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The name's Paul. I turn wrenches for a living. Four wheelers, tractors, small engines.

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You name it, I work on it. I have a little shop out back at my place, just a tin roof

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and a wood stove, but it works just fine for me. I've lived my whole life in the same patch

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of hills here in Kentucky. And around here, you're not famous unless you want a bunch of blue

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ribbons for your pie at the fair. Or you own a tow truck. Well, shoot, I don't have either.

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So I'm not famous and nobody's looking my way. Now before I get down into the weeds with this story,

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I'm going to tell you I've changed some names of the people, and I did change the name of exactly

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where this happened. I'm calling it Harlan Hollow. That's not the real name, but it sure could be.

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Sounds exactly like some of the Hollow's near here. That Thursday in late October,

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I was working late at my buddy Tim's barn. He'd gotten behind on an ATV rebuild,

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and dear season was just three blinks away on the calendar. We stood around a lot more that day

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than we did turning bolts. We kept coffee on a parts train nearby. And there was a ballgame playing

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on a dusty little radio over on a workbench. The kind that makes whatever it's playing sound like

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it was ran through a tin can. It's the kind of night that happens a lot to me. I'll tinker with this

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and tighten that, swap an old something for a new something, skip my lunch, do a few more things,

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and next thing I know, the clock reads 8.42 pm, and I have no idea how that happened.

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I felt like I just pulled up a minute ago. As I was packing up, Tim said,

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"You heading home the long way?" I said, "Nah, quick way." Of course, that meant Harlan Hollow.

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Now folks that are not from around here will confuse a Hollow and a Holler. A Holler is an area

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where people live. I'm not going to go deep in that, but it's where people live. A Hollow is a road.

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It's a really old road usually, and it was made way back when.

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Has trees go up tight to both sides, making it feel like a tunnel. And Harlan is just that.

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Its narrow is all get out. There are no painted lines, no reflectors, and haven't helped you when it

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rains, because you can't see where the road is. Now I have driven that road hundreds of times in my

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life, day and night, in all kinds of weather, with everything from a two and a half tonne load of

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fence posts on my F450 flatbed, to just me and my old dog riding shotgun with me, with an empty

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bed on my F250 daily truck. That road is very familiar to me. I know all the curves. I know winter

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break, and when I can hit the pedal. That evening I pulled out of tims in my truck,

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fresh coffee from tims wife's washing around in one of those to go, coffee cup she gave me.

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The temperature outside had dropped drastically with the sun, making every breath a faint white puff

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when I talked. Now I don't bother with the radio most times when I'm driving. All I get down in those

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hills is some static or some preacher on fire about something or the other. Every now and then the

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local high school will broadcast a game. But that's about it. I really don't mind. I like the quiet

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when I'm driving at night. The first mile in, the ditch water on the side of the road, look black

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as coal tar. Usually I can spot a few porch lights up on the ridge backs, but not that night.

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Seemed every house was already asleep, lights out everywhere. Nothing to it, just something I remember

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that's all. Now right about the fork by the rusted mailbox with the bullet hole, which I swear

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I think has been there since I was a little kid. Something stepped across the road up ahead,

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just inside where my high beams reached. Then it went out again. One, two, three strides gone.

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I don't spook easy, and I'm not the dramatic kind, but it was tall and broad and upright.

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I've seen bears stand up. I know their shape. This was not that shape. Nothing like it.

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I laid off the pedal and let the truck slow to a crawl. Then to a dead stop.

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"What was that?" I wondered. I scanned both shoulders of the road for movement.

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There was nothing but a wall of dark timber on both sides. I told myself it was a trick of the

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lighter, maybe some big fella cutting across to go put up a deer stand. There was nothing there,

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so I took my foot off the brake and slowly put it back on the pedal.

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I eased forward, and another half mile I got the feeling that somebody was staring holes at me

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from somewhere. I cracked both windows and inch to let the cold come in. I figured I

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needed some air to wake me up a little more. That's when I smelled it. It was wet carpet and dog.

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Specifically, I was reminded of when my first wife used a carpet cleaner. Then left the dirty

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water in it for a month. Yes, we had dogs. And when we finally emptied out that carpet cleaner,

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my goodness, that smell was gag-inducing. Now that smell is what rode with me for a few seconds.

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Then it got carried away on the wind through the open window. I figured I must have passed some kind

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of roadkill. It didn't smell like roadkill, but it really didn't smell like anything else I knew,

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except wet dog carpet water. Then I heard a small neat tink. It was like a pebble hitting metal.

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Then came a few more. What in the world, I thought? I was thinking I had picked up gravel in my

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tread from Tim's gravel driveway, but that didn't seem right. It was hitting somewhere on the front

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and the side. That's not where a tread would throw gravel. I was only doing about 20 to 25 because

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there's some wicked curves on that old road. There's no use in accelerating. You'll be breaking again

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within 20 seconds after you've accelerated. Then something hit the passenger door hard.

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The whole cab shuddered. This wasn't like a branch that scraped the doors I went by it. I know that

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shivery sound. This was a huge thud. You don't mistake a scrape for a thud. Every instinct I had

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told me to hurry and go, and I listened. I hit the pedal as much as I dared through that area,

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enough that I felt the rear kick. Then Lord helped me. I heard footfalls in the ditch,

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keeping pace with the truck. It wasn't an animal that was galloping along. This wasn't four feet I

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was hearing just two. I looked right, half expecting to scold my own nerves for being so stupid,

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but there in the edge of the headlights I caught something dark moving. It was there for just a second,

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then it melted over into the trees. Just then the road opened into one of the straight pieces

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and the headlights painted the shoulders of the road just right. That's when I really saw it.

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Have you ever seen something your brain tries to split into pieces that it understands?

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But none of the pieces fit. This was tall as a doorway and wider. Easy three feet across the chest.

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The hair was dark brown with Auburn glints when the light broke through. This wasn't fur like a bear.

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This was hair, longer on the arms and the shoulders and shorter across a chest that showed some gray

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black skin underneath and patches as it moved. The head was not a cone like I've heard some say.

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It was rounded up top with a heavy brow ridge and there were cheekbones with jaws below them

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that looked like they'd been made for crushing. The mouth was parted, the lips darker than the skin,

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and teeth they were square and way too big. The eyes caught my lights showing dull copper.

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They weren't the bright, dear white of eye shine and they were locked on to me.

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No, I couldn't believe what I was seeing, but I couldn't deny it.

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And no, I couldn't accelerate much more because of the road getting into the curves.

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Last thing I wanted was to go off the road and flip, knowing that thing would be right there.

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It ran beside me for a stretch. Long, easy strides like running was no work for it at all.

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The arm swing put those hands low enough. I swear it could have dragged knuckles if it wanted to.

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And the hand, it was a hand, not a paw. I caught clear glimpses as the arms arct wide while it ran.

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I looked from the road to it in a constant half-second cycle. I saw it,

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but I still couldn't believe it. Right there was a wood booger, a big foot running along my truck.

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And it was keeping speed with me. Then it veered off the shoulder and cut through

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saplings without breaking stride. It was hidden in the darkness in less than two seconds.

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And I was strangely relieved. Okay, Mr. Bigfoot took a look at me and my truck.

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Now he's heading home just like I am because it's late and we neither one have had our denners.

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I took the first breath I'd had in probably 30 seconds and I realized my hands tingled from gripping

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the wheel so tightly. Harlan Hollow has a place that folks call Dead Man's Curve. Big surprise.

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It drops fast and there's a creek right on the right and there's a dirt bank on the left with

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the roots that stick out from the dirt like they're coming to grab you. I figured I'd be through that

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area and gone before the wood booger remembered I was on the road. I had no choice, though, to slow down.

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I had that hairpin coming up. If I didn't slow down, I was pretty sure my truck would be down

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on the creek on its roof as I had seen others over the years. So I slowed down. I came round that

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first hairpin bend and there it was standing in the road. It was Dead Center right in the middle of

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my high beams breathing steam out into the cold like its lungs were furnaces. I hit the brakes

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and locked them up. There was no skitter to them because I wasn't probably going more than 15 or

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20 miles an hour but the truck came to a dead stop with the high beams blasting every detail of

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that creature into my skull whether I wanted it to or not. It felt like time stopped for a couple of

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heartbeats. Then it stepped forward. One slow step then another. Heels digging, toes rolling.

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The hands flexed like somebody stretching their fingers before getting ready to throw hands in a fight.

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The mouth was squared. The brow dropped and then it roared. This wasn't a Hollywood version and

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it was nothing like I'd ever heard. It was loud and it resonated like a hot rod engine being

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revved right next to you. I felt it under the seat and up in my chest. This wasn't angry like a

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rage roar. This sounded more like it was telling me. It was telling me, "Here, mine, you move." I scrambled

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for reverse and hit neutral first by mistake. The engine revved up like I was mocking its roar,

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challenging it. It came forward a half step and that was all I needed to break whatever paralysis

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had my hands forgetting how to properly work my gear shift. I found reverse stomped on my pedal

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and the truck leaped backward up the slope. I was looking back to guide the truck and still trying

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to look forward to see what it was doing. Charge wasn't the right word for it, not like it charged me.

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It did advance. The hands were out like it was going to grab the corners of the truck front.

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For a second, I thought maybe it would, and then it stopped. When I saw it stopped, I stopped

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backing up the truck too. I have no earthly idea why, but I did. We both just hung there

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with headlight and breath fog between us. Then, just like a man done with a chore,

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it turned and walked off the road and it was gone in two steps like some magic trick.

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I blinked and got back to work. I backed up the last 20 feet of that curve, then backed up another

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30 yards blind right up the straight road. I wanted out of that hollow, pronto. The trees up the

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sides of the road were terrifying to me for the first time. Five miles later, I was out of the hollow

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and I was on real black top. I was even rolling under real street lights. I found a small safe place

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not far from the actual hollow. I felt safe there, and I got out on shaky knees and looked down the

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passenger side under one of those street lights. The door had a dent like something really big

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to hit it with a lot of force. When I got home and split into my kitchen that night, my wife looked

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up from across to it she was working. Her eyes sharp the way they get when I'm late and I haven't

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called her. She had a perfect view of my truck's passenger side from where she sat, and yeah, I

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pulled up and parked right by the house under the light so she saw it. "Dear?" she asked, seeing the

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big dent. "It ran into me," I said. "Didn't you see it?" I kissed her hair as I walked by.

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"No, not in time." "You see, I didn't lie," and I was very careful with my answers.

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I said, "It ran into me," and I didn't say it was a deer, and I didn't lie because I didn't see it

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in time. I slept and sliced as that night jerking awake at small noises,

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pops from the wood stove pipe in the living room. The sound of the neighbor's dog and its muffled

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woof down the way. All of them kept me awake. In the morning I told myself how it would be all

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different and less scary in the daylight. Maybe I should go check it out. So I made coffee strong enough

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to stand the spoon up in and took my truck back down to Harlan Hollow. But you know what? The sun

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can't fix everything, but I thought it just might fix how spooked I had been the night before.

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Everything seemed just like it should. Maple leaves made a confetti of rust and gold all along the

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ditches. Squirrels yelled at me as I passed, like I owed them some money. And for a while it all seemed

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all right. Dead man's curves still had that wicked hairpin. I parked right where I had stopped the

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night before. I cut the engine. It didn't feel like the night before, but I still checked the trees

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every few seconds. The shoulder there was heavily compacted dirt. Tracks aren't easy to see on hard

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dirt. But there it was. One print with a clean look. Heel and toe. Five toes plain. The heel had flattened

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a few stones down into the hard dirt. I measured with what I had, my hand. My palm is a bit under five

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inches from the heel to the base of my middle finger. I counted how many hands I thithed against it.

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So roughly about 15 inches give or take, and it was about six wide. The depth in the hard dirt

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told me another unsettling story. It told me there's no way that some human faked it last night to scare me.

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People, at least around there, don't weigh 800 pounds or more. Now up the bank piece, half in the mud,

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they're lay a hand print. I put my palm next to it, and I felt like a tiny neck compared to what

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this creature is. The fingers were longer. The pad heavier. The thumb set far lower on the hand.

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It read like a clear blueprint for powerful hands. To the left, a sapling the size of my wrist

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showed a twist. I don't mean it was snapped with a clean break, but it had been run, fibers opening

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like a rope end. I'd seen enough. I left the area and I didn't look back. I didn't talk about it for a

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real long spell, not because I was shy about it, but because I was still mulling it over for myself.

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As October went on, the nights got longer, and they were tinged with wood smoke all around the valley,

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same as every autumn. One night I woke up feeling panicked. Didn't know why for a second. Then I heard it.

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Somewhere out in the hills away from my house, I heard that same roar that I had heard out on the

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road that night. It was smaller sounding, but I knew that's what it was, even from that distance.

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I knew that roar was as big as it ever was. That morning I sat at the kitchen table.

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I started making a list. Replace the old motion lights for newer ones with a wider, brighter light

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spread. Put bear spray in my truck. There were all kinds of things on the list of that nature.

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None of it was really going to help me do anything, but feel better about it. I felt like I was

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at least doing something, and I did feel a little better, well for a little while. And it's funny,

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how there's people in these parts that just have a way of knowing things, even things you've never

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told a soul. Take Jim. Jim down at the gas station near the river is just like that. I stopped in for gas

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and some coffee one morning. And Jim started in right on me the second I walked to the counter.

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No one else was in there at the time. There was no "how you doing?" Or "morning, Paul?"

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There was none of that. Jim came right to it and asked me if I was still running up Harlan Hollow

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after dark. He asked me with a suspicious and a cautious tone.

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I non-shallotly said sometimes. Jim looked at me, and with a voice not much louder than a whisper,

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he told me that the county had to tow a deputy's unit out from the creek bank down there just the week

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before. He knew the deputy, he said. Well, of course he did. Jim knew everybody in the county.

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Well, he said. The deputy told him he hit black ice. But see, nobody had any black ice conditions

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anywhere in the county that night. Nobody else saw any anywhere. Jim told him the tow guy,

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because, well, Jim knew him too, of course. The tow guy told him he said the cruiser had a dent on it

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like a big bull had rammed it. The deputy and the tow guy both told him that the sheriff

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told them to stay quiet about it. I told Jim I was mostly using the ridge road now. I didn't like all

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those curves real early in the morning or late at night. He waited two or three seconds, just looking at

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me. Then he nodded, and then he took my money. After that night on the Hollow Road, I cleaned up the

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dent in my passenger door the best that I could. I wanted to get the dent popped out, but the guy told

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me it was just too far gone, too creased. It wasn't going to flex back out. All right, well, so be it.

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I let it go as much as I could. I noticed I didn't make the decision, but it seemed that I always parked

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where I didn't have to see the passenger side of my truck when I walked back to it.

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After a while, life mostly went back to normal. But my driving changed. I watched my mirrors more.

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I rolled my windows up at night even when I preferred the cold on my face. I went far out of my way.

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I would take the long way if I had to, but I stayed off a lot of the smaller roads after dark.

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But you know what happens with time, don't you? You lose the vigilance that you'd been keeping.

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You get a little too comfortable all over again. And one night you get a little short on time,

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and you decide to go ahead and take that short road that you said you would never take again.

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And that was my mistake in early December. I thought I was good. I thought I was past that. I thought I

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was all better. Plus it was daylight. And I knew I had to be at one of my kids' choral shows at school

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that night, around 6 p.m. So I was pressed on time. So I took Harlan Hollow at four in the afternoon

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to deliver a chainsaw back to the fellow who lived near the creek. The sun was good. Late light

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was still bright. I dropped the chainsaw, got my money, then headed back out. I wanted out of the

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hollow before darkness, and that came pretty early in December. Right before Dead Man's Curve,

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there was a messy line across the road. I was confused. It hadn't been there on the way in,

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which was maybe 15 or 20 minutes before. I slowed down, and my gut began to twist.

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It was clearly blood and other gore from a fresh kill that had been dragged across the road.

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I know exactly what a kill pull looks like. Now there wasn't a hunter in the county that would have

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dragged a kill over a hard road like that. I only knew of one, though, that might. A wood booger.

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I suddenly stopped thinking I was better. A week after that, Tim told me that he came through

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round dusk, and there was a dark shape that ran the creek beside his truck for a hundred yards,

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keep him pace with him. He said he thought about stopping to see what it was after it had ran off.

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But then he remembered the old stories, and he said he liked living.

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We had a cold snap that winter that blew frigid air in for weeks. That's when you really can hear

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everything. You know, sound carries a lot in silent winter air. On one of those nights,

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sometime near Christmas, I was watching television with my wife. Far away, I heard that roaring sound.

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I think my hair stood up on my arms. Even my wife looked up from her cross stitch.

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"What was that?" she asked. I looked at her, and all I could say was

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something went up in the hills I reckon. Again, I made sure I didn't lie.

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That was four years back now, and that's the last I've heard from that creature.

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I don't know if it's moved on or not, but Jim tells me a story every once in a blue moon

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that could maybe be that wood boogers doings. I listen, I pay attention,

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but I don't take Harlan Hollow at night anymore.

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In the daylight, I will do it sometimes because, well, I tell myself it's a nocturnal creature.

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I tell myself all sorts of other things because Harlan Hollow saves me a lot of time.

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But if I'm alone in the light's fading, you know I go the long way to wherever I'm heading.

