, and most people simply steer clear of it. Its easy to avoid him; his house is on the outskirts, almost in the woods. Harold is a solitary, taciturn man. He looks the part too: hunched, unkempt, wearing a grimy checked shirt and camouflage trousers patched at the knees. His hair is tangled and grey, his cheeks windblown. Oddly enough, Uncle Harold never drinks a drop.

Tenyearold George, my son, is terrified of him. His mother, sighing, often says, He used to be a solid fellow, a real handy man! All the ladies envied my sister, thinking what a catch shed got. My husband thats me adds, He went hunting six years ago and never came back the same. My wife then argues, When his son died, he lost his mind.

My wife is close friends with Aunt Mabel, Harolds exwife. When Mabel drops by, she always sighs, Oh, dear, Im sorry for him, but I cant go on like this. Its one thing that little Thomas is gone, another that Harold stabbed me in the back! She never tells anyone exactly what Harold did. Even my own best friend, the mother of Georges friend, keeps quiet. Aunt Mabel herself still mourns the loss of her only threeyearold son, while for Harold it was a crushing blow.

Rumours swirl around the village. Some say Harold finally took to the bottle, others claim a curse fell over the land where his child died, leading to divorce. Theres also talk of a strange creature spotted near his house gaunt, hunched, with ashen skin and spiderthin arms.

What did he do? I ask my wife.
Give me a break, dear, she sighs, refusing to go on.

***

This summer has been unusually hot and dry. George, Victor Clarke and Anthony Reed have taken to cycling down to the river on their own for the first time. They spend whole days on the banks, swimming and fishing. Sometimes they haul in a good catch; George suns the fish on the grass and, in the evenings, the boys gnaw at dried roach instead of peanuts, which means George gulps down several mugs of water before bedtime.

The path to the river runs past Uncle Harolds overgrown plot, choked with weeds and wild maples. His cottage looks pitiful: a roof turned green with moss, peeling window frames, a sagging porch. A lone satellite dish perched absurdly on the roof is the only sign that someone still lives there.

The boys know every whisper about Harold and try not to glance back when they pass his land.

George, have you heard the gossip about Uncle Harold? Victor asks, reeling in a line.
Plenty, and its all different, George replies, wiping his hands on his jeans and pulling out a sandwich stuffed with bacon.
What about the grey man? Anthony chimes in, tossing a fat roach into the bucket.
Ah, thats just village folklore you hear about grey folks and green ones after a pint, Victor laughs.

The day was splendid, and the boys were so absorbed in their fishing that they didnt notice the sun slipping toward the horizon. The rivers surface reflected the crimson glow of evening clouds, crickets began their chorus, and frogs croaked their night songs.

Time to head home, lads, George says, glancing at the dusky sky.
They start packing up as the sun dips below the line of trees, the summer twilight thickening. The boys hurry home when, suddenly, Victors bike chain snaps right in front of Harolds house.

George, Anthony, wait! Victor shouts, leaping off his bike. He crouches, trying to fix the chain, when a rustle comes from the bushes and a branch cracks.

Did you hear that? Anthony whispers, eyes wide.
Something big, George mutters, a shiver running down his spine. Victor, lets get out of here.

The rustling repeats, this time nearer. Victor and George fumble with the chain, their hands trembling. Just as they manage to pull it taut, a gaunt figure emerges from the undergrowth.

It was a thin, ashencoloured being, vaguely human, with a bald, small head, about the height of a child, and outrageously long, spindly arms ending in clawlike fingers. Its eyes were huge and pitchblack. It let out a crackling sound, baring tiny, sharp teeth. Instead of a nose, it had two round breathing holes.

Mum, whats that?! Victor yells, and the three boys scramble onto their bikes and bolt, leaving the bucket of fish behind.

George turns for a moment and sees the creature clumsily tumble over, crawl toward the bucket, peer inside, and snatch a roach with its hooklike fingers. Then a hoarse voiceHaroldsrises from the cottage, and the monster turns obediently toward the house, emitting a sound eerily close to a human shout before disappearing inside.

***

Before they scattered, the boys swore never to ride past Uncle Harolds place again. Of course, each of them earned a good scolding for being late home.

Later that night, the kitchen smelled of fresh scones, and my wife hummed a lullaby while stirring batter. George crept to the door, listening. He knew his mother wasnt angry, and the scent of warm pancakes was enough to draw him out of his fear of a scolding mum.

The front door slammed open: my brother, a farm security guard, had just returned from his night shift.

Hey, Emma, is George still asleep? he asked, his voice a mixture of exhaustion and relief.
Yes, Mike, why? You look spooked, my wife replied calmly.
They found little Sam on the river. Something tore him apart, some sort of beast.
Oh, God! she gasped.
The police are here, interviewing witnesses. Some nightfishing lads heard screams and saw something that looked human but wasntthin, childsized, greytinged.

Georges heart hammered. It was exactly the creature theyd seen by Harolds cottage the day before. He thought for a moment and decided he had to tell his parents everything.

He stepped out of his bedroom and blurted, Mum, dad! We saw that thing yesterday at Uncle Harolds. It wasnt a mansomething horrible.

***

Things moved quickly after that. My call to Anthonys and Victors parents set the whole village into motion. Within minutes, most of the residents were marching toward Harolds cottage. The police arrived, followed by a squad of uniformed officers who ordered everyone to keep quiet under threat of prosecution. No one knew where they were taking the strange creatures body, but Harold, barely a year after the incident, died of a broken heart. His cottage fell into ruin, swallowed by brambles.

When the adults finally left the scene, Victor and Anthony rushed after them, their curiosity burning bright. They heard guttural cries and, moments later, a terrible scream from Harolds doorway. The crowd gathered around a dark pool of blood on the ground; Harolds trembling form hovered above it, sobbing.

My son! My boy! Why, Lord? he wailed.
My boy is gone, Sam, my fatherinlaw said, exhausted. He must have provoked it. I found him while hunting. I heard a childs cries from a burrow it reminded me of my own lost boy, Tom. He ran toward the creature, thinarmed, and I took him in. He clung to me, scared, but he understood everythingfilms, fantasy, sweets. He was a teenager, just like your George.

Aunt Mabel arrived, eyes red, and shouted, Harold, why didnt you leave it there? Perhaps its kin would have found it!

Harold sneered, We humans are the monsters, not them! We cut down the woods, poison the rivers, fill the earth with waste. Where can they hide? Nowhere!

He wept, pleading, Let me bury it, if youre not beasts.

For a fleeting moment I felt pity for Harold, for his grief, and even for the creature, whose claws had claimed Sam. All of us were victims of something larger than ourselves. I wish I hadnt let the tale reach the adults so quickly.

***

The military arrived, ordered a lockdown, and the corpse was taken away in a sealed container. No one ever learned where it ended up. Harolds cottage eventually collapsed, overgrown and forgotten.

Looking back, I realise how quickly fear can turn neighbours into a mob, how gossip can drown out compassion, and how the line between monster and man blurs when we neglect the world around us. Ive learned that keeping quiet about what we see does not protect anyone; honesty, even when painful, is the only way to break the cycle of terror.

Lesson learned: speak the truth, however ugly, and tend the land we share before we become the monsters we fear.