_The Story of a Hairy Monster_
_By_ F. WALTER WILSON
It was my grandfather who told me of The Thunder Voice, and of the
terror which it spread throughout the Valley of Trelane away back in the
early days, when scattered Indians hunted the forests thereabouts—told
me of how the gruesome horror of it changed strong men into whimpering
weaklings, afraid to step beyond their thresholds after dark.
Perhaps I was a morbid child, for it was on wild storm-ridden nights,
when the rain splashed in sheets against the windows and the raving wind
screamed dismally about the eaves of the big house, that I would climb
upon his knee and beg for “The Thunder Stories,” as I had come to call
them.
Full well I knew that I would later creep up the dark stairs with quaking
knees, and with my heart pounding against my ribs—knew too, that I would
lie awake, with the blankets drawn tightly over my head, and listen, yet
dread to hear—the Thunder Voice!
The Indians had so named it—for that is what their word “Namshka”
meant—but grandpa himself had heard The Thunder Voice, when he was no
older than I, and he assured me that it was little akin to thunder in its
tone, although it came to be known in the valley by the name the Indians
had given it.
It was on the night Jeanne Delloux lay dead in the pine-wood coffin in
the best room of Bartien Delloux’s cabin that The Thunder Voice was first
heard in the valley.
It was a custom, when one died, that neighbors would sit all night with
the bereaved, to lessen somewhat the poignancy of the first smarting
blows of grief. Bartien’s cabin could scarce hold them all that night,
for he was popular with the valley folk; and Jeanne, his wife, had been
loved by young and old alike.
“_Boom! Boom! A-i-e-h—_”
Its first notes were deep and strong, but trailed off into a shrieking
scream—first loud, then dying out in a wailing whine.
The men held their breath, their questioning eyes fixed upon each other.
The women screamed, and Millie Barton fainted.
Again and again it sounded, coming, it seemed, from somewhere down the
valley road. At length the men found voice:
“It’s a panther,” suggested John Carroll. “I’ve heard many a one before.”
“If you have, then you know that’s no panther,” another retorted.
Fear was written on every face but one. Old man Dodson—Old Bill Dodson,
as he was known in the valley—had yet to learn what fear meant. But
before another sunrise he was to know.
Shouldering his flint-lock musket, he opened the door and passed out into
the pitch-black night, which now and again was illuminated by flashes of
lightning, for a storm had threatened since early twilight.
Grouped about the fireplace, the others huddled together and listened,
scarce breathing, for another of those cries which made the roots of
one’s hair to tingle, and the spine to prickle creepily. For a time it
came at almost regular intervals:
“_Boom! Boom! A-i-e-h—_”
At length a shot was heard, and several of the men sprang to their feet.
“He’s got it!” one cried. “Old Bill Dodson never missed a target in his
life.”
And, thus reassured, they stood in the doorway, listening, and then
called loudly. From the black, still night there came no answer. Across
the ridge the rumble of distant thunder alone broke the awful quiet.
It was near daylight when they heard a shuffling step, and, opening the
door, Dodson pitched headlong across the threshold. From his hands fell
the stock and barrel of his musket—broken one from the other!
Physically, the old man’s injuries were slight. On his swollen neck were
four blackened welts extending half way round it. Otherwise, he appeared
unhurt—but his courage, his well-known bravery, was a thing of the past.
For the remainder of his life the old pioneer, who had faced so many
dangers, was a nerveless coward. At any unusual noise he would start in
abject terror.
Questioned, he could tell but little. He had seen an object—a dark bulky
_something_—in the road, and had fired. It was too dark to see clearly,
but he could not have missed. Had it been of this earth it would now be
dead.
After the shot it had vanished among the shadows. He was hurrying toward
it when something crashed down upon him from the overhanging boughs.
Long, hairy fingers closed about his throat and all went black. It was
the devil himself—of that he was positive.
Even these startling events might have been forgotten, if the Voice
had given an opportunity to forget. Now here, now there, it would be
heard—sometimes in the direction of the ridge hills, at other times from
the river growth in the lowlands. Often it seemed quite near, and dogs
would bristle and whine, and lie under the beds with green-glowing eyes,
as they quivered in nervous fear. The horses, too, would tremble in
their stalls when the unknown monster broke the night stillness with its
unearthly:
“_Boom! Boom! A-i-e-h—_”
The valley people seldom ventured out at night; and the younger men no
longer sought opportunity to boast of their bravery.
It was some weeks after Jeanne Delloux was buried that Margaret Kingsley,
the young and pretty teacher of the valley school, disappeared.
It was the Carroll’s who boarded her that winter, and John Carroll had
gone on a trip to the lower mill. Jennie, his wife, and the teacher were
alone in the cabin that night. Jennie had protested that she would not be
afraid, since Margaret would be with her.
As Jennie related it, they had been seated before the fire, she engaged
in darning and Margaret correcting examination papers. For a time they
had been silently working when—from quite nearby—it came:
“_Boom! Boom! A-i-e-h—_”
Sick and limp from terror, Jennie’s work rolled from her lap to the
floor. The dog was outside, and piteously it whined and scratched at the
door, but she dared not open it.
Then her attention centered on Margaret. She stood erect. Her face
betrayed no sign of fear. Instead—_she smiled_!
Then, as Jennie watched, Margaret moved toward the door, opened it, and
walked out into the night.
She was never seen again!
Jennie called to her frantically, but there was no reply. She had moved
as one might walk in a sleep—her eyes wide open, but fixed straight
before her, gazing vacantly.
Within the next three months, until about the beginning of the spring
rains, other strange things occurred in the valley.
Lucy Duval met the monster at dusk one evening as she followed the
path through the woods behind the Rhodes’ place. She had swooned from
terror, and, recovering, fled in panic to her home, fainting again from
exhaustion as she reached the door. Safely within the house, she noticed
for the first time that her long hair, which had been coiled upon her
head, now hung unfettered. The pins and two side-combs, which had held it
in place, were missing! Aside from the shock she was uninjured.
A school child, too, saw the beast as she came from school, and while
it was yet daylight. Her parents went in frantic search when she failed
to arrive at the usual time, and found her cringing in terror by the
roadside. Her leather school-bag, containing her books and writing
materials, was nowhere to be found.
It was a very long time before the child recovered from the fright
inspired by “the big hairy man” as she described the monster.
Again, on a gusty, moon-haunted night, it was heard by Jule Darien and
his wife—right in their yard! Had they dared, they could have looked from
the window and seen it, but instead they bolted the door of their room
and lay face down upon the bed—a fact they were not at all ashamed to
admit.
In the morning Jule’s clothing still fluttered from the rope
clothes-line, which spanned between oak trees in the yard behind the
cabin—but every garment belonging to his wife had disappeared! An even
greater misfortune was the loss of three soft, heavy, woolen blankets.
But Jule Darien and his wife considered this a trivial matter in view of
the fact that they had been unharmed.
It was Delia Callahan, of all the valley folk, who found aught that was
amusing in these uncanny doings.
“It’s true—as ol’ man Gibson’s always maintained—th’ devil’s a woman;
ain’t it proven, right ’ere in th’ valley?” she demanded. “An’ it’s an
eddication she’s goin’ to git, too. Some fine day she’ll be comin’ to
th’ school wi’ her books in th’ school bag, an’ her hair done up wi’
Lucy Duval’s side-combs, an’ like as not a’ dressed up in Fan Darien’s
clothes. _Ha! Ha!_—it’s too funny!” Shaken with laughter, she rocked back
and forth until tears rolled from her bright blue eyes.
But she was quite alone in her mirth, for there was none who laughed with
her. None dared to laugh. They feared to make sport of The Evil One.
The long winter broke at last with a protracted period of drenching
rains. Never in all the experience of the valley dwellers had there been
so much rain in such a length of time. Rivers could not be forded; the
rich, loamy soil was washed in great patches from the fields; little
gullies, usually dry, now ran brimming with muddy water. Cattle were
drowned and the spring planting was long delayed.
But when the sun again broke through the gray clouds people began to
remark that for a long time they had not heard The Thunder Voice.
As a matter of fact it was never heard again.
_II._
So ran the stories, and so often did my grandfather tell them, in order
to humor my childish demands, that at length I could repeat them all—just
as he told them, and almost word for word.
One by one, the years dropped into history, and recollection of “The
Thunder Stories” came to me but rarely; and brought, instead of thrills
of horror, only a mild amusement, as I would reflect on them as folk-lore
of the Valley of Trelane.
But, there was the disappearance of Margaret Kingsley. That was difficult
to explain away. A normal, healthy young woman walks out into the night
and is never seen again!
Hunters accustomed to trailing animals and Indians utterly failed in
their efforts to find her, or to track this evil monster to its lair.
Often its spoor was plainly marked—a four-toed foot of unfamiliar shape.
Bloodhounds had been brought from a distant settlement; but, as with the
human hunters, the trail ended at the base of a huge white-oak tree.
There the dogs looked up and whined; they could follow the scent no
further.
Along with fairy tales, and stories of grim giants, told to me in
childhood days, these stories of the Thunder Voice might have passed into
hazy forgetfulness, but for a grisly reminder which occurred while I was
studying to become a physician.
In the college I found much interest in visiting the library and poring
over bound volumes of _The Medical Journal_. Some of these dated back to
many years before my birth.
It was while reading one of these that I suddenly started into quickened
interest at sight of a familiar name—_Bartien Delloux_!
For a few moments I could not recall where I had heard the name, and then
came back to me my grandfather’s stories. I pictured again, as I had
often done before, the log cabin peopled with sympathetic neighbors come
to console Bartien Delloux. The dead body of his wife in an adjoining
room. The dull rumble of distant thunder, with now and again flashes of
lightning. And then, suddenly, from out the black night—The Thunder Voice!
It was he—the same Bartien Delloux—his name handed down on these
age-brown pages in a history of most unusual kind.
A physician had told the tale in plain matter-of-fact language. Briefly
it was as follows:
A patient, who said his name was Bartien Delloux, lay dying in a charity
hospital. He asked for a priest. The priest remained with him until he
died. Then, coming to the doctor, the priest had remarked:
“I think that man’s story is of more concern to your profession than to
mine. I’m sorry you didn’t hear it.”
“How so?” the doctor inquired.
“Well, because it dealt with the bodily, not the spiritual side of life.
It was not confided to me under the sanctity of the confessional, for the
man had nothing to confess in the matter. He simply wanted my opinion,
and if possible some comforting assurance. Given under these conditions I
can repeat it to you.”
Urged by the doctor, the priest continued:
“At one time the man lived in one of the Eastern Townships of the
Province of Quebec, in a district known as the Valley of Trelane. Once a
year it was his custom to go to Quebec and market his stock of furs, for,
like others who dwelt in the valley, he combined the pursuit of farmer
with that of a hunter and trapper.
“On one such trip his wife accompanied him. This was against his wishes,
since the journey at that early day was beset with dangers and hardships.
“One day, as they walked about the city, they came upon a tentshow,
stationed on a vacant lot. Outside the tent, banners announced the
exhibition of a so-called ‘wild-man,’ said to have been captured in the
jungles of Africa. They visited this show, and from Delloux’s description
the creature was evidently a huge gorilla.
“After a brief look at the ugly thing, Delloux made to go away, but his
wife would not consent to leave. Fascinated, she stared between the iron
bars, and the hideous-featured animal crept close to her, and crooned
and gently whined as it gazed at her with little black beady eyes, which
peeped from its black wrinkled face.
“At length Delloux induced his wife to accompany him. As she moved away
the animal became violent. Tearing frantically at the iron bars, it
growled and screamed. So vigorously did it shake the bars that it seemed
the cage must fall to pieces. The owner of the show urged them to leave
quickly.
“They returned to their home, and later, when their child was born, it
resembled—in miniature—the gorilla!”
“It is not an impossible instance of pre-natal influence,” the doctor
remarked.
“Perhaps not,” replied the priest, “but there are incidents pertaining to
its later life which I fancy are quite unusual.”
The priest’s story was resumed:
“In spite of the ugliness of the half-beast the mother loved it dearly.
She realized, however, that it must not be seen by the neighbors, and in
consequence it was kept in the cellar, but when it grew older was allowed
to roam about at night. Always it returned before daylight, and crept to
its bed in a corner of the cellar.
“Bright metal, and keen-edged tools, appeared to fascinate it, and due to
this the father first learned of its amazing strength.
“Delloux possessed a long-bladed knife which he valued highly, and he was
using it one day in skinning a fox when his wife called to him. The knife
was left lying beside the half-skinned carcass of the animal. When he
returned, both had disappeared!
“Entering the cellar, he found the beast cutting apart the body of
the fox and greedily eating it. It had never liked him; and when he
approached and made as though to take away the knife it rose and, with a
shove of its long arm, sent Delloux sprawling through the open doorway.
When he picked himself up the creature faced him from the door, and
growled menacingly.
“It was then but ten years old.
“Delloux was a strong man, but his strength was a puny thing when matched
against this powerful brute. The knife was abandoned to it thereafter.
“From that day on, it refused to eat cooked food; but at night went into
the forest and killed game, which it carried home and ate raw.
“A few words of the French language it was able to learn, but not enough
to permit of continued conversation.
“Finally, on the night when Delloux’s wife lay dead, it went forth,
never to return to the cabin. That night, as Delloux’s neighbors were
gathered about his fireside in friendly condolence, strange cries were
heard—unlike those of any animal known to the vicinity. It inspired them
with a superstitious terror—and Delloux did not dare to make known to
them what he believed to be the real origin of the dread sounds.
“After that night the weird, unearthly cries were repeated on many
nights, and throughout the valley people came to believe that The Evil
One himself had come among them.
“Delloux alone knew the truth.
“There were strange occurrences in the valley that winter, but whether
the thing was responsible for them or not, Delloux could not say. Some
claimed to have seen it. Perhaps they had.
“Finishing his story, the dying man begged me for assurance that this
curse put upon him did not signify that his soul was lost, and I did for
him what the Holy Church prescribes in cases of similar kind.”
There followed a lengthy report of the discussion by other physicians.
Some argued that the story was untrue—impossible. Others considered it
quite within the bounds of possibility.
I closed the volume and gave myself over to reflection on the strangeness
of this tale. Assuming that it were true, the mystery of The Thunder
Voice was explained. But only in part, for many questions hurtled through
my mind as this story recalled them.
What about Margaret Kingsley’s disappearance? Where had the beast lived
after it left Delloux’s home? Why had it indulged in the queer doings
which were so meaningless and puzzling? Why did it voice those terrifying
cries which frightened the usually brave pioneers? And, finally, what had
happened to still the awful Thunder Voice, leaving the valley people to
regain their wonted equanimity?
At length I gave over the futile questioning.
_III._
Again a measure of years slipped by, and I was nearing my fortieth
birthday. I had succeeded in my profession. I was happily married.
In the busy interest of full-lived days, the tales of The Thunder
Voice were again relegated to a place alongside the story of
Jack-the-Giant-Killer and other legends of the kind. But subconsciously,
behind my sane, sunlit life, there lurked a strong desire to know the
truth—_all_ the truth—about this strange affair; for, try as I might, I
could not catalogue it with mythical legends, for somehow I _believed_
Delloux’s story.
It was about this time that I received a letter from a solicitor, who
resided in a small town to the north of Quebec, informing me that
a relative—a man named Carroll—had died without making a will, and
search had established that I was the next of kin, and his estate would
therefore come to me.
I was greatly surprised, but on reflection I recalled having once heard
that the Carrolls, who lived in Trelane Valley were distantly related to
me. At that time I had given the information no serious attention.
In order to settle the matter I went to interview the solicitor, and for
the first time in my life visited Trelane Valley. A broad fertile valley
it was; now beautified by acres of waving grain. Along the road on which
I motored were scattered substantial homes of the prosperous farmers.
The legal formalities had been concluded, and I had signed my name to the
last of several documents when I had a visit from a stranger.
He informed me that he was a Civil Engineer employed by the railway
company whose line ran through the valley. Davis was his name. His
company wished to build a water-tank nearby, and the only available water
supply which had been discovered was a large spring, which he understood
was located on land now owned by me. The company wished to lease the
water rights, and obtain permission to construct a pump house near the
spring.
At his suggestion, I went with him to view the location of the spring,
and decide what I should do regarding his proposition.
As we walked along the railway track he pointed out the location selected
for the tank, and then, leaving the right-of-way, we descended a gentle
slope and, turning sharply to the left, came before the face of an
outcropping ledge of gray, lichened stone.
A large, almost circular, hole appeared in the cliff, and as we stood
before it, there lay, a few feet beneath us, a pool of bright clear
water. The roof of the hole pitched downward at a uniform slope to where
it met the level of the water.
The deal was quickly arranged, and a lease of the water rights drawn up
and signed.