I still don't know how I feel about this story. Any feedback?
"Have you heard the legend about the Catawba?" says this kid with shaggy hair hanging in his eyes. He's across the bar from me and cups his beer in both hands when he takes a drink, like he's afraid the condensation will make him drop it.
"You know, the ones with the reservation on the edge of the woods," he continues. He smirks a he looks into the eyes of the long, brown-haired girl next to him. She's pretty. Her good-girl bangs make her eyes shine.
She leans toward him, her hand propped under her chin. "No, tell me."
He leans away from her, straightens out in his seat and looks at me. His lips stretch into a smile. It's wide, but I can't see his teeth. "It's pretty scary."
I snort and shake my head, look away, out the window and at the people passing by outside. The sun reflects off a man's watch and shines in my eyes. I flinch, blink, and turn. The bar is completely empty aside from the three of us since the bartender stepped out for a smoke. When I normally come to Ravens in the evenings the place is full of college students and vibrates with music and conversation, but they don't do that for the 2pm crowd, forcing me to endure listening to a boy who looks five years too young to be in here try to impress his girlfriend.
I look over at the collection of alcohol and glasses against the wall behind the bar. The mirror behind them reflects a distortion of my face back at me: a nose amplified and twisted by the edge of a Smirnoff bottle, my face only half visible because of a large bottle of Jack. The fun house mirror effects aren't enough to hide my blood shot eyes and three-day stubble, though.
"I love scary stories, " the girl says, drawing out the "o" to three syllables. I nearly choke on my Sam Adams as I roll my eyes in response.
"Well, if you're sure," he says and she pushes his arm gently. The boy drinks down the rest of his beer, takes a breath and begins.
"Long ago," he says, spreading his arms wide, "The Catawba people lived in the woods here in North Carolina."
"I already know that," the girl says.
"Shut up, it's part of the story."
The girl lets out a breath and crosses her arms. "Fine."
"So they lived in the woods, and in these woods there were good spirits and bad spirits. The good spirits lived in the trees and stuff, and protected everyone. And the bad spirits wanted to kill the good spirits so they could do whatever."
"How do you kill a spirit?" the girl interjects.
"Fuck if I know, will you just let me tell the story?" I stifle my laugh at their growing hostility with my beer and debate the odds of witnessing their breakup.
The boy doesn't give up on his story, though, and orders another drink as the bartender walks back in the door.
He slurps some down and goes on. "The Catawba people were afraid of the bad spirits, so the tribe's elders picked twenty warriors to protect the good spirits and everyone else in the forest."
I look up from my beer and over at the pair of them, my grip tight on my glass. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Did he just say twenty?
"Because the warriors did as they were told, the good spirits made them live forever, so they could provide protection and the good spirits could just chill."
"That wasn't very scary," the girl says, turning away from the boy and leaning against the bar.
"They're still out in the woods! Right now!"
I'm still staring at the pair of them, as though my brain is on pause and I just can't look away. I don't know where the boy heard that story from, but I want to. I don't move; it's like I'm glued to my seat by a mixture of wonder and fear. I stay like that until the boy turns, asking what the fuck my problem is. I stand, throw down some cash for my unfinished drink and leave. My collar is soaked through before I even get out the door, the hair on my neck dripping. My stomach rolls and I lean against the building, ready to vomit but nothing happens. After a few minutes, I wander down the street and around the corner to my apartment—a brownstone I share with my friend Matt.
My hands shake, jingling my keys, as I unlock the first door to the foyer, and the second to the apartment itself. Pressing my back to the cool, wood of the door, I close my eyes. The story the boy at the bar told echoes back at me, ringing louder and louder in my ears like a constant, growing drum beat. The tribe's elders picked twenty warriors to protect… twenty warriors. I slide down the door until I am sitting on the floor, hands over my ears.
I'm still sweating as I sit there, unmoving, even though the apartment is cool—the air conditioner winning the battle against the September heat. Slowly, the boy's words fade and I move to my feet. I take off my shirt, toss it on the couch, and get a glass of water to cool down. I laugh at myself for letting the boy's story freak me out. I tell myself, out loud, that I'm being ridiculous. There's no way it could be true, absolutely none. Even as I think it, though, images swirl around my head making me dizzy again: trees, men appearing from the shadows, a flash of silver. The boy from the bar isn't the only one with a story to tell, but I'm afraid of what mine might mean.
Four days ago, Friday, after work, Matt, me, and three of our friends left to go on a camping trip. With Labor Day being the following Monday, Matt thought it would be fun to have a three day party in the woods.
"C'mon man," he had said. "It'll be like the good old days, back in college."
"Dude, we're only twenty-five," I had replied, before relenting. Truth be told, it sounded like a stupid idea to me, but I chalked that up to never really being the outdoorsy type. Not since I was a kid at least.
When I was ten my dad dragged me, against my will, to a small lake in the eastern part of Oklahoma on an early Father's Day morning. Like a lot of lakes around there, the water was a cloudy brown with red-clay banks. My dad knelt down in the slimy clay in front of me and showed me how to bait and cast my line before letting me try. I pierced the flesh of the small, wiggling worm with the lure before attempting to cast the line into the deeper parts of the dull, murky water. I had been sure that I didn't want to eat anything that had spent its life in the mucky lake, but I tried anyway to humor him.
I took two steps into the shallow water, reared my right arm back and snapped it forward with all my might. The force of my cast made me stumble forward in the mud and my water-shoed feet couldn't find traction so I lost my balance and fell face-first into the water. I got a mouthful of it; it tasted like slime and fish. So, I wasn't looking forward to surviving on fresh fish during a three-day party weekend, while living in a tent. But, Matt promised we'd bring plenty of freeze-dry chili and mac n' cheese along with the beer and I was happy.
The drive from our apartment just off the North Carolina University campus to the Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest took six hours, and the view got greener and greener the further west we drove on I40. By the time we got there it was nearly midnight and we had to pitch our tents and build a fire-pit while holding flashlights. The process was exhausting and took over an hour, but when we were done, Matt insisted we get the party started. So, we threw ourselves down around the fire, cracked open a few cans of the Bud Matt brought, and drank.
I'm not sure how much I had to drink that night; it's not one of the few things I actually remember. It was cold under all those tall oak trees, so I moved closer to the fire. The heat of it on my face was intense and felt like that gush of heat that comes from opening an oven. The smoke was blowing right at me, made my eyes burn, so I had to close them.
"Jack… Jack l-look at Chris," Matt said after stumbling over and falling down next to me. "Dude, look!"
Chris had managed to pass out on top of the still-full cases of beer. His chest rested on top of the Bud, his head on the Coors, his legs on the ground. The image was sharp for less than a minute, long enough for me to laugh, before it blurred, then doubled.
"Ima take a piss," I said.
I had to get to my feet toddler-style: my palms were flat on the ground, dirt and sticks made impressions that took hours to fade, I turned so that I was on my knees, used my hands to get from my knees to my feet on shaky legs, carefully removed my hands from the ground and stood up straight while holding my arms out to the side, ready to catch myself if I fell. I stumbled for the tree line, held onto one for support when I tripped over something I couldn’t see.
"Jack!" Matt said from behind me. "Whassa matter? Why you gotta go so far 'way?"
I ignored him and focused on navigating through both the real and imagined trees. I stopped a ways in, how far I'm not sure. I leaned back against a tree and giggled as my stream made a golden arch that glittered in the moonlight. And then, everything went black.
I woke up on the ground, and light was shining through the spaces between branches and leaves above me. When I sat up, my head spun but I managed not to vomit on the forest floor. Once on my feet, I realized I wasn't in our camp in the clearing anymore but surrounded by thick-trunked trees, alone.
"Matt?" I called. "Chris!" An icy-cold started in my chest and spread outward. Fear. "Matt? C'mon man this isn't funny." I shouted the names of my friends: Matt, Chris, Greg, Sean, until my voice cracked. I spun in a circle, tried to decide which way to go. No survival instincts kicked in, no voice in my head told me not to panic. I tore desperately through the forest, dodged trees, tripped on roots but I didn't find the camp. I didn't find anything, just more trees—knotted trunks and moss-covered branches.
I don't know how long it took for me to give up. Light was still streaming through to the forest floor. I propped myself against a tree—knees bent, arms wrapped around them—on an oversized, mossy tree root that jutted from the ground. My pale, skinny arms were covered in large, red welts the size of quarters and itched so badly I scratched them until the bled, while I focused on not crying. Men don't cry, my father had always said. Men are tough; they protect themselves and their women.
My father was always saying things like that. In his opinion, in the last twenty-five years I hadn't done anything worth being called a man, no matter how hard I had tried. After the failed fishing trip, he took me hunting the next Father's Day, when I was eleven, thinking we'd have better luck. He taught me how to use his Remington 798 Mauser bolt-action rifle: how to load it, how to hold and cradle it, how to use the scope and aim, when to pull the trigger. I could always hit the target when we were practicing, but when I was staring down a dear through the scope, crosshairs over its chest, I couldn't pull the trigger and would purposely make a noise to alert it and warn it away.
At first, my father chalked it up to being a beginner, but eventually he caught on to the deliberateness when I actually looked down and stepped on a twig that could have been easily avoided. He snatched the gun from my hands, not even bothering to turn on the safety and walked away from me, back toward the car. I followed behind him, not wanting to be left alone in the woods. When we got to his truck, he put the gun in the bed and turned to me.
"You'll never be a man if you don't try," he said. I felt so small as he leaned over me. His head blocked out the sun.
"You won't fish, you won't hunt. Sports don't interest you. Men are supposed to be tough, they're the protectors. You're just a little faggot."
"I'm not a faggot dad, I swear," I said and started to cry. He hit me then; the force of his palm stung and left a red mark on my cheek.
"Men don't cry. Do you hear me? Stop crying."
I nodded and swallowed. The tears slowed but I didn't wipe my eyes. I knew he wouldn't like that either, so I got in the truck and stayed silent the whole way home.
This time, I didn't have anyone to follow, though, so I stayed where I was. The forest was silent, there was absolutely no sound, and my horror movie obsession told me this was a bad sign, which didn't help with the whole crying thing. I shoved my left hand into my pocket and closed it around my pocketknife and I felt a bit safer. Take this everywhere, son, my father had told me the day he gave it to me—the morning of my eighth birthday. You never know when you might need it. My right hand was clenched in a fist. My nails bit into my skin, drew blood, and I closed my eyes, took long, deep breaths to calm myself down. They are looking for me, I thought to myself. Just stay where you are. They'll find you.
The snap of a twig broke the silence. Like when a teacher slams their hand down on your desk because you fell asleep in their class, my eyes opened and I fell sideways onto the ground. There was just enough light shining through the canopy of trees for me to see the human-like forms that moved toward me. I didn't get up, just watched as they unfolded themselves from the shadows. They were tall, over six feet, with skin the color of caramel. It was smooth, uninterrupted by blemishes or pores, and shone even in the limited light. They only had hair on their heads, which hung down their backs; their arms, legs and faces were bare.
I turned, looked, counted from where I was on the ground: twenty. I was surrounded. They were lean and muscular, and I was hung over and afraid. I stood up carefully, eyes locked on the man in front of me. He took a step forward and I moved back until I ran into the chest of another man. I jumped, stepped to the side, started to hyperventilate.
"No, it is alright," the man who had approached me, said. He reached toward me, continued, "My name is Adahy."
I moved away from him, I didn't want him to touch me. My hand was back in my pocket and around the knife as he continued to talk.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said. I didn't reply so he went on. "Are you hungry? We brought you food."
One of the other men passed him a bowl and he offered it to me. I could see the brown liquid inside. It had a few leaves floating on top and smelled like mushrooms.
"I'm not hungry," I said.
"I don't want your food," I said.
Adahy retracted his arms and handed the bowl back to his companion. The other men stayed silent.
"We can help you find your friends," Adahy said.
"I don't need your help," I said, and I didn't want it.
Men are the protectors. Are you a man? Well, are you? I had tried to so hard to be one. I played soccer in high school, but dad preferred football. I went into accounting in college, but dad wanted me to stay home and work in the garage with him. I drank beer with him, but dad thought my tastes were too delicate. I barbequed with him, but I couldn't light the fire right. I bought my first car, a silver BMW, but dad prefers trucks. I brought a girl home, but dad thought it was an act. Nothing had ever been good enough.
"Please," Adahy said and reached his hand out again.
"Don't touch me," I warned. I slid my knife to the edge of my jeans pocket.
"We're just trying to help," he said, touched my arm. His hand was light against my shoulder.
I took the knife from my pocket, peeled it open.
"You do not have to do that," Adahy said. He backed away but his voice remained steady, calm. "We are just trying to help you."
"Real men help themselves," I said and jammed the knife in his side. His eyes went wide, I think it was in surprise, and that was what finally gave me the courage to run. So I left the knife in him, and I ran.
I had told that story to Matt just after he found me Saturday evening an hour before the sun went down. He didn't believe me, thought I was bullshitting him and covering up for drunkenly getting lost in the woods for eighteen hours.
"Why would I make something like that up?" I had said.
"Why do people do anything they do, man? I don't know," Matt had said before he opened another beer.
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