"The Last Toll of the Bell: Tragedy at Poki Roni Ranch":
It was spring 2005 when I first walked onto Poki Roni Ranch, and I had just moved to El Paso, Texas, looking for a fresh start. A friend told me about a job at a horse ranch that doubled as a petting zoo. It sounded like a dream for someone like me who loved animals. When I arrived, the place felt like it belonged in a storybook. Old adobe buildings stood strong, a tall bell tower watched over the land, and horses grazed peacefully in the fields. Chickens clucked, ducks waddled, and a peacock strutted around like it owned the place. Kids laughed as they rode ponies, and parents snapped photos. It was a slice of paradise.
Patricia Kirchner, the owner, greeted me with a smile that could warm anyone’s heart. She was in her 70s but moved with the energy of someone half her age. Her love for horses was clear in every word she spoke. Her son, Travis, was there too, a quiet man in his 50s who seemed to live for the ranch. They were a team, keeping this historic place alive despite the noisy Lee Trevino Drive that now ran right past it. Patricia told me the ranch had been in their family since 1929 and might even have been the site of a Spanish mission from the 1700s. They’d found a brass bell buried on the property, dated 1779, which now hung in the bell tower.
I got the job as a stable hand and quickly fell in love with the work. Feeding the horses, cleaning the stables, leading pony rides for kids’ birthday parties—it was perfect. Patricia treated me like family, sharing stories about the ranch’s past over cups of coffee. Travis was quieter, but he’d help with the horses and offer tips when I needed them. For three years, life at Poki Roni was everything I’d hoped for.
But then came that morning in September 2008. I arrived at the ranch as usual, but something was wrong. The place was too quiet. No animals made their usual noises, and no one was around. My stomach twisted as I walked toward the main house and saw police cars and an ambulance parked outside. My heart started racing. I ran up to an officer and asked what happened.
“Patricia’s been found dead,” he said, his voice flat. “Carbon monoxide poisoning in the garage. Looks like a suicide.”
I froze. Suicide? Patricia? It didn’t make sense. She loved life, loved this ranch, loved every animal here. The idea that she’d take her own life felt like a punch to the gut. I stood there, trying to process it, as the officer told me to go home. The ranch was closed until further notice.
The next few days were a haze. I couldn’t stop thinking about Patricia—her smile, her stories, her kindness. It was like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. Then, whispers started spreading around town. People said Travis had been acting strange before her death. Some even suggested he might have had something to do with it. I didn’t want to believe it. Travis was her son. He loved her. Didn’t he?
A few days before her death, I’d overheard them arguing. I was finishing up my work when I heard raised voices coming from the main house. I didn’t mean to listen, but I couldn’t help it. Travis was talking about money, saying the ranch wasn’t making enough and they should sell it. “Mom, we’re barely breaking even,” he said, his voice sharp. “With all this development around us, property values are going up. We could sell and live comfortably.”
Patricia’s voice was firm, almost angry. “This ranch has been in our family for generations. I’m not selling it, Travis. We’ll find another way.”
The conversation ended abruptly, and I walked away, feeling uneasy. At the time, I thought it was just a family disagreement. Now, it felt like a warning I should’ve heeded.
There were other signs, too, that I didn’t notice at the time. Travis had been spending a lot of time in the garage, saying he was fixing things. He’d bought a new generator a week before, claiming it was for power outages, but we rarely had those. And the night before Patricia’s death, I was leaving late after helping with a birthday party. As I drove away, I saw a light on in the garage, which was odd because we always turned off all lights at night to save energy. I mentioned it to Travis the next day, and he said he hadn’t been in there. I didn’t think much of it then, but now it haunts me.
A week after Patricia’s death, the police called me in for questioning. My hands shook as I drove to the station. The detective asked about Travis’s behavior in the weeks leading up to the incident. I told them about his time in the garage, the argument I’d overheard, and how he’d seemed more withdrawn than usual. Then the detective dropped a bombshell: Travis had confessed. He said it was a suicide pact gone wrong—that they had planned to die together, but he couldn’t go through with it. He left Patricia in the car with the engine running, connected to the generator, and went back to the house.
I felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. A suicide pact? Patricia never seemed like someone who would want to die. And Travis… how could he leave her like that? The thought made me sick. The idea that he could plan something so horrific, right under our noses, while we worked and laughed together, was terrifying.
The trial was a media circus. The courtroom was packed with people from El Paso, all wanting to hear the details of this tragic story. I had to testify, recounting everything I could remember about those last few weeks. The prosecution showed a video Travis had made, where he calmly described the so-called pact. He spoke about how they had planned it together, but at the last minute, he couldn’t bring himself to die. He left her alone in the garage, knowing what would happen.
But the prosecution didn’t believe him. They said there was no evidence of a pact, that Patricia had no intention of dying. They argued that Travis had set it all up to make it look like a suicide, maybe for money or control of the ranch. They presented evidence that the generator had been deliberately rigged to fill the garage with deadly fumes while Patricia slept in her car. The jury agreed, and Travis was convicted of murder. He was sentenced to 29 years in prison.
Sitting in that courtroom, watching Travis on the stand, I felt a mix of anger and sorrow. Anger at what he’d done, sorrow for Patricia, who deserved so much better. He looked broken, but whether it was from guilt or from losing his mother, I couldn’t tell.
After the trial, I tried to move on, but the memory of Poki Roni Ranch haunted me. I couldn’t bring myself to work with horses again; it reminded me too much of Patricia and the betrayal she suffered. In 2014, I heard that Travis had died in prison, found hanged in his cell. It was a tragic end to an already tragic story.
The ranch was sold shortly after Patricia’s death. The new owners turned it into something else—maybe a storage facility, I’m not sure. The animals are gone, the laughter of children silenced. All that’s left is the bell tower, standing tall like a silent witness to everything that happened.
Sometimes, I drive by the old place. It looks different now—quieter, emptier. But there’s something about it that feels… wrong. Like the land itself remembers the darkness that unfolded there. Late at night, when I’m driving home, I swear I can hear the faint sound of that old brass bell tolling, as if it’s mourning the loss of the woman who loved this place more than anything.
I still think about Patricia, her kindness, her stories. And I wonder if she knew what was coming, if there were signs I missed. Did she sense the danger in her own son? Could I have done something to stop it? Those questions keep me up at night. The ranch was supposed to be a place of joy, but now it’s just a shadow of what it once was—a reminder that even in the most beautiful places, evil can hide.
"The Pig in the Nightgown":
I stood at the edge of the overgrown field, staring at the dilapidated farmhouse in the distance. The morning light made the broken windows and sagging roof look even more ominous. It was supposed to be a simple job: clear out the place so it could be demolished. But as I took in the crumbling structure, a sense of unease settled in my stomach. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this place was hiding something—something wrong.
There were four of us: me, Jake, Carlos, and our foreman, Bill. We’d done jobs like this before, clearing out abandoned properties, but this one felt different from the start. The farmhouse was isolated, sitting at the end of a long, dirt road that wound through fields choked with weeds. No neighbors, no passing cars—just silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of the wind through the tall grass.
“Let’s get this over with,” Bill said, clapping his hands together. He was always the practical one, focused on the task at hand. “The sooner we finish, the sooner we get paid.”
We grabbed our tools and made our way to the house. The front door was already half-open, hanging crookedly on its hinges. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the smell of rot. The living room was cluttered with old furniture—a sagging couch, a broken table, and a few chairs covered in grime. Yellowed curtains hung limply over the windows, barely moving in the stale air.
As we started sorting through the junk, I noticed something odd. Among the dust and cobwebs, there were signs of recent activity: a half-empty water bottle on the floor, a crumpled fast-food wrapper on the windowsill. I picked up the wrapper and frowned. It wasn’t old—it looked like it had been dropped there recently.
“Bill,” I called out, holding it up. “Someone’s been here.”
He glanced over, his expression tightening. “Probably just squatters. Let’s keep moving.”
We worked in uneasy silence, the only sounds our footsteps creaking on the old floorboards and the occasional clatter of furniture being moved. In the kitchen, we found more evidence of recent use: a table set with plates and utensils, as if someone had just finished a meal. A half-eaten sandwich sat on one of the plates, the bread curling at the edges but still fresh.
“This is weird,” Jake said, picking up the sandwich and sniffing it. “This isn’t even that old.”
Carlos, who had been quiet until now, shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe we should call the police.”
Bill shook his head. “We’re getting paid to clear this place out, not to investigate. Let’s just finish the job.”
We moved upstairs, where the air felt even heavier, the dust thicker. In one of the bedrooms, we found a mattress on the floor, its sheets rumpled as if someone had just gotten up. Clothes were strewn across the floor, and a small pile of personal items—a comb, a pocketknife, a stack of old photographs—sat on the dresser.
“This doesn’t feel right,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “We should leave.”
Bill sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. It’s creepy. But we’re almost done. Let’s just finish up and get out of here.”
Reluctantly, we continued. But as we were loading some of the furniture onto the truck, Carlos called out from the backyard. “Guys, you need to see this.”
We followed him outside, stepping into the overgrown yard. That’s when we saw it: a pig, tied to a post near the barn. But it wasn’t just any pig. It was wearing a woman’s nightgown, the fabric stained and tattered, and a bra was strapped awkwardly around its body. The pig stood there, snorting softly, its beady eyes watching us.
For a moment, no one spoke. We just stared, trying to make sense of what we were seeing.
“What in the world?” Jake finally said, his voice breaking the silence.
I felt a chill run through me. This wasn’t just a squatter; this was someone deeply disturbed. Someone who didn’t think like the rest of us.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, my voice trembling. “This isn’t worth it.”
Bill hesitated, glancing back at the house. “We’re almost done. Let’s just finish loading the truck.”
But I could see the doubt in his eyes. He felt it too—the wrongness of this place.
We decided to check the barn next, thinking there might be more animals or valuable items inside. The barn was dark and musty, with shafts of light piercing through the gaps in the walls. The smell hit us first—a pungent mix of hay, manure, and something else, something metallic, like blood.
We found more signs of recent habitation: a camping stove, a cot, and a stack of canned food. But what really disturbed us were the cages in the corner. There were several of them, most empty, but one contained the remains of a small animal—perhaps a rabbit or a cat—that had clearly been dead for some time.
“This is sick,” Carlos said, his voice trembling.
We were about to leave when Jake noticed a door at the back of the barn, partially hidden by old farming equipment. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing.
Curiosity got the better of us, and we approached the door. It was locked, but the padlock was rusty and easy to break. Inside, we found a small room that looked like it had been converted into a workshop. There were tools—hammers, saws, and knives—laid out on a table, along with jars filled with what looked like preserved body parts: eyes, fingers, and other unidentifiable organs.
I felt bile rise in my throat. “We need to get out of here now,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
But before we could move, we heard the same grunt we’d heard earlier, only this time it was louder, closer. We turned to see the pig, somehow free from its post, standing in the doorway of the barn, staring at us with its beady eyes.
Then, from behind us, a voice: “You shouldn’t have come here.”
We spun around to see a man standing in the shadows, tall and gaunt, with wild, unkempt hair and a beard that reached his chest. His clothes were filthy, stained with dirt and what looked like blood. In his hand, he held an axe.
We didn’t think; we just ran. Out of the barn, past the pig, and straight to the truck. Bill fumbled with the keys, his hands shaking, but finally got it started. As we peeled out of the driveway, I looked back and saw the man step out of the barn, watching us with a calm, almost amused expression.
We didn’t stop until we were back in town, all of us breathing heavily, our hands shaking.
“I’m never going back there,” Carlos said, his voice shaky.
“None of us are,” Bill replied, gripping the steering wheel tightly.
That was the last time any of us set foot on that property. I don’t know what happened to the man or what he was doing there, but I’ve often wondered if anyone else ever found that place—and what they might have discovered.
One thing I know for sure: some jobs aren’t worth the money, and some secrets are better left buried.
"No One Leaves":
I’ll never forget the day I set foot on that ranch. It was supposed to be just another job—a place to earn a few bucks while I figured out my next move. But it turned into something out of a nightmare, a place where fear lived in every shadow and every sound.
I’d been drifting for months, hopping from one odd job to another, when I heard about a ranch near Mountain Home that needed hands. They were paying well for simple work—cutting cedar and making keychains—so I figured it was worth checking out. The ranch was huge, 3,500 acres of rugged hill country, miles from anywhere. When I arrived, the main house stood there, old and weathered, with a porch that creaked under my boots as I walked up.
A man stepped out before I could knock. He was middle-aged, with a face like leather and eyes that didn’t seem to blink. “You the new guy?” he asked, his voice rough like gravel.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Name’s Jake.”
He didn’t offer his hand, just nodded. “Walter Ellebracht. You’ll do fine if you work hard.” He turned and led me inside.
The house smelled of cedar and something else—something sharp, like metal. Inside, there were a few others: a younger man who looked like Walter’s son and a woman with cold, hard eyes. They didn’t speak, just watched me like I was some kind of animal they were sizing up.
Walter explained the work—cutting cedar, shaping it into keychains, packaging them for sale. It sounded easy enough, and the pay was better than anything I’d seen in a while, so I agreed to stay. That first night, I was shown to a bunkhouse with a few other workers. They were a quiet bunch, all drifters like me, but they didn’t talk much. When I tried to strike up a conversation, they just gave me short answers and turned away. I figured they were tired from the day’s work, so I didn’t push it.
The next morning, we started early. The work was hard but not unbearable—chopping cedar all day. Walter was always watching, always criticizing. If someone messed up, he’d yell or worse. I saw him slap one of the guys for dropping a load of wood. After that, I kept my head down and worked as fast as I could.
As the days went by, I started noticing things that didn’t sit right. The workers were always on edge, jumping at every sound. At night, I’d hear whispers in the bunkhouse—sometimes sobs—but when I asked what was wrong, they’d just shake their heads and say nothing. One night, I woke up to a sound that made my skin crawl: screaming. It was faint, coming from the direction of the main house. I sat up, heart racing, but no one else stirred. Maybe they were used to it, or maybe they were too scared to react. I lay back down, telling myself it was probably just an animal or something. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t.
A few days later, a new guy showed up. His name was Anthony, and he had a patch over one eye. He was friendly, always joking around, trying to lighten the mood. But I could see the fear in his eyes too, especially when Walter was around.
One afternoon, while we were working, Anthony was using the chainsaw to cut some cedar. Suddenly, there was a loud noise, and he cried out in pain. He’d gashed his leg badly. Blood was pouring out, and he was writhing on the ground.
Walter and his son came running over. Instead of helping him, they just stood there, looking down at him with disgust. “You’re no use to us like this,” Walter said coldly.
They dragged Anthony back to the house, and I didn’t see him for the rest of the day. That night, the screaming started again—louder this time. It went on for hours, and I couldn’t sleep. The other workers just covered their ears and tried to ignore it.
The next morning, Anthony was back at work, but he was different. His face was pale, and he moved slowly, wincing with every step. When I asked him what happened, he just shook his head and said, “Don’t ask.”
I didn’t press him, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible was going on. Then, one day, while I was working alone in the woods, I found something buried under some leaves—a set of chains, rusty and old. I picked them up, wondering why they were there.
That night, I confronted one of the workers about it. His name was Tom, and he’d been there longer than most. “What are these for?” I asked, showing him the chains.
His face went white. “Put those back where you found them,” he hissed. “If Walter sees you with those, you’re done for.”
“Done for? What do you mean?” I asked.
He looked around nervously. “Just forget you saw them. And don’t ask any more questions.”
But I couldn’t let it go. That night, after everyone was asleep, I snuck out and followed the path to the main house. I heard voices coming from the basement.
I crept closer, peeking through a window. What I saw made my blood run cold. Anthony was there, chained to a wall, his body covered in wounds. Walter and his son were torturing him with a cattle prod, laughing as he screamed.
I wanted to run in and save him, but I knew I couldn’t take them on alone. So, I did the only thing I could—I ran back to the bunkhouse and packed my things. I was going to leave that night, get as far away as possible.
But as I was about to sneak out, Walter caught me. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his voice like ice.
“I’m leaving,” I said, trying to sound brave.
He just laughed. “No one leaves here without my say-so.”
Before I could react, he hit me, hard. Everything went black.
When I woke up, I was tied to a chair in the basement. Walter was standing over me, holding the cattle prod. “You should have minded your own business,” he said.
Then, the pain began. They shocked me, beat me, until I thought I was going to die. But somehow, I held on.
Hours later—or maybe it was days—I heard sirens in the distance. The police had finally come.
Walter and his family tried to run, but they were caught. The workers who had participated in the torture were arrested too.
I was taken to the hospital, broken but alive. Later, I found out that Tom had managed to escape and alert the authorities.
The ranch was shut down, and justice was served, but for me, the horror will never end.