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“Goddamn it, Wendell! Must you always slurp your soup like that?” Beverly asked her bespectacled husband. Her words reverberated with vexation, and the grating quality of her voice was comparable to the noise produced by fingernails scraping against a chalkboard. “You have absolutely no idea how revolting the sounds that you make when you eat are to me. Or maybe you do it deliberately just to get under my skin. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry, dear,” Wendell replied. “I would never dream of getting under your skin. In fact, Beverly, I can assure you in all sincerity that under your skin is not a place that I would care to venture.” He returned to his soup slurping.
“You strive to make my life as miserable as possible,” Beverly declared as she checked with her fingertips to ensure that her pink hair curlers were still securely in place. “It’s like your mission in life,” she continued. And you know what, Wendell? You succeed in doing it on a daily basis!”
“I’m sorry, dear,” Wendell replied, meekly. He was a man of few words – especially when it came to his harpy of a wife. Over the years, he learned through experience that the less he said to her, the smaller were his chances of enkindling her easily aroused wrath. He removed his glasses that were fogged up by the steam of the hot soup and wiped the lenses clear with his paper dinner napkin.
“Oh don’t give me that crap,” snapped Beverly as she lit up a cigarette, her snarling lips staining half of the white filter tip with a tacky coating of lipstick in a shade of fire-alarm-red. “You and I both know that you aren’t sorry about a damn thing.”
Wendell put down his soupspoon and cleared his throat. “Well,” he began, rather cautiously and without taking his eyes off his bowl of soup, “that isn’t quite entirely true, dear. There are one or two things that I am sorry about.”
“Oh? And I suppose marrying me is one of them?” inquired Beverly, glaring at her husband from across the small kitchen table. Her gaze was like the stab of a sharp dagger, and if looks could kill, she would have acquired the status of widowhood decades ago. “Why don’t you just come right out and say it?”
Wendell wiped a dribble of soup from his bottom lip with his napkin, and then exhaled a tired-sounding sigh.
Beverly took a deep drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke out in one big puff in Wendell’s direction. She then smashed out the cigarette into the seashell-shaped ashtray on the table.
“Well, let me tell you something,” she began. “If anyone in this kitchen should be sorry about that, it’s me!” she shouted, and a tiny bit of spittle flew from her mouth and landed on the lenses of her husband’s glasses. Pushing her chair away from the table, she grumbled, “I wasted the best years of my life on you with high expectations that you were going to make it as a world-renowned anthropologist. But your ludicrous treatises on the mating habits of Bigfoot got you laughed right out of the University. And to think, I could have married an architect!”
She sashayed over to the window overlooking the seemingly endless forest. Rays of afternoon sunlight filtered through the pine needles and danced upon the leaves of the locust trees, which were hinting of golden yellow as a reminder that autumn was on the horizon.
All at once the chirping of the birds outside died away and an eerie hush fell over the woods. Beverly thought she saw a dark hulking figure run through the forest, weaving in and out of the trees. And then it vanished from sight. She dismissed it as some kind of wild animal, perhaps a large bear.
“Every other month you drag me up to this spider-infested cabin in the middle of the godforsaken wilderness,” Beverly complained, turning back to glare at her husband. “I’m almost positive that you do it just to drive me out of my mind with boredom. Well, here’s a news flash, Wendell. Sitting around in this dump a million miles from civilization with only you for company isn’t exactly my idea of a rip-roaring good time. Why can’t we ever go on a real vacation like the Sinclairs? This past summer they spent three whole weeks on the French Riviera. And the Goldfarbs, they just got back from an African safari!”
Beverly’s nostrils were suddenly assaulted by a strange and putrid stench that sent her stomach reeling with nausea.
“What on earth is that revolting smell?” she asked, waving her hand in front of her nose and contorting her face in disgust. “Oh my God! Is that coming from you, Wendell?”
“No, dear,” Wendell answered. His lips cracked a slight smile as though he were privy to a private joke.
“Ugh!” Beverly groaned while wrinkling up her nose. “Whatever that rancid smell is, it’s simply ghastly and it’s making my stomach turn. Oh, I need to open the window to let some fresh air in!”
She unlatched the lock that secured the window and threw open the sash. However, her expectation of a breath of fresh air was not fulfilled, as the foul stench grew even stronger now and appeared to be emanating from outside of the cabin.
“Oh my God!” Beverly vociferated. “It smells like something died out there! I don’t know why I always let you talk me into coming up here all the time. This place is appalling. Did you hear what I said, Wendell? It’s truly appalling!”
Just as she was about to pull down the sash, a monstrous hair-covered face with large glowing eyes of green appeared outside the open window and curiously peered in at her. In immediate response, Beverly’s eyes widened in terror and from her mouth blasted forth a loud, blood-curdling scream, which scared some of the birds out of the nearby trees, but unfazed her mild-mannered spouse.
“Wendell!” she cried out as she slowly backed away from the face at the window. “There’s some kind of huge hideous animal outside the window staring at me! Do something about it!”
The creature began to emit loud grunting sounds, which triggered another scream from the terrified woman. Beverly’s body shook with fear, causing one of her pink hair curlers to loosen and fly from her head.
“Wendell!” she cried. “Don’t just sit there! Go get the rifle! Quickly! This thing... whatever it is... is getting ready to attack! Wendell! Did you hear me?”
“There’s no need for you to panic, dear,” Wendell stated with the utmost calmness attached to his voice. He proceeded to light up his pipe like he did after every meal and took a few puffs on it. The tobacco smoke tantalized his taste buds with its sweetness. “That ‘thing’ as you call it is just a female Sasquatch. You see, Beverly, as I’ve told you before, they do exist. She won’t harm you. Unless, of course, you insist on making her feel threatened, which is a propensity that you’ve become quite masterful at over the years.”
“Well,” said Beverly in a huff, “if you aren’t going to be a man and do anything about it, then I’ll have to take care of things myself... just like in the bedroom!” She then rushed across the cabin and retrieved the loaded .22 caliber long rifle that was hanging on the wall over the mantel of the stone fireplace.
Wendell’s calmness instantly evaporated into thin air and he jumped up from his seat, clearly agitated. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” he asked in an uncharacteristically bold voice. “Put that gun down, Beverly! Put it down right this instant!”
“Like hell I will!” Beverly yelled, returning to the window with the firearm in her hands. She then cocked the gun and aimed it at the Sasquatch, which continued to peer in. The creature stared into her eyes with a look of contempt and let out a deep, guttural growl.
“I forbid you to shoot her!” yelled Wendell. His normally meek-sounding voice was now tinged with outrage and rang with an unusual assertion that took his wife aback. “She’s with child and due to give birth any day now!”
“Oh?” said Beverly, curiously. “And just how do you know so much about this... this... knocked-up monster and its baby?” She glared at her husband and waited impatiently for him to reply.
“Because I’m the father,” Wendell replied emphatically.
“You’re the what?” said Beverly in an exaggerated tone of disbelief. “This is no time to be cracking jokes, Wendell! You’ve never been any good at delivering a punch line. Have I ever told you that the only funny thing about your jokes is your inability to be funny?”
“It’s no joke,” said Wendell. “I’m afraid I’m quite serious. If you must know, I impregnated her last December. I’ve been closely monitoring the progress of her gestation, and when my documentation on the first successful interspecies mating between human and Sasquatch knocks the world on its ear, I’ll finally be awarded the recognition due to me from that pretentious university!”
Several moments of silence passed and then Beverly began to cackle with uncontrollable laughter befitting a wart-nosed witch stirring a cauldron bubbling with hell-broth.
“Are you seriously expecting me to believe that you screwed a Bigfoot?” she asked in between her cackles.
Wendell nodded his head.
Beverly’s laughter soon faded away as she came to realize that Wendell’s confession of infidelity had been spoken with sincerity. Rage began to build up inside of her and then erupted like a volcano spewing molten lava. Seething, betrayed, and humiliated, she turned the gun on her unfaithful husband and the color in his cheeks went pale.
“You bastard!” she screamed, and then she squeezed the trigger.
The handle of the rifle kicked back and knocked another one of Beverly’s pink curlers off her head as a loud shot rang out and a bullet exploded through Wendell’s abdomen, leaving a gaping hole. It struck the knotty pine wall behind him and became lodged in the wood. Clutching his blood-gushing bullet wound with his hands, he collapsed onto the floor. A puddle of blood began to quickly spread around his twitching body.
A glowing feeling of satisfaction instantly washed away Beverly’s pent-up rage as she observed the aftermath of the gunshot. And then the sobering realization of the seriousness of the situation began to sink in, filling her with alarm.
“Oh Jesus! Now look what you made me do,” she complained. “I hope you know this is all your fault. You’re nothing but a pig, Wendell.”
The green-eyed creature suddenly let out an ear-piercing wailing noise that made Beverly’s blood run cold as ice. With her rage renewed, she aimed the gun at the Sasquatch and fired, but the bullet missed its mark and hit the frame of the window instead. The creature took off running and despite its advanced state of pregnancy, it moved with great agility and speed. Beverly rushed back to the window, took aim and fired the gun once more, but again she missed.
“Damn it!” she growled as she watched the fleeing creature disappear into the shadows of the forest. Blowing her chance to kill the child-carrying cryptid that her unfaithful husband had bedded, enraged her for a few brief moments, and then her thoughts turned back to the matter at hand.
Beverly plopped back down in her chair in the kitchen and reached for her pack of cigarettes that sat on the table. Annoyed to discover there was only one cigarette remaining in the pack, she cursed her bad luck underneath her breath, lit up her last smoke, and then pondered what to do about her husband’s dead body.
She suddenly remembered the shovel and pickaxe that were out in the shed behind the cabin. She decided she would go out into the woods and dig a grave as deep as she could. Once Wendell was buried, she would then burn the cabin to the ground and drive home. She would also fabricate a story that Wendell packed his bags and left her. It was a tale she felt sure nobody would have any trouble believing, as the couple’s contempt for each other was well known within their small circle of friends.
Beverly located a spot in a small clearing off the path near a babbling brook that she felt would make an ideal gravesite. With the loaded rifle and a kerosene lantern by her side, she began the laborious task of digging. From a branch high up in a pine tree, a curious blue jay observed.
“God damn you, Wendell,” she cursed through her clenched teeth in an irritated-sounding voice as she paused to catch her breath and to blot the beads of perspiration from her face with a handkerchief. “You always create work for me.”
Beverly toiled away into the night and sighed with relief when she finally had the hole completely dug. She then made her way back to the cabin by the light of the kerosene lantern and was looking forward to a well-earned rest and a glass or two of blackberry brandy before dragging her husband’s corpse through the woods, rolling it into the waiting grave, and filling it back in with dirt. As she neared the door, she heard several loud knocking noises coming from somewhere in the forest, which sounded like a rock being struck against a tree.
She hurried to get back inside the cabin, quickly shutting and locking the door behind her. She placed the rifle and kerosene lantern upon the table and set off to retrieve a bottle of brandy from the kitchen cupboard. A loud gasp escaped from between her lips when she discovered that Wendell’s body was no longer on the floor where she had left him earlier. From the large pool of dried blood that marked the spot where his body had landed after sustaining his gunshot wound, a long trail of smeared blood led across the floorboards to the bedroom door. Beverly was aghast.
“Wouldn’t that just be typical of Wendell,” she mumbled to herself, “to be alive after I just spent over eight grueling hours digging a grave for that man?”
She followed the trail up to the bedroom door and called out, “Wendell? Are you in there? Are you still alive?”
No sound came from the other side of the door.
Beverly placed her hand upon the knob and turned it as a flutter of anticipation spread from the pit of her stomach to the tips of her fingers. She opened the door very slowly; unsure of what would be waiting for her inside the room. All at once, an all-too-familiar putrid stench assailed her sense of smell, and she gasped with horror and cringed at the nightmarish sight that unfolded before her eyes.
She initially thought that her eyes were deceiving her, but as she realized that what they were showing her was indeed real, fear slashed through her body like a hot blade and she felt herself trembling like the ground when fault lines release their built-up tension. She felt a scream rising up in her throat, but no sound would issue forth from her mouth.
There upon the blood-soaked mattress of the bed lay Wendell’s body, unmoving and slightly bluish in color. His eyes and mouth were gaping just as they had been when Beverly left the cabin to dig his grave. At his side was the pregnant Sasquatch, and gathered around the bed as if in silent vigil stood half a dozen more of the gigantic humanoid creatures. Their massive bodies were covered by glossy black hair and their heights ranged from seven to eight feet tall. They all turned their grotesque faces in Beverly’s direction, bared their sharp yellowish teeth, and growled with such volume and ferocity that Beverly was sure she could feel the floor beneath her feet vibrating.
The scream that had been stuck in her throat now managed to find its way out of her mouth and she turned and ran towards the door leading outside. The growling Sasquatch creatures bolted after her, clawing at the air with their black and leathery paw-like hands.
Beverly’s adrenalin was pumping like an oil well in Texas as she frantically fumbled with the latch. She managed to unlock it and flung open the door, fleeing from the cabin into the pitch-blackness of the forest. Without the kerosene lantern, she had to rely solely on the pale rays of the waning moon that shone down through the dense canopy of the treetops to light her way. She could hear the frightful sounds of the creatures growing louder as they gained on her, and she ran as fast as she could. Her feet stumbled over jagged rocks and gnarled roots. Tree branches that impeded her path, invisible within the dark cloak of night, clawed her face and arms.
Panic-stricken and with her vision obscured by night blindness, Beverly had no idea where she was or in what direction she was heading. All she knew was she had to keep running to avoid being captured by the growling creatures pursuing her.
As she ran through the forest like a frightened deer, she began to wonder what horrible things the Sasquatch would do to her if they caught her. Would they tear her apart and devour her flesh until all that remained were her skull and bones? Or would they gang rape her and impregnate her with some sort of hellish half-human monster? Would that be their retribution for Wendell having impregnated one of their own?
Beverly’s pondering came to a quick end as the solid ground underneath her feet suddenly disappeared without warning. She felt herself plummeting, and within a matter of seconds she landed with a thud on the hard ground at the bottom of the deep hole she had dug for her husband’s body, and several more pink curlers flew out of her sweat-drenched hair. Upon impact there came a loud snapping noise from her left shin, followed by excruciating pain. With her fingers she could feel the broken end of her tibia bone protruding through the skin. Blood ran like a river from the wound, dampening the ground under her leg. Beverly battled with herself to keep from crying out from the agony. She clenched her teeth tightly and contorted the muscles in her face. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.
Realizing that it would be impossible for her to outrun the Sasquatch with her leg in the sorry state it was now in, she figured the only thing she could do at that point was stay hidden in the hole and try to keep as quiet as possible so they wouldn’t be able to locate her. She reassured herself that it would be sunrise in just a few hours and she would make an attempt then to pull herself out of the hole.
Just then, she heard the sound of twigs snapping nearby. It was soon followed by the dreaded putrid stench, which wafted ominously into the hole. Beverly held her breath and feared that the pounding of her heart would give her away. She then saw the faces of the Sasquatch peering down at her from the top of the hole. They grunted and wailed, and then, to Beverly’s astonishment, they were gone. She exhaled a sigh of relief.
However, minutes later they returned with armloads of large rocks, which they began dropping into the hole. One hit Beverly’s broken leg and she howled in pain. And then, using their large hands as shovels, the hairy creatures began filling in the hole with the mound of soil that Beverly had piled up next to it. The terrified woman screamed hysterically and struggled to climb out of the hole as it rapidly filled in with dirt and rocks.
A terrifying thought suddenly flashed through Beverly’s mind. Oh my God! These creatures are trying to bury me alive!
Before she knew it, the backfill had completely covered her, and she gasped desperately for air, but was only able to fill her lungs with particles of dirt. Exerting all the strength that remained within her, she fought to claw her way out of the earthen tomb that held her captive. However, the heaviness of the dirt and rocks rendered her incapable of moving her extremities.
The green-eyed monster and her clan listened as the woman’s scream, muffled by the earth, rose up faintly and then was no more. They grunted wildly and howled with satisfaction before disappearing into the darkness of the forest.
The dawn kissed the dew-drenched forest with its soft rays of golden light while spiders diligently spun their silken webs between the branches of shrubs. The waking birds sang their chirping songs and the meandering brook gurgled as water flowed over its slick and shiny stones. Chipmunks scurried across paths paved with last autumn’s fallen leaves. Purple morning glories bloomed, butterflies fluttered, and bees buzzed. And not far from the mound of a fresh grave in the middle of a small clearing, there came the sound of a baby’s first cry.