Cold Chills (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller Book 3)

by Scott Langrel

  Well, there was no use in just standing around. He might as well look about and see if he could find anything. With any luck, he might find the missing sensor and get back to camp before the brunt of the storm hit. If he did, Randy would be tempted to shove the sensor in Caleb’s face and tell him to go find the Goat Man himself.

  Goat Man, Randy thought with a chuckle. What a joke. As far as cryptids went, the Goat Man was definitely a B-list character, certainly not in the same league as Bigfoot or the Mothman. When you found yourself making a documentary about the Goat Man, you had to realize that you were scraping the bottom of the barrel. But there were already plenty of films about Bigfoot and Mothman, and even the Jersey Devil. Randy supposed that the producers had wanted some fresh subject matter, and the list of North American mythical creatures was a fairly short one.

  Enter the Kentucky Goat Man, a creature which supposedly roamed the area around the dilapidated railroad trestle and lured unsuspecting victims to their deaths. Some versions of the legend said that the Goat Man would lure its victims onto the trestle, where they would either be hit by an oncoming train or be forced to leap to their deaths. Other accounts had the creature ambushing and killing unlucky travelers with a bloody axe.

  Randy walked between the trees, tracking his flashlight on the ground. The forest floor had certainly been disturbed, but that could have been from his own team when they’d placed the sensor. Or it could have been a deer or other wild animal, for all Randy knew. He was definitely no expert on tracks.

  The first timid drops of rain began to fall. Randy knew that he would be soaking wet within minutes. His gaze drifted toward the eastern sky, in the direction of the ancient trestle. Lightning once again illuminated the dusky landscape. Randy’s breath caught in his throat.

  There was someone standing on the trestle.

  He could make out only a silhouette, and only for the briefest of moments, but he was sure he had seen someone. A very tall someone. He was a good distance from the trestle, so it was hard to judge proportions, but he was sure it hadn’t been a kid.

  Being alone on the side of a mountain—in the dark, and with a storm fast approaching—suddenly didn’t seem to be the best of ideas, Caleb be damned. Randy turned and started back down the slope. He would probably meet Mark and Trevor on their way up, but that was all right. They could either turn around and follow him back to camp or they could continue on their merry way.

  As for Randy, he was finished. If that meant his job, then so be it. It wasn’t that sweet of a gig, anyway. And it didn’t pay near enough for him to consider confronting some banjo-playing inbred alone and in the dark.

  The rain began to fall in earnest, and the next flash of lightning nearly blinded Randy. He swung his head back toward the trestle, but the light had already faded and he could see nothing. Surely, though, the figure on the bridge wasn’t pursuing him. And even if it was, Randy had enough of a head start to easily make the safety of the base camp. Not to mention, he should be running into the other guys any minute now.

  The storm was turning into a real gully washer. It was raining so hard that his flashlight was virtually useless, and despite the hot and muggy conditions, he was beginning to get chilled. He began to walk faster, anxious to get into his dry tent and a dry set of clothes. The storm would shut down any surveillance for at least an hour, so maybe he would have time for a couple of beers, as well. If, that was, his ice chest hadn’t been raided.

  With thoughts of warm clothes and cold beer running through his mind, Randy didn’t notice the moss-covered rock until it was too late. He planted his right foot squarely upon it, and the next thing he knew, he was tumbling ass over teakettle down the side of the mountain. Briars and saplings tore at his clothes and exposed skin as he plunged down the slope, and his flashlight went flying from his grip as he sought to grab onto something—anything—to slow or halt his progress.

  After what seemed like an eternity, he finally came to rest in a patch of laurel. For several moments he lay motionless, afraid to move and breathing heavily. There was no pain initially, only shock and the rush of adrenaline. Slowly, however, his right leg began to throb, and then the throbbing morphed into a wracking pain which shot from his knee down to his toes. Panicked, Randy tried moving the affected extremity and was rewarded with a wave of pain so extreme that his stomach roiled. He turned his head to the side and threw up violently.

  Broken, he thought with terrible clarity. My friggin’ leg is broken! Blindly, he groped for his radio, and was dismayed to find that it was gone, lost during the fall.

  He was hurt, and he was alone. Fear pulled his stomach into knots. How far off the path had he fallen? Fifty feet? More? He could hear nothing over the din of the pouring rain. Mark and Trevor could be passing him by even now, and Randy would never hear them. Worse still, he had no light with which he might signal his location.

  And then he did hear something—the sound of wood breaking, as if someone had stepped on a large, fallen tree branch with enough force to snap it. Randy craned his head to look back up the slope, but could see nothing through the darkness and driving rain. It was probably Mark and Trevor, on their way up the mountain. He almost called out, but another thought caused him to hesitate.

  He remembered the shadowy form he’d seen on the trestle.

  That was ridiculous. There was no way the figure on the bridge could have made it across the ravine and around the side of the mountain in such a short span of time. Besides, Randy had no reason to believe that it was anyone out to do him harm. He’d been spooked, that was all. And if he wimped out and remained silent, it could be hours before anyone found him. The thought of spending the night lying in the bushes with a broken leg in a thunderstorm did not exactly appeal to him.

  “Hello?” he yelled. “Guys? I’m down here! I need help! I think my leg’s broken!”

  Randy paused, hoping for a reply. He had no idea how far his voice had carried through the storm, but he was certain that anyone traversing the path above would have heard him. He strained his ears, hoping to hear the sound of help coming down the mountainside.

  He heard nothing but the pounding rain.

  “Help!” he screamed, desperate now. “Mark! Trevor! I’m down here!”

  Behind him, something moved.

  Unable to shift his body, Randy craned his neck back. He saw two things before his life came to an abrupt end.

  The first thing he saw was the creature. Framed against the flashing lightning, it towered above him. Red eyes glowed in the sockets of its large, goat-like head, and its matted hair, soaked by the rain, clung to its skull and face. The thing’s mouth hung open in a vicious snarl, revealing a set of wickedly-sharp teeth that no ordinary goat had ever owned.

  The second—and last—thing that Randy Peterson saw was the axe, stained with the dull red blood of the monster’s previous victims, as it descended on its deadly arc toward the center of his face.

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