Written by Isaac Barker
12/02/52
I don’t usually hunt at night. Too many things can go wrong. But I couldn’t sleep.
Too often I would finally doze off, then feel a fierce shiver through my spine. I think Buddy felt it too, with his eyes darting every which way. The cold didn’t help, either. I had to keep a single window open to keep all the rest from frosting, but the breeze was pushing in from every side; every time I closed one window and opened another, the cold would find that new entrance to force itself through. I even tried pushing the bed to the furthest corner of the cabin, but the grumble of my stomach kept me from resting anyway.
So, despite the danger—and the stories—I grabbed my handy double-barrel, and we headed into the woods. I had my light with me, and I know the woods better than anyone, aside from Buddy.
The woods were starved, too. Dead leaves and twigs crunched under our feet, as much as I tried to avoid it. If it weren’t for the hunger, I would’ve given up on hunting then and there. The cold wind whistled in my ears. All the leaves it could’ve brushed through were stuck in the shallow snow. Outside the few feet of light the lamp gave us, the forest was dead quiet.
I don’t know how long we’d been walking. It could have been ten minutes or an hour; it was hard to tell under a new moon, but I finally caught sight of a hare. It saw me too, but I aimed my gun and shot at it before it had the chance to bound off into the darkness.
I couldn’t believe my luck that I managed to hit the thing, what with the sound of crunching boots and paws on the cold dead ground of dried brush—thinking it was luck was stupid. When I grabbed it, I noticed the scratches on its leg. They were deep and raw, almost jagged. The hare must’ve struggled hard just to run into us. The wounds were too big to be inflicted from a stray cat, but far too small for a bear. I thought it’d be a mountain lion. I know better, now.
I collected a bundle of twigs and used my light. Then gut the critter, and cooked it for us. Still, it was a skinny thing. My stomach wasn’t half full by the time we’d finished, and I knew Buddy felt the same. He’d gone skinny, too, since the start of the winter. And I could see his fur tight to his ribs.
I stood and snuffed the fire.
Buddy stood too, but a moment on his feet and his eyes were staring past me, the fur over his spine spiking in warning. He growled at the darkness, tail between his legs and teeth bared. I caught a glimpse of it, a shadowy creature dashing between the trees. It was a black darker than the night. I wouldn’t have caught it if it weren’t for its eyeshine.
I didn’t hesitate to fire my gun. The dark forest turned day for a moment, then the creature let out a screech louder than the gun—the sound of the creature was alien and shrill, with a rage behind it I couldn’t pin on any animal I’d ever heard. It scattered off into the abyss, but left behind its tail. I’d nicked it.
I reloaded my gun, but the little beast was well gone.
I collected the tail. It was grungy and black, like that of a rotting predator, or one that had been singed. Whatever was in that darkness, I well knew at that point it was no mountain lion.
It would’ve been past midnight, and we were overdue to return home.
When we arrived back at the cabin, I first reloaded the gun, then I lit the fireplace and stupidly kept the lamp alight. I took the fireplace poker and jabbed it into the open bone of the tail. I skinned the tail and cooked it in the fire.
It wasn’t much meat, but it helped ease the hunger. With fuller bellies and the warmth of the fire, I dozed off.
Maybe it was a dream or a premonition, but I heard its voice.
Where’s my tailypo, tailypo, tailypo?
It sounded like a bedridden hag. Aged by alcohol and speaking through breaths of smoke.
Again, I felt its eyes on me. It sent me back to the forest. It was dark, and I didn’t have Buddy with me. I felt the breeze, heard the whistle of it. I could see the silhouettes of the trees through the faint light the night sky gave. Between those trees, I saw its glowing beads circling me.
I woke from a cool breeze pushing in through the chimney, splashing ash onto the cabin floor. I was in a cold sweat, and I searched the room. Buddy wasn’t in view, either. He’d be under the crawlspace of the house, I figured.
Then, I heard scratching against brick. I saw the dust fall into the fireplace.
That shrill voice rang out.
Where’s my tailypo, tailypo, tailypo?
A dark, clawed hand reached out from the chimney—and it hollered again in a deep hiss.
Where’s my tailypo, tailypo, tailypo!?
The word was a deep growl.
It had caught me off-guard, I can admit. But I am not prey. I backed to the dining room and grabbed my shotgun. When I returned, the hand was gone — but scratch marks were gouged deep into the brick around the fireplace.
I kicked the floormat out of the way and opened the cellar door. I called Buddy down from outside into the cellar, and watched his back while he came through to trot down into the dark. I followed behind him, never turning my back to the room and closed the cellar hatch. I grabbed the matches at the base of the ladder—fiddling around in the pitch-black darkness—and lit the lamp in the room.
I don’t know how long I sat on that stool, watching the cellar hatch with my shotgun. Listening out for stepping, for scratches, for something. Anything. There was nothing.
It had to be at least two hours before I climbed up the ladder and pushed on the cellar hatch, but it didn’t budge. Wood splinted against my shoulder, but there was no breaking through—there is no breaking through.
I’m now sat in the corner of the room against the wall, watching the wax drip to the base of the lamp as my time in the light slowly runs out.
Buddy is in the corner opposite me, shrouded in darkness. I can see the shine of his eyes, the white glare through the darkness.
It’s been maybe another hour since I last wrote. Those eyes of his haven’t blinked. It’s unnerving.
It’s like a force is trying to push that fear into me.
When I called Buddy down, I was so focused on making sure nothing followed him, I don’t think I looked at him; I just followed what I assumed was the sound of his footsteps
I can see the eyes above my pen and paper. Staring.
I’ve called his name. ‘Buddy! Buddy!’
Nothing. It haunts me to think of it, but in those ten minutes of a staring contest, I considered firing my bullet into that dark corner.
No. I’ll be honest, I’m still considering it. I’ve laid the gun down, but it’s still pointed at it. Buddy should’ve reacted to the end of a gun. He’s been with me long enough to know this stick goes boom.
Those eyes terrify me. I’m not sure if I want to know if it’s Buddy or not. I want to know I’m not alone down here, and the lamp is already sputtering. But what if it is that creature? What if
The lamp died. I managed to reignite it with another match but I don’t know how much longer I have before it goes out for good. I want to be positive. To think that the village will realise it’s been a while since I visited, and come to the mountains to find me. But I’m not stupid. Even if they thought that, they aren’t coming up to the mountains.
…
…
…
I could try to shoot the hatch, but chances are the slug will just go through whatever is blocking it, and I still wouldn’t be able to get out. I know there’s a better use of my last two slugs.
Guess I’ll burn the last blank pages of this diary before I go.
Author Bio:
Isaac J. Barker is an aspiring writer, experimenting and developing his writing voice through attempts at poetry, short stories, longer fiction, playwrights, essays, and more. Isaac’s works are influenced by philosophical activity of all kinds in the moral, existential, and epistemological spheres.