by William Bebb
You guys all have a frigging driver’s license. It's my humble opinion if you're supposedly mature enough to drive a damn car, you sure as shit ought to be old enough to drink an occasional beer; not while driving, but you know what I mean. It’s gotta be one thing or the other. If you're mature enough to do one thing you should damn well be old enough to do the other.
I don't blame you fellas, though. Damn government has been doing weird shit to the young people for years; while treating everyone like we're a bunch of moronic babies. Wear a frigging seat belt or we'll give you a ticket. Recycle plastic crap or the world will die tomorrow. Heck, you can't even call bums what they are anymore. Nope, that's a no-no. Now everyone is supposed to call them homeless.” Sherman appeared genuinely pained and sighed before looking at Michael and adding, “It's your choice, though. You can have another soda if you don't want a beer.”
Michael shook his head, grinning, and took a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon from the cooler.
After they all had a beer and took a sip, Michael asked, “Mr. Evans, a while ago you mentioned something about the reason we couldn't find anything to shoot today. Why don't you think we'd believe you about the deer?”
Sherman sighed and said, “Because it sounds stupid. I thought my buddy from work was yanking my chain when he told me about something he saw out in these woods a few weeks ago. But, I guess he wasn't.”
All three boys sipped at their beers and looked expectantly at Peter's dad, but he didn't say anything more. Sherman just reached down and grabbed a piece of beef jerky and bit into it.
The two boys looked at their friend Peter as if asking, “Well?”
Peter nodded and turned to his dad. “What did he say he saw?”
Sherman meditatively chewed at the jerky and washed it down with a swallow of beer before saying, “I better not say. I don't need you boys wetting your pants. Besides, you probably wouldn't get any sleep if I told you.”
“Ah,” John said with a grin, “Ghost stories. I get it. Go ahead and tell us a good one.”
Peter's dad took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. He didn't say anything as he stared at the dancing flames of the campfire.
“Come on Mr. Evans, a ghost story would be cool,” Michael added then finished his beer.
Sherman Evans rubbed at his stubbly two days worth of beard and looked momentarily at each boy, as if trying to decide something, before sighing and saying, “You guys heard about the cow mutilations that happened at that ranch a few miles north of here, right?” He saw the boys nodding and continued. “A lot of stupid people were talking about aliens and dumb shit like that, but I think it was probably what my buddy from work said he saw out here. I told him to go tell the cops what he saw, but then he just laughed and acted like he'd made it up. I could tell the only reason he didn't go to the cops was because he was afraid of being called a liar or a nut, plus he's a bit of a drunk.”
The boys all had a second beer in their hands and leaned closer as he continued with his tale. “You boys will think I'm lying, but it's the gospel truth. He told me he'd been hunting for a few days hereabouts and saw signs of deer but, just like us today, that's all he found; signs. Then toward sunset on the third day, he happened across a blood trail and it appeared fresh. It looked like someone had shot a deer and it was a bad hit. There was blood all along this place called a deer run.
You boys remember than patch of worn ground that led from the pond I showed you earlier, right?” He saw the boys nodding. “That's where the deer usually travel to get water. It's kind of overgrown at the top with plants and crap. That makes the deer feel safer, so they usually go that way.”
Sherman saw the boys, even his son, all listening intently and smiled inwardly as he continued. “So, my buddy follows the blood trail. I guess he was thinking to find the deer and put it out of its misery. By the way boys, anyone who ever wounds a deer and just lets it wander off to die in pain without tracking it down that's the lowest kind of scum on the planet.”
The boys nodded solemnly.
“Anyway, he follows the blood trail until it goes down in one of those little pocket valleys. Some people call them dells but that always makes me think of that kid song farmer in the dell.
But that’s neither here nor there, I guess.
My buddy goes down there and it's starting to get dark and he has to move carefully, so he don't break his neck climbing down the hillside. By the time he reached the bottom it was so dark he had to use his flashlight. He found a little stream of water and sees the blood trail goes upstream.
There was sounds ahead of something crunching in the leaves and he assumes it was the deer, you know, writhing around on the ground in pain. But then he sees bits of hide, mostly just little bloody pieces, lying on the ground. That struck him as weird, but he kept going and as he follows a bend in the stream there's lots of noises like leaves rattling and being stomped on and checks his rifle.
He told me he wasn't scared, but I think he was. And this is a guy who fought over in Vietnam and is probably the toughest guy I've ever known, except maybe my dad.”
Sherman reaches for another beer and takes a sip. He looks at the boys warily peering beyond the campfire at the dark forest and smiles inwardly. Peter grins at his dad and he gives his son a warning glance. Don't blow the story yet, his eyes seem to say. Peter nods back slightly and picks up a piece of jerky.
“Where was this valley place?” Michael asked, staring nervously at the darkness.
“I asked him the same thing. He wasn't sure. But from the way he described it, I think it’s the one about a mile or two east of here. I don't go there as a rule because the hillsides are pretty steep. I ain't no damn mountain goat.
Anyway, he says after the leaves stopped crunching and rattling he kept going. Personally, I don't know if I'd have the guts to do that. It wasn't like he shot the wounded deer, after all. That's probably the only way I'd have kept going.
So, he shines the flashlight ahead and sees a deer lying in the leaves. Walking closer he notices something that makes him wish he hadn't followed it. It was a big deer that must have weighed over two hundred pounds and that, gentlemen, was even without its head.”
“What do you mean, without its head?” John asked in disbelief.
“Just that. My buddy said the head was gone and the deer's side and stomach had been torn open. It looked like a pack of wild dogs or coyotes had been chewing on it, at least that's what he thought at first.
He figured some low life hunter had sliced off the deer's head and taken it back as a trophy for a taxidermist to fix up. By the way, fellas, that’s a big fucking no-no too. Only a low life son of a syphilitic whore would do something like that.
Anyway, he takes a second to look at his compass and figure his camp is further along the way he'd been going. He's still wary of wild dogs or coyotes, so he has his rifle ready while walking up the hillside. About maybe fifty feet past the torn carcass he found the deer head and almost wets his pants.” He sees the boy’s looks of confusion and lights a fresh cigarette before continuing.
“You see, it wasn't lying on the ground. It was impaled on a big outcropping of jagged sharp rocks, so that it was facing away from the carcass. No hunter would do that. So, he's kind of freaked out and turns around when he hears some leaves rustling back behind him.”
“You don't have to tell us anymore,” his son said, looking pretty scared. The other boys nodded and muttered something under their breaths without looking at Mr. Evans.
Sherman nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, you guys are probably a bit too young to hear it anyway. I forgot you are still boys, after all. Maybe I'll tell you about it when you guys grow some hair on your balls,” he said, tossing the cigarette into the fire.
John and Michael blushed and exchanged a knowing look before saying, almost at the same time, “Go ahead.”
Peter nodded, adding, “Yeah, come on dad. We all know it's just a ghost story anyway.”
Sherman shook his h
ead and said, “I'll tell you the rest, but I swear it's all true. Or at least it's what my buddy told me.
So, he spun around and saw a man just at edge of the flashlight's range. His eyes were reflective and stared right back at him, but he wasn't moving.”
Peter saw that John looked skeptical, while Michael appeared to be considering things. He turned back to his dad and asked, “So? What happened?”
He dropped his voice lower before continuing. “My buddy would never admit he was scared, but I could tell he was just by the way he recounted the story. He said that he yelled, ‘Hey! and lifted his rifle, pointing it at the figure.
I guess he thought whoever it was would turn and run, but he was wrong. The figure growled and started coming toward him with his arms swinging like a monkey, is exactly how he described it.
Coming closer into the light, he saw that it looked like giant furry ape thing. It was at least as tall as he was, and my buddy is my height; so he ain't no shrimp. He said its hairy face was coated in blood and deer entrails, and that its eyes looked wild maybe even insane. The hands had claws that looked like that weird creepy guy from the movies, where he kills people in their dreams, and they were also covered in blood.”
All three wide eyed boys shared a look before whispering, “Freddy.”
“So my buddy says he shot it,” Sherman said, then leaned to the side and farted. It was a long drawn out rumbling noise that seemed very loud in the nearly silent dark forest.
The boys looked at him expectantly, but he only yawned hugely and stretched out his arms.
“Well, then what happened?” John asked, obviously irritated.
“Yeah, what happened next?” Peter and Michael asked.
“Oh, he said it ran off the other way and he took off running back toward his camp. But, there's one thing I might have forgot to mention about my buddy. He's kind of a drunk. That's another reason he didn't go to the cops. Who'd believe him?”
“What do you think he saw, if he really saw something like that?” His son asked.
“Ever hear of a Sasquatch?”
“Bigfoot? Now I know this is just a goofy ghost story,” John said and laughed until the other boys joined in.
Mr. Evans smiled slightly and nodded his head. When the laughter died down, he said “Whatever helps you boys sleep well. If you don't believe it's true that's your problem.” He yawned and stood up. “I'm going to take a leak. Be right back.”
When he was gone, John said, “Ghost stories? Man, he must think we're a bunch of babies.”
Michael chuckled and shook his head. “I dunno, I thought it was pretty good; especially how he mentioned the cattle mutilations at that ranch. I read about that online. That crazy shit really happened.”
“Okay, sure that's some weird shit, but Bigfoot? Come on and get real. Everyone knows that's just a hoax every bit as believable as crop circles being made by artistic brain hungry aliens,” John said, then looked off toward where Peter's dad had gone and whispered, “I bet five bucks he's going to come jump out of the shadows and try to scare us.”
Peter laughed and leaned back. Raising his voice he called out, “Hey dad! You gonna jump out and give us a scare?”
There was a long pause and a somewhat pained grunt came from the shadows, before Mr. Evans answered, “Nope. If you fellas absolutely need to know what I'm doing, I'll tell you.” There was another grunt before his voice drifted back from the darkness, “I'm taking a wicked shit.”
The trio of boys laughed and all decided taking a leak might not be a bad idea. They stood and went downhill from the camp a few yards before taking care of business.
When they got back Mr. Evans was already there, looking at his wristwatch.
After the boys got settled around the fire, Peter's dad yawned and asked, “If I go to my tent and crawl into my sleeping bag, do you guys think you can be good and not do something stupid? I don't want to wake up to you guys having started a forest fire or shooting rifles into the darkness because you hear some 'spooky' sounds.”
“Don't worry, we'll behave, dad. Right guys?” Peter asked his buddies.
The other two other boys promised to behave and Sherman gave them each a serious “You better,” look before yawning and unzipping the flap of his big tent located about a dozen feet from the camp fire. As he went inside he said, “You guys can stay up as late as you want and bullshit each other. You won't keep me awake. I'm pooped. Just don't toss anymore wood on the fire. I really don’t want to wake up in the middle of a forest fire. Okay?”
All three boys agreed and sat around looking at the flames in silence as they could hear Peter's dad moving around inside the tent. (Presumably taking off his clothes before crawling into his sleeping bag)
“Wanna hear another ghost story?” Peter asked, before sipping from his beer.
Michael groaned and shook his head no.
John looked equally disinterested and asked, “Why are campfire stories always supposed to be scary? How about something different? You know, maybe really gross true stories could be fun. Only rule is it's got to be a true gross story. No making shit up.”
The other two boys nodded and grinned.
Michael was shaking his head and chuckling as he held up his hand and said, “Okay. I got one.”
“Your dad made me think of it when he was talking about taking a shit a minute ago.
My step-dad, the king of assholes, had me go with him a couple months ago to look at a car some guy was selling online. So, we ended up wasting almost a whole Saturday because the car turned out not just to be a little more than a hundred miles from home, but also a piece of shit that wouldn't even crank.
Anyway we had some lunch before starting back and about twenty minutes later as we're cruising down the interstate my step-dad starts farting.”
John chuckles, but Michael raises his hand in a “just wait for it,” gesture and continues. “I haven't got to the best part yet. You've seen his Corvette before. The prick never let me drive it.”
Peter's dad had apparently not fallen asleep inside his tent yet, because he called out from inside, “I wouldn't let any of you guys drive a Corvette either.”
Michael coughs and says, “The point is this, toward the end of the fart it sounded more than a little wet and the car stank really bad. And my step-dad gets this scared look on his face.
Me? I want to laugh so bad it hurts. But I know he'd kill me, so I just stare out the passenger side window at trees and crap as we're cruising along.”
“Does the Corvette have leather or cloth seats?” John asked, with a disturbing smile.
“Cloth,” Michael answers with an almost identical grin. “But wait, it gets worse. Traffic starts slowing down, probably from a wreck or something ahead, and I can hear his stomach doing that grumbling murmur growl thing and I know he has to find a bathroom soon.
He's swearing and I can see sweat start running down his face as we inch along in bumper to bumper traffic. There's no way to turn off and he starts shaking. I mean he's really trembling all over while trying to hold it inside.
It was pure hell for me too. I was biting my tongue so I wouldn't start laughing.
After another few minutes I see a sign on the side of the road that says REST STOP ½ MILE AHEAD. He's so busy trying not to crap his pants and his car, he doesn't even see it. I was tempted not to say anything but finally suggested it.
Does he say Thank You or anything like that?”
Peter and John knew their friend despised his step-dad and both shook their heads no.
“Of course he doesn't. He just starts honking the horn and squeezes the Vette through the lanes of traffic to get over and floors it once we're in the breakdown lane. It may have been half a mile to the rest stop but we covered the distance in like three seconds.
He squeals to a stop and climbs out.
I just burst out laughing as he does this ass clenched fast walk toward the little building that has snack and soda machines and of course bathr
ooms. I took the keys from the ignition and climbed out to watch as he went up to the building.
After about ten seconds he comes back, still doing the goofy walk. Only now I can tell he's really pissed off.
It seems both the girls and boys bathrooms were locked up.”
John finishes his third can of beer and smiles as Peter nods his head and chuckles.
“So he gets back and I was tempted to lock the car door so he couldn't get inside but decide not to be a total dick. My step-dad is no genius, but he realizes while getting back in the car he can't go anywhere else. There's just no time. He's gotta let it fly. He unsnaps his pants and slid them and the underwear down and aims his ass at the pavement while still half sitting in the driver’s seat.
I don't know why he didn't think to just crap in the bushes or something, but I'm glad he didn't. I was sitting in the passenger seat nearly dying, because all I want do is laugh my ass off. Then I hear something hitting the pavement that sounds like a garden hose squirting water, and that's when I couldn't stand it any longer. I roared and laughed so hard I was seeing spots after a few minutes.
My idiot step-dad got, I'd guess, almost 90% of the shit onto the pavement. But all the rest was all over the driver side carpeting and a good bit of the seat as well.”
All three boys laughed for a minute until John asked, “Is that why he sold the Corvette last month?”
Michael laughed harder and could only nod his head in answer.
John cracked open his third beer and begins to speak. “Okay, my turn. My cousin James, you guys saw him over the summer when he was visiting. He's a Junior at the community college and he told me about seeing a guy die. No shit, this dude actually died at a party he went to.
It was raining and a bunch of college kids sort of took over a park that has one of those pavilion things. You know the kind. It’s got a big roof and the sides are all open with no walls. They were using the grills to cook up hot dogs and had a few kegs of beer on hand. Loud music was playing and it was, you know, just a party.
Everything's cool for a few hours before this fat guy gets not just drunk but really drunk and announces to everyone,’ I'm gonna take a piss!’
