GOD HATES HEAVY METAL: THE CROOKED ONE

The Tale of The Crooked One

(HE WHO HAUNTS THE TOWPATH - as told in German Flatts, New York – circa late 1850s)

​In the late 1850s, the towpath connecting Ilion and Mohawk, New York, was a vital link along the Erie Canal, bustling with activity. Running parallel to the Mohawk River, it was not only a hub of commerce but also a place of whispered legends among the locals.

One such tale was that of The Crooked One.

They say he wasn’t born like you or me. The Crooked One was begotten of smoke and fog, a bastard child of firelight and poison air—born from the burning fields. Back in the 1800s, when settlers cleared land for farming, they burned hardwood to make potash, leaving black pits and ghost-white ash behind.

When the Erie Canal was carved through the valley, purple flames were said to rise from the earth. But today we know that these unnatural flickers can easily attributed to the potassium in the potash. Folks whispered those violet fires weren’t normal… they were summoning. That’s when the sightings began.

He was tall as two men, thin as bone wood, his limbs bent like broken branches. Eyes burning purple—like coals through fog. Neither man nor beast. Just wrong. And he walked the towpath between Ilion and Mohawk, searching for the ones who’d strayed too far from the light.

That old towpath was busy in those days—mules dragging Erie Canal barges up and down, workers traveling back and forth, boatmen singing low songs to stay awake. But some of them stopped singing. Some of them stopped coming back.

The stories started small: a chill in the trees even when there was no wind. Shadows where no lanterns reached. Hoofprints left behind when no animal had passed. Then came the disappearances.

The locals said it was a spirit, or a devil, or a punishment for greed, lust or avarice. But the old settlers—the ones who’d lived through harder winters, longer silences and starving nights—they knew better. They called him a warning—to all who dared stray from the Towpath.

You’d hear the rhyme in schoolyards and carved into the wood beams of picnic tables, scratched into barn doors, murmured by mothers when the night crept too close or when the sun forgot to rise:

Stay upon the lighted path,
Obey the wind—or feel its wrath.

The trees will shift, the light will fade,
And you’ll regret the choice you made.

For in the woods, with hollow eyes,
A shadow waits where silence lies.

His purple eyes, burning bright,
He feeds on hearts that stray at night.

With claws like blades, with teeth so wide—
To drink the soul you keep inside.

He’s tall and thin, and full of dread—
He’ll eat your dreams and leave you dead.

Once you stray, you can’t outrun—
The shadow of the—The Crooked One.

Art and story by Hal Hefner.
Produced by Catmonkey Studio