Step into the heart-pounding horror story The Rake’s Hunger, a chilling American urban legend born from the shadows of Creepypasta folklore. A remote farm family faces the relentless terror of the Rake monster, a nightmarish creature that hungers for more than flesh. This horror story blends visceral suspense with the haunting dread of urban legends, crafting a terrifying tale that will haunt fans of American horror stories with its unrelenting fear.
Table of Contents
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 was heavy with the threat of rain, carrying the scent of damp earth, rotting leaves, and the faint, sour tang of something older, wilder. The farmhouse, a weathered two-story relic with peeling white paint and a sagging porch, stood defiant against the encroaching twilight, its windows glowing with the warm promise of safety.
Beyond it, the barn loomed, its once-red exterior faded to a sickly pink, its double doors rattling in the gusts like a warning. The fields whispered as the wind swept through, their dry stalks bending, murmuring secrets to a night that listened too closely.
Inside, the kitchen was a haven, its air thick with the aroma of fresh coffee, baking bread, and the faint smokiness of the fireplace. The oak table, scarred from years of family meals, was the heart of the room, where Tom Whitaker, forty-one, sat with the Colfax Chronicle spread before him.
His calloused hands, rough from wrestling crops from the stubborn earth, gripped a mug, his brown eyes scanning the paper’s grim headline: “More Livestock Vanish Near Colfax; Locals Missing, Fear Grows.” Tom was a broad man, his face lined with the weight of seasons, his brown hair graying at the temples, but his smile still carried the boyish charm that had won Ellen’s heart fifteen years ago.
Ellen Whitaker, thirty-eight, stood at the sink, her blonde hair tied in a loose bun, her hands moving deftly as she scrubbed a cast-iron skillet. She was lean, her movements efficient, honed by years of balancing farm chores and motherhood.
Her blue eyes sparkled when she laughed, and tonight, despite the tension in the air, she hummed softly, a habit that always soothed her. Their son, Sammy, six, played in the living room, his toy trucks rumbling across the rug, his giggles a bright note in the gathering dark. Rusty, their German shepherd, lay by the hearth, his ears twitching at every gust 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.”
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 forced a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Probably too much moonshine, right?”
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.
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“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.”
As if on cue, Rusty lifted his head, his ears pricked, a low whine escaping his throat. The wind howled, rattling the windows, carrying a faint, guttural sound—like a growl, or a laugh.
Tom’s eyes met Ellen’s, and the warmth of the kitchen felt suddenly fragile, a thin veneer over something vast and hungry. Outside, the fields whispered, and the night pressed closer, its secrets clawing at the edges of their world.
Chapter 2
By midnight, the Whitaker house was a fortress of silence, its warmth a flickering candle against the cold November night. Upstairs, Sammy slept in his small bedroom, his dinosaur blanket tucked under his chin, his breath soft and even, a toy truck clutched in his hand.
Tom and Ellen lay in their bed, the quilt heavy, the darkness pressing against the windows like a living thing. The wind had died, leaving a stillness that amplified every creak of the old house, every rustle of leaves outside. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of pine from the floorboards and the faint, lingering warmth of the fire.
Rusty’s barking shattered the quiet, sharp and frantic, echoing from the kitchen below. Tom jolted awake, his heart pounding, his hand instinctively reaching for the baseball bat by the bed.
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 barks turned to growls, deep and guttural, the kind he saved for real threats—coyotes, strangers, things that didn’t belong. Tom swung his legs out of bed, pulling on his boots, his flannel shirt hanging open 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.
The air was wrong—sour, like rotting meat, with a metallic undertone that coated his throat, made his eyes water. He raised the shotgun, his eyes scanning the dark, but the shadows seemed to writhe, to shift, as if alive. The barn loomed ahead, its doors ajar, a black maw swallowing the light, its silhouette jagged against the horizon.
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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 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 cutting through the gloom, catching glimpses of hay bales, rusted tools, and something else—something thin and pale, crawling on all fours, its limbs too long, its body hairless and glistening like wet clay.
The creature’s head turned, and Tom froze, his breath hitching. Its eyes were voids, black and endless, glowing faintly with a sickly, greenish light that seemed to pulse with malice.
Its mouth was a lipless slash, filled with jagged teeth that glinted like broken glass, twitching as if tasting the air. Its body was skeletal, its ribs stark against its skin, its claws clicking on the wooden floor, each movement jerky yet impossibly fast. It hissed, a sound like air escaping a punctured tire, and scuttled into the shadows, its form blending with the dark.
“Jesus Christ,” Tom whispered, his hands shaking, the shotgun trembling in his grip.
He fired, the roar deafening, the buckshot splintering a beam, but the creature was gone, its hiss lingering, echoing in his skull like a curse. He backed out of the barn, his heart a jackhammer, his eyes darting to every shadow. The farm was no longer his—something else owned it now, something that watched, waited, hungered.
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.”
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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. 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 stark, 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, but it kept moving, 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 stumbled into the yard, the cold air a shock after the stifling terror of the house. The old pickup truck sat in the driveway, its rusted frame a lifeline in the dark. Ellen fumbled with the keys, her hands shaking, Sammy clinging 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.
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He fired again, the shot hitting its arm, but 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 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.
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, their faces skeptical but uneasy, and sent a team to the farm. They found blood, claw marks, Rusty’s torn body in the barn, but no Tom, no creature, just an empty house and a silence that felt alive. “Could’ve been a bear,” one officer muttered, but his eyes avoided Ellen’s, his hand lingering on his holster.
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.
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The Whitaker farm stood empty, its fields choked with weeds, its barn a crumbling ruin. Locals avoided it, their whispers growing darker—lights in the hills, screams on the wind, a shadow that moved too fast. The Rake was still out there, they said, its hunger never sated, its claws waiting for the next soul to wander 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, 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 trembling. Outside, the wind stirred, carrying a faint scuttle, a low hiss, the sound of something crawling closer.
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.
