More to Follow
Albey stirs awake. The fire has mostly gone out, but he can see the pipe and jar on the floor before it. He is still on the bed, and his body feels heavy, as do his eyelids with sleep. But there is one thing he must do first if he is to know for sure whether or not what he fears might be true.
Beneath the bed Albey reaches and pulls out the wolfskin, then tosses it aside. He lifts the unbolted board and reaches into the divot beneath the cabin and pulls out a book. A book bound in hard, course leather. A strange book, one of many pages, very few of them blank. He takes it to the fireplace and, after adding a bundle of sticks to the dwindling bed of scarlet embers, flips through the heavily thumbed sheets of papyrus until he finds the specific page he is looking for. There are many notes scrawled here, as with all the pages, and he runs his finger vertically down them until he finds the one he feels he must read.
They are likely a savage bunch, far stronger and swifter than civilized ‘man. Leagues more cunning as well. They kill often for food, and mayhap too for sport, yes, with a propensity for bashing skulls with rock.
The Mad Poet gulps hard. The lump in his throat stays put. He flips to the last page, not that of the book but that which is scrawled with symbols, and reads the final writing. It is not a note but an entry, as this tome was partly the ‘man’s journal – the ‘man’s Ape’Man Log, do it please ya – and though he gazed upon the words last night, chills fly up his spine when he reads them again now.
I have learned so much in so little time, but there is no end to my hunger. I can only hypothesize and postulate so far; to know the truth I must find them, engage with them, drink straight from the tap. Tomorrow I shall leave early in the day and climb to the spring in which they bathe, and from there I shall wander keenly until I find their nesting grounds. That should be the only way; then I will know for sure what the ape’mans are about.
More to follow on my return~
But there is no more to follow, for they never did return; the rest of the pages are blank.
Albey closes the strange book slowly. Suddenly it’s very heavy in his hands, almost too heavy to keep holding. He slides it across the rough floor, letting it fall into the divot beneath the bed, and replaces the unbolted board. He goes and fetches the gray wolfskin and stuffs it beneath the bed as well, then climbs onto the mattress and pulls the blanket up to his bearded chin.
“Tomorrow I shall leave early in the day and climb to the spring in which they bathe,” Albey promises himself in the words of the cabin’s prior tenant, “and from there I shall wander keenly until I find their home. That should be the only way…”
His eyelids are very heavy. It is time for the Mad Poet to rest, for his conclusion has been tested, his research has been conducted, and now he has findings to be found.
“Then I will know for sure…”
This has been the last subchapter of the third chapter of The Face of Fear, a novel about bigfoot written by the writer in Untitled Bigfoot Project. Here is everything you need to know about it:
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
The Hillside Commons has a Facebook page. Here’s that.
If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~