A Dark Path #4
He almost couldn’t contain himself as he and Samuel made their way down the path toward Painters Creek.
Danny lugged their poles, the bucket of live minnows, and the keeper basket for all the fish they were going to catch.
A few feet ahead, Samuel carried the camping gear, lantern, and tackle box.
Around them, the woods were dark, misty, and wet, the crickets and frogs singing loud enough to wake the dead.
Fog drifted along the ground like smoke, depositing dew on the grass and leaves, and already Danny’s pants were soaked.
“You bring that jig you made?” Samuel asked, referring to the fishhook Danny had adorned with horsehair.
“Ja.” Danny was proud of that jig. He’d been wanting to try it for days. If the crappie weren’t interested in the minnows, they’d darn well go for the jig.
They reached the creek bank and stopped.
Moonlight from a weird pink moon glinted off the water.
Steam hovered above the surface. They’d fished this spot a couple of weeks ago.
The crappie were plentiful and liked to take cover in the submerged branches of the dead tree that had fallen in the water.
“Don’t get your line tangled in the branches this time,” Samuel said as he hung the lantern on a branch that stuck out over the water. “I ain’t getting my shoes wet to untangle you.”
The memory stung. Only an inexperienced fisherman got his line tangled in submerged brush. Danny wasn’t an amateur. “I told you,” he muttered, “bass took my line and dragged it through.”
“My foot.” Samuel laughed. “You catch a bass tonight, and I’ll do your chores for a week.”
Danny knew his brother didn’t believe him, so he just shook his head.
They didn’t talk as they set up their tent.
Crappie liked it quiet, after all. While Samuel secured his jig, Danny opened the bait bucket.
He’d just popped the hook through the minnow’s tail when something stirred in the tall weeds behind them.
He stopped what he was doing and looked at Samuel, found his brother’s eyes already sweeping the woods.
“You hear that?” Danny whispered.
“Probably just a stinkin’ raccoon.” Samuel looked down at the minnow on Danny’s hook. “Gimme a bobber.”
Danny opened the tackle box. He was rummaging around for the bobber when the snap! of a breaking twig sounded. Closer this time. Just a few yards away.
“Must be a big racoon,” he whispered.
Samuel stopped working on the jig and looked uneasily into the darkness. “Don’t be such a chicken.”
A sound that was part screech, part growl sounded from the dark. The hairs on Danny’s neck stood straight up. “That ain’t no coon,” he whispered.
Samuel got to his feet and squinted into the darkness. He was twelve years old, now, and almost a man. He was nearly as tall as Mamm and strong, too. He was the bravest kid Danny knew. Which made it all the scarier because Danny was pretty sure he saw fear on his brother’s face.
“Gimme the lantern,” Samuel said quietly.
Danny got to his feet, leaned out over the water to snag the lantern, and handed it to his brother. Around them, the crickets had gone silent. It was so quiet he could hear his heart beating in his chest. “What do you think it is?”
“Be quiet.” Samuel craned his neck, listening.
“Sounds big,” Danny whispered.
“Bobcat, maybe. Get a rock and we’ll scare it off.”
Danny looked around for a rock. “They don’t growl like that, do they?”
He barely had the words out when a massive beast charged out of the darkness.
Danny heard a yelp. He saw the lantern fly sideways and hit the ground.
The globe shattered on impact, plunging them into darkness.
The next thing he knew he was reeling backward, feet sliding in the mud.
He stepped on his pole, felt it snap beneath his foot.
His leg tangled on a branch. Then he fell and his backside hit the water with a splash. A burst of cold took his breath.
“Run!” screamed Samuel.
Danny scrambled to his feet, looked around, but it was too dark to see much. He heard growls and grunts and the pound of hooves against the ground. In the moonlight, he saw a black shadow plow into his brother’s legs.
“Sammy!” he cried.
Samuel screamed as he was knocked off his feet. “It got me!”
An animalistic roar rent the air. Danny shot forward, scooped up the metal tackle box, and threw it as hard as he could at the creature. A clang! sounded. The box bounced off the animal’s head, hooks and bobbers and twine flying. The animal pivoted and looked right at him with glowing yellow eyes.
Danny choked out his brother’s name, but when he looked Samuel was gone.
It’s a minute past 2:00 A.M. and exactly the kind of night you don’t want to be on the road.
Tomasetti and I are in the Explorer, parked on the gravel shoulder of Township Road 34 where it dead-ends at Painters Creek.
The night is mild and warm, so I’ve opened my window slightly.
Dusky rose-colored moonlight glints off the hood.
Around us, the greenbelt along the creek hums with nocturnal sounds.
A chorus of crickets and frogs and the last of the spring peepers.
In the distance, the eerie cry of a screech owl raises gooseflesh on my arms.
Using my cell phone, I pull up a map of the area and hold it out so that Tomasetti can see. “The first incident happened here.” Using the tip of my pen, I indicate the covered bridge where Merle Beachy was mauled.
Tomasetti leans close, studies the map. “Right on Painters Creek.”
I shift the pen. “Isaac Stutz’s farm is here.”
“Locations are about a quarter mile apart.”
“Both back up to the creek.”
He looks at me over the tops of his reading glasses. “So Bigfoot is heading east and moving along the creek.”
I elbow him. “Urban legends aside, that greenbelt is thick with trees and offers a good bit of cover.”
He surveys the map, then indicates the area east of the Stutz farm. “What’s here?”
“A couple of Amish farms. Open fields mostly. A thicket of trees along the creek. Closer to Painters Mill, there are houses. Older homes. Big yards. A lot of trees.”
“May be a good place to take a look around. We can work our way toward town.” His eyes meet mine. “We might get lucky.”
“‘Lucky’ may not be quite the right word.”
His gaze holds mine. “Or we could fire up the radio,” he says. “Find a nice Norah Jones tune. Stay put for a while.”
“You’re not making a pass at the chief of police, are you?”
“Thinking about it.”
We hold gazes for a beat too long; then I look away, set my hands on the steering wheel. “I think Norah is going to have to wait.”
“Rain check?”
“Deal.” I’m smiling when I put the Explorer in gear and pull onto the road.
Visibility has dwindled to just a few yards. As I take the main road toward Painters Mill, the headlights play over billowing fog. Thick and silver-white within the trees on either side of the road.
“Any possibility these incidents are some kind of hoax or prank gone wrong?” Tomasetti asks.
I think about Isaac Stutz taking a shot at it and the gash on Merle Beachy’s leg. “If it is, they’re playing an awfully dangerous game.”
Tomasetti is thoughtful. “We both know there aren’t any wolves left in Ohio. That said, I recall reading about the possibility of coyote-wolf hybrids.”
“I’ve heard they exist. Even if they do, an attack on a human being would be extremely unusual,” I say.
“That’s not to mention the absence of paw prints.”
“The only tracks we saw were from deer,” I point out.
“And we both know there’s no such thing as gargoyles.”
I look over at him. “Tomasetti, you’re not making me feel any better.”
“Best case, our wildlife officer will—Kate! Look out!”
I catch a glimpse of movement just to the right of my headlight. A streak of blue. The pale oval of a face. I stomp the brake. Cut the wheel hard. The tires bark and the Explorer slides to a stop.
“Shit.” I grip the wheel, look over at Tomasetti. “You okay?”
“Might need to change my britches.” Yanking out his flashlight, he sets his hand on the handle and swings open the door.
Snagging my Maglite, I do the same. A child’s scream pierces the fog. I spin toward the sound, shine my light left. Through the swirling mist, I spot a boy. He’s Amish. Ten years old. Tears streaming. Terror on his face. Running toward us as fast as his legs will carry him.
“Sammy!” he cries.
Tomasetti intercepts him. “Easy does it, kiddo.”
The boy slams into him hard enough to cause Tomasetti to stumble back. “Whoa,” he says. “I’ve got you. What’s wrong?”
“It’s coming!” the boy squeals, terror reverberating in his voice, head swiveling to look behind him. “Run!”
“It’s okay.” Gently, Tomasetti grasps his shoulders and bends to make eye contact. “We’re police. You’re safe. What happened?”
“The monster ate my brother!” the boy cries.
I want to believe the words are a child’s imagination run amok, but the statement elicits a quiver of uneasiness in my gut. Maybe because I know there’s an as-yet-unidentified animal roaming the woods.
I cross to the boy, kneel so that my eyes are level with his. “Where did you last see your brother?”
The boy twists and points. “There! By the creek! We were f-fishing and the m-monster came out of the woods! It has glowing eyes and screams like a banshee!”
“Are you hurt?” I ask.
He’s sniveling, trying not to cry, not quite managing. “N-no.”
“What’s your brother’s name?” Tomasetti asks.
“S-Sammy.”
I straighten, make eye contact with Tomasetti. In tandem, we raise our beams, shine them on the wall of trees. The impenetrable wall of fog. There’s no sign of anyone else. No movement or sound.
Tomasetti cups his hands on either side of his mouth and shouts the boy’s name. “Sammy!”
We listen for a response, but nothing comes.
“Do you think it ate him?” the boy whispers.
“Not a chance,” Tomasetti says quickly.
“How long ago did this happen?” I ask.
“J-just a minute or two,” he replies.
“I’m going to take a look.” Tomasetti squeezes the boy’s shoulder. “Stay put. Everything’s going to be all right.”