The Dark Land Read online

  THE DARK LAND

  An Alaskan Horror Novella

  by

  DM SHEPARD

  Copyright © 2020 by DM Shepard

  dmshepard.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Any characters, names, places, or likenesses are purely fictional. Resemblances to any of the items listed above are merely coincidental.

  ISBN

  Cover design by Avery Kingson: averykingston.com

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to:

  My husband Ray, for his continual support of my writing and other artistic endeavors.

  My older sister Desty, for the countless sleepless nights she endured of me sneaking horror stories by flashlight after bedtime.

  My younger brother Matt, and his requests for “just one more scary story,” on those dark nights growing up.

  Contents

  HUNTED

  A LONELY TREK

  CLOSE ENCOUNTER

  SLED RIDES AND DARK MEMORIES

  NIGHT NEAR HEADLESS RAVINE

  A HAIRY RIDE

  THE IVERSONS

  ROSE AND ULRIK

  ATTACK ON THE LODGE

  GENERATOR TROUBLES

  ROSE MISSING

  THE TAILED-MEN

  THE SLAVES

  EPILOGUE: COPPER TERROR

  HUNTED

  Bryan swigged the cheap whiskey, coughing and swearing as the spirits burned a hot trail down his gullet. Shoving the metal flask back into the cargo pocket of his camo pants, he hacked up a wad of phlegm and examined the track in the half-frozen bog. Muttering under his breath, he re-adjusted his pack. The freeze-dried willow leaves crunched beneath his boots as he gazed into the mist.

  “Where’d that stupid fuckin’ moose go?” he mumbled to himself, breath making a white vapor in the early evening air. He gripped his .306 harder, fingers aching in the bitter chill.

  “Better not have fuckin’ gotten away. Knew I never should have left my four-wheeler,” he muttered, scanning the ground for signs of prints. He wheezed and blew a snot rocket, then tugged his pants and jacket over his potbelly.

  His head whipped at the sound of snapping branches further down the narrow valley. He squinted up at the sky, evaluating the fading light.

  “Damn, almost dark, but fuck it, I’m not going back empty-handed after coming all this way. I’m already three days past the end of season, but I can fake it. I’ll just tell the Troopers I broke down. Ma’ will cover for me, she always does. I’ll just go a little further up the ravine,” he said to himself, creeping along through the thick growth of willow and spruce. He pulled the silver canteen back out and took another gulp as he stumbled along.

  The scent of rot filled his nostrils, causing him to choke on the harsh alcohol and stumble over a clump of dead roses. He lowered the flask, sniffing the air and scanning the brush for the source of the decaying odor. His pace slowed, and he took another swig, hoping if he drank more it would make the odor go away. A chill went up his spine, and his skin prickled under his woolen shirt as he came into a misty clearing. A cave gaped in the hillside above. The dark opening yawned like the slack jaw of a drunk whore with no teeth. He clutched his gun harder as he scanned the skeletal trees. Every now and then he saw a glimpse of light, like yellow dots blinking back. The hectic cacophony of random noises in the growing obscurity made his head whip back and forth as he tried to determine their source. He scratched at the goosebumps rising on his neck, knees shaking as the wet hummocks of moss squished under his boots.

  I should go back to Ma’s old lodge. It’s late. I don’t want to hack up a moose tonight anyway. I’ll try again tomorrow. Plenty of dumb moose out here. Don’t need this one, he thought, bowels rumbling as his eyes searched the dense fog.

  The spruce bog came to life around him in the fading light, the silence broken by the snapping of branches and crunching of leaves. Yellow eyes, standing nearly as tall as himself, appeared in every direction. Dark shapes formed in the silvery shadows.

  “Fuck you! I’m leaving!” he shouted, voice cracking. A stream of hot urine trickled down his leg, soaking his socks. The pungent aroma wafted on the frigid breeze. The flask bounced off a log as he dropped it. Legs quaking, he fumbled for the rifle strapped across his shoulder. The small silver canteen clunked as he kicked it into a brace of willows. He stumbled back, heart pounding, as he turned and ran.

  The fog thickened, obscuring the path he’d just traversed. Tiny, half-frozen spruce needles clawed at his all-weather jacket and pants. Sticky resin mingled with the stinging sweat that beaded on his skin, the tart scent doing little to counter-act the growing stench of rot. Willow branches whipped his face, knocking his knit cap to the ground and exposing his balding head to the freezing air. Breathing hard, he scrambled through the undergrowth, trying to push his way back out of the clearing. He cursed as the strap of the .306 tangled on his upper arm.

  He sighed as the trees and branches gave way. He ran faster, breath coming in sharp rasps in the crisp evening breeze. The toe of his boot thunked against something in the wet moss.

  “No! Oh shit!” he croaked in despair. His silver flask flickered in the meager light, tumbling end over end before settling into the mire. His lower lip trembled as he discerned the outline of the cavern in the hill above. The crackling and popping in the surrounding woods amplified. He groped for his rifle once more, finally pulling it free as a multitude of shapes flitted amongst the withered branches of willows and birch.

  “Dammit,” he cursed. His shaking hands nearly dropped the gun as he tried to draw back the bolt. Yellow eyes multiplied in the gloom.

  The bolt clicked home and the bullet slid into the chamber.

  “Fuck you,” he shouted, then barked a nervous chuckle. It echoed hollowly through the frosty evening. The sight of the barrel bobbed in time with his labored breathing as he took aim at the orbs that shined through the fog. Gunfire split the forest, mingling with the rising sound of branches cracking. The eyes scattered, their chattering music mocking him as he fumbled to cycle the bolt again.

  “Shit!” he bellowed, as his boot caught on a hummock of moss. He sprawled backward, firing a shot into the night sky. Rolling against his lumpy pack, his limbs flailed like a turtle. The useless weapon flew from his hands, landing with a splat a few feet way.

  “No! No!” he bawled, tears stinging his cheeks as he groped through the saturated brush and moss, desperate for the feel of the wood stock between his fingers. He squealed as something coiled around his wrists, halting his manic fumbling. With a quick jerk, his captor yanked his arms over his head. He screamed, both shoulders cracking as they dislocated. Wet, brownish-red hummocks sloshed beneath him as he flopped like a fish on a line. The polished steel barrel of the Winchester contrasted sharply with the mire in the growing darkness, only inches from his face. He rolled on his side; the exposed skin of his pot belly slapped the moist, cold ground as he wriggled toward the weapon. The taste of dirt, blood and decay filled his mouth as he threw his weight back and forth.

  Rope-like restraints wound around each ankle, halting his progress. A desperate whimper escaped his now bloody lips as he rubbed his cheek against the cold metal. His wails of terror became screams as his legs stretched so far apart his hips popped.

  “No! Please! No!” he pleaded. Footsteps squished through the bog, rattling the brush as they drew near.

  “Oh G
aaw—” His cry choked off as something hairy and thick snaked around his neck, squeezing with slow precision. He gurgled prayers of help. Wet moss squished under his wriggling body. Chilly moisture infiltrated his underlayers, as frigid bog water seeped down his neck and through the exposed strip of skin at his back. Still he writhed fruitlessly, like a fly caught in a spider’s web. His bulging eyes searched the hazy sky, hoping for reprieve. The stench of rotting vegetation, decay and death intensified as he gagged and struggled. Enmity filled yellow eyes hovered above, blocking out the sky. Glittering onyx claws closed in as the world went dark.

  A LONELY TREK

  Rose slogged through the hard-packed snow, the Iverson’s cozy roadhouse long behind her now. The spiny spruce trees with their heavy blankets of white looked like lumpy, misshapen people wrapped in sheets, pretending to be ghosts. The frosted skeletal limbs of spruce, birch, and willow shuddered from time to time in the winter breeze. Her breath came faster, ice caking around the mouth and nose of her gray face mask. She focused on sliding one ski in front of the other. The scraping sound of the skis gliding echoed in the otherwise silent boreal forest. She found her stride, jamming each pole into the trail created by the Iverson’s Snowcat a week before. Wide straps of the pack dug into her shoulders, and the belt pinched the tender skin of her hips as the green sled dragged along behind her.

  She paused to catch her breath, gazing up at the brilliant azure winter sky. The blinding yellow sun hung slightly above the trees. Ice crystals glimmered in the air, creating a dazzling sundog. The rainbow halo sparkled like a million radiant diamonds. She wanted to stay longer and admire the beauty, but she needed to keep moving. A clear, cloudless day like this meant one thing: a bone-chilling, cold night. The sooner she got to the lodge and got a fire started, the better.

  As she built a steady rhythm, her mind began to wander. At least I don’t have to break trail. Then she shuddered at the reason why she didn’t need to. Moisture stung her skin as tears trickled out of the corner of her eyes and froze to her cheeks. Dick and Ulrik made multiple trips to Miss Penny’s old homestead over the past few weeks. First to retrieve her body after they found her mauled and delirious on the floor. And then another trip last week to clean up the mess and lock everything back up.

  Why did Penny come out here alone? she asked herself. Her chest throbbed, not only from the subzero temperature as she gulped the bitter air, hauling her heavy load, but from her troubled thoughts. What they told her of Penny’s death made her heart ache. The woman passed away before Rose could make it down from her job in Prudhoe Bay to say goodbye. She gripped the poles harder, clenching her jaw.

  Why didn’t she tell me she was coming out here to search for Bryan? I would have come with her. I could have helped.

  She thought of the final entry in Miss Penny’s diary, dated the night she was probably mauled. Her desperate longing to find her son echoed in every word she wrote. It ate at her that the older woman she loved had faced the pain and suffering alone. Not only that, there was the letter, written on simple hospital stationary just before she died, asking her to come out here and search for clues.

  Would you please find my son’s remains? I know you can.

  The thought made her shudder. They had all grown up out here together at the lodge. Though Bryan had made her life miserable, no one deserved to die like that. She knew of other missing people too. While Miss Penny adopted and fostered scores of abused kids like Rose, Bryan was Penny’s only flesh and blood son. Two years ago, the worthless prick had disappeared into the Wrangell-St. Elias backcountry on a hunting trip, vanishing without a trace. Miss Penny had been crushed. The only initial clues had been his sleeping gear left behind at the old homestead cabin, and his jacket, washed up the following spring at the junction of the Nizina and Chitina Rivers.

  Last September, the Alaska State Troopers caught some teenagers in McCarthy joy riding on his four-wheeler. They led the police to where they’d found the machine parked by a dry campsite, up by Dan Creek. Beyond that, the trail went cold again. The extensive, uninhabited region contained mostly wilderness. No one had the resources to scour the vast backcountry for a young man who was surely dead. Not to mention, he had been such an asshole when he was alive, no one terribly missed him. No one except for his mother.

  She paused, looking around. A rustling in the trees louder than the sound of her skis scraping along caught her attention. Her hand dropped to her Smith and Wesson .44 at her waist. She scanned the frozen understory of the forest. A pair of eyes blinked at her, furry face blending almost seamlessly with the snow-covered foliage. The large cat twitched again, catching Rose’s eye.

  Cold radiated through her thick gloves as she gripped the revolver. The lynx eyed her, cocking its head to the side. She expelled her breath in a long white cloud that froze instantly in the winter air. The cat already had its dinner hanging limp in its massive jowls. The white snowshoe hare, the northern feline’s favorite prey, had been too slow today. Pointy ears shook off a dusting of powder before trotting away on giant fluffy paws. The lynx made almost no sound as it disappeared into the snowy brace of spruce and willows.

  The forest grew quiet once more. She shivered as a new chill went down her spine. The hair stood up on the back of her neck, and she looked around, scanning the snowy wood for other signs of life.

  I’m spooked. Yeah, something could be out there, just like that lynx, but I need to keep moving. The temperature is going to drop even more when that sun sets behind the hills. I must reach the lodge before dark. Edna and Dick said they helped Penny cut plenty of wood last summer, but I’ll have to haul it in from the shed.

  Still, why do I feel like I’m being watched?

  She brushed her hand against the satellite phone and emergency beacon clipped high on the inside of her parka. The distant mountains could barely be seen above the trees, fading into soft shades of amethyst, coral and sapphire in the setting sun. Wrangell-St. Elias National Park stretched on for 13.2 million acres around her. Nearly all of it unoccupied, especially this time of winter. She was skiing into one of the easier parts to access, but she was still very alone. Even with modern technology help was hours away.

  And something that wants to kill me may only be minutes away.

  Her nose itched as she inhaled the frigid, dry air. A distinct, putrid scent wafted on the breeze then faded. She glanced around again, searching for the source of the smell.

  She adjusted her face mask and goggles against the brutal cold and checked her GPS in the alpine glow. Only a few more yards and I’m home, she thought to herself. She snapped the instrument closed again and clipped it back to her jacket. The snowy boreal forest dissolved into muted violet, navy and lavender hues as the sun dropped behind the mountains. The black spruce trees cast long, contorted shadows all around, creating sinister shapes on the silvery blanket. Doubt set in as she shivered, the sweat permeating her underlayers.

  Why am I doing this? Following the last wishes of an old woman who was likely hallucinating when she died? she asked herself for possibly the hundredth time today.

  Because she loved you, Rose, the voice in her head scolded. She was the only person who ever loved you. It’s the least you can do after everything she did for you.

  She thought back to the funeral last week and her encounter with Aaron Walker, when he had given her the diary.

  “Hey there beautiful,” he said. She jumped at the feel of his hot, moist breath on her neck, as she stood by the closed casket. Her thoughts had been so absorbed in gazing at the pictures of Penny with all the children she adopted or fostered over the years that she hadn’t heard him approach.

  Before she had even turned around, her skin crawled at the tone of his voice, gooseflesh rising on her arms.

  “Hi,” she replied, wiping her eyes with a shaking hand as she took a step back. The stench of his cheap cologne overpowered the heady scent of lilies and roses arranged around the casket.

  “Look,” he said, running a
hand through his thin, fine brown hair. His beady blue eyes scaled up and down her black sheath dress. “I know this must be tough for you, I’m glad you were able to fly home on such short notice.”

  She nodded, moving further away, as he reached out to touch her arm. “Fortunately, they got me on a flight down from Prudhoe. I’m on leave for the next few weeks. I wish I had made it before she passed.” She gazed back at the coffin as tears filled her eyes. She focused on the picture of Penny hugging her at her college graduation.

  “We started going through her apartment, and I found her old journal and a letter addressed to you. Looks like she wrote it just before...” His voice trailed off, and his eyes slid to the casket.

  Her swirling thoughts made it impossible to respond in words. He pulled a brown leather book out of the sports coat of his jacket. He paused, oily smile making her skin crawl before he handed the familiar diary to her.

  “Thanks.” A chill coursed up her spine as his clammy fingers brushed hers. She couldn’t explain why she found him so repulsive. Other women seemed to find him charming. His date hovered nearby, glaring at the two of them, fluffing her long blonde hair.

  “Well I should be going. See you around,” he said, managing to pat her shoulder before she could move back. She shuddered slightly as he walked away, then chastised herself. He’s never been anything but nice to you. Don’t let what happened to you always scare you away from guys. She shook her head at the memories. When she read the diary and the simple letter enclosed within, she made plans to travel out to the old lodge.

  *****

  Her long sigh echoed in the air as she kicked off through the hard-packed snow, following the trail made earlier in the week. Beneath her parka and multiple layers of gear, sweat trickled down the small of her back and between the cleavage created by her bra, despite the bitter temperature. Her shoulders ached from the cumbersome pack, and the belt attached to her hips continued to rub as she dragged the loaded toboggan through the ice locked boreal forest. The wool of her face mask tickled as her lips curled up in a relieved smile. The old log building and surrounding structures peeked above the trees. Picking up her pace, she skied into the yard. Plywood boards covered the lower windows, but the warped wooden porch was free of the condensed, white heaps of powder. Only a dusting remained.