Boo Barn

Waylan stood in the dim light of the early morning, his truck parked at the edge of a forgotten dirt road. He bent down and laced up his knee-high snake boots, pulling the strings tight to make sure they fit just right. The boots were tough and made for rough ground, the kind that kept out snakes and thorns in places like this. He took his time with each knot, knowing the field ahead was full of weeds and hidden dangers. Next, he picked up his belt and buckled it around his waist. On the belt, he had a plastic trowel hooked on one side and a short-handle trowel on the other. These tools were simple but useful for digging up what the metal detector might find. He adjusted the belt, so it sat comfortable, not too loose or tight, ready for a long day of work. Then, he reached for a canvas bag and slung it over his shoulder. The bag was old and worn, with enough room inside for any small treasures or junk he might uncover. It hung there against his side, empty for now but full of promise.
He turned to the back of his truck and grabbed the metal detector. It was a heavy thing, with a long pole and a round coil at the end that beeped when it sensed metal under the ground. He held it in one hand, feeling its familiar weight, and checked to make sure the batteries were good.
With everything set, he locked his truck. The click of the lock echoed in the quiet air. He started to walk through the overgrown field. Tall grass and wild plants brushed against his legs, and he stepped careful to avoid holes or roots that could trip him up.
Waylan had been given permission to metal detect around an old farmhouse. The owner of the land had said yes after a brief talk the week prior, happy to let someone poke around the old spot. The farmhouse was last lived in back in the 1930s, a long time ago when things were different. People had moved out, and time had taken over.
Now, only a few beams were left from the main house, standing like ghosts in the weeds. The foundation of the farmhouse was still there, cracked and broken from a fire that had burned it down years back. Nearby stood a small ancient outbuilding, its wood gray and splintered from age. And then there was an old barn, big but weak, that looked like it could fall down in a good wind. The whole place felt empty and sad, like a story no one told anymore.
Waylan decided to check around the barn first since it was not safe to go inside. The doors hung crooked, and the roof sagged in spots, so he would stay outside and sweep the ground around it. Then he would work his way back to the outbuilding, taking his time to scan every inch. And after that, he would head to the farmhouse foundation, where the best finds might be hidden under the dirt and ash.
Looking at the barn door as he walked past, its wood warped and cracked from years of rain and sun. The windows were long broken, with jagged shards of glass still clinging to the frames like sharp teeth. Through those empty holes, Waylan could see some ancient bales of hay stacked inside, their edges frayed and covered in dust. But little else showed in the darkness of the old building, where shadows hid whatever secrets might be left behind.
Waylan started at the back of the barn on the left side. He planned to swing the metal detector around in a slow arc, covering the ground bit by bit until he got back to his starting spot. He turned on the detector, and it beeped right away, a sharp sound that cut through the quiet air.
It was a quick sweep over the grass, before he dug a hole just a few inches deep with his trowel. The dirt came up easy, soft from recent rain, and soon he pulled out a bent nail. He held it up to the light, turning it in his fingers to check it close. The nail was a manufactured one, smooth and even, not like the old handmade ones that were rough and square from blacksmith hammers. He decided it was not worth keeping, so he flicked it into the tall weeds far from the area, where it landed with a soft rustle and vanished from sight. Waylan adjusted the settings on his metal detector to stop it from picking up steel and other metals he did not want to find. He twisted the knobs carefully, making sure it would only beep for things like coins, tin or iron, not junk like steel nails or wire.
A few steps forward again, and another beep rang out from the detector. He bent down on one knee, the grass cool against his pants, and began digging again. The tool bit into the earth smooth, turning over small clumps of soil. Then came a very faint giggle, soft like a whisper on the wind. Waylan stopped right away, his hands still on the tool, and looked around slowly. He scanned the field, the barn, the distant trees, but saw nothing out of place. It must be his imagination, he thought, maybe the creak of old wood or a bird call twisted by the air. He shook his head a bit and went back to digging, scooping out more dirt.
He checked each scoop with the detector, holding the coil over the pile to see if the signal got stronger. But then the giggle came again, louder this time, clear and close. He stopped once more and looked around, his heart beating a little faster now. The sound was like that of a little girl, light and playful, but wrong in this empty place. It was probably some kid playing a trick, hiding in the bushes or around the barn to scare him. Kids did that sometimes in rural spots like this.
Waylan called out, “Hello?” His voice was calm but firm, echoing a bit off the barn walls.
There was nothing in return, no answer, no movement, just the quiet of the field. He started digging again, pushing the tool deeper into the hole, determined to find what the detector had picked up. But the giggle sounded like it was just a few feet away now, almost right next to him, giggling with a strange echo. He stood up quickly, brushing dirt from his hands, and began walking around the barn. He stepped careful over roots and rocks, circling the old structure while listening hard.
“Hello,” he said again. “I am here metal detectin’. I have permission from the landowner. Hello?”
He kept walking, his boots crunching on dry leaves, until he got to the front of the barn. There, he heard a whistle, sharp and clear, like someone calling a dog or signaling. He turned and started walking around the area, heading toward the outbuilding that stood small and silent nearby. But there was no sound at all now, not even the birds chirping or the wind rustling the grass. The whole place felt too still, like it was holding its breath.
Waylan called out louder, “Hey. Is anyone here?”
From over his shoulder came a voice that sounded just like his own. It said, “Hello.”
The word hung in the air, clear and close, as if he had spoken it himself, but he knew he had not. Waylan jerked around quickly, his body twisting sharp in surprise. He looked at the area all around him, his eyes darting from the barn to the outbuilding to the tall grass waving in the slight breeze. His heart pounded hard in his chest, and he felt a chill run down his back. He was the only one there. No person stood nearby, no kid hiding to play a prank, just the empty field and the old buildings watching silent.
Then, movement caught his eye, a quick shift in the corner of his vision. He turned his head fast toward the barn. There was a shadow inside the barn, dim and dark through the broken windows. It moved a little, like something alive in the gloom. It looked like it had eyes, two spots that gleamed faint, staring back at him from the darkness. Waylan blinked hard, but the shadow stayed, those eyes fixed on him.
Waylan began walking toward his truck, his steps careful at first but picking up speed. He wanted to get away from this place, away from the sounds and the shadow that did not belong. The giggle came again, that same light laugh of a little girl, bubbling up from somewhere close behind him. It made his skin crawl. He began walking quickly now, his boots hitting the ground harder, crunching through the weeds as he hurried across the field.
From behind him, in his own voice again, came the word “Hello.” It was louder this time, right at his back, like someone standing just out of sight.
He looked all around nervously, spinning in a full circle, his breath coming short and fast. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his hands shook a little as he scanned the empty land.
The voice came again, “Hello,” soft but insistent, echoing closely in his ears from no clear spot.
Waylan began running, his legs pumping as he dashed toward the truck. Panic filled him, pushing him faster over the uneven ground. He threw his detector into the bed of his truck; the metal clanging loudly against the door. He did not stop to secure it, just tossed it in quick. A rock hit his tailgate with a sharp thunk, like it had been thrown hard from somewhere nearby. The sound made him jump as he unlocked the door without taking his belt off. The tools on the belt jangled against his side, but he ignored them.
He cranked the motor, the engine roaring to life with a rumble that broke the strange quiet. He slammed the door shut and hit the gas, speeding away down the dirt road, spraying gravel behind in a cloud of dust and stones.
****
Robert Lee sat on the swing on the porch, the old chains creaking soft as he rocked back and forth. The wood under him was worn smooth from years of use, and the porch itself stretched across the front of the simple house, with rails that needed a fresh coat of paint. He gazed out at the wind blowing through the trees on the side of the mountains. Leaves rustled and branches swayed, creating a gentle whisper that filled the air.
The Appalachian Mountains in southern West Virginia were as rugged as they were beautiful. Tall peaks rose up sharp against the sky, covered in thick forests of oak and pine, with valleys below that hid small streams and hidden spots. The land was tough, full of rocks and steep slopes, but it had a wild charm that drew people in, even on windy days like this.
Robert Lee reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag. He took a wad of tobacco from it and put it in his mouth, tucking it against his cheek. The taste was strong and familiar, a habit he had kept for most of his life. He chewed slowly, letting the flavor spread as he watched the view. He was a retired country carpenter who had built more buildings and furniture than he could remember the number of. His hands were rough from years of sawing wood and hammering nails, and he had made barns, tables, chairs, and even entire houses for folks in the area. Now, in his later years, he spent his time on the porch, resting from those old jobs.
He placed the bag back into his shirt pocket, folding it neat before sliding it away. Just then, Waylan’s truck came sliding into the driveway, tires kicking up dust and gravel as it skidded to a stop. The truck was old but sturdy, with mud on the sides from back roads.
Waylan jumped out of his truck quickly, leaving the door open behind him. He ran to the fence that bordered the yard, his boots pounding on the ground. He undid the latch with shaky hands; the metal clinking loud in the quiet afternoon, before hurrying up the path to the house.
Robert Lee looked at him with a small smile and said, “Need a bathroom that bad big man?”
Waylan shook his head, out of breath, and said, “Where’s Mamaw?”
Papaw replied, “Over at Mary’s house why.”
Waylan leaned against the porch rail, his face pale, and said, “Papaw, I saw something.”
Papaw chuckled a bit and said, “I see your shadow, which means the sun is shining.”
Waylan looked stern, his eyes serious and fixed on his grandfather. “I’m serious.”
Papaw nodded, his smile fading as he saw the worry on Waylan’s face. “Okay, what?”
“You know the old Cline place on Sturgeon?”
Papaw thought for a second and said, “Yep. I used to rabbit hunt in that pasture beside it.”
Waylan took a step closer and said, “I went metal detectin’ there around the old homestead, and I saw something.”
Papaw tilted his head and said, “Probably a bear. They love to eat those crab apples.”
“No,” Waylan said firmly. “This said hello in my voice.”
Papaw’s eyes widened a little. “You heard what? Start from the beginning and tell me everything.”
Waylan took a deep breath, letting it out slowly to calm his nerves. “I was down on the old Cline farm in Sturgeon holler. My plan was to metal detect the farmhouse, outbuilding, and barn. I had asked Mr. Briggs last week if I could. He said he didn’t care, so I started at the barn and was into my second beep when I heard gigglin’.”
Papaw leaned forward in the swing. “What kind of gigglin’?”
Waylan said, “It sounded like a little girl.”
“Then what happened?”
Waylan went on, “I looked around and didn’t see anything. I started diggin’ again and heard the giggle again, more clearly. I looked around and said hello, but no one answered. I started diggin’ again, figured it was some kid playing a trick. Then I heard it again like it was right beside me.” He wiped his face with his hand, looking bewildered
“Then what did ya do?”
Waylan continued, “I started walking toward the front of the barn. I hollered I was metal detectin’ and had permission to be there. When I got to the front of the barn, I heard someone whistle.”
Papaw interrupted, “Wait, what kind of whistle? Like a bird or an animal?”
Waylan shook his head. “A person.”
Papaw looked concerned now, his brow furrowed deep. “Hmmm? Is there anything else?”
Waylan nodded, “I walked around the barnyard looking for where the whistle came from. I hollered hello again to see if anyone was there. I heard someone say hello back this time, and it sounded like my voice. It scared me, and I jerked around looking when I noticed a shadow in the barn window. It didn’t look like a normal shadow. I swear it had eyes. Long slitted red eyes. I began hightailin’ it back to my truck, and I heard hello again. I ran to the truck and threw my detector in the back. While I was unlocking the door, a rock came flyin’ and hit my tailgate. I spun out of there and didn’t slow down until I got here.”
Papaw blew out a long breath, the air whistling past his lips as he sat back in the swing, thinking hard about what he had just heard. Looking at Waylan with a serious face, his eyes narrowing under his bushy brows. He leaned forward a bit in the swing and asked, “Did you go inside the barn?”
Waylan shook his head quickly. “No, I looked in the window before I walked to the back. I was going to detect in the back and work to the front. Why? Do you know what it was?”
Papaw sat back gently, the swing creaking under his weight. He chewed on his tobacco for a moment, thinking. “They are called Boo Barns. The old timers called them Devil Seal.”
Waylan tilted his head, confused. “I don’t understand.”
Papaw spat a bit of tobacco juice over the porch rail into the yard. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Did you know barns are consecrated? It’s the most consecrated ground outside of churches and graveyards.”
Waylan sat down on the porch steps, his body slowly calming as he caught his breath. He rubbed his hands together, still a little shaky from the run. “Why?”
Papaw nodded, like he was sharing an old secret. “Because of the manger. Jesus was born in a manger. A manger is a biblical barn. It became consecrated by association. And since they are holy ground, they used to use barns to seal up bad things.”
Waylan frowned deeper. “I don’t understand.”
Papaw took another chew, his jaw working slow. “Bad things. Things that were not human. How I was told the legend by my granny, when a witch, shapeshifter, or anything else evil was killed. It was burned, and the ashes were buried on the site of a new barn being built. Making the ground holy and creating a barrier to keep whatever is buried in place until it dissipates or is yanked to hell. That is the reason you will see a star somewhere on it. That is the Christmas star. Same with the X over the door. Few people know this, but X is the Latin initial for Jesus.” Papaw adjusted himself in the swing. “A barn is practically a church, and few people realize it.”
Waylan leaned back against the porch post, taking it all in. “Barns?”
Papaw kept going, his voice low and steady. “Ever wonder why most barns are painted red, when making red paint was very labor intensive to create? It was made with rust or minerals from the ground. It was ground up and mixed with other things to make red.”
Waylan shook his head. “Not really.”
Papaw pointed a finger at him, like he was teaching a lesson. “Because it looks like blood. Just like the blood on the doorposts in the Old Testament, and the blood of Jesus. It was painted as another layer of the seal. Everything about a barn is offensive to something evil, everything from the smell of hay that was used as baby Jesus’s bed to the color and decorations on the walls.”
Waylan thought about the old barn he had seen, its faded red paint peeling in spots. “So every barn you see is a prison for some monster?”
Papaw chuckled softly, but there was no actual humor in it. “No. But some are. And those are usually the ones with old farm items left inside.”
Waylan remembered peering through the broken window. “This barn had some old hay bales in it when I looked in the window.”
Papaw nodded his head slowly, his eyes far away like he was seeing the past. “Yep, as long as it is used, even forgotten, it stays holy. But when it is forgotten, it begins to rot like everything not used. And it also erodes the consecration.”
Waylan sat there on the porch steps, his mind spinning with what Papaw had just said. The wind picked up a little, rustling the leaves in the trees across the yard, but he hardly noticed. He stared at the old man, waiting for more, his hands still clasped tight together.
Papaw chewed his tobacco, his eyes looking out at the mountains like he was pulling memories from the deep valleys. He spat again over the rail, the brown juice hitting the dirt with a soft plop. Then he went on, his voice low and steady, like he was telling a tale around a campfire.
“My granny told me a story about a boo barn,” Papaw said, “It was from when she was a little girl. My granny was no taller than your knee, back in the early 1900s, before the big wars changed everything, there was a family living down by the river by the name of Odell. They were good folks, farmers mostly, raising corn and hogs, keeping to themselves in that rugged country.”
Waylan leaned in closer, his breath steady now but his eyes wide. “What happened to them?”
Papaw nodded. “Well, it started with strange things. Animals going missing in the night, milk turning sour before dawn, shadows moving where they shouldn’t. Folks whispered about a shapeshifter, something that could look like a man or a beast, slipping through the woods to cause harm. It wasn’t human, not by a long shot. The Odell’s, they lost a child to it one winter, a little girl who wandered too far from the house. They found her… well, best not to dwell on that.”
He paused, blowing out another long breath, the swing creaking as he shifted his weight. “The men of the holler got together, hunters and preachers and such. They tracked the thing down, cornered it up on the mountain. They shot it full of silver bullets and arrows made of ash, ’cause that’s what you do with such evil. Then they burned the body right there, reduced it to ashes black as sin. But they knew burning wasn’t enough. Evil like that don’t die easy; it lingers, waits for a crack to slip through.”
Waylan felt a chill, even though the sun was still warm on his back. “So they built the barn over it?”
Papaw pointed a gnarled finger at him. “Exact. They picked a spot on their land, dug a deep hole in the earth, and buried them ashes right where the barn would stand. Then they raised the barn quickly, with prayers said over every beam and nail. Painted it red, hung a star on the gable, and marked an X above the door. Sealed it tight with holy ground, like I told you. The manger’s blessing, the blood color, all of it to hold that devil in place till judgment day.”
Waylan leaned back against the porch post, his chest still rising and falling quick from the fear that clung to him like sweat after a hard run. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and said, “Shew, my heart is still beating fast. So you think that is what I saw.”
Papaw nodded, his eyes steady on his grandson. He shifted the wad of tobacco in his mouth and said, “It sounds like a witch or shapeshifter.”
Waylan’s face grew tense, his brows knitting together in worry. “Should I be worried?”
Papaw shook his head calm, the swing creaking under him as he rocked a little. “No, they are rooted to their grave and the surrounding area until every piece of the barn from weather vane to foundation is gone. By that time, their spirit or whatever they have should have passed over. Just make sure not to go around there again. No need to give it another chance. Son, you don’t have to be worried if you remember to respect what’s old and sacred. Most folks never see a thing, and those who do were meant to. Just keep your wits about you and don’t go looking for trouble.”
Waylan let out a small sigh, his shoulders dropping a bit as the words sank in. He looked out at the yard, where the grass bent in the wind, and said, “No one will believe this.”
Papaw spat another stream of tobacco juice over the rail, watching it arc into the dirt. “I wouldn’t tell too many people, anyway.”
Waylan turned back to him, a hint of doubt in his voice. “Because they think I’m crazy?”
Papaw chuckled softly, but his eyes stayed serious. “Partially. But you don’t want anyone snooping around there and getting hurt or worse. Best to keep it to yourself and folks you can trust.”
Waylan nodded, the idea making sense in his mind now. “Good idea.”
Papaw looked out at the mountains again, their rugged peaks standing tall and silent like old guardians. He said, “The Appalachian mountains are almost as old as the earth. They saw the earth created and probably see it destroyed. Naturally they would accumulate things over that much time.” Then Papaw added, his voice thoughtful, “When your Mamaw gets home, tell her too. If you are still scared, then she can give you some prayers to say to keep you safe.”
Waylan raised an eyebrow, curious but hopeful. “Think they will work?”
Papaw smiled wide, his face lighting up with a mix of pride and faith. “Your Mamaw could walk into any devil seal and pray whatever is in there back into the pit. Never underestimate the power of a praying woman.”

Credit: Rodney Hatfield Jr

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