Cold Chills

His eyes opened wide, “That place creeps me out.  I’d never hunt there again.  Not even on a bet!”  He shook his head to emphasize his sincerity.

I nodded my agreement.  I knew what he was talking about.  I had hunted there too…once, the year before.

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Preparing for deer season that year I had gotten my stuff ready.  I washed my clothes in scent-free detergent to eliminate any odors that might be left over from the season before, or had crept in during storage.  Gear was pulled out of its hidey-hole of the last nine months and checked, rechecked, and oiled or cleaned as necessary.  A special trip to the rifle range ensured that my Remington model 760 in 30.06 was zeroed for a tad high at 100 yards and a little low at 200.  In the area I’d be hunting 200 yards was a long shot.  The rifle would do its job if I did mine.

Poring over info I’d received from the MDC (Missouri Department of Conservation) I selected a few of their areas that were open for deer season.  I made a trip to check them out and picked some I’d try when time and conditions permitted.

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One particular conservation area had previously been a medium sized farm.  When the old couple who’d lived there for decades passed away, they left it to the MDC.  Ann, the boys, and I checked out the area well before the season opened and I found it interesting. 

We walked out of the parking area and into the woods on a marked trail.  There were signs of deer and other game but not a lot of evidence that people had passed that way.

The path dropped down to the side of a creek and paralleled it.  Through the brush and trees that had been growing for thirty plus years I could make out the lay of the land.  I doubted that it had been row-cropped, at least not productively.  Perhaps it had been pastured.  I could imagine a time when it had been mostly clear and cattle and horses allowed to graze it, but that had been long ago.

One area seemed to have been clear long after the rest had begun to grow wild.  I saw some signs of a small home, barn, maybe a little plot for a garden and a graveyard.  Perhaps it had been bulldozed by the department after the buildings had decayed and become dangerous. 

I honestly don’t know.

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Not too long after the deer season opened a day came when the wind was right, so I put my gear in my blue Isuzu P’up and drove to the area parking lot.  Shouldering my gear, I made my way to a spot I’d picked out, beside a well-used game trail that crossed the shallow, intermittent creek.

I thought I’d done a good job sneaking into the woods because I didn’t see or hear any animals or birds fleeing as I moved along the trail.  I sat beside the footpath, thinking how quiet and peaceful it was.  As the hours wore on, sitting there, the silence weighed heavier. 

I didn’t see any deer, or hear any.  That isn’t all that unusual, but why wasn’t I hearing birds, or crickets, or frogs?

It gradually stopped being peaceful and started feeling kind of…creepy.

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The sun drifted downward and the light got low, and temperature dropped with them.

I was wearing my standard camouflaged, insulated coveralls but, sitting on the damp ground as I was, the cold crept in.  By the time shooting hours ended, I was ready to head back toward the pickup but even more eager for the warmth that movement would bring.  The mini-flashlight wasn’t in the pocket where I’d put it when I packed, so it was a slow hike through Stygian darkness for me.  I followed the path as best I could as it crawled up and down hills.  I could feel the warmth slowly creeping back in…until.

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The trail dropped into the low spot where I’d seen signs of the old home-place with accompanying barnyard and gravesite.  As my steps followed the path downward, so went my mood.  I wasn’t upset about not seeing any game; that was common in those days.  It wasn’t a feeling of sadness for an unsuccessful hunt.  I’d had plenty of those before.  No, it was more a feeling of…foreboding.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m comfortable in the woods, even at night.  I’ve stood in the dark forest, surrounded by a pack of coyotes and their banshee-like howling, knowing that if I took off running there was a good chance their chase reflex would kick in, and they would follow.  I’ve stood in the northern bush facing a big, black bear.  The hair along his spine stood up as I felt, more than heard, a rumbling growl from deep within his massive chest.  I put every fiber of my being into looking…feeling…as big as possible, until he slo-o-o-owly turned, then burst into a rapid retreat.

Both of those times I was scared, but this was different.  Both of those times the fear was mixed liberally with excitement.  You know, “If I get home this is going to make a GREAT story.”

This time it was more like, “I don’t want to BE here.”

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I’m not a panic-er.  I’ll run from something like a speeding truck or a charging bull but I don’t tend to panic.  So, I kept walking.

As I walked, tendrils of dense fog crept around me and things seemed to drift in and out of sight, almost as if something or someone were moving around.  The cold was like the icy fingers of death reaching into my chest and wrapping around my heart.  For the first time in my life I felt what it was like to be chilled to the bone.

When the shivering started it didn’t catch me entirely by surprise.  My shoulders began to shake, then my teeth started to chatter…to CHATTER.

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I picked up my pace knowing my truck was a short distance away, and that’s when I heard it.  At least I THINK I heard it.  A low moan drifted through the darkness.  It came from nowhere in particular, yet it came from everywhere.  It surrounded me, seeming to close in yet I felt it deep in my bones.

It definitely did not remind me of those coyotes surrounding me that night, and it didn’t sound like any dog I’d ever heard.  My mind raced trying to figure out what it was.  Then I realized, it sounded like someone who was in deep, intense pain, both mental and physical pain.  Kind of like someone who had just lost someone most dear to them, and who was also suffering from more physical pain than they could bear…someone who would be happier dead than alive.

I looked around.  The sound was so faint that I couldn’t be absolutely sure I heard it at all.  As the breeze died, so did the moan.  It got quiet and that was worse.  The only thing I could be 100% positive I did hear was my boots stepping quietly on the path, but I thought I could hear something, or someone, moving softly through the woods nearby.

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The path turned upward and I climbed out of the low spot and finally made it to the parking lot.  I fumbled the keys out of my pocket but couldn’t get them to fit in my truck’s door lock.  It finally slid in and turned and I dropped into the driver’s seat.

The dependable truck roared into life and I shoved it into reverse, then first, and pulled out onto the gravel road.  By that time I had the heat cranked all the way up.  I kept it that way the whole drive home but couldn’t stop the shivering until just before I turned into my driveway.

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When I stepped into the backdoor Annie and the boys rushed to meet me.  “Did you get one?  Did you see anything?  What happened?  What happened?”

I held up my hand for silence.  “I’ll tell you…someday.”

And now I have.

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