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The Pass-Through Man

Don't utter his name.

By Nicholas R YangPublished 25 days ago 4 min read
The Pass-Through Man
Photo by Rene Böhmer on Unsplash

"... But why is he called the pass-through man? That's stupid. What's he do, Moonwalk through walls like Micheal Jackson?" Aiden laughed, failing at a poor attempt to do it before spinning in the pop star's trademark way and throwing his hand upwards.

The kid took a drag from his cigarette before tossing the butt off the side of the graying wooden porch rail, sitting down again and leaning back in his chair. Its two legs hung suspended, rocking back and forth like a gallows body that had been strung up too long.

The stars were bright, though the half-moon was covered in a shroud of grey, whispy, cirrus clouds that glowed monochrome against its pale light.

"I don't know, man. But you shouldn't joke about it. Saying his name summons him, I've heard anyway. It's a real story from my people. You should be careful." Gregg shifted uncomfortably with the gust of wind that followed Aidens' joke.

"Okay, dude, whatever you say. Spooky Pass-through guy. This man is going to show up and hang me or something, huh? Out here in the backwoods of Ontario? Please." Aiden jeered almost losing balance and snapping his neck on an old rusted metal tool rack that jutted from behind them.

Gregg shook his head and pulled his long black braid, tightening it against his dark skin. The wooden bracelets on his wrist, one carved with a bear head, clattered against each other. He pulled his bomber jacket in around his neck as the wind picked up again.

"I'm going to get another beer. Do you want one?" Aiden shook his head with a chuckle, patting his buddy on the shoulder.

"No thanks, Aiden," he responded in a wistful voice, regretting having shared the story with someone who didn't understand its importance.

"Alright, bud." Aiden pulled open the creaky screen door and let it slam behind him, making Gregg jump a bit. "Woooooooooo, watch out for the Pass-through man!" he said, disappearing into the dark hallway that led to the kitchen.

"I'm telling you, man! You're playing with fire!" Gregg called in after him, standing up and pulling a cigarette from his pocket. "White people..." he mumbled, striking a match against the back of a black book with "Players" on it.

The stale sulphur smell stung his nose as he raised the tiny flame to the end of the death stick. Gregg inhaled, coughing a bit at the harshness of the rolled tobacco.

He walked to the railing of the deck and leaned his elbows against it, choking down half of the cigarette.

A shadow darted across a sliver of moonlight that painted the grass, Gregg's eyes went wide. He stood straight up again, holding the half-smoked smoke in between his fingers. It moved along the tree line and to the side of the cottage out of sight. Gregg panicked and followed the shadow to the edge of the deck, peeking over the railing.

It wasn't too far to the ground, about 4 feet. He could jump it if he needed it. He thought to himself,

"Common Aiden, don't screw around," Gregg called down to the shadow that now stood motionless against the side of the cottage. He relaxed a bit after there was no response, realizing that Aiden hadn't come back yet.

"You're an idiot, bro. So fucking stupid." Gregg laughed, taking a final drag and flicking the butt at the form.

The remnants of his smoke passed through the chest and bounced across the ground. The form shimmered and vanished into the wall, Gregg's eyes went wide, and he stepped back from the railing.

As he turned to run into the cottage, he felt something collide with his chest. Gregg stumbled back into the railing. There was a second blow, and over the man went; head first into the dirt below with a sickening snap.

Before the darkness dulled the pain with finality, Gregg stared back up at the four-foot drop. A black and formless man with a cowboy hat looked back down at him. His face was a blank canvas without features. Unable to hold onto consciousness through the throbbing anguish, he passed into the long dark.

"Hey, I'm back buddy, sorry, I had to rock the..." Aiden started to say holding two bottles of brew in each hand.

At first, it looked like the outline of Gregg leaning over the rail. Then it didn't. Aiden watched as it changed. First, a cowboy hat and black boots. Then, torn jean pants, with a chain wrapped tightly around its hips. The duster was next. It bled into reality from nowhere. The colour was blurred and unrecognizable to Aidens' eyes.

The shadow man turned at the sound of his voice, flitting from the rail into his face in under a second. Aiden felt himself lift from the ground, his legs flailing wildly, passing through the man's body as he kicked, and fought. Aiden dropped the bottles, and the last thing he heard was the clattering of glass and a gravelly whisper.

"That is why I'm called the pass-through man."

Aidens body fell limp, face purplish-blue. The pass-through man dropped the corpse and put his foot on its shuddering chest, picking up one of the half-emptied bottles from the floor. He lifted it to his blank face, downing the drink, melting back into the darkness.

urban legendsupernaturalslasherfiction

About the Creator

Nicholas R Yang

An Archaeologist and aspiring Doctor, I am a part-time writer from the East Coast of Canada. Written multiple plays, poems, and short stories. Currently has a single published work, available through Amazon Canada. "Musings From The Other"

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    Nicholas R YangWritten by Nicholas R Yang

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