Tales From The Mist: An Anthology of Horror and Paranormal Stories

by Scott Nicholsonan

  “I’m scared of cancer.”

  He took another drag and put his arm around her. “Don't be scared. I'll protect you.”

  She was wondering who was going to protect her from Barry. That’s when the branch snapped. She hated herself for it, but she snuggled closer to Barry. Mamaw and her stories. Always told as if the strange were true. “That sounded way too big for a raccoon.”

  Barry stubbed out the cigarette on a stump. “Noise carries funny in the mountains, especially at night.”

  “Do they have bears up here?” Mamaw said bears were almost as bad as the big mountain cats, the “painters,” what had big fangs and screamed like women in the hurt of childbirth. But nothing compared to a vengeful and angry Wampus Cat.

  Barry gave his hiccup of a laugh. “The Smoky Mountains have more black bears than you can shake a stick at. Huh–huh. Smoky.”

  “According to the guidebook, this is the Shenandoah National Forest, not the Smokies.”

  “Whatever. Mountains are mountains.”

  Her tent looked inviting, but if she crawled inside, she’d be trapped. And the canvas walls looked far too flimsy to hold back a large animal. Or the weight of the mountains. Or the strength of legends.

  “Say, I know a good ghost story,” Barry said.

  “I don't want to hear any ghost stories.”

  “Hey, come on. It's Halloween.”

  How could she tell him what a jerk he was without insulting him and losing what little comfort he offered? As much as she hated to admit it, she needed him. At least until they reached civilization, at which point she would happily give back his twangy bluegrass CDs and never speak to him again. He could drive north, she could head south, and the mountains would forget them, go on with the business of being ancient and full of secrets.

  The noise came again, louder, and to Susan’s left. “Did you hear it that time?”

  Barry pointed up through the gap in the trees. “Moon's almost full.”

  “On Halloween.”

  “You don't believe in that kind of junk, do you?”

  “Spooks and goblins?” she said. “No, not when I'm safe in bed with a deadbolt on the door and the radio going. But out here, it's different. And you never heard Mamaw’s stories.”

  Stories about the lady with the lamp, who glowed by the river; painters who followed the wood wagon home, screaming all the way; fireflies that stabbed a billion sparks above the creek beds; frost that glittered in the soft ghost breath of morning; legends that grew legs and flesh and teeth and walked the Southern hills. Stuff that got in your blood and owned you.

  “These mountains are alive.” Barry's idea of poetry. Or his way of scaring her. All the same, with Barry.

  “I don't want to hear any more strange noises, thank you.” Susan would not allow this idiot to hear her whine. Her discomfort was genuine, deeper than ancient granite and Mamaw’s long line of handed–down stories. “And I don't want to see red eyes in the forest. All I want is a hot bath and a greasy hamburger and some clean sheets.”

  Barry tried to look wounded, but the expression came off as something an inept president might hide behind during a press conference. He took his arm from her shoulders.

  “I thought you were an Earth chick,” he said.

  “I'm not a chick in any sense of the word. I'm not going to grow up to be a hen, and roosters hold absolutely no appeal. But I’m about ready to ruffle some feathers.”

  “Don't be like that.”

  She started to pour it on, dump eighty miles of hiking and their being lost and his two–track–mindedness on him and probably she would end up crying in frustration except, before she could really get rolling, she saw the yellow eyes again.

  In front of them, maybe fifteen feet away.

  This time, even Barry saw them.

  “What was that?” He stood and grabbed a long limb from the fire, held it as a torch.

  The eyes disappeared in blackness.

  “That wasn't a reflection.” Susan picked up the closest rock.

  “Looked like yellow eyes to me.”

  “I told you.”

  “Shh.” Barry waved his hand.

  The noise came from the left. And the right. And behind them.

  Susan turned her back to the fire. The rock was heavy in her hand. The only direction that didn't seem scary was up, with the stars blind in the glow of the moon. Mamaw said the sky hung heavier in the mountains, that it took your breath and then your soul, because you’re closer to heaven here.

  The eyes flashed beside her tent. Branches broke. The laughter of wind swept from the trees.

  Halloween. Trick or treat. In the land of legends. Mamaw’s territory.

  The campfire grabbed some oxygen and jumped for the sky. Smoke burned Susan's eyes and nose. The forest grew wild, unafraid, with Appalachian teeth.

  The night swooped in like bats, the trees bent with knotted limbs, the golden eyes closed in. It was coming, whatever it was.

  Susan raised the rock. “Barry!”

  He jumped in front of her and waved the burning stick as if it were a flag. Embers fell from its tip. He shouted at the woods. The eyes froze, then faded back to invisibility.

  The air grew still again. The fire sputtered. Leaves settled on the ground. Susan's heart, the one Barry had briefly stolen, was now back and working overtime.

  She should have known better than to head south with a man. Not into this land that Mamaw said was haunted by ancient things. Especially not on Halloween.

  “What was it?” Susan's hands were cold.

  Barry had long lost his glow, was now just another guy with body odor and the deep–seated fear that all guys tried to hide but was always just a sniff away. He tugged at the waistband of his jeans. “Mountain lion, I bet.”

  “Mountain lion? The guidebook didn't say anything about mountain lions.”

  Barry tried to ruralize his speech, hard to do with the nasally Maine accent. “Supposed to be extinct in these parts. But there's a lot about these woods that people don't know.”

  “I know, I know, the land of legends.” Susan edged closer to the fire. It was burning low. Somebody would have go in search of wood. Somebody named Barry.

  “Big cats, they'll come right up to a camp. They're not afraid.”

  “Barry, stop trying to scare me.”

  He grinned...” Best thing to do is get in the tent and hope it goes away.”

  “The fire's dying.”

  “So?” He crawled into his tent.

  Susan looked around at the woods. Painters could climb trees, couldn't they? Were they afraid of fire? What color eyes did they have? All the cats Susan knew had golden or green or gray eyes, but those were house cats. Maybe mountain lions were different.

  Bigger.

  Wild things in the land of legends.

  Creatures with fang and claw that had stalked here long before the Catawba and Cherokee and Algonquin, long before the Scottish and Irish and German settlers, and long before Daniel Boone, that original tourist, had started the Southern Appalachians on its downward cultural slide. The guidebook writers from New York couldn't know much about mountain lions, painters, and distant legends. And absolutely nothing about Wampus Cats that were forever locked in transformation, caught between two worlds.

  Something chuckled in the dark, and it sure wasn't the ghost of Daniel Boone.

  Even though this was Halloween.

  When midnight made promises.

  Susan didn't wait for the yellow eyes to appear. The wet rustling of leaves was all the encouragement she needed. Still clutching the rock, she scrambled into her tent. She listened closely to the quiet. To Tuesday night. To October.

  To Halloween.

  To a mountain lion that shouldn't exist.

  The creature's silhouette was now clear, black against the amber glow of the fading fire.

  “Williams faced the Yankees thirteen times in 1941,” Barry said from the neighboring tent.

  “Barry.�
� She wasn't sure if she had mustered enough air to summon this lost fool of the wilderness. She tried again; glad she had a rock in her hand.

  He grunted, already half asleep.

  “Barry!” The shadow was bigger now. Something nuzzled her tent flaps.

  Something with long whiskers.

  And October teeth.

  The fire died.

  Susan was alone with the night. And a snoring Barry. And whatever was outside. In Mamaw’s land.

  She held her breath, hoping it would go away.

  It didn't.

  She listened to the breathing of the big mountain cat. Soft, at home in the darkness. At ease. Something that belonged in the land of legends.

  Barry would protect her. Barry would growl and grab a stick and scream stupid words at the stars.

  And the cat would . . . what?

  Barry's uneven snoring was an insult to the crickets.

  Susan lay on her belly, ear at the entrance to the tent.

  The woods sang a mountain song, of Rebel yells and squirrels and rustling laurel thickets. Creeks ran quick and cold in the dark. A cat purred, patient as the moon. Mamaw’s ghost sang a lost ballad of wind in the woods.

  Susan whispered Barry’s name, afraid the cat would hear. She flicked on her flashlight, pulled down the zipper of the tent, and peered through the nylon netting. More fervid eyes waited in the October blackness. More mountain lions that shouldn't exist. More wild things. More of Mamaw’s painters. And behind them, a Wampus Cat mewling a folk hymn.

  She had been wrong all along. Because Barry had seemed like the wild thing, a beast that she must tame or die trying.

  Now she saw that he was the danger. He was tame, and his tameness would build a cage around her. His world was one of baseball statistics and environmental rallies and kayaks and snowboards and an endless stream of trail girls, not rocks and trees. He entered this land of legends like a conqueror, with bottled water and wool socks and Yankee pride.

  “Deliverance” wasn't a documentary. The Southern Appalachians weren't savage and cruel. The mountains only resisted what didn't belong here. And maybe she belonged, her blood thick through three generations, Mamaw’s heart still beating in hers. A witch’s spell stretching over generations.

  The night chill fell away as she left the camp. The eyes surrounded her; warm breath touched her skin, soft paws played at the ground. This was Halloween, a night of trick or treat, when legends came alive. And the legends had come for her.

  The forest called, the mountains waited, the wilderness sent an invitation. Mamaw’s song drifted between the trees, beckoning, haunting, welcoming, with a chorus of “Follow your heart.”

  Her heart was full of the scent of Barry, the stench of his too–human flesh, and her teeth ached for his taste. But he would be easy to track later. For now, the night beckoned.

  Susan ran with the painters, free.

  Somewhere in the night she changed. At least, half of her did.

  * Wampus Cat was originally published in Legends of the Mountain State 2.

  About Scott

  Scott Nicholson has written 15 thrillers, 60 short stories, four comics series, and six screenplays. He lives in the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina, where he tends an organic garden, successfully eludes stalkers, and generally lives the dream. He's online at www.hauntedcomputer.com.

  THE CONSUMING

  By Rhonda Hopkins

  My uncle was dead. I held the correspondence from his attorney, reading it for the third time. My father and his brother had parted ways in a manner that allowed neither to shed his male pride to seek forgiveness. Because of their quarrel I hadn’t seen Uncle Frederick since I was a child, so I was surprised to feel the wetness of tears on my cheeks.

  “Serena, are you okay?” Beth Thompson stood in the doorway of my office.

  Male co–workers ogled her as they passed. The pervs. I sneered at them but couldn’t blame them really. Beth’s tight black mini–skirt, bare legs and red do–me–pumps gave most guys heart palpitations.

  Setting the letter down, I smiled at my friend. “What are you doing here? Did we have an appointment I forgot about?” I motioned to a chair in front of my desk.

  “Nope. I was downtown and just thought you might like to go to lunch. My treat.” She sat, crossing her long elegant legs.

  It was hard being friends with someone so gorgeous. My five feet, two inches couldn’t compete with six feet of Amazon female. We looked nothing alike. My straight blonde hair and blue eyes contrasted sharply with her auburn waves and emerald eyes. We weren’t even that similar in our tastes or activities. We’d been friends since kindergarten. Amazing really, with so little in common, but sometimes things just are.

  “Lunch sounds good. I just need to make a phone call first.”

  I picked up the letter again. My hand shook, making the paper rattle.

  “Okay. So what’s wrong? You were teary when I got here.” Concern etched her features.

  “Uncle Frederick passed away.”

  “What? How?”

  “He apparently called 911, but the paramedics got there after he died. He’d had a heart attack.” My eyes teared up again.

  I handed her the paper and sat silently as she read.

  “He left you his house in North Carolina?” Beth leaned back in her chair, her top leg bouncing up and down. Her eyes were wide with disbelief and something that looked a lot like fear.

  But that made no sense. Why would she be afraid? I discounted that niggling sensation along the back of my neck. I could tell Beth was dying to ask a million questions. Questions I had no answers for.

  “I know. Surreal, right? I haven’t seen him since we were … what? About ten?”

  She nodded, biting her lip. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to go check it out. I suppose his things will need to be taken care of. And I’ll need to hire a realtor.”

  “Just hire someone to clean out the house and his belongings. You don’t have to do that yourself, you know.” Beth’s strangely strident tone caused that itchy–crawly sensation to move over my skin again. She sat completely stiff, with only her foot in constant motion. Her eyes drilled into me. I had no idea why any of this would bother her.

  Laughter burst in from the hallway as people made their eager escapes to noonday sun.

  “I know. But it feels wrong for strangers to go through his things. Family should do that.” I took the letter back and smoothed it on the wide glass surface of my desk. “You could come with me. We’d have time to do some sight–seeing while we’re there.”

  Nothing. Just those bright green eyes staring at me. She opened her mouth and closed it twice.

  “You might as well tell me what’s going through your mind. You know you will eventually.” I pushed back my chair, crossed my legs and my arms. Waited.

  “I had a dream. Actually, I’ve had the same dream three nights in a row.”

  Beth shoved to her feet, paced the width of my office and stopped in front of a plant that desperately needed water. She plucked crisp brown leaves from their stems and crushed them between her fingers; the crunch loud in the sudden silence. Dried bits fluttered to the carpet.

  “So what does your dream have to do with Uncle Fred?”

  If Beth was this worried, I needed to know why. Although Beth didn’t like to talk about it, she was a little psychic. Not get–into–the–mind–of–a–serial–killer–psychic, but ... there were enough coincidences that I couldn’t exactly discount her dreams or feelings. I did that once and nearly ended up married to a loser. Fortunately Beth followed up on one of her dreams and caught him pants down with his secretary. He was on the phone begging my forgiveness before Beth made it back to her car.

  I realized Beth was talking and focused my attention on her again.

  “You were wasting away, skeleton thin, hair brittle and eyes devoid of hope. Something was really wrong with you. And you kept telling me you couldn’t leave this
small town. I really don’t know …” She returned her troubled gaze to my face.

  “I could stand to lose a few pounds.” I tried to joke it away, but the look she gave me made me regret my words. “I’m sorry. I know you’re worried, but—”

  “Don’t. It’s not funny. I haven’t slept and I’ve been anxious about whether to even bring it up, since I knew you had no plans to go anywhere. And Miami, Florida, could not possibly be considered small town by any stretch of the imagination.”

  We both turned to the window where the bright sun hovered over the city’s downtown area, reflecting off the windows of the tall buildings. No. Definitely not small town.

  I swiveled my chair around to face her. “I have to do this, Beth. He was my uncle.”

  She nodded, but a noticeable shiver passed through her body.

  ∼ ∼ ∼

  “As you can see, the house needs some work …” Maxwell Black’s voice trailed off. My uncle’s attorney had dark brown eyes which held an apology, but his lips turned up into a smile. “Who am I kidding? It needs a lot of work.”

  We stood on the walkway. Large clumps of weeds grew through cracks in the pavement. Grass stood knee high in the yard, with yellow wildflowers sprouting over the unkempt lawn. Paint peeled from the two–story structure and screens dangled from their hinges. A smashed window looked out upon the overgrown shrubs and broken branches on the trees added to the neglected state of the property.

  “I don’t understand. The Uncle Frederick I knew was always so fastidious. We used to tease him about being so fussy. Everything had to be in its place.” I couldn’t imagine what had happened. “How long was he ill, Mr. Black?”

  “Please. Call me Max.” He cocked his head to one side as if holding an internal debate. Finally, he nodded as if coming to a conclusion. “Ms. Thorne, I don’t know any delicate way to say this, so I’m just going to say it. Your uncle developed some serious mental health issues about six months after he moved here.”

  I bit my tongue to keep from calling the man a liar. After all, I hadn’t seen my uncle in over twenty years. My mind just couldn’t fathom the man I once knew having such severe mental problems. He may have been persnickety, but I remembered him being highly intelligent and grounded in the real world.