“The Link Between Those With Thumbs”

        There are topics of the paranormal that have been studied and explored to such a tiring degree and yet have yielded no fruitful truths, only generating electrifying false narratives that keep people up at night. These tales will mostly make their way in and out of conversation with real detectives with no new angle or development. The Author didn’t know why he took this particular caller tip more seriously than the others but it was based on a gut feeling, the least scientific measurement possible. It wasn’t for absolutely no reason, however, as his interest peaked after one tiny detail emerged – “no human could have strangled this bear,” said the caller. He asked for what evidence the caller had and he simply said “the bear, I have it, right here.”

        The Author loaded up his truck with camping equipment and decided to pay the strangled bear a visit. The caller lived in a small country town just about an hour and a half away, finding the scene while hiking in a nearby park. The Author arrived at the edge of the forest and parked in the visitor lot, a few kilometers walk from the final destination.

It was early in the afternoon and the sun was still shining through his shaded sunglasses as he stroked the handlebar mustache that sat on his face and around his lips like a half-coiled, fuzzy anaconda. He wore a camo hat to further conceal his identity, despite his celebrity status being limited to a radio host of a show with only double digit listeners.

The rendezvous location was at one of the checkpoints in the park where the caller would then lead the Author to the slightly decomposed bear. The man told him that he was just getting some extra exercise and relaxation by hiking when he came upon the animal. He was an amateur powerlifter who often lifted stones and pulled heavy tractor tires, telling the Author so because in all his years competing, he never saw anyone that strong to not only withstand a bear's offensive attack but also crush its windpipe in the manner that he saw.

        He was standing at the agreed spot and they shook hands, introducing themselves. The caller, real name Otto, brought the Author about 2 kilos further into the forest, trying to conjure up some small talk but this was strictly business and any personal information about the radio host was locked away.

The Author questioned Otto’s theories on what he saw to hopefully extinguish any doubts of a hoax. Otto was an avid bigfoot believer after all, as well as many other cryptids, but he made it a point that this was the only in-person experience he had ever had. He wanted to believe it but had enough self-respect to not try and talk himself into a life if he hadn’t ever seen something with his own two eyes.

The two arrived at the bear, laid on its back and now further turned into mush, collecting legions of hungry flies and pulsating munching maggots that would help nature run its course. They walked over to see the all-telling neck of the bear and a single bead of sweat quickly formed on the side of the Author’s forehead at the sight. It was totally crushed, squeezed like an aluminum soda can, completely contrasting the size of the head above and the mighty chest below. A grip unlike anything on earth.

Next, the Author examined the nails of the bear , where there was plenty of dried and crusty black blood to give evidence of combat or possibly, self-defense. You could spend all the time in the world thinking of animals that could win fights against bears but none of them would match this description. If someone smuggled in an animal for some sick deathmatch, it would take an elephant, rhino or maybe a hippo to outlast a bear and their attack methods would never match this.

        The Author took several pictures and samples of the area, thanked Otto for his information and was about to part ways when he mentioned one last nugget of knowledge of the area. There was a famous stock car racetrack nearby that’s filled with a group of bigfoot hunters. Otto claimed that he never talked with them about the subject and didn’t want to report this particular find because they emphasize that they are hunters of bigfoot, not just curious enthusiasts wanting to witness the ‘squatch. For the listeners of Darkest Entry radio, the Author encourages an attitude of coexistence with the paranormal and Otto recognized that these people had perverted aspirations of mounting Bigfoot's head like a trophy on the wall. It’s possible that they have more information from their excursions in the same forest, drunk as they may have been.

        The two said their goodbyes and the Author promised that he would share the results of the investigation on the airwaves with all the other listeners. The scene was well documented and then it was time to set up camp for the evening. In a few hours, mosquitos would begin their sundown feasts on all exposed flesh and the owls would hoot along with the arrival of the moon. The Author would be returning here but after first making a quick trip to the race track just to make sure he had exhausted all resources. He didn’t want to get too close with wannabe paranormal trophy hunters but if they had any recent observations of this bigfoot or whatever it may be, then it could potentially make the investigation that much easier. It also might help to know when their hunts take place so there is not a drunken present delivered from the barrel of a gun.

        The evening races were in their final preparations when the Author arrived. You could hear all the engines revving up, the raucous crowd was pouring in with their ice chests stocked with beer and their favorite racer’s faces printed across the shirts they wore. The Author was no stranger to the countryside or the people that lived there but the town where the races were taking place truly had the reddest of necks. Hardworking farmers, truck drivers and tradespeople all looked to wash away the day's stresses with the roaring motors and thundering pipes as they made their way past the vibrating asphalt and up the clunky metal bleachers. The Author was wearing his camping attire and fit right in as many others were also making a weekend out of the event and would be around outdoors as well, pitching tents on the campgrounds with friends and family.  

        He sat smack dab in the middle of the bleachers to get a good observational point to look for those folks that matched Otto’s description. Most of the teams were wearing matching uniforms with sponsorship logos across nearly every available space. He used binoculars to scan around and observe the various pit crews until one particular fellow stood out. He was very large compared to the rest of his team and any other teams for that matter. He was easily over two meters tall with a huge, healthy bush of hair that went down to his shoulders with an equally bushy beard covering the front of his face as well. He wore a long sleeve shirt and long pants with knee pads and massive boots, covering almost all of his skin from head to toe. The arms of his shirts and pants stretched from the bulk of his flesh as he spun several tools around various nuts and bolts on different parts of the car. He was an intimidating figure and certainly someone you’d want your team to hunt down a bear-strangling cryptid, though even someone like this might not be able to overcome that strength.

        Among all the sponsorship patches seen on the various team uniforms, one team patch stuck out above the rest – Sasquatch Watch. The Author heard of the company before, some sort of tactical gear company that claimed to be owned by military veterans and sold over-the-top tools for civilians that they would wait all their life to feel that the purchase was justified. For example, the local TV commercial for the brand advertised thermal glasses with full-body heat imaging. It showed some guy in cargo shorts using them to hunt down a deer with a rifle with so many attachments, you’d think he was hunting a group of rebel mercenaries. “A man’s way to fight the unknown”, the tag line said with a deep baritone voice over the twangs of a distorted guitar.

        The driver laid on a hammock next to the teamcar while wearing his uniform, a mask over his eyes and his shoes kicked off. They were clearly confident at what they were doing and were fan favorites as the face of the driver was on so many of the shirts that were around the racetrack. Many of the crew members were rowdy, horseplaying around as they suited up the car for piston-firing battle.

        The Author cracked open a lemon-lime soda and watched on as the cars lined up to the starting line and the crowd began to roar louder and louder for the carbon fiber horses. He talked to a man sitting next to him with his family and asked what were the storylines of the drivers this week, were there any rivalries or underdogs that  should be paid attention to. He told the Author the Sasquatch Watch car was on a streak lately, winning four of the last five races. The Bobby Bobby Bobson’s Tires car came in second several of the last races and was looking for their first win of the season. He mentioned four or five cars that could potentially win but he would place his money on the Chili Bean Dreams car because he heard they had an engine overhaul done thanks to a huge donation from local business man, Turk Madderson.

        The Author then asked what he thought about the hulking mechanic that dwarved those working alongside him. He said that he was an all-star mechanic that die-hard fans spoke about with high regard. Not much was known about him, he didn’t say a single word to anybody. No one knew if it was by choice or if he was physically unable to. He just did his job and did it with ease thanks to his calculative brain and sturdy strength behind the tools. The Author thanked him and gave a friendly smile to the man’s family, enjoying the kindness that one doesn’t easily find in the city. They clanked their cans together in hopes of a good race.

        The race was eventful with a tight four way dogfight over the second half of the two-hundred lap race. Sasquatch Watch mostly stayed in first with Chili Bean Dreams, Bobby Bobby Bobson and the veteran Dr. Willie’s Wild Willie Pill cars changed their places again and again throughout the race. In the end, Sasquatch Watch pulled away and secured victory after one last close call with the Bobby Bobby Bobson car where they nearly collided with each other but Bobby Bobby Bobson’s evasive maneuver blocked the other two cars, causing them to slam their brakes and lose all their momentum to catch first.

        The driver of the Sasquatch Watch hopped out of his car triumphantly, blasting a champagne cork straight into the crowd, hitting an older gentleman right in his bald spot as he wildly waved his cowboy hat in support of the car. Deder Vonman, the driver of the victorious car, had his name flashing on the large LED screen at the center of the audience stands as his theme songs rattled the ears of all those either cheering in support or those booing out of favor for their chosen driver. He was cocky and waved goodbye to the other drivers that were piling in behind him, not exchanging any friendly wishes with the losers of the race. The scenes continued for quite some time but it was apparent that the party was not stopping, meaning that the Author would not have an opportunity to meet and talk with the day’s heroes as they turned to beer and whiskey to fuel their good time. He knew who they were and would have to find another way to talk with them on another occasion as time would be much better spent at the site itself, seeing what was out there to find during the late night hours.

        When he returned to his truck, the Author  unpacked a few more investigative tools and set out for the campsite that was set up before traveling to the races. The walk back was  different through a nocturnal lens, the shades of black layering the landscape with mysterious twists and turns in every direction. The moon painted the trees and soil with its pale blue light, revealing the next steps in the path only to those that kept moving forward.. As he walked around, he looked at the surroundings and listened to all the buzzing life that was sitting, watching his every step. It felt isolating in that he was the only human taking these steps at this time of night but through all of his work with the paranormal, it almost feels more natural to be among what wishes to remain hidden.

        At the campsite, the Author  placed most of his  belongings in the tent and took a seat at an unlit fire. If he were to light it at the moment, that would be the end of all subtlety and would certainly end any chance at finding the hairy beast. He gathered a few tools from his bag to help scout the area better. First was an electromagnetic field detector that would be used to detect any irregularities in the electronic frequencies of the area. All places with life have vibrations that form a natural amalgamation of interacting waves that become harmonic over time. If a paranormal creature was lurking in these woods, they’d likely emit a wave pattern that causes some dissonance in the magnetic fields. Next, a friendly can of bear spray and tranquilizer darts. The Author was not a lowly trophy hunter, no bodies would be going cold tonight.

        After two hours of searching a large radius around where the bear was found, the Author found several squirrel tails laid next to each other like the tails of shrimp on the side of a plate at a seafood buffet. If it were an owl or fox, they would not leave the tail meaning this predator was advanced enough to have tastes and preferences when eating. The amount of tails seen meant that the creature was quite large, requiring a healthy amount of protein in their diet.

        About an hour later, the racket of squawking birds filled the air as they appeared to flee their area. They should be asleep at this time of the evening, making this disturbance certainly worth investigating. The Author took just a few steps into this new path and the EMF reader began to twitch, indicating a change. Walking around the city, this type of change could be shrugged off for a hundred different interference related reasons but in this secluded area, there are only a handful of causes and they all require caution.

        Around 50 meters north, the Author  saw something ahead in the forest, limping as they walked, holding onto one tree at a time while dragging a large metal clamp around their hairy ankle. They looked to be over two meters tall but it was hard to tell in their hunched over position, wincing in pain with each step while dragging a metal trap audibly as they powered forward. It was as the legends say, a mighty ape with the touch of humanity. She  had bushy, wooly hair around everywhere but her feet, hands, breasts and face, similar to a gorilla but her hair was a dark shade of brown.

        The Author was not the only one searching for this apparently female bigfoot as she suffered in pain by what might be the luckiest catch a bear trap has ever had. She had ripped the chain out of the ground and had a chance to escape but at the risk of potentially losing her foot. The Author loaded the tranquilizer into a now extended blowgun. playing it safe so that he could remove the trap and bandage her up. He could take a fingerprint, a lock of a hair and a photograph while the bigfoot was unconscious and then wait for them to wake back up to see if he could possibly communicate with her.

        The plan could not move forward though as a thunderous fist then smashed onto the Author’s back with a hammering blow. His gut collided with the ground with such force that he bounced up a few centimeters but didn’t touch the ground again. Whoever hit the Author grabbed the back of his shirt and tossed him to the side and into a tree with tremendous force. He clenched his teeth in pain and looked up from the dirt and saw only the back of the assailant.

That giant man from the track was standing in front and looking onto the hobbling bigfoot and then back again at the Author. He once again saw the bearded face, his eyes covered by the brim of his hat, but this time up close and with a threatening glare aimed right at the Author.

        And then he spoke. .

        “What did you do to her?” He said.

        “Nothing. Found her like that.” The Author replied.

        He said to the Author with his voice grumbling lowly in a murmur. “Sorry you saw us.”

        He leapt off the ground and landed about fifteen meters from where he originally stood, now right in front of the Author, with dirt and dust cast into the air. He lifted his foot to stomp directly on the Author’s head but he quickly rolled over and with the bear spray in my left hand, sprayed the blinding mist into his face. The massive figure lurched backwards and grabbed onto his face but the spray had also wet his beard, providing a long-lasting extra layer of defense. The Author quickly got to his feet and ran over to grab the blowgun that he dropped when he was initially hit. There was enough ammo left to incapacitate both figures in front of the Author, so he aimed for the man in front first to quell the immediate danger but the female bigfoot roared a mighty roar, disrupting the Author’s aim.

        The man leapt forward towards the howling beast, searching around her body until he found her leg and reached down to the trap. With just his hands, he destroyed the punishing grip of the bear trap by widening it until it snapped. He then grabbed the bigfoot and placed her arm around his shoulders and hoisted her up. He looked in the Author’s direction and shouted with a primal yell, still with his eyes clenched shut, then leapt forward and began to run with impressive speed. The yell was too similar to the bigfoot’s to ignore. The confounding part of it all was that it clearly looked like he had lost none of his vision with the way that he moved through the forest as if the trees themselves were whispering where to go next. The Author sprinted after the two as he swerved and hopped around the trees with ease. It could not have been more difficult to follow them while his body ached with potentially broken bones from the beastly bludgeoning that was just received. The Author could not have kept pace if it wasn’t for the fact that the man was  holding the bigfoot who undoubtedly was quite the weight to bear. She was not fighting back against him, it was with familiarity that she clung to him for safety after he had freed her.

        A loud shot rang out through the night and both men slammed their feet to a stop in the dirt, looking dumbfounded at each other as they knew it was neither of them firing.

        “Are you protecting her?.” The Author asked the mechanic.

        “Yes.” He replied.

        “Then go.” The Author said.

        The Author looked at her face, with fear painted all over her face but it was directed at the Author, her hands squeezed around the man with comfort. The shot wasn’t far off so he could investigate it while the other two ran off deeper into the forest.

        The Author began traveling into the direction of the shot, soon confirming that he was going in the right direction as he could hear the voices of a group of people. They were loud and argumentative, shouting at each other about the situation. The Author climbed up a tree and jumped a few branches forward to listen in on what they were saying exactly. They were angrily arguing about what to do following the firing of the shot, now obviously a mistake and with one person from the party lying flat, blood splattered all over his clothes and the ground. The Author recognized some of the faces of the group as part of the victorious team members from the race earlier, the Sasquatch Watch car crew.

        They were drunk and loud, shouting blame chaotically as their friend was already too close to death to help, with wide-open holes showing that he was shot from the back. The Author listened in for more clues to why they would be out here in the first place when they had left to party earlier. They were discussing how to not get in trouble for what went down, as their friend was still breathing on the ground. It was an awful group of people that believed in self-preservation over all else. They were shouting out ideas to each other about potential solutions.

        “Feed him to a bear!”

        “Write a sad note!”

        “Terry sucks! Put his fingerprints on the trigger!”

        One of the men shouted that they had to get back to why they came here in the first place, time was of the essence. He was heard shouting at the others, “The trap! The trap! We have to go before it gets away!” They had left the celebration early after receiving some type of alert about the activation of one of their bear traps. This was their hunt and they had such faith that their target was captured that they ended their party just to see the hopefully trapped bigfoot. Now, they have lost one of their own and were in a drunken panic.

        “Let’s just get the ‘squatch and blame it on them. This is the closest chance we’ve had since Derek saw her washing in the river. I forgot, did she look good at least Derek? Pervert, heh heh.” One of the men laughed.

        The Author had to hope that the mechanic had taken her far away by now and was somewhere safe. The only thing he could do is go back to the trap that they were searching for and find the sensor in it. Thankfully, their drunken stupor wouldn’t allow them to challenge his pace towards the trap nor put together what had been done with their trap by the time they got there.

        The Author arrived at the site and observed the mangled trap, finding a compact black box on the back of it with a dimly blinking green light. He could smash it right then and there but then they might still have the last known location which would lead them to a still fresh trail. The Author didn’t have the strength of the mechanic or the female bigfoot but he was able to use two large rocks to break the rest of the chain off so he could move with just the sensor. Quickly he set off towards the parking lot where he could return to his truck and then drive off with the sensor and dispose of it somewhere that would forever throw them off from the trail.

        When he was nearing the edge of the forest, there were dozens of red glowing dots that could be seen between the trees. Reinforcements had arrived for the bigfoot hunters and they had come prepared to carry out the same mission with torches in hand. The lie must have spread across the small town already. They must have called somebody and a community like this sticks together, especially when faced with the danger of a wild beast on the loose. The Author moved closer just to confirm and saw a large crowd of the local town people, carrying torches, guns and various weapons such as baseball bats and crowbars. It was an angry mob here to avenge the fallen human by capturing the evil beast of the woods.

        The forest was not so large that it could not be combed through if you had enough people and by the sight of the crowd, it looked like a large militia had arrived. The Author only had to worry about whoever had the tracking communicator and had to think quickly of a good location that would buy the mechanic some time. Nearby was the sound of a rushing river, its water moving fast and far like the arteries of the park. It would hopefully discourage its pursuers, showing the ‘beast’ was too fast to possibly capture or they might assume the injured creature had drowned while escaping. Either assumption was a better choice than keeping the device and moving around on his own two feet in random directions. So he stood on the mushy gravel on the river banks and tossed it right in the middle of the passing current.

        Afterwards, the Author could not in good conscience leave without at least trying to find the mechanic and let him know what was coming and see if there was anything he could do to help.  He quickly made his way back to the path that the mechanic had started running down and followed the tracks, spotting the mark of his boots in the mud that would help the Author find them. Several meters ahead, the boot marks became erratic, showing the swerving that the man had to have done to make his way through the woods, not having much difficulty in doing so with his minimal vision. Could the temporary blindness boost his other senses so much that he could sense things around him? It shouldn’t work this well. Not for ordinary people.

        The footsteps started to run parallel to a river moving downstream and ended in a waterfall just a little bit more ahead. When the Author reached the edge of the waterfall, he saw a large lake below that the water fed into, big enough for kayaks and canoes but not anything bigger. The outlet where the lake drained was much smaller and moved slower than the rushing stream before it. The footsteps that Author was following ended right before the water and didn’t move to the side, appearing to show that the mechanic went into the lake below and if this river was the same that theAuthor  had thrown the tracking device in, the hunters now had a direct path as the tracker likely floated down to the bottom of the still lake. At every step of the investigation, luck was not on the Author’s side. He found a sasquatch but they were injured. He found their ally and then blinded them moments before the true devils had come to hunt the innocent down. Now, he did the hard work for people he was actively working against, bringing them to the very last place he wanted them to be.  

        The Author dove into the lake but it was nearly impossible to see where the two might’ve gone from there. He could only swim forward and look for evidence of new tracks on the lakeshore but a hand gripped tightly around his leg and pulled him deep under the water. Before the Author could try to pull away from his new assailant, the other hand of the submerged attacker grabbed his face, the palm covering from the bottom of his mouth to the top of his forehead. He was quickly pulled away in an unknown direction, unable to see in the blackness of the water before he was finally dragged onto dry land. The rushing and whooshing of a waterfall could be heard and when the Author finally could adjust his eyes to the darkness, he saw that he was in the alcove behind the downpour of the river.  

        The Author was grabbed by the shirt and lifted up where he could finally see the stranger’s face and for the first time his eyes. It was the mechanic that had taken the Author to this place.

        “Who are you? What do you want?” He asked the Author.

        “For now, know that I’m a friend. There’s a much bigger problem.”  The Author replied, telling him about the incoming mob of townspeople and hunters that were going to find them in no time. Even worse, the waterfall would have a plunge pool that would keep the tracking device underneath it where it likely sank. The mechanic looked furious but then crouched down to his knees with a more defeated expression on his face.

        “This…is my mom.” He admitted to the Author. “They always look for her. Today they will find her, it appears.”

        “That’s not certain, yet.” The Author tried to comfort this son of a bigfoot with his mind filled with shock, amazement and curiosity that he had to momentarily conceal. He couldn’t keep to himself one question however. “How come you speak my language? Aren’t you like her? “

        “She is what you call bigfoot or sasquatch. My father is like you.” He told the Author.

        “Your dad is human? Where is he now?” The Author asked.

        “At work.”

        “I have many questions after all of this.”

        There was so much more the Author wanted to know but he had to help them ward off the mob first. He turned to see the mother bigfoot now sitting up with her injured ankle turned, with blood dried black all over. The Author and the son of Bigfoot had to be quick as flickering tops of torches showed in the reflections of the water and through the waterfall. They were far away but soon would soon figure out their location.

        The two sasquatches looked at each other, gesturing with their hands and changing their facial expressions, having a conversation without words. The Author began to wonder just how deep the connections are between those with the ancestral primal blood of the forest ape and how bound they are to nature itself. The woman stood up with the help of her son and the Author asked him for his name. Junior. Simple enough.

        The Author then asked Junior if he had any plans for an escape route at the moment, the mob inching closer. Junior looked at the Author and nodded. He walked over to the edge of the alcove, the waterfall dumping deep into the lake right before them, splashing onto his fur. Junior pulled out a knife from his pocket and ripped open his shirt, showing a chest more ape than human, with flesh that puffed with hair similar to his mothers.. He cut a line across his chest and then did the same to his mother. He helped her over to the water and both of them painted their hands with their own blood and then knelt down, washing it off and letting it diffuse into the lake.

        A mist began to form over the top of the lake as if it was a boiling kettle but without the heat. It turned into a milky fog that rose and covered the entire surface before spreading to the lakeshore and into the forest itself. Both of the sasquatches started chanting in an unknown language and placed their hands in the water once more. The EMF was nearing 50 milligauss, much higher than the threshold for human safety. There was nothing the Author could do but watch in awe as the two of them interacted with nature in a way that surpassed all reasonable understanding. The blood signaled a message to the living ecosystem of the forest itself and it seemed to be responding.

        The Author placed his hands in front of his face, fingers spread and began to focus his mind on this feeling he was getting from the tangible spiritual presence arising from this bestial ritual. The Author was so close to a powerful irregular energy of the paranormal and the two sasquatches guiding him into a nighttime escapade into the edges of understood reality. Their ritual activated the collective energy of the forest and the Author wished to be plugged into it, for it was vast and infinite. He was drawn into the stream of energy as if he was a cell moving in a greater body. For all of his physical and mental training as a paranormal detective, there is no more essential skill than to wet your feet into unknown spiritual energy, whether it be in dissonance or harmony. He felt the essence of the forest as he surrendered his own energy into the system and attempted to join in. It was like being at the feet of a god with every part of the forest combined into one living body so connected through the roots, the flowers, the predators and the prey. It poured back into the Author as he opened himself up and felt just a sample of what the sasquatch probably could. The invaders of the town were aberrations that the forest system deemed unwelcomed and was preparing to expel them like white blood cells tending to an infection.

        “Please, don’t kill them. There has to be another way.” the Author said to Junior.

        “Not my choice.” He replied and pointed to the middle of the lake.

        Pointed antlers rose from the waters, twenty times the size of an Elk’s. It was translucent like a cloud with the sun shining through and rose further to reveal its long snouted face. It was textured with fur on the sides of its face despite the body being made of the lake water itself. Water churned and spurted as the rising forest ward spread its limbs, splashing out of the water and spearing its hooved feet into the dirt of the shore. The mob was frozen in place as they gazed onto the mighty spirit that towered over them, casting dread deep into their hearts.

        The Author  remained locked in with the body of the forest system and felt fear stirring in his chest as he sensed the longing for cleansing. Most of these people were innocent, looking to avenge a fallen neighbor at the hands of an outside. Though they were deceived by drunken morons looking for stolen glory, they did not deserve the same fate. Justice was needed but only in the case of a few but the Author wasn’t sure how merciful the lake spirit would be in its slayings. The Author focused hard on visualising the faces of the Sasquatch Watch crew and waited for a response from the forest.

        “Human…Are these your offerings?” A voice said to the Author, turning its head to scan the crowd.

        “They are the ones at fault here but there are mostly innocents among this group. They were misguided,” He  replied, “Your presence should be enough to scare them off. They will not come back.”

        “Then come be their final warning.” The horned beast replied.

        In the end, the Author accepted fault. If he hadn't thrown the sensor away then Junior might have handled it accordingly by hiding in the waterfall until the group gave up. The Author walked forward to the end of the alcove and nodded to Junior and his mother, jumping into the water. The water gripped his entire body and whipped him forward to the center of the lake, pulling him up into the body of the hooved-spirit and to its mouth where he was vomited out into the dirt. The townspeople around had no clue who the Author was. He was a stranger visiting their town in disguise but a fellow human nonetheless so they felt fear for what would happen to him. The Author was on his hands and knees, staring at the scared faces of those with lit torches around him who had clearly lost their will to fight. He stood on his feet and turned to look at the spirit but it was already making a move as the watery horn skewered into my abdomen and lifted him straight into the air. At a great height now above the ground below, blood spattered from the Author’s flesh and rained down onto those standing below.

        The screams of the townspeople filled the air as they turned to run for their own lives while he remained floating in the air on a pike as their sacrificial lamb. Life was leaving him, drop by drop. The Author  tried to once again tap into the energy of the forest and the symptoms of the sickness seemed to leave with each step of the evacuating invaders. Even those careless and vain folks that let their friend die for the sake of their desired treasure would live to see another day.

The antlered protector finally dropped the Author back onto the soil after the rest had fled, scraping him off its liquid spike. The Author placed a hand on his abdomen and searched for a hole that drained his blood but found none. There was blood all over his skin and the pain was visceral and deep but the evidence of it all was much more subtle, only apparent with a large red ring. The water had gone through his body, the spirit only piercing his skin where there would not be a fatal blow. Mercy was gifted and if his strength could hold up, the Author would walk out of here on his own two feet.

        “Thank you. Will you tell me why?” He asked of the spirit.

        “The barrier between worlds is not so easily crossed. It will be a long time before I can be called again. Protect this land at all costs. It may yet use you again if you survive.” The spirit warned me.

        The Author nodded.

        He fell to his hands and knees first before finally collapsing onto his face, falling out of consciousness.

        He awoke with the sun shining on his tent, with bandages around his waist. He quickly leaned up and momentarily flinched in pain from any of the dozens of injuries received the evening before. Through the tent wall, the Author could see the campfire was now lit and something was sizzling on an iron pan outside that smelled like fish. He unzipped the tent and peered through to see Junior, cooking a large catfish over the fire.

        “You can move? “ He asked.

        “Yeah but not one-hundred percent yet.”  The Author replied. “You brought me back?”

        “Yes.”

        “Is your mom okay?” The Author asked him but he hesitated to reply for a few seconds.

        “Yes….what are you really doing here? What are you searching for?”

        “I’m a detective. I investigate paranormal irregularities.”

        “For who?”

        “For myself. I share information with others. Normal people.:

        “So you will tell the world what you have seen?”

        “I’m not sure exactly what I have seen yet but no, not everything needs to be disclosed.”

        “Why must you share anything? Secrets can be secrets.”

        “Yeah, but this world is already too dependent on us not knowing the truth.”

        “So what does any of that have to do with me? With my family?”

        “Y’all are unlike anything else on Earth.  A true testament to evolution and life on this planet.”

        “That’s why humans want to capture and kill us. Too different. Too scary. “

        “I get it. A bunch of hunters just want you and your moms head on the wall. I don’t want those people to know. I want all the others, the curious and the bold, the ones that would defend innocence no matter the creature. “

        “It’s too late for them to change. We will wait for the end of humans and survive in that world.”

        “That’s morbid but I guess I can’t blame you. Will you stay here? “

        “Yes, my land to protect.”

        “What about me? The spooky lake spirit said it’s my job too.”

        Junior let a defying “hmph” but conceded. “Do you have a card or something? Will call if you needed.”

        “Sure thing. So bigfoots have phones?”

        “Human side of phone. So many spam calls…”

        They ate the fish and talked about his job at the racetrack and the Author’s radio show, sharing a few details about what they liked about their jobs. The Author asked what Junior’s dad is like but he only said that he’s a very normal man who travels for work often and that his mom loves him very much, living together in the forest. For a man to be able to communicate to the point of love with a bigfoot, he must have quite the stories to tell. The Author doubted that a man who knocked up a bigfoot is anything but normal but Junior’s existence alone shows that common ground can be found and that their DNA must be extraordinarily similar.

        Junior seemed more human than bigfoot at this moment but it was a strange sight to see in daylight the titan of a man-thing that he was. The Author hoped to learn much more from him but he knew that trust is built over time. He left for his truck after they finished eating and began the trek back home with another entry to write down. The Author’s journal is a living piece of bounded papers, with words and lifetimes full of mystery. His only wish is to read between the lines and discover exactly what this journey ultimately leads to.  He turned on the radio and hummed along a familiar road.