03 Feb The Shed Beneath the Pines

PART I

Hank Walker hadn’t seen the old place in nearly forty years.

Driving up the narrow dirt road, he expected to feel something—nostalgia, regret, maybe even a little sorrow—but mostly, he just felt tired. Tired from the long drive, tired of the memories pressing at the back of his skull, and tired of knowing he had nowhere else to go.

The house stood just as it had in his childhood, a sagging but sturdy relic of another time, framed by the towering pines that had grown taller and thicker in his absence. The wraparound porch had seen better days, the once-white paint peeling like sunburned skin. The screen door, still intact, creaked in the wind. He let out a breath.

“Well, you ain’t fallen over yet,” he muttered, killing the engine of his truck.

Hank swung his boots onto the gravel drive, stretched, and cracked his neck before grabbing a battered duffel from the passenger seat. The air was thick with humidity, and the scent of pine needles mixed with damp earth. Georgia had a way of clinging to a man, even if he spent decades trying to shake it off.

He climbed the porch steps, the wood groaning under his weight. The key turned stiff in the lock, but the door gave way with a reluctant click. The scent of dust and time greeted him, the house settling like an old dog stirring in its sleep.

Inside, everything was as he remembered. The furniture was covered in sheets, save for the recliner in the living room—the one his father used to sit in, sipping bourbon in the dark. The kitchen still had the same cracked linoleum, and the cabinets had the same stubborn handles. It was a house frozen in time, waiting for someone to return and breathe life into it again.

But no matter how long he stood there, the past wasn’t coming back. And maybe that was for the best.

Hank dropped his duffel in the hallway and took a deep breath. He had work to do—unpacking, clearing the dust, maybe getting a drink or two in him before bed. But first, he wanted to take a walk around the property.

He stepped off the porch, his boots crunching against twigs and dead leaves as he headed toward the tree line. The land stretched back a good couple of acres, mostly wild now. When he was a kid, his father had kept it trim, the grass short and the edges of the woods clean.

And then, standing there among the pines, he saw it.

The toolshed.

Hank stopped in his tracks, frowning. That wasn’t possible. The damn thing had been torn down—he had torn it down himself the summer before he left for good. His father had fought him on it, said it wasn’t right, but Hank had been set on it. It had been rotting, half its roof caved in, the door barely hanging onto its rusted hinges.

And yet, here it was, standing whole, just as he remembered it from his childhood.

The shed was small, made of weathered wood that looked freshly nailed. The single window, dusty and dim, reflected the late-afternoon light. The old padlock, the one his father always used, hung unlatched from the latch.

His stomach twisted.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, just staring, but eventually, he shook himself out of it and took a step forward. He could check inside. Just a quick peek.

Before he could reach the door, a gust of wind rustled the trees, whispering through the pines. The shed creaked, just slightly.

Hank exhaled through his nose and turned back toward the house. He was too damn old to be spooking himself over a shed. He’d check it out later.

That night, after a couple of beers and a dinner that barely passed as edible, Hank sat out on the porch, listening to the night sounds. The cicadas buzzed, and the occasional hoot of an owl broke the quiet. It was peaceful.

Until he heard it.

Tap.

He stilled, ears straining.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A pause, then the unmistakable sound of a hammer striking wood.

Clack. Clack.

Then, a saw’s long, whining drag as it cut through something thick.

The hairs on his arms rose.

He set his beer down and stood, walking to the edge of the porch. The sound was coming from the woods, from the shed—but that was impossible.

Hank grabbed a flashlight and made his way through the trees, carefully stepping over roots and thick underbrush. The sounds didn’t stop. The hammering continued in a steady rhythm, the saw rising and falling.

When he reached the shed, the noises abruptly stopped.

He lifted the flashlight, the beam sweeping across the shed’s surface.

It was silent. The door was closed, the window dark.

Hank swallowed, grabbed the handle, and pushed.

Inside, the shed was empty.

Dust floated through the air, caught in his flashlight’s glow. The old wooden workbench stood against the back wall, untouched. Rusted tools lined the pegboard, thick with cobwebs. The scent of sawdust and oil hung heavy.

There was no sign that anything had been touched. No fresh cuts on the wood, no hammer resting mid-strike.

And yet…

Hank lowered the flashlight to the floor.

Shavings. Fresh wood shavings. The kind that only came from recent work.

A chill crawled up his spine.

PART II

The next morning, Hank convinced himself he’d imagined it.

He had spent decades on the road, his life measured in miles and weigh station stops, the exhaustion of long-haul drives settling deep into his bones. Sleep never came easy these days, and maybe—just maybe—his mind had played a trick on him. It wouldn’t be the first time.

By daylight, the shed didn’t seem half as menacing. It was just a structure, weathered and worn, but solid–a real place.

He walked out with his coffee, still in his sweatpants and an old T-shirt, and took another look.

The door was closed, and the padlock still hung loose.

Hank pushed the door open, letting the early sunlight spill inside. The dust in the air glowed in the light, drifting in lazy spirals. The tools remained on the walls, untouched. The old workbench looked the same as it always had.

And yet, the shavings were still there.

He crouched down, rubbing one between his calloused fingers. Fresh. Too fresh.

His eyes drifted to the saw hanging on the pegboard. The rust along the teeth was old, but the handle—he could swear—looked cleaner than yesterday.

The thought made him straighten up fast.

“Goin’ crazy in my old age,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Still, he left the shed door wide open as he walked away.

* * * * * *

That afternoon, Hank made his way into town for the first time in decades.

Knorrel was the kind of place that never changed, even when everything else did. The gas station still had an old mechanical pump out front. The grocery store sign was sun-faded, letters half gone. The old diner, where his father used to sit in the corner booth, still had the same damn checkered floors.

Hank pulled into the lot, dust kicking up behind his truck. The bell above the door jingled as he walked in, and the smell of frying grease and over-brewed coffee hit him like a memory.

And sitting at the counter, nursing a cup, was Luther Grayson.

Hank had known Luther since they were boys, though life had taken them down different roads. Luther had stayed put, settling in and working odd jobs around town. Now he was gray-bearded, sun-weathered, and built like an old fence—worn, but not broken.

Luther glanced up, blinked once, then let out a low chuckle.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He set his coffee down. “You back for good or just passin’ through?”

Hank slid onto the stool beside him. “Back. For now.”

Luther shook his head. “Didn’t think I’d see the day. Place must feel different after all these years.”

Hank grunted. “Mostly the same.” He hesitated, then added, “Even the shed.”

Luther’s hand, mid-lift with his cup, froze for just a second. Then he took a sip and set it down carefully.

“I thought you tore that thing down.”

“I did.”

Luther didn’t look surprised. He just gave a slow, knowing nod. “Well. Some things don’t like stayin’ gone.”

Something cold settled in Hank’s gut. “What the hell does that mean?”

Luther exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Your daddy spent more time in that shed than he did in the house,” he said. “Everybody knew that. Hell, you knew that.”

Hank said nothing.

Luther continued, lowering his voice just a little. “Last time I saw him, he was in town, sittin’ right where you are now. Had this… look about him, like he wasn’t sleepin’ much. Like he was fixin’ something that didn’t need fixin’.”

Hank frowned. “He was always like that.”

“Not like this.” Luther shook his head. “He started tellin’ folks he was workin’ on something important. That he’d finally figured somethin’ out. But he wouldn’t say what. Just kept hammerin’ and sawin’, long into the night.”

Hank’s hands curled into fists on the counter.

“And then one day,” Luther said, “he just… stopped comin’ to town.”

The diner felt quieter.

Hank gave a chuckle, but it sounded hollow in his ears. “You sayin’ my old man turned into a goddamn ghost?”

Luther didn’t smile.

“I’m sayin’ you might want to tear that shed down again,” he said. “And this time, make sure it stays gone.”

That night, Hank drank a little more than he meant to.

It wasn’t Luther’s words that got to him—he wasn’t the kind of man who let stories get under his skin. It was the fact that the hammering had stopped the moment he reached the shed last night. Like it knew he was coming.

The bottle of bourbon sat half-finished on the coffee table. The house was dark, save for the dim glow of the porch light outside.

Then, from deep in the woods— Tap.

Again, it sounded—tap, tap, tap—followed by a saw’s long, whining drag.

Hank swallowed thickly, his jaw tightening.

He grabbed the flashlight from the counter, his movements stiff and slow. His legs felt heavier than before, like something deep inside him was screaming don’t go.

But he went anyway.

* * * * * *

The woods were silent except for the wind through the pines.

The shed stood just as it had before. The door, which Hank had left open that morning, was now shut.

He took a breath, stepped forward, and placed a hand on the door. It swung open on its own.

Inside, everything was exactly as it had been: dusty, old, and empty. Except this time, on the workbench, something lay waiting: a hammer, a saw, and a row of new nails, lined up neatly. Alongside the tools was a fresh piece of wood, half-cut, like someone had been working on something before being interrupted.

Hank reached forward, touching the saw handle. The moment his fingers brushed it, a sharp sound split the air. The other tools moved. The hammer rolled slightly. The nails trembled. And somewhere, from the walls, came a low creaking noise—like the entire shed was shifting and breathing.

Hank backed up. He turned quickly and walked out of the shed, leaving the door wide open. This time, he wasn’t pretending he hadn’t seen it. He needed to get rid of that damn thing. But something told him it wasn’t going to be that easy.

PART III

That night, Hank dreamed of the shed.

In the dream, he was a boy again, standing in the backyard under the moonlight, staring at the small wooden structure nestled beneath the pines. The door was cracked open, a sliver of darkness yawning wide, and inside, his father stood at the workbench.

Not working. Not moving. Just standing there.

The shed was too dark, darker than it should’ve been, like the shadows inside weren’t just shadows but something alive. Hank tried to call out, but no sound came. His father turned, slow and stiff, his face unreadable.

Then, from the gloom, came the whisper: “You don’t run now.”

Hank woke with a sharp gasp, his sheets damp with sweat. For a long moment, he just lay there, breathing hard, the old house silent around him. The dream faded, but the feeling it left behind stayed, curling deep in his gut.

When he sat up, he realized something else.

The hammering had started again.

* * * * * *

Hank didn’t check the shed that morning.

He told himself it was because he had errands to run—supplies to pick up in town, maybe even start fixing up the house—but deep down, he knew better. He just didn’t want to see what was waiting for him.

By the time he got back, it was late afternoon. The sun was slipping behind the trees, bleeding gold through the branches, and he still hadn’t stepped foot near the shed.

Then, as he was unloading groceries from his truck, something stopped him cold. Footprints. Not his.

They led from the house’s back door to the edge of the woods, then disappeared into the tree line.

Hank’s hands tightened around the paper bag. The hair on his arms stood up. He hadn’t had visitors, and hadn’t been back there. And yet… someone had.

Or something.

* * * * * *

He lasted until nightfall. By then, the hammering had grown louder.

Hank sat on the porch, bottle in hand, listening to the steady rhythm echo through the trees. He’d tried to ignore it, to push it down, but he wasn’t the kind of man to hide from things forever. With a heavy sigh, he stood, grabbed the shotgun from inside, and headed toward the woods.

The air felt different tonight. Charged. As he approached the shed, the hammering stopped, just like before.

Hank raised the shotgun, resting it in the crook of his arm, and reached for the door. It wasn’t locked.

He swung it open. Inside, the shed was still–but something was different. The workbench, the old, splintered slab of wood his father had used for years, was covered in tools now. Not the rusted, dust-covered relics that had been there before. These were clean. New.

And worse—the wood that had been half-cut the night before? It was gone.

Instead, something else lay on the bench: a chair leg–sanded smooth, polished, and pristine.

Hank’s stomach knotted. Something was building in here, and it wasn’t finished.

He stormed back to the house, grabbed his toolbox, and returned with a crowbar and a can of gasoline. He wasn’t playing this game anymore. One way or another, the shed was coming down.

He started at the roof, wedging the crowbar beneath the shingles, yanking at the wood. It came off easier than it should have, too easy, like the nails were barely holding it together.

But as soon as the first plank hit the ground, a sound ripped through the air. Not the hammering. Not the saw. Something lower, deeper–a creaking groan, like wood bending under pressure. Like something alive.

The walls trembled. The nails along the workbench shifted, rolling slightly. Hank swallowed hard, wiped the sweat from his brow, and swung the crowbar again.

The shed didn’t like that.

The hammer—one of the clean, new ones—fell from the pegboard on its own, clattering onto the workbench. The saw tilted slightly, as if something had just nudged it.

A cold sweat prickled at the back of Hank’s neck. And then a single nail, sitting perfectly still a moment before, shot upright with a sharp ping, as if it had just been driven into place by an unseen hand.

Hank dropped the crowbar and took a step back. From inside the shed, a sound made his blood run cold: a deep, rattling inhale, like the walls themselves were breathing.

Hank turned and walked away. Not fast. Not running. Just… walking. Because something in the back of his mind told him that if he ran, it would chase him.

And he didn’t want to see what it looked like when it moved.

PART IV

Hank didn’t sleep that night. He sat in his recliner, shotgun across his lap, staring at the back door. Outside, the woods loomed dark and silent. No wind. No crickets. Not even the usual night sounds of the pines shifting. And worst of all—no hammering.

That should’ve been a relief, but somehow, it was worse, like the thing in the shed was waiting. Watching.

He’d meant to burn it down. He should have burned it down. But the moment he’d seen those nails move, the wood breathing, he’d turned his back and walked away like a damn coward.

In the dead quiet of the house, he gripped the shotgun a little tighter.

Tomorrow, he thought. He’d finish the job tomorrow.

* * * * * *

When the sun came up, Hank was still awake. He poured himself a stiff cup of coffee, rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes, and stepped outside.

The shed was gone.

At least, for a second, that’s what he thought.

Then he saw it—the door was missing. Not broken. Not shattered. Just… gone, like it had never been there in the first place. The entrance gaped wide, dark and empty. Something had come out.

Hank took a slow step forward. Inside, the workbench was bare. The hammer, the saw, the nails—all gone. And on the floor, right in the middle of the shed, something new had been placed.

A wooden chair–handmade, sanded smooth, and waiting.

Hank backed out of the shed, his skin crawling. Something was wrong here. Something had always been wrong. His father hadn’t just built things in this shed. He’d built something else.

Hank turned and headed back toward the house. He needed to think and figure out what to do next.

That’s when he heard it, inside the house. Not hammering, not sawing–but footsteps. Hank froze.

The back door was open. He was certain he hadn’t left it that way.

Slowly, quietly, he lifted the shotgun, stepping up onto the porch. The wooden boards creaked beneath his boots.

From inside came another step, slow and heavy. Hank took a breath and stepped inside. The house was dark. Too dark.

He moved down the hall, clearing each room, his grip tight on the gun. Nothing. Then, from the living room—creeeeak.

Hank turned the corner, raising the barrel—

The chair was there, the same one from the shed, sitting in the middle of the living room. But the shed was twenty yards away.

His stomach twisted. He stepped closer, staring down at it. Something was peculiar about its shape and the way the wood was cut, the manner in which it almost curled at the edges, like the knots in the grain were shifting beneath his gaze.

And then a deep, splintering crack came from the chair’s legs.

Hank took a step back. The wood was moving. Breathing. And then, from inside the chair, he heard a rattling inhale.

He fired.

The shotgun blast ripped through the chair, splinters flying.

The house went silent.

For a long moment, Hank just stood there, gun still raised. The chair was ruined, split open, its wooden frame shattered.

And inside, there were bones. Not human, and not animal, just bones–twisted and bent, fused into the wood like they’d always been part of it. Like someone had built something living and trapped it inside.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe.

It was finished. The thing was dead. At least, that’s what he told himself.

Then, outside, the hammering began again.

PART V

Hank stood frozen in the middle of his living room, the scent of gunpowder and splintered wood thick in the air. His ears rang from the shotgun blast, but beneath it, he still heard the hammering, steady and unbroken, coming from outside, from the shed.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

He forced himself to move, his boots crunching over shattered wood and bone. He didn’t want to look at it again—at the twisted remains of the thing he’d just destroyed—but he did. The bones were fused into the wood, like ribs and joints had been woven into the frame of the chair itself. Some were small, like fingers. Others were thick, like they belonged to something larger. Something that had grown inside the wood.

His stomach turned, but there was no time to think about it. Not when the hammering was getting louder.

Hank reloaded the shotgun, grabbed the can of gasoline, and stepped onto the porch.

The woods were still. The pines stretched tall and silent, but the hammering echoed through them, coming from the shed, just like before. Except this time, the shed door was closed.

It had been open when he’d last seen it. Now, it was sealed shut.

The hammering stopped the second he set foot in the clearing.

Hank gritted his teeth and raised the shotgun. “I ain’t askin’ twice,” he muttered under his breath.

He kicked the door open. The shed was different now. The walls appeared new, with not a hint of rot. The wood looked fresh, like it had been built yesterday. The workbench, once covered in dust, was pristine. The tools, polished and waiting, hung in perfect rows.

And in the center of the shed, the chair was back. It was whole again, as if he’d never destroyed it. No cracks, no bullet holes. No broken pieces.

And then the saw moved on its own.

Hank fired.

The blast tore through the shed, wood splintering, the air filling with sawdust. He pumped another round and fired again, ripping the chair apart. Then he grabbed the gas can and dumped it over everything.

His hands shook as he pulled a match from his pocket, struck it against his boot, and tossed it inside.

The flames caught fast—and the shed screamed. Not like wood burning or fire hitting old timber, but an actual scream—a deep, wrenching howl, like something inside was dying.

Hank stumbled back, covering his ears as the flames roared higher. The walls buckled, and the roof caved in. The fire swallowed the shed whole, black smoke curling into the night sky. And for what he suspected was the first time in decades, the hammering stopped.

The fire burned until dawn. By morning, all that remained was ashes. The workbench, the chair, the tools—everything was gone.

Hank stood at the edge of the ruins, shotgun resting against his shoulder. The ground was blackened, the air still carrying the sharp sting of burnt wood, but the shed was gone. This time, for good.

Hank let out a breath, turned, and walked back toward the house. Perhaps he could finally rest, now that the past was buried for good.

* * * * * *

A week later, Hank packed his truck.

He wasn’t staying.

The house, the land—he didn’t want it anymore. He’d spent too many years trying to outrun his past, and he wasn’t about to let it dig its claws into him now.

He took one last look at the property and the clearing where the shed had stood, where nothing remained but charred earth. Satisfied, he climbed into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and pulled onto the dirt road.

He didn’t look back.

That night, in the clearing behind the house, beneath the pines, long after Hank was gone—

The hammering started again.