10 Feb The Wishing Man

Posted at 20:00h in Bargains and Deals, Beings and Entities, Curses and Cursed Objects, Deaths, Murders, and Disappearances, Folklore, Folktales, and Superstition, Ghosts and Spirits, Isolation and Loneliness, Madness, Paranoia, and Mental Illness, Magic, Witchcraft, and the Occult, Myths and Legends, Psychological Horror, Rites and Rituals, Urban Legends by CreepypastaStories.com 0 Comments

📅 Published on February 10, 2025

“The Wishing Man”

Written by Jeffrey Ebright
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 13 minutes

Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.

Please wait...

My name’s Dalton, Dalton J. Tucker. Don’t ask what the “J” stands fer, ‘cause I ain’t tellin’. I’m from a little town called Waverly’s Crossing. Spent all 103 years of my life in the Crossing, so I guess that makes me historian by default. That is, until I got too old and they put me in this retirement home t’die. That was over 30 years and a bunch of letters I sent t’my damn ungrateful children some time ago. I tell ya, I’d like t’see them walk 3 miles a day an’ lift weights when they get t’my age. But that don’t matter, I outlived most of ‘em.

Anyway, my great granddaughter visited me yesterday t’shake the cobwebs. That’s why I’m talkin’ ‘bout my hometown. Y’see, Waverly’s Crossing is a great place t’raise yer youngins and live a nice, peaceful life. Ev’rybody knows ev’rybody there, and ain’t no scandals that ain’t kept between fences. Sure, we’re nosy, but we don’t stick the nose in, we just wave it about t’smell what we can smell.

But, there was a time when the Crossing was a fearful place; a place where the bravest man hid in his cellar when night came a’callin’ . Weren’t no man nor beast didn’t go t’sleep with a prayer on his lips after the Wishing Man came t’ Waverly’s Crossing.

He called himself F.S. Krug, but nobody wanted t’know what the F. or S. stood for; they just satisfied themselves with Mr. Krug. And that was that. From what the backyard magpies heard, he was single, ‘bout 40, and last hung his hat in Cleveland. I overheard Mavis Simpson talkin’ t’my momma and tellin’ her that nothin’ good ever came from Cleveland. Course, bein’ in my tenth year, I always thought Mavis Simpson was half honey and half vinegar (the honey half was so’s she could trap her victim ‘fore smotherin’ it with the vinegar half). Though, the fact Mr. Krug came from the big city did bring a might bit of awe t’my eyes. At that age, the big city was a tale taller than any my grandpappy could tell after a few snorts of ‘shine. So, when Mr. Krug bought the old Tate feed store, I was the first t’stick my face into the display window t’see what I could see.

It took Mr. Krug two days ‘fore his shop opened. Most folks guessed it’d be either a hardware store (Lord knows we needed one) or a wholesale purchasin’ store fer farmers t’sell their corn and wheat and such. We were all wrong. The hand painted sign he hung in front said “The Order Store, F.S. Krug proprietor”. Good trick, I thought, ‘cause it made ya go in t’find out what he was sellin’. Turns out he was a processor for the Spiegel catalog, arrangin’ orders for the Spiegel Catalog Company so’s they went t’the proper place fer fillin’. There’s also a rumor that he did spot checks on deliveries t’make sure the right thing was goin’ t’the right place. He weren’t dumb neither; he kept a few floor models and catalogs around so’s the public could buy or order somethin’ that tickled their fancy. Mr. Krug also kept some hardware supplies, feed grain, and penny candy about t’please anybody stoppin’ by. Since the stock market hadn’t yet crashed, his business boomed. Seemed like momma’d send me t’Mr. Krug’s store ev’ry three days or so fer a this or that she’d plum forgot about needin’.

Ev’ry time I’d walk into the Order Store it made me kinda sick t’my stomach. The place smelled like there was a dead mouse rottin’ in a forgotten trap. That, with the smell of raw grain, tractor oil and some fancy French perfume nobody bought, made my tummy a might bit on the queasy side. I’d get momma’s list done real fast so’s I could get away from the stink and from Mr. Krug. I guess it was the way he’d look at ya with those brown eyes dark enough t’snuff a streetlamp, or maybe it was that skinny body of his and how it looked all gnarled up but moved like one of those alley cats chasin’ after a late night snack. I reckon even his toothy grin set me back, sorta like the smile a clown paints on. Whatever it was, I didn’t want t’stay around t’find out what got my gander up. Though, I did notice a queer sign he’d put on the counter that said “For special needs, the store hours may be extended upon request”. Never had the gumption t’ask what that meant either. And whether the whole town knew or not, what started happenin’ a month after the Wishing Man came t’the Crossing was all ‘cause of those “special needs” and “extended hours”.

I found out later that Jed Robinson was the first t’see the Wishing Man. I hear’d the story from Mavis the gossip tellin’ momma as I acted like I was eatin’ my eggs one early mornin’. Jed was the kinda guy that bad luck was his only luck. His wife run off with a lightnin’ rod peddler a year before and he seemed t’kill anythin’ that had a motor with a touch of his hand. Well, the Wishing Man told Jed he could grant him what his heart wanted, if he came back after hours. Jed did. He made the wish t’be wanted by women without havin’ all his bad luck with mechanical stuff. And for the whole of next week, Jed Robinson was the town lady killer, havin’ a diff’rent woman on his arm ev’ry night. He also found he could fix anythin’ from tractors t’wind up toy cars. Never saw a man turn his life ‘round so fast. After Jed’s perfect week, it happened. He was playin’ bingo at the church with Sally Trego when his first conquest, Bessie Mayfield, burst into the hall all wild eyed and screamin’ at the top of her lungs. Bessie was yellin’ ‘bout how Jed could do this t’her and with a harlot like Sally. Sally, not the kind t’sit back and take such talk, balled up her fists and told Bessie it was time t’discuss the matter out back. But, Bessie kept advancin’ with a crazy look t’her. Jed, tryin’ t’avoid a messy spot, stepped ‘tween the two. Little did he know, Bessie came t’settle the score with her daddy’s Bowie knife. And she did, stabbin’ Jed in the chest and killin’ him dead right there in the bingo hall.

But, it weren’t no fluke. There was more misery t’come, compliments of the Wishing Man.

Old man Griffin wished next. I’d never known a greedier man in my life than Elias Griffin, but no money was enough fer him. He wished fer a million dollars and got it three days later. Old man Griffin, cheap as he was, didn’t want t’pay me and my brother Jack a nickel t’clean out his coal cellar, so he did it himself. He was halfway done ‘fore the ceiling came down on him. The ceiling fell in ‘cause there was gold bars hidden by some crooks back ‘round 1890 in the crawl space. Those gold bars crushed the old skinflint’s head in, but not ‘fore he knew what’d killed him. Police chief Maxwell was told by the G-men who took the gold that there was ‘bout a million dollars in pure gold. Old man Griffin died a millionaire at least.

‘Spite the run of bad luck and hazard it carried, a lot of people heard ‘bout the wishes Mr. Krug offered and came late in the night t’have their dreams made real.

Mary Beth Willis wished t’have ‘nother baby, even though Doc Walters said her seeds weren’t worth the water t’plant. Nine months down the road, Mary Beth died giving birth to a retarded baby girl.

Sam Bettis wished for a new tractor t’harvest his crops. Sam got an inher’tance from an uncle he didn’t know he had and bought the most expensive tractor the tractor factory’d send him. Two weeks later, Sam left the tractor runnin’ and began refuelin’ when he spilled gas on the hot engine. Needless t’say, Sam Bettis burnt alive.

Carrie Washburn just wished fer a new weddin’ band t’replace the one she’d lost in the well. She got a new one alright, and a case of metal pois’nin’ from the ring. Since she flat out refused Doc Walters’ suggestion she take the cursed thing off, Carrie withered away, dyin’ in pain no bein’ should ever suffer.

But, more and more people ignored the curse, plain as the nose on yer face, and kept their appointments with F.S.Krug. All told, 17 men, women, and children passed away that year; all of ‘em had visited the Wishing Man.

Come t’think of it, it was my brother Jack who started callin’ him the Wishing Man. The other kids in the Crossing picked up on it that summer and, by the time fall came ‘round, even the older townsfolk secretly called him the Wishing Man. It was in that cool time of the year when me and Jack decided t’play junior G-men and find out just what the heck Mr. Krug was up to.

Me and Jack finished dinner and yawned a couple fierce yawns and told momma and pop we was goin’ t’bed early. Momma was deep into the scriptures and pop was deep into his cups of ‘shine by the time me and Jack got up the nerve t’escape out our bedroom window. We shimmied down the oak tree and made our way t’the Order Store. We both felt like we was one of Elliot Ness’ Untouchables as we creeped from house t’hedge in search of the Crossing’s Al Capone.

The light from the gas streetlamps made Main street look spooky, castin’ wavy shadows here and there. I could feel Jack shakin’ like pop’s old blue tick when it was in heat. I patted him on the back, told him t’stop actin’ like a little girl, and led him t’the Wishing Man’s store by the arm. The storefront was black as pitch, but I’d heard tell Mr. Watkins was gonna make a wish tonight, so I told Jack t’watch the front while I checked out the back. There weren’t no windows in the back of the store, but there was a rear door where you’d throw yer garbage so’s not t’stink up the store. The door was cracked open a might bit, and I could see there was a faint light inside, like how a candle or oil lamp would shine. Bein’ an Untouchable, I peeked in t’see what I could see. The light was comin’ from upstairs and there was voices talkin’: Krug and Watkins for sure. I figured a good G-man would check out the hideout for any incriminatin’ evidence, so I snuck inside t’poke my nose about.

Weren’t nothin’ t’find, though. There was order forms and boxes postmarked from Chicago and debtor letters and cleanin’ stuff and the like. Just when I began thinkin’ maybe bad luck was just takin’ a vacation here in the Crossing, The light and voices came down the stairs. I scampered t’find me a hidin’ place, scared t’the bone and needin’ an outhouse worse than ever in my life. The footsteps seemed almost next t’me as I jumped into the pantry and held my breath behind the closed door. The fear in my mind made the voices of Mr. Krug and Mr. Watkins sound like they was speakin’ some strange language, one I sure as heck couldn’t figure. It was then that I saw the other light.

It was a low light shinin’ between the slats of the wall that had Mason jars of preserves and green beans on the shelves. As quiet as I could, I moved over t’the wall with the light behind and tried t’look through the slats. You c’n imagine my surprise when the wall opened up from my leanin’ agin’ it. The wall was like one of those secret doors that ‘shine runners would put in t’fool the police and keep their still safe. It was built with a pivot in the middle t’open easier and quieter, which I did. My mouth dropped open when I saw what the Wishing Man hid in his bootleggers’ hole.

Shelves were all around the little room, and all those shelves had lots of Mason jars justa clutterin’ up ev’ry shelf. Now here’s what put the fear o’God in t’me: the light was comin’ from ‘bout a dozen of those jars. These jars looked like they’d been pressured and sealed and the light inside was hard t’explain. Best I c’n compare it to is when I was in Alaska and saw the Aurora Borealis. Each Mason jar looked like it’d been scooped from the Aurora. The light inside swirled all kinds of colors with never the same way of doin’ things. Each of the Aurora jars had cannin’ labels on ‘em, too. Almost soiled m’self when I read ‘em. Ev’ry one of ‘em said somethin’ diff’rent, but all were just as terrifyin’ as the next. “JED ROBINSON” said one label, “CARRIE WASHBURN” read another’n. “ELIAS GRIFFIN”, “SAM BETTIS”, “MARY BETH WILLIS” and other names were on them labels. I knew all of ‘em, and all of ‘em were dead. All of ‘em been rumored t’ve wished, too.

I’d had enough scary stuff fer the night, so I decided t’get out of there. I shut the secret door and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Then, I heard the footsteps again. Scareder than a polecat in a dog kennel, I looked fer anywhere t’hide. I saw some grain sacks agin’ the wall and made my move. I burrowed under those 50-pound sacks, getting my feet up under as the door opened and the Wishing Man walked in hummin’ some godawful opera tune. I took as few breaths as I could while he whistled in his bootlegger hole. By the sound of it, he was doin’ somethin’ with the Mason jars. My curiosity made me peek my head out t’see what was goin’ on. I knew I didn’t want t’know, but I knew I had t’know.

There was the Wishing Man, hummin’ and takin’ stock of those filled Mason jars. And he eyed ‘em pretty good. In that brown undertaker suit of his, he shuffled his feet like he needed t’visit the outhouse. When he stopped shufflin’, I saw the jar with the “ELIAS GRIFFIN” label in his hand bein’ unscrewed. The jar opened with a pop and the Wishing Man smiled. I don’t rightly understand what exactly happened next, but I do have an opinion. Those colorful lights in the jar (which I believed t’be the soul of the name on the jar) rolled out that Mason jar like bottled smoke. The Wishing Man took a big drag off that smoke like a banker tokin’ a Havana mild. His eyes seemed t’twinkle more and more as he inhaled more and more of the light in the jar like he was drinkin’ the soul of poor old man Griffin. There was also another thing I won’t forget. I could have sworn I heard Elias Griffin moanin’ in pain all the while the Wishing Man was a-snortin’ that light. And the damnedest silence came after he was done drainin’ that Mason jar. The Wishing Man put the half-drained jar back on the shelf, sitting it next t’the other glowin’ mason jars at his disposal. T’this day, I don’t know how the soul drinkin’ worked, I just knew I didn’t want nothin’ t’do with it right then an’ there.

Mr. Krug left shortly after his “dinner”, but I waited a couple minutes more ‘fore I made my escape. As I was sneakin’ out the door I came in, I could hear the Wishing Man talkin’, Not t’himself though. I stopped fer a second t’listen and I’m glad I did. The voice that answered was my brother Jack’s. I didn’t know what t’do, so I waited ‘til they went upstairs ‘fore I made my move.

I ran back t’the bootlegger hole and grabbed up as many of those Mason jars as I could. Bein’ only 10 years old, I held four jars safely. The ones leftover I hid ‘neath the grain sacks. That done, I mustered my courage and headed up them narrow stairs t’where the Wishing Man took my little brother.

The Wishing Man was talkin’ up a storm by the time I found the room he took Jack to. The door was part open, so I watched what he was doin’ and sayin’. He said: “You can wish for whatever your heart desires, Jack. Anything, my dear boy. Anything. The only rule is you may not wish for anything on a world scale.”

“Why?” Jack asked.

“Because the world is too big for one little boy to have such control. Just think your wish and blow out the candle. That’s all you need do.”

Jack looked kinda scared when Mr. Krug lit that wierd black candle and it spit sparks t’a flame. The smell was none too nice, neither. It was that rottin’ rat-in-a-trap smell I’d smelled in the bootlegger hole. The Wishing Man picked up the candlestick that queer candle was in and set it in front of Jack. I could tell Jack’s curious nature had got the best of him. Jack cocked his head, looked at the Wishing Man, then closed his eyes ‘fore that evil candle and drew a big breath.

“No, Jack!” I yelled, runnin’ in. I took both of ‘em by surprise so much so they stared at me like a side-show freak.

Then the Wishing Man says,”Hello, Dalton. I was wondering when you would join our party. It is your lucky day today, too.” With that, he pulled another black candle from his suit jacket.

I says, “No thanks. I just came t’get my brother. Come on, Jack.”

‘Fore I knew, he’d lit that other candle and was off’rin’ it t’me with the biggest smile. “Go ahead, Dalton. Wish for yourself, or even your mother or father. It’s your wish, take it.”

I swear I never had t’pee so bad in my whole life as I did that dark night, but I knew I had t’do somethin’ ‘sides wet myself. So, I says,”Sure, but since I’m older, I get t’go first.”

The Wishing Man’s smile got bigger and he says, “Certainly, Dalton.”

I took a quick look at Jack; he looked like one off them cobras under the spell of a snake charmer. I gathered myself, thought my wish and blew out the candle. The Wishing Man had vict’ry written all over him, but only fer a second.

“Is it warm in here?” the Wishing Man says, loos’nin’ his tie. He was instantly sweatin’ a river and that smug look was replaced by a confused one. When he started t’smoke, confusion turned t’fear. In the blink of an eye, the Wishing Man caught fire. The flames covered him as quick as flies t’dung and he could only scream as the flames got brighter and whiter. The Wishing Man staggered ‘round the room, insane with pain and not dyin’ ‘spite his screams. It was then the floor boards split ‘neath his feet. Pairs of red clawed hands grabbed onto his pants and started draggin’ Mr. Krug into the floor. Jack buried his head in my jacket, but I watched as the burnin’ Wishing Man was dragged into the hole where those evil hands came from. I felt like I was watchin’ someone drown, ‘cause the last I saw of the Wishing Man was his flamin’ hand going down as the floorboards put themselves back together and sealed up the magic hole.

Then Jack says t’me, “What happened?”

I says, “I just wished him t’burn in Hell, Jack.” Then I hugged him tighter.

‘Fore we left, Jack says t’me, “What about my wish?”

I says,”No, Jack, its too dangerous. I just wish I don’t have t’see him till Jesus come t’take me.” Then I pinched out the flame on Jack’s wish candle and broke it in half. When I did that, one of those Mason jars I was holdin’ in my jacket fell out and broke. The light inside was like kerosene, settin’ the floor ablaze. Needless t’say, me and Jack hightailed it back home and watched the Order Store burn down from our bedroom window.

Waverly’s Crossing returned t’the peaceful life soon after the embers cooled from the fire. Chief Maxwell, since there was no body, proclaimed it a mystery and happily filed the whole matter away. ‘Sides the tragic death of Mr. Watkins a couple of weeks later (He got gored by his champion stud bull. I always wondered what he’d wished fer), people died naturally after Mr. Krug disappeared.

And, me? Well, I’ve lived a pretty reg’lar life between the bad dreams of the Wishing Man. But, I think I got a while ‘fore I touch the robe of God. Y’see, I dream ‘bout the Wishing Man more and more. In my dreams, he says he’s comin’ back ‘cause of the wish. No, not the wish I made on my candle, but the wish I made on Jack’s candle. My second wish was t’not see him ‘til I die. Its a wish I never thought I made and one I wish I hadn’t. But, I got myself an ace.

Y’see, I kept those Mason jars with those stolen souls in ‘em. That’s how I beat cancer 20 years back and how I survived a triple bypass at age 92. Don’t know if that was the Christian thing t’do with them jars, but I do know I got one jar left and I’m damned if I’m gonna see the Wishing Man in the flesh ‘til my last ace is long past played.

I guess that’s why I’m tellin’ you this story, ‘cause when the Wishing Man comes back, ain’t no 17 lives gonna be lost. And ain’t no 10 year old gonna stop him. When he comes, his determination will’ve been forged in a century of hellfire and revenge. He’ll be worse than any war ‘cause he’ll cover death in the sweetest sugar, and people will step over one ‘nother t’get a taste.

I just pray t’God I never die, ‘cause this world needs an acre more hope t’grow a couple more bushels of love. And it don’t look too good for anybody nowadays.

Well, anybody ‘cept the Wishing Man.