by Paul Sating
Contents
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Links
About The Author
Acknowledgements
12 Deaths of Christmas
Published
Chasing the Demon
Paul Sating
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any situations or similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2018 Paul Sating
All rights reserved.
No parts of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN-13: 978-1-7322617-0-9
Cover Art By: Kessi Riliniki
To Madeline: for always believing, encouraging, & supporting! GILU & URME
1
The stench of old wood and unwashed people didn’t surprise Jared Strong.
Stale beer, peanuts, and people. A lot of the hole-in-the-wall type bars in this western corner of the Olympic Peninsula, his home, smelled like this. His current drinking hole of choice was no different, no better. He smothered a handful of nuts between his palm and fingers, squeezing until he heard the satisfying crack of the shells. Picking out the nuts, he tossed them into his mouth, discarding the shells on the floor. It wasn’t something he would do at home, especially not when he and Maria were still together. But, in fairness, this place didn’t look like anyone had loved it for at least a generation.
That observation made him wonder how much time had passed since Maria had loved him.
Maria.
Best not to think about her right now. There were other problems he needed to face first. Like the reason for the stack of papers sitting in front of him on the sticky bar top.
This was Olympia, the capital of the state. The gem, right? He laughed to himself, glancing down at the shell-covered floor underneath him. What a dump. He shook his head at how quickly his life had gone off track.
“Great place to start chasing a demon,” he mumbled to the stack of papers. They didn’t answer.
The drunk seated next to him sneered. “Whatch’da say?”
“Huh?” Jared asked, “Uh, nothing. Sorry. Didn’t mean to bother you.”
“You ain’t no bother,” the man said, then returned to his beer.
Jared laughed. “Let me know if that changes, will ya?” God knows I’ve already done that to enough people in my life.
The old man’s eyes narrowed as if he was examining Jared’s soul. Awkward and uncomfortable, Jared put his attention on the papers, an idle finger tracing their edges.
The drunk squinted at him and laughed, coughing up things that came from deep within his lungs. “Whatcha lookin’ at there?”
Nothing. The instinct to protect the knowledge on those pages was strong. It had to be. It was something all hunters of his kind developed early. If they didn’t, they didn’t stay in the game long. Jared had seen enough of them come and go in his twenty-plus years in the game. He knew what to do and how to do it. And when you hunted the things he did you learned to be careful. “These?” Jared tapped the pile of notes with his finger, looking at them instead of the drunk, “These are my life’s work. Child’s play to some, but to me … well, to me they’re everything I have.”
“Mind if I ask what they’re about?”
He smiled absently. “I track wild game, I guess you could say, and these,” his fingers wrapped around the stack, feeling the texture, an intimate connection, “these are some of the most important things I’ve spent my adult life on.” There was a time when he cared enough to have the notes bound and protected. But they had come loose during all those lost days since his life was turned upside down, becoming nothing more than a frayed and fragile system of knowledge.
“Wild game, you say?” the man leaned toward him like there was an unspoken secret they shared. “Olympics or Cascades?”
Everywhere. “Olympics mostly. I love the peninsula. Spend a lot of time out there.”
The drunk nodded as though satisfied. “There’s worse places to be if you ask me. Used to do some hunting myself. Stopped when I couldn’t get around so easily. Now? Spend most of my days in this dump, drinking away the last of my brain.” The bartender scowled from his spot a few feet away, where he busied himself cleaning a few dirty glasses. The old man tipped his glass in the bar keep’s direction. “Oh, come now, Jack, you know I love your fine establishment. Just making conversation with … whatcha say yer name was?”
“I didn’t, but it’s Jared.”
“I’d shake your hand but … well, you don’t want to know where it’s been today, ain’t that right, Jack?” The drunk laugh-coughed again. It sounded like water gurgling out from a pipe. Jared wondered how long this man had to live. Would he finish the investigation before this poor soul saw out what was left of his life? Jared wasn’t betting on it. “Anyways, nice to meet you, Jared. So, you on your way out to the Olympics for the weekend?”
Jared nodded. “Something like that. I go out for a few days at a time.”
“Whatcha do that for?”
What did he do it for? There was nothing to come home to now, not anymore. What was there to stop him from just staying out for a week or two, or until his supplies ran out? It was something he’d never thought about — not until now, and now it seemed so simple. He laughed, “You know, I don’t have a good answer. Habit, I guess? Used to come back every few days when I was married but I don’t have that obligation now. Just have a dog at home.”
The drunk leaned toward his beer as if he was trying to smell it. Jared guessed it was a ploy to distract, that maybe the man had demons of his own — maybe an unfortunate ex-wife story, maybe something worse that hit too close to the heart. “Some of those habits are hard to break, my friend,” he finally said when he spoke again. “Don’t mind me if I’m prying too much into your life, but I’m imagining she didn’t want to be waiting for you any more than she already was? Prolly supported you the best she could until she couldn’t any longer? Somethin’ like that?”
Something like that. Now it was Jared’s turn to look away.
“Well, listen to me, going on and getting in your business,” he said. “My apologies. You look like a nice young man. Life’s going to throw you enough stress, don’t be letting me add to it. Got to ask. Ain’t deer season. Never seen a duck hunter, hell, any hunter, collect notes like you got there. Whatcha after?”
Jared’s dead eyes never left his notes even as he replied, “a monster.”
2
"There's a monster among us, a monster that's haunted my dreams since I was six years old," Jared hated recording himself. He sounded ridiculous. The fact that his friend was watching him made him even more self-conscious. He stopped to check and make sure the mobile recorder’s indicator l
ight was on as an excuse to avoid Lucas’ goofy smile. It was. He continued, "A monster that made the Pacific Northwest its home long before Europeans 'found' this continent. I'm Jared Strong, and I'm hunting this monster. These recordings will serve to document this pursuit so I can prove to the world that it exists. I won't stop until it's found."
Lucas Thomson sarcastically clapped his hands. He was a dear friend, the major reason, the only reason, why Jared allowed him to witness what he was doing, but he was still a smartass. "Impressive, buddy. Impressive."
"Stupid, you mean?"
"No, seriously," his friend countered, pointing at Jared with the open mouth of his beer bottle. "I think you're onto something. I mean, this podcast stuff is all the rage with the kids nowadays. There could be something to it."
"I don't know," Jared answered, leaning into the open refrigerator, pulling out two beers. Lucas had stopped by, unannounced, on his way home from Seattle, catching Jared in the middle of launching his first podcast recording. Without a clue what he was doing, this entire thing felt awkward and Lucas’ presence heightened that feeling. It was also a great excuse to stop. He hardly ever saw his friend anymore, even though they lived within an hour of each other. "You want another one?"
"Yeah, but just one more," Lucas replied. "I've got to get on the road soon."
"Worried about beating all that traffic back out to Aberdeen, huh? I mean, who knows, you might pass five or even six cars if traffic is crazy." Jared laughed as he slid the bottle across the table.
"Very funny, asshole," Lucas snorted. "Don't hate me because you're stuck in the city life."
"City life? In Olympia? You need to get out more, my friend."
"City enough for me." Lucas' face lost the humor. Jared knew what was coming because Lucas was so predictable. When the comment came, it didn’t disappoint. "So you're really going to do this? Going to bring Peter in and formally kick this thing off? Are you sure, bud?" Lucas didn’t believe in Bigfoot, didn’t believe in Jared’s focus or passions. And Jared had to remind himself, even after all these years, that Lucas had his best interests in mind. But the comments still grated from time to time.
Like now.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
Lucas shrugged. "Just asking if this is something you want to do. Once you make all this public, that's it. There's no going back, my friend. You'll be in all the way."
Jared nodded. He wasn't in the mood for Lucas' skepticism. Not now. Not on the eve of embarking on what would hopefully be the end of 20 years of chasing shadows in the emerald kingdom on the Olympic Peninsula. Even recognizing how tired he felt, Jared still considered himself lucky to spend so many hours of his waking life in such a wonderful setting. His office was a gem, a wonderland of enjoyment and exploration, free of bustling cities and crowded roads. Spending the majority of his adult life trekking through that part of the state had changed him in more ways than one. The peninsula was his home away from home. It was a part of him, as much as any location could be a part of someone. And what he was about to do could endanger the region. It was a problem he still needed to solve.
Sometimes he wasn't convinced what he was about to do would be worth it.
But he'd never find peace if he didn't finish this.
God knew, if he needed anything right now, it was that. Peace.
And reconciliation.
If he could finish this last task, if he could give the world what it wanted, then he could focus on her again. And there was nothing more in the world he wanted. Not even this beast he was chasing.
"So what'd he say?" Lucas' comment interrupted his thoughts.
"Huh?"
"Peter?" Lucas' eyes narrowed. "He called you, right? Isn't that what kicked this into high gear?"
Jared couldn't believe it was really happening. Peter Beckingham, a man of science, a respected zoologist, was actually willing to meet him. In public. About the investigation. About ...
Bigfoot.
The smile felt stupid even as it formed. "Yeah, can you believe it? He's willing to talk."
Lucas whistled in amazement. "That's a major coup, my friend."
Peter Beckingham was a couple things to Jared; a friend and a zoologist, and sometimes those statuses flip-flopped in order of importance. A native of the Pacific Northwest and a life-long Washington resident, Peter wasn't convinced about the validity behind the resurgence of Sasquatch lore over the past half-decade. His professional perspective required him to look at Jared's work with the doubt of a Bigfoot-denier, something they had numerous conversations about. More than a few times, those conversations became heated debates. But the thing about Peter, the thing that made him different to just about any other scientific expert Jared called on, was that Peter cared enough to recognize his bias, and more importantly, he was open-minded enough to listen whenever Jared needed assistance. It was something Jared appreciated as much as he appreciated Peter's friendship. You could never be too careful about trusting people and those you could trust were to be valued. Peter was an ally. And Jared needed more of those in his life.
And in his line of work, he couldn't afford to not accept, with gratitude, anyone who was willing to stand beside him. Thousands of conversations with zoologists left an indelible stain on his impression of the profession. He wanted to keep as much distance from those other types as possible, which was pathetic because it was science that would undeniably prove or disprove the existence of the creature he pursued. But the snide remarks and comments, the violations of privacy, and failures to follow through, all served as signals to him that he'd never gain their respect or get their assistance. All of that stopped affecting him a long time ago. The disrespect hurt, but that was when he was blinded by his passion for his work. Time not only healed a broken heart, it also thickened thin skin. The opinions of skeptics, trained scientists or not, no longer mattered to Jared. Especially not now, not when he was this close.
So close.
And Peter?
Peter was on the receiving end of an unfair share of good (and not-so-good) natured ribbing from his peers for his efforts in assisting Jared. Apparently, even those in the scientific field struggled to critically think from time to time. Jared thought the vast majority of intelligent people understood that one of the essential elements of critical thinking was the ability to see and check one's biases. To prevent blind thinking. But what he discovered through the years of sharing his findings with Peter was that wasn't the case.
According to Peter, group-think and careerism were drivers of willful ignorance. A scientist who entertained even the idea of a large ape in the Pacific Northwest found themselves on the short end of opportunities, losing out on enviable assignments and sometimes being shunned in sections of the community.
As far as Jared was concerned, it was damning evidence against the community he'd expected much more from when he started this journey. After all these years, he only expected frustration and disappointment.
What would it be like to drop a Sasquatch in their laps? What would they do when he delivered the irrefutable evidence they demanded? What would their backtracking look like? Would they apologize? Would they even acknowledge their bias?
No, miracles weren't real.
"Yeah," Jared laughed, "it is. Peter is a good guy. One of these days the two of you should meet."
"And hang out with two dorks who think this stuff is real?" Lucas joked. "I’m busy that day."
"Smartass," Jared replied. "You'll regret not hanging out with us. We're pretty cool."
Lucas laughed. "I doubt that."
They finished up with light conversation and then headed their separate ways with promises to not wait so long before getting together again. It was the same thing they said each time they parted. Then months of not seeing each other would pass and they would both try to feel less guilty by checking in through email or quick text messages, usually in the form of Jared giving Lucas shit each time one of his Seattle sports teams lost a critical game. Because Lu
cas thought every game was critical. Watching Lucas get spun up over stuff that didn't matter was one of life’s simple joys; he loved his friend's passionate loyalty. It was something he understood on a deeper level, his just took a different form. Lucas was as passionate about sports as Jared was about finding Bigfoot, as Peter was about his field of study. As passionate as Maria was about —
Maria.
*****
The quiet drive to the restaurant in Tumwater gave Jared plenty of time — too much time — to think about Maria and where they'd gone wrong. Where he'd gone wrong. Having things you were passionate about was commendable, but those very same passions could also be problematic. Too much of anything wasn't a good thing. It was a lesson he hadn't learned until way too late, not until she was already gone.
And he missed her.
The house wasn't the same without her. His life wasn't the same. It was empty, quiet. Food, even lasagna, was blander. The air smelled less fresh. The mornings held less promise. And those times when he did find something in his investigations — not hard, concrete evidence, but the type of evidence that investigators get excited enough about to slog through the rainy and cold autumn days in the Pacific Northwest, pushing on when there is no other reason to do so — he had no one to share the good news with. Those were the toughest times to come home from. Even when Maria was less than excited about him disappearing for another weekend or an impromptu overnighter in the backcountry, she was still happy for him when he trembled with excitement as he held a possible hair sample or a print. Long ago, on those occasions, her face beamed with happiness at his prideful display. She'd laugh at his childlike sense of wonderment, the way he would talk a thousand miles an hour when he'd discovered something cool, even if it was only remotely linked to a Sasquatch.
Those were the times he missed.
And that was the problem: he missed how she celebrated for him more than the way she smelled, laughed, gave, or loved. He missed the way she supported him more than the chances he had to support her. He missed the way she gave, always gave. Jared's face flushed with the heat of shame. He'd failed Maria; he'd failed their marriage, and he was going to fix it. Fix it all.
