As they bounced along the rough road in their horse-drawn wagon Ben’s eyes admittedly were unable to focus very well. Everything was blurred by the jogging movements of the wheels hitting all the ruts. But what he thought he saw through the Ponderosa Pine branches was startling. Excitedly, Ben said to Fanny Kate, “Can you see that black thing moving across the hills over there”? as he pointed toward the sun. The horses hesitated for a second, then whinnied.

Fanny Kate looked in vain. “I can’t see anything but the pines and the brown hills,’’ she said, squinting.

“It’s gone now, but it looked like that Big Foot thing we heard about!” Ben said, almost in a whisper.

“Aw,” she said, “You don’t believe that stuff do you?”

“Well . . . no,” he said, “But it sure was strange. It looked like it was walking upright on two legs and was very hairy; I don’t think it was a bear.”

Fanny Kate scowled, then laughed teasingly, “You always have had a very active imagination.”
“Well . . . maybe . . . but I know I saw something,” he shrugged.

Ben and Fanny Kate were on their way home from Placerville, after bringing a load of lumber from Coloma to the workers there. Families were building houses for the folks who were settling the area, hoping to make their fortunes, searching for gold.

It was a long trip so they had to stay overnight with their Aunt May and uncle Max, who had settled a homestead in the wilderness several years before the gold rush had even begun. Max’s brother and his wife, May, had established a delivery business in the area, delivering dry good and building materials between the small towns that were now springing up everywhere. Ben and Fanny Kate often made the deliveries while their parents managed the home place near Coloma.

That night, Ben couldn’t get the black shape moving across the hills out of his mind. It moved almost like it was human, he thought. As he lay in bed reliving that haunting image, he was suddenly frozen by a very strange sound echoing through the Pine trees. It was close. There was a quality of despair about it. It screeched only once. He was too frightened to look out the window; He just lay there, almost paralyzed for much of the night.

The next morning in the kitchen, before Fanny Kate was up, Ben asked his uncle Max if he had heard anything in the night. He looked at Ben with a strangely piercing stare, “What is it you heard, son?”

“Well, it was like a screech, but it had a longing sound, too, like it wanted help.”

“What you heard was a screech owl; they sound like that,” he said. But there was something about the way Max said this that left some doubt.

Fanny Kate appeared at the kitchen door, “Are you still going on about that thing you saw in the pines yesterday?” She accused.

“I just couldn’t get it off my mind, but I guess Uncle Max is right about the sound I heard last night,” Ben said.

What did you hear?” she asked in a more sincere tone.

“Well, it was a screech, like an owl . . . like uncle Max said, but there was something else, too, like it needed something.”

“Oh, I heard that; it was a bit scary, but I agree with uncle Max, it sounded like a screech owl.”

“What’s all this intensity so early in the morning?” Aunt May said as she came in the kitchen and pulled out the big iron skillet, placing it on the stove top.

“They both heard the screech owl last night,” Uncle Max said. Their eyes met knowingly, as if there was some secret between them.

“Eggs, oatmeal and toast, okay? Mary smiled at Ben and Fanny Kate.

“I sure love your bacon-gravy and biscuits, Aunt Mary,” Ben said enthusiastically.

“I can do that, Mary said, “But you’ll have to go out to the spring house to get the bacon.”

Sure, no problem,” said Ben. As he climbed up the hill toward the springhouse, he was almost paralyzed by the sight of red blotches spattered over the granite rocks, which led up to the spring house. He froze momentarily, then ran back toward the house in a panic, yelling, “Uncle Max, uncle Max, I knew there was some kind of wounded thing out here,” he cried as he came through the kitchen door; “There’s blood all over the path up to the spring house!”

Max and Mary again gave each other a knowing glance. Max said, “Oh, Ben – that’s nothing but the blood from the hog we slaughtered yesterday. I think your imagination sure is getting the better of you.” Ben was relieved but he couldn’t help but note the worrisome look on Max’s face. He went back out to the spring house and found some sides of bacon and the slaughtered hog hanging from hooks. He chose the leanest one he could find, lifted it off the hook and kicked the spring house door closed with his foot as he passed through, forgetting to replace the latch.

He brought the bacon in and gave it to May searching her face for more clues that there might be something not-quite-right going on. Mary avoided eye contact and focused on sharply cutting the strips of bacon off the side. “You chose a good piece, Ben,” she said in an almost-too-calm voice.

Ben and Fanny Kate enjoyed a hardy breakfast, before parting for home. “Did you notice anything strange about Uncle Max and Aunt May?” he asked as they rumbled along the winding trail.

Fanny Kate said, “No, not really. Why, what are you talking about.”

“I don’t know. They just seemed to be hiding something, but maybe it is just my imagination.” They stopped to eat the lunch Aunt May had prepared for them along the deep-flowing Feather River. Ben thought he heard something in the Madrone shrub across the river. They strained to see through the thick foliage but didn’t see anything. They made it back home a little after three in the afternoon, glad to be back in the safety and comfort of their own home, had delicious dinner of cornbread and stew, and went to bed early because they were very tired from the journey. As Ben closed his eyes, he saw the image of a black, upright animal of some sort. “I guess I do have quite an imagination,” he thought to himself.

A few days later, as they were all out working in the vegetable garden, their cousin, George, from Placerville rode up. He had a very serious look of concern on his face. “I have some bad news for you all,” he said in a fearful voice. “I went to see Max and May on Sunday. Their place was a disaster. Something had completely torn up their house – furniture ripped up, dishes pulled out of the cabinets, beds turned over and the pantry goods strewn everywhere. The spring house was completely demolished! And Max and May weren’t there! There’s a scouting party out looking for ‘em.”

No one ever heard from Uncle Max or Aunt Mary again.

 

J Grant a retired social worker and recent graduate of New Directions, a writing program sponsored by the Washington/Baltimore Center for Psychoanalysis. His work has been recognized by The Ravens Perch, Memoir Magazine, The Wayne Literary Review, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Raw Art Review and other literary journals.