u/Big_Office_4257

This happened to me when I was still in high school. I’ve only just now been able to fully process it since starting EMDR therapy.
Throughout my childhood I didn’t really have friends who lived near me, so I had to make do with my immediate surroundings. Behind my house was a creek that fed into occupying neighborhood houses. Some of them had open backyards, some didn’t.
I’d make a game out of it to see how close to a house I could get before I chickened out.

As I got bored of that, I found it was much more enjoyable trying to find areas I could go fishing. Secret “honey holes” as the community calls them.
I’d scour Google Maps for any body of water near me, no matter where it was. First I’d go to ones that were close by and easily accessible, like a park with a playground or a hiking trail with a pond. I quickly found out that the more popular a spot is, the less the fish bite, so I had to find ones off the beaten path a bit. Frequently I found myself in places you’d never think to go even outside of the context of fishing, like retention ponds behind warehouses or small man made reservoirs tucked away next to power plants. Anywhere I could get to by any means necessary.

After a while I collected a small list of regulars I’d cycle through.
One of the more riskier ones I found was deep in the woods on a private farm only a five minute biking distance from where I lived. I found the pond by accident one morning exploring the creek. The pond itself was just close enough to a large farm house where I’d be able to see someone going in or out, but not enough to be in the line of sight of anyone there.

To be on the safe side for the first few times I hopped the fence, I’d exclusively go very early in the morning or late midday. Texas sun in the afternoon is notoriously bad during the summer, so I figured if I didn’t see any cows grazing, no one else would be outside doing anything either.

And for the most part, I was right. Looking at yellow pages showed one resident at that address, that being an 95 year old man named Robert Willoughby.

On the property classic cars in varying conditions sat in random areas. Some in the front yard, some scattered about in tall grassy areas and in the field.

At first I thought they all belonged to individual people who lived there.

That initial visit I was an anxiety ridden mess.

I kept telling myself that no one cares that I’m here. I’m just a kid exploring a trail.
If I was caught, I’d cut my losses and hope they’d see there wasn’t anything more to it than that.

Until I saw one of the car doors open.

Immediately I ducked down behind a patch of thorns, scratching the hell out of my legs and ripping parts of my socks. I didn’t wait around for very long to see who got out. All I could do was tell myself that I was too far away for anyone to spot me.

After I calmed down and trekked back home, I got on my computer and looked into the house.

Google earth let me see it from its earliest point. The pond had been there since the late 90s. Isolated. The fishing pressure would be nonexistent. A long gravel driveway connects the house to the main road, and it’s a straight shot to my house from there.

A week after my first visit I decided to push my luck again, this time going at 6 am. The previous experience was still very fresh in my memory, so I took extra time to scout more of the area from the fence before I made my way over.

The cars were still in the same places as they were. I could see weeds poking through the hubcaps, as well as heavy rust on the frames. Most of the glass had either been removed altogether or showed old cracks from branches falling overhead.

My eyes found the car from last week still sitting, untouched, looking like the other cars it shared the field with. It was in worse condition than I thought. The bright blue paint garish as it was, had faded and chipped all over.

No signs of anyone at all.

I climbed over the fence carefully avoiding the thorn patches. They grew ten fold since the last time I was there, and the path was just barely visible. From there it was only a 10 minute walk to the pond.

The water was noticeably lower. Tons of vegetation now clung to the surface making accessing fishable areas a chore and a half.
It was clearer the more I waded through the knee high cattails.

I was there an hour. Nothing.

The sun was making itself known in the worst way. It wasn’t even 8 and I was already drenched in sweat. Mosquitos really liked that.

I did not want to go back over that fence. Wading through that thick weed line already took everything out of me. In my adrenaline fueled excitement that morning I neglected to bring a water bottle. Not even a plastic half pint.

All those cars were just lawn junk. As cool as some of them looked I knew damn well they’d never run again. The house sat just beyond a steep hill littered with fragile clay and loose rocks. Daunting, but not by much.

If I went fast enough and grabbed the exposed tree roots I’d be over it with enough time left to pick where to scurry off to next.

Oddly, the oppressive heat and mosquitoes gave me a sense of security. It sucks out here for me, so it sucks for everyone else. Much less a 95 year old man cooped up inside.

I found myself right in front of that hill. The pond was a small enough body of water that walking along the bank wasn’t too much of a hassle, and my hypothesis about the tree roots was correct. Only took me a couple tries to get ahold of one and pull myself up. A little difficult with one arm holding my fishing rod. Ended up dropping it a few times and nearly rolled my ankle.

Covering ground atop the hill wasn’t as bad as expected. A 1960s Ford was rotting near the gated area of the back. No lock on the latch either.

A large kids slide sat beside the diving board near the deep end. Walking up to it was a little risky,but the overgrowth and green algae sitting atop the once chlorinated water told me not to worry.

It was an actual pool, too. Not a plastic husk sitting on grass. There were no signs of it being used other than the slide, but even that looked like a tetanus shot waiting to happen.

None of the windows were visible. Completely boarded up from the outside. Each one had a thick metal sheet screwed into the frame and welded together.

I didn’t linger too long after that. The heat was getting to me. Beyond the pool,the long driveway curved off toward the road. Fresh tire marks in the mud. Nearby,the sound of a car door shutting.

A postal worker with two children in tow. Both look sickly and gaunt. Couldn’t have been much older than me. They had a calm trancelike demeanor about them. Barely reacting to their surroundings in any way save for their intense fixation on the front door as they walked.

The postal worker looked absolutely terrified. His facial expression is one thing that stood out to me the most. My grandfather saved me from drowning once. Fell from a dock and he sprinted faster than any geriatric could and grabbed me. That was the look.

They disappeared from my line of sight. All was quiet for a few seconds. My body flinched as the front door slammed shut.
Gravel and mud shifted under the mailman’s feet. He was at a full sprint, alone.

I ducked down again and just watched. He fumbled with his gear shift and peeled out of the driveway, getting the tires partially wedged in the mud.

It was 9 am. Not a single cloud in the sky. Almost directly overhead.
The dense foliage and low light I relied on no longer did anything to conceal my bright yellow shirt.

The driveway was only a hundred feet away from me. If I could just get past the gate, there was a small area near the front lined with cars. One of which was a decently sized minivan half sunk in the mud.

The damp muddy grass helped soften my footsteps a bit. My sandals hardly had any traction left in them which made the climb up that rocky hill more hassle but kept them from sinking.

Striking the ground with the outside edges of my foot helped me roll it down silently. Next foot. I felt a light amount of resistance and the faint sound of something dry start to crack. Pause. Lift the foot up. Just a piece of particle board.

The damp took priority over the dry. It didn’t matter if the next step was mud or cow shit. As long as it didn’t crunch.

Coming up on the minivan, I could see the driveway and the front of the house. Most of those cars were in very poor to very good condition, as much as I could tell at my age anyway. Normally when you see old cars in good condition they look overly polished and clean. These weren’t. They felt more used, or lived in, for lack of a better word. But not neglected entirely.

The front windows of the house weren’t covered. Pitch black inside. Like looking at a black square painted on a wall.

Next foot down. Lift the other up. Roll into the ground. Mud. Beyond that, gravel and dead grass. My attention split between where my feet landed and the windows on my right.

Right foot up. A small patch of green. Right foot down. Crunch.

I froze in place and listened. Nothing.
There wasn’t a fence to hop and a creek to disappear to anymore, so I continued to wait for any further signs justifying my next step.

One word, spoken clear as day, kept me from moving.

“Hi.”

It sounded like it was directly behind me. A quick glance in that direction didn’t give me anything. Just the faint movement of dead grass from the hot air.

The front door was wide open. Pitch black just like the windows.

“Hi.”

This time from the entryway.

“Hello?”

It just slid out of me. I do not consciously remember making the decision to respond.

“Hi.” The voice said.

“I was just fishin’ round the corner down there.”

No response.

“I’m just trying to leave.”

The door slammed shut.

Driveway still had a good football field and a half to go before it fed into the street.

There was a sound that seemed to surround me on all sides. Sharp and direct, like it was eating my teeth.

I bolted. To anywhere my legs could carry me, which had me awkwardly slide back down the hill near the pond. There wasn’t time to think about anything but getting past the weed line. My sandal got lodged in the mud at least three times,the third time resulting in it sliding off my foot. Water filling the hole and submerging it completely.

I now had one bare foot exposed, haphazardly stepping around murky water lined with slippery green algae. Getting closer to the fence was my only way of keeping it together enough not to fall.

After making it to solid ground again my next task was finding the path that led to it, which disappeared under the thorns and sticker burrs. The sound started to grow louder, carrying itself across the pond and directly to me.

Crawling low to the ground and deliberately focusing on my steps started to get me somewhere familiar. I could tell from the white thread strewn about in the brush that it was the same patch that ripped apart my socks.

One foot in front of the other. Pause. Listen. Nothing. It just turned off. All I could hear now were the cicadas in the trees and the mosquitoes flying too close for comfort.

Moving branches out of the way while hobbling on one foot proved to be physically taxing. Every step brought a new discomfort. Rocks, dead twigs,broken beer bottles and thick grass lined my trek back to the creek.

The fence stood right where it was supposed to. It bent slightly under my weight. The thin wiry frame stabbing my legs and ripping the seams of my shorts as my body went over it.

The sound was back again, albeit a bit further away. A loud, droning noise, coming from all over.

I ran. I ran until I reached the creek. The noise never let up. A constant taunting thing. Following the creek, I made it to a storm tunnel that connects to a house that leads into my back yard.

There’s a concrete barrier I had to jump over to make it to that area of land. I mustered up all my energy and hopped over it.

I felt a strong tug at my hand as soon as my feet hit the ground.

I couldn’t move.

Well, my hand couldn’t.

Sticking out of the concrete barrier was a rusty nail embedded into the wall. My hand was impaled on it. The sound was getting louder and louder. A few feet in front of me, in the woods, trees started to fall. Snapping and crashing one after the other. Slow. Deliberate.

Having no where to go, the only thing I fell back on was to just scream for help. As loud as I possibly could. I screamed until my voice was hoarse. The air from my lungs only served to cause me more pain as my hand bled and throbbed on that nail.

From behind me, my mother came running. Frantically asking me what happened. A nearby neighbor heard my screams for help and dialed 911. The sounds stopped.

A bit later a crew of EMTs arrived, and assessed what to do with me. I remember pleading with them to figure out a way to get me off without having to forcibly pull me off. They couldn’t.

With one swift movement they grabbed my hand, and pulled straight back. It came free, and I ran to my mother. I promised her to never to go outside without telling someone where I was going.

I meant it, too.

After going to urgent care for the night and getting my hand stitched up, my mom drove me home.

Sitting on my front porch was the fishing pole I left behind.

All six of my peregrine falcons are huddled together in the furthest corner of their flight pen. One of them usually sticks to an area closest to the entry gate.
 He figured out that the noise from my feet scraping against the mixed flint and clay pebbles means that he can get a rat before anyone else does. 
None of them have come out of the pen in two days. Not even to drink. 

Just outside the gate on the damp soil is a feather half the size of my arm. 

On the ground next to it is a footprint, about twelve inches long. Two toes pressed deep in the wet ground, set about an inch apart. None of my ratites were anywhere near the raptor aviary. I made sure of it. 

Ostriches have a footprint that superficially matches what I’m looking at, but their toes are asymmetrical. These aren’t. Far too long and pressed in too deep to be from an ostrich. Feather isn’t ratite either. Their feathers are fluffier, softer. Meant more for insulation. They don’t have the interlocking barbs you see in flight feathers.

I try again to get them to drink. 

Peregrine falcons do not gather, even within their own species, and all of mine perceived a threat at the same time. The state they’re in is called tonic immobility. I’ve only ever seen it when I have them wrapped in a towel. 

I carefully slip the feather into my day pack. In the distance, echoing off the canyons, is the sound of a peregrine, repeated six times. 

It takes me about an hour to find a working trail camera. I do have some good ones already deployed on the property,which are drilled directly into a few mountain mahogany trees. Very secure, as well as a major pain in the ass to unmount. I never bothered getting any of those fancier ones, so all the ones in storage have been in there since ‘99. You get what you pay for.

In the meantime, I work on moving my peregrines indoors. The clinic has a decent amount of indoor space, provided there’s room for six birds of course. Each crate needs to be prepared: bedding, shallow water dishes, and a cover to block light out. I don’t need them to be more stressed out than they already are.

One by one, I prep to transport. It was hell getting them into the flight pen to begin with, so I’m surprised at just how docile they are right now. They aren’t posturing. They aren’t even hissing. It’s as if they just gave up. 

I go for my greediest eater first, who also happens to give me the most trouble when it comes to routine exams. Not an ounce of fight in him this time. He’s   shaking as I gently wrap him in the towel. Double gloved, since even with the odd behavior I don’t trust him not to stick me. In the kennel he goes. 

One after the other, the same. There is a pattern I’m noticing. When I have them cupped in my hands in the towel, all of them are looking the same way, toward a patch of thick juniper down the canyon. The same one I hike every morning.  

All six are in their kennels now.  I’m sitting down to start the intake assessments when I hear it. The shift of feet on a kennel floor. The small splash of wings into a water dish. After two days of nothing, they’re moving.  I won’t have to start fluids on any of them tonight. 

The trail camera I pointed at the flight pen hasn’t captured anything anomalous yet. The motion sensor has been triggering, and I’ve pulled the SD card every half hour.  There are forty-three images on it. Forty-one of them are empty frames. The other two are a coyote and a bobcat. 

Both animals are running. Ears pointed backwards and flat, kicking up dust behind them. 

I open my day pack and pull the feather out. The quill itself is heavier than it should be, and it has a matte black coloration, with a slight iridescent finish. On the tip of the quill, is a leathery piece of flesh that is slightly shredded. Whatever this was, was in the middle of preening, which means that most likely isn’t the only feather out there.  

I finish my intake notes. All the birds are settled as best they can be. Plenty of water, a couple frozen rats for them to gnaw on. Lacing up my boots, I decide it’s time to check the surrounding area where that coyote and bobcat fled from. There are some traces of fur along the path in front of the camera, steadily increasing towards the juniper. More signs I didn’t see before. Broken juniper branches. Deep gashes on the trunk, about shoulder height to where I’m standing. Then I hear it. The droning swarm of flies. A few seconds later, a breeze brings a sharp metallic tinge. 

It’s hard to make out what pieces of the bobcat I can discern from down here. As I go over the ridge, I see her. The body is intact along the spine. The belly is open. Most of what was inside her is gone. I see  patches of fur scattered around the carcass, plucked and dropped.  Her head is still attached, although her neck is stripped to the bone in some places. Vertebrae exposed, tear damage along the throat. Two large puncture wounds on her back. 

This isn’t a mountain lion kill. There’s no throat bite. The body hasn’t been dragged anywhere or covered with any debris. The viscera is gone before the muscle. Doesn’t match with a coyote pack either. 
They tear carcasses apart and drag the pieces off. This is too contained.

I’ve watched my own birds eat rabbits this way. Pinned to the ground,ripping chunks of fur out to get closer to vitals. It’s exactly the same.
Then I see another feather. This time a bit smaller. Probably a lesser covert or the shorter end of one of the secondaries. Whatever this was, stood here long enough to preen again. 

I get closer and crouch beside her. The fur on her back is matted. The skin underneath compressed down into a hollow cavity. Two parallel lines pressed deep into her body, with a gap where the inner toe would be. Where the deep puncture sits. 

I straighten myself and re-assess the area. 
The brush around me has gone quiet, and I can hear every branch and leaf that the wind moves. Daylight is fading. Time to go. I’m walking away when the silence is broken by the sound of a bobcat yowling somewhere  in the brush. 

Loud enough that I feel it in my ribs. It has a very low resonance.  A lot more guttural, more mechanical.  
Same as the peregrine calls from this morning. 

I freeze in place. Another yowl. This time it is slightly choppy. A low bellow that flutters and hitches yet still somehow sounds exactly how a bobcat should. 

Off to the right, a third yowl. The pitch is right this time. Smooth, no hitches. This one is answering. 
I hear its slow and deliberate steps as it makes its way closer. It lets out another vocalization, this time a threat assessment.  The response is sharper, yet harder for me to place. It sounds further away but closer at the same time. Echoing through the trees and canyon with the same mechanical vibrato. 

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here. Long enough that the light is gone. Long enough that all I see are stars. I don’t hear the bobcat make another sound. 

Heading back to the clinic now. My phone’s flashlight barely has enough throw, but it’s usable. I don’t want to add a rolled ankle on top of everything else. Every step I take sounds louder than the last, while the rest of the brush remains silent. The flies aren’t even buzzing anymore. I can see the faint glow of the walkway lights that lead to the clinic, through the same patch of juniper the yowls came from.  

I deliberate my steps. Toe to heel, squeezing between branches and slowly letting them come to a resting position. The juniper is thick. I just have to make it through this patch and the rest is a straight shot. Toe to heel. The silence continues.  Crickets  and bullfrogs should be out. There’s usually a wall of them that surrounds you. 

Toe to heel. 
 
The next step is directly on a dead branch. 

My phone goes flying. The screen is still facing up when it lands. Lucky. I freeze again. The beam of the light barely illuminates the base of a tree and the surrounding brush. There are two yellowish gold eye reflections, six feet up, looking right at me.  The shape behind the eyes is too big for what I’m looking at. We’re at a standoff. It doesn’t seem to be actively pursuing me, at least from what I can tell. I feel the balance of my left leg start to give way and I stumble backwards. The head cocks to the side, eyes still fixed on me. Still facing forward. 

It turns to the right. I can make out its profile.
A long tail behind it, feathered along the length. 

The iridescence on the feathers shifts where the light catches them.
It has something in its mouth. A piece of meat. It swallows it the way one of my birds would.
It moves toward me. Past my phone.

I see a sickle shaped claw retract. A scaly foot plants itself in front of the base of the tree, sickle claw held off the ground. 

I don’t move.