A Town Called Evening (episode IV)

The Ascent: Luke makes the trek up the mountain to visit the Adders' home

Previously on a Town Called Evening…

The sheriff followed Luke out of the station.

Luke paused at the base of the precinct’s steps. He watched as the sheriff passed to lean against the passenger door of his truck. He squinted in a near-sighted fashion as Luke approached.

Luke stopped short of the vehicle. “Can I help you?”

“Maybe. More’thn likely I’ll be helping you.”

“Oh?”

The man released a short, sharp laugh. Shaking his head, he dug into his jacket pocket and produced a cigarette. He stuck it between his teeth.

“You know the Adders?” asked Luke.

“There ain’t no family called Adder,” the man said. He raised his eyes to Luke, thin lips curling into a smile. He flicked his lighter with a satisfying ping and held the newly lit flame to the end of his cigarette. “We don’t speak their name ‘round here.”

When Luke didn’t follow up with a question, the sheriff continued. “They’ve been a part of the community for a good long while. Give a lot to the town, so we leave them alone.”

“Indigenous?” Luke asked.

“Depends what you mean by that. Their kin predates some of ours, I’ll tell you what.”

“Is there a reason you’re leaning against my truck telling me this?” grunted Luke.

The man looked at Luke from his boots to the top of his head. He cocked his head. “I like to make sure I’ve got one foot in each camp. In case something changes.” He removed the cigarette and smiled with yellow teeth. “Somethin’ in the wind tells me you mean business.”

Luke didn’t offer a smart-alec response. Instead, he maintained steady eye contact with the unnamed sheriff.

The sheriff shrugged and looked off in the distance, toward the old woman who remained at the end of the road. Luke followed his gaze.

The woman faced the mountains. Even from far away, Luke could tell she was muttering to herself.

With a sigh, the man pushed himself upright. Cigarette held between his index and middle finger, he gestured to the Rockies. “Good luck up there, sir.”

---

As predicted by the town’s lawmen, Luke’s truck ran out of road just before a short stone wall.

He exited and stood at the entrance of the footpath. The trees closed on their hinges and the snow faltered at the path’s mossy feet. Using the toe of his shoe, he nudged the wall. It was etched with strange markings—chicken scratch or graffiti, Luke supposed.

He checked his phone. No service. No surprise there.

Haw! Haw!

A conspiracy of ravens decorated the naked branches of a dying pine. Luke squinted up at them, chewing the inside of his cheek. They were two times larger than any he’d seen. Some of the thinner boughs bent beneath the ravens’ weight.

Something about them was odd. They stared with an unusual intensity.

Luke half-expected them to talk. Of course, the birds did no such thing. Luke felt a stray strand of disappointment.

He enjoyed fairy tales and this was starting to feel like one.

As a little boy, his father used to read Grimm’s fairytales to him and Hank. The stories varied, most were probably too dark for children as young as Luke and his brother. They were simple, easy; contained a beginning and an end with very clear morals in between. Luke liked Rapunzel the best.

On tour, they were an escape. He liked the Barnes and Noble’s paperback version. It felt good in his hands and solid in his backpack. When he returned, that therapist said it was best to give the book a break.

Luke’s fist curled around the crumpled missing poster in his pocket. He wished he had that book now. Someone had hidden it. Probably his mother.

Forgetting the birds, Luke turned away. He opened the truck’s passenger door and retrieved a muddy pair of hiking boots, a backpack, and his rifle from behind the headrest.

Luke started to close the door, then hesitated. A flash of light caught his eye. With a short sigh, he grabbed the rosary as well. His mother was religious, Luke wasn’t. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it, but he felt like he should take it. After some internal debate, he put it over his head and tucked it beneath his shirt.

“Right,” he whispered to himself.

Luke checked his watch: 10:32 AM. Not a lot of time to get there and back. No one knew where he was or where he was going… but Grace Kirkwood could be at the end.

He crossed the wall and set his foot firmly on the other side. The trees groaned and creaked. The snow made everything quiet. With a sniff, he lifted his other leg and fully entered the path.

---

Luke walked in silence.

There were gushing blue rivers and stone-cold bluffs of snow that came clean up to his chin. Gullies sliced into the mountain, but the path that Luke followed was winding and (relatively) safe.

All the while, his mind swung between thoughts. Had he made a terrible decision? Should he go home? These questions were immediately followed by the black-and-white visage of Grace Kirkwood, her long black hair falling over pale shoulders.

He floated between musings like a child plucking petals from a daisy:

Grace.

Go home.

Grace.

Go home.

Grace—

His boots crunched over ice, rhythm slowing before ceasing completely. Luke paused. It was silent, but then everything had been since he crossed into Evening.

Mist thickened, making it difficult to make out the ground. It cast a heavy veil over the path. Somewhere, a river rushed. Luke wiped his nose on the back of his glove. It was probably a good idea to have the rifle ready. He flexed his fingers twice before reaching around and pulling his rifle to the front.

Luke advanced with caution.

In the distance, where he thought was an overturned tree, there was a stag. Not alive, but dead. Steam rose from the corpse.

Luke looked around the forest. For something to be that fresh… well, whatever preyed on the deer must still be nearby. Rifle ready, Luke paused to peer at the deer’s wounds.

He frowned deeply. Seems Evening does have a wolf problem, Luke thought.

As he glanced down, he noticed another trail of blood. Slowly, Luke followed the path with his eyes. A trickle swelled and pooled, guiding Luke to its source. A second deer lay some feet away. He saw another. Then another. Ten or so deer were strewn every which way.

There wasn’t any evidence that a pack of wolves had been feasting. Now disembowelling or chunks missing. Perhaps this was a surplus killing.

Luke gave in to his curiosity and dropped to his knees by the nearest deer. The bite marks were wrong. He squinted. There was some ragged tearing consistent with wolf bites. Other injuries, however, looked like a stabbing.

Haw! Haw!

Luke caught a raven’s eye—the same, it seemed, as from the flock earlier. It leered, cocked its head, and seemed to smile.

It opened its beak, but the next sound it made was unlike anything Luke expected. Distinctly hyena-like laughter emanated from within its throat. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

Ravens imitate other bird and animal noises, Luke told himself. That’s all this is. It’s probably spent a lot of time near humans.

But Luke couldn’t quite convince himself. The high-pitched cackle was not human enough to satisfy that explanation.

Luke winced as he bit the inside of his cheek too hard. He tasted iron.

There was a high chance that the wolves or bears—or whatever it was—would return. Straightening, Luke passed on the opposite side of the path.

He shouldn’t linger.

Next Chapter

Thank you for reading! Stay tuned for the next episode, released on Mondays.