31 Jul Vinny and the Skinwalker: The Worst Baseball Trip of My Life (A Vinny Pastorelli Story)

Posted at 20:34h in Strange and Unexplained by CreepypastaStories.com 0 Comments

📅 Published on July 31, 2025

“Vinny and the Skinwalker: The Worst Baseball Trip of My Life (A Vinny Pastorelli Story)”

Written by Craig Groshek
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 5 minutes

Rating: 10.00/10. From 3 votes.

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Aight, lemme tell ya about the time my Uncle Mauricio tried to take me to a baseball game in Pittsburgh and instead almost got us murdered by a goddamn skinwalker in the woods of Pennsylvania.

Now, I know what you’re thinkin’: “Vinny, what in the hell is a skinwalker?”

And to that I say: imagine a coyote had a baby with a meth-addicted demon, then learned how to speak in your Aunt Rosa’s voice. That’s a skinwalker. And yeah—I seen one. Up close.

So I’m fifteen. Uncle Mauricio—this guy’s built like a bag of wet breadsticks—says, “Ayy kid, Mets vs. Pirates this weekend. Just you and me, road trip!”

I’m thinkin’: baseball, junk food, maybe get lucky and see someone get ejected for throwin’ a bat. Classic summer fun.

What I ain’t countin’ on is Mauricio navigatin’ with nothin’ but vibes and a car radio that only plays static and old polka hits. Guy don’t believe in maps. Said GPS is “a government trick to make you feel lost on purpose.” This guy once got lost tryin’ to find his own mother’s funeral. True story.

So, anyways, we pack up his beat-up ‘88 Buick Regal—smells like a salami did hard time in there—and head west from Queens. Now, the plan was simple: drive straight, hit the stadium, watch some baseball, maybe catch a foul ball and sell it online for weed money.

Instead? By the time we hit Pennsylvania, this guy’s taken three wrong exits, a scenic detour that went nowhere, and a “shortcut” that added four hours and took us past an Arby’s that I’m convinced was a front for either a cult or a money laundering operation. Probably both.

Somewhere outside Scranton, middle o’ nowhere—no Wawa, no lights, just vibes and bad ones at that—we hit this back road. No signs, just trees. Nasty lookin’ gnarled ones, too. The kind that look like Tim Burton went into forestry instead of filmmaking.

I say, “Uncle Mauricio, this don’t look like the way to the stadium.”

And he goes, “Eh, Google Maps is for schmucks. I got a good feelin’ about this road.”

A good feelin’. Ha, yeah, right. He says that a lot. He had the same feelin’ before investin’ in Blockbuster stock. In 2016.

Anyway, after twenty minutes on this creep trail, BAM—front left tire hits somethin’. Car lurches like it rolled over a Lego the size of a brick.

We pull over. Mauricio gets out, cursin’ in three languages, mutterin’ about potholes like the ground personally offended him. I get out too, stretchin’ my legs and regrettin’ every decision that led to this moment.

Then it happens.

This voice. From the trees.

“Maaaaauricio…”

We freeze.

And lemme tell ya somethin’—that voice? That’s my Nonna’s.

Only problem? Nonna’s been dead three years. Open casket. I was there. I remember it fondly, ‘cause I had allergies and sneezed into the holy water. Gave a whole new meaning to “God bless you,” I tell ya that much.

Anyway, I look at Mauricio, and he’s lookin’ at me like I planned this.

He mutters, “No freakin’ way.”

I look at Mauricio. He’s starin’ at the trees like they owe him money.

I say, “Did you hear—”

And he cuts me off: “Shut up. I know what I heard.”

Then it speaks again. Closer this time.

“Maaaaauricio… why didn’t you come to my funeral…?”

And now I’m sweatin’ through my Mets jersey.

Then we see it. Steppin’ outta the trees comes this shape—looks like Nonna, but not.

It’s like someone tried to reconstruct her from a photo printed off a broken fax machine. One leg’s longer than the other, her back’s all bent like she got put together with leftover Ikea parts, and her mouth? Way too wide. Her walk is jerky, her back’s bent like she’s bein’ puppeted by a drunk ventriloquist, and her eyes? Glowin’ faint. Enough to make you feel like your soul’s bein’ audited.

So what do I do? I PANIC. I dive into the car, slam the door, Mauricio’s right behind me. He’s fumblin’ for the keys like they’re greased spaghetti, and this thing—this skinwalker—it charges. Full freakin’ sprint.

Now, somewhere in my panic-scrambled brain, I remember readin’ some book article about skinwalkers back in the day, right? Said what they’re afraid of or something. So I start yellin’ out random crap that might work.

First I shout, “UH—CORN POLLEN!”

Nothin’.

“WHITE ASH!”

Still comin’.

“CEDAR ASH! JUNIPER BERRIES! UH—SALT?”

Mauricio yells, “Why are you yellin’ the names of seasonings?!”

“I read something about them being its weakness!” I shout.

“You’re supposed to use that crap on the damn thing, you idjit!” Mauricio yells back at me. “Not use ‘em as insults! Jesus Pete, I may be dumb, but how in the hell did your sperm come in first place?”

I ain’t got time to argue. By now, the thing’s almost at the hood. Its legs are bendin’ the wrong way, like a deer tryin’ to twerk.

I try somethin’ else I heard skinwalkers don’t like, and scream, “I, UH… TRUE NAME! I KNOW YOUR REAL NAME! UH… MARGARET? PHYLLIS? UH… GLADYS?!”

It lets out this screech—like a dying fax machine mixed with a banshee havin’ a bad day—and SLAMS both hands on the hood. The whole car shakes. I’m prayin’. Mauricio’s cryin’. And in the midle of it all, the glovebox pops open and out falls this old souvenir spoon. Silver. Mets commemorative spoon from some stadium giveaway in the ‘90s. Still in plastic. Never used. Probably worth three bucks on eBay.

I grab it like it’s Excalibur and pull it out of its packaging, and I say, “OKAY. FINE. LET’S TRY SILVER!”

I roll the window down a crack—just enough—and stab through the gap. I aim for the heart, but I’m screamin’ too much to be precise, so I get somewhere near its collarbone. And it screeches. Loud. Like it just stubbed its demonic toe on holy ground.

Smoke starts risin’ from the wound. It backs off, stumblin’, collapses into the woods, hissin’ like bacon on a hot griddle.

Mauricio finally turns the key—the car starts like it was never broken.

We peel outta there, tearin’ down that dirt road, me holdin’ a limited edition novelty spoon like I just saved the freakin’ world.

Did we make the game? Nope.

Did we tell anyone? Not unless you count this right here.

Try explainin’ that to your aunt. “Sorry we’re late. Got attacked by a forest monster that looked like your mother before she’s got her makeup on. Also we stabbed it with branded cutlery, and not even the sharp stuff. And sent it packing back to hell.”

So yeah. That’s how my Uncle Mauricio almost got me killed by a skinwalker instead of takin’ me to see the Mets lose by six runs.

Moral of the story?

One: Don’t road trip with anyone who thinks direction is a feelin’.
Two: If something in the woods start speakin’ in your dead grandma’s voice? LEAVE.
Three: Always keep somethin’ silver in your car. Doesn’t matter what. A spoon, a ring, one of them fancy toothpicks. Just somethin’. ‘Cause you never know.

And that’s comin’ from me—Vinny “The Lung” Pastorelli, so you know it’s gotta be true. As God as my witness, I ain’t told a lie yet.

Just do yourself a favor and stay out of the woods.