Ben lingered over a quote from Sheriff N. Nolan. “At present, there is nothing to indicate these disappearances are out of the ordinary. Cases of missing livestock are common given the prevalence of overdevelopment. Reports of coyotes, forced out of their natural habitats, are found throughout the state. The Sheriff’s Department takes each and every claim seriously, but there is nothing to lead us to think of these disappearances as suspect.”
Ben read the sheriff’s quote twice and laughed. His voice mingled with the sound of Dylan’s harmonica. Ben recalled Sheriff Harold made a similar statement some twenty years prior, before he resigned in disgrace over the Harper boy’s disappearance. Deputy Nate Nolan had succeeded Harold. Ben thought it odd that Nate would fall into the same trap as his predecessor.
Three hours and as many cups of coffee later, and Ben had read every relevant article he could find from Point Pleasant’s online version of the Gazette, but the website only went back as far as 2005.
Ben continued his search with Google where ‘livestock disappearances + mason county + west virginia’ and ‘missing cattle + mason county + west virginia’ revealed that various farmers throughout Point Pleasant’s home county had reported numerous disappearances over the last ten years. There was not a distinct pattern, and there was nothing to unite the events outside of the fact they all occurred in Mason County. A quick search for similar disappearances in the neighboring counties of Jefferson, Putnam, and Cabell yielded few, if any, results. The same was true for the counties on the Ohio side of the state line.
Ben checked the pad with his scribbled notes. He counted and found that going back as far as 1999, there had been over thirty instances of strange thefts and disappearances of local livestock in Mason County within a thirty mile radius of Point Pleasant. The timings were random; in some cases, a year or more would pass in between the reports.
An Internet search would reveal only so much, of course, and Ben knew that he would need to peruse the actual records from around the county to get a better idea of how many legitimate cases there had been over the years.
For all the reported missing livestock, it seemed that none of the animals had been recovered, not even the tagged ones. It also seemed that—much like in the events of Ben’s youth in Point Pleasant—the remains of the absent sheep and cattle had not been recovered either. Perhaps some of the animals had been found, though. Reclaimed farm animals might not make the papers, after all; people wanted the bad news, not the good.
So much for coyotes.
Ben returned to the Google homepage and entered another search: ‘missing person + point pleasant.’ He scanned through the results and found outdated reports of children abducted by estranged parents and runaway teens who had returned home, but no one from the area had gone permanently missing in the last ten years. He would have heard about it; he might not live in Point Pleasant anymore, but he talked to his father enough that something as significant as a missing person would have been brought up during one of their fleeting conversations. He widened the search to ‘mason county + west virginia’ but again there were no immediate listings for reports of especially suspicious missing persons.
Tap-tap-tap went the gentle patter of plastic against denim as Ben flicked the head of his pen on his knee. There were plenty of cases of missing livestock, but they might not be linked. They might be total coincidences. But Ben knew better. That morning in the forest, at the break of dawn, he had discovered what lived in the area surrounding the old TNT factory. The memory of it had lingered under the dim, flickering streetlight over the dark corner of his mind for over twenty years.
Ben checked the clock on the wall and was surprised to see it was almost midnight. He buzzed with nervous energy, and he knew it was not solely due to the amount of coffee he had consumed during the last few hours of research. This felt significant. This felt like something that needed to be looked into, and, judging by Lizzie’s article in the Gazette, it was obviously not going to be investigated by the Mason County Sheriff’s Department.
Get back to your roots. Caroline from the bookstore had called her suggestion ‘cliché,’ but Ben thought it sage advice for a writer who felt like a rudderless plane stranded on the runway of some isolated airport.
Ben had based an entire literary career around a few hours in a dark forest. Perhaps what he needed to revive the dwindling sentiment he lacked in his most recent work was not something that he would discover on the other side of the world. Maybe he would find it back where it had originated: in Point Pleasant.
He shut his laptop, made sure it was plugged in to charge, and headed downstairs to the front door where his bags were still in a heap on the floor. He picked them up, carried them to the utility room adjacent to the front hallway, and started pulling garments out of the bags to shove into the washing machine. He would leave first thing in the morning, but he needed clean clothes.
As Ben lay awake in the messy bed he had not bothered to make the morning he had embarked on his trip over a month ago, he regretted his decision to have that final coffee. When unconsciousness finally overtook him, he dreamed of red eyes and the flutter of wings for the first time in years.
POINT PLEASANT, WEST VIRGINIA
August 1991
Ben had no idea what they were going to do when they reached their bikes. Nicholas was swift on his Schwinn; he always just managed to beat Ben during their impromptu races around Point Pleasant’s quiet streets. But even Nicholas would not be able to out-pedal this thing. It was fast. And if Nicholas could not beat it, Ben probably had about the same chance of survival as a popsicle in hell.
Nicholas must have had a similar thought given the look of sheer panic on his face as they entered a clearing. Ben could see the opening to the forest and the shrubbery that concealed their bikes. He supposed that they had nothing to lose; there was nowhere else to run and at least on the bikes they would go faster than they had managed on foot.
Ben’s lungs burned, but he pushed himself to run faster. Then he heard it: a loud thud. The noise was followed by a keen awareness that Nicholas was no longer at his side. Ben skidded to a halt and spun around, but he did not see his friend. He doubled back without thought.
“Nic!”
A hand latched onto Ben’s shoulder, and he was yanked against a nearby oak. Nicholas had stumbled, but he had pulled himself up behind the trunk. He put a finger to his own lips, and Ben nodded and kept quiet. He swallowed down a rush of fear when he realized he could no longer hear the sound of wings flapping or branches breaking. Nicholas stared up at the surrounding treetops as if to try to spot the thing again while Ben kept his gaze level and scanned the area for any indication of where it might have gone.
“I don’t see it,” Nicholas whispered and elbowed Ben to catch his attention. Nicholas’ dark hair was more ruffled than usual, and his blue eyes were darkened with fear. “Maybe it gave up.”
Ben shot Nicholas a look. “That’s what they always think in the movies. Then the monster eats them.”
“This isn’t a movie, Ben.”
Ben shifted free of Nicholas’ hand. “No, really, you think? I say we keep running for the bikes. It’s all we can do, and they’re just over there,” he said, gesturing toward the shrubbery.
Nicholas conceded with a nod, but his posture remained tense. The plan was a shoddy one, but it seemed to be their only option. They could not stay in the forest; it could return any minute.
“Let’s go,” Nicholas said finally. “I’ll keep an eye above us, you keep lookout on the ground.”
Their pace was cautious as they trudged forward.
“It really has red eyes,” Ben said, his voice hushed. “Really red.”
“Shut up, Ben.”
“I’m just saying.”
They were less than fifty feet from their bikes, and neither one of them had spotted any sign of the thing. The Mothman, Ben guessed he should call it; the town’s urban legend was definitely real, and every horrifying detail of it ma
de Ben’s skin crawl. It looked nothing like a moth, though, so the name just did not ring true. Ruth Calloway had done the Mothman a disservice when she had described it to them on all of those random summer afternoons. She never told them that it had scaly, gray skin or that its wings were more akin to a bat’s than a moth’s. Or that those appendages were huge.
When the Mothman had first risen up in a clearing and interrupted Ben and Nicholas’ journey to the old TNT factory, its arms and legs dangled from its long, awkward body as its wings beat the air and sent up clouds of dust and dirt. Its upper torso was nauseatingly thin with the sharp indications of a ribcage visible through its skin. Its gut was swollen as if it had just eaten a large meal. In the back of Ben’s mind, he wondered if that was because it had enjoyed a one-course meal in the form of little Grant Harper.
The Mothman had opened its wide mouth and uttered the most frightening noise Ben had ever heard; it was shrill, sharp, and sounded like a school bus full of screaming children taking a nosedive into a ravine.
As it flew at them, Ben caught a fleeting glimpse of its eyes before he and Nicholas turned and ran for their lives. The wide orbs were a sickening, unnatural scarlet not unlike the shade of Nicholas’ bicycle.
Unadulterated relief rushed through Ben when he finally saw the red of that same bicycle through the thicket. Without speaking a word, Ben met Nicholas’ gaze. They nodded to each other and broke into a sprint.
Nicholas pulled his Schwinn out with little effort, hopped onto the saddle, and shoved off toward the road. Ben tugged at his blue Huffy, but it caught on the foliage. Goosebumps rocketed across every inch of his skin when he heard it again; the Mothman let out its wretched wail as it reappeared several feet away from Ben, who still struggled to liberate his bike.
“Ben!” Nicholas yelled, his voice thick with terror.
Ben yanked with a strength that should not have been possible for a twelve-year-old boy, and his Huffy came free of the tangled mess of vegetation that anchored it. He lost his footing, sprawled backwards, and cried out when he landed on a large rock that jutted out from the dirt beneath him. The bike fell on top of him with a painful thud and an awkward jab of the handlebar.
“Ben!!” Nicholas repeated, but Ben could not see his best friend; he could only see the thing as it lumbered toward him, slow and stalking, with its wings drawn tight behind its back.
It jumped, and one of its wings unfurled to bat something away from its head. Rocks, Ben realized. Nicholas had leapt from his bike and was throwing rocks at the Mothman’s head.
Ben scrambled to his feet and dragged his bike along with him as he rushed past the creature, who was still occupied with defending itself against Nicholas’ well-aimed assault. Ben jumped on his bike just as Nicholas threw one final rock and then climbed back onto his Schwinn.
“Go!” Nicholas bellowed, and Ben needed no further encouragement.
They set off down River Bend Road. Ben pedaled as fast as his legs would work. Adrenaline fueled his every movement. He gripped the handlebars of his bike and pushed himself harder.
Nicholas cried out a curse, but Ben barely heard the colorful word over the thumping timbre of blood in his ears. He spared a look over his shoulder and saw that the Mothman had recovered from Nicholas’ attack and had taken flight once more.
In the morning light, Ben marveled over its considerable wingspan as the Mothman flew over the open road. He forced his legs to move faster, and his thoughts wandered to Mrs. Calloway; it had chased her car like a cat chases a mouse.
Ben and Nicholas were now the mice.
Something cold and solid brushed against the nape of Ben’s neck; it was a wing. The Mothman had caught up with them. Ben had known their bikes were no match for its speed, but he had hoped they would have gotten further down the stretch of River Bend Road.
Ben screamed a curse of his own when the sudden crack of a shotgun filled the morning air with a sharp, distinctive KAPOW!
The creature hovering above Ben’s head let out another bloodcurdling scream and flew upwards, but Ben did not stop to see where it had gone.
“It’s Mr. Tucker!” Nicholas shouted, and Ben turned his focus to the road ahead.
Bill Tucker stood with a Remington shotgun in his hands and the barrel still aimed outward as he balanced on the hood of his parked Ford pickup truck. Ben realized that they had cycled at least a mile and were just coming up on the long, gravel driveway that led to Tucker’s farm. By some stroke of luck that Ben would never be able to explain, Tucker must have been on his way to town and had come across the chase just in time.
Ben and Nicholas slowed their pace before they came to a screeching stop beside Tucker’s truck. The man fired another shot, though there was no resounding scream this time. Ben stumbled off his bike so that he could spin around and see if the creature lay dead in the middle of the road, but there was nothing there. The Mothman had disappeared.
Ben panted for breath and slumped against the bed of the Ford. He slid down until he crouched on the ground in an attempt to collect himself.
“Where’d it go??” Nicholas asked, darting his eyes around the tree line that surrounded the road.
“Not far,” Tucker replied, his voice like a gruff rumble of thunder. “I hit it with the first shot. Got it in the wing, I’m sure of it.”
Nicholas sank onto the asphalt at Ben’s side.
“What in damnation are you two knuckleheads doing out here at this time of morning?” Tucker asked as he leapt off the hood of his truck and reloaded the barrels of the shotgun. “Never mind. I don’t even want to know. Get in the truck.”
Nicholas stood first and offered Ben his right hand. He seemed shaken, though not as badly as Ben, who needed a few extra seconds before he rose with Nicholas’ assistance.
Every nerve in Ben’s body danced and quivered as if electrified. Nicholas opened the driver’s side door of the truck and pushed Ben inside before he clambered in as well. Ben moved to the furthest side of the front seat—a bench with dirty, tattered leather lining—and rolled up the passenger window.
The heavy thump of metal on metal broke the eerie silence of the road when Tucker heaved the bicycles into the bed of his truck. He hauled himself in behind the steering wheel and pulled the door shut. The noxious squeal of the door’s hinges sent a shudder down Ben’s spine.
Tucker pulled off his soiled, red baseball cap to wipe a film of sweat from his dark brow. He started the truck, and its engine roared to life as he slid the cap back on his head.
Ben stared out the dirty front window and continued to perch on the edge of the front seat with a rigidity to his posture that was alien to him. Andrew was fond of poking at Ben’s back while saying, “Sit up straight before you get stuck like that, Benji.” As Ben eyed the tree line, he yearned for his father’s presence.
“Where are you going?” Nicholas asked.
Only then did Ben realize that Tucker had turned the truck toward the direction they had just come from rather than toward town.
“Gonna see if I can see it,” Tucker replied. “And if I need to put it out of its misery.”
Nicholas nodded, but Ben gave Tucker a wild look. No, no, no. You don’t go check on it. You never go check on it. That’s the unspoken rule of all good, bad, and horrendously cheesy horror movies.
Ben knew that if Andrew could see his son’s total panic, he would give a lecture on how Ben should not be such a baby. But a giant bat with glowing red eyes had not almost airlifted Andrew off his bike, had it?
As Tucker’s truck crawled toward where they had lost sight of the creature, Ben shifted closer to Nicholas. The three passengers peered out the driver’s side window, which Ben had been remiss to roll up.
The Ford came to a standstill. Tucker put it into gear and killed the engine. Morning birdsong cascaded through the thicket of trees, but there was no sign of movement from the forest.
Tucker shifted to open his door, but Nicholas put a hand on the farmer’s right forear
m. “Please don’t, sir.”
The man leveled them with a stolid stare. “I’ve got my gun.”
Nicholas shook his head, but Tucker kicked open his door and hopped out of the truck.
The farmer walked to the shoulder of the road and reloaded his Remington. He pulled the forend with a sharp click as he edged closer to the forest. Nicholas skidded across the leather seat, pulled the driver’s side door shut, and rolled up its window with a few quick jerks of the manual handle.
The dense woods obscured Tucker’s reassuring presence, and Ben did not realize that he had been holding his breath until Nicholas said, “Breathe, Ben. Jeez.”
Ben’s eyes danced from the tree line to Nicholas, and he was ready to shoot his best friend a glare, but Nicholas looked as frightened as Ben felt. Ben took a deep breath when Tucker completely disappeared from viewpoint.
“Crazy fool,” Nicholas said.
“Crazy fool saved our lives,” Ben replied.
They sat side-by-side for what seemed like a small eternity. It was too early for most cars to be on the road this far out of town, and the forest itself was still and silent. Ben managed to gain some control over himself, and he was pleased that Nicholas had stopped giving him cautious, worried little glances while they waited for Tucker to return.
“What if he doesn’t come back?” Nicholas asked in a hushed, hurried whisper to give voice to the fear that Ben knew they had both entertained since Tucker first disappeared into the forest.
“He will,” Ben said. “He’ll come back.”
Ben did not know why he felt so sure of this; he barely knew Tucker to speak of him, but something about the sight of the man poised on the hood of his pickup truck with a shotgun at the ready inspired a certain amount of confidence.
Still, Ben reached up and took hold of the arrowhead he wore on a leather cord around his neck. Nicholas had given it to him as a birthday gift the previous October. Ben had first spotted the artifact in Marietta Abernathy’s Antiques Shop on Main Street a few weeks before Nicholas presented it to him with a wide smile. The arrowhead was flat and smooth save for a small carving of the famous Shawnee Chief Tecumseh’s head on the front side.
Point Pleasant Page 3