Mr Tiggles

A chilling and most accurate historic tale from 10641 Ponderosa Drive

David Mack
5 min readOct 23, 2021

As we drove up into the Sierra an autumnal fog hung over the changing trees. The light, always so pristine and beautiful, lit my family’s faces as we climbed the mountain pass, the first promise of respite from the smog and grayness of Chicago.

My wife, Veronica, and I had secured a foreclosed house for a moderate amount, to make a home in the town of Truckee with our son and daughter.

The dim photo of the house had been pinned to our fridge for the last month. The garden where we’d grow strawberries and tomatoes. The deck where we’d grill burgers and dine together under the towering pines. The yard where our children could find hundreds of little adventures.

Arriving to the dark driveway late at night we carried Samuel and Eva in and put them to bed in the little cots left behind. Moving our simple crate of kitchen supplies in, we found the fridge open, its contents scattered and rotten, perhaps disturbed by the bears we’d heard so much of. The thought of such a powerful creature near our children upset Veronica, who locked and checked every door.

The locals at the hardware store assured us we had at best two months before heavy snows would set in. I got to work, a carpenter by trade, fixing and securing the house for winter whilst Veronica found employment at the local middle school.

I found great comfort taking care of the old structure; a connection I never had to our Chicago apartments. Each plank of wood had character, history and purpose. I worked to fasten the structure of the big wraparound deck, the hard winters having taken their toll upon it.

Army-crawling through the wet dirt under the deck, I found a curious burrowed hole in the side of the foundations. Getting closer to understand the animal damage, a creature sprung to block my passage.

The creature, two and half feet stooped, a pot belly, bulbous eyes and features, ham-hock hands, greenish skin under dirty gray garments, inspected me and drew himself to a stance. “I am Mr Tiggles” he said, in a lisped elocution. He stared into my eyes whilst I struggled with a dumb silence.

Some sort of alarm rung amidst a fog, some animal part of myself recognized the feral danger before me. I grunted towards him, and unabashed he replied “You need not tell anyone about me. Now would you get me some chicken?”. He obligingly smiled, his teeth rows of threatening little v-points.

I cannot say why, but I returned to him with a half roast chicken from the fridge then went to my work.

Veronica, Samuel and Eva all loved our new home. The three found endless little games to play, nooks and corners to explore. One day Eva found a dead mouse under the sink and chased Samuel all around the yard, the girl always the bolder child. Our evenings were the nectar of our lives, quiet meals with candles and wood-stove light.

Behind all this familial happiness stood the dim shadow of Mr Tiggles. That which I could not comprehend nor speak of.

Most days I worked outside. I picked up extra chickens to feed Mr Tiggles. The little creature grew fatter.

The first big winter storm rolled in, the blue skies turning angry and gray. The winds tore branches and needles out of the trees, the rain and hail noisily hitting the house. That evening I took the trash to the end of the driveway and slipped, shooting pains in my now unresponsive right leg. The air was dark with rain. The lights of a car raced toward my head and I screamed.

A hand grabbed me, pulling my head from the carnage of the oncoming wheel. I looked up to see the shining sawtooth smile of Mr Tiggles.

“I.. I.. thank you” I begrudgingly spluttered out of my painful state. “You are welcome” Mr Tiggles replied, beaming with excitement, “Now I would like to eat one of your children”. I screamed at him, a guttural wrenching anger, and thrashed towards him, but he simply turned and walked away into the storm.

My wife nursed my leg. Whilst bound to my bed Mr Tiggle’s request haunted me. I could not eat much, my countenance grew cold and pale. I asked Veronica to keep the children safe. I could not find the words to tell her about the creature.

As soon as my leg could bare any weight, I set to rid ourselves of Mr Tiggles. I got up from bed, ignoring my wife’s confusion, took my fathers old pistol and crawled under the deck.

I found Mr Tiggles at the entry to his den and steeled myself. “Leave. You must leave”. The creature tilted his head for a second, and replied “No”. I stepped forward, he bent and bit my left hand, I grabbed my pistol and he sped off, pig squealing. I dragged myself out in a sprint, got into the house and locked the doors. I gathered my family and told them there was a dangerous bear under the house, and we must keep together.

That night as we played cards by candlelight, we heard all manner of banging and grunting under the house. Veronica and the children jumped at each loud noise. I sat numbly, listening to the movements.

The next morning I prepared myself for a showdown. At breakfast with Samuel he asked me “When will I next see Tig?”. A coldness ran down my spine. “Who?” I asked, Samuel replying “Mr Tig, the little school-teacher”. My body went cold. I stood up, leaving my half eaten toast, put on my holster and belt knife, and went out to kill the creature.

When I got to the den Mr Tiggles did not appear. I crawled through the narrow hole to a small space in the foundations of the house. It was filled with silver objects and picked-over carcasses. Skeletal neighborhood pets lay still wearing their collars. The den was rank.

I moved back outside to return to the house. Approaching the glass front door, I saw the most horrible scene of my life. Veronica lay bloodied in the kitchen. Samual and Eva sat by the wood-stove, entranced by the gesticulated story-telling of a standing Mr Tiggles. He saw me, and gave a wide smile, his little v-dagger teeth red.

I reached for the door handle. But it was far. Too far. Far above my head. My arms were little, my reflection in the glass… gnome like… I banged upon the door with tiny hands, I yelled with chipmunk voice, but Mr Tiggles continued his story and the children continued to listen. Powerless, I watched the end of my family.

Photo credit: Jason Bean



David Mack

@SketchDeck co-founder, researcher, I enjoy exploring and creating.