The Creepy Butchering Mexican Man
There is always a reason why the isolated are isolated…
Kids today don’t know they’re born. They have no idea what real fun is. Fun is knocking on your mates’ door without warning, (not calling them, ‘Whatsapping’ them or ‘Snapchatting’ them) and inviting them out to play. Going on bike rides, building dens and playing ‘hide and seek’ in the woods. These are just some of the things I used to do with my mates when I was growing up. God, I miss those days. What I would give to relive them. I feel wholeheartedly guilty for taking them for granted.
Nowadays, kids are detrimentally privileged. They are showered with expensive gadgets: Ipads, the latest iPhone, X-boxes and PlayStations. You name it, they’ve got it. They live their life vicariously through social media, constantly comparing themselves to others; what they have and what they don’t have, what they look like and what they don’t look like. Judging people from their ivory tower. Their fun extends as far as staying indoors playing ‘Warzone’, watching ‘Tik Tok’ videos and trolling others online. Really, they don’t know what they’re missing. Kids of today: I implore you to get out there! The outdoors are full of adventures. Go exploring! It’s what I did… and it’s what brought me to possibly the oddest place I’ve ever encountered.
I won’t forget this day in a hurry. Well, ironically, I’ve completely forgotten what day it was; it was ten years ago. Summer 2011. That’s about all my working memory can conjure up. It started off like any normal day. I woke up to the sun shining enticingly through the curtains. The day, just like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, was mine to do whatever I wanted, and I intended to take full advantage of that. I shot straight out of bed and threw on my GAP t-shirt and shorts (yes, I was a cool kid), before getting my bike out of the shed. “You’re not going out until you’ve had your lunch”, Dad would have called from the window. “… And put your helmet on”. After a few “but Dad”’s, I’d have found myself at the table, helmet on, wolfing down whatever was put in front of me before putting a few track cyclists’ record sprint times to shame as I pedalled eagerly to my best friend Joe’s house round the corner.
Joe never needed warning. If we had agreed to be somewhere at a certain time, then we would be there. That’s how it was back then. Everything was prearranged in person the day before, usually when everyone was about to go in. “Same time tomorrow?”.
Joe and I would have then cycled to James’s; the next closest. Then on to Harry’s, Ben’s, and finally, Mitch’s. There was never any waiting around; we’d get to the driveway and, straight away, hear “Bye Mum”. Let me tell you, no one is more punctual than a bored eleven year old in his summer holidays waiting to go out.
Once we were all together, we’d be straight to the shop to stock up on anything with E numbers (I thank you, Saj, for your many years years of loyal service). Then, we’d play what we liked to call the ‘Footpath game’. In our quest to find new, interesting places, we decided we would just follow every public footpath we came across. For the entire day. Often, we’d find ourselves worryingly lost; miles out with no idea where we were or how to get back. Good times.
On this particular day, we had been to the woods and spent hours making a den that made Ray Mears look inexperienced. Seriously, it was impressive. You should have seen it. Toward the end of that afternoon, as we were leaving the woods, we noticed an obscured footpath; its weathered sign enshrouded in yellow moss. Naturally, we decided to continue our game. It seemed promising. It was, it seemed, always the ‘hidden’ footpaths that led to the most interesting and unusual destinations.
Initially, we had to hack our way through overgrown brambles and nettles, using our BMX’s as shears, but after about ten minutes we were in the clear.
We followed the narrow, bramble-lined footpath for about fourty-five minutes. Very soon, we felt worlds away from civilisation. We were surrounded by nothing but greenery. There was no man made noise, just the soft tweeting of birds in the trees above and the buzzing of crickets in the bushes. Dusk would soon be upon us but we didn’t care; we had plenty of time before our nine p.m curfews.
After what seemed like forever, we reached a stile, with barbed wire fencing bordering the perimeter of the expanse of land. We decided to dump our bikes as they were becoming a burden, and without hesitation, we all climbed over. We had stumbled upon an area of open land, filled with flat, brown patches of dead grass interspersed with bone-dry, knee height grass. I remember it itching my legs as I waded through it. We had assumed, based on its unkemptness, that this land was derelict. So, we persisted along what we could only just about make out to be the footpath. Soon, however, it led us on to a better-maintained, dry mud footpath (one which actually looked like it was supposed to be there), lined by tall equidistant trees either side.
Suddenly, it became clear that we were approaching someone’s property. Through the trees ahead, we could make out a small, wooden ‘cabin’ in a clearing in the forest. This made the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. A strange, unsettling feeling I will never forget. In times like these, there’s always one or two of you whom, we might call the ‘sensible’ ones, that suggest everybody turn back. However, our collective curiosity was such that with some deliberation, we advanced closer, vigilantly, watching out for any movement.
Before we knew it, we were within spitting distance of the cabin. Just outside the ‘porch’, there was a range of medieval-style cast iron cookware and tools. As of yet, however, there were no signs of life. Noticing the piled logs, I remember thinking whoever lived here may be out felling. This possibility was quickly ruled out, however, when I noticed probably the biggest axe I’ve ever seen, lying on the floor not five metres away from me. I looked up at my friends, petrified, drawing attention to the axe. They came over to where I was stood; their gaze following my pointing finger. All five jaws dropped simultaneously. This place was spine-chillingly creepy. Remaining quiet so as to avoid advertising our presence, we nodded at each other agreeing that it was our time to leave.
Just as we all turned to walk back, however, my heart sank as I heard a loud ‘whack’ sound. We all looked at each other again, wide-eyed and frozen in our tracks. There was another loud whack. Then another, and another. I was terrified, but consumed with intrigue. I slowly crept to the side of the cabin and round the side, staying against the wall. “Pssttt! Dan! What are you doing” I recall my friends whispering. The ‘whacking’ sound grew louder and louder the further round the side of the cabin I got, until suddenly the back of the house was in view.
There, outside, just a few metres in front of me, was a short, stumpy man dressed in a navy and white checked lumberjack shirt. He had short black curly hair, with a distinctly thick, black moustache. Although I could only see the side of his face, if I’m brutally honest, it closely resembled Borat’s. The figure was brandishing a huge, rusty cleaver in his hand, above his head, just about to strike down. There, on a blood covered wooden butchers block in front of him, was the carcass of an animal. The table also had a white bucket on it, which I can only presume was for the innards.
I can’t be sure what animal it was. I was not prepared to hang around to confirm what animal it was, either. I just know it definitely wasn’t a chicken fillet from the Co-op.
Fight-or-flight kicked in and I ran. Straight away. As soon as my friends saw me running, naturally, they began running too. We did not look back. We just ran, and ran, and ran some more; fuelled with adrenaline. Panting, we eventually reached our bikes and cycled as fast as we could without discussion. I was too young to be using any ‘proper’ swear words; any which were extreme enough to adequately reflect my terror, but I know exactly what I’d be saying now.
At last, we had made it out of the footpath we had come down and back to normality. As we caught our breath, I disclosed exactly what it was I had seen.
From that day onwards, this apparently ‘primitive’, enigmatic character developed the nickname of ‘Creepy Butchering Mexican Man’ (the ‘Mexican’ part owing to his thick black moustache).
Outdoor exploration is great fun and its good for you. However, if there’s one thing this experience has taught me, it’s this: don’t throw caution to the wind. All the signs were there that day. An overgrown footpath, barbed wire, AN AXE. To be honest, the overgrown, barely accessible footpath should have been a strong enough deterrent; if not that than definitely the barbed wire, and well, the axe, I shouldn’t have even got close enough to see that. You don’t need to be a genius to work out that an axe is an omen, a pretty strong invitation for you to leave. By that point I was in too deep anyway. Yet even after seeing the axe I stayed to figure out what the strange noise was. Hey, I was young and mindless. We’ve all been there.
So. My advice? Explore, absolutely, but don’t go where you shouldn’t. Don’t trespass onto private land. Turn around when you reach barbed wire or a ‘no entry’ sign. These are there for a reason-to keep you out. For your own safety. Next time you find yourself off the beaten track and your see an unusual looking cabin in the woods, give it a wide birth. You might just see something you really weren’t supposed to. Something haunting that you will probably never forget.
