Campfire Story: Dad’s Marshmallow Monster.
Pull your chair in close — this one’s got a different kind of heat to it. The kind that makes everyone stare a little too long at the fire, wondering what else might be watching.
Dad always said he knew how to burn out a stump.
He’d done it before — “the right way,” as he liked to brag.
So when the old stump in our yard refused to rot, refused to soften, refused to behave, he decided it was time. He stacked the wood. He poured the accelerant. He lit the match.
The stump caught fast — a clean, hungry flame that wrapped around it like it had been waiting for this moment. It burned all day, crackling and popping like it was arguing with the fire. And when night fell, it didn’t fade. It grew. By midnight, the flames were taller than Dad. By one in the morning, they were taller than the house.
And by two… they weren’t normal flames anymore. They shimmered. They twisted. Colors flickered inside them that didn’t exist in nature — blues too deep, reds too sharp, gold that moved like liquid metal. The fire hummed, a low vibrating sound that made the hairs on my arms stand straight up. Dad whispered:
“That’s not right.”
And that’s when he arrived.
I didn’t see him at first — just heard the thudding footsteps, slow and heavy, like something enormous was walking through the yard. Then the shadows shifted, and a massive, dark, hairy shape stepped into the firelight. He didn’t roar. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t even look at us. He held out a stick. A marshmallow — tiny compared to him — sat on the end of it.
He crouched beside the inferno, humming softly, and roasted it like he’d done it a thousand times. The fire curled around the marshmallow, glowing brighter, hotter, stranger. Dad grabbed my arm.
“What is that thing?”
I couldn’t answer. I don’t think anyone could.
The creature lifted the stick, inspected the marshmallow… and it slipped off. Right into the magical flames. It didn’t burn.
It swelled. Instantly. Violently. It ballooned into a white, wobbling mass the size of a beach ball, then a boulder, then a car. The creature grunted in surprise as the marshmallow lurched upward, bounced out of the fire, and began rolling across the yard. Straight toward the house.
Dad screamed.
Mom screamed.
I screamed.
The creature?
He just sighed — a disappointed, fatherly sigh — like he’d dropped his snack and ruined the moment.
The marshmallow rolled faster, picking up dirt, leaves, sticks, everything in its path. It hit the porch steps and launched upward, smacking the siding with a sticky, sizzling thud. The house groaned under the weight. For a second, I thought we were done — that the whole place would ignite in a sugary explosion. But the creature lumbered forward, grabbed the marshmallow with both hands, peeled it off the house like a sticker, and carried it back toward the fire. He tossed it in, watched it melt into a glowing puddle, and then — without a word — walked off into the darkness.
Dad didn’t try to burn another stump after that. And every time I roast a marshmallow now, I swear I hear heavy footsteps somewhere out in the yard… waiting for me to drop mine.
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