Night Songs

All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Fred Wiehe

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

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This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and plot are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, companies, or events is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-18839-7

ISBN: 978-1-4697-5876-3 (eBook)

Printed in the United States of America

For Uncle Gerry, who told scary stories about the Puppet People, Bloody Bones, and Margaret Mary to his young and impressionable nephews and neices. Because of you, I realized what fun it is to be scared.

In memory of my mom: Elizabeth (Elfers) Wiehe. Your family misses you.

Contents

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

About the Author

Epigraph

NIGHT SONGS

Standing alone. Surrounded by trees.

Under a sky cold and gray.

Sounds of the night—

the screech of an owl, a wolf ’s frightening howl—

leave you chilled to the bone and afraid.

Rustling of leaves. Snapping of twigs.

Movement of shadow and light.

It’s not just the breeze or sound of the owl

as it stirs in the tree

and takes flight.

It’s something behind. Moving steady and slow

that gives you a chill

and a fright.

You stand alone. Quiet and intent.

Wondering what it could be.

You strain to hear. Afraid to move.

Afraid to even breathe.

It’s closer now. Quickening its pace,

maneuvering through the trees.

It lets out a howl, a horrible cry,

just as you turn to flee.

You’re moving fast. It’s right behind.

Ready to bring you down.

You dare not stop. You dare not look.

You dare not turn around.

Sharp claws rip across your leg.

You falter and slow down.

You scream as claws strike again,

then you hit the ground.

—The Collected Nightmares

Prologue

Old George was a loner, a hermit, and even though he looked ancient—his face craggy, beard gray and grizzled, and gray hair tangled in knots and piled high on top his head—he was only fifty-two years old. Even so, everyone around Big Sur knew him as and called him Old George.

There goes Old George, people would whisper and point. You know…Old George is crazy.

But he paid them no mind. He’d smile his toothless smile and go about his business. In truth, he liked being the oddest character in a place full of odd characters. He liked being alone.

Today, as always, he was alone. But seconds ago a dark shadow had passed over him like the earth during a solar eclipse. This shadow, however, hadn’t been the result of an external force, as the moon blocking the rays of the sun. This shadow originated from deep within him—a dark and obscured sense of dread. There was no one around, but he inexplicably didn’t feel alone. He felt as if someone or something watched his every move.

With that thought, a chill stepped onto the staircase of his spine. Its cold feet rocked him with an uncontrollable shiver.

He stood on his porch and stared out across his valley, searching. Something gave him the willies. As expected, he didn’t see anyone or anything. He never had visitors, and a bobcat or mountain lion would keep its distance and stay hidden.

He lived two thousand feet above sea level, in the Santa Lucia Mountains—a rugged mountain range that exploded abruptly out of the cold waters of the Pacific Ocean, trending northwest to southeast, parallel with the California coastline. More years ago than he cared to remember, he discovered this small, quiet valley tucked between two steep ridges. The ridges and valley ran perpendicular to the main ridge—the Coast Ridge—that fronted much of the immediate coastline. The only access to the valley was a narrow road winding its way along the edge of steep ridges and dipping down into deep canyons like a roller coaster constructed of dirt and rock. This roller coaster continually climbed for over nine miles from Highway 1. It was here, on a small patch of flat land nestled between the ridges and hidden by the main ridge to the west, that he had built this ranch.

The one-story ranch house faced northwest, looking out across the valley, toward the east-facing slope of the Coast Ridge. He had used split redwood logs for the walls, asphalt slates for the roof, bricks for the chimney and fireplace, and wooden planks for the large porch out front. The barn faced southeast, opposite the ranch house, and opened into a corral situated between the two. For the barn and the corral, having run out of money, he had used whatever lumber he could cut or scrape together.

The ranch had looked brand spanking new and prosperous back then though, probably more than thirty years ago. Now it looked as old and rundown as he himself. The redwood logs and planks of wood were diseased with dry rot. Bricks were chipped or missing from the chimney like rotting teeth in a decay-riddled mouth. The roof had bald patches where slates used to be. The barn and corral looked arthritic.

The inside of the ranch house was no better off. There were only two rooms, furnished with nothing more than a Civil War army cot, a wooden table with an amputated leg, an upholstered chair that looked as if it had been attacked by Jack the Ripper, and a rust-infected wood-burning stove. The artwork of spiders, an arrangement of cardboard boxes that contained supplies or garbage, woodpile sculptures, and a menagerie of empty beer and whiskey bottles decorated both rooms. The door between the two rooms had broken off its hinges long ago and now rested in a dead state against one wall. Bricks had mysteriously vanished from the fireplace. The ceiling, shot full of holes by a drunken madman, leaked when it rained. Years of dripping rainwater warped and stained the wood-planked floor below. Electricity hadn’t yet been invented that far up in the mountains. Plumbing didn’t exist either; he used the great outdoors as his bathroom, and the closest water supply was a stream that ran through a deep gorge beyond the next ridge to the south.

However, the land surrounding the ranch was still as beautiful as the day he had picked this spot to build on. From the first day he saw it, he believed it was truly God’s country. He also believed that God couldn’t make up His mind, so He created a collage of terrain, microclimates, animals, plants, trees, and colors where mountain met ocean. The dense forest that covered the north-facing slope behind the ranch house was a flamboyant mixture of colors and smells. There were madrone with red-orange bark and glossy green leaves, tanoak with spiraling branches and the silvery sheen of its wind-rustled leaves, live oak with its sturdy branches and bowl shaped leaves, California bay with long, narrow leaves that emitted an intense, almost nauseating, fragrance, and the Santa Lucia fir with drooping branches and sharply pointed needles, all mixing with, and eventually giving way to, a lush evergreen forest of Coulter and ponderosa pines at the top of the ridge. In contrast, the south-facing slope behind the barn looked more like a desert, with the low-growing cover of sagebrush and deerweed, the stiff, stubby branches of chaparral, and the candle-like stalks of yucca plants growing in the dry, rocky soil. Three live oak trees poked up out of the side of the slope but resembled large bushes more than trees and were barely taller than a person. At the top of the ridge, brown grass waved in the breeze. The valley floor around the ranch house, corral, and barn was dry and arid like the south-facing slope. The land consisted mostly of dirt, rock, sagebrush, and chaparral. Farther west, grass gradually took over, with large blue and valley oaks dotting the landscape. The oak trees were old, with elaborate labyrinths of thick, gnarly branches. The bluish-green leaves of the blue oaks and the dark green leaves of the valley oaks contrasted sharply with the sea of brown summer grass all around them. Eventually the oak trees and grass disappeared into the dense stand of hardwood trees that covered the east-facing slope of the Coast Ridge. The west-facing slope of the Coast Ridge was a continuous series of smaller ridges, canyons, and rolling hills. The ridge stooped forward, diving down three thousand feet until finally giving way to blue-green ocean. From the top of the Coast Ridge, he could see Highway 1—a narrow ribbon of road zigzagging along the edge of the mountain—and the rugged coastline beyond. On clear days the sun set on a beautiful horizon of sparkling salt water. Other days thick fog banks rolled in like giant, white blankets and completely covered the world below.

Now, standing on his porch, looking for anything out of the ordinary, searching for signs of an intruder but seeing none, he was unable to determine the reason for the bone-chilling eclipse within him. The air was dry. The day was hot. Everything looked the same.

Old George stepped off the porch. But after only two steps toward the corral, he stopped abruptly. He stood very still and alert, like a black-tailed jackrabbit sensing the danger of a stalking coyote. Suddenly, he understood what was wrong. Everything wasn’t the same, after all. It was too quiet. The usual sounds of animals and birds were mysteriously missing: The woodpecker that nested in the woodlands on the north-facing slope wasn’t busy drilling holes; the steady tap tap tap didn’t echo through the valley. Gone was the scurrying sound of rodents, lizards, or snakes in the sagebrush and chaparral. Hawks, usually perching in nearby trees or soaring overhead like kites without string, weren’t in sight and didn’t call out with their familiar kkeeeeer. The single note toot of the mountain quail was silent, as were the cheery songs of the wrens, thrashers, and meadowlarks.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Someone—or something—was in his valley that shouldn’t be there. Watching him.

He had had this feeling before, recently, only a couple of days ago. But it came to nothing. He had started to think that his life as a hermit, the life he had always cherished so much, was beginning to make him paranoid.

Screwing up his courage, he walked toward the corral with slow, deliberate steps. His mule, Maybelle, met him at the railing. She nuzzled his arm with her nose. Old George nervously patted her, then pulled a sugar cube from the pocket of his dirty overalls.

That’s my girl, he said as Maybelle took the cube from his hand. He watched her greedily eat. Good girl. He patted her again. Maybelle seemed herself, not skittish or scared.

But still the dark shadow cast itself across his soul, and his bones ached as if intensely cold. He couldn’t shake the eerie feeling of being watched.

He turned away from Maybelle and leaned back against the corral. Shielding his eyes against the bright sun, he looked westward, searching for some sign of life. But all he could see were a few cows far off in the distance, slowly making their way across the valley. He shook his head, feeling sorry for the cows. He knew the only grass the cows could find this time of year would be brown, dry, and dead. His property wasn’t much as ranches go, and he wasn’t much of a rancher. He only kept cows on his property for appearances, so no one would question where he got his money to live on.

Old George turned around. Maybelle had gone back inside the barn. He could see her rump and swishing tail just inside the large doorway. The rest of her was hidden in shadows.

He scratched at his beard with a nervous hand. He looked out to the east, carefully scanning the southeast ridge and the narrow canyon that led into his small valley. There was no sign of life—human or animal. There were no watching eyes.

As he stared eastward, the dark shadow lifted. The sun on his back thawed his bones, and he began to relax. His mind drifted from paranoid thoughts to memories of excursions into the interior of the mountain range. Beyond his valley, the mountain rose in a chaotic series of steep ridges, jagged mountain tops, deep canyons, and swift flowing rivers and streams until finally reaching almost six thousand feet within the Los Padres National Forest. It was there, deep within the backcountry of the Ventana Wilderness, that he and Maybelle had found the lost Indian gold.

Old George jumped. He heard Maybelle snort and kick inside the barn as if suddenly afraid. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and although it had to be at least ninety degrees, he shivered. The dark shadow was upon him again. His bones instantly froze.

Again, he sensed watching eyes.

He felt sick to his stomach, like a landlubber on the open sea, ready to vomit with every movement of the ship. He turned slowly around, all the while praying to God that he was wrong, that he was alone.

Old George’s breath caught in his throat. He shivered again and choked back burning bile. Maybelle continued to snort and kick but stayed in the barn. He wasn’t alone, after all. A lynx sat not more than twenty feet away. Its yellow-red eyes stared intently at him, and its long, tufted ears twitched as it listened to Maybelle’s commotion. But, otherwise, it didn’t move.

He couldn’t believe his eyes. He had seen many bobcats, although not so close up, through the years. This, however, was not a bobcat. This wild cat was larger than any bobcat, and even larger than most lynx. It had long, gangly legs, big feet, and a broad ruffed face.

What the hell was a lynx doing here, though? He was sure they usually didn’t range this far south. He thought they usually stayed up north, around Montana and up into Canada, where their favorite meal, the snowshoe hare, was plentiful.

At that moment, however, whether it was a lynx or not didn’t matter. What mattered was that his Browning Rifle was inside the ranch house, a good thirty feet away.

Old George choked back more bile as he took two hesitant side steps away from the corral. The lynx shifted its position slightly, keeping its strange eyes fixed on him but made no attempt to pounce. Old George took two more side steps before turning his back on the wild cat and walking as slowly and deliberately as possible back to the ranch house. He knew enough not to run. If he ran or showed fear, the lynx would immediately attack.

Hiding fear, however, and not giving off the odor of fear were two different things. He kept his pace slow and easy, just like taking a leisurely stroll through a field of wildflowers, but he couldn’t stop sweating. Sweat exuded from every pore and with it, he was sure, the odor of fear.

Although he couldn’t hear the lynx, in his mind’s eye he could see it padding silently behind him, ready to pounce, eager to kill with a precisely placed bite to the neck. His neck. He could almost feel the fangs stabbing into his flesh. Within three steps of the porch, he decided his only chance was to run, after all. But now that he made that decision, he wasn’t sure he could. His old hiking boots seemed to turn into cement blocks, and he could hardly keep his legs moving.

Old George swallowed hard. He dared not turn around. He dared not look. The lynx might almost be on top of him.

After taking one step up onto the porch, he lunged for the door in a mad rush. He hit the door with his shoulder, forcing it open and crashing to the floor inside. From the floor, he kicked back at the door and slammed it shut.

The lynx hit the door with a thud.

He lay on the floor, breathing hard, trying not to shake. He had been right. The lynx had been behind him, playing a strange game of cat-and-mouse, and he had been the mouse. He could hear it now, outside on the porch, hissing and spitting over losing the game.

Then he remembered the windows. There was no glass in the windows, just wooden doors that swung shut and bolted from the inside. But they were open.

He hurried to his feet, knowing it wouldn’t take long for the lynx to find the open windows. First, he grabbed the Browning from where it leaned against the wall and cocked the lever. Then he cautiously approached the first window, glancing out for just a second before slamming the door and bolting it shut. After doing the same with each of the four remaining windows, he began to relax. Actually, he was proud of himself. After all these years, he still had some fight left in him. He had beaten the lynx, won the game.

Even so, he needed a drink.

Old George searched through every box and cupboard in the ranch house, hoping to find hard liquor but willing to settle for a warm beer. He found nothing at all. Nothing to take the edge off. Nothing to celebrate his victory with. His only chance for a drink was to go in to Sur City or the Big Sur Valley. But the pickup truck, an old ‘79 Chevy, was parked behind the barn. And the wild cat stood between him and his means to salvation.

Although he no longer heard sounds from the lynx, he waited before venturing outside. But after an hour, the desperate need for a drink finally won out over fear. He slowly opened the door and took two hesitant steps out onto the porch; the Browning Rifle cocked and pointed out in front of him. He wasn’t a great shot, but he figured he could hit that big lynx if it came charging at him—that is, if his nerve held. But he didn’t see the lynx. He sidestepped down the porch. His hiking boots sounded like the heavy hoof beats of a Clydesdale against the wooden planks. When he reached the corner of the house, he peered around it.

No lynx.

He looked out toward the corral and barn. Maybelle was back out in the corral, placid, as if never having been disturbed. The only sign the lynx ever existed was its wide, smudged tracks in the dirt between the corral and the porch.

In a bold move, Old George hurried off the porch. He trotted toward the barn. His head and the barrel of the rifle swiveled back and forth in anticipation of the lynx jumping out of some dark corner where it might be hiding, ready to pounce. He safely made it to the Chevy pickup, swung open the door and quickly climbed inside. The keys hung from the ignition, like always. He switched on the engine, threw the truck into gear, and exploded from behind the barn in a cloudburst of dirt and rock.

He drove the roller coaster of a dirt road like a stock-car racer in his prime: He barely slowed down for the twist and turns, and at times the Chevy pickup hung precariously on the edge of steep mountain ridges. He sped past grazing cows, never noticing the breathtaking view of dry, arid mountain slopes. He didn’t even glance at the sun—a