The Trap

Welcome, friend. Follow me. We're going where nightmares are born. Most people would never dare enter these woods. There's no telling what horrors we'll find, the disturbing terrors we'll uncover. Don't say I didn't warn you. Unsettling creatures lurk here. Be careful, they might follow you out, or maybe they're already inside you, in the spaces between your thoughts or under your skin. Are you afraid? Now you are ready to enter the warning woods.

It was harder to say goodbye. That's what Tristan Bradshaw immediately noticed after leaving his wife to go on one last hunt in the hills before the twins would arrive. Once they were born, he and Heather both knew time for such things would evaporate. He likely wouldn't hunt again until the boys grew out of diapers. Without family nearby to help, and friends who had only ever raised dogs and cats, Tristan and Heather expected little free time.

Tristan almost turned back after turning left off their road. He felt an unfamiliar ping in his chest. Was it guilt? It felt similar, but he didn't think so. It reminded him of those early days when he fell in love with Heather, and how it used to hurt to leave the coffee shop she worked at when he couldn't justify hanging out any longer. More than once he'd stayed until every other remotely good looking guy left. So was the ping jealousy? He had no reason to feel jealous.

When he admitted his lurking to Heather years later, she assured him he'd never had anything to worry about. She told him she'd felt that needling pain every time he left too, and still did to this day. He decided it had to be regret that ached in his chest. He wondered why he should let it keep jabbing him when he could turn around and be free of it. He imagined Heather's face, red and shiny from hauling their babies around inside her all day, lighting up when she saw him walk.

Back through the front door. He could have that for the small price of three more left turns and Jacoby nudged his elbow. Tristan grumbled, Okay, boy, and rolled the passenger window down. Jacoby stuck his saggy face into the wind. Tristan could hear the flaps on either side of his jaw slapping against his face and couldn't help but chuckle. It felt good to laugh.

The chestbing had really soured his mood. He usually felt excited and free when setting off for a hunt with his trusty bloodhound. He hoped he could find that feeling soon. You sure this is a good idea? Tristan asked Jacoby. Jacoby turned his big face toward him. The wind blew one of his floppy ears over his eyes. The dog snarled, but his billowing jowls pulled his lips back in an uncannily human smile instead.

Tristan gave a deep, genuine laugh. He said, Good idea or not, I'd probably regret turning back, huh? Jacoby returned to the wind. Two hours later they reached the trailhead. Tristan got out and unloaded his gear. He strapped his shotgun to his pack, then padded all his pockets to make sure he had his wallet and keys. The ping had mostly faded, but it returned when he shut the truck door with his phone still tucked into the center console.

He always left his phone in the truck when he went hunting. He liked to distance himself from the noise of modern life in the untamed wilderness. He'd always bring his portable GPS to make sure he didn't get lost, but otherwise Tech stayed behind. He didn't even know if his phone worked deep in the hills. This time, he decided to bring it anyway. It felt too irresponsible to leave it behind.

Tristan always used the same trail to get started, then branched off in whatever direction seemed to offer the best chance of spotting deer. Jacobi was good at narrowing it down. That day was no different. Jacoby detected a scent and hurtled over a decaying log to pursue it. They spent most of the morning following that scent and wound up three miles deep on the side of the hill.

Jacoby led Tristan to a pile of deer droppings and received an ear scratch and a treat from Tristan's pocket as a reward. Proud, Jacoby led him further up the hill. A tangled deadfall, another half mile deep, blocked their path forward. Tristan told Jacoby to rest while he assessed the situation. They'd made a slight spiraling incline up the hill and reached its rockier south side. The top of the fallen tree blocking them had crashed over a short but sharp cliff.

Tristan might have been able to climb down it, but Jacoby stood no chance. A sharp rise in the cliff side at the base of the fallen tree also prevented them from cutting around that side. Besides, it was coated with overgrowth thriving in the extra sunlight. Jacoby seemed to think that's the route the deer took, but it was too steep for Tristan to risk it.

The labyrinthine contortion of the tree's broken limbs looked impenetrable, but Tristan sized up a few gaps and made the determination that he and Jacoby could fit through. A pile of deer scat lay on the other side like a reward for the effort. Stuck between the choice of circling back at least a quarter mile to where they could navigate around the problematic terrain, or sucking it up and crawling through the deadfall, Tristan chose the latter.

He failed to factor in his pack and rifle when sizing up the gaps, though. He only crawled halfway through the first triangular opening before it got caught. The gnarled branches held onto his straps even when he tried backing out again. Angry now, he yanked himself free. A pointed stick snagged the inner pad of his left strap, but otherwise his pack sustained no damage. He kicked the offending branch repeatedly until it broke. Huffing, he turned to Jacoby and shook his head.

Heather always told him venting his frustration through violence wasn't healthy, but it always worked like medicine. He didn't want to analyze what that might say about him, which was one of the many reasons he said he'd never try therapy. His attempt to crawl through without his pack went smoother. When he could, he turned around and dragged the pack through, then repeated this process until he made it out from under the deadfall.

He pulled his pack through, setting it aside to allow room for Jacoby. While the dog made his way through, Tristan stood and took in the surroundings. He stretched his back, enjoying a minute without the pack's weight. Jacoby made it through the deadfall and immediately bounded toward the deer scat, Tristan took one step toward him, and felt the ground under his foot give out. He shouted, flailed, and lost his balance.

He twisted midfall to catch the hard ground he'd been standing on before the inexplicable collapse and struck his elbows on packed dirt. He paused, huffing. dangling from the armpits down through some sort of landscaping fabric covered with dirt and brush to disguise it. The hole went deep. His feet weren't touching the bottom. He kicked his toes into the dirt wall to try to dig a foothold but found it too rocky. His toes couldn't penetrate it.

He tried kicking against the wall to hoist himself up, but with each kick he slipped a little deeper. He felt like he was drowning on dry land. Jacoby barked when he noticed the danger and bounded toward Tristan. Tristan shouted at him to stay back, but it was too late. The heavy set hound tore through the opposite end of the fabric and fell straight down, landing with a thud and a howl. Tristan swore. His arms began to shake.

Knowing he was about to fall, he made a despairing attempt to reach his pack. It rested against the deadfall multiple arms lengths away, and there it remained when Tristan's shoulders gave out. with merely a surrendering gasp, he fell into the rocky pit. A slope at the bottom caused him to tumble backward when he landed. He twisted around so as not to fall flat on his back. His right forearm landed on a protruding stone as his entire weight fell on top of it.

He felt his forearms snap against his ribs. It sounded like two distant gunshots, the flash that filled his vision like the explosion at the end of a muzzle. He rolled onto his back, cradling his broken arm to his chest, afraid to look at it. He didn't feel anything wet besides the sweat sticking to his shirt, so he told himself the bone probably hadn't broken through the skin. Based on this evidence, he convinced himself his arm wouldn't be a gory mess if he looked down.

He squeezed his eyes shut until he had them pointed at his arm. then opened them. It was folded over his diaphragm in a jagged C-shape, like he'd spontaneously grown a new joint between his elbow and wrist. A numb whiteness encroached on his thoughts and vision. He tried to keep it at bay. He felt Jacobi's tongue on his face and heard his own voice screaming like someone else far away. The edges of the whiteness touched the center of his vision. and everything went quiet.

Tristan woke up unaware of his surroundings. It took a few seconds for reality to sink in. He didn't remember passing out. The light shining through the two big holes in the covered fabric had an orange tint, so he guessed he'd been out for a while. Jacoby was curled up next to him, snoring. His warmth against Tristan's side contrasted with the cold, stony dirt beneath him. They lay in a space of maybe five square feet. He guessed the sides of the pit rose seven or eight feet all around.

He was loath to stand and measure. He wondered who could have dug such a massive pit in such rocky ground. There was no way to get anything bigger than a shovel up to that point on the hill. His head throbbed and his arm felt like it might fall off if he removed it from the stony floor. He thought he might have been able to climb out rather easily if he could have used both hands, but that was out of the question.

He leaned himself partially upright to get his phone out of his pocket. As suspected, he didn't have a signal. He'd packed an emergency flare, but that was in his pack, along with his water, food, and first aid. Jacoby perked up. Tristan winced as the dog pushed against him in order to stand. Jacoby tilted his head and raised one ear as much as its floppy weight would let him, then started to bark.

Tristan heard a far off voice calling. It sounded like a young man. Tristan whispered, Good boy then bellowed, Hey Hey, we're stuck. We need help. Tristan shushed Jacoby when he realized the man was replying, but he couldn't hear him. Sorry, I couldn't hear you, he yelled. We're trapped in some kind of hole. My arm's broken.

It occurred to him the trap could have been set by the stranger out there. He decided it didn't matter. Surely whoever had said it meant it for dear and would help him and Jacoby get out. I said keep talking so I can find you, but the barking works too, the young man replied, laughing. He sounded closer already. You're coming the right way, Tristan shouted. Just be careful when you get here. I have no idea if this is the only trap like this.

You said a hole? How deep is it? asked the young man. Can't say for sure. Eight feet, Tristan replied. It's pretty damn deep. How bad's your arm? The young man asked. Christian could hear the faint crackle of his footsteps now. Tristan touched his forearm and winced. It felt hot. It's pretty bad. Shoot. Well maybe we can splint

The young man was cut short by a soft thud. Jacoby stood stiff. Tristan waited for another sound. A crow coded three times somewhere far away. When its final call faded, Tristan shouted, You okay? Nothing. Hey, you still there? He heard a barely human grunt, then the sound of something heavy falling to the ground. Jacoby growled deep behind his closed jaws.

Tristan instinctively shrunk himself under the tattered covering that still hung over half the pit. Icy pain shot through his arm when he accidentally dragged his splintered bones over the jagged stone they'd broken against. He gently shushed Jacoby and listened for hints about what had happened to his would-be rescuer. More grunting preceded the breaking of twigs and shuffling of leaves, and Amen. The grunts didn't sound deep enough to belong to a bear.

Besides, a bear attack would have been loud and agonizingly long, He knew bears liked to play with their prey, often leaving it with one foot in the grave while they swallowed the other one. Amen. Could it be a mountain lion? Tristan knew less about mountain lion attacks, but imagined they were still noisy and chaotic affairs. The rustling didn't sound like footsteps either. It came in stretched hisses across the duff, punctuated by grunts. Then Tristan heard a distinctly human sigh.

At this Jacoby growled again, and before Tristan could shush him, he barked. The sound rang in Tristan's ears like a gunshot. He wanted to force it back down Jacoby's throat, but like a gunshot, its damage was irrevocable. Slow and uncertain footsteps found their way toward the pit and its helpless captives. Jacoby barked again. Tristan hissed at him. If he'd had two hands he would have muzzled the dog with them. The footsteps grew surer and nearer. All Tristan could do. Was wait.

The footsteps reached the edge of the pit still covered by the tattered fabric. Something prodded the fabric, showering Tristan and Jacoby with dirt. Hey, careful, Tristan yelled. A man grunted back to the Back. He sounded old, not the same man who spoke to Tristan before. Jacoby pulled his barking down into his chest again. Please help us, Tristan begged. My arm A gaunt face appeared over the lip of the pit, skin stretched so tight it looked like a leathery grey skull.

The man's eyes were almost the same color as his dirty white beard, and sunken deep like a parasite had devoured the tissue behind them years before. The beard matched his self inflicted haircut, which appeared to be a recent job. His teeth, which showed as he panted open mouthed above them, frightened Tristan most of all. The few he still had looked like they'd fossilized already.

Tristan tried to hide his shock at the man's appearance but realized it wasn't necessary. The man's pale eyes couldn't find him. He was completely blind. Tristan asked, what happened to the other guy? The man looked confused. Then realization set in, and he reached back for something out of sight. He re entered the frame, dragging a wooden handle coated with handprints in shades of red from the color of a rose to deep burgundy.

Tristan identified the tool based on how the man held it, but it still shocked him when the man hoisted the handle up to his bare chest, bringing the head of the axe into view. A pulpy hunk of hair clung to the edge of the blade. Almost apologetically the man pointed to where Tristan had heard the other hunter's voice, and shrugged. Tristan couldn't speak.

The world sounded like it had plunged into the deep end of a pool. He didn't even notice Jacoby viciously barking until the dog charged full speed at the wall. No Jacoby, Tristan shouted, snapping to alertness. The man let his axe fall beside his foot and lowered a bony hand toward the clamoring dog. Tristan's left hand found a loose rock barely smaller than a baseball and hurled it.

He'd meant to aim it at the man, but since he was right-handed, the stone fell short and struck the wall a few inches from Jacoby instead. Jacoby yelped and tumbled back down. The man scowled. Jacoby shook off the dirt and dust and stood against the wall, barking up at him. The man spat a spray over him, then turned away. He stooped to retrieve his axe before vanishing from the edge of the pit. Jacoby, Tristan scowled in whisper, get over here.

Jacoby finally gave up and bounded back to Tristan's side. Tristan comforted his faithful companion. It's okay, boy, it's okay. He held a third repetition of It's OK in his chest, and tried to absorb it. He didn't know what it would be. Okay seemed like a stretch, but he supposed things would be relatively all right for Jacoby if they got away. The dog didn't appear injured. Frustrated, hungry, but unharmed.

Please, Tristan shouted to the man somewhere above them. My wife's pregnant. Twin boys, can you believe that? They're gonna need me, sir. I can uh I can get you help if you want it. I can help you get out of here. How long have you been here, huh? He hoped he hadn't insulted the man by implying he looked like he'd been living in the wild a long time. Although being blind, he probably had no idea how to do He didn't know how Tristan looked either.

For all the man knew, Tristan was a former linebacker and Jacoby was a cane corso. This idea gave him hope, until he realized those would be excellent reasons for the blind man to leave them in the pit if he feared they might try to attack him or escape. He scolded himself for revealing their predicament and his injury out loud. Another thud sounded, followed by a long squelching. More thuds. Then wet noises. Sloppy noises. Slurping noises.

The sounds forced Tristan to imagine images that made him feel physically ill. He couldn't help but picture that shrunken old man hunched over the torn body of the other hunter, digging his hands into his guts before raising them to his mouth and The light streaming in had gone pink. Tristan doubted he'd ever be able to enjoy a sunset again. The sounds of tearing flesh and mastication finally ended, and all but the birds went silent for a time.

Just as the waning light began to die, another thud sounded. This time along with the undeniable crunch of splintering bones. That sound was too available in Tristan's recent memory to mistake. Amen. that grotesque pair of sounds repeated more times than Tristan could stomach to count. Then footsteps again. Amen. moving away this time, and dragging something with them. Two objects, if Tristan believed his hearing. And he had a strong guess as to what they were.

He also got a pretty good idea of what the man intended to do with him and Jacoby once they were weak enough for an old blind man to overpower and dissect.

Tristan woke to thunder in the middle of the night. He became conscious of rain pattering the false ground above him and pouring over the edge of the torn fabric. Luckily the ground was absorbing the water for now, but he feared what would happen if the rain grew stronger. Lightning flashed and Jacoby whined. Tristan put his good arm around him and nuzzled his neck. His right arm felt like a roasted marshmallow, hot and puffy.

He noticed the bones weren't bulging out anymore and wondered if they'd shifted back in place while he slept. He dragged himself until he could put his head under the dripping water. As he drank, he realized one benefit of their captor being blind was he'd failed to notice the well supplied pack and shotgun lying a few feet from the pit. Tristan maintained some determination, knowing it was so close.

Once he'd mostly satisfied his thirst, he couldn't tolerate the taste of dirt in his mouth any more. He rotated back around and fell asleep, plotting their next move. A twenty-four year old burning alive inside his own apartment. Police waited outside for thirty-eight minutes. Was this an accident? A suicide? A specific section on both wrists unburned. Hours earlier he would tell his parents that if his wife found out he was leaving, she

She'd go ballistic. That's our episode She'd Go Ballistic: The Suspicious Death of David Elmquist. This is Crime Salad. I'm Ashley. I'm Ricky. Search for Crime Salad wherever you listen. Hi, I'm Whitney. And I'm Katie. And we're the hosts of True Crime Campfire. We set out to make a true crime podcast we'd want to listen to.

We get right to the story. We don't do a lot of extra talkin', and when we do, it's usually to roast the short hairs off of some loser, murderer, or scammer. You'll laugh, but only at the people who deserve it. Like, which serial killer would you most like to shove into a locker? BTK and his awful poetry. Dude got caught because he didn't understand what a floppy disk was.

We look for the stranger than fiction stories, like the case of Patty James, a killer catfish before the internet was even a thing. Or Howard Walmsley, a sentient wad of damp laundry, who convinced his town he'd won the lottery, fleeced local businesses out of thousands, and then became a romance scammer. We've covered tons of cases you've never heard of. Colts, scammers, killers. Yeah.

So come find your next great binge. Listen to True Crime Campfire on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes every Friday. He woke again with an idea so clear he thought he must have dreamt it. Jacoby was already awake, resting his sad head on his big front paws. His eyes flicked toward Tristan, but he didn't move. You hungry too, boy? Tristan asked. Jacoby's ears perked.

Tristan winced at his own stupidity. He'd only asked to commiserate with his pet, but of course, Jacoby didn't understand that. Now he expected Oh my god, I forgot, Tristan gasped. He reached in his cargo pocket and pulled out two dog treats. Jacoby stole them both and gulped them down. Tristan gave him a third, whispering, I have an idea, boy. You want to get out of here? Jacoby cocked his head. You know the truck? You know how to find it? asked Tristan. Jacoby shot to his feet, ready to track.

Tristan grinned. Now for the tough part. He worked his way to his feet, supporting his shattered right arm with his left. He bent over, gently pressing his broken arm into his belly. His nerves blasted him with machine gun fire, but he ignored the pain and used his free hand to pull his shirt over his head. He possessed enough use of his right hand to barely tie a knot with the shirt sleeves and drape them around his neck, crafting a sling.

His arms still hurt like hell whenever he moved, but it felt better than before. That was the most he could ask for in his present condition. Better was all he could strive for. He imagined Jacoby finding his way back to the truck in time to meet Heather or whoever she sent to look for them. Then Jacoby could lead them straight back to Tristan. He didn't think he'd been gone long enough that Heather would have gone to the authorities yet, but he supposed that was a possibility as well.

Okay, boy, he said, turning back to Jacoby. I'm gonna need your help here. He put his back against the damp wall of the pit and bent his knees slightly. He turned his left arm into a step below his groin and asked, Do you think you can get up there? He nodded backward at the top of the wall. Jacobi's tail began to wag. Tristan smiled. He also felt terrified.

Jacoby weighed nearly one hundred pounds. Tristan could deadlift four hundred fifteen and could shoulder press one hundred forty five, but could he hoist a moving dog over his head with one arm? Unsure how much Jacoby could understand, he said, You're gonna have to pull yourself up, okay? I'll get you up there, but then it's up to you. Jacoby barked.

Hey, hey, let's keep the noise down, whispered Tristan. He readjusted against the wall and took a long, deep breath. All right, Jacoby. Ready? Let's do this. He nodded, and all ninety-something pounds of Bloodhound charged straight at him. Later, Tristan would question whether his original idea would have worked even if he had both hands to hoist Jacoby over the edge. With one, it utterly failed.

One of the dog's nails scratched the inside of his forearm deep enough to draw blood. His hand gave out before he lifted the dog an inch, but Jacoby took over when Tristan failed. First, his front paws pushed off Tristan's shoulders, then his back feet. His nails scraped the skin at the base of Tristan's neck as he leapt for the edge.

His front paws landed on the ledge and clawed into the dirt. Tristan twisted around and pushed the dog up with his good hand. After a short struggle that rained dirt and small stones into Tristan's eyes and nose, Jacoby was free. Good boy Tristan quietly cheered. Then, realizing an obvious step he left out of his original plan, he said, Can you get my pack, boy? Can you bring it over here? Jacoby vanished.

For a few seconds, Tristan worried the dog failed to interpret his request. But then he heard the rattle of the pack straps. He couldn't believe it. After fourteen hours of agony and horror, everything had turned around in a handful of seconds. But then the straps stopped rattling, and Jacoby started barking fiercely. Tristan thought, Oh, please just be a squirrel or a rabbit or a deer Then he heard the footsteps of the the same, uneven footsteps from the previous evening.

From the bottom of the pit, Tristan saw only the old man's head and shoulders until he raised his bloody axe over his head. Jacoby, run, Tristan shouted. Without thinking he attempted to scale the sheer wall. Still wet with rain it crumbled in his hand. He attempted to reach the top by jumping but fell despairingly short. Jacoby kept barking as he charged toward the old man. The man lowered his axe, and produced something from the waist of his camouflage pants.

pants that looked far cleaner than the rest of his body. The man held a strip of tattooed flesh out for Jacoby, and whistled two short bursts. Jacoby practically skidded to a halt. Jacoby, no, Tristan commanded. But the treats had obviously not been enough to satisfy the dog's hunger. He warily approached the old man, head cocked to one side as he studied the offered meat. Thank you. No, stop, Tristan screamed.

His right hand bawled into a fist involuntarily, sending heat up his arm that stoked the furnace heating in his chest. Come on, old man, you creepy bastard. Come on and face me like a real man. You just gonna hide yourself up there? Leave my dog alone, you pathetic monster. The man might as well have been deaf as well as blind. He didn't flinch. He just kept waving the tattooed meat.

Jacoby whined, but his hunger overpowered his will to obey. He leaned forward so far he nearly tipped over to snatch the strip of flesh from the blind man's fingers. No boy, don't eat that belted Tristan. Hot tears sizzled on his cheeks like condensation from the burning in his chest. The man knelt on one knee and slowly stretched his hand toward Jacoby's ear while Jacoby gnawed on the tough but juicy tissue.

When the man's dirty fingers reached his ear, Jacoby flinched once, then let him scratch his head. The scratches turned into pets down his neck, then his back. By the time Jacoby finished swallowing the strip of flesh, the man was sitting on his heels beside the dog and stroking his fur with both hands. For a moment it seemed like Jacoby might break from the trance, but then the man produced another item. Tristan couldn't ignore the irony despite his fear and despair.

The man produced a perfectly intact ulna. One of the two bones that had snapped in Tristan's forearm. He held the bone out for Jacoby. Tristan shouted and swore in protest, but when Jacoby accepted the bone and started to gnaw on it, the man slipped his fingers under his collar and led him away from the hole. Tristan had to give up shouting in order to listen to their footsteps receding into the woods.

He needed to know which direction to follow when he got out, because he was going to get out. He felt determined. He felt angry. He felt that burning furnace he'd always been made to feel ashamed of. Now he harnessed its power.

He adjusted and re tightened his makeshift sling and started pacing the small circumference of the pit. Every step provoked his broken arm. He didn't know how he would scale the wall without causing so much pain he might black out again. Let the furnace propel you. Amen. The unbidden thought whispered to him. As he paced he focused on his rage, his anger at being held captive from his wife and unborn sons.

Thinking of them let guilt bleed into his heart, but he sealed himself against it. The guilt made him feel weaker. Right now he needed strength. He needed the parts of himself that he'd shut down to be a better husband and prepare to be a role model for two young boys. He thought about what he'd want them to see if they could see him right now. A man who accepted his fate and gave up, or a raging beast who would not allow someone else to dictate his fate for him.

The answer was obvious. He was getting out, no matter how much it hurt. He threw his phone out of the pit before removing his boots and pants. He tied the pant legs around his torso to hold his injured arm against his stomach. His legs were covered in scratches and bruises he'd been too distracted to notice until then. His knees felt sore from the chill.

He stretched his feet for a few seconds and decided to leave his boots off. He thought he might be able to grip the wall better without them. He had strong feet from years of heavy squats and deadlifting. Time to put them to use. After choosing the place that looked easiest to scale, he backed against the opposite wall and focused on stoking the fire in his chest with every breath.

He didn't think about the wall. He didn't think about his arm. He thought of his feet gripping stones and launching him high enough to get a hold of the edge. and before any doubt could enter his mind, he charged. A foot from the wall he jumped. His right foot made contact and he pushed on it to launch his left foot a few inches higher. He put his left arm straight up to catch the edge, but it fell a few inches short.

He slammed his shattered bones against a protruding stone cluster and fell backward in a flash of white. Winded, he heaved on the soggy ground. His bare skin was already covered in mud from the one attempt. He sat up. His arm throbbed. All his efforts to protect it had failed. Despite the support and the cushioning, he ended up getting hurt anyway. It was time to accept the pain required to get over the edge. he could either choose to embrace it or let it defeat him.

He focused on breathing and stoking the furnace of his rage as he untied his pants and pulled his arm out of the sling. His forearm was so swollen and purple he could barely see the crooked bend where it had broken. The skin around it was hot to the touch. He pressed his fingers into it, feeling the rush of angry adrenaline that poured into the furnace in reaction to the pain. Then he was ready. He returned to the same wall and eyed the places his feet might find traction.

He let the pressure in his chest build until he could feel it in the base of his skull. With a primal scream, he charged. Both of his arms flew up, creating momentum he'd lacked before. He leapt into the air. His right foot found Purchase and pushed him higher. Then his left foot found a stable hold. His hands came up short again, but he dug his fingers into the dirt and screamed, not in pain, but at it. He dared it to get in his way and face his wrath.

He brought his right knee up a little higher and found a stone he could press his foot into, then hoisted his body a few more inches. Now his right hand could reach the edge, He thanked the pain for the fuel it gave him as he brought his left foot up. Finally, he had both hands out of the pit. He knew how easily he could lose his fickle grip, but reminded himself that failure was not an option. Heather, for his sons, for Jacoby. He could eat the pain for as long as he needed to.

He climbed high enough to see over the edge. There was his pack. Just a few feet away. There was his gun. He slid his right arm forward and pressed into his shoulder to bring his legs up a little more. With his left arm he pushed himself up, then he collapsed forward with only his legs dangling in the pit. The fire in his chest was almost out. He rolled onto his back and brought his knees up. Then he lay there, panting, until his breath steadied, and he could think again.

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He assessed his situation and weighed his options. Thank you. He'd left his clothes and boots in the pit. He had a spare undershirt in his bag, but nothing to cover anything else. Putting the fresh shirt on was torture. He rewarded himself with a long pull from his canteen. Then he checked his gun, ensuring it hadn't been damaged or impacted with dirt when Jacoby dragged it. It seemed to be in working order. He longed to go after the man and rescue Jacoby.

He checked his phone and saw it had taken him less than five minutes to escape the pit after the two of them walked off into the forest. He hadn't heard any yelping in the distance. Chances were Jacoby still had all his limbs, but he now saw the direction they'd taken would lead him further into the woods. He wasn't sure he could risk his life again to go after his dog when his pregnant wife was probably frantic, waiting for him back home.

What if his sons had to grow up without a father because he died rescuing a dog? He imagined Heather trying to figure out how to make a living and raise two children at the same time. He made his choice. He unclipped his gun and threw his pack over his shoulder. It took some effort to get his broken arm through the strap. Then he picked his gun up and started a long detour back around the Deadfall. Out in the distance, he heard Jacoby bark, and he stopped.

His fingers whitened around the barrel of his gun. He gritted his teeth. The furnace in his chest flickered back on. When Jacoby barked again, whimpering and fearful, Tristan turned his head in that direction. He was armed, he was angry. How much of a threat could one old blind man pose? He turned his bare feet toward the barking and started to run.

Thank you. The weather system that rained on him the previous night hadn't completely left the area. It wasn't raining at the moment, but the storm still poisoned the morning air with a gray haze. Far behind him Tristan heard either thunder or a gunshot. He hoped it was the latter. If someone was in hearing range, he could fire three shots to let them know he needed help after he retrieved Jacoby. He thought he might put those three shots into the blind man's chest.

But remembered prison would make it difficult to raise his boys. He slung his gun over his shoulder and supported his right arm with his left hand as he trudged in the direction he'd heard the man take Jacoby. Fortunately, the terrain severely limited the possible routes they could have taken. It began to rain after a few minutes. It saturated his shirt and ran cold down his bare skin. It didn't take long for his boxers to become saturated too and rub his inner thighs raw.

But he felt grateful for the rain when he reached the first genuine fork in the path, because rainwater had filled the sporadic footprints left by bare feet and paws along the path to the right. Tristan followed them. The hill rose steeply for a dozen meters before leveling out again. Tristan huffed to the top of the rise. His hunger struck hard as thunder yes, definitely thunder this time, rumbled in the distance. Panting, he lifted his gaze, and and met Jacobi's eyes.

Jacoby stood stiff as he stared at Tristan and whimpered with the ulna in his mouth. Tristan darted behind a tree and slid his shotgun into the crook of his right arm, wincing before checking that the safety was off. Jacoby was tied with a rope to a tree in front of a crude log structure with a bloody shovel leaning against its crooked roof. A small pile of human bones lay beside the remnants of a small fire to Jacobi's side. There was no sign of the old man.

Tristan got comfortable with the idea of shooting the man again. He had already fallen into one of his traps. He would avoid falling into another at any cost. Come out, he sputtered as rain dripped into his mouth. Head down, he yelled. Come out with your hands up. I'm taking my dog and we're leaving. He spawned out into the open, being careful not to point his gun at Jacoby. He advanced, checking behind each tree he passed. The rain was coming down so hard he could barely keep his eyes open.

He spun toward a patterning of feet behind him. It blended with the rain, making it impossible to pinpoint precisely. he repeated. Come out hands up Jacoby barked and Tristan looked toward him. The dog pointed his gaze just past Tristan's shoulder. Tristan heard another patterning. Lightning flashed overhead so bright his finger grazed the trigger in panic.

His fingers slid off the wet metal without depressing it, but the near accident still startled him. He could see his heart pounding when he looked down to blink rain out of his eyes. When he looked up, another lightning flash glinted off two pale eyes and the blade of a swinging axe. Tristan raised his shotgun. Thunder blasted as the axe struck the barrel of his gun. The impact bent Tristan's forearm in half.

One of the broken bones pierced the flesh of his inner arm. He fell, blinded by pain that refused to fade. The gun hit the ground, dented and used. Useless. Tristan wasn't sure if the next flash of white came from the sky or his brain. The man advanced, raising his axe for a final blow. Jacoby barked helplessly. Thunder exploded above them as the axe swung down. Tristan rolled twice to get out of range. He heard the axe thud into the dirt. His arms spurted blood all over him.

He bit his lip and pressed his left hand over the wound. The man pried the axe from the ground and cocked his head. He stood perfectly still, with his white eyes half closed. He's listening, Tristan realized. He also realized the thunder must have masked the sound of his escape. He held perfectly still and breathed so slowly through his nose his chest burned. Although the burning could have been pressure from the scream of agony building in his lungs.

The man turned a few degrees toward Tristan and started moving forward. Lightning flashed. Tristan braced for the thunder, and when its low rumble began, he shuffled to his feet. But the thunder stopped shorter than he expected. He was still planting his back foot when the sky went quiet. His heel pressed into a sharp rock and he automatically shuffled forward with no more than the rein to mask the noise. The man shouted, and Tristan thought he detected a hint of desperation behind the anger.

He lunged forward and shoved the frail man before he could orient his axe. Tristan didn't wait to see what happened to the man next. He darted toward Jacoby and kissed the top of his head while trying to untie the rope with one wet hand. The old man rose to his feet again just outside of Tristan's peripheral vision. He rolled his shoulder and jerked his head to one side, then raised the axe over his head.

Jacoby barked to warn Tristan of the charging man just before he struck. Tristan barely dodged the blade as he also pulled Jacoby underneath himself. He grabbed the only nearby object and swung it at the man's head. Only when it made impact did Tristan realize it was a scorched human femur. The man stumbled back and put one hand on his bleeding temple while the other still clutched the axe. Drop it, Tristan commanded, stepping forward and raising the bone.

His broken arm hung limp at his other side, his blood mixing with the rain running down his skin. The old man spat and raised his axe yet again. Tristan swung the femur and struck him on the side of the jaw. He dropped the axe and fell on his face, unconscious. Tristan feigned a third blow to see if the man would flinch, but he remained still. He stood over him with the femur raised until his heart rate began to drop, and his breathing started to level out. The old man did not move again.

Without taking his eyes off the man, Tristan backed toward Jacoby. This time he realized he could unclip the dog's collar rather than try to loose the knot, and he had Jacoby free in seconds. He needed to do one last thing before they could leave, and it was so terrible he almost couldn't bear to do it. But hiking for miles with his snapped arm hanging and bleeding sounded worse.

He picked up the twin Olna to the one Jacoby had gnawed down and tore a strip of fabric from a pile of stolen clothes inside the small shelter. With the bone and fabric he splinted his arm, screaming through gritted teeth as he straightened his bones. Jacoby whined and nuzzled against him. When Tristan's arm was as straight and secure as he could make it with one hand, he stood and said.

Let's go, boy. They hiked for hours without any sign of another human being. The weather must have kept other hunters out of the woods. Tristan knew he hadn't been missing long enough for the authorities to put together a search yet, but he'd hoped maybe some family or friends would have come looking by then. Eventually, he felt his phone vibrate and pulled it out. He reached an area with weak service, and a flood of texts and calls populated his screen.

Most were from Heather. Others came from concerned people she'd told. He sat on a rock and called her. He longed to hear her voice. But she didn't answer. He sent a one handed text. I'm alive, broke my arm, I'll need the hospital. Not out yet, but making our way. Bad signal. If I don't answer, that's why. I love you. Be home soon. It seemed pathetically brief and too vague, but he doubted any written words could express what he wanted to, and closed the messaging app to call nine one one.

Tristan was taken directly to the hospital. Three detectives arrived to question him after he got out of surgery for his arm. Walking out of the woods with another man's arm bone strapped to him made them all eager to hear his story. According to the surgeon, it had also made full recovery much more likely. Before the detectives began the interview, Tristan asked, Where's Jacoby? Your dog? the youngest detective asked.

We had somebody take him home, said the oldest. Okay, thanks, said Tristan. Was my wife there? Does she know I'm okay? I still haven't heard from her. Her mom was there. Don't worry, everybody knows you're okay, the oldest one said. Tristan asked, Where was Heather? Can I talk to her? She's here, you can see her once we're done, the middle aged detective said. He tapped a black pen against the page of a pocket notebook. How about we start with whose bone you splinted your arm with?

Tristan answered their questions thoroughly and quickly, giving detailed answers they eagerly absorbed. He had nothing to hide. He told them he didn't even think to check the blind man's pulse after hitting with the femur. He said he thought he'd seen him breathing, but couldn't be entirely sure. He assured them he'd acted in self defense.

Well, said the oldest detective, we're definitely gonna need you to stick around until we can get someone out there to verify all this. We aren't gonna charge you with anything right now, but don't leave town. I don't plan to, said Tristan. My wife, she's actually pregnant with twins. She's due any day now. You sure? The oldest detective asked with a sly grin toward his colleagues. Yes, sir. Besides, I I don't even know where I'd go. Tristan forcefully laughed. I guess the beach sounds okay.

The youngest detective said, He was asking if you're sure your wife's pregnant. The middle aged one turned away and said something quietly into his radio. Uh yeah, I'm I'm sure, said Tristan. A sick feeling gurgled just below his chest. He didn't know what they were trying to imply, but he hated it. He hated the wry smile they all shared variations of. Interesting, said the oldest. He nodded to the youngest, standing closest to the closed door.

He tapped it three times with his knuckles, and the door swung away to reveal a gurney, carrying a woman, who looked so tired and sweaty Tristan almost didn't recognize her as his own wife and But when he did, she'd never looked more beautiful to him. In the crook of each arm, she held a swaddled, big. When the weather cleared, the authorities sent search parties into the woods. Tristan's detailed directions led them directly to the Dead Fall and the pit.

They found copious amounts of blood nearby and took a sample to test if it would match the DNA of the ulna splint, as Tristan's story implied. It came back a perfect match. Tristan's instructions for where to find the blind man's shelter were a little more vague, but after some time the team located it. Human bones, stolen clothes, and all. But there was no trace of the blind old man. He left tracks around the area, but none which led the searchers to him.

The youngest detective visited Tristan and Heather's home to deliver the news. It's obvious somebody killed somebody up there and chopped him apart, he told the Bradshaws. It's pretty clear he's been living up there for a while. We're still working on IDing the remains we found. What about the old man? Tristan asked. Couldn't find him, said the detective. Like I said, everything you told us is up there is up there. Except that guy. He's nowhere to be found. Trust me, we looked.

There's no trace of him at all. He's old and blind. He couldn't have gotten far, said Driston. We found lots of footprints, said the detective. But no. I do have a question for you though. Did you see any tunnels while you were up there? Tunnels? Tristan asked. No, I didn't see anything like that. So the detective The reason I ask is we found a bunch of these little tunnels all over the area near the shelter where you had your little showdown.

They're probably just fox tunnels, but well, just thought I'd ask. You think he went in the tunnels? Tristan asked. They're too small for us to get a good look, the detective said. So hopefully not. We'll do our best, but we'll see. An image of the gaunt gray man lurking in the shadows of a narrow underground tunnel, with his white eyes glowing as lightning struck, briefly appeared in Tristan's mind. कीबस अबदेट इस अबदेट इस अबदेट इस अबदेट

The detective promised he would and bid them good night. Tristan turned to Heather and opened his mouth to say something, but one of the twins started to cry, which set off the other. He smiled instead, shaking his head in feigned exasperation. In truth, he couldn't have been happier to go soothe his sons. You made it out. Congratulations. If you enjoyed the story, please rate, like, review, or subscribe.

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You came before me, elders of all stripes, they do not have to be a good idea. And they will do anything. Keep their power. For Grace who created the First person of all. whatever he sees fit. When things are at their darkest. From the creators of Parc Del Hond comes Woodbine, a podcast about monsters, dreams and Those you want. Season two By Realm. Hi, we're Meg Bashwin. And Joseph Figner. that we're watching the IMDB viewer rated best and worst episodes of classic TV shows.

The episode of Star Trek, where Beverly Crusher has sex with a ghost. The episode of the X Files, where Scully gets attacked by a vicious house cat. Also the really good episodes too. What can we learn from the best and worst of great television? Like for example, is it really a bad episode, or do people just hate women? The best worst available wherever you get your pot.