Макс Брукс - Devolution - A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre

No, the folks I talk to, I believe them, or rather, I believe that they believe themselves. But like Mrs. Holland said, “Knowing you saw something is different from knowing what you saw.” That’s why, even now, when I think about one of those BS documentaries from my childhood, I still believe the guy who passed the lie detector test. He wasn’t acting. He really thought he saw it. They all do.

Remember, I’m from the Southwest, where it’s, like, UFO central. If I had a nickel for every time somebody said they saw lights in the sky… and they do. I’m sure there were lights in the sky, and I’m sure they were sure those lights were coming to give them an anal probe. If you gave them all polygraphs, asked them, under oath, what did you see, or hear…

You get a lot of those too. Hearing stuff. Noises in the night. Footsteps or breaking branches, or that grunt. A couple times, I’ve talked to folks who’ve sworn they heard or smelled something. I’ve had several hikers or campers who’ve consistently reported that refuse and spoiled eggs odor. I might have smelled it myself, that time when we found the dead deer.

A thumb over her shoulder to the map.

Maybe that was it, or maybe it was just us hoofing it for three straight days without a shower. I don’t know what I smelled but I know that I smelled something. I trust my nose, ears, eyes. But my brain…

I think the human mind isn’t comfortable with mysteries. We’re always looking for answers to the unexplained. And if an answer can’t come from facts, we’ll try to cobble one together from old stories. If we’ve heard about UFOs when we happen to see a light in the sky, or a Scottish lake monster when we happen to see a ripple in the water, or a giant, apelike creature when we see a dark mass moving among the branches…

That’s why I dismissed everyone who ever reported anything to us. Even the credible ones. And by credible, I mean embarrassed. They didn’t want to be there. They didn’t want to look crazy. They always asked to speak to me in private, remain anonymous, make sure that they weren’t being recorded. They were almost positive that their minds were playing tricks on them. They didn’t want to believe it.

She sighs.

I should have believed them. Each time I almost did, because once they started talking, the doubt fell away. I should have followed up every time someone looked me straight in the eye and said with confident clarity…

I saw it!

I don’t know what woke me up tonight. A sound, or the outside porch light flicking on. It wasn’t ours, not at first. The Perkins-Forster house, shining up onto the ceiling above my head. I got up, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, and crept to the back window. I didn’t want to wake up Dan. He has a lot to do tomorrow. Village handyman. That’s why I didn’t risk opening the back balcony doors.

But just looking through the window, I could tell that something wasn’t right. Their compost bin had been knocked over, which was weird because they’re supposed to be animal proof. They’ve got these deep stakes that go way down into the ground. And the lids are locked with twin rotating levers. The lid was unlocked now, or wrenched off. I could see it lying near the overturned bin among a carpet of scattered trash.

Then I saw something moving. Just a shadow, I think, on the other side of their house. Rustling bushes along the edge of the tree line. It was gone when I looked up. Probably a raccoon. That was my conscious thought. Raccoons are smart, right? And I’ve seen them go through trash cans in the heart of Venice Beach. Still, I checked to make sure the balcony was locked, then crept silently downstairs to see about the other doors.

I checked the front first, wondered if I should set the alarm, then realized that I had no idea how. That was when our back porch light went on. I started switching on the inside lights. Actually, I hit the downstairs master switch and squinted hard in the glare.

That must have scared it, the whole bottom floor going from night to day. It was turning to run just as I entered the kitchen. It must have been standing right on the back step.

It was so tall, the top of its head disappeared above the doorway. And broad. I can still picture those massive shoulders, those thick, long arms. Narrow waist, like an upside-down triangle. And no neck, or maybe the neck was bent as it ran away. Same with the head. Slightly conical, and big as a watermelon. I’m also not sure if its hair was black or dark brown. And the long, wide, silvery stripe running down its back. That might have been reflected light.

I wasn’t scared. More startled. Like when a car swerves too close. That moment of focus, where you’re outside of your body. That was me, watching the thing run through the bushes bordering our yard. I inched up to the door and pressed my face against the glass. That’s when I saw, and I’m sure about this, two pinpricks of light through the brush.

It wasn’t a reflection from inside. I had my hands cupped around my eyes. And they weren’t anything mundane like glistening leaves. I saw those too. These were different, set slightly behind the foliage, at what had to be, maybe, seven or eight feet off the ground. I’m not exaggerating the height. I know all those plants, and where I come up to them.

I stared at the lights for a second or two. They stared back. They blinked. Twice! And then they were gone, darting sideways into darkness as a branch snapped in front. I must have kept leaning against the door for half a minute, fogging up the glass with increasingly deeper breaths.

Then the hand grabbed my shoulder.

Okay, a little melodrama in writing this, and now, I see the humor in what happened next. But, holy crap, when I felt that grip.

Who knew that Dan has such quick reflexes? If he hadn’t caught my wrist mid-swing, I might have totally nailed him in the nose.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dan backed up, dropping my arm, holding up his hands. “What the f—”

I cut his babbling off with my own, trying, failing, to cohesively relate everything I’d seen.

He was looking past me, his repeated “What is it?” answered by my repeated “I don’t know.” We looked from the brush to the ground, to this line of big footprints that led right back to our doorstep.

As he slid the door open, this wave of cold, stinking air whoosh ed in. It was “that” stench, so powerful I almost gagged. Dan grabbed the coconut stabber off the kitchen counter and took a step out onto the porch. I reached for the knife rack, then realized, like an idiot, that Mostar’s javelin was resting against the wall in front of me. I probably should have left it there. I nearly stabbed myself in the face as the long wobbly pole caught on the doorway. But I felt like I needed something for protection, especially after what we saw.

Footprints were everywhere. Clear. Sharp. You could see the individual toes, and how they made trails leading from the Perkins-Forster bin, to ours (which was still intact), to the trees, which we were not going to investigate!

The smell kept us on the porch, assaulting our noses, nudging us back inside. As Dan twisted the lock, I brought up the burglar alarm. Dan wasn’t sure how it worked either. At first, we kept getting these error messages. He finally figured it had something to do with the cracked windows, the ones damaged in the eruption. He’s learning how to bypass it now, sitting with his iPad at the kitchen table while I’m waiting for the coffee to brew. It’s our new “recycled blend,” all the week’s grounds pressed together. Mostar’s idea. “Gotta make it last.” I’m not questioning that anymore. “Watery coffee today’s better than none tomorrow.”