Live free or die by the sword
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This is a story I wrote as an excercise in response to a challenge laid out by my wife. Thus I dedicate it to her, my wonderful muse, Mephit. It is a homage to H.P. Lovecraft and Steven King, two men who have shaped my literary skills through great fondness for their work. HPL is the most felt influence here, though I used Steven King's methodology to write it (attack it with a yellow pad and don't look back). My wife reasoned that I wasn't writing enough (and at that time, I was not). She sat down with the legal pad, and told me to dictate. And so I did; this is the result. There were precious few changes made to the draft from it's initial incarnation, so enjoy if you will, a shot from the hip.
_________________________________________________________________
The Beast
The wound still hurts sometimes . . .
Whenever I run my fingers over the large scar on my chest, it brings back vividly the sights, sounds, and horror of that ill-fated trip. The unwanted connection with that which should never be fathomed returns as well, for those who have seen it will never forget.
This tale begins two years ago. A friend of mine by the name of Steve Alden told me of a trip he was planning for himself, and asked me if I wished to accompany him.
"Where to," I asked.
"Somewhere in Northeastern Pennsylvania. My family has some property in the Poconos, which they never built on. Makes for good camping ground."
Steve is a good man, a trusted friend. A person to whom I give my confidence freely, Steve always seems to be there when I need a friend the most.
I considered his offer and thought it would be a good idea. Job stress had been high lately, and I needed some rest and relaxation to get back into the swing of things. An escape from the mundane world of glass and steel jungles was just what I needed. Little did I know, "getting away" would the focus of our trip.
The trip had started on a beautiful day. We left early in the morning from my home in Bayshore on Long Island, New York. Somewhere along the three-hour trip, we stopped for breakfast. The meal was a perfect one, one that you can only have on a long trip, or when visiting the home of their childhood. It was at a great little diner that we found by mistake, when we stopped for gas. The smell of skillfully cooked steak, sizzling bacon, moist spicy sausage and truck stop flapjacks filled the air and made the stomach beg for mercy and a forkful of goods.
As we ate, I asked him, "Why hasn't your family built something on their land."
"When I asked my father that same question, Dad?s face had turned suddenly ashen. He had given me some excuse of some wetland laws that prevented development or fill-ins of any sort. He told me that the situation would never change and that the discussion was over. He never spoke of the subject again. I, being the curious person that I am was not satisfied with the answer I received.
"A trip I had planned some years back had proven that these wetlands were only a small percentage of the total land. I never camped on the land but had spent countless hours fishing in a creek that ran through the property."
"That's odd," I replied. "Why would your father blur the truth?"
Steve laughed, "Mom says Dad's construction business was rough and that he might have had to bury his competition in shallow graves."
The joke did not dawn on me immediately, so I stared at Steve, jaw agape in disbelief. He stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes and then I knew he was kidding.
We finished our meal and continued the trip. We passed through a rural Pennsylvania town that was struggling through its adolescence. Passed this town was a long country road that branched off onto an even more twisted road that was obviously an old carriage trail long since paved over.
We passed through some farmland and I would swear most of those homes had been around since the Civil War.
Steve stopped at a small trail into the woods, one where our truck seemed it would not fit.
"I can't wait for you to see this fishing spot." Steve said emphatically
I gazed out through the trees of the silent forest and awed at the beauty of the pristine forest. It was then that I saw a burst of movement from the brush. It had disturbed a nearby sapling. It was brown with a spot of white. I stared with curiosity as Steve laughed, "The deer are everywhere. The settlers killed off their predators a long time ago. Now only hunters and car fenders claim their lives. Their population is out of control."
We arrived at the site around noon and set up our tents and the rest of the campsite. After a short break and snack we spent the rest of the day fishing for the evening's dinner.
As the summer sun went down, the whole mood of the forest seemed to change. The shadows grew long and the forest grew quiet. I enjoyed the peace and quiet though, listening only to the conversation of my friend and the crackling of the fire. We began to grow tired and discussed the possibility of sleeping in the open night air.
It started first as a feeling. That ominous presence, that while you have no proof that it is there, you feel it whole heartedly none the less. It is this feeling that first unnerves you, and makes every small sound, every faint breeze that disturbs a leaf, every out of place smell and every shadow, an eerie watcher.
As the paranoia slowly crept over me, I swore that something, or someone, was silently encircling the campfire light. I remember clearly dismissing it and shaking it off as frayed nerves. I decided that I was going to enjoy my peaceful night in the open night air and fell asleep.
The end of my peaceful sleep came at the snap of a large branch. As my eyes adjusted to the light of the campfire, I saw some shape slink back into the shadows. I had the distinct feeling I was not alone in these woods. Looking over, I had realized Steve had heard and seen much of the same thing.
He grabbed his knife and started to stand.
"What is it," I asked.
He looked at me and shrugged. He grabbed a half-burned log that was still ablaze from the campfire. He began to walk towards the edge of the camp.
He looked around for a moment. The terrible silence had become worse and it seemed even the campfire had fallen silent. When Steve was satisfied that nothing was there he turned and headed back.
It is difficult to write this, not only for the pain of the subject, but also because of the speed in which it happened. I saw a large black furred thing rip my friend back into the darkness. I stared with abject horror into the darkness. It was like one of those old radio shows, the sounds of tearing flesh, screams and gurgling, and breaking bones.
To this day, I cannot quite be sure, for at times like this the mind may change some of its perceptions. Nevertheless, I remember clearly, his last word was "run".
I ran for the creek, as fast as possible, nearly falling several times. There was no sound of pursuit, although that offered me little comfort because I was still in the woods with it, and it was most assuredly between the truck and myself. I scrambled the opposite bank of the creek. I threw myself in a natural depression, hiding behind a boulder. I shivered and nearly cried, but kept silent for fear of my discovery.
I prayed to God that the things hunger was sated. I waited for what seemed an eternity. It is impossible to tell how long but I had nearly fallen asleep when I heard splashing in the creek. My heart was pounding so hard that I thought the beast might actually hear it. Silence ensued and it was maddening. The soft moss covered ground had dampened my clothes and chilled my body and for a brief moment, I told myself that I would wake up in my warm bed.
I could not stand to die lying down. I had to know and I had to see. I began to shift as silently as possible, and crept up on my hands and knees at the edge of the boulder. My stomach churned and my hands grew hot. I felt the presence again, the horrid feeling of being watched. That connection of awareness hit me, not unlike when someone picks up the other end of a telephone. I worked up my resolve pulled my nose up to the precipice of the rock.
I thought it funny that it had grown so dark but found no humor when the dark produced two pupil-less eyes that stared into my soul.
When you see a horror movie or read a scary novel, maniacal laughter or horrible growling perhaps even an unearthly howl always accompanies the scene.
I remember nothing, but silence. A cavernous mouth full with jagged teeth opened, dropping warm saliva on the cold gray rock and my hands. I fell backwards and the beast, while bear like in size, jumped on me mid-fall with the agility of a cat. I felt its hard teeth sink into the muscles that connect my neck to my shoulder and felt them tear easily off the bones.
It is strange how disconnected I became. I simply offered no resistance as it clawed into my chest and its wicked talons caught my rib cage pulling me off the ground.
I remember smelling my own blood as it sprayed about the forest floor. I vaguely remember it dragging me as I lost consciousness.
When I awoke, the hospital ceiling stood vigilance above me. Much of my body was in a cast. When a nurse discovered I was awake, she fetched my doctor. He informed me of the dire consequences of the trip.
The good Doctor told me that I would never walk again. As I had feared Steve had suffered a fate much different from mine, but it was what the next person that entered the room said that shocked me the most.
He was a police officer.
You see, Steven was found with his knife buried in his chest with multiple savage stab wounds. It was at this time that the officer informed me that the wounds on my body were made by the same knife and appeared to be self-inflicted. He read me my rights and informed me that I was the principal suspect in Steven Alden's murder.
Prosecutors revealed during the trial that hikers at the bottom of a steep cliff found me.
My lawyer argued that I could not possibly have done this to myself and that the prosecution failed to explain the broken bones Steve suffered as well as the tufts of black hair trapped in his death grip.
The jury did not believe my story of the beast, and I write this from the hospital ward in hopes that people near those woods will beware of that terrible silence and those ungodly eyes.
My lawyer has investigated the history of the land with no clear solution.
Was it an ancient native curse as some local folk claim?
Did the Aldens hide the secret of this terrible creature?
Did some bloodthirsty demon stalk those woods for a feast, or am I a lunatic, as judged by my peers?
I fear I will never know the answer. I always have trouble sleeping now believing it exists, and somewhere out there, it is silently stalking. Some nights I feel that presence out beyond the locked door or in the forest below. Those connections of awareness like an unwelcome intrusion on a telephone line.
I pray it is there so one day it might finish what it began.
_________________________________________________________________
The Beast
The wound still hurts sometimes . . .
Whenever I run my fingers over the large scar on my chest, it brings back vividly the sights, sounds, and horror of that ill-fated trip. The unwanted connection with that which should never be fathomed returns as well, for those who have seen it will never forget.
This tale begins two years ago. A friend of mine by the name of Steve Alden told me of a trip he was planning for himself, and asked me if I wished to accompany him.
"Where to," I asked.
"Somewhere in Northeastern Pennsylvania. My family has some property in the Poconos, which they never built on. Makes for good camping ground."
Steve is a good man, a trusted friend. A person to whom I give my confidence freely, Steve always seems to be there when I need a friend the most.
I considered his offer and thought it would be a good idea. Job stress had been high lately, and I needed some rest and relaxation to get back into the swing of things. An escape from the mundane world of glass and steel jungles was just what I needed. Little did I know, "getting away" would the focus of our trip.
The trip had started on a beautiful day. We left early in the morning from my home in Bayshore on Long Island, New York. Somewhere along the three-hour trip, we stopped for breakfast. The meal was a perfect one, one that you can only have on a long trip, or when visiting the home of their childhood. It was at a great little diner that we found by mistake, when we stopped for gas. The smell of skillfully cooked steak, sizzling bacon, moist spicy sausage and truck stop flapjacks filled the air and made the stomach beg for mercy and a forkful of goods.
As we ate, I asked him, "Why hasn't your family built something on their land."
"When I asked my father that same question, Dad?s face had turned suddenly ashen. He had given me some excuse of some wetland laws that prevented development or fill-ins of any sort. He told me that the situation would never change and that the discussion was over. He never spoke of the subject again. I, being the curious person that I am was not satisfied with the answer I received.
"A trip I had planned some years back had proven that these wetlands were only a small percentage of the total land. I never camped on the land but had spent countless hours fishing in a creek that ran through the property."
"That's odd," I replied. "Why would your father blur the truth?"
Steve laughed, "Mom says Dad's construction business was rough and that he might have had to bury his competition in shallow graves."
The joke did not dawn on me immediately, so I stared at Steve, jaw agape in disbelief. He stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes and then I knew he was kidding.
We finished our meal and continued the trip. We passed through a rural Pennsylvania town that was struggling through its adolescence. Passed this town was a long country road that branched off onto an even more twisted road that was obviously an old carriage trail long since paved over.
We passed through some farmland and I would swear most of those homes had been around since the Civil War.
Steve stopped at a small trail into the woods, one where our truck seemed it would not fit.
"I can't wait for you to see this fishing spot." Steve said emphatically
I gazed out through the trees of the silent forest and awed at the beauty of the pristine forest. It was then that I saw a burst of movement from the brush. It had disturbed a nearby sapling. It was brown with a spot of white. I stared with curiosity as Steve laughed, "The deer are everywhere. The settlers killed off their predators a long time ago. Now only hunters and car fenders claim their lives. Their population is out of control."
We arrived at the site around noon and set up our tents and the rest of the campsite. After a short break and snack we spent the rest of the day fishing for the evening's dinner.
As the summer sun went down, the whole mood of the forest seemed to change. The shadows grew long and the forest grew quiet. I enjoyed the peace and quiet though, listening only to the conversation of my friend and the crackling of the fire. We began to grow tired and discussed the possibility of sleeping in the open night air.
It started first as a feeling. That ominous presence, that while you have no proof that it is there, you feel it whole heartedly none the less. It is this feeling that first unnerves you, and makes every small sound, every faint breeze that disturbs a leaf, every out of place smell and every shadow, an eerie watcher.
As the paranoia slowly crept over me, I swore that something, or someone, was silently encircling the campfire light. I remember clearly dismissing it and shaking it off as frayed nerves. I decided that I was going to enjoy my peaceful night in the open night air and fell asleep.
The end of my peaceful sleep came at the snap of a large branch. As my eyes adjusted to the light of the campfire, I saw some shape slink back into the shadows. I had the distinct feeling I was not alone in these woods. Looking over, I had realized Steve had heard and seen much of the same thing.
He grabbed his knife and started to stand.
"What is it," I asked.
He looked at me and shrugged. He grabbed a half-burned log that was still ablaze from the campfire. He began to walk towards the edge of the camp.
He looked around for a moment. The terrible silence had become worse and it seemed even the campfire had fallen silent. When Steve was satisfied that nothing was there he turned and headed back.
It is difficult to write this, not only for the pain of the subject, but also because of the speed in which it happened. I saw a large black furred thing rip my friend back into the darkness. I stared with abject horror into the darkness. It was like one of those old radio shows, the sounds of tearing flesh, screams and gurgling, and breaking bones.
To this day, I cannot quite be sure, for at times like this the mind may change some of its perceptions. Nevertheless, I remember clearly, his last word was "run".
I ran for the creek, as fast as possible, nearly falling several times. There was no sound of pursuit, although that offered me little comfort because I was still in the woods with it, and it was most assuredly between the truck and myself. I scrambled the opposite bank of the creek. I threw myself in a natural depression, hiding behind a boulder. I shivered and nearly cried, but kept silent for fear of my discovery.
I prayed to God that the things hunger was sated. I waited for what seemed an eternity. It is impossible to tell how long but I had nearly fallen asleep when I heard splashing in the creek. My heart was pounding so hard that I thought the beast might actually hear it. Silence ensued and it was maddening. The soft moss covered ground had dampened my clothes and chilled my body and for a brief moment, I told myself that I would wake up in my warm bed.
I could not stand to die lying down. I had to know and I had to see. I began to shift as silently as possible, and crept up on my hands and knees at the edge of the boulder. My stomach churned and my hands grew hot. I felt the presence again, the horrid feeling of being watched. That connection of awareness hit me, not unlike when someone picks up the other end of a telephone. I worked up my resolve pulled my nose up to the precipice of the rock.
I thought it funny that it had grown so dark but found no humor when the dark produced two pupil-less eyes that stared into my soul.
When you see a horror movie or read a scary novel, maniacal laughter or horrible growling perhaps even an unearthly howl always accompanies the scene.
I remember nothing, but silence. A cavernous mouth full with jagged teeth opened, dropping warm saliva on the cold gray rock and my hands. I fell backwards and the beast, while bear like in size, jumped on me mid-fall with the agility of a cat. I felt its hard teeth sink into the muscles that connect my neck to my shoulder and felt them tear easily off the bones.
It is strange how disconnected I became. I simply offered no resistance as it clawed into my chest and its wicked talons caught my rib cage pulling me off the ground.
I remember smelling my own blood as it sprayed about the forest floor. I vaguely remember it dragging me as I lost consciousness.
When I awoke, the hospital ceiling stood vigilance above me. Much of my body was in a cast. When a nurse discovered I was awake, she fetched my doctor. He informed me of the dire consequences of the trip.
The good Doctor told me that I would never walk again. As I had feared Steve had suffered a fate much different from mine, but it was what the next person that entered the room said that shocked me the most.
He was a police officer.
You see, Steven was found with his knife buried in his chest with multiple savage stab wounds. It was at this time that the officer informed me that the wounds on my body were made by the same knife and appeared to be self-inflicted. He read me my rights and informed me that I was the principal suspect in Steven Alden's murder.
Prosecutors revealed during the trial that hikers at the bottom of a steep cliff found me.
My lawyer argued that I could not possibly have done this to myself and that the prosecution failed to explain the broken bones Steve suffered as well as the tufts of black hair trapped in his death grip.
The jury did not believe my story of the beast, and I write this from the hospital ward in hopes that people near those woods will beware of that terrible silence and those ungodly eyes.
My lawyer has investigated the history of the land with no clear solution.
Was it an ancient native curse as some local folk claim?
Did the Aldens hide the secret of this terrible creature?
Did some bloodthirsty demon stalk those woods for a feast, or am I a lunatic, as judged by my peers?
I fear I will never know the answer. I always have trouble sleeping now believing it exists, and somewhere out there, it is silently stalking. Some nights I feel that presence out beyond the locked door or in the forest below. Those connections of awareness like an unwelcome intrusion on a telephone line.
I pray it is there so one day it might finish what it began.
