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Gather ‘round, my dears and darlings, gather ‘round and listen well. I’ve a story to be telling, and I won’t be telling it twice this night. There’s only so many times you can speak of such things without tempting fate.
Now a long while ago and a long ways away, back when we still had untamed wilds and right out in the middle of them, lived an old, old man. Nobody knew his name, and he didn’t care to give it, but he was greatly learned in the arts of herbs, in the language of the stars, and in the secrets of conjuration. Such professions leave behind a special kind of rubbish, though, and the old man was grateful to be rid of it when a feral hog came from the forest one day to eat up his whole rubbish pile. So permissive was the old man that the hog returned, again and again, growing strong enough to walk upright and wise enough to speak.
That feral hog also grew incredibly fat off of all that rubbish, and that, my dears and darlings, was his ultimate doom.
For on one bright day, a hunter came upon him in the woods and decided then and there that this, the biggest hog he would ever see in his life, would be his meat for some time to come. That hunter was so excited, his first shot went wide, and the hog reared up on his hind legs and turned to him and asked,
“Now what on earth are you shooting at me for?”
To which the hunter shouted in answer,
“To eat you, jowl and ham and chop!”
The hunter fired again, and this time, my dears and darlings, his aim was true, and the hog was left akin to a door nail, which is to say very much dead. The hunter then stripped the hog of all he could use and went on his way.
Later that same day, the old man began to wonder where his friend the hog had gone, as he’d not been at the rubbish pile at all like he was apt to do each morning. So he walked the woods, looking for him. That afternoon, he found the hog, left as nothing but a raw head and bloody bones after the hunter had taken his prize. The old man looked at the hog’s remains, thought a moment, and then spoke,
“Raw Head Bloody Bones, stand up.”
And let me tell you true, my dears and darlings, that was no impossible wish. Years of eating past-due potions and spent spells had sunk magic deep into the hog, into the bone and marrow. So when the old man asked him to stand, Raw Head Bloody Bones did just that. He pulled himself together with a shake and a rattle, gave a grateful bow, and walked off into the woods.
As the day passed to evening, Raw Head Bloody Bones saw the pine trees surrounding him, and he wished himself as tall, or taller. The magic in his marrow made it so, and he said to himself,
“That’s good.”
As he peered around from his new height, Raw Head Bloody Bones saw an owl in one of the trees, and he wished himself eyes as big, or bigger. The magic in his marrow made it so, and he said to himself,
“That’s good.”
As he picked out chimney smoke rising through the treetops, Raw Head Bloody Bones saw a raccoon minding its own business, and wished himself a tail as bushy, or bushier. The magic in his marrow made it so, and he said to himself,
“That’s good.”
As he trailed the smell of cooking pork on the breeze, Raw Head Bloody Bones saw a bear trundling along, and he wished himself claws as fierce, or fiercer. The magic in his marrow made it so, and he said to himself,
“That’s good.”
As he made his way to the hunter’s cabin, Raw Head Bloody Bones saw a mountain lion skulking about, and he wished himself fangs as sharp, or sharper. The magic in his marrow made it so, and he said to himself,
“That’s good.”
Raw Head Bloody Bones walked right up to the hunter’s cabin, grabbed the chimney, and shook it like a bell pull. The hunter came to his window with his rifle in hand, looked out, and sounding braver than he felt, asked,
“Who the hell are you?”
Raw Head Bloody Bones answered him,
“You left me under the trees.”
Still putting on his brave face, the hunter asked,
“Well, what the hell do you need such big eyes for?”
Raw Head Bloody Bones answered him,
“To see your grave.”
Shaken, but still counting on his brinkmanship to see him through, the hunter asked,
“What do you need such a bushy tail for?”
Raw Head Bloody Bones answered him,
“To sweep your grave.”
Gathering up the fullness of his courage and a dismissive air, the hunter asked,
“And what do you expect to be using those claws for?”
Raw Head Bloody Bones answered him,
“To catch you and take you deep into the woods.”
The hunter’s nerve finally failed, and it was only morbid curiosity that led him to ask,
“W-why would you be needing such sharp teeth for?”
Raw Head Blood Bones answered,
“To eat you, jowl and ham and chop!”
The hunter slammed his window shut, and locked it, and he locked and barred his door, but his frantic effort would amount to nothing.
Raw Head Bloody Bones lifted up the roof of the cabin.
Raw Head Bloody Bones lifted up the bed the hunter was hiding under.
Raw Head Bloody Bones lifted up the hunter himself, and took him away into the night.
And that was the last anyone saw of the hunter, or of Raw Head Bloody Bones. Sometimes, though, on nights when the moon’s eye is open wide and searching, the rattly-clattery, clicky-clacky sounds of Raw Head Bloody Bones echo faintly from the trees, and honest folks had best shut their windows and put out their lights and hope that morning comes soon.
Good night, my dears and darlings.