Undead as a Doornail

by William F Aicher

  Chapter Ten

  I didn’t start my life as a monster hunter. Though I suppose no one does, assuming there even are others out there like me. I wanted to be a veterinarian. Maybe a zoologist. Something with animals, I knew that much. And when I was in my senior year of high school, that was my plan. Focus on science and biology, earn as many early college credits as I could, then head off to some university and get my degree. A lot of this stemmed from the time I spent outside as a kid, I think.

  My sister and I, we would while away the hours out in the woods around our house. A lot of that time was spent climbing trees, but we’d head on over to the creek that ran through plenty often, usually with our nets and a few buckets so we could go scoop up some frogs or tadpoles. Maybe a few crawdads if we could find them. But that was all when I was younger—before we lost Belinda. After that, after she disappeared, I didn’t spend much time out in the woods. My mom said they were full of haints, and that’s what happened to Belinda. Dad wasn’t as superstitious. Nonetheless, he preferred I stay close to the house too. And I did—for a few years, at least. As I aged on and the memory of Belinda turned from an open wound to a patch of scar tissue, I started venturing back out there into the forest, and I was soon reminded why I loved it so much.

  Eventually, time in the woods behind our house wasn’t enough. I needed to spend more time outdoors, exploring and discovering life that maybe wasn’t as common as close to the city as we lived. It was about that time I started heading out to my dad’s hunting shack, spending weekends out there even when it wasn’t hunting season, just myself and nature, getting to know one another.

  Off a few miles to the east of Dad’s shack, the land joined up with a national forest. Over time I got to know the few miles surrounding the cabin and would start venturing further and further east, into those woods, which went on for hundreds of square miles. Occasionally, I’d come across another hiker, though it was fairly uncommon. Mostly I communed with nature and started to learn all about her and the creatures that dwelled within. I’d gotten to the point where tracking any sort of reasonably-sized animal was second nature, I could name pretty much any bird from its call and how to set up a little campsite in under five minutes. While the other kids in school went out on dates, I spent my Saturdays alone in the woods, with a patch of stars and the hooting of owls my only company.

  One of those Saturdays, I found myself miles from home as the sun started to come down and decided to set up camp. I identified a little place high enough up off the swampy areas that I wouldn’t have to worry about a gator coming through and snacking on me while I slept, lit a campfire and read some Faulkner by firelight. Just as I was beginning to doze off, a swishing in the brush woke me.

  Now, I’d spent a lot of time in the woods, and I’d heard a lot of different creatures rustling around at night. And this wasn’t like anything I’d heard before. Too loud to be a raccoon or a deer, I assumed it was probably a black bear. I’d run across a few over the years. But they tended to stick mostly to themselves, and I’d never heard one make the ruckus this thing was making. Not much was visible outside the low glow of the dying fire, and I hesitated to do it, but I brought out my big flashlight and started to sweep the clearing around me. The last thing I needed was to deal with some bear wanting to root through my bags to gobble up whatever food it could find. But as the beam of my light caught the thicket of brush to my left where the sound had come from, the noises stopped. The branches shuffled lightly, still agitated from whatever lay just beyond my vision. After a minute or two of silence, I assumed whatever it was had gone back off into the woods. But before crawling back into my sleeping bag, I decided to give one final sweep of the area, to be sure.

  And that’s when I laid my peepers on it. To my left now, instead of my right, it had circled me silently. And when I first saw it, I had no idea what it was. Just a pair of big red eyes staring at me from inside the brush line. As I held my light in its direction, the eyes rose to what must have been seven feet in the air, and a terrible howl like some mix between a bobcat and a wolf tore from its lips. Then it sprang at me.

  As it bounded across the clearing, I had no time to think, let alone take in what I was seeing. All I did was react. As much as I didn’t like the idea of killing animals, I was no idiot. I knew what kinds of things lived out there in the woods … or at least I thought I did. Every time I ventured out, I made sure to bring my gun with me. Thankfully my father took hunting seriously, as he did self-protection—especially after the incident with Belinda. So, he trained me the best he could. Out back behind our house, he taught me how to use and handle a gun. And though it would probably be frowned upon these days, on my sixteenth birthday, he gave me a handgun of my very own. I’d already had a few guns for hunting—it was how he and I had originally bonded as I crept into manhood. But those, he argued, were for shooting things when you were the hunter. A handgun, that was for when you needed to protect yourself. I’d never fired it at a living thing before, but that night all my time with Dad paid off and I had it out of its holster and in my hand, its barrel aimed straight at the ferocious, snarling snout of this demon. Before it had closed half the distance between its hiding place and where I stood, I fired. Where I hit it, I didn’t know, but I did hit it. That bullet found home somewhere on the beast and pissed it off something fierce. I followed with a second shot, this one likely catching it in its shoulder, though I couldn’t be sure as it didn’t run like a bear or a wolf, but more like the swinging lope of a gorilla. That second shot was enough to force it to think again, and before I managed to get a decent look at it, it darted off into the woods.

  In the dark of night, it would be impossible to track the thing. But I knew I hadn’t killed it, at least not outright. So, I spent the rest of the night on guard, stoking the fire with as much wood as I could to light up the space and keep it or any other potential predators at bay. At first light, I packed up and began to track it.

  Breakfast consisted of nothing more than a nutrition bar and a few gulps what remained of the cold coffee in my red and white striped thermos straight out of The Jerk. I knew I should be more hydrated, and coffee wasn’t the best thing to be filling up on before I headed out on my trek, but the sleepless night wore me down. While the caffeine did its magic, I packed up what was left of my campsite, tucked it away in my backpack, and prepared to head out.

  Rather than go off straight into the woods in search of the beast’s trail, I first took a few minutes to survey the campsite. A spray of blood marked the tree line where the creature had run off, but before that break in the undergrowth, I found what I was searching for: a set of footprints. Now I’d tracked a lot of animals over the years, and I’d come across the prints of countless others. My field guide to the wildlife of Mississippi had worn out long ago, ultimately finding retirement in a swamp where I’d plucked it out to try to identify a snake I hadn’t come across before. But by then, I’d already marked off every other creature and print in its well-worn pages. The common creatures I knew by heart and could sketch the prints straight out of memory if needed. The others I’d at least recognize and have a respectable guess as to which they were. One thing was certain though, if it had paws or claws and lived in Mississippi, I’d recognize the print.

  I didn’t recognize these prints.

  Chapter Eleven

  The night before, when the creature tore across the clearing at me, I couldn’t place what it was. And now, I still couldn’t. Too big to be a wolf and too … humanlike … to be a bear, the only thing I could compare them to was a cast I’d once seen of a gorilla’s print. And alongside the prints, spread out evenly between each set, another set of prints spaced farther apart … but less prints than indentations. Upon closer inspection, they took on the shape of four symmetrical lines each, with a separate impression slightly offset toward the creature’s center. I assumed they were the creature’s front paws or knuckles, which it had been using to bound itself forward, again like an ape.
/>   Now I don’t know how much you know about the wildlife of the south. Or even of North America. But we don’t have apes. A few monkeys down in Central America. But apes? Big ones? Not unless they escaped from the zoo. And besides, I’ve seen enough documentaries to recognize a gorilla or a chimpanzee … and even if I didn’t get a proper view of it as it came at me, I still knew this wasn’t either of those.

  Curiosity, as they say, got the best of me. I had to find this thing.

  I slung my backpack over my shoulders and returned to the break in the trees where the creature had run off. Blood marked the leaves dotting a growth of shoulder-height young oaks, their branches cracked and broken where the thing had pushed through in its escape the previous night. This was the place to start. And given the hurry in which it had run off, along with the fact I’d injured it, following its trail was much easier than I would have thought.

  But then again, with something this big and this prone to attack, maybe it didn’t worry much about keeping itself hidden. When you’re the one at the top of the food chain, unless you’re the one hunting, why bother?

  I followed the trail for about a mile before it hit a stopping point at the edge of a creek running through a rocky ravine. The opposite side of the creek spread out into a wide stone-covered expanse, likely remnants from a time when the creek had been a much larger river, or the wash where the water rose up to in times of flood. Very little grew on the stony plain, making it extremely difficult to see exactly where the creature had run off to. So far it had traveled in a fairly straight line though, so while it could have taken to the water to hide its trail, I thought it best to cross the stream and assume the trail went on in a line from where it left off.

  As I neared the edge where the empty riverbed rose to earthly land, a horrible, rotten odor began to permeate the air. With each step forward, the scent became stronger, until it filled the air so thoroughly, I could taste it. Swarms of flies rose from the forest’s edge, where the sun fell to shadow, making the darkness swell and squirm as if it were itself, alive. I considered turning back, the smell was so strong. Maybe find another way around. But glancing back across the creek to where I’d come from, this was indeed a straight line connecting the end of the creature’s trail to the place where it had likely continued. I stepped gingerly, careful not to lose my foot in a pile of dung or the rotting corpse of a dead animal.

  Just as I was about to cross the barrier into the brush again, I stopped my foot short, narrowly avoiding placing it directly onto the decaying remains of a human hand.

  I should have turned back then. Should have gone and found some help. Some kind of authority. Maybe a park ranger. Or the police. Or the army. But I was young full of stupidity misinterpreted as bravery, so I continued into the trees, careful with each step not to land on some other piece of human remains.

  When I entered the dense brush, it took a few seconds for my eyes to accustom themselves to the lack of sunlight. But once they did, I became all-too-aware of what I’d come across. Scattered amongst the trees and branches were chunks of what could only be disemboweled humans. Intestines draped from the branches like macabre moss—strips and scraps of clothing caught in the lower branches like birthday streamers. And all around me, the leaves were stained dark with drying blood. Another step forward and a murder of crows erupted from the thicket. As they flew off, an eyeball dropped from a beak and landed with a sickening plop on my boot.

  This was the way the beast had come, though this mess wasn’t from the night before. Whenever this had happened, it had been several days at least. From the bits of fabric I could identify, it seemed to be the remains of some hikers or campers. Very little in terms of supplies, other than the shredded remnants of a tent a few yards further in.

  I again contemplated my options. Did I press on? Find whatever did this and pump a few more bullets in it and put it down? Or was I in over my head? Would my handgun do any damage to this beast? If the night before was any indication, it’d at least give it a new hole or two. But take it down? Either I needed to go back to the cabin and grab something more powerful, or I had to report this and bring in someone much better equipped.

  A shrill scream like that of a woman or child tore through the air, piercing my eardrums and making the decision for me. I would do neither. Someone up there needed help … and they needed it now.

  Through the brush and thicket, I ran, part of me hoping to hear the cry again to offer some guidance and assurance I continued in the right direction … the other part of me wishing for pure dead silence. Not hearing it would mean whatever was about to happen had happened. It would mean I could still turn around, go back to my cabin, and do my best to forget about everything I’d seen and heard. Unfortunately, it would also mean whoever let out that scream had likely seen the last of his or her days, and I’d failed to do a damn thing to stop it.

  As I continued, low branches and rough twigs scraped at my arms and tearing rips in my jeans until finally, I spotted the tell-tale signs of the thing’s blood trail. The massacre I’d come across earlier had already started to fade over several days’ worth of decay, and I feared I’d gotten off the recent trail by being distracted by the remnants of its previous kill. But these spatters of blood, some still sticky where the sun hadn’t had a chance to break through the leafy canopy and dry them, they encouraged me to keep moving on. Bounding over fallen logs and splashing through mucky puddles, I discarded any concern I might have had earlier for the more common threats of these southern woods, like cottonmouths, rattlers or the stray gator, and pushed onward. Another cry broke through the air, sending up a murder of crows from the tops of trees some twenty yards ahead.

  So, on I went, though my legs throbbed, and my chest burned. Onward in the direction of the deathly shriek. Onward along the leafy path dotted with freshly spilled blood.

  I almost ran into it before seeing it, it was hidden so well behind a thicket of brush. Luckily, I noticed the cave entrance in time to duck low enough to not catch my head on the upper stone of its entrance. The trail led here. Into this crack in the earth, filled with nothing but black silence and the unmistakable stink of death.

  Chapter Twelve

  I dared not enter. Even as a teenager, I knew better than that. Memories of a book my mother read to me as a child, where a family went off on an adventure through fields and rivers and woods until they finally found a cave … where they went “tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe” into that cave ... and found the monstrous beast they’d flippantly set out to find, returned to me. A pair of furry ears … a big wet nose. A chase back home. All the while pursued by the beast until I could hide away under my covers, safe as it lumbered back into the wilderness. I’m never going on a monster hunt again, I’d whisper to myself.

  But that scream. And what I’d seen. Last night’s encounter and the death and dismemberment this morning. None of that could be ignored. Not at this final moment. Not when I could finally do something. Something I felt, deep inside, that I was meant to do.

  So, with my right, I took the trusty six-shooter from its holster and held it before me, while with my left I pointed the beam of my trusty flashlight into the dark, cavernous maw the creature likely called home.

  Tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe I crept. Silent, but painfully aware that even if my footsteps remained hidden, the glare of my light would give me away well beforehand. I considered switching it off and stowing it in my backpack, going on further into the cave, relying on my other senses to guide me. This, however, I knew to be foolish, as I was just as likely to trip over a fallen stone and announce my presence, thereby negating any advantage the darkness would give me. Besides, anything in here was bound to have keener senses of sight, hearing, and smell than a lowly human such as I. Any chance of creeping up on a bear, wolf, or murderous gorilla, was nonexistent. I could only hope to catch it either asleep or otherwise occupied.

  I continued onward, further into the cave until eventually, I lost complete sight of the entrance through wh
ich I’d come. Roots dangled from the ceiling like strands of witches’ hair. Bugs flitted through the air, lighting gently on my face and arms, careful to disguise their eagerness to find out of if I were some manner of snack. I envisioned nests of brown recluses above, the deadly little arachnids waiting until I stepped below at the right place so they could drop down onto my neck and bite me—just because they could.

  Another scream rang out, this time horribly close. The walls seemed to tremble under its echo. My goal lay close ahead.

  I’d like to say there was a big faceoff. Some huge battle as I pitted myself majestically against this foreign beast. I’d like to … but I’d be lying. Instead, I turned a corner in the cave, and the creature knew I was coming well before I saw it. Crouched low, it waited for me to appear following the reckless beam of my flashlight. And as soon as I was in view, it pounced—or, rather, sprang, at me. Lips peeled back in a snarl of hot breath and putrid teeth, it attacked. Before I could react, the beast was on me, its wicked jaws snapping at my face, trying to rip my face to shreds then gobble me up like it had the campers in the woods.

  Snapping and growling like Old Yeller in a tantrum, I held it back for only a few seconds before it finally overpowered me, sunk its teeth into my throat and ripped my jugular from my neck. In those final moments, I managed to fire my remaining bullets into its hide. Its dead body collapsed onto me, and I bled out on the floor and passed from this world to someplace altogether different.

  Some people talk about how they hover over their bodies when they’re dead, in some out-of-body experience. Their souls kind of floating there while they make the decision to either head up into the light or go back down into their bodies and stick around a bit longer. That’s not at all how it works though. At least not for me.