Hey everyone. It’s been a handful of years since this event’s occurred, yet I still find myself reminiscing about it every now and then. Some details might be foggy here and there, and I apologize in advance for the smattering of inaccuracies bound to surface. Even so, I’ll give it the old “college try”, so they say.
First, some context as an appetizer to the main course; a year prior to the “Happening”– as me and my partner have taken to calling it– my partner’s great uncle kicked the bucket. To spare you the details, the best thing the man ever did for her was die. The second best thing was happen to own a large plot of land in a tiny town not likely even on the maps called Chelmswood. Due to the man’s… how should I say… propensities, he had no other next of kin aside from his brother– my partner’s grandfather.
Her pops had no need for an extra property out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, but luckily for two young newly-“weds” (not officially married, we just call each other our wives) we’d suddenly stumbled upon a goldmine of an opportunity. A gracious gift from her pops spared us months of trouble in today’s housing market.
Being a city slicker herself, my partner was initially hesitant for such a big move. I won’t sit here and claim to be the most versed in rural lifestyles, but a lot of my youth was spent in different flavors of bumfuck nowheres. Neither of us had particularly strong bonds tying us to our previous arrangements aside from our crappy jobs, but we were both educated and likely to find work in a small town.
So we did. We quit our jobs, and with her pops’s blessing, moved out to the land– which thankfully had a functioning house– to start a new life. As I’m sure any of you who’ve done big moves like this, it takes a while to acclimate to your new arrangements. And I won’t lie, things were rocky, but me and Amy? We were truly having fun for the first time in years.
As a side-note, when I say bumfuck nowhere, I mean bumfuck nowhere. You could stand on our porch and see nothing but grass across the huge field beside the home, at least until the treeline obscured anything beyond. A winding gravel road bridged the way between a couple miles of dense forest up to our driveway from Chelmswood’s main road. Even the center of town wasn’t particularly active, mostly just a few places you could go to chat, hang out, and do some shopping. “Shopping” meaning a handful of stands selling fresh produce. Good produce, mind you, but not your typical idea of “shopping” to be.
It took some time to actually explore our expansive abode and learn the lay of the land. Obviously, we’d seen plenty of photos and heard a couple of anecdotes from Amy’s pops, but none of it did the place any real justice. A big stretch of it immediately around the house was just empty fields. If we’d had the time, I would’ve loved to put some extravagant gardens there, or even maybe get into some agriculture. Regardless, toward the south side of the property– beyond the back entrance to the house– was a section of the property that had some wooded areas for a good few acres. Looking back, I’m not exactly sure how much of it was state land and how much was actually ours, but nobody ever gave us grief about it, so.
The coolest part, however, was a time in the first few weeks of living there, me and Amy were checking out some local maps to see what the land around us looked like. There was a creek that had a bit of a bend in it, bringing it remarkably close to our land. The map labelled it the “Chelmswood Creek”, but the only part of the creek remotely close to the main town was the bend. But eh, fair enough.
We’d missed the creek on our first few hiking trips around the woods because, well, it was a lot of woods to look through and we’d rather not get lost and wander onto state land before getting settled in. With a hunch in the back of my mind, we set out on another trip to survey the land. We trekked across the field, hiked through the woods, and finally reached a point where the woods started to thin and we could see the scenery on the other side.
I wish I still had photos of it, because words couldn’t do the sight justice. The creek, wider and larger than the word “creek” implied, wove a path through the forest, its slow currents strolling along like a relaxed Sunday walk. As we drew closer to the creekbank (riverbank? I’m not sure) I couldn’t shake the unmistakable scent of fish from my nose. For a second, I swore I’d blink and find myself standing in the middle of the fresh seafood aisle at the market. Or– well, barring “fresh”, of course. It was more like a noxious, rotting fish smell.
Amy never had a resilient nose, so she hung back as I ventured closer. Sure enough, a handful of discarded fish carcasses peppered the rocky shoreline. Generous bites had been taken from the meatiest parts of their bodies, yet a sizable amount had been left behind. I wasn’t planning to recycle after some wild animal though, nature would take the course on those ones.
I did, however, glean some useful information that day. Fish traveled the creek’s highways. Foolish as it was, I got the bright idea to try setting some fish traps down. It took a bit before I could actually make one that looked functional enough, but I carried it down the next day and set it in.
Couple days pass, with me checking it each day. No dice. On the third day, the stench of fish smelled worse. Which got me excited for some reason– fish smell didn’t automatically mean I’d caught something. But, well, I was just hopeful after a few days of bad luck. I check it, and, lo-and-behold, there’s some fish in there. I somehow missed the faint stream of blood trailing down the currents until I discovered the fish were already dead, the same generous bites taken from them as the now noticeably-more-numerous abandoned carcasses littering the shore.
I was confused, to nobody’s surprise. If something preyed on these fish, why were they still in the trap? How was the trap still perfectly intact? Had something retrieved the caught fish, taken a bite, and put them back in? If it were a bear– which we knew lived around the area– it wouldn’t have hesitated to destroy the trap and/or take the entire fish without leaving scraps behind.
More time passed, some of it time where I couldn’t check the trap as me and Amy were busy back at the house and the thought simply slipped my mind. Maybe not the best idea to leave a fish trap out in the creek unattended for days, but you live and learn. When I finally found time to head back, the scene was… far worse.
Strangely enough, I couldn’t shake the sense that the trap had been moved somehow. Of course, it was now smashed to bits, but it was further up the shoreline than even the tides would have taken it. I also noticed there were other decaying fish carcasses left around, yet some that had been present before were now missing. We now had a proper mystery on our hands. I left the destroyed trap where it was, since it wasn’t made of anything that could hurt the environment.
I mentioned it to Amy after that day, asking if perhaps she’d cleaned up the previous pile of abandoned fish. My question received an “are you crazy?” look, like I was insane to even suggest she’d get herself near the toxic cloud of seafood viscera littering the creek. I always gave myself a hearty shower after checking that place, just to be sure.
Even yet, I didn’t want to give up hope– or the mystique– of the creek just yet. Subsequent hikes let me take some notes about the scenes. First, whatever predator lived here liked fish. A lot. Some days, there would be more fish than I think even a bear could eat. There were other animals found at times– and a rather notable example I’ll get to later– but whatever it was, it seemed to prefer seafood. Second, I could only assume the predator lived in the creek. Maybe it came ashore, but the creekbank was too rocky to leave tracks, and nothing ever left tracks on the dirt or mud leading down to it. With that idea in mind, I set out to test something.
I asked Amy to pick up some fish while she was at the market one day, to which she graciously obliged. One, we had for dinner. The rest? I took out and set in the clearing beside the creek near some mud in hopes that something would find it.
We spent the night inside, I was content with simply waiting. I couldn’t find time the next day to check the bait until the afternoon, right before the sky started to turn orange from sunset. The scent could be detected from much further away this time, and it wasn’t just fish.
A stomach-churning coppery tang hung in the air, that of blood. As the smell hit my nose, I became keenly aware of how quiet everything was. No birds, no crickets, no insects or animals. Just wind and my hesitant footsteps. A switch seemed to flip in my mind, fight or flight, every single primitive instinct inside telling me it was time to go. But I just had to see what was left behind.
Blood’s metallic scent grew stronger as I drew nearer, and once I broke into the clearing, I nearly expelled my lunch. In horrible, shivering, ironic fashion, I found the pile of fish left as bait exchanged for the corpse of a bear. Blood, undried, pooled the area around it. Grass, bushes, and even some small trees sat smothered and splintered surrounding the clearing. The fight wasn’t clean, but something got away alive. Through the bear prints, blood, smearing, and dropped foliage, I swore I saw some unidentifiable tracks. Long, clawed feet, potentially webbed.
I’m not a wildlife expert, and won’t claim to be, but it irked me that something so ruthlessly brawled with a grizzly over a pile of fish. And won. The wounds on that bear… awful. Almost like its attacker fought to inflict pain. I couldn’t imagine what the poor animal felt in its last moments.
Having little experience with things like this, I finally gave in to my instincts and split out of there. I wasn’t sure what to do, but I told Amy that whatever the fuck lived in that creek had killed a bear, and we should probably tell somebody about it. But, well, it was already nearing sunset and it would be an hour and a half trip to-and-back from the main town, so we chose to head over the next day.
I took a longer shower than usual, hoping the stream might wash those images from my mind. Cuddling up to Amy that night, we held each other tight and hoped morning would beckon us quickly. It did not.
We awoke some time into the late hours of twilight. I looked at Amy, she looked at me. Deep terror filled her eyes, and I couldn’t blame her. It’s hard to describe what woke us, but I’ll do my best. A distant, harrowing cry sounded out in the direction of the creek. Not like a fox, or a mountain lion, or a deer or whatever animal known to have horrible cries. Not even like a person screaming. That… thing was not human. I don’t know what it was, but I’m inclined to believe we as humans are hard-wired to identify other humans and I knew in my heart of hearts that that sound was not human.
Minutes passed with neither of us saying a word, just laying in bed, wide awake and curled up in each-other’s embraces, trying to sleep away this nightmare. I sat up, stood, went to the window, and took a peek. Of course, this far out, I could see nothing.
It was stupid. It was the stupidest idea I’ve had, and even now– years later– it’s the stupidest decision I think I’ll ever make; I said I would go out there and look. As expected, Amy begged me not to, but I knew I wouldn’t rest knowing I let this opportunity slip. My wife had known me long enough to know how hard it was to sway me from stupid decisions. Don’t worry, it’s a flaw I’m working on.
I was against the idea, but I couldn’t judge her lest I be a hypocrite when she vowed to go with me. I didn’t stop her, and I knew it might be a smidge easier with her by my side. We kitted up the best we could. I grabbed a flashlight– the brightest I could find– and latched a fresh can of bear spray on my belt. Part of me wishes we’d had a gun to bring, but I really don’t think I could’ve taken a shot at what we saw.
The entire way there, I never took my attention off of Amy. I never let my wind wander from her presence. The further we pushed through the field toward the woods, the quieter everything sounded. You never really realize how eerie a quiet forest is until you’re standing in it. No breeze. No crickets. No birds. No light, except for the narrow, shaky tunnel in front of you held up by your unsteady hand.
Soon, it was only our slow footsteps filling the air. Amy’s hand gripped tighter the nearer we drew. I felt my own heart beating against my ribcage as I could hear my wife’s breathing start to quicken. Soon, the scent of blood– though fainted– returned to my nose. Amy made a noise when she detected it. I held her hand tighter.
I couldn’t tell when we’d broken the clearing until we did. I panned my flashlight across it. The bear was gone, a trail as if something big had been dragged in the direction of the creek replacing it. I didn’t say it out loud, just stood frozen in place for maybe ten seconds, looking at where the bear had once been. Amy seemed to know what had shaken me so bad.
Yet, I wanted to see the creek. About halfway through the clearing, some other noise came into ear-shot, and the rancid miasma of blood and fish grew repugnantly potent. Faint splashes in the water, louder than the creek’s natural streams would produce. Amy froze up solid and refused to go any further. I made her promise to stay right there as I closed the last few paces to observe the creekbank. She nodded.
Step by step, I cushioned my feet as quietly as possible, uneasiness building with each passing second. Each faint splash. Each crush and squelch. Swallowing both to smother my fear and steady my breathing, I took the last step to peer down to the creekbank below.
My flashlight wasn’t enough to illuminate the scene perfectly, but I didn’t need it to. I could tell whatever was down there had dragged the bear’s carcass to the creek and was feasting on it. But I couldn’t tell what the creature was. Not as I stared at it, not as I flipped through every possible silhouette in my mind, not as I shuffled just a little closer and heard a small crack as I stepped onto a branch.
Quicker than I could blink, it snapped its head to look over what I assumed to be its shoulder. The features of its face– if it even had one– remained obscured behind the cover of night, but yellow light reflected back as two eyes faced me. For just a second, neither of us moved, both frozen in indecision. At least, I assumed it was frozen.
It wasn’t.
The reflected lights in its eyes got brighter. I swore some sort of plumage or frill expanded to make the creature appear larger. But no. It wasn’t until its face passed closer to my flashlight beam that I realized its neck had extended like some sort of fucking snake to bring its face closer to me. I couldn’t get a good enough look at it before a scream tore itself from my chest.
I struggled to grab the bear spray, stumbling back and letting off a more-than-generous squeeze in the creature’s general direction. I turned to sprint, taking hold of Amy’s hand, my sputtered instructions to “run” interrupted with another bloodcurdling, inhuman shriek.
I didn’t even know if we were going the right direction. I didn’t even know if it was chasing us or not. I didn’t even know if we would make it out alive. What I did know, and what I refused to forget, was the feeling of Amy’s hand clinging to mine. I did not let myself let go. I did not let myself loosen the hold until we broke the treeline. Until we crossed the field. Until we ascended our home’s porch. Until we were inside, locked behind a door, with the distance of three or four football fields between us and that creek.
We held on to each other for the rest of that night. We weren’t fortunate enough for sleep to waste away the rest of twilight’s hours, or for some benevolent god to bless us with amnesia and wipe that memory away. Amy only admitted to me much much later that she could see the creature as it extended its head closer, just a fraction of a second before I noticed.
It shouldn’t surprise you to know we spent the next few months there going through the grueling process of moving away again. We never heard another shriek after that night, and I never went back to the creek. Whatever that monster is, it can keep to itself out there for all I care. It didn’t bother us until I started poking around its stomping grounds, after all.
We left without telling another soul in Chelmswood about the creek and its monster. Nobody’d buy it, anyway. Amy’s pops didn’t. And now there’s no convincing him, not unless you want to grab a shovel and get to grave robbing.
I wish I could leave you with a fuller explanation. But, well, that’s the long and short of it. The story of the Monster of Chelmswood Creek.