“Yes son?”

“What’s in the shed behind our house.”

“Oh, nothing. Me and your mother’s adult papers and things.”

“Don’t you have a filing cabinet for those.”

“Oh, yeah. Of course. Um.. The shed in back, huh?”



“Can I go back there.”

“God no.”


“You’re a little young. Wait a few years and I’ll tell you the story.”

“Dad. I’m 17.”

“17? You look much younger than that. Jeez, where do the years go?”

“What’s in the shed.”

“Your mother.”

“You said you divorced and she moved to Malaysia.”



“That’s not quite true.” 


“She’s… she’s not well.”

“Not well? What the f**k does that mean?!”

“She’s… she’s got the, how do you put it, she’s dead.”

“Mom’s dead?! She’s in the shed?! Her dead f**king body, my mother’s dead body is in the shed in the backf**king yard! Dad! How the..”

“Now son, what’d I tell you about that potty mouth of yours.”

(Based on a true story, if by true you mean made-up.)

I found this photo in a pile of junks. The shed probably doesn’t have a body in it. Probably. I’m better at finding stuff than making up stories. See some more over here.

3 responses to “Shed

  1. The pile’s message must be deciphered. I believe it holds all of the answers to all of the questions.

  2. The story is actually good enough to keep my attention, so maybe it is bad, hehehe:)~

  3. It’s not what’s IN the shed that scary…it’s what’s UNDER it…

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