A Dark Path #2
I stare at him, looking for signs of impairment, but his eyes are clear, his speech concise, and his expression is infused with fear.
“So you didn’t get a good look at it?” I ask.
“It was dark, you know. The fog’s pretty thick down there by the creek.
” His eyes skate away from mine, and I know there’s more coming.
After a moment, he sighs and he forces his gaze back to mine.
“Chief Burkholder, whatever came at me was large and strong and … vicious. It had … fangs. I think it might’ve killed me if I hadn’t gotten away. ”
“Mr. Beachy, could it have been a coyote? Or stray dog?”
“This was no coyote or dog. It was … two or three hundred pounds. Fast, too. And it just … kept coming.”
Not sure what to make of the description, I shift my flashlight beam to the lower part of his leg.
Surprise ripples through me at the amount of blood that’s soaked through the fabric.
His trousers are torn from the back of his knee nearly to the hem.
Someone has wrapped a red bandanna around the calf, but blood has seeped through.
I raise the first aid kit. “Do you mind if I take a look at that injury?”
“I’m kind of curious myself.” Smiling uncomfortably, he shifts, giving me access to the back of his calf. “I’m starting to feel it now.”
“A lot of blood,” says Tomasetti, who’s standing beside me.
I hand my flashlight to him and kneel. Setting the kit on the ground, I open it and extract a pair of examination gloves, slip them on. In the yellow light of the beam, I untie the bandanna and peel it away.
The sight of the injury shocks me. I see white flesh interspersed with black hair. The six-inch gash is jagged and deep. The skin has been laid open, exposing muscle. There’s too much blood for me to discern if bone has been exposed, but it’s a serious injury.
“Mr. Beachy, you’re telling me a large animal got close enough to you to do this and yet you didn’t get a look at it?” I say.
“I tripped and fell, face down, and as I got to my hands and knees, it came at me from behind. I kicked it and then I got out of there as fast as I could.” He shrugs.
“I didn’t realize how bad the bite was until I felt the blood sloshing around in my boot.
I figured I’d better stop at the first house I came to. ”
“You did the right thing.” I remove sterile wadding from the first aid kit, place it over the wound, and secure it with a wrap to keep the bleeding in check until the EMTs arrive. “There’s an ambulance on the way,” I tell him.
He tries to hold on to his smile, but his expression is queasy. “Might need a stitch or two, eh?”
Or twenty, I think, but I don’t say it. “Can you tell me where this happened, Mr. Beachy?”
“A couple miles down the road.” He points.
“I’d just passed through the covered bridge.
That old wood one out on Dog Leg Road.” He motions to his horse a few feet away.
“Biscuit’s eighteen years old. Best trotter I ever had.
He’s solid as a rock with nerves of steel.
Whatever came out of those woods scared him something awful.
” He looks away, shoves his hands into his pockets.
“I’m not a man to spin a tall tale, Chief Burkholder.
I’m sure not a man to believe one. But I can tell you this.
Whatever grabbed hold of me was a thing of nightmares.
The kind of beast that’ll tear a man to shreds and not leave a trace behind when it’s done. ”
The ruckus woke him at 1:00 A.M. The donkey braying. The cows bawling. Isaac Stutz knew those sounds. When a predator threatened the calves, the mommas got upset, and the donkey let him know.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been wakened in the dead of night. Two years ago, he’d lost a calf to coyotes. Last spring, they’d taken a lamb. At the urging of his neighbor, he bought a nasty-tempered little donkey at the auction in Kidron. Sally had been keeping the babies safe since.
Grabbing the old Ruger 10/22 and his lantern out of the mudroom, Isaac hit the door running. In the distance, the donkey brayed up a storm. He could hear the momma cows’ plaintive cries.
“Hold on, girls!” he called out. “Ich bin om cooma.” I’m coming.
Then he was down the steps and across the yard.
He yanked the barn door open and streaked to the back, took the steps down to the lower level.
He ran across the pen, reached the fence, and looked out over the small pasture where he kept his livestock at night.
Through the mist, he could see the cows and calves huddled in the corner.
Brave little Sally stood guard, braying her heart out.
“Sally?” Isaac opened the gate and went through. “Was der schinner is letz? ” What in the world is wrong?
He went to the donkey and patted her shoulder, surprised to find her trembling despite her fierce stance. The usually social jenny didn’t acknowledge him. Didn’t take her eyes off the wall of trees demarking the greenbelt that ran along Painters Creek.
“What do you see, girl?” he whispered, his eyes following the animal’s stare.
Thrusting the lantern out ahead of him, holding the Ruger at the ready, Isaac went through the gate and started toward the tree line. He’d only gone a few yards when he heard something moving in the brush, twigs and deadfall cracking beneath its feet. Saplings quivering. Bushes parting …
Isaac gasped when a dark shape burst from the woods. A massive beast. Twenty yards away. Low to the ground and moving fast.
Isaac blinked, wished for his glasses, not trusting his eyes. “Mein Gott.” My God.
He bent, lowered the lantern to the ground. The beast streaked toward him. “Shtobba! ” he cried. Stop.
He raised the rifle. Tilting his head, he put his eye to the sight. Finger inside the guard. Hands shaking. Too dark, too much fog for a good aim. He fired two rounds anyway. The beast pivoted, grunting and growling, as if the gunshots were nothing more than an annoyance.
In the dim light of the lantern, Isaac saw the silhouette of a heavy-bodied beast. The points of ears. Rounded back. Then the head shifted. A chill passed through him at the sight of silver eyes staring right at him.
“Snallygaster,” he whispered, which was Deitsch for the dragon-like monster of his youth. The winged beast that swooped silently from the sky and snatched up its prey with knife-like talons.
Isaac raised the rifle again, trying not to notice when the muzzle trembled. But the giant creature spun and disappeared into the woods.
Tomasetti and I are in the Explorer heading north. The fog is so thick and wet, I’ve turned on the intermittent wipers.
“Judging from the size of the gash on Beachy’s leg,” he says, “Cujo and his wild cousins are off the hook.”
I glance over at him as I make the turn onto Dog Leg Road. “I’ve seen plenty of animal bites over the years,” I tell him. “Dogs. Cats. Bobcat. Even a raccoon. I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“Cougar?”
I shrug. “There have been a handful of cougar sightings in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. But none confirmed in Ohio. Not a single footprint or game-cam photo.”
He ruminates a moment. “Could it be from some kind of exotic that escaped a private zoo or preserve?”
“Maybe.” I glance over at him and smile. “Or a Chupacabra.”
The Chupacabra is, of course, folklore. An urban myth asserting the existence of a blood-sucking beast the size of a bear that attacks in the dead of night. The stories began in the south in the 1970s, and yet purported sightings have been reported as far north as Maine.
Tomasetti smiles back. “Not that exotic.”
Kidding aside, we’re both keenly aware that whatever’s out there needs to be found and contained before someone else gets hurt.
Dog Leg Road is a deserted stretch of hit-or-miss asphalt that dead-ends at the county line.
The covered bridge spans the north fork of Painters Creek.
I roll up to the gravel shoulder and park, snag my Maglite from its compartment in the door.
Next to me, Tomasetti flicks on his own flashlight. We make eye contact briefly.
“You packing?” I ask.
He pats the place where his holster resides beneath his jacket. “Never leave home without it.”
“Not that we have anything to be worried about.”
“Right.”
Leaving the engine running, the headlights illuminating the woods, I get out and we start toward the bridge.
A thick blanket of fog hovers, pressing down like soggy cotton.
The night sounds of crickets and frogs. The trickle of water over rocks in the creek.
Our footsteps echo within the bridge as we pass through.
When we reach the other side, Tomasetti takes the right shoulder.
I go left, my beam on the ground, senses on alert.
Above the treetops, I can just make out the red glow of a blood moon.
“Chief.”
I turn to see Tomasetti kneel. I go to him, spot the wheel ruts in mud. “Buggy came this way,” he says.
“Looks like it.” Farther off the road, I see deep imprints of shod hooves in mud, likely from a panicked horse that was moving fast. “This must be where the horse spooked.”
Our beams track the hoof and tire marks as we traverse the ditch. “Looks like they left the road there,” he says. “Took the buggy through the ditch here.”
“Moving way too fast judging by the depth of the hoof marks,” I murmur.
On the other side of the ditch, Tomasetti shines his light ahead. Fingers of fog rise from hip-high weeds. We spot the damaged tree at the same time.
“Bark is skinned up.” He points.
“Buggy must have hit pretty hard.” My beam joins his. “Beachy said he was thrown to the ground.”
I’m well acquainted with buggy mishaps. Judging by the location of the hoof and tire marks, the horse crossed the ditch and ran to the trees. There wasn’t enough room for the buggy to squeeze between two large oaks and the right front panel struck one of the trunks, throwing Beachy from his seat.