Word Count: 4,616
For untold generations, caring and worrisome parents attempted to control the behavior of their small children by employing the use of frightening folktales and macabre nursery rhymes.
Fear of the green-skinned, wart-covered wicked hag living in the dark and unknown regions of the forest the parents employed to prevent children from curiously straying too far from the home. Terror of the twisted and fearsome man-eating troll making residence under the concealment of a bridge thwarted any fleeting thought children may consider when playing too near the water. Fear of the cannibalistic old hermit with the aged leathery skin living in seclusion prevented children from approaching the homes of strangers. Fear is a great motivator.
When it came to employing the intense trepidation created by the unknown, my parents acted in a manner no different from anyone else in this untamed region of the country. Mother and Father applied the terrifying legends to deeply instill the dread necessary to frighten my brother and me from venturing into the peril posed by the steep craggy mountains. Broken and sheer cliffs, sharp jagged rocks, and unpredictable landslides presented very real hazards to smaller children, or anyone else ready to tempt fate for that matter. Under this pretense, my folks justified the frightening lies they regaled to us on a nightly basis.
The images crated by one disturbing tale in particular remained clearly burned into the canvas of my imagination. Deep in the stony mountains, in a sacred and unknown valley, existed the virtually inaccessible entrance to a timeless mine. Indian legend talked about it only in hushed whispers. It was said a people predating the Redskins burrowed a shaft hundreds of yards into the bowels of the mountain. I did not know how long the natives lived here before my grandparents arrived in hopes of a better life, but I assumed it must be at least a dozen generations.
One story said the miners dug too deep in search of minerals, and inadvertently awoke an unholy abomination not of this world. Another version of the tale said the strange people freed the beast intentionally. God imprisoned the inhuman demon during the creation of the world, where it would remain until the Day of Judgment. A being of the netherworld, the timeless devil possessed no tolerance to the beautiful and warming rays of the life giving sun.
On moonless nights, when the sky was at its darkest, the revolting atrocity ventured from the safety of the mine. Stalking the twisted trees of the steep mountains, the unholy thing searched for the heaven bound souls of good people to feed its damned existence.
When my grandparents arrived in the area with the first settlers, the Indians warned them and told them the legends of the inhuman spirit. Among others, my grandparents ended their pilgrimage at the foothills of the majestic mountains, but others dreamed of a promised land, and continued their fateful journey. Ignoring the myths of the savages, several families proceeded into the snow-capped peaks. No one ever heard from them again.
The heavy wind-blown snow blanketed the mountains and filled the valleys before the September month yet came to an end. The men of the foothills resolved to locate the missing settlers, but inclement weather did not allow this to commence until the thaw next spring began.
Fourteen skilled hunters collected their gear and embarked on a mission to find the missing settlers. They approached many redskins as potential guides, but none of the natives dared venture into these forbidden lands. Arrogant in their skills, the fourteen men set out, many of them with dogs, to discover the fate of the missing settlers.
Eight long weeks passed without one sign of the hunters. A man farming the area at the far edge of the forest, while working his crops, caught sight of something squirming in the undergrowth. The thing he saw haunted him for the remainder of his days.
A single hunter returned from the search party. Bones in both of his legs were broken, and his skin was covered in bruises and lesions. This is not what caused the farmer such repugnance. Something gouged out the hunter’s eyes, and it appeared to have been the hunter.
“They wanted me to hear, they wanted me to hear,” the blinded hunter whimpered repeatedly. No other words ever passed from the man’s quivering lips again. He died screaming those words three days later.
Passed down through the spoken word, the terrifying folktales evolved a tiny bit each time someone recited them. The stories my father told me were not quite the same stories my grandfather told him. Oral revisions grew to incorporate the existence of goblins and demon-spawn making the high mountains their home. Many nights, images of these hellish creatures, images conjured by the creativity of my own imagination, dominated my thoughts when I went to bed.
During my toddler years, I imagined these creatures lurking in every dark crevice of the forested mountains. I cried and pleaded for my life when my parents forced me beyond the clearing around our house. I knew some unholy terror stalked me, ready to consume my flesh and soul at any moment. Simple trips to the homes of other families felt like the last I would ever take.
As the years passed, my fear of such encounters continually decreased. The longer nothing happened, the more I became sure nothing hid out there waiting to rend my flesh apart. Over time my fears subsided until I eventually thought only of the stories as mere fairy-tales. My belief of the boogeyman vanished completely by the time I reached my 12th birthday.
My mother bore many children, but not all of them lived to see their first year. By the time of my 12th year, she gave me three surviving brothers and four surviving sisters. I listened on with a certain amusement as my parents told them the same stories they once used to terrify me. I never considered the macabre stories to be lies, because they were told for our own good. Small children simply held too much curiosity within them, so I went along with Mother and Father by pretending to believe the tall tales. Through lending my credibility to the horrific tales, I helped my parents reinforce the fear in they cultivated into the young ones.
As my earlier years crept away and curiosity overran any lingering fear, I pressed my way progressively deeper into the rocky forest that once terrorized me so. Caring for seven young children, tending the farm and livestock, and preparing meals consumed most every bit of my parents’ attention. Other than seeing to me completing my chores, my parents did not have any spare time to afford me. My progressively longer excursions went unnoticed.
The land which my grandfather claimed when he moved into the area was one of the family lands deepest in the rolling foothills. Beyond the edge of our now deeded land, the terrain changed drastically. The smooth hills became replaced by steep slopes covered by sharp rocks and loose dirt. Adults wanted to use this fear to prevent young men like me from exploring these dangerous places.
My own personal explorations took me meandering through the foothills surrounding the loose community, but despite my disbelief in tall tales, I still never dared to climb up into the unknown mountains. I called myself brave for adventuring as much as I did. Still, I could not find the will to work my way upward into the craggy slopes. That was at least until early in the summer of my 13th year.
Eventually reason conquered fear, and I resolved to have a look in the steep and foreboding mountains to find what secrets it held. All throughout the previous winter, I used rationalization to resolve my lingering fears until they no longer stood in my way. None of the children from the nearby homes ever saw the monsters keeping guard over the rocky range, and with a little practice, I fully convinced myself I never would.
I waited one morning until after my father left to tend to the farms at the lower hills with the other men, and mother and my siblings went to the spring fed creek to wash our clothes and haul a few loads of water for the house. Once there was no one around to see me, I slipped back into the house for a few provisions. From the pantry I liberated a hunk of stale bread and a skin full of water. On my way back out the front door, something in my parents’ small bedroom caught my eye.
The light from the kitchen candles gleamed off of the collection of guns against the far wall. Thinking more of wild animals than supernatural monsters, I decided to load one of my father’s muskets and tucked it in the scratchy hemp rope that was my belt.
Satisfied I had everything I needed, I set off to the north to explore the legendary mountains. I made great time for the first two hours, but the slopes grew steeper and I slowed down to exercise more caution. If I slipped and broke a leg, I do not know I should expect anyone would come looking for me. No one knew I was here, and I think the adults were just as afraid of the stories they told as the children they tried to scare.
Eventually the large stone outcroppings gave way a slope covered in boulders and exposed dirt. All my exploratory excursions up to now honed my skills to travel through different and difficult terrain. Even so, I took care in these parts. The bluff was all too ready to give way beneath me, and I did not want to end up entombed under tons of earth. Grass, leaves, and the occasional shrub were all that held the surface of the slope in place.
Giant stones rose from the mountains on either side of the obstacle. All I needed to do was make it across and I should be fine. I laid flat against the surface and slowly begin to inch sideways. If I reduced the pressure I put on any one spot, I should make it across without causing a landslide.
I nearly panicked and almost let loose of my handholds when a stone under my left foot pushed free, echoing as it careened down the steep slope. If I was not the explorer I was, I may have let go and followed the loose stone to the bottom of the deep valley floor. I could see how treacherous this place would be to those not adapt at traveling such terrain. If the story about the missing hunters were true, perhaps they laid covered at the bottom of this mountain.
With the sun at my back, I could not determine the approximate time of day. I tried to make the judgment by the shadows cast by the small rocks and grass, but all I could do was create a very rough estimate. I never learned to tell time in such a way. Father only taught me to determine the time of day by examining the sun’s position. I wish I knew how to use a sundial. That skill would probably come in very handy at this point.
I was unable to see the slope curved as it worked across the mountain side until the initial edge of the bluff slowly pulled out of view. I greatly misjudged the distance from one side to the other. I knew I would not reach the other side and back before the hour grew too late. I hung in place and pondered over the possibilities for a few minutes. Finally I decided I had better turn back and head for the warmth and security of home.
First only with a small shift, and then a deafening rumble, the ground around me began to break apart. My heart lurched and I nearly screamed when the soil beneath my feet gave way. I held tightly to a mass of roots as I listened to the dislodge dirt deafeningly roar its way down the steep hill and into the valley below.
The noise of the crashing rocks and rolling dirt echoed between the valley walls for several minutes, but to me it felt more like hours. The landslide produced such a roaring resonance against the steep mountainsides, I worried my parents would hear it as far down as the foothills.
The deep rumbling boom produced as the dirt and rock careened into the bottom of the dark valley was one of the least of my worries. When the soil dislodged and swept nearly any signs of vegetation with it, I lost any sort of footholds that may have existed. Tree roots protruded from the ground here and there. That was my only hope of avoiding rolling down the hill and breaking every bone in my body. I thought I could make it across using the handholds available, but unfortunately there were no such convenient means of going back the way I came. The collapse left me with only one choice. I had to go forward and try to find another route to take me back home.
Several times I almost lost my grip and slipped. My hands were strong from years of heavy chores, and I managed to keep a tight grip on the earth covered roots. The tree roots bore deep into the rocky mountainside. The incredible force of the ever expanding system of roots broke the solid rock into loose sections, and stones fell loose as I pulled myself from one to the other. Once, the stone dislodged and the root on which I desperately clung pulled four feet out of the ground. I held on, but the short drop jolted hard on my shoulder.
I did not flinch when death came up to stare in my face. My swift reactions saved my life more than once. By the time I reached the safety of the other side, my arms were exhausted and I was quite sure I seriously injured my shoulder. Callouses protected my hands, but scratches covered the skin of my arms. I did not know how I would explain this to my mother and father.
My primary concern was to find a way back around the majestic snow-capped mountains and return to the warm safety of home. Climbing up the mountain was out of the question. The slope was too steep, and I had not sufficient clothing to protect me from the cold, tearing winds. As I tried to conceive of a route leading back the way I came, I worked on excuses in the back of my thoughts.
I considered the possibility of climbing up or down a short distance to seek a way back across. I ruled these options out quickly as the smooth run extended as far as I can see in any direction. As large as this mountain was, it could take me several days to walk around. I could go hungry if I took that path home. I did have the musket in case I had to hunt something to eat.
Mama and Daddy would realize something was wrong when I did not show up for supper tonight. Even so, no one would be able to look for me in this area until morning. This part of the mountain was much too dangerous to navigate at night. I surely did not want anyone else getting hurt because I went where I was told not to go. Unless I figured a way to cross back to the other side of the landslide, I knew I would at least be here until dinnertime tomorrow.
As the sun began to set for the night, the blowing winds calmed but the air quickly grew cold. I must have climbed higher than I thought I did because it would not be so chilly at home. Since it was such a nice morning when I left, I did not bother to bring with me a coat. I did not expect to become trapped, and therefore thought I would have no need of it.
I did have the forethought to bring a box of matches with me, so I began to look for a good place to build a fire. The steep slope did not offer me a wide variety of choices. I needed a flat surface upon which to build a campfire. The last thing I needed to do while trapped on this dangerous spot was to set the brush and trees ablaze.
Vigorously rubbing my hands over the surface of my arms to produce some warmth, I made my way deeper into the mountains. With the landslide long ago out of sight, I finally found a level stone slab sufficiently large enough to hold me and a fire. I kicked and stomped on the spot to make sure I would not end up riding it down the hill, and then I set up a small ring of stones.
It took very little time at all to gather some stones, wood and kindling, and I had a fire pit filled in no time. After piling enough surplus wood to last me through the night, I withdrew the box of matches for my britches. My hope waned when I saw only five matches inside. I grabbed the box in a hurry this morning, and I never bothered to see how many matchsticks it contained.
I had to make each of these matches count, so I stuffed the stack of wood with a couple fistfuls of dry leaves. Holding the box up to the pile, I struck the first match, but a sudden rush of air extinguished the small flame before it ever had a chance to catch. The brisk breeze vanished just as fast as it appeared.
I use some of the dry dead leaves to cup the match and, holding the wooden sticks still, slid the box along the tip. Again a breath of wind blew over me, but this time the small flame caught the crunchy leaves on fire. I fanned it until it developed a small mass of hot coals, and then allowed it to spread. I expected a third wind to blow out the growing fire, but none ever came. I was relieved to finally have a campfire burning.
My front side stayed nice and warm, but the cold air covered my back with chills. The fluidic dancing flames mesmerize me and I stared at them blankly. The sounds of the nocturnal insects, birds, and reptiles filled the air with the resonance of nature. Added to the flickering fire, I nearly drifted off to sleep. Suddenly, I noticed something was amiss.
Something large cried out into the night air. It sounded close, and nearly made me jump out of my shoes. I thought it was a coyote, but if it was, it did not sound normal. There was almost a human-like quality to it.
I grabbed a log out of the hot fire, turned, and waved it through the air behind me. I looked for the prowler. At the same time, I hoped the glowing log would scare the beast away. I saw nothing, but I heard something moving through the brush and across the loose landscape. To my relief it was moving away from me. Thank God whatever that was, it was afraid of fire.
An adrenaline surge caused by the cry of that creature had both my heart and head racing. Because of my fearlessness of the unknown, I found myself stuck in a terrifying situation. In a way I was thankful for the shock. I would not fall asleep any time soon. I planned on the wood I gathered lasting the night. Now I added extra to it so as to increase the size of the fire. Now, what I had left would not last until morning. Several times I told myself to get up to find more. My body did not want to react to my thoughts. I know it made no sense, but I think my body was more afraid than my mind.
Finally I decided I could put it off no longer. Rising to my feet, I peered around for some convenient fuel for the campfire. As soon as I stood, the warmth of the fire faded and my face grew ice cold. I still felt its radiance, and I did not want to walk away from the yellow and orange blaze.
I did not stray far from the protective glow. The ground was too steep to navigate in the dark. I picked up all the wood I could find. Large logs, small twigs, I did not care how big it was. If it was dead wood, it was going into my fire. I would burn anything flammable to keep the blaze glowing bright until morning.
Right as I once again felt the warmth of my fire, the semi-human cry echoed through the valley again. It was rather far away, but I had the feeling it was calling for more of its kind. The image of being shredded apart by the teeth of a pack of hungry coyotes filled my mind.
The longer I thought about it, the clearer the image of a torturous death became. I should have listened to my parents. I never should have come here. I thought I was brave. I was not brave; I was stupid. The vigor of youth still gave me a sense of immortality. Now I would give anything to be in the safety of my home sitting around the fireplace with my siblings as my mother read the Bible to us.
Another twisted cry from below me was answered by another on the mountainside above me. I hurriedly built up the ring of stone to deepen my fire pit. After getting it about eight inches higher, I fed sticks and loose handfuls of leaves to the campfire. Loading on the larger wood, I turned the campfire into a bonfire. I prayed and prayed the mini-inferno would keep the predators at bay.
I thought perhaps I was dealing with a breed of coyote I was not familiar with, and that was why they seem to sound so strange. Still, the animals’ bays eerily resembled the sound of a crying baby. I thought of the stories grandpa told me before he died. At night he reminisced about his boyhood in the Irish Isles. The cries of those creatures brought to mind the tales my grandpa told about the banshee. The tortured soul of an evil woman, the banshee cries out in the night. Anyone clearly hearing her moans died right there on the spot. I knew it was not a punished ghost, but those stories brought frightening images to mind.
I was sure these were simply a different species, but something in the pit of my stomach told me I was dealing with something otherworldly. I never heard tales of beasts in these mountains. I never really heard much at all. The natives only told us to stay away. Any settler that tried to homestead here in the mountains disappeared. They were never heard from again.
Why did I come up here?
More cries pierced the stillness of the night. Those horrific childlike cries now came from many directions. If I heard properly, a total of five creatures shared in the conversation. The horrible baying made me want to cry, and I whispered a prayer softly begging God to protect me from the goblins inhabiting the steep mountainside.
My body trembled with unbridled terror when I heard another creature screaming out into the night, but this one only yards away from me. I backed up as close to the fire as possible, so close the heat burned my back. I did not want to see the thing capable of such terrible howling. I wished it would go back to wherever it came.
I did not get my wish. I did not know what to call the thing I saw. The bulk of the form appeared to be a six-foot tall column of black ink. Thin membranes, resembling something like the wings of a bat, on either side of the top vibrated to produce the childlike screams. I suspected it might use them to hear as well.
The horrid thing had no eyes, ears, at least as I knew them. It had nothing remotely similar to a head. It had no facial features whatsoever.
A band of thick white fibers encircled the being about midway up its trunk. The six inch thick ring of long fibers produced a changing, pulsating glow. It felt like the eyes of a demon staring into my soul. Not even the fear instilling stories told to keep children from straying into the wilderness spoke of such horrendously inhuman things.
Another of the ghastly creatures abruptly emerge from my left. The light emanated by its fibrous band fluctuated with every visible color. Like the first, this unholy creature moved itself by dragging its body using a dozen or so tentacles. The long thin tendrils were easily 8 feet in length but smooth and no thicker than a man’s thumb. A single bone-like talon at the end of the slithering tentacles gripped the ground then retracted pulling the creature forward in the process.
When a third appeared at my right, the membranes at their, for lack of a better word head, began to vibrate. The vibrations were so strong, the membranes only appeared to be an egg shaped blur.
A piercing chorus of the sound of tortured infants stung my ears and vibrated my chest. This went on for a minute or two then stopped for a few seconds. When they resumed their terrifying cries, I cupped my hand over either side of my head in a futile attempt to shield my ears from the unholy sound.
The ebony column to my left began to approach. The illuminated colors at the end of the thick fibers twinkled like a meadow filled with lightning bugs. The colors flashed and changed rapidly producing a mesmerizing effect, and I felt this spectacle trying to reach into my mind. It tugged at my thoughts and tried to force its way in.
My fear of these things outweighed my fear of death 100 fold. This thing from some other world struggled to pull the very thoughts from my mind while shouting at me with its own. I sobbed at the thought of what this thing would do.
Would it rip me apart? Would it consume my body? Would it consume my soul?
I was not going to give it the chance. Without any further thought, I drew father’s musket from my waist and fired at my face from point blank range. The force pushed my body down the steep craggy slope. The creature tried to catch me with the points of its bony talons, but I was quickly out of its reach.
My bones snapped and cracked and I crushed my skull as I tumbled down the craggy slope. I was dead before I fell from my resting stone. I reached the bottom, my body a torn, ragged mess.
The hellish things screamed with its membranes, talking to its companions. They greeted me with offers of friendship and could not understand why I chose to jump to my death. How could I do such a thing? They simply did not understand. I was afraid of what I did not know. Like I said before, fear is a great motivator.
Leave a Reply