The Wild Man of the Beaver Pond
- A Tale of Terror –
(This wild made-up story was first told to my kids around a campfire
somewhere in Colorado on one of our countless summer vacations,
and is re-told here. . . all in fun!)
Since the time I was a small boy, there had been rumors—wild tales I had heard—of a crazy man, a mysterious hermit, that people would catch glimpses of prowling up and down the river. A beastly man with a long beard matted with slobber, broken teeth, violence in his eyes, and no bath in years. A wild sort of character who lived off the land. People checking their fishing lines on both sides of the river often discovered the bones and body parts of chickens, pigs, and calves reported missing from nearby farms. Also, fish bones, hollow turtle shells, and blood-stained feathers. Wild berries were stripped from their vines. These reported sightings and the gossip over backyard fences by townspeople only exaggerated the rumors of a fearful dark figure to be avoided, one more like a bizarre, shadowy ghost than a real man.
I was at my mother’s little house in Leon, Oklahoma, about a mile east of the Red River. It was a forgotten little town with unpaved streets, worn out houses, a post office, and a grocery store where you could buy milk and gas by the gallon, except when it was closed for church on Sunday. Leon and everyone in it had been tired for as long as anyone could remember.
I shrugged off the crazy notion of a wild man on the prowl as I set off down the cow path to the river that cold gray day. Who could have imagined that this boyhood adventure would become a terrifying nightmare?
It was autumn. The Indian Paintbrush were changing to golden yellow, and showers of reluctant leaves were turning loose from trees and swirling aimlessly to the ground.
It was that time of day when all of nature—birds, insects, cows, and even the earth itself—seems to breathe a sigh of relief that another day is done. It’s when you take a deep breath, a step back, and relish those remaining moments before the sun sinks below the rim of our world. As darkness elbows it’s way in, Mother Nature seems to say to all her followers, “Hush…rest now…nap time.” Birds roost and insects land; cows quit their mooing; some animals head for their burrows and grassy beds for the night. All turns dreadfully quiet except for the occasional mournful caw of a distant crow.
It was downhill all the way to the river—not steep—just a winding, sandy trail lined on both sides with thorns and stinging nettles, cockleburs and Johnson grass, but not so tall you couldn’t see the trees lining the river in the distance. If you watched your step, you might sidestep the fresh piles of cow manure carefully left for you. This time I wondered if anyone would ever find me in the thick darkness if I got lost.
The lifeless limbs of the tall oaks hung low over the river, looking more like the icy fingers of a skeleton than branches. Close to the banks of the river, beneath those barren trees, were ponds of water left each time the river flooded, large enough for beavers to build their dams where they could leisurely trap and eat fish all winter.
Occasional flakes of snow fell from an unfriendly sky, sent as November’s tiny messengers to tell all the secrets winter was preparing for us. I wanted to be at the beaver pond to see a sight one almost never gets to see. . . the arrival of migrating ducks in their incredible V-formation, elegantly gliding in for a rest break from their journey. Maybe it was foolish, but I wanted to be there for those special few seconds when exhausted ducks touch down gracefully after a long flight from Canada. That happens just as the sun disappears and darkness crowds in.
And so, I trekked down that briary path toward the river, past the old barn on the left with the ‘No Trespassing’ sign (which everyone ignored) wired to it just to remind me I was not invited. I knew it was too late in the day to go without a flashlight, that I was running the risk of getting lost and not finding my way home in pitch dark. What in the world was I thinking? Something within kept driving me on, ridiculous as it sounds. I kept walking toward that pond. I should have spun around and run back up the trail, but I did not sense the disaster that was prepared for me just ahead.
How I wish I had known this carefree little hike was turning into a frightening catastrophe with awful consequences?
A startled beaver had tried to alert me that danger was near with the sharp slap of his tail on the water. I had ignored the excited chatter of squirrels and the frenzied flight of birds from their nests as both warned me to flee. Hundreds of ducks in their final glide path down to the pond had, at the last split second, banked sharply to the right and fled as their sharp eyes caught the slight movement and dark silhouette of what lay crouched in the brush.
The thought I should turn and run for home kept pounding in my head, but somehow, I couldn’t and somehow, I didn’t. I was strangely and mysteriously drawn to that pond, despite the haunting feeling that danger was lurking. I wasn’t about to let all those outrageous thoughts stop me in my tracks. Why didn’t I turn while I still had the chance? I walked on, now tripping over vines as it grew darker, and the path became harder to see.
The trail finally ran out and the tree line began. . .and there it was, the placid beaver pond lying as smooth as glass, perfectly reflecting the last rays of the sun that somehow snaked their way through the trees. There was not so much as a wisp of wind. Slender fingers of ice were beginning to cluster around the water’s edge. I found a decaying log to sit on where I could be partially hidden from the ducks as my solemn wait began.
The lengthening shadows of night became more ominous with each passing moment. It was getting colder and darker, and I shivered as the bone-deep chill pierced me like a knife. Why hadn’t I brought a jacket? Too late now. I’ll have to make the best of it.
At that moment I first sensed it: I was not alone. Something unseen and unheard was staring and glaring at me, stalking me, watching my every move. Wanting me. You sense it. Somehow you just know. And in that agonizing, uneasy silence you have never felt more alone, more helpless.
And so, I sat freezing and dreading the unimaginable. Completely paralyzed by fear. Unable to move a muscle and struggling for the next breath. My pleasant walk to the river to see ducks had suddenly turned into pure terror by something or someone I couldn’t identify. You want to scream, but it is stuck in your throat, and you can’t take in enough air to cry out. This thing behind me was stealing all the oxygen.
Thoughts raced through my head as I tried to sort out what was happening. What is back there? Lurking, hiding? Waiting for the right moment to attack me. I was too gripped by fear to dare look. Am I food? Am I just something to rip to pieces? Why am I the hunted? What has turned me into its victim, its prey?
It was then I strained to hear a faint sound…footsteps in the thick brush. . .a breaking twig, then another. Small limbs snapping, acorns bursting, and leaves crunching with each slow step toward me, breaking the awful silence like shattering glass. Something had gone terribly wrong. Something was creeping up on me, closing in on me. Step by step. . .carefully and quietly. . .closer and closer. . .methodically moving in for the kill. What should I do? Scream? Make a run for it? Turn and fight? But fight with what? Do I attack it before it attacks me? What enemy am I facing? How will it attack? Teeth? Fangs? Claws?
My imagination ran wild as I still sat on that log, suspended in time. . .trying to picture this “thing.” Turning around would have triggered an all-out, life-and-death struggle to survive. Would I get past the first blow? Lie dying, helplessly maimed?
The creature moved in close enough for me to hear and smell it.
I heard hoarse, raspy breathing. . .not fierce growls. . .but shallow, rapid, gasps of air from a mouth lathered in foam, becoming shorter and faster with each step.
And then I caught a grisly whiff that stuck in my nostrils: the nauseating, rancid scent of something hideous; a sweaty, greasy, hairy stench that turned my stomach, a musty, ghastly aroma that reeked of death.
The slowly approaching footsteps continued. . .until I could feel steamy, hot breath on my neck, and smell the rotting, putrid tang left by the last thing it had killed and eaten.
I sat in sheer terror, unable to think, to scream, to move, my lungs burning for the next breath.
This larger-than-life monster was now close enough to brutally attack, and I could not so much as lift a finger in defense.
Without daring to turn my head to catch a glimpse, I whispered a desperate plea: What are you? Who are you?
And after an agonizing silence. . .. the thing that I dreaded most happened.
He ate me.
Alternate ending:
And after an agonizing silence. . .he finally screamed at me:
Doooogggie!!! *
*Doogie was the nickname of a boy my kids knew well who lived where the setting of this story is located. As I recall, his only claim to fame (or at least how he got himself noticed) was that he could swallow a whole piece of stewed okra without first chewing it. It would be just like Doogie to sneak up behind any of us and scare us half to death.
Don M. Hull © 2024