
The Carrot Thief: An Original Story by Jennifer Weigel
More Videos
Published
4 years agoon
The soil in my backyard was a sandy mix of gravel and dirt barely capable of supporting so-called civilized life. Sure, it was great for growing weeds and poison ivy and random baby oak trees that sprouted from the neglected acorns the squirrels had forgotten in their winter fervor to stash food wherever they could bury it. But I was trying to grow carrots.
It was an annual tradition.
Miraculously, I always managed to get the seeds to sprout, fan out leaves, and form into long winding gnarled up tendrils that fingered through the ground. But they would grow together at odd angles as if they were offering poorly plotted directions on how to navigate the New York City subway system to a foreign tourist who spoke only intermittent English at best. By the end of the season, no matter how much I tried to thin them, they were a muddy tangled mess of roots.
Nonetheless, I would harvest these so-called carrots and make a point of cleaning, peeling, and cutting them up into small misshapen discs to add to some soup, stew or shepherdâs pie where they could hopefully blur into the background without vying for the center spotlight of the dish. These werenât the sorts of carrots any cook with any sense would want to draw that much attention to, and regardless of what I did to try to improve upon their lackluster flavor or hard-yet-still-spongy texture, the resulting food was always barely palatable, proving that the labor of love does not make all things better.
Even the wildlife avoided them.
Despite the abundance of rabbits and squirrels that frequented my devoid-of-dogs backyard, everything that passed through and even many of the returning critters that lingered awhile left the carrot patch alone. In fact, nothing touched them all season long every year, and my husband cringed at the eventual harvest that meant more cleaning, peeling, cutting and dicing than the impending outcome warranted. Perhaps even more distasteful was the eventual outcome itself of having to sit together and politely smile while trying to choke down the unpalatable bitter pale orange tubers as they disgraced yet another bowl of curried lentils or lamb stew.
So, imagine my surprise to discover that my carrot patch had been raided just as it was reaching its peak stage of undergrowth, right before the harvest. The thief or thieves had come during the dark cover of the new moon, as the mantle of night was as black as it could possibly be. The carrot patch was a muddled up mess of upturned roots, crushed and gnawed upon pale orange tendrils, and scattered gravel and sandy soil flung about. Trampled broken leaves littered the ground in disarray and muddy prints snaked through the surrounding soil.
The carrots were ransacked.
My husband surveyed the scene and placed a hand on my shoulder to console me, squeezing gently to show his support. His relief at his improved situation could be felt through his touch, palpable just below his calm and collected exterior. He had been spared from the impending harvest and he could scarcely contain his excitement for all that he tried to appear outwardly supportive. But I could see right through it. I burrowed into his shoulder anyway, furious and hurt.
What dared come in the middle of the night to ravage my carrot patch? It had left some areas a little more intact, and something told me it would be back. So I staged a sentry. Poised and staring out my back window from the kitchen, I fixated on the scene and waited. Surely the motion sensor light would come on as the thief approached. I was ready shovel in hand, to make a complete fool of myself dashing out the back door to surprise the unsuspecting carrot thief.

I was unprepared for what I found.
I was nodding off dozing when the flash of the motion sensor light caught my eye and I jolted upright. I stared out the window, straining to make out a shadowy form in the carrot patch. At first glance, it appeared to be a rabbit. But it was strangely bulky and moved in a haphazard manner, jerking from side to side. It was also somewhat larger than a normal rabbit, and there was something⊠unsettling⊠about it. Whatever it was, I couldnât place it. I leapt to my feet and darted out the back door anyway, arms flailing in the conditioned response Iâd been working up all evening.
âShoo⊠Go AWAY!â I shouted as I approached the creature. It just stood there, motionless. As I got closer, I became more aware of how it glistened in the light of the motion sensor, it had an almost ethereal or otherworldly presence and seemed to be bathed in an aura of hollow bluish light. But otherwise, it was as black as the night itself and I couldnât make out any characteristics of real significance. The form seemed to both emanate and absorb light simultaneously. It continued to just stand there, surrounded by a scattering of soil, gravel, grit and what remained of the would-be carrots.
As I neared six feet of the creature, it turned to face me.
I was filled with an unexpected sense of unease as I approached. Something was unnervingly not right. It still more or less resembled the outward shape of a rabbit, but I couldnât get a good read on it. Every time I tried to focus on the creature, I felt woozy as if I were looking into a deep abyss leading into the depths of the universe. Within the silhouette, there was nothing, no sense of where an eye or nose or whisker might be. It was just a void. It almost seemed as if it were not wholly there at all, like it was both there and someplace else at the same time or as if it were a spot on a mirror, one of those blemishes to the surface that you cannot seem to wipe away from either side of the glass.
Suddenly the creature emitted the most soul-curdling sound Iâve ever heard. Rabbits can make the most terrifying shrill screams when they feel threatened, but this was no ordinary rabbit screech. It was deep and throaty and bellowed forth with the resonance of something unholy unleashed. My mind reeled as it resonated within my bones and filled me with dread. As the sound washed over me, the creature flickered from within, more pale blue light electrifying deep darkness, and then vanished right before my eyes. My mind stopped racing and went completely silent as I lost my footing and fell to my knees, quivering.
I must have blacked out momentarily.
When I regained my composure enough to glance up, there was no sign of the rabbit-creature. The motion sensor light had gone off and it was completely dark except for some glowing orange forms that I hadnât noticed before. The carrots! What was left of the pale, unappetizing tendrils also had an otherworldly quality about them, emitting a subdued pale orange glow like several nearly faded glow sticks found discarded the morning after a rave.
I never saw the rabbit-creature or its kin again, and I have since stopped trying to grow carrots. Maybe itâs me, or maybe itâs the soil, but the idea of gardening just hasnât had the same appeal, and I was never all that good at it anyways.
And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigelâs work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
Jennifer Weigel is a multi-disciplinary mixed media conceptual artist residing in Kansas USA. Weigel utilizes a wide range of media to convey her ideas, including assemblage, drawing, fibers, installation, jewelry, painting, performance, photography, sculpture, video and writing. You can find more of her work at: https://www.jenniferweigelart.com/

You may like
-
Food Prep with Baba Yaga, Nail Polish Art Fig from Jennifer Weigel
-
Womb, Revisited: a Graveside Poem by Jennifer Weigel
-
Thriller Nite, Poem by Jennifer Weigel Plus
-
Stage Fright, a Creepy Clown Story by Jennifer Weigel
-
Heaven, a Short Story by Jennifer Weigel
-
Happy Holidays! Card from Jennifer Weigel and Santa
Original Creations
Food Prep with Baba Yaga, Nail Polish Art Fig from Jennifer Weigel
Published
6 days agoon
February 9, 2025I must just want to keep breathing those fumes – call me Doctor Orin Scrivello DDS… Anyway, here’s another porcelain figurine repaint with nail polish accents. This time we’ll join Baba Yaga herself as she embarks on a food prep journey – I hear she’s making pie! This time I’m only going to post one figurine because I want to get the down low on all the dirty details. And just what sort of food prep does that entail? Let’s find out…
Yeah it’s a boring chore but necessary. Cause you can’t eat without food, and you can’t have food without food prep.
Are you up to the task? Because heads will roll. In fact, one’s trying to get away now.
A dull blade is nobody’s friend, so make sure to keep all your knives sharpened for the task at hand.
One down, a dozen or so more to go!
Feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigelâs work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
Original Creations
Familiar Faces – A Chilling Tale of Predatory Transformation by Tinamarie Cox
Published
1 week agoon
February 6, 2025By
Jim PhoenixFamiliar Faces
By Tinamarie Cox
For the past three months, Maggie had planted herself on the same bench in the northwestern quadrant of Central Park at six a.m. every morning. Placed beside her were always a brown paper bag and a paper coffee cup, both clean and empty. She did not require food and drink in the same manner as humans but needed to keep up appearances and maintain the illusion. Sitting here like this, Maggie appeared to be like any other New Yorker enjoying the cooler hours of the early summer mornings and a deli-bought breakfast.
As the joggers on the Great Hill Track passed by, Maggie studied their skin. She looked each perspiring body up and down carefully, determining collagen levels and the elasticity of their dermal layers. There was a wide range in age, but younger was preferred. She favored flesh in its prime and in good health. The better condition of the hide meant the tissues would last longer. More time for enjoyment and less time spent hunting.
Maggie, the name that had belonged to the skin she was currently in, had given her a long and pleasurable five years. But her stolen flesh had begun to pucker as of late, thinning and loosening, and starting to droop on its harsh frame. It was time for a change in coverings. Maggieâs delicate apricot coating was nearly spent.
New York City was the perfect place to acquire new skins. Becoming someone new and blending in was effortless in the twenty-first century. There were millions of hosts to choose from and all in different colors. The variety drew her, and the ease of attaining a human casing kept her lingering. A hundred years of stalking and acquisition in this city, and she hadnât felt any exigency to leave it. One person missing out of millions was a drop of water in Earthâs ocean. She drew no suspicions.
Time had only made the process simpler for Maggie.
Naturally, her skills improved as she moved from body to body. She had made mistakes in the beginning. Been too violent with the first few when she should have been more clever. She hadnât expected such a mess. Hadnât known there was so much blood and viscera inside a human body.
But she had been so eager to try. So excited to keep going. To test her limits. Go beyond what she had once thought she was capable of.
Practice made perfect. Switching bodies became seamless.
And there were other factors, too, that allowed Maggie an inconspicuous lifestyle. Population growth was major, inevitable with the humansâ devotion to sexual pleasure. Humans seemed challenged when it came to controlling their desires, much less their reproductive abilities. She felt it was the greatest disadvantage of the species. To be so tightly bound to sex and rearing the inevitable offspring.
She couldnât consider using a human during their infancy or adolescent years. Children were too helpless. Despite the soft suppleness of their skin, being commanded by another adult was unappealing. Maggie was fully grown and had left her nest ages ago.
The way society chose to isolate itself behind its technology also benefited Maggie. Whatever flashed on their handheld screens determined the next fad and the newest trend, which consumed their attention. It seemed humans could not be without their electronic devices, as if they were an extension of themselves. An enthusiastically consumed distraction from the realities of the drudgery of the human world.
Maggie had spent the last several weeks on her perch in Central Park keeping up to date on the latest social interests by watching TikTok videos on her cell phone. Many of the clips were centered around humorous topics, which she hated to admit she found entertaining. And some of the video creators poured their life stories and struggles into the camera for the whole world to see. Maggie liked these videos best. She adopted the histories and backgrounds of the TikTok users for the real-life conversations she participated in.
With the recorded stories committed to memory, she could stir up feelings of pity, compassion, or even lust in her listener. Their emotional responses made her feel more human. Continued the deception. Ultimately, it distracted her conversation partner from asking other, more troublesome questions. Like why the alcohol they were drinking wasnât making her tipsy.
Maggie toggled between the app and observed the passing joggers. She stealthily snapped pictures of potential skin donors for later deliberation. She had noted their schedules and made her friendly face visible during their routines. She looked up, met their gaze, smiled, and angled her head cordially. Every few minutes, she reached into the paper bag standing upright by her lap and brought an empty fist to her mouth, pretending to eat breakfast and drink coffee.
Some mornings, sheâd daydream about the first days in a fresh costume, how silky and soft the flesh was. She liked to run fingers along the new skin, feel how well it hugged the bones. The sensation made the human lungs feel heavy, the heart race, and the mouth water.
No part of her donor went to waste.
Once fitted into a new disguise and acclimated to its nervous system, the previous host served as a first meal. Consciousness didnât return to the shell. The brain was ruined by her invading connectors and the gray matter disintegrated with the disentanglement. Like pulling a weed out of the ground after it had infiltrated and rooted deep into a garden bed.
The defunct flesh made an exponential shift into the decomposition process after being evacuated. Technically, the carcass had started decaying the moment it was put on. Be it delayed or negligible so long as the body’s systems remained minimally active.
The putrid smell that accompanied a rotting body drew attention. Evidence caused questions and investigation. And even this creature had to eat sometimes. Of all the mammals, the taste of human was second to none. Without a doubt, human surpassed in flavor compared to her littermates.
On other observation days, Maggie thought about the instances when young, hormone-driven bodies ensnared her in conversation with the single goal of engaging in mating rituals. She found these human practices amusing, not sharing the same desire or need for such companionship.
Coupled bodies pounding genital areas, sharing fluids, and flesh becoming hot and sticky from the exertion was overall, unappealing. However, Maggie learned the importance and the rules of these games during her adventures among the humans. Though, she did not gain the same level of satisfaction from sexual acts.
Her top priority was to remain innocuous. She paid no favor to a particular gender. Or lack thereof. She appreciated the modern sense of fluidity between sexes. The notions of male and female and fulfilling sexual needs had changed greatly in the last hundred years she had spent amidst people. She had learned that bodies fit together in multiple ways. And Maggie knew how to please any partner no matter the skin she wore.
She had gotten better at determining if a mate would become too attached and return to her with more serious intentions. Relationships complicated her lifestyle. Partners asked too many questions and wanted to be involved with everything. She could not explain to a human how slowly rotting, sagging flesh walked amongst the population. Being solitary and independent was required.
Maggie preferred to migrate across the boroughs only when necessary, like when she adopted a new disguise. Previous acquaintances noticed the change. Memories and personality were lost when she implanted herself. But after a few hours of investigating the old life, she knew who needed a goodbye to be satisfied. And which places not to haunt. These lessons had been learned the hard way at the beginning.
It wasnât difficult to find a new apartment when she needed one. Some neighbors were nosier than others. Maggie didnât have much on hand to pack and move. She kept enough belongings to make an apartment look lived in. And the keepsakes she was genuinely fond of remained in a storage unit.
She learned to save certain items after discovering antique shops. Some humans were willing to pay puzzling sums of money for old things that no longer served anything more than an aesthetic purpose. A lengthy existence inhabiting many lives had allowed her to accumulate a monetary cushion.
As the freshness of Maggieâs skin wore out, she felt like antiquity. Something shabby and spent, and only admired as what it used to be. The lingering memory of something gone and nearly forgotten. A word on the tip of your tongue. She didnât like to feel as though she was fading.
Each morning, she studied the creases deepening on her hands and around her eyes. She pulled at the lines circling her throat. It took more effort to keep her mouth from frowning. She found her reflection off-putting. It hadnât surprised Maggie why flirtations and pleasure seekers had decreased over the last several weeks. Her body looked disgusting.
Humans were shallow creatures. Wrinkling and dulling skin combined with thinning and lifeless hair was unattractive and deterred their mating drive. And it was this decrease in attention that brought Maggie a sense of urgency to find replacement tissue. She had grown to enjoy being noticed for her beauty and sexual appeal. But adamantly denied she possessed human vanity. She just wanted to feel good about herself. There wasnât much else to her drive.
Beautiful skin made Maggie feel powerful.
Maggie was eyeing male flesh for this hunt. The last twenty years had been spent in female coverings. Before that, her costumes were alternated between the sexes. When IT first began acquiring human skins in New York City, it had sought males exclusively. Back in those early days, you had to be male to do what you wanted. No one questioned a manâs late hours or odd habits. A hundred years agoâ when IT had still been something crawling and slithering and observing the human species in the shadowsâ it seemed a woman was more of a thing than a person. And IT had been tired of being a thing.
Before IT was Maggie, there was Ananda, and before her was Shyla. She only remembered Molly because of how short a time her skin had lasted, a mere year. She had judged Mollyâs skin all wrong, or rather, it had deceived her. A century of lives and dozens of names had blended together in parts. What IT had originally been called escaped its memory. The point was to experience life, not remember the vehicle.
Christopher passed her bench for a fourth time that morning. Maggie gave her next potential covering a small smile. He had finally taken notice of her earlier in the week, stealing brief glances at her during each of his eight daily laps around the loop. He looked young enough for her predilection, and in satisfactory health.
She loved the way his tanned epidermis stretched over his pronounced cheekbones. How taut it was across his firm abdominal cavity. And how the flesh around his defined biceps glistened with perspiration in the morning sunlight. He was a fine human specimen. She was fairly certain Christopher was the one.
Her hearts synced into a quick rhythm with her sudden excitement. She fidgeted on the bench as she envisioned slipping into new skin. Shedding this expired hull and feeling the brief freedom from a bodyâs weight. Severing the aged links that bound her to a moribund marionette. She licked her lips as she thought about making a satisfying meal out of this faithful body she was currently in.
Maggie wanted to wear the Christopher costume as soon as possible. She imagined the strength in his well-maintained and robust body. What the ripples in his muscles must feel like when his feet pounded against the asphalt during his run. How easily she would be able to command adoration with his coy smile. The way lovers would worship the powerful way sheâd use his hips.
Decision finalized, Maggie hid her phone away in the back pocket of her shorts. She put the unused coffee cup in the empty brown bag and crumpled them together for the trash can. The wait for Christopher to make his next lap was almost too long. She leaned forward on her bench, staring down the jogging path. Eyes only for him as others passed her by.
When Christopher returned to view, Maggie grinned and angled her head at him. She shifted on her perch, impatient for him to meet her gaze. When their eyes locked, Maggie felt her nerve endings pulse and the human heart lurch. This level of anticipation was better than sex. The barbs holding her inside Maggie tingled.
It was time to seize the moment.
She gave him a little wave with a shaky hand. Then, she patted the place on the bench beside her that was vacated by the fake breakfast.
Christopher slowed his pace, his interest engaged, and paused his morning jogging routine through Central Park to speak to a familiar face. He sat beside Maggie, his mouth open and catching his breath, and rested his arm along the top of the bench.
âFinished your breakfast fast today?â He stretched his long legs out in front of him and Maggie traced them with her eyes.
âI have a confession to make,â she began, flapping her eyelashes at him.
âDo tell.â
He leaned in closer and she could smell the salty trails of sweat dripping down his perfect skin and mixing with his pheromones. He was easily hooked. His scent made her mouth water. Made her buzz inside Maggie. He was a fine choice.
âI was too nervous to eat it this morning. I was hoping to meet you more formally today.â Maggie pressed her pink lips into a crooked smile and raised one of her shoulders aiming to convey shyness in her flirtation.
She formulated a new plan. The details arrived like lightning in her head. Sheâd do things a little differently this time. Sheâd play all her cards right and take him to bed first. Part of her ached to feel him inside this body before putting him on. She didnât understand where the urge had come from, but she decided to obey it.
What was the point of living if not for a few indulgences here and there? Experiment once in a while? Evolve the methods? A hundred years of slipping from body to body needed to stay interesting.
She wasnât becoming more human.
IT could never be human.
âWell,â he held out his hand to her, âIâm Christopher. Itâs nice to meet youâŠ?â
âYou can call me Maggie,â she answered and accepted his handshake. His skin felt better than she imagined. A wave of delight coursed through her. A wide grin crept across her face.
Christopher was hers for the taking.
Predator and prey were united at last.
Original Creations
Womb, Revisited: a Graveside Poem by Jennifer Weigel
Published
2 weeks agoon
February 2, 2025Here’s a graveside pantoum poem from Jennifer Weigel…
The earth enfolds me in her embrace.
I can smell the dirt and water and decay.
This homecoming is a welcome change.
I am wholly surrounded by teeming life.
I can smell the dirt and water and decay.
All smells of mold, mushrooms, and musk.
I am wholly surrounded by teeming life.
Microscopic organisms abound all around.
All smells of mold, mushrooms, and musk.
This is both comforting and disconcerting.
Microscopic organisms abound all around.
I am becoming one with their still energy.
This is both comforting and disconcerting.
For it is the natural progression of things.
I am becoming one with their still energy.
Here within my grave, I shall rot away.
For it is the natural progression of things.
This homecoming is a welcome change.
Here within my grave, I shall rot away.
The earth enfolds me in her embrace.
Ok so that graveside poem was maybe a little more in than out, but whatever. We all go back to the Earth Mother eventually… đ
Here are a couple more posts of graveside photography: Part 1 and Part 2⊠and another poem + photo combo. And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigelâs work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
Trending
-
Original Creations6 days ago
Food Prep with Baba Yaga, Nail Polish Art Fig from Jennifer Weigel
-
Book Reviews5 days ago
My Best Friend’s Exorcism: Experience the 80’s, demons and all.
-
Book Reviews4 days ago
Hendrix Has Another Masterpiece with Witchcraft For Wayward Girls
-
Breaking News2 hours ago
Things get darker in Dexter Original Sin, Blood Drive