Jon Fore - Black Water

“Where are your friends?”

“They’re fucking dead!”

Brighton looked down at Ethan, a look of disdain and disapproval in his face. “Alright…” he said simply.

Far off and in the distance, many miles from the sound of it, the same chill-raising screech bled over the top of the mountain. Ethan began to shake again. “You hear that? Huh?”

“That would be a cougar…mayhap a bobcat.”

“It’s that thing, the thing that killed Abby!”

The distant sound of sirens began to reach them as well.

“Those are just legends, son, rumors. Nothing more than stories.”

Ethan wanted to shoot the man, drill him in the face, but he was too tired. Anger could no longer spark him into action, and he just stared at the wrinkled old face trying to will it to explode as an ambulance rushed into the dirt parking area with its lights screaming through the night’s darkness.

“So, you heard the pounding at the door and found him just lying there on your porch? Is that it, Mr. Brighton?”

“Yeah, that’s it, Steve. I don’t know where the other three are and such, but the way he yanked that pistol at me, who knows?”

“Well, did he tell you anything about that?”

“He went on about some monster or something killing them. They looked like decent kids; would have never thought one of ’um might crack like this.”

“A monster, huh?” The cop arched an eyebrow at him.

“Don’t look at me like that, Steve, I know your father…”

“Mr. Brighton, what did he say about the monster?”

“He said the place was evil and that some monster or another done killed the others. That was about it. Oh, then he heard a cat screech up on the hill there and said that was the thing that killed ’um.”

“The three others, Mr. Brighton: what did ya say they looked like?” The officer leaned over his small pad of paper with his pencil nub and stared at the old man intensely.

“Well, the first girl, this Abby person, she was sorta plain, but pretty enough, being so young and all. She had light skin, light hair, freckles. The other boy, he had long, dark hair like he was one of them hippies or something, and real cocky-like. Then there was that girl…”

“What about her?” the cop asked after writing furiously.

“She was a real beauty, like one of them movie stars. She had that dark hair, you know, that flowed like water, bright, perky eyes, and a figure that would make spoiled milk fresh again.”

“Did any of them have any tattoos or any distinguishing marks on them?”

“Well, the real pretty one, she had a tiny mole or something just above her lip, like Marilyn Monroe had. The short haired fellow, he had on a gold chain with some kind of Egyptian symbol or the like.”

“Alright, Mr. Brighton. Thanks for your time and the coffee. Think you can make it down to the shack tomorrow and sign a statement?”

“Well, the old Ford ain’t running right now. Clinton said he got the part on order, but who knows when it will come in.”

“That’s fine. I'll drop by with it tomorrow when I get back on shift, if that’s alright with you.”

“Sure. Hey, would you mind retuning this here video I rented the other day? I haven’t been able to get by there, and Betty's going to be sore with me.”

The officer took the offered video tape and tipped his hat with it. “You try to have a good rest of the evening, hear?”

“You, too, Steve. My best to your ma and pa. Will that boy be okay?”

The officer stopped and turned back to him. “I reckon, just chilled to the bone. It’s his head that has me concerned. I think he may just be a lunatic.”

“You think maybe he shot those others?”

“Could be… Night, Mr. Brighton.” The office waved as he descended the porch steps and climbed into his cruiser, the one he smashed into a guardrail and the department could not afford to fix yet. He worked his underwear into a more comfortable position before radioing in. “417 en route to the hospital.”

“417, clear,” a woman’s voice crackled back.

Steven knew all about the legend of Black Water Mountain; he had shared it with friends in school, even added a bit to the story here and there that still persisted to this day. He knew this because his own son was sharing it now with other children in school—the legend of Black Water Mountain and Captain Black. Some even tell the tale of a Father Burns. Nevertheless, it was all make believe, a lie passed among the children and shared with friends and family.

He even recalled reading about it in some book about myths and folklore in college. However, that did not make them real, just stories told, retold, and embellished along the way. He looked down at his notes, trying to read them in the soft amber glow of the dashboard. One word he had written repeatedly, monster. He dropped the pad back onto the passenger seat; the boy was just crazy is all.

“417,” the radio hissed at him.

“417,” he replied after retrieving the handset.

“417, they are moving the boy to Glendale Psychiatric.”

“417, 10-4, en route.” He clipped the microphone back to the dash. “So he is crazy,” Steve said to himself, satisfied with his own diagnosis.

“Good morning…” the man in the white lab coat paused to read the papers held firmly on his clipboard, “Ethan. And how have they been treating you?”

“Fine,” Ethan replied dryly.

“Well, seems you had a bit of an episode…” The doctor flipped a page, and then another. “Up on Black Water Mountain. What can you tell me about it?”

“I already told the doctors at the other hospital. That’s why I am here, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, I suppose. I read the statement you gave the police.”

“What can I help you with, Doctor?” Ethan asked, both bored and irritated.

The doctor dropped the clipboard onto the small table, the only other piece of furniture in the room besides the bed. “I just want to know what happened. They found the girl, you know that?”

“That would be Abby, I suppose?”

“Yes, Abby; the search party found her, or what was left of her, this morning. Can you tell me how she died?” The doctor leaned against the table and crossed his arms in an air of superiority.

“It’s in the fucking report,” Ethan replied angrily.

“They found two large pieces, Ethan, well chewed by animals. What they also found—that is what is troubling so many people. She had been shot.”

Ethan’s mind raced back to the prior evening’s events. He knew he fired twice at the thing, but he did not think he hit Abby. “I did not kill her,” he declared flatly.

“But you shot her?”

“No, not on purpose. If I did, she was already dead.”

“You don’t remember if you shot her, Ethan? Do you expect the police to believe that?”

“I don’t give a shit what they believe, or you, either. I did not kill her or the others. Go to the house; see that I am telling you the truth!”

The doctor lifted the clipboard from the table, accounted for his pen, and left the room without another word. He closed the door and latched it, and headed back to the nurse’s station. Gretchen was there talking with a younger cop, one with youth in his hair and build, but age in his eyes.

“So what did he say, Doc?” the cop asked.

Gretchen turned back to her monitors and paperwork.

“He’s having trouble remembering; most likely a psychotic episode brought on by something. Did you find the others yet?”

“No. The detectives in charge are heading up the mountain now. Do you think he could have killed the others as well?”