Jeff Strand - Dweller

Its jaws were a complete horror show, with teeth that were almost cartoonishly large and sharp.

He’d remembered the monster as being bigger, although of course back then he’d been smaller. It was still an imposing, terrifying creature. One that clearly had every intention of devouring Toby, chewing off his face while he lay paralyzed on the ground. Not even chewing-biting it clean off in one chomp.

The monster regarded him closely. It narrowed its sunken eyes as if studying him. Wondering which body part to bite into first.

It walked forward. Toby noted that its toes also had talons, though not nearly as lengthy or sharp as those on its fingers. It still looked like it could rip off a few big strips of flesh just by stepping on him.

Though Toby’s body remained frozen, suddenly his voice worked, and he let out a long, loud scream.

The monster flinched as if he’d struck it.

Toby screamed again.

The monster stood there, motionless, staring at him.

Toby could feel perspiration pouring down his forehead, his arms, and the back of his neck. He still couldn’t get up, but his hands were quivering. He just waited, knowing that at any moment the monster was going to let out another bellow-a war cry-and lunge at him like a cougar.

He desperately wished he had a weapon.

There was a rock near his right hand, but he couldn’t move to grab it.

The monster continued to stare at him. It seemed alert, as if waiting for Toby to make a sudden move.

Do something! Toby willed himself. Don’t just lie here. Get up and run!

Getting eaten by a forest monster was, admittedly, a pretty cool way to die…but not if he just lay there and let it happen!

Grab the rock! Grab the rock! It’s right here, you idiot!

His body clearly wasn’t going to help him out of this situation.

The monster crouched down. It was less than five feet away.

Toby wanted to scream again until his lungs were shredded, but instead he heard himself say: “Hi.”

Hi? What the hell?

The monster didn’t react. Which made sense-wild carnivorous animals typically did not respond to friendly greetings.

Then it tilted its head a bit, as if intrigued.

“Hi,” Toby repeated. “I’m Toby Floren and I’m sorry I went into your cave. I didn’t know you were in there. You must have a secret passage or something.”

Why was he talking to it? What did he expect it to say back?

Of course, you’d talk to an angry dog to soothe it, so…

“What’s your name?” he asked.

The monster, of course, did not answer.

“My name’s Toby Floren.” Yeah, he’d already said that, but his actual words didn’t matter as long as he kept up the calming tone. “I live about four miles from here. It’s that white house with the blue shutters. I’m not sure if you’ve seen it. I hope you haven’t. The last book I read was Robinson Crusoe.”

He hadn’t been eaten yet, so this seemed to be working.

The monster ran its thick black tongue over its teeth.

Toby stopped talking.

This was it. Death at age fifteen. Dying a virgin. His greatest accomplishment in life was providing entertainment for bullies.

But at least he wasn’t crying.

Not that anybody was around to see if he was crying or not. He might as well cry.

Then the monster slowly stood up, not taking its eyes off him. Toby would have expected his body to run out of perspiration by now, but his clothes were completely drenched and sweat continued to flow.

Toby wasn’t sure if his muscles were working now or not. He didn’t dare to move.

The monster clenched and unclenched its fists, then cocked its head sharply to the left. The message seemed clear: Get out of here.

It was a message that Toby was more than happy to obey. He got up, careful not to make any sudden moves, and backed away. There was a jolt of pain as he stepped with his injured foot-he’d probably sprained his ankle-but he could still walk and he continued to back away, step by step, following the path. The monster stood there, watching him until he went around a curve and the trees blocked their view of each other.

He wanted to run after that, but he couldn’t risk screwing up his foot even more, especially if he took a downhill tumble. He’d just stick to a quick but safe pace, and hope that the monster didn’t change its mind about its dinner plans and chase after him. It might just be toying with him, letting him get far enough ahead that he thought he’d escaped, at which point it would pounce upon him and gobble his ass up. He would be very happy for that not to be the case.

What was that thing? Why would it even need teeth like that, except to scare the hell out of people? How could it even close its mouth around them?

Was it the same one he’d seen all those years ago? It couldn’t be, could it? How had it lived out here this long without being discovered?

He looked back. Nothing seemed to be coming after him.

As Toby walked home, he decided not to tell his parents about what happened. They might believe him, or they might search his room for pot. Either way, they wouldn’t allow him to go back out there, and Toby had every intention of returning. Unless he’d missed a really important day of science class, this was some sort of undiscovered creature, and Toby was going to get credit for the finding. He couldn’t go back after dark, but if his foot wasn’t in too bad of shape he’d go back this weekend, this time with a camera.

And Dad’s shotgun.

Toby spent most of his evening in the waiting area of the emergency room. His ankle was indeed sprained, though just mildly, and he kept an ice pack against it, which was more uncomfortable than the pain from the injury.

“How’d you hurt it?” Mom had asked.

Toby had tried to come up with an excuse that was credible yet masculine. “Jumping hurdles.”

“How’d you really hurt it?”

How did she always know he was lying? “Tripped.”

“You should be more careful.”

“I’m considering that. I’ve heard good things about that lifestyle.”

Dad was watching Wagon Train on television when they got home. “What’d you do?” he asked, looking away from the set.

“Tripped.”

“You should be more careful.”

“You guys must stay up all night thinking up this amazing advice.”

“Nobody likes a smart-ass.”

“I’m sure somebody has to.”

“Not in this house.” Dad gave him a glare that made it clear that he wasn’t in a joking mood, which was the case about 80 percent of the time. They had a late dinner of pork roast and mashed potatoes, and then went to bed.

Toby thought that his injured foot might cause the bullies at school to find another target for a while. It was, admittedly, not the most intelligent thought that had ever passed through his brain. He tried to hold his head high, even when his hair got hit with half-sucked sour balls and droplets of snot, but it was probably the most hellish week he’d ever spent at that goddamn school.

He lay in bed, frustrated beyond belief. School took up all of his day and his job at the grocery store took up Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evening. He could have snuck out of the house after his parents were asleep, but seeking proof of the monster in the thick, deep woods after dark crossed the line from “glorious bravery” to “suicidal stupidity.” Really, he should wait for his ankle to be completely healed before venturing out there again, but he knew he didn’t have the patience.

He hoped the monster hadn’t moved on. It was probably nomadic (Toby didn’t actually have any evidence of this, but it sounded right) and would eventually move to warmer climates as the Ohio winter began. But if it had that nice little cave to live in, it might stick around for a while longer. It wouldn’t know that Toby was planning to come back with a big gun, would it? It was smarter than, say, Mrs. Faulkner’s poodle, but still a dumb animal, right?