The June Featured Story is by
A.D. Vick
Please feel free to email A.D. at: nightwind03@gmail.com
OZARK HOWLER
By A.D. Vick
The bog was a foreboding place.
It was a place that the locals would just as soon stay away from whenever possible. During the day it was occasionally frequented by some of the area’s more adventuresome children, but even these often returned home with tales of swirling, muddy whirlpools accompanied by eerie cries from places unseen.
Then night would arrive.
When darkness descended, not a human soul would venture close to the marshland; for it is during that time, when the moon would begin its ascent from behind the twisted corpses of what were once trees, that the wetland assumed its most hideous character, the dwelling place of the loathsome Ozark Howler.
Old Jack McCormick knew more about the local marsh than anybody; after all, it bordered his modest piece of property on the west. More importantly, the frightening creature that dwelt in it, once took away the only thing that had really mattered to him—Lenore, sweet Lenore, his young wife and who was the love of his life.
Jack had long been keenly aware of the Ozark Howler’s existence; for not only did he retain childhood recollections of his mother’s warnings against going near the swamp and of its inhabitant’s evil nature, but he actually confronted it on the night of his love’s disappearance. His mother also taught him about the Little Folk, who she said, lived in the nearby woods and meadows. “If you treat the land with r’spect,” she told him, “they might ‘llow ya to see them or to listen to their special kind o’ music. But if ya don’t, they can sure cause a whole lot o’ mischief. It’ll be even worse if ya stumble onto a place where their world meets with ours. Heck, they might get a hankerin to disappear ya altogether!”
Every passing thought of his beloved Lenore caused the old man to relive the nightmare—her terrified screams penetrating the darkness of the night, the ungodly creature’s hideous howls and a slow, methodical splashing that advanced relentlessly in the direction of her screams. With shotgun in hand, he ran out to that hellish place on that long ago night in a vain attempt to save his young bride; but by the time he reached the marshlands the screaming had stopped. In its place was an eerie silence—a quietude that made his blood run cold.
His heart had nearly leaped out of his chest when without warning, a fiendish-looking abomination, as if from out of nowhere, ran in his direction. The creature resembled a large cat, but a feline with short, stubby legs and the bulk of a bear. On its head were two prominent horns and its red eyes glowed eerily. Jack cried out when he saw his wife’s limp body dangling from the thing’s mouth.
Terrified, shaking uncontrollably and yet enraged beyond measure, he raised his weapon, emptying both barrels. Instinctively, he knew that he had missed his target even before his eyes had confirmed it. The creature stood still, glaring in his direction with an appearance of triumph in its eyes. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the howler disappeared into the woods, taking the young woman’s lifeless body with it.
And afterwards, Jack’s mother cast a protective circle around the perimeter of the land. With her grieving son’s help, she made a very special scarecrow with occult powers that enhanced its ability to somehow keep the Ozark Howler off the property. It was a fright to see, with its black jacket and menacing face. When she finished the scarecrow, they placed it on the western edge of the circle, facing the bog.
Although the McCormicks would often hear the shrieks of the Howler as it moved about in the darkness, it never did try to penetrate the magical barrier.
Time passed, but Jack never got over the loss of Lenore. His mother went to the Great Beyond, and then he lived in the old house with only Daisy, his golden retriever, as company. He was a tormented soul who could never forget the past—a man, now old, living in his own private hell.
And the frightful scarecrow still guarded the homeland.
If there was any reprieve from the haunting memories that old man McCormick suffered, it came as a result the pleasure he derived from Daisy. She was his constant companion, accompanying him everywhere he went. She knew the lay of the land as well as he did and the old man never had to worry about her getting too close to the bog. Daisy had her own intuition about those swamplands; and as far as he knew, feared the howler as much as he did. She had always stayed clear of the swamp until…early one summer evening…
Jack was sitting on the front porch when he first heard the anguished yelps of a canine coming from the direction of the wetlands. Believing that his best friend was in trouble, he cried out. “Daisy? Daisy! Come here, girl!”
His calls to the animal were answered by a distant splashing of water, followed by more sorrowful cries of an injured dog. The old man’s heartbeat began to race as he rose from his chair and called out anew. “Hold on thar, girl. I’m a comin’ for ya!”
Without taking the time to think his actions through, or to wonder what Daisy would be doing by that frightful marsh, he hurried into the house as quickly as his ancient body would allow. He retrieved his shotgun from the living room wall. After grabbing several shells with his trembling hands, he limped out the front door and made in the direction of the marsh.
A tinge of fear grabbed at the old man as he approached the scarecrow. While still inside the perimeter of safety, he paused momentarily to rest and to build up his courage before continuing on. “Haint gonna let no swamp critter hurt mah Daisy,” he mumbled with determination. Then, after loading a shell into his 12 gauge, Jack crossed over the property line and continued toward his destination.
It took him several more minutes before reaching the edge of the bog. Although the sun was setting, the old man was able to see the ghost-like images of the immediate surroundings. It was just as he remembered it. Scattered about the edge of the marsh were the dismally grey trunks of long dead trees—skeletons of once majestic oaks and hickories now devoid of branches and bark—great ones whose trunks had been snapped as if by some unnatural force with the sole purpose of imposing an aura of desolation. He heard neither the flute-like song of the wood thrushes nor the frantic buzzing of the cicadas. Instead, an unearthly silence imposed itself upon the surrounding environment—a stillness that was only broken by the occasional gurgling of the bog itself, as it belched up water from springs down below.
A misty veil began swirling up from the shallow waters—airborne whirlpools of thick and ever expanding waterspouts. Between the emergence of the watery vapor and the fading twilight, the old man knew he had to act fast. “Daisy, Daisy!” He cried out. “Come ‘ere girl!”
Suddenly, the eerie silence was broken by a series of desperate yelps coming from a spot that, while impossible to see through the fog, seemed to be the point at which the marsh and the deep forest intersected. Although his old body was already telling him that he should stop and rest, he pressed on through the shallow waters in the direction of the canine cries.
The fog continued to thicken until Jack could only see a few yards in any direction. He proceeded cautiously—almost blindly—his shotgun elevated at chest level, ready to fire. When he reached the juncture where the swamplands met the forest, he paused, now out of breath, panting; his shoes soaking wet and his tired legs aching.
He could hear the sound of movement from somewhere behind him—slow methodical steps sloshing through the shallow water. With his eyes unable to penetrate the misty veil, he turned backward and called out questioningly; this time, not as loudly as before, and more cautiously. “Daisy? Daisy?”
A rustling on the forest floor to the right was quickly followed by the renewed and heart-rending cries of a terrified dog in pain. Jack cried out anxiously and started in the direction of the weeping animal; its cries emanating from no more than a hundred feet away.
He proceeded slowly; a sense of growing peril increasing with every step. As he drew closer, he could make out the dark outline of something lying on the ground. “Daisy!” he cried out.
A couple more steps in the animal’s direction revealed that he had not responded the cries of his dog but those of an injured wolf lying in a pool of its own blood. The wolf raised itself up, snarled and attempted to lunge at him, but was too injured to complete the attack. It sank back to the ground.
Jack quickly collected himself; and taking pity on the wolf, decided to end its suffering. But before he could aim the shotgun, he heard a blood-curdling howl coming from the edge of the bog.
It was the sound that he was all too familiar with. There was only one creature whose scream could make the blood run cold; and he knew that he was about to come face to face once more with the Ozark Howler.
He stood, frozen, facing the swamp, staring into the foggy veil; his back turned to the injured wolf, now all but forgotten. Something large and horrifyingly evil was drawing closer, its heavy footsteps moving slowly and inexorably in his direction. Another ghastly screech pierced the quiet; this time coming from only a few yards away. His chest tightened as he felt a stabbing pain on its left side.
A large bulky image began to emerge from the vapor; becoming clearer, ever clearer with each approaching step. Nearly frozen in utter terror, old Jack stared at the creature even as he attempted to retreat from it.
The Howler stopped abruptly only a few yards away from him, sizing the man up. “Devil Cat!” McCormick cried out.
He fired his weapon, knowing that at such close range he couldn’t miss. The shot rang out, reverberating against the mountains and throughout the valley, but the creature remained standing.
Re-loading the gun, he fired again. Still, the loathsome being was unaffected. It must be somethin’ escaped from the very fires of Hell! he thought.
Dropping his firearm, the horrified old man slowly backed away, gripping at his heart in a vain attempt to assuage the growing pain in his chest. The creature moved toward him, not getting any closer, but keeping pace.
Jack abruptly found himself backed up against the trunk of a large tree. His chest aching, his legs too tired to continue fleeing, he simply stood motionless, staring at the thing as he whimpered in abject horror.
The Howler stopped before him, casting its red eyes straight at the man, boring into him. He felt a strange sensation coming from inside as the creature’s eyes penetrated to the core of his being—something stirring—a part of himself being torn away from his physical body. He struggled to hold onto it.
He understood what was happening. “No!” he shouted. “You can’t have mah spirit! Don’t take mah soul!”
There appeared something glowing from within the fog, just a bit to his left. While continuing to resist the Howler’s efforts, he glanced at the sight unfolding next to him. The mist was swirling, spiraling, making way for something.
Then he understood—it was a gateway. And gazing at him from the other side was a vibrant, other-worldly young woman. Her flaming red hair contrasted sharply with her flowing black dress as she sat upon a magnificent white horse. She beckoned, urging him in her direction.
The Howler shrieked in reaction to her unexpected appearance. The monster continued its attempt to secure the old man’s spirit, weakening him with the power of sheer terror.
But Jack was staring at the woman. “Ya’ll are one of the Little Folk,” he cried out.
She continued gesturing to him, urgently imploring him to join her. Still, he hesitated as he recalled the things his mother had told him about this young woman’s kin folk so long ago.
His gaze jumped from the loathsome swamp creature to the young woman imploring him from another world.
He made his decision; and with his last bit of strength, he lunged toward the portal. Then, the gateway closed as abruptly as it had first come into sight; and within seconds, had disappeared within the misty veil; and old Jack McCormick vanished with it.
Daisy had never been in the swamp. It was the wolf that Jack had heard. The Howler, having failed in its attempt to steal a human spirit, let out one final blood-curdling scream, and then turned its attention to the dying wolf that still lay on the ground nearby.
*****
An hour later, the golden retriever returned to the McCormick homestead. Daisy approached the house cautiously, with head down, remembering that she would likely get scolded after staying at the Pearson place so late. Still, she was anxious to be reunited with her master; so with tail wagging, walked on to the porch and scratched at the door. Receiving no response, she barked.
No answer. Clearly, something was wrong.
Sniffing about the area, Daisy picked up the old man’s scent trail and followed it to the end of the property line by the scarecrow. She would go no farther. Lying down, the distraught dog put her head between her paws and cried for her lost owner. She lay there for an hour or two weeping in the darkness.
Finally, she picked herself up and started back in the direction of the Pearson place.
A.D. Vick is short story writer living in Northwest Arkansas and is the author of a blog entitled The Gothic Embrace, which features a variety of entries of interest to the Goth subculture. He is also involved with the maintenance and preservation of some historic cemeteries and spends his quiet time with one rather large cat named Mr. Gray. He enjoys listening to a variety of music, which ranges from heavy metal and dark wave to classical, and takes great pleasure walking through the woods and burial grounds that surround his home.