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True Fear

by Matt Matlovich, Port Lambton, Canada, Age 17

It’s like being trapped underwater and looking up at the sky. You feel as if you can make it out of the water, but your chest burns, yearning for fresh air, and you can hardly move. It’s like walking down a dark, deserted alleyway after watching the latest horror film. You constantly look over your shoulder, hearing noises that don’t exist. It’s called fear and it surrounds you.

That is how I was going to start my very first short story. I was going to call it True Fear. However, every time I sat down in front of my old typewriter, looking at the dust covered keys and the stack of paper at its side, my mind went blank. This always bugged me because a writer can write best about what he knows the most. And I know fear. I know that it brings weird sensations to the body and that it heightens your senses. I also know that it occurs when you feel threatened and the only way to overcome fear is by fighting it or escaping it.

I live in the middle of nowhere, just on the outskirts of Sturgeon Lake in Northern Ontario. It sure does get cold up here in the winter. For the most part of this time, I’m inside my small home all alone. I left my family when I was young, cocky, and arrogant, to head up North and start over.

Anyway, let’s get back to the real reason why I could never start my story. It was all because of a basic fear that has eaten away at me for a long time now. It was the only time that I’ve really experience True Fear.

Well, I guess I’m on a roll now. So sit back, relax, and I’ll tell you what caused me to be afraid to leave my home at night and made me paranoid, constantly looking over my shoulder. I hope you will like it.

It was late February or early March. I can’t remember which because I don’t have a calendar and I tend to run on my own schedule. It was cold here, so cold you nearly had to stand in a fire to get warm. My fingers and toes were constantly frozen, black and blue with frostbite. I needed layers of clothing just to keep myself from freezing. Sure enough, in the dead of night, my fire went out. I laid underneath my covers, looking at the darkened fireplace. I felt the cold creeping in, as if it was waiting for the guarding fire to go out, knowing that it would. I cursed at myself for not keeping a better eye on the fire. I went outside and was greeted by a wave of cold air. I began making my way to my woodpile. It was tucked nicely into a shed beside my house. Just to add to my luck, there was no wood in there. I had forgotten that I put the last couple of logs on the fire earlier in the afternoon. There went my mouth again, swearing at myself for my stupidity.

Now, you have to understand this. I am old and I am lazy. What do old and lazy people do? Well, they definitely do not get out the axe in the middle of the night and start chopping down the nearest tree. I had a friend (can you believe it, a friend!) a couple miles west of my house and I knew I could borrow a couple of logs to get my fire going again. He would have enough to keep me warm until the morning when I could make the dreaded trip into town.

So, I began my long walk to his house, bundled up in so many layers of clothes that I felt like a giant marshmallow. By the time the cold snow started soaking through my layers, I was wishing someone would shove me on a stick and hold me over an open flame. That would be quite toasty now, wouldn’t it? Well, that never happened. The walk was long and I was cold. By the time I made it to his house, my nose was red and snot was frozen in icicles from my nostrils. My eyelashes froze together and the muscles in my mouth refused to allow my lips to close. It was as if I were in a perm a-grin, my mouth hanging wide open.

I picked up four pieces of dry wood from his shed, staying nice and quiet so I wouldn’t wake him or the old hag he called his wife.

I set the flashlight that I was carrying on a table just outside the door and put it at such an angle that it illuminated the entire room. I stood within the light, away from the cold and wind, and wished I could fall asleep right there, standing up if need be. Of course, there was work to do. I quickly filled a plastic bag with the logs I grabbed; just enough to keep me warm for a few hours. As I stepped out of the shed and looked to the east, I noticed the early morning sun beginning to rise over the trees.

I grabbed the bag by the handles and started to leave the shed. But as I was about to step outside, my right foot sunk into the ground six inches, almost causing me to lose my balance. At first, I thought that it was just a patch of soft snow. Maybe I had stepped in that spot earlier and just stepped back into it. Once I regained my footing, I set the bag down and investigated the unusual dip. What I saw has haunted my dreams. My flashlight shone over a footprint alright, but it wasn’t mine and it definitely wasn’t my friend’s. It belonged to a Sasquatch. I thought everything about them was a myth, hoaxes fabricated by people with nothing better to do, but when I looked down and saw the footprint, I was a believer. It had to be at least two and a half feet long. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to wake my neighbour, but I also didn’t want to go home and later find out he was attacked and killed by an unknown, nine-foot tall murderer.

Suddenly, a wave of fear swept over me, sending gooseflesh crawling all over my body. My ears began to focus in on the smallest of sounds. I could hear a mouse as it scurried among the piles of wood and my friend’s dog snore as it slept in its heated doghouse.

I knew I had to do something. The last thing I wanted to do was stand inside that shed and freeze to death. Slowly I picked up my bag, my eyes searching the openness outside the shed, careful to spot any movement. My flashlight illuminated large chunks of the forest at a time, but not enough for me to feel completely comfortable. Regardless, I stepped outside. My legs were shaking. The wind greeted me with a huge gust, sending me into a fit of shivers. I took a step back into the shed. My hand gripped the flashlight tightly and I could tell I was shaking because the beam of light zigzagged across the forest before me, like an animal trying to break free from restraints.

I looked up at my friend’s house. Everything was quiet. Every light in his home was out and only thin wisps of smoke escaped the tall chimney at the side of his log cabin. I wished I could run in there and snuggle up against that fire. That would at least make me feel safe. Then the unthinkable happened! I heard rustling in the leaves to my left!

Now, I’ve lived up here for umpteen dozen years and I know what a good rustling sounds like. I’ve heard every kind, whether it be a snow rabbit or a bear. However, this was a new sound. It sounded much bigger, as if whatever made it had a spasm of some sort. My pupils widened and I pointed the beam of my flashlight at the wall of brush beside me, attempting to tame the light.

For the first few moments I couldn’t make anything out. My eyes just couldn’t adjust. The branches, although leafless, were thick and made it nearly impossible for me to see past them. However, I knew something was in there and, as if in response to my fear, the bush vibrated again.

I was about to soil my pants, but knew that would be no good, especially if it was just a small rabbit and my mind had just magnified the entire situation. I started to back off, my feet moving backward, feeling the ground as if they were a pair of antennae. At that moment I felt more secluded from the world than I have ever been, and I’ve been living up here for most of my life.

Of course, I could always scream, but then I would just endanger the life of my friend. That is something I didn’t want to do. Instead, I continued to back off. I passed the small shed, then the large tree beside it, on my way to the path back to my house.

Then I heard the grumble. It wasn’t loud. It sounded painful actually, but it was there. It echoed in the dark night, ringing in my ears like the shrill ring of a telephone. My heart skipped a beat and I struggled for air. My brain told my legs to move, to run from this place, but my legs refused. They were thousand-pound anchors, holding me firmly in place. Sweat began to trickle down my forehead even though it was freezing outside.

I wanted to shout and see who, or what, was hiding behind the bushes, but my lips refused to move and sound refused to come out of my gaping mouth.

Another growl, this one stronger, angrier. I realized that I had treaded onto guarded territory, a place that was protected by someone else. Now I was an intruder. I couldn’t move, so I began to pray. I prayed for God to spare my life, to forgive me for my sins, to protect me from the evil set before me.

The bushes moved again, this time opening up, revealing the beast behind. Now, I managed to scream, but it was worthless, so silent that the wind choked it away before anyone could hear it. Before me, standing at least nine feet tall was a Sasquatch. Its mouth hung open, revealing rows of sharp teeth. Snow covered its shoulders and the top of its head, but thick, bushy eyebrows protected its eyes. Its eyes were blood red and squinted at me with pure evil. Its arms were outstretched above its head, revealing claws longer than my forearm.

At that moment I knew I was dead, but somehow I managed to snap out of my trance. My legs were rejuvenated by an unseen force and my body became warm and functional. I screamed and, for a moment, the beast before me look surprised. Then I ran. I didn’t look back, but could hear the pounding footsteps of the beast behind me, running with strides twice as long as mine. Within a few minutes it would have caught me. However, it never did because I nearly killed myself.

A small river, which dumps into Sturgeon Lake, runs between my house and my friend’s home. The lake is usually frozen over, so solid that you can probably drive a truck over it. However, in my blind panic I failed to notice the gaping hole in the surface and the freezing water underneath.

I decided to look back and see how close my pursuer had come. In that split second, I noticed the Sasquatch was full of rage and anger. Then all emotion drained from its hulking body and it quit walking with its long strides. When I looked forward, it was too late. I slipped into the water.

It was cold, freezing cold. My heart nearly stopped when I plunged into it, as it surrounded my body and soaked my skin. My clothes, which helped me keep warm on my trip over to my friends, now seemed to hinder all chance of escape. They soaked up the water and retained it, making it feel as if a hundred pounds was added to my feeble frame. It felt as if I were in a straight jacket.

I was sinking and losing all hope of survival. My eyes squinted up through the water to the surface. I could see the early morning sun shimmer off the water. Then a miracle occurred. A rope fell into the water. With all my strength I swam upward, groping with my hands for the fibrous strands. When my hands clenched the rope, the person on the other end felt my weight, and I began to move upward. It was slow, almost too slow, and I didn’t know if I could hold on for the trip to the surface. Somehow I did and, before I could realize it, I was laying on the snow, sopping wet and struggling for air.

Bent over me, looking with eyes of worry and kindness was my friend. He heard my scream and ran outside after me, watching the whole incident. Man, was I glad he always carried his lucky rope with him, the rope that saved his life a few years ago.

Well, that’s my story, about a cold night, a Sasquatch and my best friend. Maybe I’ll have to write about that incident sometime, and maybe I’ll call it True Fear.