"I've been working timber most of my life. My daddy cut pulp wood and his daddy before
him." I guess you could say it, runs in the family. "I live in North Alabama, not far
from the Tennessee line." These hills up here are thick with hardwoods, oak, hickory, and
a whole mess of poplar. That's where I make my living.
Now this was late fall. Cool weather, leaves coming down, ground soft underfoot. I'd been
hired on by a fellow to clear a patch of land that he wanted to plant pines on. It was
good standing timber. Most of it straight, clean trunks. I figured it would make for an
easy cut. "I'd been out there a couple of weeks," son up to sundown, "working my saw
on hauling logs." One morning I dropped a big old red oak. And when it hit the ground,
I noticed the butt end was hollow. Now that happens sometimes. Heart-rot will eat the
inside out, while the outside looked solid. "Look, curiosity got me." I set the saw down
and walked over. The trunk had split open when it fell, leaving a gap big enough for me
to shine my flashlight down in. At first I thought it was just leaves and dirt packed inside.
But then my light hit bones. Not just one or two, either. Piles of them. Bits of broken
deer antlers, rib cages, and skulls with chew marks all over them. Raccoon skulls, possum
bones, and even what looked like a hog jawbone. Most of these had already been picked clean,
and the bones had been cracked open, and the marrow was gone. Others still had a little
bit of dried up and rotting meat left on them. There were a few that were whole carcasses,
squirrels, and rabbits mostly. Those were on top. It was all stacked down in there as if
something had been using that hollow log as its pantry. And right near the mouth of the
log wedged in real tight, like it was the last thing pushed in, was part of a dog's body.
I wasn't too sure, but then I saw it, a collar, faded leather, a busted buckle, and there
was a little brass tag still hanging on it, and another metal tag hooked to it. I slid
the collar off the shrunken body. I held it in my hands, then I wiped the brass tag off
on my jeans. Dixie. The dog's name was Dixie. I knew it was a dog for sure because the other
metal tag was a dog license. I'll be honest, that gave me a bad feeling. Now coyotes will
drag off a dog sometime sure, but they don't stash them in hollow logs like that. And bears,
well, we don't really see many black bears around here, and the very few that do, they don't
tend to stick around. I set the collar back down, and I stood there for a minute, just
thinking. I remember saying out loud, shaking my head, "What the heck has been doing this?"
I was still thinking on it, when I suddenly realized the woods had gone very quiet. I mean
quiet. No squirrels chattering, no crow's fessing, not even a breeze rustling the trees. It was
just me standing there in an empty forest, pure stillness, staring at a log full of bones.
I told myself to snap out of it, get back to work, quit letting my imagination run wild. I
didn't have any answers, and I sure wasn't going to get any just standing there staring.
So I shook myself out of it, fired up the saw again, and I went on cutting. But I'll
be darned if every time I set another tree down, I didn't feel eyes staring holes right
through me. But I never saw anything. Now that night I went home dog tired, but I couldn't
sleep worth a lick. I kept seeing that hollow log in my mind. All those bones stacked
so deep, and the collar, Dixie. Dixie was the dog's name. I wonder who was missing Dixie.
It bothered me all night, right on through to the morning.
Next day I went back to that tract. I had to. A job was there needing doing, and I needed
doing it to get the money. I got there, and the sun was just coming up. There was dew heavy
on the grass. First thing I noticed, my skitter tracks from the day before were half filled
with water. Normal, but, but right there in the middle of the mud were prints. Big ones.
At first glance I thought it was a barefoot man that had walked through there, as strange
as that might sound. But these weren't a man's foot. They were longer, wider, toes spread
wide like big shovels. Each one pressed down deep. I laid my hand down in one of the prints,
and there was still space all around it with my fingers spread. My stomach dropped.
I tried to follow the tracks, and I just went only a few yards. I saw that they circled
the hollow log full of bones. Then they headed off into the thicker timber.
I am not ashamed to say. My saw was quiet most of that morning. I spent half the day just
listening and looking, watching the woods, listening to every snap of a twig that made me jump.
By mid-acto-noon after I'd eaten my sandwich, I had a good talk with myself. Yeah, just some
fella out here playing tricks, I told myself. A hunter maybe, maybe they're mad, I'm taking
some of their prime hunting land and cutting it, or maybe they're some old hippie barefooting
through the woods. I came up with all kinds of scenarios to explain it. I sure made myself
feel better, because after I ate my lunch, I went back to cutting. And that's when it happened.
I had just dropped another oak, not fifty yards from that hollow log. As the tree hit the
ground, I heard a strange sound behind me as my chainsaw kicked down into low gear. It
was low, deep, like a chest rattling grunt growl. I spun around, just sure I was going to see
a bear. I saw something, but not a bear, but there it was. It was standing half-hid behind
a sweet gum, and it was staring holes right through me. Biggest darn living thing I'd ever laid
eyes on outside of a zoo. It had to be eight feet tall if it was an inch. Shoulders wide
as a doorframe, arms hanging long with hands near its knees. Hair was dark brown, matted,
like it had been living rough out there. It's face, I still see it clear. Not an ape, not
a man, but some kind of mash-up that was somewhere in between. It was a heavy brow, where deep
set eyes catching the light. Its nostrils were flaring with every breath. It wasn't bearing
its teeth or snapping like a wild animal. Even still, I knew it was mad. Mad that I was
there. Mad at what I was doing. We locked eyes for maybe five seconds, but it might as well
have been an hour. My saw was still rumbling in my hands, but I couldn't move. Then it stepped
out from behind the tree. Just one step, heavy, but the ground I swear seemed a shiver with
it. I dropped the saw. I didn't even shut it off. I just let it fall, chain spinning and
all. I backed away slow, hands out like I was telling it. I didn't mean no harm, mister.
It didn't follow me, but it just stood there by the log looking at me. Then it would look
at the hollow trunk full of bones. And it was still mad. It huffed. I saw it through its
nose, the nostrils flaring, and I saw the chest. I couldn't hear the huff over the chainsaw,
but I saw it. In the next second, it turned and walked back into the timber. It had long
strides like it had all the time in the world, but at the same time it was telling me it
was thoroughly disgusted with me and everything it had seen. I didn't finish cutting that
tract. I went back and I told the landowner that he'd need to find someone else to clear
it. He looked at me a little bit funny, but he asked me no questions, and I didn't care
either way. I wasn't going back in there for anything.
Now sometimes I will be driving past that hollow, away from the road, and I'll see tree tops
swaying when there's no wind or breeze, and I'll suddenly get a cold feeling in my gut,
just like I did when I saw it step out from behind the tree. I know what I saw, flesh and
blood walking on two feet, and it had a pantry full of bones that it didn't like me touching.
[ Silence ]