Black Horse and Other Strange Stories

by Wyckoff, Jason A.

  ‘Is this a stereo recording?’

  David nodded emphatically, smiling. ‘It’s a call and response!’

  I needn’t tell you a prompt discussion delayed the beginning of our hike. We even considered crossing back over the lake to Black Mountain. But David listened repeatedly to his recordings and concluded that the response call might have carried across the water from the side on which we were currently situated. And, of course, we tried to hold to our expedition’s initial purpose, which was unrelated to the pursuit of a live creature. We tried to take our findings as encouragement we were in the right area to achieve our goal of finding Sasquatch remains; it was no easy task to restrain our enthusiasm and not redirect our aim. Eventually we decided to stick to our (admittedly revised) itinerary and hike north-northeasterly up and along the Tongue Mountain Range ridge.

  There is little I can say about the remainder of that day’s hike that would be other than poesy. It was wonderful to be with friends, and to be out in the open. The views were spectacular and I made a note to return in the fall when the leaves were changing. I regret that I don’t think I’ll have that chance. Even with all that happened there—the macabre ritual we witnessed and the horror undoubtedly visited upon my two friends—I can’t hold a grudge against the land itself and the beauty that nature can display for us. I have been fortunate to see so many great displays. I have witnessed the sublime harmony of this world and I forgive the fact that animal eats animal in their dens and hollows and under skeletal trees in moonshadow. Perhaps these are the thoughts of a man reconciled to his fate. Enough. I’ll continue my narrative.

  At the summit of Five Mile Mountain, we had another discussion: Should we more meticulously examine the area we’d already traced, which lay opposite Black Mountain and which may have been the source of the ‘response’ we’d heard on the digital recorder (but which had not presented us with any particularly inspiring locations), or should we continue north? I reminded the others that we’d have to retrace our path anyway if we wanted to pick up the boat, which indicated to me we should cover more ground before camping and reversing course in the morning. The others agreed. We dipped into a valley and crossed Route 9 North. I remember seeing a lone, white car going east.

  We hiked up Catamount Mountain. Towards her summit, the trees clear away. Several large plateaus step down irregularly on her north face. To the east is Jabe Pond. The air remained clear and cool, but some sense of ominous discovery touched each in the party. We recognised that this area was heavy with potential, but, more, we felt it psychically. I hope you’ll understand that I mean this without embellishment and that you will put aside any reservations you might have in the matter. Excitedly but deliberately, we surveyed the plateaus. We saw no physical evidence demonstrating the presence of any Sasquatch in the area, but we did discover smoothed and flattened paths criss-crossing the area that indicated some activity. Unfortunately, the prompt discovery of hatch-marked rocks seemed to indicate a track or record for hikers. I wondered why the marks were not more specific or intelligible; they seemed mostly meaningless, little more than random scratches. I considered they might be a code understood by locals. Our growing impression that this area, too, was frequented by humans took some of the wind from our sails. Yes, we all felt ‘something’, but an experienced investigator learns that there are a multitude of reasons why this can happen, not the least of which is wishful thinking. Often, that sense of expectation simply dissipates with the initial cause unrevealed. We continued north and circled Spruce and Beech Mountains before returning to Jabe Pond to eat our dinner. The sun was soon to disappear behind the ridge to our west. We were disappointed not to have discovered anything further, but were satisfactorily tired. We decided to set up camp back up the side of Catamount Mountain—it would be colder, as we would be more exposed, but we reasoned that we would be better positioned to place any ‘calls’ we might hear during the night if we were stationed at a higher altitude. Deeming it unnecessary to camp at the summit of the mountain, we set up on a plateau just above the tree line on the north east face—from here we could watch the pond area as well as the sides of the mountains opposite and the valley between them and Catamount. We rested comfortably as outlines of mountains dimmed and disappeared. I dozed off.

  I have no idea what time it was when Kirk shook me awake. As you will see, when I fell unconscious it was still dark, and when next I woke it was daylight, so the events that follow could have happened at nine o’clock or five o’clock or anywhere in between. Kirk squatted over me, holding a finger to his lips to indicate silence. I was struck by how light it was—we had planned (as always) for a full-moon expedition, but the crispness of the detail in Kirk’s face is still etched upon my mind. Then the smell hit me and I nearly vomited flat on my back. I spun on to my side as deftly and quietly as I could, and somehow managed to suppress the gag reflex. The smell was similar to what we had encountered at the bear’s den—skunk and death in equal measure—but there was more to it now than just the dynamically increased amplitude. There was also a sharply-spiced musk that pulled the sinuses disastrously open to the final components: mossy rot (tinged with the sharp ‘nitrate’ smell of peat) and stale urine. It was a blend of smells that was terrible to consider in and of itself, but my physical reaction went beyond simple revulsion and nausea: The warm buzz of adrenalin hummed through my veins. I had heard described to me a reaction not of fight or flight, but one where the onrush of adrenalin causes the body to lose strength and motor function, where one’s limbs move clumsily and slowly, uselessly, like in a nightmare. I had never experienced this reaction before; now I was helplessly in its throes. David was hiding his nose and mouth beneath the collar of his shirt. Kirk held his nose between thumb and forefinger, but the gesture wasn’t meant to indicate his discomfiture; he was indicating ‘better we smell them than they smell us’. I do not know why the other two were less affected by the stench than I was. I hope you will trust that I am not trying to excuse cowardice. I truly believe there was nothing else I could do to master my will. I am ashamed, nonetheless—I suppose I might have ‘survivor’s guilt’. That shouldn’t be a worry for much longer.

  Kirk put his fingers behind his ear: I was to listen. After my reaction to the stench, I’m not surprised it took me a few seconds more to realise that the still night was repeatedly punctuated by low grunts in several voices. Kirk pointed towards the north face. I struggled as best I could to crawl over to David’s location and look over the ledge. The sources of the grunts (and the smell) were located on a lower plateau, clearly illuminated in the moonlight. They were separated from us by a narrow band of trees clinging to the angled face of the mountain, but we could see easily through the screen, as through the slits on a vertical blind rotated ‘open’.

  I counted thirteen of the beasts, but there may have been more (presumably women and children) hidden in the shadows away from the clearing. I was terrified and excited to see them. I was oddly disappointed, too, if only because they looked exactly as we had been led to believe they would: The beasts were at least six feet tall, the largest I estimated at over eight feet (there were a couple shorter creatures that hung closely to the ‘women’ that I took to be juveniles, all the adult males appeared to be seven feet tall at least); they stood upright, but with a slight stoop; they were covered with thick, matted fur which I thought to be brown (it was, of course, impossible to be sure in the moonlight), and had the ‘flat’ faces of primates (as distinguished from the more protuberant ursine snout). Their faces seemed darker than their fur. Their eyes flashed (as a cat’s might) in the moonlight, but they did not ‘glow’ as had been reported by some witnesses. Their frames and builds indicated great power in the limbs; their movements were likewise ‘bulky’. So there were no surprises in their appearance (besides the fact of them appearing at all), but I will admit to some real fear in seeing the creatures: besides their ‘normal’ appearance, there was yet something blasphemous about their existence, something f
oul about their very presence on the earth and on that mountain. Again, this may have been an intimation I felt as a result of my physiological response to the stench—I would not doubt if it were.

  The behaviour of the beasts indicated that this was not a random assembly, but something more: a ritualised convocation. As we might expect from the season, their gathering appeared to be related to mating. The largest male stood in the middle of the clearing. Behind him the women and juveniles clustered in a group on the edge of deep shadow. Before him a group of five males weaved about each other in a rough half-circle, leaning forward and grunting towards the alpha male before retreating behind and around another in the shifting pack. Finally, one of the males lunged forward at the alpha. Here the ritual became plain, as the ‘combat’ consisted of a series of threatening passes by the challenger deflected by the alpha’s exaggerated arm gestures until the challenger bent low and retreated without either creature incurring injury. The males in the pack (with the returned challenger, presumably the ‘number two’ male) squatted on their haunches in their semi-circle. The alpha turned towards the females. Three came forward, one in the centre slightly forward of the others, who held her arms around the bicep. The male stepped forward and smelled the lead female. A loud, purring growl could be heard; it seemed to begin from the alpha, but was soon picked up by others in the group so that it rolled up to us, a low-toned, undulating and discordant rumble building in intensity. The lead female quavered as if in a trance and fell to the earth, guided down by her attendants. I don’t think I need to describe what happened next. I will note only that few animals, even primates, utilise the ‘missionary’ position (as the Sasquatch did). As you might expect, the vocalisations ‘climaxed’ with a triumphant howl from the alpha. Afterwards, he withdrew and knelt, sitting back on his heels, his head bowed. The woman, regaining from her swoon, was helped back away from the clearing towards the shadow by her attendants who petted her head and mewled softly to her. I was so absorbed in watching her being led away that I didn’t notice when the other males began creeping towards the alpha. Even in the moonlight I could see clearly that they each carried a sharp rock in one hand. Suddenly, the alpha reared back and let forth a terrifying howl that temporarily blinded me. My vision regained focus abruptly as the sound ceased in the wet staccato of a blow to the alpha’s skull. The ‘number two’ male stepped away from the alpha as its body shuddered. The others leapt forward, grunting with exertion as they struck the body repeatedly until it toppled to the ground.

  Somewhere through the fog of nightmare shrouding my brain drifted Kirk’s whisper, ‘Population control’.

  The strength of Kirk’s will transmitted through his dispassionate observation brought my own wits back to bear. He was right—if Sasquatch had long ago learned that aversion to our race was necessary to ensure his species’ survival, he would have practiced whatever means necessary to keep his existence secret. Perhaps the reason for this extreme behaviour, this sociological evolution, was lost to time, even for the creatures themselves, even as it remained effective: No Sasquatch was left to become old and infirm, unable to hide the record of his passing; his species would not allow the circumstance to occur. The patriarchal alignment of their social order explained why the sexual dimorphism remained undocumented, and why juveniles were so rarely seen; clearly the males were the ranging, giant beasts occasionally witnessed in the wild, while the women and children remained hidden away ‘in the shadows’. There remained the mystery of their undiscovered dead. That horrific secret was soon revealed.

  The men backed away from the corpse; the women loped forward and bent over it. Short jerks of the shoulders were followed by bent arms tugging back from the fallen. It was only when one of the women stood up to shuffle over and offer the new alpha a flank of steaming meat that I understood what was happening. Large portions of the dead Sasquatch were presented to each of the males. Two of the women then took parts out of view to the ‘honoured’ female and the juveniles. After that, the beasts cut portions for themselves at will and ate enthusiastically. This perfect method of disposal and utilisation of resources was both loathsome and hypnotising to watch. It was only when a drop of sweat stung my eye that I recognised my body was demonstrating the early stages of shock. My heart was beating far too quickly. As much as I hated to put myself into darkness at that moment, I shut my eyes and slowed my breathing. I felt Kirk’s hand on my shoulder and got some sense of reassurance from his presence. I opened my eyes and looked at my companions. They were clearly shaken, but did not seem to be suffering the same level of distress I was. Again, this gave me some sense of reassurance and helped me regain my composure. I felt my muscles loosen and my perception widen. I was able to look back at the savage scene and watch as the Sasquatch dismantled and consumed their comrade. When the meat had been stripped clean, the bones were sat in a shallow depression dug by one of the women at the base of a flattish, upright rock. Then the new alpha went to the rock and pushed it down. The impact resounded with a dull thud; I felt the faint shockwave course through the ground, into my abdomen. The new alpha ran a finger inside a section of the dead Sasquatch’s pelt; he handed the pelt to a woman, stooped towards the rock, and extended his arm to touch it. The woman folded the pelt and placed it in the middle of the clearing. The full company squatted on their haunches, facing the pelt, and bowed their heads in silence. I could hear the faint ruffle of their breath. Kirk, David and I kept deathly still for an hour, watching. One by one the animals turned and padded off down the slopes and into the cover of the trees so stealthily that half their number had gone without my noting their departure. We waited an additional fifteen minutes after the last had left (or an eternity or more, I couldn’t say exactly) before shifting our positions ever so slightly to face each other.

  ‘Exposure?’ I whispered, guessing at the ultimate fate of the Sasquatch pelt.

  Kirk shook his head. ‘They’ll come back. At least one of them. We can’t wait for that.’

  A horrible dread came over me. Despite my generally adventurous nature, despite the nature of the prize and the certain knowledge of what its capture would mean, I said, ‘No.’

  Kirk ignored my protest—or, perhaps, he had greater faith in my courage than I had at the time; he may have guessed the physiological effect the stench was having on me.

  ‘You can sight your gun from there,’ Kirk pointed to a small, twisted shelf up the rock face that was somehow both outcropping and alcove and which afforded a good angle of the clearing and the path my companions would have to take; ‘We’ll take the flashlights and run for Silver Bay, on the lake. Everything else stays.’

  David was changing the tape in his video camera. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Okay. Hang back a bit,’ Kirk instructed David as he handed me the rifle case. He looked at me encouragingly, and with just a touch of a smile as if to say ‘no worries, mate’. There was always something in him that made you believe everything would turn out fine, whatever the risk. Up until that night, it always had.

  I dutifully assembled the rifle, surprised that I could use my hands with any sort of dexterity. I was beginning to believe everything would turn out fine, too. I scampered up to my position. I lay flat on my front and put the night scope to my eye as I worked my elbows into the dirt. Kirk eased himself down the incline towards the thin stand of trees and the plateau beyond. David followed him, ten yards back. David’s face was illuminated by the faint green glow of the LCD screen. Kirk picked his way through the trees carefully. David traced a wider arc, trying to get Kirk in profile as he emerged into the clearing.

  Absolute terror gripped me as a breeze tickled the back of my head.

  Kirk grabbed the pelt and straightened. His head snapped back in my direction. He felt it, too.

  The wind grew more forceful as it shifted again, blowing straight into my face. The stench hit me full. My head went light, my vision swam. I think I heard one angry grunt as I lost consciousness.

 
The sun woke me. Some instinct in my soul celebrated the daylight so profoundly that I didn’t know where I was or care how I came to be there for a full minute. Then the spell was broken and my heart sank. I looked down to the clearing on the plateau and saw several smears of blood seeping into the dirt. I scampered down to our campsite but there was no trace of our having been there at all. I have to assume that my position slightly further up the mountain, aided by a surfeit of luck, enabled me to remain undiscovered in the night, improbable as it seems to me even now. I went down to the clearing carelessly. The awful scent had mostly dispersed; I knew no Sasquatch was anywhere near. It occurred to me then that their scent was another evolutionary advantage designed for isolation; it drove potential witnesses away, or disabled those foolish enough not to flee. It may be that those who survive sighting a Sasquatch are those sensible enough not to engage him. There was no telling if the blood on the ground was the dead Sasquatch’s or that of my friends. From the patterns presented, I guessed that it was not solely that of the beast. Of Kirk or David, I could see no sign. I walked to the toppled rock. On it were a short series of diagonal and vertical hatch-marks like the ones we’d seen and promptly dismissed the day before. A grim resolution came over me. I decided that, whatever the fate of my friends, the goal of the expedition would be realised: I would bring back a Sasquatch’s bone.

  To lift the stone was unthinkable. I soon saw the futility of scratching with my hands at the earth around the rock. I disassembled the rifle and began cutting into the dirt with the barrel. It was difficult work, but I was soon able to squeeze my arm through the hasty opening and feel around at the edge of the shallow pit dug under the rock. Sharp shards of broken bone pricked my searching fingers. I felt the wet knot of a bone’s end and stretched further, crushing my shoulder against the rock. Finally I grasped the thing and withdrew my arm, scraping my knuckles as I pulled the large particle free from the hole. I held in my scraped and bleeding hand what I took to be the top end of the femur. The shaft of the bone was crushed and broken shortly after the bone narrowed, about six inches along. Dirty bits of cartilage and tendon still clung to the bone. There was nothing else to do with it but put it in my pocket. I suppose I could have stayed and attempted to excavate further, to recover more samples. But I feared discovery, even though I felt sure none of the creatures were nearby. The strain of the evening doubtless inclined me to leave as quickly as possible. This is probably the reason I didn’t think to recover the hole I’d dug.