Poor, Poor Jeremy Crick

"You ‘ave to do it you know."
"You aren’t chicken are you?"
"No! I’m not chicken you chicken!"
"Who you callin’ chicken? I done it already."
"It’s not so bad, accept for the werewolves."
"Yeah, and the howling monkeys."
"And the serpent monsters."
"Stop it you guys!"
"See, you are scared, told you. Either way, scared or not, you ‘ave to spend the night ‘ere in the woods, alone, or you can’t be in the club."
"See you in the morning, chicken. That is if you don’t get scared and go crying home to your mum."
The group of young boys filed out back toward the town, running and pushing and snickering to each other. Left there, feeling very small and alone was poor Jeremy Crick who’s mum believed he was safe and sound sleeping at Snakehead’s house. Instead he was spending the night in the woods. Actually, it was Snakehead who put him up to all this. He said that he spent the night in the woods to get into the all-important club and that Jeremy should do it too. It would be fun, he said. Bloody Snakehead. So far Jeremy wasn’t having any fun at all. He had lied earlier, he was scared.

It was getting dark and Jeremy decided he wouldn’t be able to find his way home any way so he out to just stick it out. Plus, he had never even heard of a howling monkey and doubted their existence with the utmost positivity. He started gathering leaves to make a bed.
Jeremy was not alone in the woods that evening. A hunter was there also, firing up his last game for the day. He heard a rustle a ways off to his right. Quietly, he tip-toed toward the noise. A deer or a bear cub he guessed. With a steady hand, he cocked his rifle, and shot.
He was a good marksman, too good; for when the hunter went over to claim his prize he found young Jeremy Crick, head bloodied from the bullet that had so violently entered his brain.
Out of pure shock, the hunter fell to his knees and vomited at the sight of his murder victim. How could he have done such a thing? Or worse yet, what would he do now that he had done it?
With his wits just barely about him, he dragged Jeremy’s body home. It began to storm. He laid Jeremy out on the kitchen table, a meat cleaver in his hand. With each crash of thunder he hacked away at Jeremy’s bones. Then, he chopped him into bits, and ground up the meat.

The next day he took the meat to the butcher in the next county. In those days meat packing has not the cleanest industry. The butcher bought up all the hunter had to sell, without a question. Meat was meat and meat meant profit.
Meanwhile, the group of boys went back to the woods to see if Jeremy had survived his initiation. It did rain an awful lot. They didn’t see him. They didn’t see the blood from his head either, for it blended so well with the leaves.
They ran back to the Crick house, planning to ridicule their friend for getting scared and going home. But when they got there his mother said she had not seen her son since yesterday. The gravity of the situation set in as Mrs. Crick’s stare settled on Snakehead’s round little face.
They searched the woods for hours calling, "Jeremy! Jeremy Crick!" with no response. Finally giving up hope, a neighbor solemnly suggested they comb the river for the poor boy. The whole town seemed to be there helping the search but there was no sign of the poor boy anywhere.
Sunday morning, Jeremy Crick was legally pronounced dead by the town crier. His family sat silently around their table on which sat a mourning feast Mrs. Crick had prepared with the chopped meat she had purchased from the butcher in the next county. Mr. Crick said grace, "Lord, please bless this meal we are about to share and bless the poor soul of our son, Jeremy, who was lost to us so young. We know now that he is with you and he is in a better place."
After a long silence, they began to eat.