Harvest Moon

by Ray Kolb

Until last night, I suppose the scariest thing I ever saw was in the summer of 1977. My little brother Tommy, Greg Boutter and Danny Harbin (or Leadbutt as we called him because he moved so slow) and myself were down by Black Oak Creek. The Creek, so called because of the fire that raged through these parts a long time ago (my dad said sometime around 1900), wasn’t much more than a stream starting just south of Elberta and never making it into Miflin, which wasn’t more than a mile or two south of Elberta itself.

We built the tree house in an old oak tree east of the creek, pretending we were defending the land from the Indians and keeping the creek water safe for the people inside the fort. Keeping them safe from the ghosts that were supposed to haunt these woods. There were ghosts, what with people dying in the fire, but we weren’t afraid. We were soldiers. Besides, there were four of us, and together we could kick any apparition’s butt, especially if we were safe behind the walls of our tree house.

We had regular guards posted at the foot of the tree, between the fort and the creek. The remainder of us soldiers kept the tree house headquarters in top military shape. As usually happened, we made Tommy stand guard while Greg, Leadbutt and myself read and debated the newest adventures of Spiderman and The Avengers.

We’d been in the fort for a couple hours, having read a dozen comics and finished off the pack of Ding Dongs Leadbutt filched from his mom’s pantry. I guess we dozed off. I remember waking with a start when I heard Tommy screaming. Jumping up, I pushed back the dirt-stained throw rug that passed for a door. I looked down to where Tommy should have been.

I can tell you, I have never climbed down a tree so fast. Racing down just behind me were Greg and Leadbutt. We called Tommy’s name as loud as we could. My heart was beating fast, and not just because my dad would whip my butt for not watching my little brother. I was worried about Tommy too.

To our right, we heard branches and grass crunching under at a furious pace. Turning, we saw Tommy running at full speed.

“Get in the tree!” he screamed, looking over his shoulder. “Get in the tree!”

Without asking permission or even giving the secret password, Tommy pushed by us and flew up the steps into the tree house. Before I had time to feel relief or get mad at Tommy for breaking the rules, I heard growling coming from where Tommy had appeared from the trees.

My mouth dropped and the air in my lungs disappeared. I couldn’t scream and I couldn’t run. I was looking into the face of a werewolf.

The monster stood there, in the clearing surrounding our little tree house, and growled, shaking its head at me, saliva hurling from its jaws. It walked straight at me. All I could do was stutter-step back to the tree, not daring to take my eyes off this creature for fear it would charge. Charge and then rip me apart. I groped one hand behind me, hoping to grasp some hint of security, preferably the bottom rung of the tree ladder.

When the werewolf was less than two feet from my face and its eyes were locked on mine, I finally found the breath to scream. Unfortunately, I released something else. Before I knew it, piss was running down my left leg.

Then I heard laughter.

The werewolf stopped howling and started hooting and hollering, pointing at my stained paints. At first, I didn’t understand what was going on. Then, two older boys, Stu Gahler and Adam Reise, popped out from behind a large oak tree. They could barely stand up they were laughing so hard, holding their sides from the pain.

I looked back at the werewolf in time to see Johnny Darcey pulling the mask over his head. Even though he was sweating and gulping for air, he was still grinning from ear to ear.

“Mama’s boy piss his pants,” Johnny said, jabbing a finger at my groin.

“Fuck you, Johnny,” I said, before thinking. Then I got the ass-whippin’ of my life.

I can tell you, I was plenty scared that day.

The most scared I’ve ever been. Until last night.

I was in Jessie’s, located just on the outskirts of Elberta, having a smoke and a beer, waiting to meet a friend I’d met at a seminar in Huntsville. I’m an EMT, Emergency Medical Technician, and I’ve been doing this going on seven years. Some people like to call us ambulance drivers. But don’t ever call an EMT that, or he’ll kick your teeth in.

This friend, I’ll call her Sarah – I don’t believe she’d like it if I gave her real name after everything that happened – was coming down to see me for a couple days at the beach. It was the end of September. All the crazy-ass tourists and beach bums had left for the summer and it was a bit too early for the Snow Birds to arrive. The weather would be nice. There was a little summer left, but the fall breeze had just started to set in.

As on many occasions when I found myself burning time at Jessie’s, I talked with the regulars. There was Mr. Hollingsworth, the crazy old man who swore the South didn’t lose the war and always talked about those ‘goddamned carpetbaggers,’ and Jimmy Zeigler, who lost an arm in Nam and chain-smoked Marlboro Menthols. Most days, you could also find a trucker or two, someone pulling a light load that day, or taking a couple hours off after pulling a sixteen-hour haul. Hard working people who would stop by for a beer or a bite to eat.

As the conversation always did this time of year, it turned to the Harvest Moon. At first, the talk was about the good that came with it. About harvesting and storing so much wheat that the bins were overflowing. About how the wind from the Gulf of Mexico shoots a sweet breeze that, sitting on your screened-in back porch, made the autumn evenings in southern Baldwin County pretty close to heaven.

After a few beers though, the talk turned to the bad.

You see, the locals around here know the stories. About County Road 127 and what happens if you’re fool enough to drive there at night when you see the Harvest Moon.

The first time I ever heard about the Harvest Moon and what it really means was back in the days of the tree house. Even though Mom forbid us to go into the woods after dark, sometimes in those one hundred percent humidity evenings when the sun had just gone down but the temperature seemed to hover around ninety-five and sweat found every single opening on your body, we’d sneak out with a flashlight and a couple of blankets, and camp out at the tree house. And tell those stories.

This particular night it was me, Tommy and Greg, and an occasional friend of ours, Eddie Landers. Eddie was one of those weird kids that collected horror stuff, whether it was Fangoria magazines, Halloween masks, or fake blood. And Eddie always had a story. The babysitter who’d had her legs and arms chopped off so she could only move by dragging herself by her bloodied stumps. “The only sound she made,” Eddie would whisper, “was – thump, thump, drag.” Or “We’ve traced the phone call and it’s coming from inside your house!”

On this night, Eddie told a different story. And it sounded different. Like Eddie really believed the story.

Every year, sometime between dusk and midnight, around the end of September, people knew to stay away from County Road 127. This wasn’t hard to do. 127 is a back road on the way to Gulf Shores. Not a lot of people are familiar with this short cut, and most who try it end up somewhere way east of where they meant to go. But 127 also cuts just west of Elberta and Miflin.

We figured Eddie was using the Elberta/Miflin area just to get to us, since our tree house was less than half a mile from County Road 127.

Eddie told us of unwary travelers who made the mistake of driving at night on 127, when the Harvest Moon is shining in its full glory across the Baldwin County sky, ran the serious risk of never making it any further. Many a car was found the next morning, often on its side, as if strewn nonchalantly like a discarded toy. Sometimes the roof of a car would be ripped partially off, looking like a sardine can someone hastily tore the top off, eager to get to the food inside.

Then there was the blood. Over the inside of a windshield, covering the dash, soaking the seats and the floorboards. But with as much blood and obvious violence at the sight, there were never any bodies. Sometimes they’d find a piece or two of flesh. Torn flesh. “Or bloodied stumps!” Eddie screamed, sticking a fake handless arm through the sleeve of his jacket. I tell you, he just about gave Tommy a heart attack.

Years later I was able to verify much of what Eddie told us. It seemed every year around harvest time I was called to a fatal automobile accident. There was one thing Eddie had been wrong about. There were bodies at the scene. Not that you’d recognize the people they once belonged to anymore. It wasn’t the carnage one sees in your average car wreck though. They were half empty carcasses with the bowels and vitals gone, much like a lion might do to the insides of an antelope.

So word got around. Don’t drive on County Road 127 during the Harvest Moon. The regulars pretty much abided by this rule. There were your crazy drunk teenagers who, every few years, would get stupid and dare each other to drive down 127 during this time. But the other kids got the message when they attended the closed-casket funerals of their dearly departed friends.

The official word given to the press and public was the driver was drunk or fell asleep or was playing his stereo and ran off the road, smacking into a tree. Since the negligent driver was never wearing a seatbelt, he was naturally thrown from the vehicle. Couldn’t really blame the politicians. Wouldn’t do much for tourism if there were stories of people dying on a certain stretch of road year after year.

Even though Eddie got most of the story right, it was only several years later during a Halloween party at my high school, when I learned the whole story. The party itself was boring, but a few of us snuck out of the auditorium and into the science lab. It was eerie, sneaking around in the dark, surrounded by test tubes, wires, and jars filled with animal embryos pickled with formaldehyde.

Dicky Hall, dressed as a goofy vampire, was with his girl, Sheila Newton, made up like Lily Munster with streaks of gray in her hair. I was done up pretty good as the devil. Melissa Anderson (the reason I’d come along in the first place) was a sexy Cleopatra. We sat on the floor between the waist-high counters topped with Bunsen burners standing at attention.

Dicky pulled a brown paper bag from beneath his cape, producing a six-pack of Black Label beer. After we’d finished the beer and were all pretty buzzed (I didn’t know about the others, but these were the first beers I’d ever had), Dicky decided we should all tell ghost stories. After a couple weak attempts by Sheila and myself, Dicky took his turn. He told the story of the Harvest Moon. But he didn’t stop at what happened on the side of the road. He gave us the history behind the tale.

The great fire of 1904 wasn’t any accident. Seems Elberta had a Don Juan around the turn of the century. A man named John Partlow. His two favorite activities were hanging around The Kaiser (an old tavern shut down for good during the Depression) bragging about his years as a smuggler, for which he always showed his small golden earring as proof, or making time with someone else’s woman. Since Partlow was a rather large fellow, getting caught on occasion by a jealous husband usually resulted in an altercation the other guy lost.

But this time Partlow messed around with the wife of Police Chief Kreiger. Kreiger, a veteran of the Franco-Prussian War of 1871-72, was one mean son-of-a-bitch who had lost part of his foot in the war. After the war, Kreiger returned to the American Gulf Coast and, along with other German immigrants, helped found the town of Elberta. Because of his military training, Kreiger was handed the reigns of policing the newly formed municipality. He was a cruel, unforgiving man who terrorized the citizens he was supposed to protect.

Kreiger’s new wife was a good bit younger than the Police Chief. The marriage, as everyone knew, was a political one. The new Mrs. Kreiger was the daughter of the owner of the largest fishery on Wolf Bay. She was as adventurous and unrestrained as her husband was cold and mean. Many a night, she could be seen dancing and carousing in one of the two bars at the dirt crossroads that passed for downtown Elberta. Chief Kreiger would ride up on his mount (not having police cars then) and whisk her away; some said to one of the many beatings she would take.

It was no surprise to anyone when word spread that Mrs. Kreiger and Partlow were ‘riding the skin boat to tuna town’ as Eddie Sanders would say. Chief Kreiger eventually found out. After announcing a late working night, Kreiger came home a few hours early. And John Partlow got the beating of his life. It was said that Kreiger wrapped a chain around his big strong fist and whipped Partlow from head to foot. One of the blows crushed in the left side of Partlow’s face, costing him his left eye and most of the cartilage in his nose. Kreiger probably would have killed him, except his wife intervened; wherein she became the object of her husband’s assault. Partlow, with the reprieve, slowly crawled away into the woods.

There wasn’t much Partlow could do. No one dared cross paths with Kreiger. And no one felt sorry for Partlow. Many a husband wondered if he was one of Partlow’s cuckolded victims and relaxed knowing that Partlow would cuckold no more.

But Partlow eventually got his revenge. A few months later, Kreiger’s daughter from his first marriage was set to get married. The wedding and the reception were to be held at the Chief’s home, just west of Elberta and Miflin. Not far from where our tree house would be built.

It was during the wedding, held indoors, when Partlow struck. The sun had set behind the trees, making it hard for those inside to see Partlow crouched low with the forest around him. But Partlow could see just fine. The Harvest Moon was already lighting the night sky. Partlow grabbed a couple of the lanterns that were situated around the house in anticipation of the reception outside. After pouring oil from the lanterns on the ground around the home, Partlow pushed the remaining lanterns onto the waiting dry grass.

They said at least fifty people died in the fire that day. Practically the whole forest went up in flames and it took the Fire Department two days to put the fire out. No one survived.

And no one ever saw Partlow again. Some say he died in the fire; and that seems most likely. Others say he suffered a fate much worse.

Partlow’s soul, blackened with the evil he’d done, was forced to live in the forest he’d destroyed. He was no longer the striking physical specimen he once was. He was a repellant, misshapen monstrosity forced to inhabit the forest, haunted by the ghosts of those he’d killed.

It’s said that Partlow, or whatever he became, takes physical form only on the Harvest Moon. From sunset to midnight, Partlow feeds. Feeding the blackness.

As always, telling stories made the time fly. I looked at my watch. It was almost six. Just about time for sunset.

Sarah was a little late but that wasn’t unusual. On our first date, I almost gave up and left the restaurant, when in she walked, frazzled and out of breath, but still looking beautiful. I must have smiled at the memory because Hollingsworth snorted in his gravely, half-drunk voice, “Why you so damned happy, boy? Win the lottery or somethin’?”

I shook myself out of the daydreaming and shot Hollingsworth a ‘shut your trap’ look. I smiled and said, “Just waiting for my lady friend.”

“Where the hell is she, boy?” Hollingsworth snorted again. “Stand you up?”

“She’ll be here,” I said, nodding my head convincingly. She was a little late but I wasn’t worried. Besides, I could just call her cell phone.

I don’t know if you call it ESP or what, but my phone started ringing. I must have jumped half off the barstool. Hollingsworth started laughing. All I know is that it scared me. I can’t explain it. After all, I was expecting her to call. But I knew it was her and I felt it was bad. I kept telling myself, ‘Don’t be stupid. You’ve been talking about Harvest Moon and you’ve just spooked yourself good.’

“Hello,” I answered in a whisper.

“J.B.?” It was Sarah. “It that you?”

I swallowed hard. “Yeah. It’s me, Sarah.”

“You sound kind of funny.”

“Just a little worried about you, that’s all.”

“Well, you must be psychic,” she said laughing. “Lucky, I’m dating an ambu -, uh, EMT.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, I think my car blew a rod or something. The engine’s smoking.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head, though I knew she couldn’t see me.

“I called information to get a tow truck,” she continued, “but they’re all busy. Isn’t that weird?”

“Where are you?” I didn’t even want to hear the next part, already knowing the answer.

“Some back county road,” she said. “127 I think. I might have missed my turn.”

“Did you pass over a creek yet?” I asked, hoping she’d say no.

“Yes.”

“Was there a big oak tree, half burned black?”

“Yes,” she said. “It was odd looking.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. I sucked in a deep, long breath. I had to think. Okay. It’s not quite six o’clock. I’m less than five minutes from where she was – less than two miles from the old tree house.

“I want you to stay in the car,” I said, getting off the bar stool and heading for the door. “Lock the doors. Do you have a gun?”

“J.B., you’re scaring me.”

“I’ll explain later,” I said, my voice rising. “Just do it, please!”

“Well, alright,” she said, “but J.B., I --,”

The phone went dead. Normally I would have chalked it up to shitty coverage. But as you can imagine, I was pretty worked up when it happened.

I sprinted to my truck, thanking God I was too lazy to lock the damn thing. I moved a can of WD-40 on the seat. I didn’t fumble my keys too badly and soon I was on my way on 98, heading to County Road 127. It was getting dark, but I refused to turn the lights on.

I got to the turnoff for 127 without much trouble and took the turn almost at full speed, the tires screeching as the truck fishtailed. I still had almost a mile to go before I passed the half-burned oak tree where Sarah would be.

I cursed as I finally turned on the headlights. I had the truck almost to sixty and it was still climbing.

Perhaps five seconds later, something in the side-view mirror caught my eye. It was hard to tell, with no streetlights on a small country road. But something was moving up behind me, and moving fast.

Before I realized what happened, it was running beside me. What I saw scared the hell out of me. It was almost as black as the night itself. Its hair, covering its entire body, was long and sleek, flowing a foot behind. Its head was the shape of a wolf’s head with a very short snout. Its lips were pulled back from the force of running, showing teeth like a lion’s. Its body was half human, half animal, built for power and speed. Some might say I was describing a werewolf. But it didn’t look like any werewolf I’d ever seen; whether in the movies or that day back at the tree house. This was more than just wolf and man. It was part demon.

And when it turned its head at me and smiled, it was all demon.

In the brief moment when the demon and I were looking eye to eye, I took in a million things about the creature. The left side of its face was partially caved in and it had no left eye, only a sunken black cavity. In its left ear was a small golden loop.

For an instant, I saw recognition in the beast’s face and a momentary loss of the evil spewing from its being. It knew I knew it was Partlow. Or whatever was left of Partlow.

The demon’s face re-ignited with fury and it swung its huge paw at me. I swerved sharply to the right, almost too late in slamming on the brakes. My truck lifted up on two wheels and I thought I was going to flip. I don’t know if God was with me (I know the devil was), but somehow I managed to right the truck. I gunned the gas pedal.

Before I had time to figure out where I was, it was beside me again. Its paw shot at me. Fast. So fast, I could only partially get out of the way. It hit me so hard I lost my grip of the steering wheel and found my head lying on the front seat of the truck, banging into the can of WD-40. It felt like someone had slapped me on the side of my head with a shovel. Black crept into my vision and a strong ring sang in my ears.

I tried to sit up. I could feel the truck running off the side of the road. At any moment, I expected to crash head-on into a tree. Instead, the truck skidded, gradually turning sideways. It did smash into a tree, but most of the force was gone.

I lay there, shaking like a baby pulled out of a cold bath. I might have stayed there too, my knees curled to my chest, my arms wrapped tightly around my legs, if the beast hadn’t punched a hole through the roof.

I screamed and kicked wildly, trying to fight it off as it reached for me. A searing burn ripped across my leg. I wasn’t going to last much longer like this.

I tried to back up against the far door, my hand landing on something as I pushed up. It was the can of WD-40 again. I grabbed the can, screaming at it. The can seemed intent on doing everything it could to get in my way.

I was about to throw the can at the monster, now standing on the hood of my truck, howling at the top of its lungs and reaching for me, when desperation hit me. I reached into my jeans pocket, at the same time trying to dodge a gut-piercing shot from the creature’s right claw, and pulled out my cigarette lighter.

I sprayed the can of WD-40 at the demon’s face and flicked the cigarette lighter into the spray. The force of the blast damn near burned my hand off, but I sure as hell wasn’t letting go. The fierceness of the fire, and the heat spewing from it, forced me to turn my head, tucking it into the seat of the truck. I had no way of knowing if the flame was having any effect.

I heard an awful, piercing howl. Like the sound of a dog, already sick with mange, being caught in a bear trap, screaming for its life.

A moment later, I felt the truck shake, first down and then up. I knew the demon had jumped off the hood. I only hoped it wasn’t trying to come after me another way.

Reluctantly, and only because all the hair on my hand burned off, I stopped spraying the WD-40 and let go of the lighter. I didn’t want to, I really didn’t want to, but I slowly raised my head to see above the dash.

All was quiet and I felt a moment of relief. I breathed a sigh and then sucked in a serious amount of air. It looked like I’d actually fought the thing off.

Then I heard Sarah scream.

I sat up quickly and turned the ignition. A grating sound of gears sent a chill down my neck, but the truck was still running. It took me a few seconds to get the truck away from the tree it had bent itself around.

Looking through the gaping hole in the top of my truck, I could see the Harvest Moon, now arisen in its full glory. All kinds of horrible images kept running through my mind, about what the creature was doing to Sarah.

Perhaps fifteen seconds later I saw Sarah’s car. A new model luxury car. At least it used to be. Standing on top of the car was the beast. Proceeding to do to the roof of Sarah’s car what it had done to my truck. I punched the horn and flicked my brights on and off, trying to get the demon’s attention.

That I did.

It jumped off Sarah’s car and ran straight at me. I licked my lips and wondered what the hell I was doing.

As it neared me, I could see the damage the WD-40 flame had done. Some of the hair on its face was burned off and it was bleeding too. But other than a small limp, it didn’t seem much different than before. Except a lot more pissed.

The demon looked ready to jump so I gunned the truck to catch it off balance. As I neared, it leaped and I involuntarily ducked my head.

The top of the truck caught the beast from the knees down, spinning the truck through a series of three-sixties. By the time I stopped, upright but sideways in the road, I was dizzy and trying not to throw up. I didn’t see what happened to the beast.

I held my head in my hands and moaned from the motion sickness. My door flew open and I screamed, trying to jump for the passenger-side door.

“J.B.! It’s me, Sarah.”

I looked at Sarah, grabbing my chest to control my heart. “Sarah.”

Brief but intense, we embraced.

I pushed her back. She looked scared for sure, but otherwise in pretty good shape.

“Where’d it go?” I asked, looking around.

“Into the woods,” she said, pointing.

I knew the area well. The direction of my old tree house.

“Okay,” I said, getting out of the truck and pushing Sarah politely, but firmly, out of my way. “I’m going after it.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Maybe,” I said. I dug through the junk in the back of my truck. “I think I hurt it. Bad.”

“Great!” Sarah said, grabbing my arm. “So let’s get the hell out of here while we can.”

I stopped and looked at her. I wasn’t sure why I was going after it, but I was. Maybe it was the years of looking at the dead bodies every Harvest Moon. Maybe it was because this creature finally went after someone I personally cared for. Or maybe, deep down inside, the creature and I weren’t that much different. I had hurt it and smelled blood. Now I was going to kill it. Maybe all the above.

I found what I was looking for – a spare can of 10W-40 Havoline motor oil and a tire iron. I tore off what was left of my shirt and wrapped it around one end of the tire iron. I took the can of WD-40 I’d used earlier and doused the shirt. I didn’t have a pocketknife or a can opener, so I used the sharp end of the tire iron to open the can of Havoline, managing to spill only about a third. It would have to do.

I tried to give Sarah a hero’s kiss good-bye, since it happened that way in the movies, but she pulled away.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” she said. “And then that damned thing is going to come back for me.”

I had to admit she had a point. But it was too late. Something inside me had crossed a threshold.

“The keys are in the truck,” I said. “You can take it back.”

Without looking at Sarah, I headed into the woods, limping from the gashes in my leg.

I didn’t need a flashlight. The Harvest Moon lit my path. I headed for the old tree house. I’m not sure why. Something, instinct or intuition, told me Partlow was going there. I didn’t bother to look from side to side, which seems stupid now. The beast could have jumped from behind any of the oaks I passed. Then again, it could have stood in the path and I’m not sure I would have had the time to use anything I’d brought with me.

I came into the clearing. Just beyond the ancient oak cradling my old tree house. It seemed to get darker. I looked up in the sky, but the trees around shielded the Harvest Moon. Suddenly, my crazy thoughts of killing the beast seemed just that. Crazy. I thought of turning around, getting out of there. I took a couple of steps back.

“Do it.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. I spun around quickly.

It was Sarah.

“Kill it.”

I nodded.

I took a deep breath and covered the few paces to the foot of the tree house. I noticed with little amusement the decaying one-by-fours hammered to the side of the tree. I noticed the splotches of blood too.

With the tire iron under my left arm and the can of oil and cigarette lighter in my left hand, I started up the boards. It was slow going with one free hand and a hurt leg, but I covered the half-dozen boards fast enough. As I reached the top board, I stopped.

I could hear breathing, heavy labored breathing, inside the tree house. I closed my eyes and shook my head. I got dizzy and thought I was going to pass out. This was, without a doubt, the stupidest thing I’d ever done. Even more so than telling Johnny Darsey to fuck off.

I had to lay the tire iron and can of oil on the floor of the tree house. I had no doubt the beast could easily reach out and snatch them if it wished. But the creature hadn’t come forward yet.

I pulled myself up into the tree house. Let me explain, the tree house is no more than six feet by six feet, and no taller than five feet. I squatted at the entrance. I could see a huge black blob in the far corner. It was no more than two or three feet from me. I could not only hear its breathing, I could feel it. It was hot fetid breath. It stank of oldness and death.

I stood up as much as I could, the tire iron in my right hand, the cigarette lighter in my left. I lit the soaked shirt and had to stand back as the flames shot up and out.

The creature howled and started to shuffle. I tensed, waiting for it to spring at me.

As the flames calmed, I could see the beast had shoved itself further in the corner. The burned half of its face was blistering and its only eye winced from the bright flame. Its arms were down around its legs, its paws caressing the gaping cuts.

For the second time, the beast and I stared at each other. Gone was the fury and evil I’d seen there. Its eye, now surrounded by charred flesh, showed pain. Resignation. Relief.

I snapped myself from its gaze, hurriedly spattering the remains of the Havoline over as much of the tree house as I could. My hand was shaking. I probably got more of it on me than on the wood.

When the can was empty, I took one final look at the beast. I wavered. The rage and anger I’d fostered left me. All I saw was a helpless wounded animal, cowering in fear from what it perceived as its eminent death. There was acceptance in its eyes, too.

Looking back on what happened next, I can only conclude the beast, or whatever was left of Partlow, sensed I was changing my mind. The beast swelled to its full capacity, crouching angrily inside the tree house. I saw it ready to pounce and I found my nerve.

At the same time I threw the torch, I jumped out the doorway. The explosion hit me full in the back and knocked me straight down. I flailed my arms trying to break my fall.

I landed in the creek. It was a hard landing and I think I sprained my ankle. But I smiled as I flopped over on my back, letting water rush over me, cooling my aching body.

As I lay there, looking up at the tree house, completely consumed in flames, I heard the beast, howling again in that horrible wail, resonating against the surrounding oak trees. My smile faded.

I heard soft footsteps in the water. I turned slightly and welcomed the sight of Sarah, cradling her arms around her waist, tears of relief on her cheeks.

That was last night.

Tonight, I’m back in Jessie’s, after spending the rest of last night in the hospital. The doctors wanted to keep me longer but I figured if what I’d just been through couldn’t kill me, I could live through whatever Jessie might be able to do.

Sarah headed back to north Alabama. Can’t say I blame her. I suspect I won’t be seeing much of her anymore.

Having told this story to those who are around me, the faces of the people are frozen in attention. With nothing left to say, the crowd breaks up. I imagine the debate is already on. Is he telling the truth or just pulling a good one on everybody?

I turn back to the bar to finish my beer before heading home. I feel a tap on my arm. It’s a young boy, can’t be more than twelve. He is in his baseball uniform and I guess he’s eating supper with his family after the game.

“Mister,” he says politely. “My friends and I were wondering if you could tell us the story again?”