The junkyard was a very scary place. At the front of the property, the original sign for the junkyard was broken in half, barely hanging on by a rusty nail on one of two posts attached to the shack. The shack looked like it was about to crumble any second, and the light that once lit up the sign above the shack had been out for years.

Two big, hand-painted words were scrawled across the sign: “KEEP OUT!” You could still kind of make out the original sign, which read, “Junkyard D . . .” But no-body knew what the “D” stood for, because the bottom half of the round, metal sign was gone.

It was all rusted and looked like it got sliced in half. Bones thought “D” stood for “Donuts” and that the owner sold coffee and donuts there.

At night when the wind blew even slightly, the sign swung back and forth, just enough to make a creepy squeaking noise, eerryeek-eerryeek. The property was surrounded by an old, tall chain-link fence with “NO TRESPASSING” signs all over it.

But the creepiest thing about the place was that somebody actually lived inside the yard, and the guy had been there for many, many years.

The story was that this person actually owned the junkyard and had started living there after his wife died almost fifty years ago. Some of the kids who had dared to “junk it up” claimed they had seen the old man and that he was a short, fat troll.

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