Your early thirties are probably the second-most perplexing time of your life, next to being a pre-teen. It’s an age when you reluctantly realize you have more in common with the “maturity” of the middle-aged than the reckless vibrancy of youth, but my dorky greeting went ignored as the young man’s eyes jerked upward and glared at me – by then I was already focused on his mouth.
The young man had this smeared redness around his thin, chapped lips, like he had just finished gorging on a jam-heavy, peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Even with my initial shock I managed to ask him again what was up. The wind had grown heavy between my two greetings, so maybe he just didn’t hear me the first time. But after my second hello he just continued to scowl at me, and walked right on by.
His manic look was that of primeval tension, immediately triggering a fight-or-flight response deep in my bones. I also couldn’t turn away. I felt like I was looking at something different, but in human form.
I followed his body until the point I couldn’t look over my shoulder anymore. I stopped and turned back to him, kindly asking if everything was alright. The young man just continued walking down the trail, using the sleeve of his sweater to finally wipe away the jam that smeared around his mouth. He then started to jog, turning into a full-on sprint and swiftly disappearing around the curved bend along the trail.
I stood back, puzzled. What was with this guy? Was he just painfully shy or something? Better yet, was he on drugs? How the Hell could he get here? I wasn’t even fifteen minutes down the trail when I encountered him, and the only entrance was the parking lot. The trail itself was just one big loop. The western boarder of the park was that of Highway 31, which ran north-and-south along swampy land before hitting broadleaf forests a few miles in. And, most importantly, what the Hell was he doing walking out of the woods instead of being on the trail?
I continued my hike with caution, stopping every few seconds to look behind me and run questions through my head. The encounter I had with that young man was more than just one of tense discomfort – it was one of pure intimidation. There was this rabid, territorial posturing in the way he looked at me, one that made it seem like I was not wanted in that public park, that somehow he was holding back on physicality when I least expected it.
In reality I feared the young man might be guilty of something, but just what was it? My answer was quickly given to me when I almost tripped over it. Out of the corner of my eye I briefly caught the sight of something white, bloodied, and matted settled upon the dry dirt. I gasped and hopped a few steps over it, and once I regained my balance I turned around.
My stomach prickled with pins and needles when I realized the object I almost stepped on was that of the severed dog head – a west highland terrier, by the look of it. Its murky eyes stared blankly back up at me; its once shiny, white fur and pointed ears were covered in dirt and blood. The westie’s severed neck was cut uncleanly, looking savagely gnawed off. The rest of its torso wasn’t in sight. That’s when I spotted streaks of splattered blood leading from the trail and into the foliage.
I turned my head to face the deep woods, and my gaze followed the blood through the tapering elms. My eyes narrowed, and I stepped closer to the forest edge. The rest of the canine’s corpse was about twenty-five yards in through the trees. Its limbs and body matched the state of its head but, unlike some carelessly discarded piece of flesh and bone, the corpse was placed in an upright position upon a bed of fallen leaves. Branches were propped up all around it to help it retain its sitting position, and three cairns of rocks were crudely placed around it.
A chilly numbness came over me, even though it was obviously hot. All I could think of was seeing that young man’s face, his sleeve quickly wiping away at his mouth, and the excess “jam” covering it.
Wailing suddenly echoed through the forest and washed over my back, with the sound of crunching leaves running from the right to the left behind me. I turned, ready to face the culprit, but the scamper of footsteps faded back as the high-pitched screams ended on a coda of guttural glee.
Immediately I reached for my pocket to grab my smartphone. I was only met with an empty pocket, and the cruel reminder of my need to “unplug” when I was out in nature (a habit I ironically picked up on the internet as to not get distracted on my nature walks).
Pulling my hand from my pocket I decided to jog the rest of the loop. I was too far down the trail to retrace my steps, and I knew the bridge was just around one more bend in the pathway. As the trail rounded, then straightened out once more, the trees to my right broke apart and I could see the bridge. I only ran faster at the sight, feeling the fatigue that still lingered with my flu.
When I reached the railing post I paused, panting. The sweat beaded down my face; I felt like I was ready to throw up once more. Straightening out my back I closed my eyes, and let my face and chest get shaded from the hot sun. That’s when the crackle of leaves came from the forest once more.
I turned back down the trail I had just fled, my eyes
