Let Vagabonds be Vagabonds
“Excuse me, is Ron in?” I asked, stepping into the small realty office. The bell on the door jangled.
“Nah. Ron skipped town. Left his phone behind. How can I help you, sweetheart?” The man was large, and didn’t bother with a professional appearance. He had a short, unkempt beard and wore a faded t-shirt that barely concealed his potbelly.
“I really need to speak to Ron,” I said. “I—I’m the one who bought the zoo house last month—you know, uh, the Sasquatch place—I have some questions and would like to see about backing out of…it.”
The man behind the counter laughed a deep, throaty laugh. “Sorry, no backsies today, sweetheart,” he said, and chuckled again. “I’ll let him know you dropped by. Can’t say when he’ll be back, though.”
“It’s haunted—the house is haunted. The zoo is haunted,” I said, annoyed at his amusement.
“Well, now he told you that, didn’t he? Ron always tells them.”
“I ain’t afraid of no ghosts,” I said to myself and rolled my eyes, recalling the conversation I’d had with the realtor when I’d signed the papers. I sighed and rubbed my forehead. “I just need to speak to Ron. There must be some way to get a hold of him.”
“Sorry, sweetheart.” The man walked around the counter and sat down at the table in front, heaving a bit as he sat. He cracked a Coors Light and took a sip. “Do you know why they call it Sasquatch Zoo?” He didn’t look at me or wait for an answer. “They say Big Foot used to wander the grounds. A guardian of sorts. He lived up in that cave on the mount, you’d always see his fire when it was dark out, they say. Then one night, the keeper caught him out wanderin’. Caught him off-guard. Scared the daylights outta him, the Sasquatch did, so he shot him. Says he shot him dead, but they never found the body. That was over a hundred years ago, and the fire in the cave ain’t been seen since.” The man shrugged and stood back up. “Just hearsay, I guess. Can’t say I believe in fairytales and all that, but I know no one stays at that zoo long. They oughta just condemn it, if you ask me.”
“Thanks,” I said, but I didn’t mean it. “Please give me a call when he returns.” I opened the door and stepped into the October air.
A gust of wind sent dead leaves flying through the air—they roamed wherever they pleased—while others squirmed and writhed in the clutches of the birch branches, reaching desperately for escape. I’m a bit of a vagabond—I don’t like feeling stuck and I have a bad habit of breaking rental contracts early. I bought this place trying to turn over a new leaf (also, it was dirt cheap. Red flag, anyone?), but, you know, there are millions of other leaves in the world, and probably even more than that. There’s gotta be another leaf.
I pulled out my phone and selected my mom’s name from the top of recent calls.
“Hey Kris,” she said when she picked up.
“Hi Mom,” I said, and waited for her to start a conversation.
“How are things at your zoo? We’re so proud of you, hun.”
“I don’t know…it’s kind of…weird here.” I paused, wondering how much to tell her. My instincts bade me to tell her my plan of throwing in the towel on this place, but, at the same time, I didn’t really want her to know.
“New situations always are. I think it’s good for you to have some stability, you know…stick something out.” The tone in her voice felt like a punch in the stomach. “I’ve just been having a lot of nightmares since I got here, like really bad ones…” I let my voice fade out when I realized how stupid it sounded.
“Sorry, hun. I’m sure it will pass once you’re more settled.”
I forced a smile, not that she could see it, anyway. “Yeah, probably.”
“Hang in there, Kris. Your dad and I are excited to come visit in a few months.”
I closed my eyes and tried not to think about still being here in a few months. But I said, “Okay, Mom. I’ll talk to you later.” I sighed and got into my Neon to head back to the zoo.
The zookeeper’s house—my house, still, for the moment, unfortunately—is a small cabin on the zoo grounds. I don’t know if you can really call it a zoo—it’s small, as zoos go, and there’s enough cages and pens that I’m sure it once had its heyday, but it’s been abandoned of animals for years. I guess no one has stayed long enough to fix it up. The cabin is at the base of the mountain, and the bedroom is in the loft, with a window looking out at the mountain. I moved in a month ago, and I haven’t had a single good night’s sleep. I’ve had terrors paying me relentless visits. They haven’t been the normal kind of night terrors, where you wake up in your bed and realize everything is well and good, but the kind where you wake up in your bed and the nightmare—the monster, the darkness—is in your room. And it’s in real time, and you’re paralyzed. And then somehow you wake up a second time, and it’s gone, and you’re left wondering what reality even is. Does that count as a dream, or does that count as truth? I don’t know, I don’t know.
There’s a full moon up tonight, spilling its light through my windows, promising the sweetest of slumbers, but he lies. I refuse to sleep, and I’m contemplating wedging wood splints into my eyelids to make sure they wouldn’t close. I don’t think I can take another night. Every night, it seems, I slip more into the in-between reality. They’re just dreams, I tell myself, grow up. Grow up…
…Its hairy fingers wrap around my arm, and the putrid smell of its fur fills my nostrils. I will my arm to pull away, but it won’t budge, and the Beast’s grip grows tighter. The coarse hairs on its hands prick my skin. My teeth clench and I look past his silhouette, out my window. I can just see a small flickering light, high up on the mountain side.
I jerked up in bed, gasping for air as though I’d been held under water, although, I could’ve sworn, I was already sitting up—just a moment ago, only with my arm in the clutches of the Beast. I closed my eyes, willing my breaths to slow down, but my pounding heart wouldn’t allow it. As the details of my two realities started to settle into some kind of place, I turned to look out my window, up the mountain where I knew I’d seen a light. It was gone.
My whole body quaking, I grabbed my blue Jansport from the floor by my bed and shoved my few belongings into it. Packed full, I slung it on my back, filled my arms with my blanket and pillow, and stumbled down the loft ladder and out the door.
Being outside on the zoo grounds at night sent a fresh tremor of fear—like a snake encircling its prey. The sensation froze my limbs in place, and I tried as hard as I could not to see the mountainside in my peripheral. My teeth clenched, and all my primal instincts commenced a mindless, savage battle, each fighting for my will. One commanded me to lay prostrate on the ground and never move again, another to shut my eyes and simply will myself somewhere else— anywhere else—while still another, thankfully the stronger, shoved me into a run. Once inside my car, I slammed the door shut behind me and turned the key, while hitting the lock button a thousand times. I slammed on the gas and steered towards the iron gate of the zoo. A strong gust of wind swept the dried leaves up into a whirl; there are millions of leaves in the world…millions of leaves to turn.
I sped towards the exit and slammed on the brakes, but not before slamming into the closed gate. I’d hit my head, but I couldn’t stop now. I hurtled myself towards the gate to unlock it, and there, at the gate, I girded up my own will to enter the war of Instincts raging inside—they were all ironclad and seasoned, but I drew my sword and cut off their heads. Then, slowly, I looked back at the mountainside. The scream that had been clawing at my throat every night finally escaped with a strange, guttural burst of sound. Near the peak of the mountain was an orange, flickering light.
CHELSEA KUESER is a junior pursuing a Baccalaureate of Arts in English with a minor in Creative Writing. She loves fat biking, sledding, and camping with her husband and three boys.