Legend Of The Brinkmire Cabin

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Judy figured the candle would add to the creepy ambiance the cabin already had. Her other friend, Jean, was unrolling her sleeping bag. Jean had just moved to town a few months ago and wanted to see if the Legend Of The Brinkmire Cabin was true.

“So, are you gonna tell me this story, or am I going to have to get Tetanus first?” she asks, picking at a rusty, loose nail on the floorboard.

“In time, relax. Take a chill pill,” says Judy, walking over to her with the candle. “So, you ready to hear the Legend Of Brinkmire?” she asks. Jean nods slowly. “Well, it begins many years ago, in this very cabin. A man named Brinkmire was a pillar of the community. You needed anything. He was there for you. You know, the type of guy who would give up a kidney if he could. But little did people know about the darkness that lays within this very cabin. During the day, Brinkmire would help around town. He mowed the lawns at the ball field and acted as the crossing guard in the afternoon. At night, when everyone went to sleep, it was time for him to play. He went to a bar two towns away where his friend Trixie was the bartender at. He and Trixie had a little scheme going on. Trixie would use her position in the bar to scope out women for him. He had a certain taste and needed her help to find the perfect one every night. When she spotted one, she made sure the girl stayed. She would plight her with free alcohol all night until Brinkmire would get there. After he gave his approval, Trixie would introduce them. Now, as I said earlier, he had a very specific taste. He wanted a woman with long, flowing, soft locks. It could be brown, blond, or a mix of the two. He didn’t care about color, but longer was better. Around ‘last call’ she would make the chosen girl a special cocktail to make her knees weak, and her body more vulnerable to Brinkmire. Being the good Samaritan he was, he would bring her back to the cabin, leading her upstairs to his shop. When the girls came to in the morning, they were strapped down to a barber’s chair, gagged and helpless. Brinkmire would get behind the girl and brush her hair. As he did this, he sang Baa Baa Black Sheep repeatedly. Slow, deep strokes for hours on end. He would then push the chair over to a washbasin. This time he went from brushing to washing their hair, all while singing his sinister song. He would wash it over and over again, ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep, have you any wool?’ he sang. After a very thorough shampooing and deep conditioning, he would dry and style it. By the end, their hair looked so pretty.”

“That’s not scary!” retorts Jean.

“I’m not done!” snaps Judy, “anyway, after he spent all day making their hair pretty. He took his straight razor and would scalp the victim. Leaving them to bleed to death. He then took all that lovely hair he painstakingly washed and styled and made a wig out of it. A wig he would donate to the hospital to be given to a cancer patient. That night he would start the cycle all over again.”

“How did he get caught? Did Trixie turn him in?” asks Jean.

“No, what got him caught was that he used a barrette from one of his victims in one wig he made and donated. It was a custom butterfly with her name on it. He thought the name was so common nobody would notice.” answered Judy. “On this night, at midnight, they executed him in the electric chair, but locals swear that his spirit still haunts this cabin. You know he is nearby because you’ll smell the sweet strawberry shampoo he used. By then, though, it’s too late! He’ll grab your hair and drag you away, never to be seen again. Only your hair will be found in his deadly barbershop, which still seats upstairs, untouched, to this day.”

“Don’t be ridiculous ghost can’t-” teases Jean. Then, out of nowhere, someone grabs her hair. The smell of strawberries catches her nose.