“Dusty” by Adam R. Patrick

Appalachia Bare is pleased to present Adam R. Patrick’s First Prize entry for our Folklore Short Story Contest entitled “Dusty.”

Adam Patrick is a retired U.S. Air Force veteran born and raised in the hollers of Southeastern Kentucky. He currently resides near Little Rock Air Force Base, Arkansas, where his wife, Lyndi, continues to serve as an active-duty Air Force officer. He is completing an MFA in Creative Writing at Southern New Hampshire University and spends his free time learning electric guitar and paying what is usually regarded as insufficient attention to their dog Mo and their orange cat Otis. 

 

“Dusty”

Dusty eased the flannel curtains apart and peeked out into the early morning darkness. This year’s rare Black Moon left the task of pre-dawn illumination to the ill-equipped pinpricks of stars spotting the velvet-black sky. The only visibility lay under the buzzing yellow streetlight at the end of the drive. It revealed a small section of the gravel road that stretched out in front of the cabin and disappeared behind rows of spindly brown cornstalks rustling in the October breeze.

Dusty’s hot breath condensed on the window, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips as the warmth of a not-so-distant memory granted his mind a brief reprieve of the fear and paranoia that had been threading their way through his thoughts. With a shaky finger, he drew a heart in the slowly fading vapor, the way Vanessa had done on the window of the rusty beater Mr. Keith had acquired for him when he arrived in town three months ago, fresh out of the Saving Grace Sober Living Home. He couldn’t bring himself to draw “4 eva” in the center of the heart the way she had.

Returning his gaze to the inky darkness spread out before him, he moved his finger to his lips and continued chewing on the raw red skin around his nail—one bad habit he hadn’t been able to kick. He’d decided to allow himself this one, though. It wasn’t one that had him on the fast track to an early grave—though sometimes, he still heard the droning whistle of that train, still chugging along somewhere in the distance.

But the only train Dusty was concerned with tonight was the one leaving at 4:35 a.m. Speaking of which . . . he checked his watch . . . time to go. He’d waited as long as he could. He’d have to go now. He’d have to go quietly. And he’d have to go alone.

He slipped out of the room Mr. Keith had made up for him when he needed a place to stay and crept out the front door. Standing at the threshold, he searched the darkness. He couldn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean something wasn’t there, lurking outside the reach of light. Watching. Waiting. He knew it was out there. He’d seen it. And it’d seen him.

He stilled his nerves and set out.

Mr. Keith had laughed at him—actually laughed at him—when Dusty’d told him about what he’d seen. That gruesome, monstrous black beast the size of a . . . a . . .

“Bear?” Mr. Keith had suggested with a prodding smile. “We get those around here sometimes.”

But this was no bear. Dusty’d seen bears. Bears didn’t look like that, walk like that. Bears didn’t have breathe that stank like sulfur, hairs down the ridge of their backs that glinted in the moonlight like freshly stropped razor blades.

Bears didn’t snatch away children in the night.

“The Kentucky Hellhound’s a myth. There’s no such thing!” Mr. Keith had tried to assure him. “Don’t believe them old timers’ stories.”

And everyone seemed to agree on both points: The Kentucky Hellhound was a myth, and a bear wouldn’t snatch up a child in the night.

But an addict might.

Everyone seemed to agree on that point as well.

Dusty should have known it was too good to be true. A place to stay, a job, a loving community away from those hometown influences were the last boxes he needed to check before leaving the sober living home to start his life anew. When he reached out to his old high school teacher, who’d moved shortly after Dusty’d graduated, he’d never expected to find everything he needed so quickly. So easily.

But he hadn’t really found it, had he?

Mr. Keith had given it to him. He’d given Dusty a room, talked him up to the community, got him the janitor job at the high school, and because of that job, Dusty met Vanessa. For three months, Dusty lived the life he was meant to live. Clear-minded. Hopeful.

Then the child disappeared.

Dusty was blindsided by the suspicion. Teachers avoiding him in the halls. Whispers rippling through the cafeteria.

Who had he been kidding? He’d never leave the stigma of his past behind. But he could leave this place behind. These people. No sense in dragging them down with him. Mr. Keith. Vanessa. They’d all be better off without him. They’d never admit it to his face, but they knew it was true.

Dusty emerged from his ruminations to a muffled rumbling like underground thunder, punctuated by a series of throaty clicking sounds coming from somewhere in the cornfield. He stopped, turned. It came again. Grew louder. The sound opened up, growing hollow and wet. Something stung the back of his throat.

Sulfur.

He ran. The lights of the bus station were visible; he was so close. A cry escaped his throat as the pounding of heavy feet carrying six hundred pounds of hell drew down on him. Cornstalks bent and broke as the beast carved a thick path through the cornfield and sprinted ahead, just as Dusty crossed the road and into the bus station.

Bent over, his hands on his knees, he sucked at air. His breath came out in wheezing coughs and sobs. He searched the empty lot outside, the road, the wall of sentry-still corn.

Silence.

Stillness.

And then . . .

A twitch. The dancing of tassels atop the stalks a few rows back. Then closer.

The outer row of stalks parted.

Out walked a boy.

The boy. The missing boy. A bundled mix of nerves and relief and fear burst from Dusty’s chest in a warbled laugh. He hurried out into the lot.

“Hey, kid!” he called, waving the boy over. “Come on! Get over here!”

It was too dark, and the boy was too far away for Dusty to see his face clearly, but he just stood there, arms dangling at his sides. Dusty grumbled in frustration. He’d have to go get him. He searched the night again, to his left, to his right. He faced forward and set his jaw, just as the beast emerged from the cornfield.

It was bigger than Dusty’d realized. It towered over the boy. The apex of its arched back reached the highest leaf on the stalks behind it. Dusty could smell the sulfur, and he wondered what it must be like for the child as his hair fluttered in the blasts of noxious air from the thing’s nostrils. Its blue-black coat seemed to blend into the night itself, warping the space around it as if it were a black hole threatening to absorb the entirety of existence. The glint in its eye seemed to dare Dusty to do something.

Dusty’s chest heaved—no longer with fear but with anger. This thing. This dark twisted thing had caused it all. The paranoia, the fear. It had stalked him, taunted him. Tried to take away everything important to him.

“Hey!” Dusty’s voice was strong. Certain. He stepped forward. “Get away from that boy.”

The Hellhound raised its head to the sky, and in the undertones of its howl, Dusty heard the lonesome blow of the whistle that had been haunting him. How long had this black beast trailed him? How long had it been waiting for its moment?

He stepped forward again. “I said get away from him!” he demanded, standing in the middle of the road now.

The Hellhound lowered its head. The space around Dusty seemed to bow and bend and then it was on him. Its darkness consumed everything—the light, the night, and soon, his life. Amid the blanket of darkness, a single speck appeared. A white dot, twinkling in nothingness. Welcoming. Reassuring. It pulsed and grew, and Dusty knew there was nothing to be afraid of.

The beast continued to thrash, continued to bluster and bellow but the cacophony faded from Dusty’s mind.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he said, as the light continued to grow. “I’m safe here.”

The light grew closer and bathed Dusty in a brilliant white beam. He closed his eyes and felt his muscles relax, even as the blast of a shotgun bloomed in the night, and the Hellhound lurched to the side.

“Dusty?” Mr. Keith called from beside his car. Another shot rang out.

Blam.

Dusty heard the pounding of feet, the rustle of cornstalks, silence.

Mr. Keith appeared at his side.

“Dusty, what was that? What happened?”

“The boy,” Dusty whispered, gravel in his voice. “Get the boy.”

“Jesus . . .” Mr. Keith said, noticing the boy at the edge of the cornfield.

Dusty rose, his eyes fixed on the cornfield as Mr. Keith took the boy to his car. Dusty felt the presence of something lurking there in the darkness. He got the sense that it would always be lurking no matter where he went.

But he wouldn’t have to face it alone.

“Come on, son,” Mr. Keith called. “Let’s get you guys cleaned up.”

 

**Featured image credit: Larm Rmah, Unsplash