Black Horse and Other Strange Stories

by Wyckoff, Jason A.

  I retraced our route from the previous day back south. It began to rain moderately as I retrieved the inflatable boat and went back across the lake. I dropped the rifle into the lake—there would be questions enough to answer without compounding my problems. I went back over Black Mountain and drove the car to Whitehall, where I secured a room above a restaurant and called the police. You may wonder why I didn’t leave from our campsite and go directly to Silver Bay—the police certainly wondered. To them, I professed confusion, intimating at the psychological shock that I surely had suffered from the events I reported. Oh, yes—I told them everything, exactly as it happened, omitting only two matters of possession—the gun and the bone. That is why I didn’t seek help immediately—so that I could secure the sample. Certainly, this was the one element of proof that might have inclined the authorities to believe my story, but I didn’t want them to take possession of it; I had little doubt that I would never see it again if they did.

  The police escorted me back to the site of the ‘incident’. I saw immediately that the ‘burial’ stone had been shifted and the bones removed. I felt clammy fear curl into my stomach, not because I thought the police would not believe me (I never thought the police would believe me), but because it meant they knew the grave had been disturbed. The steady rain that fell throughout the day had washed any trace of blood from the clearing (although, to me, the dirt appeared disturbed and artificially ‘re-settled’, as if they knew to ‘clean’ the affected area). The only possible evidence to support my story were a few bits of broken glass near where I last saw David standing that I thought might have come from his camera (I wondered if the Sasquatch knew the camera’s purpose or if they simply collected it with the rest of our possessions).

  The authorities told me to remain ‘in town’ while they determined whether or not the disappearances I claimed were hoaxed. Eventually, as you know, a search-and-rescue operation was initiated by the park service; you know also that the operation failed to produce results. I was questioned several more times by various law enforcement agencies, but I never wavered in my recollection of events. I was threatened several times with murder charges, but no charges were ever filed. Different iterations of the story appeared in the various tiers of the media. The disappearances were deemed either too unimportant (until they could be confirmed as fatalities) or too tragic for the mainstream press to incorporate the ‘wilder’ elements of the story. Conversely, those elements, embraced by the ‘alternative’ media, discouraged any serious consideration by the wider public.

  It was when things began to ‘quiet down’, when the search was called off, as the news cycle turned, that I began to hear the Sasquatch calling from a distance, bouncing across the South Bay and over the hill down to Whitehall. Possibly only I heard them at first; they came so late in the dead of night that anyone who could still sleep in the dark was likely doing so, those lucky, normal people who could shut their windows with the idea that they were a satisfactory barrier against the things in the night. I was ready to leave before I heard them; I had given up any residual hope for the safe return of Kirk and David, I had informed the authorities where they could find me if they wanted to question me or charge me. Yet, after I heard those ‘primate calls’ arcing through the night air, I could not go. Something in those same instincts that made me so susceptible to their stench told me that they were calling me. It was enough, at any rate, for me to stay on another night and to hear the calls coming from a little closer to the town. I began to understand that they were coming—their natural aversion to our species was insufficient to dissuade their anger. After all, I had desecrated one of their graves. Do these subhumans believe in a soul? Do they think I disturbed the rest of their brother’s spirit? Perhaps. Or perhaps their anger is more primitive and territorial. The result is the same: I have to return the bone or they will ‘make their presence felt’ in town. The euphemism is inappropriate, I apologise: They will slaughter these people indiscriminately, I am sure of it—I hear the Hell of it in their increasing anger. Their calls have become steadily louder, they creep steadily closer; unquestionably they have advanced to this side of the bay now. Others in the town have heard them and talk nervously. They look on me with distrust or hate. I can’t blame them; I have disturbed whatever fragile peace their practiced ignorance has allowed to hold for centuries. It is likely that the price of peace will be greater than this simple shard. So be it: I pray the Sasquatch will forgive me, but I doubt their mercy. I go today to return the bone from whence I stole it. You see the urgency in my relating these facts to you now, as the opportunity might not be had later—I go again, following your son one last time.

  I hope you will take the enclosed vial and present it with a copy of this record to the zoology department at the university of your choice. The vial contains marrow taken from the Sasquatch’s bone that they can use to extract a DNA sequence. I do not think the beasts will know I have engaged in this betrayal of their secrecy. In truth, I do not hate them, even for what they have done. If they are animals, they are faultless; if they are more, then they deserve empathy. I would almost prefer them undisturbed, but our world encroaches ever nearer, and they will eventually, probably someday soon, be discovered. I hope Kirk’s sacrifice will be recognised appropriately when that time comes.

  With sincere condolences,

  Tim Knott

  A copy of Tim Knott’s letter was retrieved from his laptop’s hard drive by an enterprising member of our society making inquiries into the disappearance of our fellow member, David DeSoto. Attempts to contact Mr Benner elicited hostility. Benner indicated only that he made no attempt to reply to Tim Knott’s letter, and made no inquiries as to Knott’s whereabouts or well-being. He also denied the existence of the purportedly enclosed vial.

  An Uneven Hand

  He slumped down on one of the subway car’s hard, vinyl seats. He didn’t bother to unsling the strap of his satchel. He had never taken such a late train home—he had never had such a trying day at work to keep him so late. He took some consolation from one ‘benefit’ of his delayed travel: he was alone in the car. He wanted to think, and by thinking, dispel the thoughtless tedium of the day. Though he struggled in his search for meaningful meditation, he imagined the solitude would allow him to disentangle from his frustrations. He released a forlorn sigh into the rumbling shudder of the train and began to believe it might be possible to feel at peace again someday.

  The train screeched to a halt at the next station. Thinking the platform uninhabited, he relaxed. His relief that he would remain alone in the car was violently interrupted when a woman and five noisy charges appeared as from nowhere and boarded the train. The children massed around the woman and pulled at her clothes as though attempting to draw her onward, though with no consensus as to direction; simultaneously she seemed to be grabbing at them weakly, gathering them in. His fatigue turned to irritation that he should have to suffer their presence. The children were calamitously loud; one sang some indistinct banality, repeating unceasingly a three-note descending motif, while two more tried to outdo each other in their attempts to draw the woman’s attention with frantic, contentious braying. The last two screamed outright, alternately at one of the other children then at each other. Observing the apparent tier of the children’s ages he thought that she could be mother to all, but he noted disdainfully that at least three fathers were plainly represented. Perhaps instead she ran a child-care service (unlicensed, no doubt, he silently opined). The eldest he thought sure to be a boy, but with their unkempt hair and loose and shabby, hand-me-down clothes, he could not ascertain the genders of the remainder. The woman slouched deep into a man’s overcoat, looking the worst of the lot. Her eyes were vacant, emptied of tears, her mouth slightly open. She appeared raw and wearied beyond endurance. He was surprised to find himself clicking his tongue judgmentally as he imagined an old woman of a century past might. He muttered two curses, one at his luck, one at himself; he did not like to think himself
lacking in compassion. But he could sustain no kind thought for these intolerable imps longer than the pause between pulses in his head.

  The children pawed at the windows and at the woman. Some placed their open mouths on the armrests and rails, or chewed on her coat. Instead of subsiding as the journey progressed, their activity became more frenzied, and the volume of their cacophony escalated proportionately. He grew angry that their guardian made no effort to check their behaviour. He felt forced to clap his hands to his ears in a futile effort to block the howls and the shrieks. He tried to console himself: Only three more stops. Not far to go, perhaps not too much to endure.

  He considered changing cars. In all his years of riding the subway, he had never done it. He knew it to be an easily accomplished task, of course. But he found the act showy and disruptive, and he had always thought those who did it demonstrated a boorish nature too commonly encountered in the city. Per his habit, he sat in the penultimate car of the train. He did not want to go to the last car. He felt always a strange aversion to the last car, though he did not know why; nor did he know why he always chose to situate himself so close to the thing he found so objectionable. He felt certain going forward was not an option. On boarding the train he had seen a man he took to be a veteran holding an animated conversation with himself in the next car. He could not see the veteran now, but he had not seen the man disembark. He supposed that this man whom he imagined to be likely disagreeable, and possibly psychotic, had found a bench on which to settle into a slumber he would be unwise to disturb. Besides, he would have to pass that keening tumult of youth.

  His sense of being trapped increased his agitation. As he was built more for suffering than complaint, he surprised himself again when he broke under the torturous onslaught of the noise and yelled, ‘Lady! Would you please control your children?!’

  The children seemed to interpret his outburst as a challenge to redouble their efforts. They seemed to him now to be approximating amplified barnyard paroxysms. The woman did not look his way, but let her head fall forward and sink into her hands as if ashamed or in anguish.

  He was mortified by his actions. Clearly this woman suffered these hellions unceasingly with greater patience than he could manage in his few moments with them. Embarrassment lifted him from his seat and he moved to the back door. He put his hand to the latch. The sound abruptly ceased. The quiet was so sudden and tangible that it felt like an unexpected clap on his shoulder, and he jumped. The void afforded him the chilling realisation that never once had any of the children uttered anything intelligible. He turned around. The oldest—the boy—stared at him. He was startled to discover that the train was motionless—he hadn’t noticed that they had paused at the next station. He tried to find comfort in the knowledge that the marker of his travel was reduced, but the anxiety brought on by the miss in his perception made the goal unreachable.

  The other children’s pawing and gnawing behaviour continued, though now unaccompanied by vocal perturbations. As he turned back again and moved between the cars he processed the remainder of the visual and noted the woman’s head had lolled back limply. Asleep?

  The rear car was also empty (though he no longer drew comfort from the solitude). He moved down to the middle of the car, and then sat down again, facing forward. He could not see the boy. The woman’s oversized coat bubbled with activity. He thought of a film he had seen where maggots provided animation to a carcass as they devoured the necrotic flesh beneath the fur. He considered disgustedly that the youngest—hopefully the youngest—was breastfeeding from the unconscious woman. In the separate car he was unsure, but he did not think the riotous sound had resumed. He glanced out the window. The familiar, indistinct dark rushed past.

  He felt a terrible sense of unease. He considered getting off the train, but it was so late already. He wasn’t certain of the schedule at this hour and the next station was situated in a questionable ghetto on the city’s outskirts. He wanted to be home very badly and was adverse to take any action that might delay him getting there.

  He regarded the woman’s inactivity but rejected the dark thought. She is not dead, that is ridiculous. You saw how exhausted she was.

  The train came into the next station. He saw a single, menacing, monolithic brute waiting on the platform, with hands pocketed and face hidden beneath a deep, drawn hood. He fixed his attention so strongly on the man that he didn’t notice the activity of the children. When he glanced their way again, he saw them lined up neatly, tallest to shortest, waiting at the door as if to disembark. The woman remained on the bench.

  Panic seized him. He was afraid the children—horrible though they might be—should leave the train without their guardian, or that she should be abandoned while in her compromised condition. He would have no choice but to jump from the train and watch over the mad urchins unless he could stop them from getting off. He scrambled down the aisle, fumbled with the latch before breaking it completely, and emerged into the forward car just as the doors slid open.

  ‘You kids! Wait!’

  They turned as one and looked at him. Past them, he witnessed the brute board the next car. He tensed, not knowing what to do, not wanting to further approach the strange refugees, but needing them to stay. Blood flushed through his head in booms. Quick, shallow breaths rasped, trapped between seconds of waiting.

  The doors closed.

  The children seemed to forget him. They looked about dazedly, mewling softly as the train moved on. He thought he should wake the woman, but feared to discover she was beyond waking. He thought there should be an emergency telephone situated nearby. He had ridden the subway for years—had he remarked the features of the car so poorly? Try as he might, he could find no way to contact the engineer or the transit authority. Perhaps a phone could be found in the rear car. The children purred complacently; drool from several small sets of lips fell unchecked to the floor as they shambled closer to the woman. They seemed contented for the moment. He imagined they would be in no danger if he were quick about his search.

  The lights flickered in their car. The forward car went dark completely. He shivered unexpectedly. Vaguely he could see the brute in silhouette moving his arms with a forceful plunging motion in the area where the veteran had been. Then the train entered a curve and he could see no light forward at all.

  The train slowed to a listless, agonising pace, then stopped. The white fluorescents flickered and went out. Blue emergency light dimly illuminated the car. He felt as though he was in a submarine, many leagues under the surface. The children, having gathered near the woman, now turned and spread out like curious moles, like disconnected fingers on an uneven hand groping in the dark. Their voices again silenced, they crawled over the seats and across the floor. The smallest one scaled the smooth wall effortlessly before turning and scampering down again head first. A hollow thump resonated from the car in front of them, was repeated twice, and then ceased. He looked forward; a large shape heaved with undecipherable motion. He cried out with fear and revulsion as a clammy hand touched his. The boy rose up in the seat to his left, staring fixedly at him. Fright took hold and he backed away. He burst through the broken-latched door and went into the rear car. Midway back, he turned. All five children were moving towards the back of the train. Alien, wide, hungry eyes kept focus on him as they converged on the connecting door and squeezed through. He was afraid and could only flee. He charged through the emergency door at the rear of the train and fell hard on the tracks below; stinging pain shot through his left shoulder. An alarm blared. He scrambled to his feet and watched the children as they approached—the boy walking down the aisle, the others clambering over the seats, unnaturally deft in their advance. His uninjured shoulder he rammed against the rear door, slamming it shut. He shuffled backwards a few steps. The lights blinked on and the train came to life. It began to roll away. The children pressed their faces and hands against the windows at the rear of the train. Expressions simultaneously vacant and accusatory slowly shrank a
way.

  He could not bring himself to run after the train for several moments, but soon he became fearful that the encroaching dark might hide terrors worse than the grotesquery he’d just escaped. He jogged after the train. It accelerated, disappeared around a curve, and was gone. The rumbling echo of its passing died quickly. All he heard was the hard-scrabble shuffle of his feet and the leathery slap of his satchel against his hip. He whimpered as he slowed his pace. He tried to steel himself, could not, and turned back to self-pity. He searched with sheepish defiance for the offence he’d committed to precipitate his misfortune. He failed to find either understanding of his experiences or a satisfying reason for his involvement in them.

  Disconsolate though these thoughts were, they helped to distract him from his physical predicament. Sick, weak, yellow light from the ceiling of the tunnel was despairingly inadequate for even basic visibility. He heard the scratching of rats on both sides of him and he cursed at them in hushed tones. As he walked, the scratching sounds grew louder, as if the rats were becoming more courageous or their number increased. Just one more stop to go. He hurried down the tracks as much as he dared; he feared falling would invite disaster. Impossibly, he thought he heard the movements of the rats now as individual padded footfalls, their squeaks as giggles. He fumbled about in the pockets of his coat for a book of matches. He abandoned the effort and chuckled in nervous relief upon seeing the first glow of the station platform ahead in the distance. Something touched his left hand as he withdrew it from his pocket.