The Rake | Horror Story

“The Rake” is an American urban legend and horror story that comes from Creepypasta folklore. On a remote farm, a family faces the terror of the Rake, a creature that craves more than just flesh. This story blends suspense with the chilling fear of urban legends, creating a tale that will leave horror fans deeply unsettled.

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Chapter 1

The Whitaker farm was a solitary outpost in the desolate expanse of eastern Washington, a fragile beacon of life amid rolling hills that stretched like a sea of gold under a bruised November sky.

On November 3, 2025, the air felt thick with the promise of rain and smelled of wet earth, rotting leaves, and something old and wild. The farmhouse, a worn two-story building with peeling paint and a sagging porch, stood against the coming night, its windows shining with a sense of safety.

Past the house, the barn stood, its faded pink walls and double doors rattling in the wind, making Tom uneasy. As night fell, a faint metallic smell mixed with the wet earth. The fields grew quiet, keeping their secrets while the barn waited in silence.

Inside, the kitchen felt safe, filled with the smell of coffee, baking bread, and a hint of smoke from the fireplace. The old oak table, marked by years of meals, was the center of the room. Tom Whitaker, forty-one, sat there reading the Colfax Chronicle.

His rough hands, shaped by years of farm work, held a mug as he read the headline: “More Livestock Vanish Near Colfax; Locals Missing, Fear Grows.” Tom was broad-shouldered, with lines on his face and gray at his temples, but his smile still had the charm that won Ellen over fifteen years ago.

Ellen Whitaker, thirty-eight, stood at the sink with her blonde hair in a loose bun, scrubbing a cast-iron skillet. She was lean and moved with the skill that came from years of farm work and raising a child.

Her blue eyes lit up when she laughed, and tonight, even with the tension, she hummed quietly to calm herself. Their six-year-old son, Sammy, played with his toy trucks in the living room, his laughter brightening the evening. Rusty, their German shepherd, rested by the fireplace, alert to every sound outside.

“Another disappearance,” Tom said, his voice low, breaking the comfortable silence. He tapped the paper, his brow furrowing.

“Three cows from the Millers, chickens from the Hendersons. And now people—old man Pritchard and Jenny Tate. Gone, just like that.”

From the counter, the old radio on the windowsill crackled through static, a somber voice drifting from Colfax AM: Reports of livestock losses continue, no signs, no suspects. Residents urged to keep animals secured after dark. The announcer’s tone dropped to a hush, barely above a whisper: Just like those stories from years back. Some folks still remember what happened at the Carver place.

The kitchen felt smaller as the words hung in the air, mixing rumor and memory, as if the whole town was waiting for something to happen.

Ellen turned, wiping her hands on a checkered dish towel, her expression tightening.

“People don’t just vanish, Tom. Not without a trace. Wolves don’t do that.”

He met her gaze, his jaw clenching.

“Paper says it’s wolves, but I ain’t buying it. No blood, no tracks. Jim Larson at the feed store was talking yesterday. Said his grandpa used to tell stories about something in these hills. Called it the Rake. Came every few decades, took livestock, sometimes folks. Back in ’47, they found the Carver family dead in their beds, torn to pieces.”

Ellen shivered, setting the towel down. “Don’t talk like that, Tom. Not with Sammy in the next room.” She glanced toward the living room, where Sammy’s trucks roared in a mock race. “It’s just old stories. Like the boogeyman.”

Tom leaned back, his chair creaking.

“Maybe. But Jim swore his grandpa saw it once, out by the creek. Thin as a skeleton, pale as death, crawling on all fours. Eyes like black holes. Just watched him till he ran.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out strangled. “Probably too much moonshine, right?”

A long silence grew between them. Tom wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words, his fingers tapping nervously on the table. Ellen looked away, her jaw tight, both of them feeling the weight of unspoken fears as the darkness pressed against the windows.

Ellen crossed her arms, her lips pursed.

“My aunt used to talk about something like that, too. Back in ’89, when five people disappeared. No bodies, no clues. She called it the Rake, said it wasn’t an animal, not really. Something… evil.” She shook her head, stepping closer to Tom, her hand resting on his shoulder.

“But we’re okay, aren’t we? We’ve got each other, this place. Nothing’s getting through that door.”

Tom covered her hand with his, squeezing gently, his smile softening.

“Damn right, Ellie. You, me, Sammy, Rusty—we’re a team. Ain’t no ghost story gonna change that.” He pulled her closer, kissing her forehead, and she laughed, the sound bright but fleeting.

“You always know how to make me feel safe,” she said, her voice warm. “Even when you’re scaring me with your creepy tales.”

“Just keeping you on your toes,” he teased, but his eyes lingered on the paper, on the grainy photo of Jenny Tate, smiling in better days. “Still, I’m checking the locks tonight. And Rusty’s sleeping inside.”

Ellen nodded, her hand lingering on his shoulder. “Good. I don’t like how quiet it’s been out there. Too quiet.”

Right then, Rusty lifted his head, ears alert, and let out a low whine. The wind howled and shook the windows. In the quiet that followed, the sound of Rusty’s nails tapping on the kitchen floor echoed through the room. Tom and Ellen listened, their hearts tense, as the tapping went on, steady but uneasy, while the darkness outside seemed to draw nearer.

Tom looked at Ellen, and suddenly the kitchen’s warmth felt fragile, barely hiding something much darker. Outside, the fields seemed to whisper, and the night crept closer, its secrets pressing in on their world.

Chapter 2

By midnight, the Whitaker house was silent, its warmth barely holding back the cold November night. Upstairs, Sammy slept in his small room, his dinosaur blanket pulled up to his chin, breathing softly with a toy truck in his hand.

Tom and Ellen lay in bed under a heavy quilt, the darkness outside seeming to press against the windows. The wind had stopped, making every creak of the house and rustle of leaves louder. The air smelled of pine from the floorboards and the fading warmth of the fire.

Rusty’s barking broke the silence, sharp and frantic, echoing through the house. Tom woke up with his heart pounding. For a moment, everything felt frozen and too quiet; even his own breathing sounded loud. Then he heard the floor creak and Rusty’s barking in the distance. He grabbed the baseball bat by the bed, his knuckles white, fear growing with every sound and pause.

Ellen sat up, her eyes wide in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, her blonde hair tangled from sleep.

“What’s got him so worked up?” she whispered, her voice tight with fear.

“Probably a damn raccoon,” Tom said, but his voice was strained, his grip on the bat white-knuckled.

Rusty’s barking turned into deep, guttural growls, the kind he used for real threats like coyotes or strangers. Tom got out of bed, pulled on his boots, and threw on his flannel shirt over his undershirt.

“Stay here, Ellie. I’ll check.”

Her hand shot out, grabbing his arm, her nails digging in.

“Not without the gun, Tom. Please. Something’s wrong—I can feel it.”

He nodded, seeing the terror in her eyes, and grabbed the shotgun from the closet, its weight a cold comfort in his hands.

“Alright, I’ve got it. You stay with Sammy. Keep the door locked till I’m back.”

“Be careful,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” he said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He headed downstairs, the shotgun raised, his boots heavy on the creaking steps.

Rusty was at the back door, his hackles raised, his teeth bared, barking at something beyond the glass. Tom flipped on the porch light, but its weak glow barely touched the darkness outside, the fields a sea of shadows under a moonless sky. He unlocked the door, his hand steady despite the tremor in his chest, and Rusty bolted into the night, his barks fading as he charged toward the barn.

“Rusty, get back here!” Tom shouted, stepping onto the porch, the cold biting his bare arms.

Tom stepped off the porch and felt the ground slick beneath his boots, the chill biting up through thin socks. As he moved toward the barn, his hand brushed against the porch rail, a splinter digging into his finger, sharp and real amid the growing unease. The air clawed at the back of his throat, tasting of rotting meat and cold pennies, bringing water to his eyes.

The shotgun felt slippery in his hands as cold sweat broke out on his skin. Ahead, the barn stood with its doors open, darkness swallowing the last bit of light, its shape jagged against the night. Shadows on the ground seemed to move, just out of sight, as if they were alive and reaching for him.

A scream tore through the night—not human, not animal, but something in between, a sound that clawed at Tom’s soul. Rusty’s bark cut off, replaced by a high, pained yelp that echoed in the silence. Tom’s blood ran cold, his breath catching.

“Rusty!” he yelled, running toward the sound, his boots slipping on the frost-slick grass. The yelps grew weaker, then stopped, leaving a silence that was worse, heavy with dread.

“Ellen!” he shouted back toward the house, his voice raw. “Check on Sammy! Lock the doors! Now!”

He didn’t wait for her reply, his focus fixed on the barn, on the thing that had hurt his dog. The stench grew stronger, a physical thing that clung to his skin, filled his lungs with decay. He reached the barn, his shotgun raised, his flashlight beam trembling as it swept through the gloom. Shadows gathered between stacks of hay bales and rusted tools.

Tom caught just a flash: a pale hand—or was it a claw?—scraping along the rafters above, vanishing before he could focus. He faltered, heart pounding, as something skittered out of view, impossibly fast, just the faint impression of mottled skin and elongated fingers curling into the darkness.

The beam flickered over movement in the corner: the slight glint of two pupils reflecting back, low to the ground, then gone as if they had never been there. He strained to see more, but the shadows swallowed everything, leaving only ringing silence and the memory of those alien eyes watching him from the gloom.

For a moment, Tom could barely breathe, his chest tight as he stared into the murk. There was no full shape, only fragments—the scrape of claws against old wood, a shudder of movement in the periphery, the sense of something impossibly thin crawling behind stacks of hay. His own reflection blinked in a shard of broken window glass. In the same instant, another set of eyes reflected beside his, wide and glistening before vanishing with a sudden, predatory jerk.

He fired, the sound deafening in the small space, buckshot splintering a beam, but whatever was there had vanished into the shadows. Only the sound of claws on wood remained, and somewhere, a faint hiss of breath mocked him from the dark. Tom backed out of the barn, his heart pounding, his eyes wide. The farm no longer felt like his; something else was here now, moving along the edges, watching and waiting.

“Jesus Christ,” Tom whispered, his hands shaking, the shotgun trembling in his grip.

He fired, the sound deafening, buckshot splintering a beam, but the creature was gone, its hiss still echoing in his mind. He backed out of the barn, his heart pounding, his eyes searching every shadow. The farm no longer felt like his; something else owned it now, something that watched, waited, and hungered.

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Chapter 3

Tom stumbled back to the house, the shotgun heavy, the stench following him like a predator. The back door was open, swinging gently, and his stomach dropped, his mind racing with images of Ellen and Sammy, alone, vulnerable.

“Ellen!” he shouted, bursting into the kitchen, his boots tracking mud and frost.

The room was chaos—chairs overturned, a glass shattered on the floor, coffee pooling like blood. Ellen stood at the foot of the stairs, clutching Sammy, his face buried in her shoulder, his small body trembling, his pajamas crumpled.

“It’s in the house, Tom,” she whispered, her voice raw with terror, her eyes wide and glassy. “I heard it upstairs—scratching, moving, like it was looking for something.”

Tom slammed the door shut, locking it, his hands shaking as he dragged the heavy oak table to barricade it. “What did you see?” he asked, his voice low, urgent, the shotgun still raised.

“I didn’t see it,” Ellen said, her voice breaking. “But I heard it—claws on the floor, like nails on a chalkboard. It was in Sammy’s room, Tom. I grabbed him and ran down here.” Sammy whimpered, clutching his mother tighter, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Okay, okay,” Tom said, forcing calm into his voice, though his heart was a wild thing in his chest. “We’re getting to the truck. We’ll drive to town, get help. Stay behind me, Ellie. Keep Sammy close.”

Ellen nodded, her breath hitching, and they moved toward the front door, Tom leading with the shotgun, Ellen holding Sammy, whose small hand gripped her shirt.

The house groaned, its timbers creaking as if under strain, the air thick with that sour, rotting stench. For a moment, everything went still. Silence pressed in on them, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock and, somewhere outside, the lonely hoot of an owl drifting through the darkness. Ellen’s breath trembled in her throat, her eyes darting to the ceiling. Then a low, guttural growl came from upstairs, followed by a thud, heavy and deliberate, like something dropping from the ceiling. Sammy cried out, and Ellen shushed him, her own fear barely contained.

They reached the hallway, the front door in sight, its brass knob glinting in the dim light. Tom’s hand was on the lock when the ceiling above them cracked, plaster raining down, dust choking the air.

The creature dropped through, landing in a crouch, its pale, hairless body glistening like a skinned animal. It was thinner than Tom had imagined, its ribs unusual, its limbs unnaturally long, ending in claws that clicked on the hardwood. Its eyes locked onto them, black voids that seemed to suck in the light, its mouth twitching into a grotesque parody of a smile, its teeth jagged and yellowed.

“Get back!” Tom roared, firing the shotgun.

The blast caught the creature’s shoulder, black ichor spraying, splattering the walls like ink. It screeched, a sound that shook the house, its body jerking as if in pain, but it didn’t fall. It lunged, its claws slashing, catching Tom’s arm, tearing through his flannel and into flesh. Blood poured, hot and fast, and he grunted, swinging the shotgun like a club, cracking it against the creature’s skull.

The Rake staggered, its eyes flaring, but it was fast, too fast, darting to the side, its claws raking the wall, leaving deep gouges. Ellen screamed, pulling Sammy toward the door, her hands fumbling with the lock, her breath sobbing.

“Tom, it’s not stopping!” she cried, her voice raw.

“Keep going!” Tom shouted, firing again, the shot tearing through the creature’s chest, more ichor spraying. For the first time, the Rake seemed to hesitate, blinking as his shot caught its ribs and a candle, left burning on the hallway table, flickered violently in the air. The creature flinched back from the pool of light, its eyes narrowing, a shudder running through its frame as if the gentle glow unsettled it. But the moment passed in a heartbeat, and it pushed through its fear, its hiss a blade of sound that cut through his courage.

He tackled it, his body slamming into its skeletal frame, the impact jarring his bones. The creature’s claws slashed again, catching his side, ripping through muscle, the pain white-hot, stealing his breath. He roared, driving his fist into its face, feeling the crunch of bone, but it was like hitting stone, unyielding and cold.

The Rake’s claws found his chest, digging deep, blood pooling on the floor, and Tom knew he was done. His vision blurred, his strength fading, but he saw Ellen get the door open, saw Sammy’s terrified face as she pulled him outside.

The creature’s head snapped toward them, its eyes narrowing, its body tensing to pursue.

“No you don’t,” Tom growled, wrapping his arms around its neck, pulling it back, his blood slicking its skin. He drove his knee into its spine, ignoring the agony in his chest, the wet warmth spreading across his shirt.

“Ellen, run!” he bellowed, his voice breaking, his body screaming with every movement.

The creature thrashed, its claws tearing deeper, its teeth snapping inches from his face, its breath a foul gust of decay. Tom held on, his arms trembling, his life leaking onto the floor, buying seconds, precious seconds, for his family.

Chapter 4

Ellen and Sammy ran into the yard, the cold air hitting them after the fear inside the house. For a moment, everything outside was still and silent, the usual night sounds gone, as if the earth itself felt something old and unwelcome had passed by.

The deep silence surrounded them, covering the farm in the same uneasy quiet that always meant trouble in the old stories their neighbors told. The old pickup truck waited in the driveway, its rusty frame their only hope. Ellen fumbled with the keys, her hands shaking, while Sammy clung to her, his sobs muffled against her side.

“Mommy, where’s Daddy?” he whimpered, his voice small, breaking her heart.

“He’s coming, baby,” she lied, her voice cracking, her eyes darting to the house.

The front window shattered, glass exploding outward, and the creature burst through, its pale body a blur of claws and teeth. Tom was behind it, blood soaking his shirt, his face pale, his shotgun raised. He fired, the blast grazing the creature’s leg, black ichor splattering the grass, but it didn’t slow, its eyes locked on Sammy, its mouth twitching with hunger.

“Get in the truck!” Tom yelled, his voice raw, his body swaying as he stepped between the creature and his family.

He fired again, the shot hitting its arm. Still, it was relentless, dodging with an agility that defied nature, its claws raking the truck’s hood, metal screeching like a wounded animal. Ellen shoved Sammy into the cab, climbing in after him, her hands trembling as she jammed the key into the ignition. The engine sputtered, coughing, refusing to catch.

“Come on, come on,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face, her foot pumping the gas. The creature lunged, its claws inches from the window, and Tom roared, tackling it, his body slamming into its skeletal frame. Blood poured from his wounds, his chest a ruin, but he fought, his fists pounding its face, his screams raw with defiance.

“Drive, Ellen!” he shouted, his voice fading, his eyes meeting hers through the windshield, full of love, of goodbye. “Don’t look back!”

“Tom, no!” she screamed, but the engine caught, roaring to life, and she slammed the door, her foot on the gas. The truck lurched forward, tires spinning, gravel flying as she floored it. The creature hissed, its head snapping toward the truck, its body tensing to chase, but Tom grabbed its arm, pulling it back with the last of his strength.

“Not them,” he growled, driving his knee into its chest, blood bubbling at his lips.

The Rake’s claws tore into him, ripping through his stomach, his chest, his throat; each wound was a death sentence, but Tom held on, his vision darkening, his body failing. He saw the truck’s taillights disappearing down the road, heard Sammy’s cry fading into the night, and a calm settled over him.

They were safe. His family was safe.

The creature’s eyes met his, and for a moment, he saw something—intelligence, malice, a hunger that went beyond flesh, a promise of more to come. It lunged, its teeth sinking into his throat, tearing through muscle and bone, and Tom’s world dissolved into black, his final thought a prayer for Ellen, for Sammy, for the life they’d still have.

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Chapter 5

Ellen drove, her hands white-knuckled on the wheel, the pickup rattling over the uneven road, Sammy sobbing beside her, his small hands clutching his dinosaur blanket.

The farmhouse vanished in the rearview mirror, swallowed by the dark, its windows blind, its secrets buried in blood. She didn’t look back, couldn’t, her mind replaying Tom’s scream, his sacrifice, the way his eyes had held hers, saying goodbye without words. The hills loomed around them, silent witnesses to their loss, their shadows hiding things that moved in the dark.

They reached Colfax by dawn, the police station a beacon of fluorescent light in the gray morning. Ellen stumbled inside, Sammy clinging to her, her voice broken as she told her story—Rusty’s death, the creature, Tom’s fight.

The police listened, looking skeptical but uneasy, and sent a team to the farm. They found blood and claw marks—long scratches in the wood and dirt that made no sense—Rusty’s torn body in the barn, but no sign of Tom or the creature, just an empty house and a silence that felt alive.

When one officer tried to sketch the shape of the marks, he stopped halfway, frowning. The pattern didn’t match anything they’d seen. “Could’ve been a bear,” one officer muttered, but his eyes avoided Ellen’s, his hand lingering on his holster. No one spoke about the marks again, but the sketches were quietly tucked away, never included in the final report.

Ellen and Sammy left Colfax a week later, moving to Spokane, to a small apartment where the city’s noise drowned out the silence, where the shadows were thin and shallow.

But Ellen never slept soundly again. She saw the Rake in every dark corner, heard its hiss in every gust of wind, felt its eyes in the quiet hours. Sammy stopped talking for months, his crayon drawings filled with pale, thin figures, their black eyes watching from fields of black and red. Therapy helped, but the scars remained, a family broken by a thing that shouldn’t exist.

The Whitaker farm stood empty, its fields overgrown with weeds and its barn falling apart. Locals stayed away, their stories growing darker: lights in the hills, screams on the wind, a shadow moving too fast. They said the Rake was still out there, its hunger never satisfied, its claws waiting for the next person to get too close.

A few miles away, at the Henderson farm, dawn broke over the rolling hills, the air crisp with the promise of winter. John Henderson, a wiry man with a graying beard, stepped onto his porch, his breath fogging as he retrieved the Colfax Chronicle from the mailbox.

He unfolded it, his eyes narrowing at the headline: “Local Farmer Missing After Livestock Losses; Search Continues.” The article detailed Tom Whitaker’s disappearance, the blood found at his farm, and the strange claw marks that baffled investigators. John’s jaw tightened, his mind flashing to his own missing chickens, the eerie silence that had settled over his fields.

“Mary,” he called, stepping inside, the paper in hand. “You need to see this. It’s happened again.”

His wife looked up from the kitchen, her face paling as she read the headline.

“God help us,” she whispered, her hand shaking. Outside, the wind picked up. On the porch, there was a faint sound: a slow, steady scratching on the painted boards, soft but steady, as if something with long nails was testing the wood, moving closer and closer, until the silence took over.

The Hendersons didn’t hear it, not yet, but the cycle was turning, the Rake’s hunger waking once more, its black eyes already watching, waiting for the night.