The Hole (31 page)

Here Bear stopped, took another drink, and crossed himself. “You of a religious sort, Mr. Smith?” he asked me. I told him I wasn’t and this seemed to relieve him. “I’d say that’s good for you-if it didn’t mean damnation,” he said. “Good here, at least, because what I’m about to tell you-what I saw come out of that mouth-would wither the heart of any good Christian.”

At first, all Bear saw was an increase in the strength of the glow. But as it got closer, he could tell that this new light, instead of the prior eerie yellow, was a hateful and malignant purple, like a bruise stretched thin over a candle flame. He pushed himself backwards, away from the opening, but his leg caught and twisted in a thick, rotting branch. Bear sat up to pull his foot free when he heard the sound, a whimpering moan that increased in volume to a thunderous warble not of any animal or man. As he stared in terror, the source of that cacophony rose from the open mouth, riding the tongue like a patriarch on his palanquin.

“A vicious and terrible beast it was,” Bear said. His complexion had faded to nearly that of a corpse. “A sheep, but none like I’d seen in the fields. This one was monstrous, bigger than even the largest bull in a fair.” The wool hung in mangy clumps, spread unevenly over great knots of muscle. The creature’s mouth was open and the purple light poured forth, along with that awful baying sound. In the still present glow of the tongue, Bear could see that the animal-if it could be called that-was wet with blood. Its eyes were closed as it screamed at the sky. When the full creature finally came into view, Bear saw its sickly white teats.

Then the tongue stopped and the beast opened its eyes. “And that’s when I began praying,” Bear said. “That’s when I begged God and Jesus to save me from this abomination. Because when those eyes sprung open, they showed the same purple flame and, worse-God so much worse-was that they weren’t the only spot. No, more holes opened, all over the thing’s head, each one with that same light. And I called to God because this thing, this bloody beast, had a wretched halo. This blood anointed lamb was a perversion of the Lamb of God. It was a sick impostor of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

I’m generally not one to put too much stock in this kind of metaphorical reasoning, but a bloody lamb with a halo, especially in such otherwise unusual circumstances, was too specific in nature to ignore. And Bear was clearly terrified. He stopped speaking after this last statement and now stared off at some point behind me, eyes glassy, his empty drink shaking in his hands. I was silent a moment before asking, “What happened then?”

Bear shook his head. “I pulled my leg out and I ran fast as I could away from there. Hid in a little cave I know about and waited for it to get light again. It was a long night, I’ll tell you that.” He went quiet again. When at last he began to speak, his voice was lower, nearly a whisper. “I saw it again that night,” he said. “I tried to sleep but I couldn’t and I kept seeing it, walking through the woods. Once it chased a deer not more than twenty paces from me. The beast was hunting. And even when I couldn’t see it, I could see that light.”

By morning, the creature had gone and when Bear returned to the place he’d seen the mouth, there was only a burned scar. He collected his belongings and decided to end this particular stint away from civilization. He hiked into Manchester and spent the next week drinking away the remainder of his modest savings. It was during those drunken days that he told the story to everyone who would sit long enough to listen, and it was through those who remembered his tale that I’d found him.

That was all Bear could tell me. He never went to that section of the forest again and, beyond that week of intoxication, kept the story to himself. Three years had passed without another incident of that sort, though Bear had encountered several more of the usual occurrences, such as the phantom sounds and mysterious lights. These were common enough to the section of New York, however, to raise not even the smallest concern.

I asked Bear if he could take me to the place where the terrible events had transpired. Initially he refused, saying he’d sworn an oath never to return. The offer of one-hundred dollars-far more than I could afford, but a reasonable sacrifice I convinced myself-changed his mind. “I can take you there,” he said, shaking my hand to seal our agreement, “but I won’t stay the night. That there’s no making me do, no matter how much money you professor folk are willing to hand over.” I told him that would be fine, that all I needed was the location and guidance to it. I’d manage the rest on my own.

We set a date four days from then for our expedition and I paid Bear a handful more to procure me the necessary equipment for what I hoped would be a fruitful conclusion to my search. Here I must mention that, while I hadn’t quite felt it at any conscious level yet, panic had begun to gnaw at me. My grandfathers stories, I was sure, were simple fabrications and my attempt to find the hill Cumorah, the place he had supposedly dug up the golden plates containing the Book of Mormon, was a means of proving that to myself as well as, in some fashion, reconnecting with my heritage. I am, after all, just two generations removed from a man countless hard working, honest, and intelligent Americans believe is a prophet as significant as Jesus or Muhammad. Joseph Smith may actually be little more than a charlatan who convinced himself of the truth of his own lies, but he’s a charlatan with a following greater than any in recent history. And he’s my grandfather. No matter how far I remove myself from his legacy, I am still a part of it.

The idea, then, that there might be some truth to Joseph’s claims-that the woods between Manchester and Palmyra where he writes of his supernatural experiences occurring could, in fact, be filled with mysteries beyond the comprehension of man-shook my foundations as a man of reason. What was out there in that terrible world where Joseph had his visions? I confess I was nervous about finding out.

I met Bear at the prescribed time and, true to his word, he brought with him the implements I’d need to last several days alone in the forest. We packed these into large sacks and lashed them to our backs before beginning the march towards whatever might await us. Bear told me the journey would take us the rest of that day and the better part of the next. He’d likely leave me with only a few hours of daylight left to make camp and prepare. The prospect of the loss of daylight without preparations for the night completed was not encouraging.

We set out and I must admit Bear’s company had a certain rustic joviality, an unlettered coarseness I found immediately appealing. He told me of his time growing up in the near wilderness, of his father, a preacher who’d died young, and his mother, as hard working a wife as one was likely to find. Bear received no schooling to speak of, but his uncle on his father’s side was a seasoned trapper and he’d take his nephew out with him, teaching him the trade. “Good thing, too,” Bear said, as we sat drying in the sun after stumbling through a small stream. “My mother, bless her to the ends of the earth, she decided one day she’d had her fill of the hard life and when another preacher came through, she dropped it all and ran off with him.” He laughed. “Can’t blame her.”

Bear’s story continued through most of our journey in a wonderfully told series of anecdotes and tall tales, until eventually we had to cease our trek for the night. The following morning was much the same, however, and, by the time Bear announced we’d arrived at our destination, I was finding myself anxious for the approaching solitude. Bear offered to stay with me until darkness came, to show me around the area. I declined, telling him I didn’t want to force any particularly terrible memories upon him, not so near to the place his brush with the supernatural had occurred. He nodded, relieved, and took his leave of me. My afternoon was spent walking alone through the immediate area, enjoying the sights and sounds, and occasionally making notes in my journal.

When night came, I made camp, erecting the tent Bear had provided and following his instructions until I had a healthy fire going to ward off the night’s chill. While I was excited at the prospect of witnessing some occurrence similar to the one my grandfather wrote of, a part of me held out hope that my fire pit would be the only I’d see that night.

As luck would have it, that’s exactly what happened. I kept myself awake for as long as I could, walking a small circuit around the crests of the hills my tent rested at the center of, but it quickly became too much for a body used to the finer accommodations and relaxed lifestyle academe affords. I fell asleep. My dreams were troubled with images of faceless people talking and running and fighting while what I can best describe as ghosts floated nearby. None of them saw me, but I remember the feeling of terror at the thought that they would. I awoke just after dawn, still tired, my muscles aching.

I wish now that I’d been better able to sleep, because it would have made the events of that day easier to cope with. I made myself a small breakfast and decided to move my camp to the very spot Bear had seen the mouth. I couldn’t be certain any new display would happen in the same location, but then the only thing lost would be the time and effort involved in packing and unpacking my equipment.

The scar was as Bear had described it. The ground looked long ago burnt, like a huge fire had been build and the ashes partially grown over. I pushed away the vegetation and cleared the area of broken branches and one moss covered log. Then I setup my tent, with the canvas floor resting right across the top of the damaged earth. I knew this might be an imprudent decision, for what if the mouth opened again, directly beneath me as I slept? I cannot tell you why I refused to take the risk seriously, only that I was aware of something I can’t describe telling me it was the right thing to do.

It was. I explored the woods that day, finding nothing except for several strange carvings on perhaps a dozen trees. They appeared to be runes of some sort, in a circle, and ranged from relatively fresh-the exposed wood browned, but still noticeably lighter than the surrounding bark-to ancient. I had no reason to think they were related to the purported experiences of my grandfather, but I made careful drawings of them, nonetheless.

I’d take the rune transcriptions back to the university with me and have other professors within the antiquities department look them over. They were clearly outside of my area of expertise. While I now know better, the safest bet at the time would have been to attribute the inscriptions to one of the many primitive tribes who had populated the area before the arrival of the civilizing whites-and blame any tribal stragglers or local copycats for the newest carvings.

When the sky began to deepen in color, I set about preparing my camp for the night’s sleep. The unsuccessful stakeout of the previous night had me worried, but I remained convinced that proximity to the scar would assure a supernatural experience, if one was to be had at all. I ate a small meal, my nerves forcing my stomach to reject anything more, and then lay awake, staring up at the glow of the moon through the canvas of my tent.

I must have fallen asleep, because I can remember being awakened by the odd and terrifying sensation of the ground shifting underneath me. I sat up, startled, and realized what was happening: the mouth was again opening, with me on top of it. I scrambled out of the tent, for a horrible moment getting caught in blankets, and was then outside, dashing up the hill to safety. While my back was still turned, my palms and knees muddy as I crawled, the light came, erupting upward from the mouth.

I forced myself to crest the hill and duck into the coverage of some low bushes before turning to take in the sight. The mouth had opened fully and my tent consumed, with only a corner flap of canvas protruding. As I watched, the mouth finished its growth and that awful tongue Bear described climbed forth, carrying its expected passenger.

I will apologize now for the potentially incoherent nature of what follows. As a man of science and history-and, more significantly, a man without religious faith-I had long believed that the human mind was capable of wrestling down anything nature might confront it with. The intellect eroding beasts and gremlins of the supernatural were only pits in our understanding. With sufficient tools for learning and the degree of knowledge they afford, we might come to grips with the paranormal-the unexplained-and expose it for baseless mumbo-jumbo.

This conviction, so crucial to my own sense of place in the universe, was deeply shaken, if not outright destroyed, by the events I witnessed in those woods-and the terrible research and exploration I conducted following. You hold in your hands the result and it is my hope that reading it will not do the same to you as has been done to me. These are terrifying times in which we live and, if what I’ve learned proves true, there are only greater terrors in our future. I pray to whatever good may be out there to stand strong against the evils I’ve only recently discovered. Humanity, no matter our countless faults, deserves better than what I fear is coming to us all.

But that is enough. The best way to prevent an apocalypse is to share my knowledge and share it quickly. I’ll let the proceeding pages provide their own reason. I only ask that you believe their words. I am not insane, nor am I a fantasist like I so often accused my grandfather Joseph of being. I’ll tell my tale as I remember it.

The sheep-or goat, it being deformed enough to make identification difficult-ignored me, instead walking off in a direction my compass briefly indicated was east. I say briefly because the magnetic pull of the earth had suddenly become inconsistent and the needle swung erratically before settling on east for only half a minute. Then it resumed its apparently random rotation. I waited until the demonic beast had gone a good distance before I worked up the nerve to follow.

Its path was not straight, nor was it entirely random. Instead, the creature seemed to be following some unknown purpose, looking for something hidden. I remained as far back from it as I could manage without losing its trail. There were several times I had to convince myself to continue, for the thought of what the beast might do if it turned around and saw me intruded constantly. What was this thing? Was that opening what it immediately appeared to be, a terrible mouth leading to the very stomach of Hell? I still cannot say, even after my subsequent research, and I now imagine there are certain questions none of us are meant to have answers to.