“No one knows where the Mole People came from,” my Uncle Braxton began. “But they’ve been here for a long time. The most common theory is that they are descended from Bishop Robert Bansemer. In 1892, he had a dispute with the Church over some ideological differences and left Salt Lake for the then nearly uninhabited region near Fish Hollow with his family: four wives and 26 children, along with a dozen-or-so unrelated followers.
“Others think that they arrived before the first Mormon settlers. Some think they are the progeny of a French Canadian trapper called Mad Henri. Legend has it that his wife, a Ute woman, caught him in bed with her sister. Enraged at being discovered, Henri slaughtered his wife and six children, before running off to the mountain hollow with his lover.
“Another theory is that they are descendants of Spanish soldiers who got lost while traversing the mountains. Still others posit that they have always been here, as old as the mountains and the valleys. Perhaps they aren’t quite human. No one really knows.
“But what I do know is that the Church explicitly forbids missionaries from visiting the area around Fish Hollow. For as long as anyone can remember. Most obeyed. However, two didn’t. Elders Bradford and Williams. They weren’t from here, of course. Probably thought the tales were just the talk of superstitious townsfolk. Thought that they would get rewarded if they were able to convert the yokels who lived there.
“So they set out one summer day. The nearest road is about five miles from the hollow, so it was a long hike in the mountains. Pretty uneventful, for the most part. But about four miles in they started seeing signs, hand painted with messages like “No Trespassing,” “Trespassers will be shot,” things like that. They were undeterred. For they were sharing the word of God.
“There was nothing in the hollow but a small wooden shack. They considered turning back, but they had already come so far. Elder Williams tried the door. Surprisingly, it swung open. Inside, there was a ladder that led down into a dark hole. They descended, Elder Williams first. At the bottom, about ten feet down, was a network of tunnels. Not just a few passageways, but a full underground city. Dozens of tunnels, about four feet tall, lit by torches, leading every which way, like a gigantic rabbit’s warren. Suddenly, hundreds of mole people descended upon the elders. About three feet tall, pale, big bulging bug-like eyes, dressed in animal skins, armed with primitive spears and bows. Elder Bradford managed to escape up the ladder, but Elder Williams was not as lucky. He was dragged deep into the tunnels, alive and screaming. He was never seen from again. That was 50 years ago.
“Some people say the mole people have died out, if they ever existed. But I don’t think so. This part of the country has a lot of secrets.”
“Have you ever seen a mole person?” asked my cousin Brexett.
“Once,” my uncle said. “Two years ago. He was at the pharmacy, picking up a prescription. Wasn’t dressed in skins, but I’d recognize those bug eyes anywhere.”
I looked at my uncle, but couldn’t tell if he was joking. Knowing him, he probably believed it. He was a character, for sure.
“How tall was he?” asked Breckyn, another of my cousins.
“Probably about four feet tall. Remember, this is a small town. I know everyone here, if not their names their faces. I had never seen this man before. It was a mole person. Anyways, time for bed.”
Storytime over, I got up. Tomorrow would be my last full day in Utah. Had been terribly boring. All my cousins were much younger, and my sister was, well, my sister. But my uncle had given me an idea.
I Googled the mole people. No results pertaining to Utah. But Fish Hollow existed, seven miles from my uncle’s house. I pulled up some satellite maps. The tree cover was too dense to see anything. I zoomed out a bit. Through a gap in the trees, I could see what looked like a barbed-wire fence. Interesting.
I looked for any articles I could find about Fish Hollow. Located an article about how a hiker was found dead near there a year ago. He had been bitten twice by a rattlesnake. The article mentioned that he was the seventh hiker to be found dead in the vicinity in the past nine years. Five from rattlesnake bites in the summer or fall, two from exposure in the winter. There was a video interview with the county sheriff, an older man with a white walrus mustache named Gideon Stone. He spoke about how the area was dangerous, with the highest concentration of rattlesnakes in the state, along with abandoned mine shafts and black bears. He urged everyone to avoid it. I was going to do exactly the opposite.
The next morning, I purchased a map, compass, hunting knife, some wire cutters, and bear spray from a store in town, and then set off, the knife hidden under my shirt, telling my mom that I was off for a day-long hike. There were no path, but the terrain was relatively flat, and I was able to make good progress. Around three in the afternoon, when I was about a mile from the hollow, I came across some ATV tracks, heading in the direction of the hollow. I considered following them, but decided to keep going through the woods. About twenty minutes later, I came to a barbed wire fence, nearly ten feet high. A large sign read “No Trespassing, Sheriff’s Orders.” I quickly cut a small hole in the fence and squeezed through.
After about five more minutes, I came to a vantage point overlooking the hollow. There was a trailer, its windows blacked out. About five men were outside, assault rifles slung over their shoulders, unloading buckets off ATVs. A huge Polynesian man, probably about 6-6, 350lb, stood by the trailer’s door. I turned and ran.
I only made it about twenty feet when my left foot stepped on some sort of metal trap. I fell to the ground, crying out in pain. My left foot was caught in some heavy metal jaws. I tried to pull them apart, but to no avail.
I heard footsteps coming up from the hollow. A few seconds later, four men, armed with assault rifles appeared.
“Looks like you got yourself in a sticky situation,” one of them said.
“Please, help,” I said.
“You should have obeyed the signs,” another said. “But it’s your lucky day. That’s not a bear trap. If it were, your leg would be shattered. It’s a specially designed human trap. Designed to inflict minimal visible damage.” He laughed.
Two men pried the trap’s jaws open while the other immobilized my arms. Once freed from the trap, I was led down to the hollow, which had a strong chemical odor.
“Got an intruder,” one of the men cried.
A few seconds later, a middle-aged man emerged from the trailer. I recognized him. Sheriff Gideon Stone.
“What brings you here, son?” he asked, his voice friendly
“I was just out for a hike,” I said. “I swear.”
“Search his backpack,” the sheriff ordered.
One of the men dumped out my backpack. The wire cutters, along with the bear spray, water bottles, compass, and trail mix, fell out. The sheriff picked up the wire cutters
“These are a strange thing to take on a hike, aren’t they son? Who sent you?”
“I…I,” I began, unable to think of an explanation for the wire cutters. “Look,” I finally said. “I heard the rumor the mole people and decided to check it out. I pulled up some satellite maps and saw the fence, so I bought some cutters. I swear. I won’t tell anyone what I saw. I’m not from here and don’t care what you are doing here.”
“Is that so, son?” the sheriff asked. “Well, I no how to deal with people like you. To ensure you don’t say anything. Take him to the pit.”
The Polynesian giant grabbed my arms and marched me to a tarp about twenty feet from the trailer’s entrance, before releasing me.
“Pull open the tarp, son,” the sheriff ordered.
I remained frozen.
“Don’t be shy son, pull open the tarp.”
I lifted the tarp. In the pit’s sandy bottom, about fifteen feet down, were five large rattlesnakes.
“Rattlesnakes?” I asked.
“What did you expect to see,” the sheriff asked. “A rabid mole person ready to devour you. There’s no such thing, son. Yes, records appear to indicate that an inbred family likely inhabited this valley at the turn of the 20th century. But they are long gone.”
“So the hikers that vanished, that you said died of rattlesnake bites, you killed them?”
“Ah, you know about them. The answer is yes. And we killed some more that they never found. All depends on if they are reported missing or not. Some never are. Left home, on a cross country trip, told no one where they were. Those we burn. But most, my men find, before the search party gets too close. You’d have thought, after five rattlesnake bite deaths in a small area, many of the victims with multiple bites, someone would investigate. But no. Some paper remarked how we had the highest concentration of deadly snake bites in North America, but nothing more than that.”
I looked at the snakes deep below. I still had my knife, hidden below my shirt in my short’s waistband. I wondered if I could kill them. Seemed unlikely. And even if I did, I was sure I’d be shot.
“So what are you waiting for, son?” the sheriff asked. “Jump. It won’t be that painful. It will take a few hours to die, but not that painful. Believe me, we can make your demise much more drawn out.”
“Please, I’m going on my mission soon,” I lied.
“Where are you going, son?” he asked.
“Paris.”
“You must be rich,” he laughed. “They will deny it, but somehow all the rich kids end up in fancy cities. Me, I went to rural Arkansas. Unfortunately for you, that doesn’t sway me. You see, I left the church. But don’t tell my constituents. That would upset them more than if they learned what I do in the hollow,” he said, laughing.
“Please Gideon—”
“How do you know my name?”
“Your family. A cousin of my dad.”
“What’s your dad’s name, son?”
“Ammon,” I said, after a brief pause.
The sheriff thought this over for a few seconds, racking his brain for the names of his hundreds of cousins.
“I’ve got two cousins named Ammon, what’s your mom’s name?”
“McKenlee”
“Is that spelled with an L-E-E or an L-E-I-G-H?”
“Uh…”
“You don’t have to answer, it’s a trick question. None of them are married to McKenlees. But I’m curious now, how do you know my name?”
I looked around. The sheriff was about five feet away from me. There was an ATV about ten feet to my left. The guards were about twenty feet away, their guns aimed at me.
“I’ll ask you again, son,” the sheriff said. “How do you know my name?”
I didn’t respond.
“He probably saw it on one of the campaign signs,” said one of the guards. “You’ve got your ugly mug plastered on every yard in this county. Don’t know why, no one has ran against you since ’83.“
“Yeah, that’s probably it,” the sheriff said. “And I’m giving you one more chance, son. Jump, or I will push you.”
I stayed where I was, devising a plan. When the sheriff approached me, I planned to take him hostage, lead him to the ATV, slit his throat, and take off.
“You’ve got exactly five more seconds, son.”
He began walking towards me. I knew that my original plan was impossible. When he was a few steps away I reached for my knife, and lunged towards him. A look of surprise came over his face as I plunged it into his chest.
I didn’t even withdraw it before I was off running to the ATV. I expected to hear gunshots, but instead heard footsteps as the guards chased after me. Guess they didn’t want to shoot me, the bullet-ridden body of a hiker would be sure to draw attention.
“Sh..shoot him,” the sheriff called out in a weak voice as I reached the ATV. Thankfully, the key was in the ignition. I started it as bullets flew out.
The engine was powerful, probably 1000CC, and I floored it. The guards weren’t good shots, and, miraculously, only one bullet hit the ATV, on its side.
As I drove out of the hollow, I looked back. The guards were getting in their own ATVs, preparing to give chase.
I kept driving through the woods, hearing the pursuing ATVs behind me, an occasional shot ringing out. I was probably two hundred yards ahead of them. After about five minutes, the pursuit ended. I looked back and saw the ATVs turning around. Had they given up? Or were they planning something else?
I kept driving, until the trail marked by the previous ATVs came to an end near a dirt road. They’d probably knew I’d end up here, were calling in reinforcements to pick me up. I ditched the ATV and headed back into the woods. No clue where I was, no map, no compass. I took out my phone from my pocket. Dead.
I just kept walking through the forest, in the direction of the setting sun. I expected to hear footsteps approaching, dogs barking, but there was nothing. Eventually, when it was dark out, I came out on a paved road in a residential neighborhood.
I flagged down a car. The driver was nice enough to give me a ride to my uncle’s place, which was only a mile away.
I ran into the house. My mom greeted me, hugging me.
“Jacob, where were you?” she cried. “It’s almost midnight.”
“Just got lost. Compass was acting all wonky.”
“Thank God you’re back,” she said. “It’s dangerous out there. My cousin got murdered here today, by the cartel.”
“Which cousin?” I asked, shocked.
“Gideon Stone, your great aunt Emeline’s son. The sheriff. He stopped a suspicious vehicle, ordered the driver out. When he was searching him, the driver turned around and stabbed him. Can you imagine that? In this town? My quiet hometown.”
“Did they get the guy?” I asked.
She nodded. “Found him dead in his car. Self-inflicted gunshot wound.”
At least they weren’t looking for me. At least not officially. But they’d be after me They had the knife. They could trace that. I needed to get out of that town. Thankfully, our flight was early tomorrow morning.
“We’re going to stay a bit longer,” my mom said. “Through the funeral. It’s the respectful thing to do. He was family, and a beloved figure in this community.”
I stood, horrified. This could not be.