Track of the Beast: A Brock Stone Adventure

Moses glared at him, clenched his fists, and came to stand beside his friend. As soon as his eyes fell on the large print, he smiled.

“Looks to me like some joker cut out wooden feet and strapped them to their boots. It don’t look natural.”

Stone nodded approvingly. “Go on. What else?”

Emboldened, Moses knelt beside the partial print a few feet away. “The length of the stride is all wrong, too. A man can put on a pair of big feet, but he can’t make his legs two feet longer. Look how close together these are.”

“I’m glad we see it the same,” Stone said. “The question is, why would someone plant fake Bigfoot prints out here in the forest?”

Interlude 5

May, 1927

Five Years Ago

Stone came to with cold water splashing on his face. His eyes still burned. He sat up and looked around, but he could not see. He was still blind.

“What have you done to me?”

“There is nothing wrong with your eyes.” Gideon’s voice seemed to fill the space around him.

“Why can’t I see?”

“You must be born again. Like a child in the womb. You are sightless now, but you will see again. If you survive your birth.”

Stone touched his eyes, blinked. He wished he could know for certain that he still had his eyesight. He reached out and his hand found a smooth, cold stone wall. He stood and felt his way along the wall, trying to take the measure of the space in which he was confined.

“What do you mean by ‘survive the birth’?” He asked.

“Childbirth is painful and traumatic.”

“That doesn’t bode well for me.”

“I assure you the process is infinitely more painful for the one who is birthing the child.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.” Stone turned a corner, felt his way along the next wall.

“It was not intended for comfort. It is simply the truth,” Gideon said.

Stone completed a circuit of the room. He was in a cell about twenty feet square. A metal door without a knob or hinges was set in one wall. He explored the edges with the tips of his fingers, pushed and tugged, but it would not budge. With a growl of frustration, he threw his shoulder into the door. Sharp, stabbing pain was his lone reward.

Something struck him across the shins. He let out a grunt of pain and threw a wild punch that struck only open air. In a flash, his feet were swept out from under him, and he landed hard on the stone floor. Before he could regain his feet, something struck him across the base of the skull and he slumped to the ground, dazed.

A rain of sharp blows poured down upon him. He tried to fight back, but his punches and kicks were useless against his unseen assailant, who moved on silent feet in the darkness.

Without warning, the attack ended. Stone lurched to his feet, excruciating scorching every inch of his flesh. He tried in vain to get his hands on his attacker, but the person was gone.

He was alone in the darkness.

19- Ape Canyon

Harold Moss lived in a cabin in the general vicinity of the lumber camp Stone and Moses had visited the evening before. Stone, Constance, and Alex paid him a visit. Moses had been tasked with paying a visit to the general store to see if either of the shopkeepers could shed any light on the Lewis and Clark legends.

Harold Moss was a wizened old man with a full head of flyaway hair like white candy floss and a beard that would have made Rip Van Winkle proud. He seemed surprised but pleased to have visitors. He settled into a handmade rocking chair on the front porch, while the others found seats where they could.

“Ape Canyon, you say? Why would you even ask about something like that?”

“I’m writing a book,” Constance said. “People enjoy these sorts of stories.”

They had decided to be circumspect about the reason for their visit. If Trinity had met with foul play, there was no telling who might be an enemy.

“I’m not interested in being laughed at.” Moss cleared his throat and spat a stream of phlegm-clotted tobacco juice onto the ground.

“Not at all,” Constance assured. “All the stories I’m collecting will be presented without judgment. I’m even publishing a graveyard story told to me by my own grandfather.”

Moss gazed out at the wall of green that encircled his home. Finally, he nodded.

“It happened back in 1924. That was the year Calvin Coolidge did his inaugural address over the radio. Never thought I’d hear one of those with my own ears. Anyhow, we were working a gold claim, me and a few other fellows. My body couldn’t handle the digging anymore, so I did most of the panning. We had been working there for a few weeks and things were getting strange.”

“Strange how?” Constance scribbled notes on a small pad, keeping up the author ruse.

Moss pursed his lips. “Little things at first. Cries in the night. Big things moving in the darkness so fast and silent it was like they could float over the ground.”

“What did the cries sound like?” Constance asked.