Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre(42)

Then I saw something moving. Just a shadow, I think, on the other side of their house. Rustling bushes along the edge of the tree line. It was gone when I looked up. Probably a raccoon. That was my conscious thought. Raccoons are smart, right? And I’ve seen them go through trash cans in the heart of Venice Beach. Still, I checked to make sure the balcony was locked, then crept silently downstairs to see about the other doors.

I checked the front first, wondered if I should set the alarm, then realized that I had no idea how. That was when our back porch light went on. I started switching on the inside lights. Actually, I hit the downstairs master switch and squinted hard in the glare.

That must have scared it, the whole bottom floor going from night to day. It was turning to run just as I entered the kitchen. It must have been standing right on the back step.

It was so tall, the top of its head disappeared above the doorway. And broad. I can still picture those massive shoulders, those thick, long arms. Narrow waist, like an upside-down triangle. And no neck, or maybe the neck was bent as it ran away. Same with the head. Slightly conical, and big as a watermelon. I’m also not sure if its hair was black or dark brown. And the long, wide, silvery stripe running down its back. That might have been reflected light.

I wasn’t scared. More startled. Like when a car swerves too close. That moment of focus, where you’re outside of your body. That was me, watching the thing run through the bushes bordering our yard. I inched up to the door and pressed my face against the glass. That’s when I saw, and I’m sure about this, two pinpricks of light through the brush.

It wasn’t a reflection from inside. I had my hands cupped around my eyes. And they weren’t anything mundane like glistening leaves. I saw those too. These were different, set slightly behind the foliage, at what had to be, maybe, seven or eight feet off the ground. I’m not exaggerating the height. I know all those plants, and where I come up to them.

I stared at the lights for a second or two. They stared back. They blinked. Twice! And then they were gone, darting sideways into darkness as a branch snapped in front. I must have kept leaning against the door for half a minute, fogging up the glass with increasingly deeper breaths.

Then the hand grabbed my shoulder.

Okay, a little melodrama in writing this, and now, I see the humor in what happened next. But, holy crap, when I felt that grip.

Who knew that Dan has such quick reflexes? If he hadn’t caught my wrist mid-swing, I might have totally nailed him in the nose.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dan backed up, dropping my arm, holding up his hands. “What the f—”

I cut his babbling off with my own, trying, failing, to cohesively relate everything I’d seen.

He was looking past me, his repeated “What is it?” answered by my repeated “I don’t know.” We looked from the brush to the ground, to this line of big footprints that led right back to our doorstep.

As he slid the door open, this wave of cold, stinking air whooshed in. It was “that” stench, so powerful I almost gagged. Dan grabbed the coconut stabber off the kitchen counter and took a step out onto the porch. I reached for the knife rack, then realized, like an idiot, that Mostar’s javelin was resting against the wall in front of me. I probably should have left it there. I nearly stabbed myself in the face as the long wobbly pole caught on the doorway. But I felt like I needed something for protection, especially after what we saw.

Footprints were everywhere. Clear. Sharp. You could see the individual toes, and how they made trails leading from the Perkins-Forster bin, to ours (which was still intact), to the trees, which we were not going to investigate!

The smell kept us on the porch, assaulting our noses, nudging us back inside. As Dan twisted the lock, I brought up the burglar alarm. Dan wasn’t sure how it worked either. At first, we kept getting these error messages. He finally figured it had something to do with the cracked windows, the ones damaged in the eruption. He’s learning how to bypass it now, sitting with his iPad at the kitchen table while I’m waiting for the coffee to brew. It’s our new “recycled blend,” all the week’s grounds pressed together. Mostar’s idea. “Gotta make it last.” I’m not questioning that anymore. “Watery coffee today’s better than none tomorrow.”

We should probably just save it. We’re jumpy enough as it is. We haven’t heard or seen anything for about an hour. Dan thinks we should also set the internal alarms. They’re just motion sensors, the same ones the houses use for light and heat. I’m against it. What if I set them off accidentally when I get up to use the hall bathroom? Dan thinks I’m crazy for not sharing the master bath. “So what if you wake me?” He’s said that twice. I guess we have bigger problems now.

But do we?

A couple times we considered going over to Mostar’s house, but, in addition to not wanting to wake her, we don’t want to go back outside.

Too paranoid? “Siri, should we be worried?”

At least we’re talking about it openly. And that feels good. Dan doesn’t doubt what I saw. He just feels bad he doesn’t know more about it. Yeah, he’s a total nerd, but a sci-fi nerd, not horror or fantasy, as he’s been explaining to me tonight. So many subgenres. All Dungeons & Dragons to me. I will say that I can’t believe we’ve never talked about this before. All these years. This is what it takes? Back and forth, genuine communication. Even if it is just speculating on what’s out there.