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Our first place Adult category winner is Daniel Brookshire of Anderson, South Carolina. Mr. Brookshire also won last year with his story Footsteps. |
Ron Tammeron loved to hike. It was the joy of his life, a past-time and a passion. On this particular day, he had hiked high up Brody Mountain into a vaguely forbidden area where he had never been before. As a matter of fact, the region had a dark history that Ron had heard vague rumblings about for years. Apparently, a lot of people went missing on Brody Mountain, and were never seen or heard from again. It was a phenomenon that had repeated itself for years. Still, Ron wasn’t afraid. The day had started off with vast sunshine. Yet it wasn’t too hot to hike. Temperatures had hovered in the mid 70’s, and Ron had traipsed through shadowy foliage that was just beginning to turn. Furthermore, he carried a gun. A nice Luger .38, and he knew how to use it.
So… Ron wasn’t afraid…
However, in the last hour the weather had changed. A freak storm was rising across Bridger Mountain, and rolling his way. The sky was dark and ominous, and Ron had no doubt that he was about to get drenched. So, his wary eyes had begun to scan the tree line for some signs of shelter. Maybe there was a rock outcropping, a cave, or even a cabin. Ron didn’t really care. Now was not the time to be particular. He just needed shelter from the storm.
With a weary sigh, he reached down and grabbed his feeble backpack and began trudging up the trail. An echo of thunder rumbled along the ridge, and Ron saw a flash of lightning. It wouldn’t be long now, and the last thing he wanted was to be caught in a storm.
As he topped the next hill, the trail suddenly split into a triple path. Ron had no idea which one to take. The middle trail continued to run vaguely north, the one to the left ran off to the west, the one on the right went to the north-east. All appeared to be roughly the same with foot travel. There was no sign to direct you. So, apparently, it was just the luck of the draw.
Ron opted for the western path. He had no idea why, but something told him to go in that direction. The woods were a little thicker that way, and if nothing else, he could find shelter under a large oak. Pulling the pack higher on his shoulders, he quickened his pace, rushing hard for the tree line and out of the clearing. It didn’t take long for Ron to regret his decision. The woods had closed in very quickly, and the trail had grown rather narrow. The sky had been choked off by heavy branches, and now a foreboding darkness had come over the land. The thunder had grown more pronounced, and Ron had already felt the first drops of liquid.
He was just about to duck into the trees and hunker down when his eyes spotted the cabin. Holy hell, it had to be a mirage, but as Ron quickened his pace, he suddenly realized that it was real. It was right there, live and in living color, and it appeared to be abandoned. As a matter of fact, it appeared to be as old as the mountain itself. Just at that moment, the sky opened up, and the rain began to fall in earnest. Ron broke into a fast trot. He was on the doorstep in seconds. There was a half-rotted porch, with a sagging roof, but it was sound enough to block most of the rain. Ron grabbed the front door and gave it a push. The cabin opened up, but only reluctantly.
Ron glanced inside to find a dusty, spartan table and two chairs. Cobwebs were thick and handy, and a few other pieces of furniture dotted the floor. There was also a fireplace, and a small pile of wood. The aroma of age and neglect was overpowering, but again, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and this was the best place he was likely to find. With a mild sense of dread, he pushed his way into the cabin and closed the door. Another stench suddenly caught in his throat, and he almost gagged at its texture. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it had all the bearing of rotting meat. It was faint and sickly, and it did not appear to have a source, but it permeated the cabin, and it made Ron gag at his stomach.
Slowly, he made his way over to the fireplace and pulled up a chair. He dropped his bag between his legs and fished around for his .38. The house was already dark as night, and Ron decided to make a fire. He pulled some matches from a pocket of the pack and began to line the fireplace with kindling. Within minutes he had a fire blazing. It was heartful and cheery, and best of all, it made the shadows retreat to the corners of the room.
Ron grabbed a pine knot and held it over the flames. The thick wood, full of turpentine, began to take light, and within moments, he had a nice little torch to see by. It was then that he began to explore the cabin. There appeared to be only three rooms: The small sitting room he was currently in, another that appeared to be a bedroom of sorts, and a third that had the unmistakable markings of a kitchen. There was a small woodstove in a corner next to a molded pile of firewood. There was also a rusty pump and a tarnished sink that had seen better days. Ron walked over to the sink and gave the pump a hard push. It moaned from age and neglect, and a tiny stream of brown water gurgled up with flakes of lead littering in its wake. However, the thing that really caught Ron’s eye was the vast amounts of dried blood littering the countertops and floor. It was everywhere, like a butcher’s shop, a very untidy butcher’s shop. This was, apparently, where the smell was coming from, and Ron had to wonder who had been dressing so much meat. It was undoubtedly deer that had been killed and butchered, and from the looks of things, it had been going on for decades. Then again, the cabin was old, and generations had probably used the place. There was nothing strange about that…
Except that there was…
Yes indeed, there was an unsavory atmosphere in this place, and something about it made Ron uneasy. The rain was coming down in torrents now, and one glance out the window told him that the storm was not likely to let up before sundown. That left him with the unthinkable option of spending the night in this place. Ron glanced around at the cobwebs and debris and decided that this was a fate he truly did not care for. Still, it might be his only option. In fact, it probably was.
Ron took a deep breath and turned back toward the sitting room. It was only then that he spotted the dark silhouette on the doorstep. Suddenly, the front door was shoved ajar, and an old man with a long gray beard stomped into the room. He carried a rifle in one hand, and he looked ready to fire. Ron still had his .38, and his first thought was to challenge the old coot, but no; someone might actually take a shot, and more than likely the old man was just checking on his property. Someone had to own the old cabin, and this ragged entity in front of him was probably the one. So, instead of flashing his gun, Ron very quickly introduced himself.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, old timer. Don’t shoot. I’m just here trying to get out of the storm. This was the only place I could find, and It seemed drier than outside, so I snuck in. I hope I’m not intruding?”
The old man gave him a wary glance; then a tight smile seemed to form on his lips, and he slowly lowered his gun. “Not at all,” he murmured, and his voice had all the pleasantry of barbed wire and broken glass. “My name’s Grizzle; I live just over the ridge. Saw the smoke and figured the cabin might have been struck by lightning. Grabbed my old mule and trotted right over. You’re up here doing a little hiking, I take it?”
Ron gave a tired nod. “Yeah, got caught in the storm. I thought the cabin was deserted. Again, I didn’t mean to intrude.
“No intrusion at all,” the gravelly voice replied. “As a matter of fact, I’m mighty glad to see you. Haven’t seen many outsiders for some time. I do a lot of hunting around here. Try to be self-sufficient. Kill a lot of deer and bear, a few raccoons and possums, and whatever else might happen to drop by. They all make for good eating.” And with that his ancient eyes seemed to regard Ron with a hunger. The old man’s gaze started at the floor and followed Ron’s outline all the way up to his face. Then the wrinkled old tongue shot out to lick a set of salivating lips. The whole thing gave Ron the creeps, and he decided to show his weapon.
With a quick motion he laid the .38 on the counter, and just stared at the old man who continued to stand by the door while the water dripped off the dark parka he was wearing. That tight smile came back to the old man’s face. “Like guns, do you?”
“One can never be too careful,” Ron responded. The old man’s smile spread a little wider, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he leaned his rifle against the door, and walked over to the hearth. “Your fire is dying,” he whispered. “Here let me stoke it for you.”
Ron breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe he was letting his imagination run wild with him. Maybe the old man was just what he appeared to be, an old man. Maybe there was nothing nefarious afoot here. Still, a strange wariness remained in the back of Ron’s mind. Something wasn’t quite right. He could feel it. He glanced out the window and stared at the falling rain. How long before the storm let up, and he could make his way back down the mountain? Could he do it in the dark? Was that even possible? The idea of spending the night here, or even worse, in the company of this old man was becoming more appalling by the minute.
Ron glanced toward the sitting room to find the old timer studying him hard. That tight smile had grown even wider in the passing seconds, and he continued to regard Ron like he was a side of meat. “You picked a bad place to ride out the storm, didn’t you, young fellow?” He asked.
Ron shifted uneasily. “Why would do you say that?’
“Well, there are some dangerous folks in these parts. Some of them living rather close. You can never tell who you might run into.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard some stories. People getting lost on the mountain, disappearing, and never being heard from again.”
The old man’s smile grew a little wider, and from the light of the fire his teeth appeared to be filed down to fangs. “That’s right,” he said. “Folks always disappearing around these parts. You’d think they’d take the hint, wouldn’t you?”
Ron’s hand came back to rest on the .38. “And what hint would that be?”
The smile continued to spread. “Maybe I should make you some tea,” the old man proclaimed. “Looks like you could use it, and God knows I could.”
“I don’t want any tea.” Ron replied. But the old man was already digging into his haversack. He grabbed the old beaten coffee pot off the mantle, and strolled into the kitchen. It was only then that Ron noticed how big he really was. He seemed to grow as he clamored into the room until his full height was well over six feet. In addition to this, he didn’t seem to show any of the frailty that came with old age. On the contrary, he looked fit and robust, strong as an ox and almost as big. His gnarled hands went to work on the old pump, and within minutes, a stream of water began to gurgle into the sink. The old man pulled a large pack of tea from his pocket and dumped the contents into the pot which he then filled with water.
“You’ll indulge an old man,” he whispered. “My ancient bones need something to ward off the cold.”
Ron nodded carefully, but his hand remained close to his gun. The old man was big, bigger than Ron had first imagined. His large arms could have crushed Ron in a mighty squeeze, and without the Lugar, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
The old man slipped the top onto the pot, and then shuffled back over to the hearth. He hung the pot on the long hook bolted to the edge of the chimney, then swung it over the crackling flames. His eyes rose to stare at Ron again. “Yep,” he said softly, “You picked a bad place to bed down.”
Ron glanced back to the window and the streaming rain, but he made sure to keep one eye on the old man. The hunting rifle was still leaning against the door, but Ron had the distinct feeling that the old man was dangerous, very dangerous. “Don’t worry, I’ll be clearing out as soon as the rain lets up.”
The old man’s smile grew that much wider, and the sharp narrow teeth gleamed in the firelight. “Hope you get the chance,” he replied. Suddenly, Ron found himself hoping the same thing.
The conversation died away. The old man turned his attention back to the fire, and Ron stuffed the gun in his pants and turned toward the window. Several minutes went by before Ron was overwhelmed with the sense of someone standing behind him. He turned back to find the old man looming there with two battered tin cups. He extended one in Ron’s direction and took a gingerly sip from the other.
Ron had to admit that the tea smelled good. It had been several hours since he’d had anything to eat, and his stomach was gnawing at him. Slowly, he reached for the mug. The old man nodded and took another sip. Ron turned the tea up and blew before taking a small dose. It was good, a nice flavor, but with an underlying taste that he couldn’t quite identify. He took another sip, swallowing it down in a quick gulp. All this time, the old man continued to watch him with probing, anxious eyes. Ron dropped one hand to the butt of his pistol, but kept his eyes glued to the old coot. He didn’t like this. There was just something about him.
He sipped again, and it was only then that he began to notice the faint wisps of fog slowly filling the room. At the same time, his legs suddenly became weak and began to tremble. The light in the room began to fade, and the cup slipped from his fingers, spilling onto the counter. Slowly, his legs collapsed under him, and he slid to the floor. The old man crouched down, smiling a gleam of triumph.
“Been a long time since I had any fresh game.” The haggard voice mumbled. “I’d ‘bout given up hope.” With that the gnarled old hand reached over and opened the cabinet beside the stove. There was a dusty glass sitting inside the doorway with an equally dusty bottle of Wild Turkey, half empty. The old man pulled both into the light of day and popped the cork. Ron, however, missed all of this because his eyes were focused on the other item pushed far back against the wall. It was a leg bone, a human leg bone, and it had been cleaved off just above the hip. It was devoid of flesh, but there were teeth marks on it where it had been gnawed upon…
Ron swallowed hard and struggled to lay his hands on the pistol, but the old man’s agile grip was faster. He reached out and pulled the .38 away, stashing it in his parker as he rose to his feet.
“You put something in my drink.” Ron mumbled as he slowly slumped to the floor.
“Now whatever gave you that idea?” The old man asked as he traipsed back to the sitting room where his haversack waited. He came back with a long machete and a length of rope. His eyes rose to a large hook twisted into the ceiling, something Ron had failed to notice until that very moment.
“What was it?” Ron asked. “I think I have a right to know.”
“Well, I used to use Oleander,” the old man replied, “but that only grows along the coast, and it’s hard to come by. So, as I said, I try to be self-sufficient, and I want something that really works. For that reason, I got a P.O. box over in Silver City. I ride over there from time to time and place a small order for cyanide on a computer over at the library. I get the stuff off the dark web from this nice little firm I found overseas. The cyanide comes to a P.O. box under an assumed name. No questions are ever asked, and a small order lasts me for a couple of years. The hikers are starting to avoid the area, you know. Word is getting out about all the disappearances. Luckily for me, there are never any witnesses, and I take care of the bodies myself.
The old man pulled the machete from its sheath and flashed its blade in the dimming light. “Yes sir, you picked a bad place to come in out of the rain.”
Ron was still conscious as the machete went to work.
Howard Tilman had been the Sheriff of Beecher County for twelve years now, and he had just won reelection for a fourth term. The people of Beecher liked Howard. He kept the county nice and quiet. There were no murders, no rapes and very few robberies. The only thing he dealt with was the occasional moonshiner and pot grower, and much of the county turned a blind eye to those things anyway.
The one thing that did bother Howard was the number of disappearance’s he’d had to deal with. Hikers and kayakers, campers, hunters, (mostly city people) had been vanishing at an astonishing rate. Howard had no theory on the disappearance’s, primarily because there was no evidence to go on. People just went into the woods and never came out again. It was unnerving, but it happened. The only person who lived on Brody ridge was old man Grizzle, James Grizzle to be more precise. But the old man was in his seventies now, and from what Howard could uncover, the only thing on his record were a couple of arrests for moonshining back in the day. The old man was harmless, but with the disappearance of another hiker, one Ron Tammeron, to be exact, Howard had been forced out to the Grizzle homestead to ask a few questions. It was just due diligence.
It had taken him half the morning to get the Suburban up the washed-out mountain roads to Grizzle’s old place, and when Tilman arrived, he found the old man sitting on the front porch with his long legs stretched out in the morning sun. He didn’t seem too surprised to see the Sheriff, but he didn’t seem too nervous either. In fact, he seemed as he always did, totally unmoved by either time or space.
Tilman got out of the SUV and made his way up to the front steps. “Howdy James.”
“Howdy, Sheriff.”
“Having a good day?”
“Was… What brings you by?”
“Well, it seems we’ve had another one,” the Sheriff replied.
The old man’s face grew dark.
“Another disappearance,” the Sheriff elaborated.
“You don’t say,” Grizzle responded, sitting up in his chair. “Another city fellow?”
“I’m afraid so. A guy by the name of Tammeron.” Howard pulled an eight by ten photograph from his jacket and showed it to the old man. The ancient hands reached out to take it, and the old eyes seemed to study it hard.
“No, never seen him before.” Grizzle replied. “But then again, I never saw any of them before. You know that Sheriff.”
“Yeah, I know,” the Sheriff responded.
Slowly, Tilman turned to stare at the vast expanse of distance all around him. Brody ridge was miles off the main road, and the high peaks and low valleys seemed to go on forever. There was no sign of industry, no sign of civilization, and Howard had to wonder why anyone would want to live this far out in the middle of nowhere, but Grizzle had lived here all of his life. His family had owned more than three hundred acres before the Civil War, and the old man still owned more than a hundred. How he made a living way out here, Howard would never know. There were bear and catamounts in the area, and some people had even reported wolves and panthers. So, it was really no surprise that people went missing. Also, there were a lot of folks that made moonshine and grew weed in the lonely little parcels tucked away in the coves and crevices. These people didn’t like to be bothered and sometimes…
They took matters into their own hands…
It was lunch time, and the Sheriff’s stomach had started to rumble. It was more than three hours back to town over the old logging trail, and Howard knew he’d be famished by the time he got back to Silver City. He had hoped that Grizzle might offer him some lunch, but he certainly hated to impose. He gave a tentative glance at his watch instead.
“Twelve ten,” he murmured.
“That’s right,” the old man grinned. “You hungry, Sheriff?”
“I could do with a bite to eat,” Howard replied.
“Well, that’s just fine,” the old man said, rising from his rocker. “As it turns out, I had a nice, clean kill just a few days ago. I got everything cooked up and sitting in the icebox, just need to warm it on the stove. I think you’ll like it.”
“I’m sure I will,” Howard replied. “One thing he had to admit, the old man could certainly cook.
Grizzle turned back just as he got to the front door, and flashed his tight, trademark grin.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he said.
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