ࡱ> {}zU ^qbjbjnn 4aa^i((d,&;&=&=&=&=&=&=&$(X+da&a&v&UUUf;&U;&UUr#T$"#'&&0&$+N+$+$Ua&a&U&+(B j: FEAR By Jessica Salfia West Virginia Fiction Competition, 1st Place Winner Selected by Crystal Wilkinson Crystal Wilkinson wrote the following critique of Salfias story, which we share with readers: Jackson brought his gun up slowly to his shoulder and trained it toward the sound of rustling leaves. He breathed in. And then out slowly, waiting. And suddenly Im in a wheelbarrow and youve captured me as a reader. Exacting, suspenseful action and sentences as James Baldwin would say Clean as a bone. The dialogue from the mouth of these characters was true. Deer and panther and the ways in which country men show love to one another also felt true. I didnt want to love Jackson and his kin, who love him. I didnt want to love a hunting story but you and your sure hand, your storytelling skills wouldnt let me resist. The only revision I would suggest is to let us see the uncles at the end instead of Beaming at him now like kids with a new toy. This is our last chance to see Jackson and his uncles through Jacksons eyes. What a great story! Jackson brought his gun slowly to his shoulder and trained it toward the sound of rustling leaves. He breathed in. And then out slowly, waiting. His ass was cold and his legs tight, but he didnt dare move or breathe again or make a sound. He had been sitting in his blind since before the sun came up, and it was already close to dark. He hadnt seen or heard a deer all day. He waited, trying to still even the beating of his heart; the rustling grew louder. A pair of gray squirrels burst through the carpet of leaves running and tumbling over each other, one holding a windfall apple in its mouth as big as its head. Jackson lowered his gun. He watched the squirrels run around and around the knotty trunk of the massive oak until they disappeared, the smaller of the two chasing the big one holding the acorn. He decided to follow suit and head back to camp to eat. He crawled backward out of the blind, shouldered his gun, and stretched. He moved his stiff legs up and down, bringing his knees to his chest and rolling his ankles. He turned his face toward the last of the late afternoon light and let the sun warm up his cheeks, still cold from the November day and the shade of the blind. He closed his eyes and felt the heat move straight down through him, and fill his chest. He wished he could curl up in this patch of sunlight and sleep, feeling completely warm for the first time all day. A branch snapped and Jacksons eyes flew open just in time to see the brush to the left of him explode. A buck, the biggest he had ever seen thundered toward him, wild-eyed and snorting, head lowered. There was no time to think, the deer was nearly on top of him. Jackson dove out of the way, slinging his rifle around his body to try and get off a shot. The deer tore past him, so close Jackson could see the red lines running through the wild whites of the deers eyes. He could have reached out to touch it. Something wet splattered across Jacksons face and thats when he saw the wound. Blood streamed over the bucks shoulder and down its side. The deers neck was torn open and loose strips of flesh bounced and flapped away from a gaping tear that ran red with blood. Jackson could see the exposed muscles of the deers neck bunching and pulsing with each pump of its legs, and its forelegs and chest were painted red. The brush swallowed the deer again, but Jackson could hear it still crashing through the woods, running like the devil was chasing it. He stood up and wiped his face. His hand came away smeared with the deers blood. The ground showed a clear red trail leading away from Jackson and toward the river. He could track the deer. It was mortally wounded, getting weaker by the minute. But Jackson also knew that whatever had torn that deer up was most likely tracking it too. He felt a flutter of fear thinking about what could have ripped open a wound like that on such a big, strong buck, moved his rifle from his shoulder to the crook of his arm, and hurried back to camp. * * * Jackson crossed the creek and came to the clearing where Deer Camps rough cabin rested. Pap had built the cabin on the foundations of the Old Homeplace, the remnants of Paps grandparents original home on the property. The river was just a half a mile further down the hill, and the railroad tracks ran alongside. Pap had told Jackson that a whole community had existed once down here along the river, mostly small farms owned by miners who caught the train to the mine on down the line. Eventually though, the mine closed, the trains stopped running, and folks moved up the mountain. And over time the woods ate up almost any sign that anyone had once lived here. Almost. There were still a few living ghosts scattered through that stretch of woods; along the tracks in the spring, it wasnt unusual to find a patch of irises blooming near a pile of rocks that once may have been a border wall or a foundation. Or to find an apple tree all alone in a wide patch of forest. Once Jackson had been hiking along the river in late summer and came across a tomato vine growing in a sunny clearing, sprawling shaggy and loose across the ground, laden with red, fat tomatoes. There was something unsettling about finding these living memories. Jackson never picked these flowers or ate the fruit. He left them, monuments to the real ghosts Pap told him roamed the woods. The clearing around Deer Camp was edged with straggly rose bushes that had forgotten how to be tame. They sprawled unchecked in a thorny wall around the yard. Jacksons Mamaw had dug up a few starts years ago and replanted them around her neat little white house at the top of the mountain. But even though they were the same plant, the old ones in the woods always bloomed a redder red, their thorns thicker and their vines greener. And Jackson swore they smelled different, sweeter and stronger than his Mamaws. You could smell the roses before you saw them, and though the petals had long dropped and the vines were covered in drying rose hips, when Jackson approached the brown and green tangle of thorns that separated the yard from the woods, there was the distinct smell of dry leaves, damp undergrowth, and roses. Jacksons uncles were standing in the yard, red solo cups in hand. The whole week of Deer Camp they maintained a steady drunkenness that fluctuated between two-beer-buzz and Saturday-night-sloppy. They were looking up at a deer hanging from the lowest branch of the pine tree in the front yard of the cabin. Its thickly muscled hind legs were spread, and it had been gutted, bled, and field dressed. Jackson could smell the blood and shit that still stained the bucket near the deer. Its rack was big. Not the biggest he had ever seen, but the biggest killed at camp this yearan eight pointthe spread was wide, and the antlers were thick. Jackson went closer. The deer had been beautifulits hide a burnished copper color. It wasnt as big as the buck that had nearly run him over, but it had been a fine, strong deer. Now, its tongue was hanging black and limp out of its mouth and its eyes were wet and empty. Jackson wished his uncles had finished processing the deerthat it wasnt hanging all heavy and rigid in the tree. He hated when they were just hanging there. He didnt like looking at the deer all spread out and hollow. It felt wrong, obscenelike accidentally seeing someone naked. In the breeze, the deer rocked ever so slightly back and forth, and despite the chill of the day, a stray fly buzzed around the bucket that his uncles should have rinsed. The men turned to grin at Jackson. Uncle Ronnie, the taller of the two, leaned forward drunkenly and his round, hard belly made him look like one of those weeble wobble toys. Except at some point tonight, Uncle Ronnie was sure to fall down. He slurred, What dyou think of that big sonofabitch, huh? Your Uncle Kent thinks that deer he got three years ago is bigger, but I told him no way. The spread on that big bastard! Whoowhee, he was a bitch to haul across the creek, I tell you what. You have any luck today, boy? Whats that shit all over your face? Uncle Ronnie had been celebrating his kill hard. His eyes were red and glassy, his smile slow and crooked. There was still deer blood under his finger nails and in the creases of his fingers, and Jackson bet when he took a drink from his red cup, it smelled like blood. Saw a buck. Biggest I ever seen. Nearly run me over. I didnt get a shot off because I was looking at its neck. Something had been at it. Coyote, maybe. Or a bear. Jackson described the wound, his uncles eyes growing wide at the story. Ronnie howled with delight, staggering with laughter and bourbon, but Uncle Kent frowned. Dont know what would be big enough to take on a buck that size. You sure it was as big as you say, Jackson? Jackson nodded, Yes, sir. You think it was a bobcat that tore it up? Ronnie howled, I bet it was a panther! A black panther. You know Jimbo Burner caught one on his trail cam a while back. And your Pap, he saw one down here once. It stretched from nose to tail all the way across the old dirt road. Pap said that it stood as high as a pony, and when it saw him, it snarled with yellow eyes and long yellow teeth. It looked like death, itself. Kent scowled. Bullshit. The panther on Jimbo Burners trail cam video is Flossie Weavers housecat. Wadnt no black panther. And you know Pap could spin a story better than a preacher on Sunday. The deer hanging behind them twisted in the wind and fixed its eye on Jackson. The dead eye glared accusatorially. Jackson turned so his back was to it. He and Kent walked toward the cabin, Ronnie stumbled behind. Oh, I know! I know! Ronnie giggled and wheezed. I know what tore up Jacksons ole monster buck. It. Was. The. Tailypo! Jacksons uncle drew out the three syllables of the last word so that it sounded like the growling moan of a monster, and collapsed into a broken down lawn chair by the cabin door, his round belly shaking. Jackson kept his face neutral, but inwardly he winced at the sound. The year he turned ten, his Daddy had been killed working on the pipeline. Some pipes had come loose and rolled off a truck, and trying to get out of the way of the loose pipes, his Daddy had gotten in the way of a back hoe that was backing up. He lived for a day in the hospital, but never came home. A few weeks later, his Mom, adrift in her grief, had left him at Paps for the night. She had kissed his head and told him shed see him after school the next day. That had been four years ago. Last Jackson heard, she was living in Maryland in some trailer park and had a baby girl named, Nevaeh. Jackson wondered about once a day what his half-sister looked like. That year, Jackson began having nightmares about the Tailypo. It had always been one of Paps favorite monster stories, and when he was little, Jackson had loved it toothe snarling hairless monster, the old man cooking up the tail. The story hadnt scared Jackson at all. But that year, after all that leaving, Jacksons sleep became terrorized by the demon from the story. He would have the same dream: he was the character in the end of Paps story. Hed be lying in bed under the covers, and in the distance, he would hear the monster growl, Tailypoooooooo. I want my Tailypooooooo. The voice would get closer and closer, but Jackson would be trapped, paralyzed on the bed. Then, claws would slowly fold over the bottom railing at the foot of the bed, and the monster, a terrifying cross between a hairless rat and a jungle cat, would crawl up the bed slowly, slavering and growling, his bleeding stump of its tail leaving a wet, red trail across Jacksons blankets. Jackson could never move or speak in these dreams. He could only watch in frozen horror. The monster would stand over him breathing hot, fetid breath into his face, then open its mouth over Jacksons his throat. Just before the monsters teeth sank into his skin, Jackson would wake up screaming and clutching his neck. Mamaw quickly banned the Tailypo story from Paps tale telling, and on the wall above Jacksons bed a wooden cross and picture of a blonde haired, blue eyed Jesus appeared. He guessed this was Mamaws version of a dream catcher. And eventually the dreams stopped occurring so frequently. It had been over a year since he had the dreaded dreamed. The last time it had happened, he had been trying to work up the courage to ask Ginny Mayle to the 8th grade dance. The night before he planned to ask her, he had had the Tailypo dream for the first time in months. He went to the dance alone. * * * The cabin smelled like chili and liver and onions. His uncles were cooking the tender organs of the first camp kill on the old iron stove next to an endless pot of chili. At least Uncle Ronnie had done that much. Beneath the scent of food was the smell of bourbon and sour feet. Uncle Ronnies damp wool socks were draped over a broom stick near the stove, steaming and sending their scent into the air. Jackson took off his outer coat and hung it on a peg by the door, noticing just how much the wounded buck had splattered blood across the coat. Uncle Ronnie shuffled over to his cot near the wall and stretched out; farting loudly, he lay back and pulled his hat low over his eyes. Jesus, Ron. It already smells awful in here. You been sitting here drinking and talking shit since you drug that deer back to camp. Jackson, I told him he could cut it up his damn self for being such a self-righteous prick. And so whatd he do? Left it hanging. And I bet theres still a damn mess out in that bucket, aint there? Uncle Kent whipped around from taking a bite of chili from the pot, pointing his wooden spoon at Uncle Ronnie. And I tell you what else, there was a big old possum sniffing around the back of this cabin last night, and its going to tear up that bucket of shit out there, and maybe eat that deer if you dont get it in coolers tonight. Uncle Ronnie smirked under his hat, took another drink of from his cup, and whispered, Tailypo? Jackson scowled at him, went to the coolers and fished out a beer. During Deer Camp week his uncles allowed him to do some light drinking, but the liquor was strictly off limits to him until he turned 18. I dont know, Uncle Ronnie. Whatever got at that deer I saw earlier might smell your deer in the tree. Maybe we should process it tonight. If you leave it hanging, whatever it was might come here looking for an easy meal. Ill help you cut it up and get it in the coolers if you want me too. Kent leaned in the doorway of the cabin. I told him that same damn thing, boy. Too proud. Wants to wake up and stare at that buck hanging there like nobody killed a deer before. Ronnie growled. Ill skin it in the morning. Its cold enough to keep, and I dont need to go out again tomorrow so I got all day. Itll keep til then. Jackson disagreed, but held his tongue. If Uncle Ronnie wanted to waste a whole deer, that was on him. Mamaw would read him the riot act for the waste, but as long as he got them antlers, Ronnie wouldnt care. Jackson scooped a generous helping of chili into a bowl. And then threw a scoop of liver and onions on top of the chili for good measure. His uncles did the same. The liver was tender, and the chili hot. The food settled him. He scraped the paper bowl with a piece of bread and washed it down with the Bud Light. His uncles made short work of their chili, and soon they were both snoring gently, Ronnie back in his cot and Kent stretched out in an old easy chair. The air in the cabin was thick with their smells. Jackson went outside. The air was cold and the darkness sharper somehow because of it. Maybe Ronnie was right and it would frost, keeping the deer until morning. He could see the silhouette of it in the tree, a darker shape than the fresh darkness around it. He wished the deer was not hanging there suspended. He hated thinking that the deer was stuck somehow, waiting. Stuck like him in his nightmare about the Tailypo. He shivered and went back inside. He laid down on the old metal bed that was his bunk this week and allowed himself to think about what Mamaw had told him right before they left for Deer Camp. His Mom was coming for Thanksgiving and bringing his half-sister. He hadnt seen her in over four years, but when they came up out of the woods, she would be at Mamaws waiting. He had heard Uncle Kent and Uncle Ronnie arguing about it while they were packing up the truck for camp. Ronnie thought it was time to forgive and forget A boy needs a mother, he had said. Kent had said he didnt care if she was their goddamn sister, she nearly ruined Jackson. She can stay the hell in Maryland. Jackson didnt feel nearly ruined. But he knew what Kent meant. He lay on his bunk and stared into the darkness and tried to let the rhythm of his uncles snoring put him to sleep. * * * Jackson couldnt move. Everyone was gone. His uncles were gone. He was alone and would be alone forever. He could hear a terrible scratching sound, then, the sound of claws scraping against the metal rails of the bed. Long, jagged, yellowed claws curled up and over the metal bar at the foot of the bed. The monster pulled itself onto the mattress, slavering and growling. Shreds of the big bucks hide hung from its yellow teeth. It put its paws on Jacksons shoulders and opened its mouth, its stinking breath hot on Jacksons face. Its mouth, open and stained with the big bucks blood, descended to Jacksons throat. He screamed. Hey, hey, buddy. Shh, shh, shh. Its me. Its me. Uncle Kents black eyes fixed on Jacksons face. It wasnt the monsters paws on his shoulders, but his uncles big hands. He could move; he was awake. Oh man. Oh geez Jacksons breath came in short bursts and he started to blubber, but then he saw his Uncles face. What? What is it? Somethings outside. We need to wake up Ronnie. Something is climbing over the cabin and scratching at the door. Something big. I cant see it, but its His uncle was cut off by a violent scratching on the wall of the cabin next to the door. The thin walls of the cabin shook and whatever it was growled low in its throat. The scratching stopped and then there was a thump on the roof followed by the sound of prowling steps, and then more violent scratching, this time on the roof above the doorway. Jacksons insides turned to water. He sat frozen on his bed. Uncle Kent shook Uncle Ronnie violently. Ronnie! Wake up, goddammit. Uncle Ronnie lurched upright and moaned, but his moan was cut short when he heard the scratching. What in the hell? Uncle Kent and Uncle Ronnie looked at each other. Whatever was on the roof growled again and then made a sound like a womans scream. It cant be. Ronnie whispered. Only a big cat makes that sound, Ronnie! Theres nothing else. Nothing that could jump on and off this roof. Its gotta be eight feet high. Kent whispered back. The scratching stopped and then resumed at the wall just beside the door. Whys it trying to get in? What could it want in here? Theres a whole deer in the tree outside! Ronnie wondered. Jackson watched the wall shake and his coat sway with the vibrations. My coat. Jackson whispered. Huh? Ronnie said. My coat. Its splattered with that deer blood. The big deer from the woods. It must have tracked me, my coatinstead of the deer. Whatever it is outside, it must be the thing that got at that deer. The men stared at Jacksons coat in disbelief. The animal was back on the roof, scratching at the spot just above Jacksons coat. The old ceiling was starting to rain drywall and rotted wood. Uncle Kent and Uncle Ronnie both grabbed their rifles, loaded them, and walked to the door. Kent grabbed Jacksons coat, and in one quick motion opened the door, tossed the coat out into the yard and slammed the door shut, latching it tightly. The scratching on the roof stopped, and they all heard the thud of something landing in the yard. There was quiet, and then snuffling and more growling. The cabin was windowless, so Kent and Ronnie had to try to peer through cracks in the wall. Jackson could feel the fear spreading through him. His dream. It had come true. He sat frozen on the bed, suspended like Uncle Ronnies deer, his fear hollowing him out empty. What is it? Jackson hissed. Cant tell. Its so damn dark, but Jackson, I swear, I think its a cougar! his Uncle Ronnie breathed. Cant be. Nobodys seen a big cat in these mountains for 80 years. Hell, remember that report from DNR? Said Eastern mountain lions were extinct a few years back. Kent whispered. Well, Kent, then what in the hell is trying to tear this cabin apart and is ripping up Jacksons coat right now? It looks like a damn mountain lion to me. Ripping up Jacksons coat. The dream was coming true. It was the monster. The Tailypo. It would rip up his coat, then come for him, and rip him up. It had been trying to rip him up for years. It hunted him in his dreams, and it had found him today in the woods. It would chase off his uncles. Or eat them. And he would be alone. All alone for the monster to rip apart. Jackson started gasping for air and hot tears leaked out of his eyes. The terror of the dream had not fully left him and now it had hold of him in a way he had never felt beforehis chest was collapsing and his vision started to go dark. He gulped for air. And then gasped loudly. Shit, Kent! The boy! Uncle Ronnie ran over to Jackson and started patting his back. Breathe. Breathe Jackson, dammit! Kent rummaged around in the kitchen supplies before producing a brown paper bag. Here. Breathe into this! The men worked on their nephew together, both of them murmuring comforts and gentle commands. Jacksons panic attacks as a child had been bad, and though it had been years since they had seen him like this, they both remembered what to do. Finally, the boys breathing slowed and steadied, the brown bag inflating and deflating at a normal rate. After about a few minutes Jackson lowered the bag from his trembling mouth, and put his head in his hands. Im sorry. Jackson mumbled. The dream. It was like when I was little, but so much worse. I just got so scared for a second and then it was like there was no air. My lungs wouldnt work. The scratching had not resumed, and the animal sounds in the yard had moved off. It was quiet. Uncle Ronnie poured some bourbon and splash of coke into a red solo cup and handed it to Jackson. Here. Drink it all. Now, lay back down. Dont you worry about that dream or anything else. Nothing can get in this tight little cabin. Whatever was here is leaving or maybe even already gone. Uncle Ronnie sat down on Jacksons bed. Jackson, wore out from hyperventilating and fear and bourbon, laid down and curled up on his side like he was still ten years old and not almost fifteen. Uncle Ronnie put his hand on Jacksons foot and patted him steadily and gently. Uncle Kent sat down on the other end of the bed and rested his hand on Jacksons head. It was quiet outside. His uncles on either side of him like bookends, Jackson closed his eyes and sank into a dreamless sleep. * * * The next morning Jackson woke up, groggy and confused to the excited voices of his uncles in yard outside the cabin. He got up slowly, his head pounding, and shuffled into the bright morning light. The yard was a mess. Uncle Ronnies deer was torn to bits and most of it was gone. There were pieces of his coat and the deer scattered across the ground. The cabin was scratched to hell, and chunks of roof lay around doorway. The soft dirt around the cabin was filled with tracks that looked just like the prints Mamaws tom cat left across the hood of her car, except these tracks were as big as Jacksons hand. Uncle Kent was on his cell phone talking loudly. Yes, Im serious. Now, if you want to document this, send someone now. You need to photograph these tracks. No, Im not drunk, you asshole. I swear. Hang on. Im emailing you a picture. Uncle Ronnie grinned at Jackson and mouthed On the phone with DNR. He walked over and put his arm around the boys shoulders and hugged him close. Jackson leaned into the big mans body for a minute, feeling safe against his uncles bulk. Its a miracle, but we may have found the last living Eastern mountain lion, kiddo. A cougar come knocking on our cabin door last night, and just our luck, he tried to eat us. Ronnie chuckled. Jackson still trying to shake the bourbon headache and exhaustion from his panic attack sat down at the picnic table in the yard. Uncle Kent hung up his phone. DNR is on their way, but they think were full of shit. Hey, Jacks. How you feeling today? Jackson grimaced and looked around. The giant cat tracks were everywhere, there were bits of deer flung around the yard. He walked over to pick up a piece of his coat, ripped to shreds and barely recognizable. Glad I wasnt in this coat when this happened last night. His uncles laughed, relieved that Jackson felt good enough to cut up a bit. Uncle Kent went to pour them both a cup of coffee. He put a generous scoop of sugar in Jacksons and they all sat back down at the table. Jackson sipped his coffee, and it warmed him from the inside out. Uncle Ronnie handed him a pop tart and Uncle Kent grinned. Get something in your belly, boy. I bet youre as hollow as a drum. Both men looked red eyed and exhausted, but happy that Jackson was up and that they had a monster to hunt today. They hadnt slept. They had sat up all night listening to the big cat tear up Ronnies deer and watching the even motion of Jacksons chest moving up and down while he slept. Jackson took a bite of pop tart, watched his coffee steam, and thought about his dream. ϳԹ fear. ϳԹ how leaving and fear had eaten him up until he was emptyhollow and suspended like Uncle Ronnies deer had been yesterday. He thought about monsters, and about the big cat, somewhere in the woods, maybe the last of its kind. He thought about his Mom and the sister he had never met being at Mamaws when they left camp at the end of the week. And then he thought about his uncles. They were both watching him now, beaming at him. Grizzled and greasy and wearing the same clothes they had slept in, Kents black eyes were red-rimmed and blood-shot, but bright with excitement and Ronnies beard was matted down on one side, but he was grinning like a fool. They were a mess. And they smelled. But sitting here between them felt the same way it had felt yesterday when Jackson had stepped out his cold deer blind for the first time all day into the sunlight. Warm. 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