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"I've been working timber most of my life. My daddy cut pulp wood and his daddy before

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him." I guess you could say it, runs in the family. "I live in North Alabama, not far

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from the Tennessee line." These hills up here are thick with hardwoods, oak, hickory, and

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a whole mess of poplar. That's where I make my living.

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Now this was late fall. Cool weather, leaves coming down, ground soft underfoot. I'd been

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hired on by a fellow to clear a patch of land that he wanted to plant pines on. It was

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good standing timber. Most of it straight, clean trunks. I figured it would make for an

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easy cut. "I'd been out there a couple of weeks," son up to sundown, "working my saw

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on hauling logs." One morning I dropped a big old red oak. And when it hit the ground,

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I noticed the butt end was hollow. Now that happens sometimes. Heart-rot will eat the

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inside out, while the outside looked solid. "Look, curiosity got me." I set the saw down

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and walked over. The trunk had split open when it fell, leaving a gap big enough for me

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to shine my flashlight down in. At first I thought it was just leaves and dirt packed inside.

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But then my light hit bones. Not just one or two, either. Piles of them. Bits of broken

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deer antlers, rib cages, and skulls with chew marks all over them. Raccoon skulls, possum

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bones, and even what looked like a hog jawbone. Most of these had already been picked clean,

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and the bones had been cracked open, and the marrow was gone. Others still had a little

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bit of dried up and rotting meat left on them. There were a few that were whole carcasses,

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squirrels, and rabbits mostly. Those were on top. It was all stacked down in there as if

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something had been using that hollow log as its pantry. And right near the mouth of the

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log wedged in real tight, like it was the last thing pushed in, was part of a dog's body.

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I wasn't too sure, but then I saw it, a collar, faded leather, a busted buckle, and there

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was a little brass tag still hanging on it, and another metal tag hooked to it. I slid

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the collar off the shrunken body. I held it in my hands, then I wiped the brass tag off

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on my jeans. Dixie. The dog's name was Dixie. I knew it was a dog for sure because the other

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metal tag was a dog license. I'll be honest, that gave me a bad feeling. Now coyotes will

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drag off a dog sometime sure, but they don't stash them in hollow logs like that. And bears,

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well, we don't really see many black bears around here, and the very few that do, they don't

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tend to stick around. I set the collar back down, and I stood there for a minute, just

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thinking. I remember saying out loud, shaking my head, "What the heck has been doing this?"

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I was still thinking on it, when I suddenly realized the woods had gone very quiet. I mean

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quiet. No squirrels chattering, no crow's fessing, not even a breeze rustling the trees. It was

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just me standing there in an empty forest, pure stillness, staring at a log full of bones.

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I told myself to snap out of it, get back to work, quit letting my imagination run wild. I

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didn't have any answers, and I sure wasn't going to get any just standing there staring.

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So I shook myself out of it, fired up the saw again, and I went on cutting. But I'll

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be darned if every time I set another tree down, I didn't feel eyes staring holes right

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through me. But I never saw anything. Now that night I went home dog tired, but I couldn't

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sleep worth a lick. I kept seeing that hollow log in my mind. All those bones stacked

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so deep, and the collar, Dixie. Dixie was the dog's name. I wonder who was missing Dixie.

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It bothered me all night, right on through to the morning.

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Next day I went back to that tract. I had to. A job was there needing doing, and I needed

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doing it to get the money. I got there, and the sun was just coming up. There was dew heavy

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on the grass. First thing I noticed, my skitter tracks from the day before were half filled

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with water. Normal, but, but right there in the middle of the mud were prints. Big ones.

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At first glance I thought it was a barefoot man that had walked through there, as strange

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as that might sound. But these weren't a man's foot. They were longer, wider, toes spread

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wide like big shovels. Each one pressed down deep. I laid my hand down in one of the prints,

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and there was still space all around it with my fingers spread. My stomach dropped.

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I tried to follow the tracks, and I just went only a few yards. I saw that they circled

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the hollow log full of bones. Then they headed off into the thicker timber.

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I am not ashamed to say. My saw was quiet most of that morning. I spent half the day just

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listening and looking, watching the woods, listening to every snap of a twig that made me jump.

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By mid-acto-noon after I'd eaten my sandwich, I had a good talk with myself. Yeah, just some

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fella out here playing tricks, I told myself. A hunter maybe, maybe they're mad, I'm taking

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some of their prime hunting land and cutting it, or maybe they're some old hippie barefooting

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through the woods. I came up with all kinds of scenarios to explain it. I sure made myself

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feel better, because after I ate my lunch, I went back to cutting. And that's when it happened.

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I had just dropped another oak, not fifty yards from that hollow log. As the tree hit the

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ground, I heard a strange sound behind me as my chainsaw kicked down into low gear. It

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was low, deep, like a chest rattling grunt growl. I spun around, just sure I was going to see

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a bear. I saw something, but not a bear, but there it was. It was standing half-hid behind

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a sweet gum, and it was staring holes right through me. Biggest darn living thing I'd ever laid

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eyes on outside of a zoo. It had to be eight feet tall if it was an inch. Shoulders wide

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as a doorframe, arms hanging long with hands near its knees. Hair was dark brown, matted,

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like it had been living rough out there. It's face, I still see it clear. Not an ape, not

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a man, but some kind of mash-up that was somewhere in between. It was a heavy brow, where deep

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set eyes catching the light. Its nostrils were flaring with every breath. It wasn't bearing

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its teeth or snapping like a wild animal. Even still, I knew it was mad. Mad that I was

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there. Mad at what I was doing. We locked eyes for maybe five seconds, but it might as well

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have been an hour. My saw was still rumbling in my hands, but I couldn't move. Then it stepped

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out from behind the tree. Just one step, heavy, but the ground I swear seemed a shiver with

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it. I dropped the saw. I didn't even shut it off. I just let it fall, chain spinning and

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all. I backed away slow, hands out like I was telling it. I didn't mean no harm, mister.

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It didn't follow me, but it just stood there by the log looking at me. Then it would look

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at the hollow trunk full of bones. And it was still mad. It huffed. I saw it through its

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nose, the nostrils flaring, and I saw the chest. I couldn't hear the huff over the chainsaw,

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but I saw it. In the next second, it turned and walked back into the timber. It had long

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strides like it had all the time in the world, but at the same time it was telling me it

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was thoroughly disgusted with me and everything it had seen. I didn't finish cutting that

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tract. I went back and I told the landowner that he'd need to find someone else to clear

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it. He looked at me a little bit funny, but he asked me no questions, and I didn't care

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either way. I wasn't going back in there for anything.

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Now sometimes I will be driving past that hollow, away from the road, and I'll see tree tops

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swaying when there's no wind or breeze, and I'll suddenly get a cold feeling in my gut,

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just like I did when I saw it step out from behind the tree. I know what I saw, flesh and

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blood walking on two feet, and it had a pantry full of bones that it didn't like me touching.

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[ Silence ]