I have no desire to see the things I have seen again, nor direct or guide anyone to where I saw it; I also have no desire to see this story die forever, either. This is my compromise.
This was back in the early 90’s, when McDonalds still had good, greasy Big Breakfasts. That’s important later.
My parents and I ate it at least three times a week while we were traveling across the country. The greasy bags would pile up where I would put my feet as I rotated between three Tiger handheld games.
We did a lot of camping during these cross country trips, sometimes on sketchy land. It wasn’t always safe. During on of these trips, my dad bought a gun, a .38 caliber police special revolver and a bag of bullets from a man in the adjacent camping spot while dad was foraging for kindling. My dad was so excited by the fact he had a means of protecting the family beyond a kitchen knife that he hauled out of our paid camping spot less than five minutes after the sale to make sure he kept it. Life on the road made my parents wary of any potential threat or double-cross.
My father had a strange fascination with the revolver. We drove only 100 miles one day when we usually did a minimum of 300 when he drove the station wagon up a dirt road a few miles away from the highway, somewhere with a river and trees. My dad shot the revolver and emptied the empty shells into an empty bottle at ten in the morning while mom sat in the car. This was very strange for a man that was usually reserved and conservative, preferring to travel all day. It felt like I was seeing a new man for the first time.
He put the sweaty gun into my hands and said:
“We’re WAY out here, you don’t have to worry about a gunshot. Try to hit that pinecone. Just relax, don’t tense up…come on…” I didn’t know how to handle my father’s strange behavior, so I stayed still and fought tears off. I couldn’t bring myself to squeeze the trigger, even with my father yelling at me to do so to “become a man”. My father responded by grabbing the gun, the bag of bullets and bottle of empty shells in one angry swoop, throwing all three on the floorboards while we peeled away in the gravel.
The three of us traveled in silence for another hour before stopping at a camping spot at the end of an old farmer’s land; we bought eggs from him two years prior, when we were still traveling. We knew it was safe because the farmer said he “never came out this way anymore”, which seemed true; we camped by the big pine with the branches that touched the ground three times before without ever being disturbed. Our old rock fire-ring and pine needle bed where we set up the tent from before greeted us.
Dad gathered some of the plentiful fallen branches while mom collected those greasy McDonalds bags for easy kindling. My father was still steamed about the gun situation it seemed, but as soon as the fire was going, the sun was down and their first beer was cracked, the mood lightened. Soon, we were all joking around we forgot about the gun.
Until they saw a bear in the woods across the farmer’s corn field.
I say bear because that’s what my parents thought it was at first. I couldn’t see past the corn field, but I know the thing towered over the crop from their reactions. My parents said nothing and I asked what was wrong. I looked up and saw only their eyes, which were the largest and whitest I had ever seen on anyone before. They were both frozen in fear looking at that thing come through the corn.
My eyes turned from theirs to the thing that came through.
The campfire provided only light to its lower half; it was identical to a single ivy-covered tree trunk, the same as any other. All I remember of the top of the towering tombstone shaped shadow was the sheer gravity of it, and how it approached without moving anything on its body.
It was like the sheer pressure of this creature made me involuntarily collapse and shut my eyes and scream. I heard my parents screaming and crying too. It was the kind of crying one only does when they know, without a doubt, that this it was the end.
Then a gunshot rang out. I remember that the huge shadow stopped and the pressure let up a little; it felt like rising up out of the crushing depths of the ocean, if just a small bit at first. Then there was a second gunshot and the shadow winced.
My mom shouted “the farmer!” thinking he had come to our rescue, but no one knew where the shots were coming from, except for dad.
He grabbed our arms and shoulders and dragged us behind the car, yelling at us to not to get up. I could hear the shadow creak, snap and groan as even more shots exploded from what seemed like everywhere. We went behind the station wagon and just listened to the thing walk stumble in confusion; its footsteps sounded like branches snapping. I was certain I had heard that sound, those footsteps, before while camping. You probably heard them too.
It made no sound other than its footsteps as it rustled back into the corn. We came out of hiding when the shooting had stopped.
In the ashes of the McDonald’s-bag fueled campfire were a pile of empty .38 caliber shells surrounded by a blood we had never seen before.
We left and drove until sunrise. My dad tossed the gun in the nearest river and we never mentioned it again.