 Down in the holler. That's a hollow for those of you who don't know. There are traditions beyond the state that people don't talk about. Needless to say, there's old bodies beneath a few sycamores I know. We've heard all the jokes before. Talk of webbed feet and dating your cousin. Hardy hard. But us yee-haw simple folk have a strange connection to the earth. Above the double doors of the cow barn hung the remains of an old creature with twisty bones and a long snout. Everyone supposed it was a buck at some point. But things were never that simple. Sometimes me and my cousins would look up at the thing up there, nailed into the thin wooden boards of the barn and make up wild tales about a ravenous creature. Dad fed the rumors that it was one of those monsters from urban legend. He'd tell us kids around the fire at night that the thing hanging up there was a creature fowler than anything we could imagine. Of course, it was a child eater, because that's the monsters you would make up to make kids more agreeable. Dad would tell the old man that he was scaring the kids and that maybe he should lay off the mason jar whiskey. Normally granddad would retort with a hand wave and continue his wild tales of the thing stalking children through the rocky slopes of the holler. Lit by the flames of the fire, our small faces would be consumed in a red glow while we looked on in wonderment at the creeping wavering shadows just beyond our circle. It felt like those moments when granddad would go on about the creature, we'd lean in real close and crowd to the edges of the fire for warmth. How'd it end up up there? asked cousin Joe while pointing to the dead thing across the yard. Granddad loved it when people would ask him about that, because then he could put up his hands like he was holding an invisible rifle and say, I shot it. His eyes glassy caught the deep embers of the fire. When he'd follow this up with bang, a few of the younger more timid children would jump in response. The way he'd tell it, I swear, you could nearly see the creature come alive. When I was really little, sometimes I'd have nightmares of the thing peering in through my bedroom window while I slept. Perhaps it would reach in with one of its misshapen hands and snatch me from my bed by an uncovered ankle, and I'd claw and scream and kick. But in the end, there would be no fighting the snarling beast as it pried my bleeding fingernails from the window cell. I'd go into that black night, and no one would ever know I was gone till the next morning. Maybe dad was right. Maybe we shouldn't have heard stuff like that when we were growing up. Living in the holler was like nothing else that I'd seen. It's one of the reclusive pockets of Americana that only existed in some previous era that never really was. We had a big family that filled the small valley along the creek in five or six houses. The way it was is that we would all come together to hold the land running the length of the creek and plant what granddad called a garden. It never really felt like a garden though because of its sheer size. There were the rows of corn stalks high over my head and the beans we'd snap and clean and nibble raw as we did. Tending the garden was a job expected of the kids and so it went that we'd come home tired from learning and go immediately to weeding or harvesting the plants till our blue bibs legs were caked in red mud clay from crawling in the dirt lining the creek instead of tending to our chores like we ought to. But the pantry was always stocked and we never went hungry. Time passed and the legend of the creature dangling over the cow barn drifted into absurdity like all childhood fears. Probably it was just the remains of a buck like everyone said and granddad just liked telling stories. It most likely was as simple as that. Still I didn't like looking at the thing as I grew older perhaps 15 or so I asked dad if we could remove the bones of the creature one day while we tended to the cows. He told me no I don't think Paul would like that. It might just be some made up fairy tale that you and me but to him. Well, he really thinks he killed that thing. You don't think he did? He shrugged. That thing's been up there since I was younger than you. We can take it down once the old farts gone. Why do you care anyway? It creeps me out. Welcome to the club buster. It was strange how we accepted its existence so easily when we should have probably been asking why its body looked so human at night or why the eye holes of its skull went on forever into a black abyss or why it felt like it was biting its time that surely must have been my own imagination. Dad always said I read too many crazy books. Then I caught granddad in the barn. That was a strange day. The air was thick and different like the weather knew it was important. He'd taken the creature from its place over the doors and I found him standing with the skull in his hands. Oh, he raised his bushy gray eyebrows. Didn't see you there. It was an alien experience seeing the skull of the thing in his hands. It seems so small and inconsequential like it never mattered at all. I'd never seen it so up close. And as I approached I reached out an index finger to one of the antlers sprouting from its head. Granddad jerked away. Whoa, there. Don't touch it. Why not? I asked. I know you've gotten to the age now. Were you thinking old man's ramblins or just stories? He held the skull up to my face. Those black eyes. But this thing carries with it. A magic. Something from the old world. I blinked so as to hide my eye roll. Still added with the stories. Still trying to frighten me. Why'd you take it down? I think it's time we buried it. He said plainly. Too many years. It's hung over this place. His eyes trace the sun bars coming in through the walls of the barn. I wanted to keep an eye on it all this time. But sometimes I wonder if it wasn't doing the same damn thing. He shook his head. I'm not a smart man. But I know when the end of something's coming. His eyes met mine and stayed that way. You think I'm crazy, don't you? No. I did. But there was no way I was going to tell him that. Thank you for humor in me. He was shaking but smiling too. At his feet was a large burlap sack. As he lifted the mouth of the sack, I could hear the faint rattle of the thing's other bones as he deposited the skull within. I need you to do something for me. You have to bury this thing out at the edge of the woods. The earths rooted there by trees. And I can only hope that will make sure it stays in the ground. Don't tell anyone where you've put it. You understand? For a moment, I wondered why he didn't do the deed himself if it was so important. But looking over his scrawny arms, milky eyes arched back. I knew he was asking not because he wanted to, but because he had to. I nodded without fully comprehending the levity of the situation. One of his thin, leathery hands must my hair. Ah, you're a good kid. He tied the sack closed with twine, checking and double checking the knot before he handed it over. His hands shook and granddad withdrew a bottle of clear liquid. It smelled like kerosene as the lid popped off and he took a brief swig before gritting his teeth. Then his hands were steady. I left with a spade as the rattle of the bones banging against the side of my leg grated my nerves. I stomped towards the tree line over the crest of a big hill. It never looked so heavy when it was hanging up there on the high barn wall. As I came to the shade of the trees and scanned my surroundings, I could hear splashing and laughing from the creek. The house I grew up in, a two story farmhouse with a wraparound porch looked like a graham cracker box from so far away. Just beyond that, the rows of corn stood out among the crops with their deep green stalks. Turning my attention to the bag of bones, I undid the knot granddad made and spilled the bones out of the ground. I crouched down, lifting the dense objects carefully. They didn't even look real. It was like they'd been carved from hardwood with expert hands and even the cracks along the beakish snout looked put there by a person unknown. But those vacant eye holes couldn't have been anything a human would dream up, not in a million years. A chill blew through me and I felt like I was being watched by some interloper among the trees. No, I looked at those hollow ocular canyons that stretched to infinity and back. I held the skull up to the light, hoping that maybe the sun would shed some light on the supposedly hollow cranium. Then I felt pain and dropped it. It thudded to the ground and I grabbed my thumb. One of its cragged teeth had gotten me somehow. I put my thumb to my mouth to suck the blood off as I rolled the skull over to look at its mouth. Running along its front row of teeth was a smear of the sticky red. You little shit, I said to the inanimate object. Then I pulled my thumb from my mouth and examined the wound closely, giving it my full attention. It was a bite mark, clear as day. I glanced to the spot where the bones were and froze as stiff as a pole. They were gone. I spun in all directions, heart pounding in my ears like a drum. I staggered, lightheaded. I could almost make out the slender form of a human body slink into the trees. After a blink, it was gone. I was wrong, of course, that wasn't possible. My eyes went back over the ground, searching for the bones that had only moments before been gathered in a haphazard pile. Lifting the burlap sack with both hands, I moved to the dark shadows of the trees, if before it had felt like someone was watching me. It then felt as though I was being hunted. Stalked. I twisted the sack into a ball and chucked it towards the trees before lifting the spade. Moving back to the house was slow going backwards. Somehow, I felt that if I turned and ran, it would be on me in moments, clawing me away like I'd thought it might so long ago when I was a child. It was getting dark, too dark, too fast. It was only midday and a thick cloud passed in front of the sun, making the chill I felt ever more so. Then, I felt small and scared. I gripped the spade handle across my chest, eyes darting back and forth over the length of forest. Once I'd come down the slope and stepped carefully over the rocky terrain dividing me from relative safety, I went to the house and passed the barn. Standing in the great structure's massive doorway was Granddad. Half the jar in his clenched hand was gone, and he gave me a toothy grin with a raised eyebrow. I nodded as to not let him in on the fact that I had unleashed one of those evils from the old world. The crickets that normally brought the sounds of the echoing holler to life at night removed themselves from a closing performance. The cool air swept through the valley, and I felt something was different. Dad, lounging on the porch while smoking a pipe, called me over, and we sat there together with him in a rocking chair and me on the top step, looking out on the creek bed in rows of corn and damp trees that hung limbs over long-like fingers towards the stream. Seems it's going to rain. Why is it so cold, you think? Ask Dad. I don't know. A plume of smoke escaped the corner of his mouth as he puffed the pipe red. Silence hung for a moment. I saw Pa take that old thing down. I nodded and said nothing. You have anything to do with that? I helped. Well, good. I'm glad he finally decided to get rid of that eyesore. My voice cracked. What was that thing, anyway? Dad shrugged. Like everyone knows, it's a buck. The world was so cold, and I felt so alone, and it was the damp weather that beckoned the rain of that creature. I'd so long convinced myself of being a regular animal. But regular animals don't walk upright. Regular animals don't speak with the devil. The evening passed on to full black night. Shadows consumed the holler, and we gathered around the dining room table for supper. Mom and Dad chatted idly about the mundane while Granddad snored in his chair. I could hear him sleeping in the living room by the warmth of the wood stove. All I could think of was the lurking monstrosity. The rain came, rattling the tin roof in a matter that should have been calming. But I could only feel the paranoia creep in. Beyond that damn tin roof, I could make out no sounds. With the fire going, the rain, the full belly of greens, corn, and beef, I should have felt cozy. But a kind of sickness ensnared me. I closed myself in my bedroom on the second floor, attempting to bury my head in a book. But the pounding of the rain became unsettling, to the point that all I could do was watch out the window to the dark shadows in the yard. I was totally blind. Helpless. The thing, matted fur, hot breath visible even in the rain, came from the shadows and stood in the yellow square my window cast upon the ground. The shapeless spaces in its head turned up. It looked up at me, directly at me. My hand clasped over my mouth with cries coming out as moans, lingering there. With its starved skin clinging to its ribs, it arched its head into the air like it was sniffing. For a millisecond, I wondered if it could smell me. Then it dove into the shadows and disappeared. No sound but the rain. I moved from the window and pushed myself against the edge of the bed to sit. Minutes or an hour passed as I watched the unmoving window, waiting for the thing to come in and take me away, waiting for the thing to tear me to ribbons and eat me. Because that's what things like that do. They always eat you. The thuds of boots downstairs snapped me out of my thoughts, and I moved to the door and scampered across the second floor landing towards the stairs. Descending them in slips more than steps, I met the men standing in the doorway. They were wrapped in thick coats, lanterns held high, flashlights aiming around in the darkness of the yard. They were the men from the other houses in the holler, extended family. Granddad jumped from his nap, angling like his legs were stilts. Then my parents entered from the kitchen, mom wiping her hands on a dish towel and dad puffing his pipe. What's the matter? snorted Granddad, blinking his eyes awake and rubbing his cheeks. The man standing just inside the door spoke. Joe's gone. He wasn't in his room. Granddad's eyes shot to me standing on the bottom step, and my whole body went cold. I tried blaming it on the wind coming in, but that wasn't true. Dad stepped forward. What do you mean? The man looked over his shoulder with a flinch, but it was just thunder. Then he continued. Someone broke into his room. His folks are a mess. They keep saying it was some kind of animal. But we caught sight of the bastard skirting along the edge of your land ain't never seen a damn animal run on two legs like that. His eyes were bloodshot, terror incarnate, rainwater coming off him and fat drops. Granddad bawled his fists. He was staring directly at me. As he crossed the space between us, his eyes went crazed and his bony hands grabbed my shoulders, thumbs driving into my collarbone. What have you done? He said. What the hell have you done? I told you to bury it. He said. Dad stepped forward, placing a hand on Granddad's arm. Pa, calm down now. He didn't know. He's still only a boy. Granddad sneered and let go before snatching the lantern from the man in the doorway. I thought I'd be long dead before it came back. The night drew on as mom and me gathered in the kitchen, moving furniture in front of the doors of the house. The men told us to keep quiet, not a peep. They marched in the heavy rain with rifles, shotguns, axes. I sat at the table with my face folded into my hands at the noises that broke the rain. Loud shouts echoed through the holler. As did the cries to human yelps of pain and death. When dad returned home near foggy morning, he came with a rattling burlap sack, but no granddad. Mom looked at him as if she was going to ask a question, but he just shook his head. And then we buried those bones out near the trees.