Hallow's Creek

How very appropriate, one might even say ironic, that the grimy downtroddens of Hallow's Creek, Texas gathered, by pure perchance, on Halloween. In overalls and grimy frocks, be they elderly or young, they shuffled into Mayor Robinson's barn. How strange it might have seemed to some that all bowed their heads upon entering, as though this were a place of reverence rather than the resting place of hogs. 
Tonight, it was both. 
The pigs would be allowed back in as soon as the sacrifice was over. 
Much of the gathered multitude's general hubbub was around a singular question. All questions invariably involved a gesture or two towards the bruised and bloodied man nailed crudely to the barn's back door.
"Who's that?"
"One of them city slickers, I heard. One of them "Youtubers"."
"Yeah. I heard that too, down at Ma Dalton's." 
"Put up a fight, he did. Smashed his camera and all."
The vast majority stared with ovine indifference at this necessary victim, this collateral damage in the name of greater goodness. A few probably thought to themselves that the victim of this backwoods crucifixion was, at the very least, deserving of a certain level of respect. He didn't even try to scream into the rag around his mouth, and his eyes were narrowed in a fixed glare.
And then, with great solemnity, Mayor Robinson himself waddled out of the crowd, a corpulent man with a layer of stubble that was itchy just to look at, let alone possess. Behind him came the three maidens, three little girls, wearing flowing white cloaks improvised from bedsheets. 
One carried some primitive anaesthetic, a small mercy to the sacrifice. 
Another carried a small sewing kit.
The final girl carried a great wooden box, from which emerged the stink of wet animals. 
Stopping beside the town's bleeding victim, the Mayor cleared his throat with incongruous normality. The hubbub of the citizens fell silent.
"We're gathered here today to right a great wrong. This man... our unfortunate guest... by attempting to reveal the face of our benefactor to the world, he has placed us all in grave danger! We cannot allow his loose tongue to frighten away our godsend... our saviour! Yea! Who do the people come from far and wide and pray to catch a glimpse of, as He bucks and sways alongside the creek?"
"Mule Man, Mule Man!"
"Who scares the crows from our crops with His brays and spindling fingernails?"
"Mule Man, Mule Man!"
"Who do even nonbelievers halt their cars in our little town for, awed by roadside glimpses of that broad snout, those great ears, the loping run of The Great Bipedal? Who, I exhort you?"
"Mule Man!" The people chanted as one. "Mule Man! He who carries our load!" 
"It is Mule Man. It is He, heaven bless His hide and hair. And now..."
A sudden panicked cry went up from the multitude, panicked and aghast, with many falling back on the sign of the cross... the sacrifice! Somehow... some-cursed-how... he'd somehow freed his mouth from the gag! He could speak his heresy! 
It was with as much dignity a man in such pain could manage that he shouted out, "What the hell? What the actual hell?"
"Silence, heretic!" Mayor Robinson barked.
"You guys all know your little cryptid-buddy is an absolute sham, right? Are you all in on it? Or did some clown think it'd be fun to pull a prank or two? Run across the road... scare a few motorists... not very funny."
"Heresy! Speak not of The Great Bipedal!"
The sacrifice dared to chuckle. "It's the trail-cam that proved it. I..." He coughed against his pain. "I mean, come on. That dude in the donkey-mask? Cool mask, but yeah. Is that really worth killing a man over? A childish fraud."
"Heretic, you will know the truth!" Mayor Robinson roared. And then... chest heaving, eyes goggling, he leaned closer to the sacrifice, until even the congregation could no longer hear their conversation.
"'Does our full motel seem fraudulent to you? Does our bustling general store seem fake? Does the alms-box overflowing with donations from well-meaning tourists and thrill-seekers hurt you ? Let me tell you something, heretic... little Betty Dalton, Ma Dalton's granddaughter; she was one of many among us with facial asymmetries. Her cure paid for with Mule Man's revenue. And Farmer Norris' flock, struck down by foot-and-mouth, could be replaced likewise." 
"You mean..."
Recognition dawned. The sacrifice knew. He knew the stakes of his crime, for sure!
"It's true. No matter who's beneath his skin, Mule Man is our benefactor. Yea. Even now, in this ritual, the truth of His sway over us is revealed. And now, fear not! You too shall bring similar good to similarly many."
With that, the Mayor plunged the syringe home. The sacrifice slept. And so Mayor Robinson cut his throat, but not deep enough to kill. No. If the sacrifice had been awake, his mutilated vocal cords would produce a different sound, one familiar from another throat entirely.
As the second little girl opened up her sewing kit, disinfecting each needle in turn, and the droning people bowed and swayed, the final child removed the stinking, hairy thing from its box. 
The long, blunt snout was worn hairless by use. 
Rusty wires held up those great and leathery ears. 
Tiny, beady sockets peeked out beneath coarse hair... or rather, the matted fur of some draught animal. 
Category:Ritual
Category:Cryptids
Category:Places
Category:HWC23