The Beast of Bridgewater Read online

seemed to take them directly to Bridgewater. I had hit pay dirt.

   I left the library around four and took the long lonely highway back to the desolate parking lot of Bridgewater. I pulled up to the management office and hoped in for a quick visit before they closed. I noticed a police cruiser parked outside. This was not entirely unusual; one of the only other cars ever in the lot was the courtesy officers.

  I walked through the door in to the familiar foyer and noted all the eyes staring at me, the same eyes everywhere. It was unnerving. I approached the middle aged woman who had helped us move in and I was going to ask questions about the local history when I was cut off. I had never seen the courtesy officer before but he was in uniform when I spied him for the first time. He had the creepy Bridgewater look to him. His black hair and sea-predator smile that showed too many teeth made him blend in with the staff. The woman in charge asked me if I had met the courtesy officer yet, to which I replied in the negative. He offered to shake my hand, having to switch a complimentary cookie to his other hand to make the gesture.

  I was then informed that the courtesy officer was actually a high ranking official, he headed up the missing persons division. With those words something in my mind clicked. I would like to say that I went running off of the property and away from Bridgewater forever but I was not nearly so proactive in my own welfare. I merely excused myself and left the building. No one questioned my departure. The apartment was once again busy and lively when I returned.

  I proceeded to make another microwave dinner and retreated to my room to eat it in peace. After my reading and the events at the front office I found myself lost in a sea of ideas. The fate of those slaves, the courtesy officer, and those scratching beasts, all that and more ran jumbled through my mind as the hours approaching darkness waned.

  Tales of natives buying up slaves to use as human sacrifices out west led me to wonder what end the slaves sold to the natives might have been. I had long viewed human sacrifice with the usual disgusted but disinterested eye of an observer but the situation I found myself in made me reexamine my feelings on the subject. What if you really could save a group of people by killing a few, is it not worth it? What is the exchange rate for human blood and life?

  The courtesy officer could stall any missing person report that he wanted. It would explain why the parking lot was so empty. Too many “what ifs” circled my brain like thrashing sharks. I would share with you all of my half-lucid hypothesis but that would be a waste of time and ink. I have held my tongue on the subject for more time than any sane man should. The fell-shadow that haunts my heart weighs more than any smiths anvil. It is a weight of sin and fears that stalks my dreams and darkens the light in my waking hours.

  That night I lay down in bed armed with a flashlight and a driving fear. I knew that I would have no sleep that night. I lay awake thinking of the ancient Mayans and their sacrifices. I thought for at least an hour on the barbaric treatment of natives at the hands of the Jackson administration and wondered what a tribe had to do to escape eviction from their tribal lands. I wondered if Jackson might have had something to fear from these natives. Maybe they had tried to evict them only to be beaten back every night at the witching hour, 3 am. I had not seen the things that had stalked our breezeway and window ledges but I knew that they were not neighborhood dogs. I temporarily fancied werewolves, but above all I fear the gods of the natives had granted them one final piece of vengeance against the invaders. In the end I worried that the stress of the move and work and school was all too much and that I had finally cracked. Those thoughts frightened me the most.

  I wondered if I had even heard any noises, perhaps my conversations with my roommates had been imagined. Maybe last night hadn’t even happened; it was merely a lucid nightmare that deepened my madness. It occurred to me what any sane person would think about the mumblings of a man about ancient gods and werewolves stalking an apartment complex at night. It was degenerate insanity. My mind was filled with doubt and fear, this anguish contributed most to my decisions that night.

  With the arrival of three hours past midnight I heard the scraping and scratching once again coming from my wall and the heavy panting of what seemed like an entire pack of dogs right at the front door! This time I heard scratching at the door. At the very door of my home! They were no longer content to sit and mock me from outside but the now sought to gain entrance to the place. I leapt from my bed, flashlight in hand, and stormed to the window.

  With a click my entire world shattered. The histories of entire nations fell by the wayside to make room for this new truth. What I saw outside was nothing short of an abomination. It was at once a mass of flesh and a bunch of single entities. I had thought of furry monsters with beastly eyes, I had steeled myself for werewolves and vampires and zombies but the thing outside defied description. A pair of eyes wheeled about and stared directly in to the light. The eyes had no discernable color; they seemed to morph between clear warm amber and murky frozen steel. I had no concept of the shape of the thing or things that crept outside the door, and to this day I have no idea what they were.

  In my madness I formulated a plan to ensure my survival. I dropped the flashlight and pulled open the door of my room. In the dark I fumbled with the locks on the main door. It was a desperate move with dire consequences. I pulled lightly on the door, just enough to disengage the latch. With barely a seconds hesitation I flung myself back in to the room and barred the door. I heard the things outside surge in to the apartment and I searched wildly in the dark for the flashlight and my keys. As soon as I found it I shone the light on the front door and as soon as the last of the crawling things were inside the apartment I flung the flashlight through the window.

  The next moments are blur in my mind now, shattered glass and darkness. I was lucky that there was nothing between me and my car. The car cranked fast and I was gone as quickly as I could, the vacant parking lot provided little in the way of obstacles. I drove in a haze and ended up at the police station. In my raving state I ended up in a prison cell. The police dispatched a cruiser to the apartment, but I had no idea what time it was. I tried to warn them about the beasts but they ignored me.

  When they returned I was questioned about my roommates but I fluctuated between silent and raving. I assume they figured me for a murderer and I was stuck back in a cell. I pleaded for further investigation. I pleaded for days. They must have listened because at a time later I was interrogated about the several deputies who went missing investigating the complex at night. I had no answers. I knew nothing of what went on behind while I was behind my closed bars but I heard stories of military barricades and a great fire, a tragic gas explosion. I will never know what stalked the breezeways of Bridgewater.

  The men who had me released from prison shared no secrets and answered no questions. To this day I question what happened that fateful night under the light of the moon in that apartment I left behind. I have never heard from my roommates again, but every once in a while I fear that I see their faces on missing persons posters. I can never bring myself to look close enough to satisfy curiosity.