The Legend of Bloody Bones – A Family Story Reimagined

Some childhood memories fade as the years go by, but others etch themselves so deeply into you that they never leave, no matter how much time passes. One of those memories for me is a night long ago when my dad told a story that, in ways I couldn’t have imagined at the time, stayed with me for life.

I must have been around seven or eight years old. My cousin was spending the night, and like most kids, we weren’t exactly behaving. We were supposed to be asleep, but instead we were being loud, laughing, whispering, and carrying on. Then my dad stepped in—not to yell at us, but to quiet us with something more powerful: a scary story.

I can still picture it. The room dim, the restless energy of two boys who didn’t want to go to bed, and then my dad’s voice cutting through the noise with a calm but serious tone. Right away, we stopped talking. We listened. His story was about two little boys who were being loud when they were supposed to be sleeping. It was like he had pulled us straight into his tale. That one detail burned itself into my memory, because he was clearly talking about us, though wrapped inside the bones of something darker, something mysterious.

The rest of the plot is gone from me now—I can’t remember how it ended, or even much of what came after that moment. But I do remember how it felt. I remember being hooked on every word, feeling a little scared, caught between wanting him to go on and wanting him to stop before it got too spooky. My cousin and I lay there, suddenly quiet, completely under the spell of his voice.

That night has never left me.

Life has a way of reminding you just how important certain moments are. My dad was killed when I was only twelve years old. My cousin, the one who was lying next to me that night, is also gone now. Both of them have been gone for many years, and yet the memory of that story, of that one night, is still sharp, still vivid. I can’t remember the words, but I can remember the feeling, and maybe that’s the most important part.

Now that I’m older—and a grandparent myself—I find myself thinking more about the things we pass on. My dad left me with too few years, but he gave me moments that lasted. That story is one of them. I realized I couldn’t retell his exact version, but I could honor it by creating a new one, capturing the spirit of that night, the way it drew me in and left me with goosebumps.

That’s how The Legend of Bloody Bones was born. It isn’t my dad’s story word for word, but it carries the same energy—the kind of story you lean in to hear, the kind of story that makes kids go still, wide-eyed, listening even when they don’t mean to. It’s a story I’ve written for my grandkids—Carter, Gunner, Ryan, and Maci—so they’ll have a memory of their own to hold onto.

For me, this book is more than just another story. It’s a tribute—to my dad, who sparked my imagination all those years ago, and to my cousin, who shared that unforgettable night with me. It’s proof that storytelling doesn’t die with the storyteller. It lives on in the people who remember, in the ones who carry it forward, and in the new generations who hear it and make it their own.

When I think back on that night now, I don’t just remember being scared. I remember feeling connected—to my dad, to my cousin, to the power of a story well told. That’s what I want my grandkids to feel when they hear The Legend of Bloody Bones. I want them to know that stories aren’t just for passing the time—they’re threads that tie us to the people who came before us, even long after they’re gone.

And in that way, my dad and my cousin are still here. They’re in the memory. They’re in the story. And now, they’re in the book too.

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The Legend of Bloody Bones  is available now in Paperback / Kindle Edition on AMAZON.