#ends up just terrorizing the local deer populations though so one is actually in any hurry to stop them

[sojourner-between-worlds]

Midwestern Villain Orgin Story: totalled one too many vehicles hitting deer on the exact same stretch of highway

[coyotefaced]

it’s amazing what someone can remember from the early stages of youth.  jesse had never been an exception to the rule, and like all children, he had suffered that bout of childhood amnesia, where the brain begins to solidify and lock in those learned behaviors and toss out every useful memory up until that point. sometimes though, brief glimpses crop up every so often. it’s not remarkable in many cases and certainly not his, but the developing brain of a child is a hazardous thing to impart wisdom to, especially when you’re intent on scaring them out of their minds, making them eager to crawl into their parents’ bed for comfort against the crawling dark. 

he does, however, remember being small. he remembers a tile counter of a nasty yellow color, he remembers the cutting board, he remembers not being able to see over it. he remembers the sandwich, it was peanut butter and strawberry jelly. he remembers the knife handle dangling over the edge of the counter. 

but aside from that thirty-three year old memory, he remembers a woman, with dark, copper skin and white hair and bright primary colors. he remembers loving her. he remembers saying something, loud enough that she hushes him. he remembers ‘they’ll come and snatch you in the middle of the night if you aren’t a good boy’ he remembers being told about deer that move like men out across the grasslands, with too big eyes, without tails. 

it’s one of those things that he’s pushed from his mind, unconsciously hoping that it would be lost in the years following.

______________________________

she’d been one of those late bloomer types from the earlier part of the century who got too deep into things she’d read on the internet. that’s what his dad had said, when he’d found them again, holed up during a montana winter. there’d been so much built up horror and appropriation from more than a few people looking to make a quick buck on whatever native folklore they could get their hands on, that she had also fallen victim to it with an ounce more credibility. she’s probably still in her rocker.

and yet, the words still echo, an itch in his ear canal that never quite goes away. 

the thought had resulted in a rabbit hole of information on private browsers in public libraries in a corner of the room where he might be seen as a regular, run of the mill asshole who looks like he might fit in with the wrong kind of population. the arm doesn’t help, doesn’t ease into the sunglasses and ball cap disguise he’d opted for ( only on top of clothes he reserves in the back of his duffel, sealed up for the rare laundry day ) and ultimately, probably looked like a fool.

he’d done more research than he wanted to on the subject. most results were retellings of forum stories, specifically tailored to scare people instead of present the facts and origins for a few million views. a bunch of misinformation. great. but what he can find is enough to confirm sneaking suspicions that his grandmother was at least a perpetrator of these stories in the north, away from the actual origins of the beasts but it at least assuages fears that he might dig up, affected by fictions in the night. he packs up and leaves town, no one any the wiser for his being there.

he forgets most of what he’d learned on the hypertrain heading south. 

______________________________

somewhere in arizona, the winds change. 

he knows the hazards of a desert that would have him freeze to death rather than be baked alive, especially as the calendar wound down to that awful, fateful time of year where every outcome became a might bleaker, but he is if nothing else, a survivalist. he knows how to handle himself well, and the quiet edging into fall was usually a welcome change, and signaled that the move to the southern hemisphere should soon begin. 

but still, he enjoyed the red canyons that felt more like a home than any snowy ranch ever could, and his camping was never an issue, so long as he kept discreet about it. it was never really hard, he observed the rules for once in his life like any sane, decent person should do on national park land, though he can’t even be sure if it was a national park. people never touched this area. the reports of gang activity, especially this far south and into unknown lands was enough to deter most hikers, and with the incompetence of the local law it was a perfect place for unknowable deeds. the wild west was still indeed wild, once you hit the no man’s land.

the anonymity was nice. the night sky away from the metropolitan areas where it was easier to blend in, though easier to be recognized, was nicer. the lack of light pollution meant that outside of the smoggy valleys of the west coast and the cloud cover of the east, he had the best view of the night sky that anyone could ever ask for. he doesn’t worry about the nearness of the cliff face, even at twenty feet he doesn’t mind, he’s always been a sound sleeper and there was no reason he should change now, but even as he watched the sun set over the jagged tooth of the valley and plains below him there’s an unease that settles into his bones. he pretends that he doesn’t notice.

besides, there are worse dangers in deadlock territory, worse ways to die than a cougar run up, especially with his reputation. but anything quick would be ideal to… perhaps being disemboweled by a mountain cat. 

a coyote choir lulls him to sleep, and he dreams about his grandmother, wearing a cougar skin. it talks. 

_______________________________

perhaps it was the dream that woke him up. perhaps it was the wind. perhaps the shriek that came from the canyon below, the scent of rotting meat, he’d fallen asleep plenty of times to the cries of pest animals, raunchy coyotes, dying animals, elk whose bellows were more or less the loudest and most chest jolting bass you’ve ever heard a deer produce. no, perhaps, it was the sensation of falling that had nearly done him in. 

he was staring, bleary eyed and disoriented over the edge of the canyon. he didn’t know it, not yet, but when his senses finally roused him, he took three careful steps back, each between twenty or thirty heartbeats and finds himself reeling back towards the abyss he’d awoken to. there’s a ringing in his left ear. distantly, there’s a shout, a scream, like the wheezing rattle of a voice being dragged on wet stone. That alone sends him crouching back, keeping low for fear of being seen, or worse, heard as well. 

he hadn’t been in the area for some time, but those teenage ghost stories always seemed to come back around when it was most convenient for them to impart as much terror as possible. he sinks into the lean to with his eyes on the edge of the rock, waiting for something to come up from the darkness below. waiting for anything that could be aimed at, shot, and killed. he was, if nothing else, good at that. 

nothing came. for hours, nothing came but that continued, wet screeching that stopped, and started again every ten minutes or so. It would scream, scream for a minute, and then abruptly stop. he was beginning to think, or at least hope, that it was a barn owl, or a -- a deer that had been chased off a cliffside. pronghorn were plentiful out here anyways, that had to be it, maybe that cougar he’d been fearing from earlier had its way with a kill. once the rising sun had painted even the faintest glimmer of gold into the depths of the ocean of night, it stopped. 

jesse watched, waiting along that cliffside for the next call. 

he left the area as quickly as he could, packing up, breaking down, covering his tracks. he was in san joaquin by late afternoon, and picking up a line to panama by night. somewhere bright, and noisy, somewhere away from the open expanse, for just a moment. just a day. That’s all. 

___________________________________

everything eventually ends up in the gorge. even on this stretch, far north of the old haunt.

a week later, the skeletal remains of a 38 year old woman were found not a mile from the campsite, far down the side of the canyon and nearly to the bottom. coroners had ruled her death an accident, and speculated she had been there long enough to die of thirst. the resulting injuries of her fall had broken several bones, and wounds that suggested that some large animal had taken advantage of her misfortune. although, the scratches on her ribcage were inconclusive with usual predator behavior.

she is speculated to have been down there for at least four months. no suspects have been named.