The Beast of Bone Mountain (2 page)

             
“I had nothing to do with it,” I said, vehement. “I have to go. It was good seeing you again.”

             
Heather continued to walk with me.

             
“Where will you stay?”

             
“I’ll stay where I please,” I insisted.

             
“You can stay with me if you want. We have a guest house, and the rest of the place is empty too,” she smiled. “I wouldn’t mind the company.”

             
I got in my truck. Thoughts of murder and the beast prowling at night filled my heart with hate.

             
“Maybe another time,” I replied.

             
“Well, can you at least give me a ride? I rode my bike here. My car is being repaired. It would help me out immensely,” Heather said, touching my arm.

             
“All right, get in.”

             
Heather unhooked a bicycle from a pole near the gas station and put it in the back of the truck. She then got in the passenger’s seat and put on her seat belt; the belt stayed between her breasts and I looked away. I hadn’t seen a woman like her in quite some time.

             
“Do you still remember the way?” she asked.

             
“How could I ever forget,” I answered, putting the truck in drive.

             
We left the gas station and got onto a two lane road flanked by bare trees. Houses grew farther apart from each other and traffic died out to only us after awhile. We were getting closer.

             
“I’m really sorry about what happened to you,” Heather said.

             
“Me too,” I grunted.

             
“Nobody believed you about that monster in the mountains, but I do,” she said.

             
My palms got sweaty. I turned to look at her and found that same pretty face staring back at me.

             
“Why do you believe me, nobody else does.”

             
“Because, I’ve seen it to,” she said.

             
I didn’t want to talk anymore.

             
We reached her farm without incident; it was just as I remembered it being: with wide fields ready to be soiled and planted, a big red barn swollen with bails of hay, and a charming white farm house with a wrap around porch.

             
“Herbert used to sit on that porch and wave to us,” I said. “He always had that string guitar and played a song or two before we went.”

             
Heather wiped her eyes.

             
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

             
“It’s OK,” she said, and got out of the truck. She got her bicycle and appeared at my window. “Thanks for the ride, come back any time you want.”

             
“Wait, Heather,” I replied, stopping her. “Where did you see that beast?”

             
“Come on in for a spell and I’ll tell you,” she said.

#

              We drank sweating glasses of fresh lemon drop and Heather set out a plateful of chocolate cookies and carrots. I munched on the cookies while she snapped carrots with her teeth.

             
“It came from Bone Mountain,” Heather told me. “I was hiking with my friend, Tina, near the mountain for fun. We’d heard rumors not to go there. That everything from Bigfoot to hungry ghosts haunted the mountain and that they were responsible for all the bones found discarded and broken along the trails, but we didn’t believe any of it. We found a blackberry patch and decided to stop and pick them when this huge dark shape rose up from behind us. He was tall, taller than anybody I’d ever seen, and had really broad shoulders and a flat nose. It let out a terrible scream and we fled. The thing chased us down the mountain, howling, and throwing rocks at us. We made it to my car and never returned. Tina moved away shortly. She won’t talk to me anymore.”

             
“Bone Mountain . . .” I repeated, drifting off. “Where is it located?”

             
“It’s past your cabin, beyond the ridgeline, and through a farmer’s field. You can’t miss it when you see it,” she said. “If your beast is anywhere that would be a good place to start searching for it.”

             
I drank my tea in silence and pondered questions I had no answers for. Had the beast killed before? Was I the only one who had suffered this loss? How long had it lived on the mountain? How old was it?

             
Heather must’ve noticed me thinking because she rubbed my hand to get my attention.

             
“It’s dark outside,” she said. “Why don’t you stay here with me where it’s warm?”

             
I stood up. “I can’t, but thank you for everything.”

             
She picked up a carrot and held it up to her mouth.

             
“You won’t regret it,” she said, and licked the tip, sucked on it hard, and then shoved it in her mouth and worked it back and forth while giving a little moan.

             
I could feel myself getting hard and headed for the door.

             
She dropped the carrot.

             
“Wait, please stay,” Heather begged. “I get so lonely here. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t go.”

             
I stopped in the doorway under the façade and faced her. “There’s nothing left for me in this life but death. I will find the beast and bled it dry.”

             
I left her standing there and went to my truck. She didn’t chase after me and I was glad.

             
I drove away and noticed her watching me from the porch. Had my anger not eaten me away on the inside like a festering bunch of maggots chewing dead skin I would’ve stayed and pounded her hard.

             
But, I didn’t.

             
I feel guilty for even going inside her house, like I’d betrayed my wife in some way, even though she’s been gone for years.

             
In the end, I was glad I didn’t sleep with her and drove to my old property, eating the sausage biscuits along the way, and letting the truck guide me down familiar hollows and hidden valleys, along dirt roads and quiet streams where dark things crawled and dreamed.

             
As I write this, it is much too dark to reach the cabin so I plan to spend the night in my truck. In the morning, my hunt will begin and there will only be one victor.

March 3
rd

              The morning was damp and chilly. Wetness clung to everything, sickly and penetrating; it’s the kind of weather people avoid, changing their good moods into bad, and darkening forests to the point of no return.

             
I found my cabin much as Heather had described it: a charred ruin. There were blackened pieces of wood scattered around and vines tangled around them like nature was trying to reclaim them back. The only structure standing was the brick chimney, and even this was blackened by the fire which had eaten the last real memories of my old life.

             
I cursed the beast and kicked the pieces of the house around in a heated rage. I tried to calm down. I breathed deep and relaxed my shoulders. I’d come here for a reason.

             
I’d always been interested in collecting knives ever since I was a little boy. I liked the way they felt nestled in my fingers. I liked how they cut and sliced through the air, and I liked the primitive feel and reliance on steel.

             
I’d gathered quite a collection and had displayed some behind glass under lock and key here, but one I’d hidden under the house. It was a long knife passed down to me by my father: a sacrificial knife from the Apache tribe out of the old west. It was a well balanced piece of ancient steel with a deer antler handle and a sharp twelve inch blade which my father said had scalped many white men. I’d kept it in a fireproof safe under the crawl space, and planned on passing it down to my son when he was old enough. Now, that would never happen.

             
I started where I knew the front door had been located and traveled over scorched earth, recalling our first Christmas here, playing in the snow out back, the feel of my wife beneath me, the quiet knowing love we shared, the way she smelled, how my boy would beg me to make pancakes and bacon on Sunday mornings . . . I stopped.

             
There, near where the kitchen sink would’ve been I started to dig, using a stick at first and then a flat rock on the ground I unearthed the fireproof box; it was caked in dirt, but intact. A combination key code rested below the opening. I punched in the numbers of my son’s birthday and the safe box opened.

             
The knife was just as I remembered it being, heavy in one hand, deadly in two, sharp and ready to spill rubies from flesh. My old friend, locked away like me all these years, shut out and forgotten until now.

             
I placed it in its leather sheaf and fashioned the long knife to my belt. My preparations were complete.

#

              I traveled south along a worn animal path where I’d chased the beast before. I searched for footprints, broken tree limbs, anything to alert me that it was still here, but I found nothing; the path was overgrown and hard to navigate.

             
I secured my backpack full of supplies and continued.

             
I discovered the road I’d been picked up on by police after an hour. There were no cars; it was a desolate and quiet area, there was a hushed silence hanging in the air here that comes before a massive storm.

             
I crossed the road and continued trekking though the woods until I reached a long ridge of mountains stretching far across the land like a giant sleeping snake had taken up residence under the ground and the mountains had formed ridges on top of its back.

             
I rest, eat a granola bar, and drink bottled water.

             
Bone Mountain cannot be far.

March 6
th

              So much has happened since I last wrote in this journal. Blood has been spilled on the mountain tops, much of it mine.

             
That fateful day I sat eating and drinking I was finally going to come face to face with my adversary. After a brief respite, I continued, trekking through untouched wilderness and trampling through tall pines and strong oaks which grew strong and dark in their humble isolation.

             
It started raining. The sky opened and bled and the ground and plants soaked it up, drinking it like a wolf lapping a fresh kill.

             
I put on my rain coat and pressed on. The rain destroyed the silent stillness of the forest, coating the world in a constant array of sound, and for that I was thankful, as it would be easier to go undetected.

             
I reached a small clearing where trees had been cut down, there stumps left to rot. Brush had grown up around the area and I discovered a rusted barb wire fence. Beyond the clearing stood a mountain all by itself, steep and black. It stuck out of the earth like a giant’s hand thrusting beneath the surface. I knew when I saw it this was Bone Mountain, and if the beast was still in the area he would reside there.

             
Before I reached the mountain, I discovered large bones encased in yellow weeds. I poked them with my knife and assumed they had belonged to a cow or a deer, it was hard to tell. On closer examination I saw the bones were cracked open in a few places and gnawed on in others.

             
Unfortunately, the marks didn’t appear new.

             
I stepped into the forest and began an upward climb to Bone Mountain. There were no safe passages, no hikers, or adventure seekers daring to venture here; only the foolish trekked this mountain. An ominous feeling of being watched or stepping onto sacred ground assailed me; I could feel it hiding in the trees high above, feel it on the biting March wind. The rain came down in blinding sheets, making travel slick and dangerous.

             
I found a steep depression climbing up the mountain side; it was filled with clumps of rocks, snake holes, and broken limbs. Besides this path I couldn’t find any other discernible way to scale the mountain, as the sides were a sheer cliff of uncharted rock.