by Watt Key
“It made me queasy and confused. It can emit something that does it—like a sound frequency we can’t hear. Some people think they use it to make pictures blurry. I think that’s crap, but I know it made me sick. It was some sort of defense it had.”
“Like a dog whistle?”
“Yeah, maybe like that. But it ain’t got nothing to do with UFOs and magic and any of that crap. Tigers make infrasound. Other animals can do it. I think these things are flesh and blood. It eats and it bleeds and it dies. But in ways it’s far more advanced than we are.”
“Do you think they’re dangerous?”
“I think they mostly want to be left alone. But yes, if you try to cross one, it’s dangerous. They’re what you call apex predators. And they eat meat. I’ve read about them tearing the heads off bull elk. That one I saw tore my cow into pieces like it was no more than a chicken. They’re so strong, it’s unbelievable.”
“You think they’d eat a person?”
“I do. If they’re hungry enough. The Nez Perce people claim these things eat their own dead. I believe that. That’s why you don’t find their bodies.”
“Like cannibals?”
“I don’t see it that way. Something that big needs a lot of food to survive. I think they do it for practical reasons.”
“There’s got to be a way to get proof. To let people know. Didn’t you try?”
Stanley leaned forward and put his root beer on the table.
“How far down this rabbit hole do you really want to go?”
“I want to know everything,” I said.
He studied me for a long, uncomfortable moment.
“If you knew what was good for you,” he finally said, “you’d get up from this table and go home to your uncle and convince yourself what you saw was a trick of the mind and I’m just as looney as everybody says I am.”
“I don’t think I can do that,” I said.
“I know you can’t.”
10
“How much do you know about the Suwannee River?”
“I mean, I’ve crossed over it a bunch of times. And I’ve seen it from the bridge. And … I guess my parents drowned in it.”
“You keep walking down this road and take your first right,” Stanley continued. “You’ll get to Yellow Jacket Landing, and you’ll be looking right at it. Water’s black as ink down this way. It’s almost impossible to find anything once it sinks. You won’t see a darker, more mysterious river in this country. It’s like something pulled straight out of the Amazon jungle, surrounded by miles of river swamp and hammock, full of snakes and alligators. You know there’s things living out there you can’t find anywhere else in the world?”
I shook my head.
“A type of bass, for one,” he continued. “They call it the Suwannee bass. And you’ve got the Suwannee cooter, a turtle. You know about the sturgeon?”
“I’ve heard about them in school.”
“Nobody knows why they come here. Like something left over from the dinosaur age.”
I nodded.
“The Indians considered it a sacred, mystical river, fed by hidden crystal clear springs deep in the Refuge. They said if you drank from these springs you would have eternal youth.”
“Like what Ponce de León looked for?”
“Exactly. The Fountain of Youth.”
“Do you believe it?”
“I think UFOs and magical springs are crap, but that’s not my point. Yeah, there’s springs out there. There’s the ones you know about, Fanning Springs and Manatee Springs and probably a lot more we haven’t found. But the Suwannee hammock is so thick and impenetrable, just about anything could be in it. They made it into a refuge because there’s no commercial value. It’s too wet to build in, too wet to even log timber. It’s a place man’s not meant to be, period … But these creatures, they’re so at home in our natural environment—even places like the hammock—it’s like we’re the aliens and they’ve always been here. They live out there. And I think at one time they hunted this area. Maybe that’s when I’d hear them at night. And then they’d go back into the Refuge when they were done. They know nobody’s going to follow them into it.”
“So you didn’t try?”
“Of course I did,” he said.
Stanley wheeled back from the table and crossed the floor and pointed up at a bookshelf.
“Grab that photo album for me.”
I got up and pulled down the book he was pointing at. It was dusty and covered in dried spiderwebs. I gave it to him and followed him back to the table.
“Pull your chair next to me,” he said.
* * *
I don’t think he wanted me to see that first page. It had obviously been a while since he’d looked at the pictures, and I think he turned to it by mistake. The photo was of Stanley with a pretty young woman and a girl who appeared to be about six years old. He wasn’t in a wheelchair and looked young and strong and happy. They were standing outdoors, in front of a sign that read HUNTSVILLE SPACE AND ROCKET CENTER.
“Was that your family?” I asked.
“Wife and daughter,” he mumbled.
“Where are they now?”
“I don’t know,” he said, like he didn’t want to talk about it. He flipped to the center of the album, then quickly flipped a few pages back. The next photo I saw was of Stanley by himself. He was still young, dressed in full camouflage, standing on a green lawn with a deer rifle slung over his shoulder. I thought I recognized a corner of the old barn at the edge of the picture, except the barn looked new and freshly painted.
“She took that,” he said. “Before I left.”
“Your wife?”
He nodded slowly, like he was thinking more of the photo than what I was saying. “She didn’t want to,” he continued.
“Why not?”
He didn’t answer me.
“Where were you going?” I asked.
He studied the picture another moment. “I was going to find it,” he finally said. “And kill it.”
11
Stanley turned the page of the photo album again, and this time I saw several photos of a dark, calm river and a high wall of lush green trees on the other side. There was also a picture of him in a small aluminum boat, looking like he was about to motor out into the water.
“Did she take that one too?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I used to keep that jon boat down at the landing on a little piece of property my dad left me. I guess it’s probably still there, leaning up against the same tree.”
“You went after them in a boat?”
“Yeah. Then I took the camera from her and shoved off. I was going to document everything and bring back a dead body and put an end to all of this.”
“Did your wife believe you? Did she know about them?”
“She thought I’d lost my mind. That’s why I had to go out there. I had to show her.”
“She never saw it?”
Stanley shook his head. “No,” he said. “And I should have just kept my mouth shut about it … But you can’t, you know? Not at first.”
“I know,” I said.
“I mean, you just have to talk to somebody about it.”
“How far did you go?”
Stanley took a deep breath and then another sip of his drink. After a moment he continued.
“Eighteen miles downriver is Gopher Creek. That creek is a pathway straight into the deepest part of the Refuge. I knew if I really wanted to find these things, it was my best way in.”
On the opposite page was a photo of houseboats tied along the riverbank. I pointed to it. “Where is that?” I asked.
“Fowler’s Bluff. About halfway. The only civilization between Yellow Jacket and the Gulf of Mexico. There’s not much to it. Just a boat launch and a little store and those houseboats you see.”
He turned the page to a picture of a hand holding a compass.
“After Fowler’s Bluff you drop off into the biggest part of the Refuge. Nothing but black wat
er and islands and creek mouths. Tall cypress and gum trees. Then there’s a big northwest bend in the river. After that Gopher Creek comes in on the left.”
He pointed to a picture of an opening in the trees where a small creek entered the river.
“It gets tight in there,” he said. “I went as far up it as I could. Until I was dragging the boat through the mud. Then I left it and went looking for high ground. I figured maybe I’d find some sign of them. I could sit there and listen for them. Then I’d know I was in the right place.”
“And then you’d wait?”
“That’s right. They’d already know I was there. And they’d show themselves when they wanted to.”
“And then you’d shoot one?”
Stanley nodded. “You got it.”
He flipped the page, and I saw a picture of a small one-man tent and a campfire. There was a clothesline strung between two trees and a shirt and socks hanging on it. He flipped the page again, and I saw a fish cooking on a spit over a campfire. Then he suddenly closed the photo album and put it in his lap.
“So what happened?” I said.
“I couldn’t do it, that’s what happened.”
“Why not?”
“I just couldn’t stay out there like that. I had a family back home. It was too dangerous.”
“How long were you gone?”
“Three days. It took me that long to realize what I was up against. And I came to see it was impossible. Three days and I was covered with ticks and had been eaten up by yellow flies and mosquitoes. I had snakes crawling in my tent and things creeping around my campsite and howling in the night. I just couldn’t do it.”
“So you heard them?”
“I don’t know what I heard, but it was god-awful.”
“So you never saw another one?”
“Let me tell you something. If you want to see a swamp ape or Bigfoot—whatever you want to call it—you’ve got to be out in the wilderness for weeks. Maybe months. Miles from anything. No fires, no tent, nothing. Until you run out of food and have to live like an animal. Until you’re so primitive you dig worms from the ground with your hands and eat them just to go on another day. Then maybe they’ll show themselves to you. You understand? A man can’t do that.”
I nodded.
“Then there’s the killing part. Let’s say I managed to get far enough out into the Refuge and survive long enough to see one of these things. Let’s say I got close enough to take a shot with a high-powered rifle like a .30-06. This is an animal that can weigh a thousand pounds. Maybe more. I’d have to shoot it in the heart. And let’s say I’m lucky and its heart is in the same place as ours. And say I get even luckier and kill it. Then what?”
Stanley paused. I shook my head to show that I didn’t have an answer.
“Then you’ve still got to deal with the other ones. You think they’re going to like you shooting one of their family members?”
I shook my head.
“But let’s say there’s not any more. Say this thing’s by itself. Now what? How are you going to drag a thousand pounds of dead weight out of there? You can’t leave and come back for it. Alligators and coyotes will eat it. Or maybe they eat it.”
“But why did you have to kill it?”
“You want proof, you’re going to have to bring back a body.”
“But maybe just good pictures would do. I mean, if you just had enough good pictures.”
“That’s been tried, right? The government confiscates any decent proof that ever goes public. The blurry stuff that’s left, people just write off as a hoax. No, you’re gonna have to have a body. And that’s impossible.”
“What if there was a way to make it public before the government could get to it?”
“If you can figure a way to do that, then you’ll be the first.”
Stanley stopped talking and looked at me long and hard. And right off, I couldn’t think of a way to solve the problem. After a few seconds I looked over at the window. I hadn’t realized how long we’d been talking. The day was getting late, and the sun was already down behind the trees.
“So I guess that’s my roundabout way of telling you I don’t have the answers,” he said. “Nobody does. Nobody ever will.”
I looked up at him.
“Do you mind if I spend the night here?”
“I suppose it’s too late to start back. You’re welcome to sleep in the extra bedroom. Been a while since anybody’s stayed in there, but it should be okay.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“I’ve got some beef stew. You hungry?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Stanley wheeled into the kitchen and got a pot of what I assumed was the stew out of the refrigerator and set it on the stove. He reached up and turned the knob for the gas, and I saw the flames leap up under the pot and begin heating it.
“How do you get groceries?” I asked.
Stanley spun around in the chair and went back to the refrigerator.
“Another root beer?” he said.
“Sure,” I said.
He pulled out another Barq’s and stuck it between his legs. Then he brought out a bottle of Old Forester. He went to the sink and got a glass and poured it half full of the whiskey, set the bottle on the counter, and came back to the table.
“Buddy of mine stops by here once a week. Brings me stuff,” he said.
He opened the Barq’s and passed it to me. “You don’t ever leave?” I asked.
“I go to the doctor every now and then. My buddy drives me into town.”
“What happened?” I asked. “I mean, I saw the pictures. You weren’t always in a wheelchair.”
Stanley raised the glass with shaking hands. He took a long swallow of the whiskey and winced and wheezed and set the glass down on the table. He studied me for a moment, like he was thinking about how to answer.
“I shot myself,” he said.
Suddenly, I was sorry I’d asked.
12
I didn’t know if Stanley was talking about an accident or if he’d tried to kill himself. He didn’t seem to want to explain, and I wasn’t about to ask. So we both sat there in silence, him drinking his whiskey and me sipping on the Barq’s. An uncomfortable feeling hung over me. And I was suddenly uneasy about being there.
Finally he spoke. “Why don’t you go down that hall to the last room on the left? See if it suits you.”
“Okay,” I said.
I got up, glad to get away from the heavy silence. I walked down the hall until I came to the last door. It was closed. I turned the knob and gently pushed. The door swung open on creaky hinges, and what I saw before me, in the pale dusky light through the windows, was shocking. It was a young girl’s bedroom, everything arranged like she was coming home at any moment. Except a musty smell of entombment hung in the air like no one had been inside the room in years.
I stepped through the door and looked around. There was a small bed with a white chenille cover and canary yellow pillows and stuffed animals. Beside it was a bookcase with dolls and picture books. There was a dresser with a photo of the girl I’d seen in Stanley’s album. The room would have been full of color had it not been dulled by a light coating of dust. Then I began to notice the same spiderwebs in the corners of the ceiling. On the floor, at the base of the windows, were hundreds of dead wasps. I turned and walked out, suddenly desperate to think of an excuse to tell Stanley why I couldn’t stay.
When I came to the living room again, he was at the table with two steaming bowls of stew, spoons, and napkins. He had refilled his whiskey glass, and there was a cup of ice water next to my bowl.
“Everything all right in there?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah,” I said.
“Have a seat. Eat it while it’s hot.”
I sat down and studied the stew. It looked fine, and I was hungry, but now I was nervous about everything. I was afraid of what was in the stew.
“It was your daughter’s room,” I said.
>
Stanley ate, chewing and staring at his bowl. “That’s right,” he said.
I grabbed my spoon and scooped a small sample of the stew and looked at it. I couldn’t bring myself to eat it. And then I had to know.
“What happened to her?” I said.
Stanley looked up at me and stopped chewing. After a second he set his spoon down and reached over and got the whiskey and kept his eyes on me while he took a big swallow. He wheezed and coughed and set the glass down again, then leaned back in his wheelchair.
“Swamp apes,” he said.
My heart was thudding. Was he saying the creatures had taken her? Could that be true?
“Swamp apes,” he said again. “They get a piece of your soul. Something you can’t ever get back. You understand?”
I didn’t understand what he was saying, but I nodded as if I did.
“What drives you mad isn’t seeing them. It’s not having the answers. Not a night goes by I don’t dream about those things. The man you saw in those photos was a different person. I don’t even remember what he was like. I know he didn’t know a damn thing about what was really out in this world.”
Stanley leaned forward and kept his eyes locked on me.
“They took a piece of your soul, didn’t they?” he said.
I knew the encounter had changed me, and now I understood what Stanley was getting at, but it wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have. I looked down at my bowl and didn’t respond.
“I want to kill every last one of them for what they did to me,” he grumbled. “But it won’t help. It won’t bring my wife back. It won’t bring back my little girl.”
“You don’t have to tell me about it,” I said quietly.
“There’s nothing to tell. They left me. Not long after I came back from the woods. I tried to get it all out of my head, but I couldn’t. Swamp apes … How do you just forget seeing something like that? So she said she couldn’t live here anymore. Packed up my daughter and took her away.”
I drew a deep breath. I looked up at him.
“I’m sorry?” I said.
Stanley leaned back again. “My daughter’s in Orlando, last I heard. That was ten years ago. I don’t know where my wife is.”
