Chapter 4
Sunday Scaries, Sasquatch Edition
Olivia
By the time they dropped me off, the fog had lifted from the ridge, leaving the morning too bright and too normal for what I had just witnessed.
Gravel crunched under the SUV's tires as it pulled away, while Boone and June Bug barked from the porch, their tails wagging as if they didn't know the world had tilted sideways overnight.
A pair of doves pecked at the feeder, oblivious to the strangeness of the day.
I stood in the driveway long after the SUV disappeared down the hill. The mountains looked the same—green, breathing, and ancient—but they didn't feel the same. Something in me had changed, and even the air felt different. My hands shook at my sides, a tremor I couldn't quiet.
Hours had passed since I had left the campsite, yet the memory of those eyes and that almost-human stillness stuck with me. He had looked at me as if I were more than just a noise in his woods. That thought lodged deep within me, colder than fear.
"Get a grip," I muttered, reaching for my bag. "You're losing it."
Boone bounded down the steps, his nails clattering on the boards, while June Bug yipped from behind him. They swarmed my legs as I approached the porch, their wet noses against my hands. Their familiar weight steadied me in a way that words couldn't.
"I'm fine," I told them, even though neither seemed convinced. Boone huffed, and June Bug's tail beat the air like a metronome.
Inside, the house smelled the same as when I left. Lemon cleaner and coffee grounds, familiar scents that usually soothed me. Today, those same smells tightened the walls around me, turning the quiet sharp. I dropped my things by the door and headed straight for the shower.
Steam filled the bathroom, fogging the mirror, but no amount of heat could chase away the chill in my chest. Hot water and strong coffee were supposed to burn off nerves, but they didn't. The unease kept building with every minute, until even the sound of the clock on the wall felt sharp.
I tried to immerse myself in work. The glow of my laptop screen stared back at me like an accusation.
"Create something," it seemed to say, but the cursor blinked like a heartbeat, and I couldn't make my mind cooperate.
I designed websites for small-town clients—feed stores, antique shops, the occasional church fundraiser—people who still believed the Internet was a living thing that needed taming.
That usually centered me and gave me a sense of purpose. But not today.
Today, my own breathing distracted me. My thoughts kept ricocheting around.
I told myself not to look out the window, but I did anyway.
The trees stood still, the yard was empty, and the porch swing rocked slowly in the wind. Nothing seemed out of place, yet the quiet felt wrong, stretched too thin to be natural.
Closing the laptop, I grabbed my mug and stepped onto the porch.
Boone followed closely at my heel, while June Bug slipped past and onto the steps, her ears pricked forward.
A coming-rain smell hung in the air—sweet, with a metallic edge.
Thunder rumbled far off, its voice low, echoing the sound of something awakening beneath the hills.
"Do y'all smell anything?" I asked, though my voice came out thinner than I intended.
Before I saw anything unusual, Boone's growl began deep in his throat, rumbling up through the porch boards. June Bug's tail stiffened. Both dogs froze in that way dogs do when their instincts take over.
A branch cracked beyond the fence, a sharp sound that felt too heavy to be made by a squirrel.
My heart pounded hard. "Could be a deer," I said, mostly to myself. The words tasted like a lie, a feeble attempt to calm the rising fear within me.
The wind shifted, bringing a scent that didn't belong—musk, earth rich with rain, and something else beneath it, something alive. A smell that made my body still itself without asking me.
My hand found the doorknob. "Not doing this," I whispered, my voice trembling with dread. "Nope. Not today."
Before I could stop them, the dogs lunged, racing down the steps and barking as if they had found the devil himself. "Boone! June Bug!" My voice barely carried over their noise.
Movement flickered between the pines, something broad, brown, and moving with a purpose. Not the awkward rush of a deer or the skittish dart of a coyote. It moved slowly, as if it were watching.
"Lord, have mercy," I breathed.
The shape vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Boone barked until his throat went hoarse, and June Bug circled, growling low. I stood frozen, coffee gone cold in my hand, trying to convince myself it was a trick of the light. But deep down, I knew the truth sat solid and heavy.
It was him.
He had followed me home.
Heart thrashing against my ribcage, I called the dogs inside, shut the door, and leaned against it until the wood stopped shaking under my palms. The house felt smaller than before, and the air was too thin to breathe.
Still, I couldn't stop pacing from window to window, each creak of the floor reminding me that something was waiting outside. The porch light spilled a yellow glow across the yard, cutting a narrow line into the trees.
"Fine," I muttered. "If he's out there, he's going to see me looking like hell, and maybe that will scare him off."
The dogs followed me with their eyes but didn't bark. They knew the rhythm of my restlessness. I poured another cup of coffee, more for something to do than to drink, and stared out through the rain-blurred glass.
Nothing moved. Just the steady hiss of drizzle and the flicker of the porch light.
Then the shadows shifted. A darker shape slid behind the glow—too solid to be a trick, too fluid to be human.
Boone's growl rolled out first, deep and warning.
June Bug joined him with a higher bark that snapped through my nerves.
My stomach tightened, breath catching halfway down my throat.
A cold tremor ran from my fingertips to my elbow, the coffee sloshing in my hand. I set the cup down before I dropped it.
"It's just a bear," I whispered. The words came thin and cracked. "A big, wet, hungry bear."
I grabbed the gun because my hands needed something to hold. Sweat made my grip slip once, and my pulse stumbled hard enough to shake my knees.
Rain hit the steps in silver splashes when I opened the door. The familiar smell of wet grass rolled over me.
And beneath it—breathing.
Not loud. Not close. Just steady enough to shove my pulse into a sprint.
Lightning tore across the sky.
For a heartbeat, the yard flashed bright.
And he stood there.
Massive. Still. Rain tracking down fur the color of copper bark. The same impossible shoulders. The same gold-brown eyes staring straight at me — eyes that followed me with too much understanding and none of the distance a wild animal should have.
My whole body locked. Heat rushed up my throat, even as a cold shock hit my chest. My breath broke into short bursts. My hands shook so violently that I almost lost the gun.
I didn't think. I didn't aim. Instinct fired before I could stop it.
The thunder came first. The recoil slammed into my shoulder. The world cracked open around me.
The bullet hit him. His body jolted, and a guttural cry tore from his chest. For an instant, hurt flashed through those bright eyes. Then he turned, stumbling as he disappeared into the trees.
The echo of the shot rolled down the ridge and back again, long after he was gone.
Rain poured onto the porch, cool against my bare feet. "Dear God," I whispered. "What did I do?"
The guilt hit harder than I expected, and I locked the door and slid down against it, the gun still heavy in my hand and my heart thundering against my ribs. He had come to me again—not to harm me—and I had shot him.
The storm never really stopped as I stood there, mind whirling.
Rain pattered softly on the roof, steady and soft, while the house sat still around me.
Boone and June Bug lay curled beside the door, their ears twitching whenever the wind shifted.
I had long since set the gun aside, but my hands kept reaching for it anyway, fingers remembering the recoil.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him flinch—the way his shoulders bowed, the shock that wasn't anger but hurt. The moment replayed the second I closed my eyes.
"I didn't mean to," I whispered to no one. Boone lifted his head, whined once, then settled again.
I pushed to my feet before I could talk myself out of it. "You stay here," I told them, though my voice had gone soft. They didn't move, only watched as I pulled on my raincoat and shoved my feet into muddy boots.
When I stepped onto the porch, the storm breathed in. Rain cooled my face the moment I stepped outside, washing the warmth from my skin. The yard stretched quietly beneath the porch light—a narrow strip of yellow fading into the dark pines.
"Please don't be dead," I said into the rain. The words vanished before they reached the trees.
The flashlight beam cut through the mist, a trembling line of white that found small, dark stains in the grass. I crouched low. The drops had thinned with the rain but hadn't vanished yet. Blood.
My stomach turned. "Oh, Lord," I breathed. "What have I done?"
The trail led past the fence and down into the trees. I followed it, my heart hammering, each step sinking into mud that tried to pull me back. The forest muted everything except the rain—no crickets, no wind, only the steady drip through the leaves and the dull thud of my heartbeat.
The pine smell grew stronger the farther I went, laced with the iron tang of blood and wet earth. A flicker of motion ahead made me freeze, but it was just the light catching slick bark.
"Hey," I called softly, my voice shaking. "It's me. I'm not gonna hurt you."
No answer. Just the sound of rain easing into mist and the slow drip from the branches above.
I kept walking until the beam swept across a fallen log near the bottom of the hollow. He was there.
Slumped against the trunk, the Sasquatch had one arm braced to keep himself upright. Rain ran off his fur in thin silver streams, and blood darkened the shoulder where the bullet had hit him. His chest rose and fell in a shallow rhythm, but he was breathing. Alive.
Relief washed through me so fast I had to stop.
I stopped a few steps back, not daring to move closer. "I'm sorry," I said, my voice cracking. "I thought you were a threat. I didn't know."
He lifted his head slowly, his eyes meeting mine.
The flashlight trembled in my hand as I moved closer to him, every muscle in my body tight with guilt.
When I reached out to check his arm, he flinched once but then went still.
His skin felt fever-hot beneath my fingers, radiating heat that shouldn't have been possible.
The muscles under my hand were solid and human in their tension, but the texture of his fur—slicked down, coarse at the tips but soft underneath—felt wild, like everything outside had left its mark on him.
"You're bleeding too much," I whispered. "I've got to bandage this."
He made a low, rough sound deep in his chest, like exhaustion transformed into breath. His eyes flicked toward mine at the offer to bandage him—just a slight movement, but enough to make me pause.
"You understand me," I said quietly, realizing it wasn't a question.
Thunder rumbled across the valley, faint but ominous.
I glanced toward the dim glow of my porch light filtering through the trees. "You can't stay out here," I said. "You'll bleed out or get an infection. Come with me. I'll help you."
Although he didn't respond, when I stepped back, he tried to rise, still holding his arm. His breath hitched, and his hand pressed against the tree for balance. Slowly, painfully, he managed to stand.
"Easy now," I murmured. "Slow and steady."
He leaned against the trunk for a moment longer before taking a step. Even that small movement made the ground tremble beneath us. Still, I swallowed back my fear and lifted the flashlight, guiding our way home.