A Man of the Mountain - The News

Chapter 1: https://www.abctales.com/story/macashton/man-mountain-routine

2 - The News

The hike back to the cabin was always harder and made worse by persistent images of the bloody hiker stealing Jonas’s every thought. He didn’t feel remorse so much as disgust. I’ll have to do better next time. The chill had also crept deep into his limbs, despite the suit’s insulation. He felt a strange mix of pride and melancholy. Clearly, I need to study more.

Over the years, Jonas had researched exactly where to strike to quicken death, but in the heat of the moment, precision was difficult. The kill had looked authentic, but guilt for the hiker’s pain had nestled in the back of his mind. In the end, he knew killing the man had been just business and couldn’t be helped, but the suffering that had gone along with it was squarely on him.

Through the trees, he could see the cabin’s single light, like a beacon in the darkness. His rumination was interrupted by the sight of a brown paper package on his doorstep. The supply drops from his employers were the only contact he received from the outside world, and the only kind he wanted. He stepped out of his snowshoes, picked up the package, and went inside. The embers in the fireplace had gone out, but the cabin’s warmth was still a stark relief from the cold outside. He took a moment to feel the heat prickle through his leaden hands. The drink he had promised himself called, but there was work to be done first.

     Jonas took off his boots and put the package down by his chair, trying not to drip any blood on the carpet. He then moved to the back of the cabin where there was a large furnace disguised as a hot water heater. Just the sight of it was enough to ease his tension. He stripped off his suit and everything beneath it, careful not to leave any evidence as he put each piece into the garbage bags. The furnace was a clean slate, erasing everything but the legend that was left by his deeds. The fires within were the closest thing he knew to a benevolent god.

     Concealed on the right side of the furnace was a small toggle. Jonas flipped it and listened to the sound of the flames igniting below. He removed the cover of the hot water heater and pulled open a hatch, revealing a black chute with a deep orange glow beneath it. He took the bags and savored the sound they made as they slid down the chute to the chasm below.  

     For a moment he just stood, naked, listening to the muted bangs of the expanding steel in the cold winter air. It was all so familiar and he found comfort in the routine. Slowly, he breathed in and out, holding each lungful as long as possible. Invigoration spread through him at the sound of the clothes burning and he found the energy to go pour the drink he had promised himself.   

     Sitting in the back of a dusty cabinet in his small kitchen was an unmarked bottle of brown liquid. Jonas rinsed out a tumbler that had been sitting next to the sink and filled it. Through the tiny window he could see heavy flakes continuing to fall. That’s going to be a bitch to shovel in the morning. He lifted the glass to his lips and drank slowly, savoring every drop. His employers only dropped booze on celebratory occasions, making it rare. A tentative mental ease began to settle over his mind.

He walked the short distance from the kitchen to the living room and sat down in a moth-eaten easy chair. On an end table next to it was a coaster and a remote. Jonas set his drink down and turned on the television. Getting reception without a paper trail had been tricky, but it was his one condition for employment.

     Slowly, the screen warmed up, and Jonas saw the familiar logo of the History Channel in the top right corner. He never changed the channel. They were the only reliable source for news on the strange and mythological, at least when it wasn’t airing re-runs about the exploits of pawn shop owners. Jonas followed the cryptozoology programs religiously. They had been his inspiration for years. He took another drink and sweet fire ran down the back of his throat. The cabin took on a muted coziness. The walls of the cabin creaked from the heavy wind outside, but it was no longer his problem. He was in a safe place, watching his favorite program, and he had done the work of legends.

     A familiar theme song started up and Jonas turned his attention to the TV. “Tonight, on Mansen’s Mysteries, the thrilling conclusion to our three-part hunt of Mexico’s legendary Chupacabra.” The title screen faded away to reveal a handsome man in a khaki suit standing in the desert. “It’s been fourteen days in this oppressive heat and we’ve finally caught up to what might be our greatest adversary yet.”

     Mansen was one of Jonas’s heroes. He always seemed so poised and collected. Even in the scorching heat of the Mexican desert, his brow barely beaded with sweat and his demeanor was relaxed. The man was tactical, resourceful, and most importantly, brought legitimacy to myths that most deemed fantasy. He was the reckoning and Jonas knew that one day, if he was lucky enough, he would face him.

Seeing the Chupacabra’s coverage filled Jonas with jealousy. It was a much easier myth to maintain than his own, assuming of course that it was a myth. While most Bigfoot sightings in the area could be attributed to Jonas, he had no idea what other myths his employers funded. Either way, the fabled desert blood-sucker had a simpler legend with less carnage. Sure, some pets would get eaten, but the people the chupacabra encountered left with their lives.

     Sasquatch on the other hand had a long and bloody history decimating mining towns and dismembered hikers in its wake. There had been a few gimmicky television shows where enthusiasts would go hunting Bigfoot in the woods, but they were inevitably cancelled. In the end, their hand-held camera footage was easily spotted as forgery and the majority of their samples were just dog fur. Most of the people who truly believed in the myth weren’t out for their fifteen minutes of fame and stayed quiet about it. Jonas had run into one of these believers setting up cameras in the woods only miles away from his cabin. It had not ended well.

Jonas drained his tumbler. The real item was Mansen’s Mysteries. Yes, like most shows on the History Channel it was cheesy, but Mansen was the real deal. Jonas had spent hours pouring through the darkest corners of the internet researching Rick Mansen. If the rumors were true, he was a part of an ancient monster-hunting society that very few were admitted to. Beneath the plastic smile and the well-lit promos, Jonas knew Mansen was a hunter.

     He returned his attention to the program and saw Rick standing with an arm around a dazed child. The boy staggered and nearly fell. Mansen steadied him, explaining how Chupacabras drained their victims of blood, and that the poor child was likely anemic.

     “If we had been here an hour later, this young man might not have been as lucky. Thanks to our excellent team, he’s going home safe tonight.” Mansen patted the child’s head a little too aggressively, causing him to wobble and nearly fall over again. A hand reached from offscreen to steady the child and moved just as quickly out of frame.

     Jonas reached to his side and slid the box he had brought in from the porch out in front of him. He took out a knife and sliced through the packing tape. Inside was the usual: new boots, gloves, suit, as well as other provisions for the week. How they knew when he was going to need it, Jonas would never understand, but he was thankful for their timeliness. As he pulled out the items he found a small note rolled up. It read simply: ‘Keep up the good work.’ Beneath it was a copy of The Local Eye, a tabloid from Clearwater and the only source willing to report on the attacks.

     The headline alone made Jonas’s heart soar. ‘Mysterious Creature Kills Again’. He read on to find the reporter critical of the statement from local authorities claiming the deaths on the mountain had simply been bear attacks. ‘All signs indicate that there has been no movement in the local bear populations and no significant events to disturb hibernation patterns. Once again, we must urge hikers to use caution when out late in the day and into the evening.’

     The paper went on to speculate about the origins of the attacks, citing several out-of-focus images of Sasquatch. Jonas couldn’t help but laugh. The images were obvious forgery and had nothing to do with him, but any coverage was good coverage. He read on and felt a light flutter as he came to the final line. ‘We are making an open plea to the monster hunting community (we know you’re out there). Please, come and investigate before we lose more innocent lives.’

     Jonas felt a wave of elation wash over him and his heart beat fast in his chest. He had to read the line three times just to believe it was real. The chance that someone like Mansen would actually come was slim, but any chance at all was better than none.

Below the article was a picture of a woman that had spotted him a week earlier. Recently, hikers had been getting bolder, even in the winter months. That was a good death. Over the years, he had researched exactly where to strike during a confrontation. While none of it could be said to be painless, most of the time, he was able to make it quick. The grislier deaths made for better headlines, but Jonas saw no need for extra suffering at an already unpleasant occasion.

     He read over the article once more and spotted the author’s name, Shirley Codwell. She had been a godsend over the years, doing her research and providing actual coverage where others would not. He felt a connection with her, despite never having met or even seen her. Every year, his employers allowed him down the mountain for one day, and every year Jonas thought about trying to see her. Inevitably, he never went down the mountain at all, but it was nice to know there was the option.

His heart swelling with pride, Jonas took the clipping gently and grabbed a thumb tack from a cup on the table. Looking up at the walls of his cabin, it was getting difficult to find space. Throughout his tenure on the mountain, there had been quite a few pieces and he saved every one of them. They were all tacked to the wall behind the television, making the glowing screen feel almost like an altar. Finally, he found a spot, stood up, and pinned the article.

     “Thank you, Shirley,” murmured Jonas to the empty cabin. He touched the paper one last time, savoring the fleeting connection. Reluctantly, Jonas turned off the TV, threw the dirty tumbler in the sink, and doused the lamp. The furnace clicked off on its automatic timer and he made his way to the creaky bed that lie next to it. The intoxicating thought of real monster hunters coming to Clearwater put him at ease. He slept deeply, with dreams of legends filling his head.