The Spirit

When Lester awoke at midnight, he screeched in shock. He was surrounded by pitch-­blackness as tight as a box-sized jail cell. Then he realized he was seated in his truck with the radio off and the windows coated with snow.

Snow.

“Shit,” he said, opening the door. He stepped out of the truck and promptly slipped on the ground.

The snowfall had stopped, leaving a coating that edged over his shoes. The trees were frosted in bony white. Although moonlight was gone, the snow crystals glittered from some light source he could not fathom.

More to the point, snow covered the trail down to the road. How in hell was he going to get home? His snow tires were down in his trailer, and that was a seven percent grade all the way.

“Shit,” he repeated.

He was answered by a snarl ahead of the truck.

The next three seconds were the bravest in Lester’s life. He slowly looked around into the trees while reaching through the window to the light switch on the dashboard.

Moon’s dog stood in the snow, growling at him, the light exploding in its eyes. A dead beaver’s head was clutched in its teeth.

“Hey, pooch. Pooch, pooch, pooch! You sorry sack of fleas, what are you doing out here?”

The dog slipped into the woods, a burst of sparkling snow marking its departure. Lester followed with his rifle. The dog ran up to a thick spruce, halted, and faced Lester again. It dropped the head and yowled in anger at him. The closer Lester got, the meaner the howls became. Now that was damned weird. That dog was real quiet around the Indian. What was it doing with that head? Where was the rest of the thing?

“I’m not going to do anything to you, boy. I just—”

A blood-­freezing screech sailed out from the branches over Lester’s head. Lester did not have brains, but his reflexes were a source of pride. He jumped backward as the thing dive-­bombed straight down with a squeal like chalk on a blackboard and killed itself in a sickening crunch of bone. The small, misshapen body thrashed holes in the snow.

Lester stepped clear and put three bullets into its back.

The dog howled and rushed into the woods, its barks transmuted into howls of terror.

Lester knew he was rich. This little thing here was some kind of baboon with a tiny tail and small fingers. It was about four feet long. There was a pelt there, not much, and kind of ratty-­looking with ugly scabs and bare patches, but a pelt.

Well, Bigfeet had babies too, and this was good enough. He rolled it over with his foot. And looked at its face.

It was some seconds before Lester gained sufficient control of himself to grab its ankles and drag it to the truck. He swung it into the bed, where it landed like a feather, then climbed behind the wheel. Oblivious to his tires and the dangerously slippery road, he roared out onto the highway. As he left the forest he could still hear the barking dog.

He was kind of worried that his trailer on Hulcher Road was so isolated. It was all backed up in the trees on Colby’s south face. The Petrie family, next door, had gone off for the weekend.

He turned on the lights in his trailer and cleared dishes from a small Formica table that served as a dining area. His walls were papered with motorcycle photos in full color. His refrigerator was well stocked with beer and nothing but.

Only then did he return to the truck, clang down the tailgate, and look at the thing huddled on the metal.

Lester pulled it out by the ankles again. Its head bumped over the ground and up the cinder-­block steps. He dragged it into the kitchen, leaving a trail of blood on the linoleum, then hoisted it up to the table under the cold fluorescent light.

Well, that was not so bad. Nothing like that hellacious scare its face caused when dimly seen. Lester cracked open a beer and searched for a butcher knife in the drawer. He was uncertain about how or even whether to skin it.

He had shot a child. Except if Lester ever had a kid like that he would be tempted to shoot himself. It changed from human to gorilla depending on how you looked at it. The head was flat, with scraggly lank hair that peaked in the center of the forehead. One cheek had tufts of hair on it, the other was smooth as a baby’s. The mouth was open, revealing half a set of yellow, crooked, pretty goddamned big teeth. The jaw was narrow and kind of pointed. The eyes were rolled back and white, with red laces in them, just like anybody’s, only two heavy brows sat over them, the ends curled into horns.

Lester closed his eyes and opened them again. Still there. The fur was blistered and patchy, and the arms and legs didn’t match. It looked to Lester as though the little bastard would have died on his own soon anyway.

Lester shook his head, the barking dog’s voice reverberating in his ears. He opened another beer and drank it down. Then another. He sank into a leisurely stupor made sweet by the anticipation of the money he would get for the pelt. Maybe he’d better call some lawyer in the morning to do what was legal to get possession of it.