Warning: violence, war, adult language, smoking, fear
Chapter Two
Investigation
I had to hear this thing for myself. I camped on Frank Johnson’s couch starting that night. I was awake until sunrise and didn’t hear anything. He soundly slept, so exhausted was he. But my hourly patrols, with a flashlight and .357 Smith and Wesson neither revealed nor provoked anything. All was quiet. Only the October noises of crickets and distant traffic could be heard.
I finally told him on the second morning that it was possible that my presence could be in some way interfering with it. My reasoning for this was that it had no lease to harm me, since I had not been initially involved. That led me to believe that the creature had some kind of motive, such as revenge. Which I had originally thought, but to me, was now proven.
But Frank rejected that theory. “We never gave it any reason for that,” he said.
“Didn’t you?” I asked. “You encroached on its territory. On a mission of violence. You killed on its land. You fired back at it and possibly wounded it. Or its mate. Animals have been known to defend their territory. This may be the same thing. Just…worse.”
“But at least I think I know what we’re really dealing with now, and it is not any fox, nor other canid, not so much as a raccoon.”
He looked up from his coffee, a forgotten Marlboro burning in a large amber glass ashtray. His expression was one of dread.
“They’ve plagued humans ever since we evolved,” I said. “The Celts would call it fey, or along the lines of a leprechaun, but that’s not what it–they–are. In Europe they appeared as werewolves and vampires and in England as large black dogs; in North America as a Sasquatch. Mariners climbed ratlines and swore they looked down and saw mermaids. In short, a creature that can appear in any form it wishes, so long as it’s fun. It plays with regional, cultural beliefs and legends. Your platoon probably landed right on a sacred or territorial area, Frank. And these things aren’t stupid, they can think, reason, they have emotions…almost human, but definitely always predatory.”
“So it really followed us back from the Nam?”
“Cambodia. But it doesn’t matter. There’s no way to tell how many there are or how widespread or even if this is the same one. It could have just made a telepathic phone call. No way to tell.”
There was a long silence. All over his table were half empty packs of cigarettes; Marlboros, Kools, Pall Malls. Poor Frank was a mess. “Well,” he said, “I asked you for help, and you’ve given it. At least I know what it is. But you interfered with it, and it’s gone, like you said. I’ll be okay tonight. You go on home, okay?”
“Frank. If I’m gone, it could come back.”
“No, time I had my privacy back, and you, yours. I’ll be fine.”
That, I confess, was a shock. I immediately thought it suicidal on his part.
That night, I had a terrible nightmare. I saw three men, two seniors and one of about 30 years, struggling in a physical fight against a bald man with a lupine face and glowing yellow eyes and a horrid child with rotten teeth, dressed in rags. They were in an empty movie theater and Night of the Living Dead was showing. One of the older men had the boy down and was cutting him up with a steak knife. The man sobbed hysterically, “Filth,” and then the theater was gone. Outside, in an impossible snowstorm, a bird escaped and the 30-year-old saw it. At the last second, it had changed from a woman to a bird. My glimpse of the woman, though brief, was a terror. She was beautiful but I sensed cold evil in her; a pure, unbridled evil that I would have imagined only the devil in Hell could possess. And before she escaped she looked right at me and said, I’ll see you in 21, inside my head.
The name, not spoken but just there: Milburn. That’s where they were. I’d never heard of it. Certainly a place name, but where, and was it a result of premonition from her threat?
Evidently, the men managed to kill it, or her. I never found anything on record, never saw her in a dream again, and yet…there is something.
Journal
October, 2021
In the winter of 1979, New York State was hit hard with multiple snowstorms, and between those, snow showers never truly stopped. The hamlet of Milburn was to emerge a shadow of its former existence. So many people died under mysterious circumstances that the National Guard had to clean up the mess.
The centuries-old town could not accommodate larger snowplow trucks or bucket loaders. Milburn was crippled and its survivors traumatized. They told the most lurid, grotesque tales. Tales which, had I written about for a paper, would have me blacklisted a second time.
There were reports of residents seeing dead relatives. A farmer had sheep mutilated and claimed Martians did it. He eventually went nuts and I’d rather say no more about Elmer Scales. Then a troublemaker named Jim Hardie vanished. His mutilated body was found in the basement of an abandoned house. An insurance salesman was found at a secluded and abandoned railroad station, completely disembowled. Horse breeder Rea Dedham and her sister passed. One suspected of being a homicide, the other by stroke.
Even the sheriff, Walter Hardesty, was murdered.
Know what I got out of that shit?
Yeah. I was in trouble. I tried to contact the youngest men involved in the theater fight. Donald Wanderly was still around. He was helpful on the phone, but I think his brand of PTSD was too disabling. After tracking down a San Francisco resident named Florence de Peyser, whom he was found guilty of murdering, he had served a fifteen year stint in San Quentin, then returned to writing horror stories and prospered. His conversation was uneven and not much help. I next checked for Peter Barnes, found him still in New York, practicing law and residing in Syracuse.
“Mr Barnes, thank you for taking my call,” I began. “Have you ever heard of a 9-tail fox?”
“It’s not a fox, and please, call me Pete. What you’re asking about is a unique creature with human intelligence that can appear in any form it chooses. It preys on humans that way. It can feed on the energy from fear, or on the flesh of humans or animals. Why do you ask? Do you think you are facing such a creature?”
“I went to visit Milburn, I just got back. I wanted to see where it all happened.”
What I had found was that nothing of the town remained, not even a sign for a historic landmark. An Interstate highway passed through it and state routes crossed it with cloverleaf exit ramps connecting them all together. Stands of elm, pine and ash trees hid the land around these interchanges.
On a rural road that dead-ended at a section of jersey wall and a 12-foot chain link fence, I stopped my car and got out. At first I felt nothing, but walking along the fence I heard faint sounds that were just wrong. According to the grid coordinates and the only map I had ever found of Milburn, and which I stole from the stacks at a library in Pennsylvania, I was standing near the town square, on a street named Wheat Row. My .357 was in a holster, hidden by a denim jacket. It gave me a false sense of security because, by now, my research had concluded for me that anything remaining in the area could not be killed by mere bullets. I had concluded that Bravo Four, in Cambodia, had probably shot it up with M-60 fire, killing whatever it was that they couldn’t see. Probably really a fox after all, since in the bush those animals can be devilishly hard to see. But when that physical form died, the actual thing in it had assumed some other form and escaped.
So there I was, illegally carrying a handgun in a desolate spot two states away from home. I discovered that Milburn was not unlike Dudleytown in Connecticut: a place of tragedy, abandoned and forbidden to enter. Not even Mysteries of the Abandoned would ever film here. The state wanted it forgotten.
Ordinarily I strictly obey the law, except for speed limits. Having a classic like a Shelby Mustang can make even an old relic like myself put the foot to the floor.
The No Trespassing signs were fixed to the fence at five foot intervals. I’d never seen that before, not even on a military base. What the hell was this place? A Superfund site gone awry?
No; what happened in Milburn was worse than any toxic waste disaster or story from Connecticut folklore. It was so much worse than those things.
I climbed the fence. Barbed wire I simply took without regard for pain. Bleeding from minor punctures, I landed on the other side and pulled a bandana from my jacket and blotted the wounds, then consulted the map. I was in the town square but nothing of it remained. No block foundation stuck out of the grass and undergrowth. No concrete curbs to indicate a sidewalk. Not even so much as a rotten four-by-four which would once have indicated a sign could be seen. The trees gave me the creeps. Some were just too old for the smaller ones between them. I realized that those were the only remnants of Milburn: they’d been allowed to live while literally everything else was bulldozed under a layer of earth trucked in by the ton. It was effective. One had the sense of old forest, some of which would appear to be primary growth. Which simply wasn’t possible. But, the effect was definitely there.
After a half hour, I returned to the fence. The climb this time was arduous, my old body aching and already sore. The drive back to Maryland was too long and I had to stop twice for coffee, once for antiseptic and thick bandages. I also got a hambuger to go, passing ten glorious minutes chasing it with coffee. I wiped my fingers on my jeans and crossed the state line toward home. I had the feeling of having escaped from some danger I couldn’t identify. It was with a flood of relief that I parked in my driveway.
“You found Milburn? You went there? Jerry, you should never have done that. I spearheaded the movement to erase that blemish from existence. I hope the gravity of what you’ve done is not lost on you. I never learned whether any of those…creatures remained in the area. They were strong in Milburn. One posed as a Jehovah’s Witness, the ones we killed were Gregory and Fenny Bate. The leader I later learned was killed in Panama City by Don Wanderly. He was the most courageous man I’ve ever known. He tracked down another ‘boss’ in San Francisco, killed it. Someone saw it and the witness was convinced it was murder even though the body vanished. It turned into a moth and he caught it and cut it up with a Bowie knife. He rarely talks to me anymore. He did tell me about killing the de Peyser woman. Had a hard time with prison. It ruined him as much as the monsters had. Even a monster slayer gets no respect in prison; once I passed the bar I had his back. He got a new trial, I hooked him up with a Hollywood attorney and he was released and his record expunged. But the damage was done. If you’re up against one of these, you must know, especially if you tracked me down, that you are in a fight for your life.”
I told him about Bravo Four and Frank Johnson. Frank had vanished on Halloween night, 1975, just days after I left him to his “privacy”. I was devastated; I knew he was dead. Ever since, the words I’ll see you in 21 have haunted me. And when I told Barnes that, he said, “Uh-oh. 2021. She’s playing with you. But that one’s dead. I know however, they are telepathic. This one knows Anna Mostyn’s story.”
Then he asked me if I had been having nightmares. Anything out of the ordinary kind. As if anything about nightmares is ordinary.
Yes. I’ve had nightmares. Always the same or similar. I’m a 70-year-old man who stays in shape. I work with both machines and free weights and I run every day. He was the same age; transferred from Yale to Harvard Law School and had his own practice since 1990. Prosperous but brilliant and highly respected. Yes, I’d done my research. Old habits, you know? But there was more to Peter Barnes than I could ever find on the internet or paper. What he said next would change my life and open my eyes.
“I own a side business, if you will. I’ve recruited the best mercenaries I could find, from around the world. I started their training for a different kind of mission. They’ve gone out on successful ops and been well compensated. They’re dedicated to one mission only. Can you guess what that is?”
“You’ve been hunting them down and exterminating the creatures,” I said, amazed. He confirmed this and said, “My bodyguard detail and a scouting unit will fly into BWI Marshall. As we’ve been talking, I’ve clicked the mouse on my computer and filled in your information. No need for questions, I have my ways. The guards will arrive first. About three hours from now. A word of warning: they take charge immediately and you won’t be able to take a dump without being monitored. You don’t have a choice, okay? The nature of your situation and my prime mission in life means you’ve contracted my services. We will not let you die. You will be having a kitchen and household staff, too. You’ll do nothing by or for yourself. We take it from here.”
Far from angry, I was relieved. I couldn’t thank him enough. We hung up and I felt the weight of shock. This was really happening! I could only hope that it would be enough. Frank Johnson’s death haunted my conscience, but I didn’t want to end up like him.
As I waited, smoking and drinking coffee, I found more information on Peter Barnes. He never even appeared in court anymore. He had an army of lawyers and legal aides and they were good. They had made him the third richest man in New York. As such, he wielded political clout and he used it. He helped fund homeless shelters and placement programs. He regularly appeared at the capital to defend the poor against whatever he found unfair.
I had a knight on my side.
I was still spooked though. I was still vulnerable until they showed up. Who was to say that whatever they called this thing would wait until Halloween night to get me? And what if they knew somehow that I had help on the way and decided to get me now?
One hour had passed when I saw darkness closing in. What time was it? I wasn’t focused at all. The sun was setting and I’d still be alone!
That’s when I heard it: outside in the backyard, a baby was crying.
*****
Keep watching for the conclusion of The Last Soldier of Bravo Four
Memoirs of an American Asshole 