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Pasta idea! Is it delicious? Tell me!

Hello, mentlegen. As I stated when I first joined, I have an idea about a pasta I'd like to write. I've never really had a story that I've written be out there, so it'd be nice to get some feedback on the idea. I'm just going to go ahead and say that the story is more or less 80% true. Obviously, without a little "stretching", it wouldn't be pasta worthy. Please give me feedback on any errors or nonsensical information so that my story is as realistic and creepy as possible. Also, note that this is not the actual pasta, but I might call it an "excerpt".

So basically, back when I lived in Gaston, SC, I had a friend named Morgan. He was SUPER into scary movies and constantly found time to scare the bejeezus out of me. He'd always tell me all these freaky stories about things that had happened in the neighborhood, most of which I didn't believe. That is, until he told me about Hanging Man Hill.

We were casually riding our bikes along the outskirts of the neighborhood when he told me that there was a pretty cool hilly area that we could ride down. I hadn't been riding a bike very long even though I was 11, but I did enjoy a speed rush every now and then, so I agreed to follow him. We cut through an abandoned house's back yard (We were almost certain the owner was dead) and went through a short wall of vegetation before coming to a large clearing. Besides the beer bottles and used condoms, the only thing that was manmade in the whole area was a long stretch of telephone poles, going far beyond the limit of eyesight. In between two stretches of forest, it was basically a sandy path of rolling hills, with telephone poles dotting the areas where the ground wasn't too loose.

I had expected there to be some awful sight to see at a place called "Hanging Man Hill", but there was none. It just looked like a lot of telephone poles going over a stretch of sand. I expected Morgan to jump off his bike and yell, "Boo!", but he just slowly turned to me.

"Roy Terrance," he whispered.

"Who's that?"

"It wouldn't be Hanging Man Hill without a hanging man, would it?"

He started down the first sandy hill on that blazing orange bike of his. I tried to follow, but my crappy Wal-Mart bike had a faulty chain. Instead, I coasted down the side of the hill where some old branches had been baking in the sun. The dangling chain caught on one and I was head over handlebars, all the way to the bottom. I tried to sit up, but my shoelace was tangled in that stupid bike's chain. I was about to call for Morgan when I noticed that he had stopped at the bottom right next to me. His head was looking straight up at one of the poles, unaware of the bail I had just taken.

"Here we are," he said.

"Little help?", I squeaked. I was a bit of a wuss.

He broke his gaze on the top of the telephone pole just long enough to wrench my shoe from the bike and get me to my feet. He opened his mouth to speak, but my frustration beat him to the punch.

"Where are we? How the hell is this a 'Hanging Man Hill'? There's no hanging man, and we're not even at the top of the hill!"

He cleared his throat. "Roy Terrance, owner of the shed just beyond the trees over there. After the landlord kicked him out of that dump and he lost his wife, he hung himself on the electric wires just above us. The cops didn't find much, just a charred husk of a person dangling by a thread of skin."

I hadn't noticed the shed before. There it was, sitting behind a huge oak, all ransacked and broken. "Jesus, Morgan. Don't say that! I hate your stupid scary stories. I want to go home! It's late, and..."

I winced as I looked down at the huge gash on my knee. It was oozing.

"You're right. We can't wait for him tonight. Tell your mom that we're sleeping over at my house tomorrow night. I'll tell my gramma that I'm staying at your house. We'll meet here at 7."


So, what do you guys think so far? Does it need tweaks? Too cliché? Grammar or punctuation errors? Just throw me a comment and I'll get on it. I hope to write this soon!