still yet to capture our star attraction, and it quickly became clear that visitors would not be satisfied with an empty cage and Pop’s assurances that skunk apes dwelled in the wetlands. We needed a skunk ape; our very livelihoods depended on it.
Pop and I began stalking the swamp day and night, and yet the damnable creatures continued to elude us. We caught shadowy glimpses of them, found their tracks, smelled them all around us, of course, and endured their mocking catcalls … But always at a distance, always out of rifle range. It was as if they were tormenting us—for as well as devious animal cunning, every skunk ape has a cruel callous mean streak at its heart.
Our failure to capture a skunk ape slowly wore down my father. Within a year his enthusiasm for the sanctuary deserted him as suddenly as it had arrived. He stopped bathing, allowed his hair and beard to grow long and wild, and would spend long lonely hours brooding inside the cage we had built for the skunk apes. Mother tried desperately to raise his spirits. She begged him to see a doctor. When that failed to elicit a response, she threatened to take me to stay with my grandparents. But to no avail. Pop was beyond help, communicating only in guttural grunts and growls. The skunk apes had broken the poor soul.
It was left to me to restore order and salvage our beleaguered family. Using every bit of skunk apeing guile my father had taught me, I began hunting the swamp alone. They were out there, of that I was certain. As I stalked the wetlands—their foul stench choking the air—I often sensed their creeping presence slyly shadowing my movements, dogging my footsteps …
But when I turned I saw nothing but shadows.
Then one evening, returning home for supper after yet another day’s fruitless hunting, I had my first close encounter with a skunk ape. The creature was crouching behind the cabin with a bloody branch clutched like a club in its hand. Mother’s lifeless body lay sprawled at its feet. Her skull had been shattered like a melon. My cry of horror alerted the beast. Its head snapped up. Baleful red eyes glared at me through the filthy matted hair masking its face. It bellowed and flailed the bloody club above its head. I raised my rifle and fired. I had long ago given up using the tranquilizer rifle. The shot tore through the creature’s chest. The club slid from its grip. The beast crumpled to the ground. Rifle raised, I warily approached, and with the toe of my boot I rolled the creature onto its back. When I saw what I had done, I screamed.
As I fell to my knees beside my poor mother and father, weeping over their lifeless bodies, an infernal chorus of bestial howls arose from the wetlands.
They were laughing; the devil’s skunk apes were laughing at me in their malicious triumph. Screaming back at them, screaming myself hoarse, I fired my rifle blindly into the woods, and when the chamber clicked empty, I cursed them. Two days later, a travelling salesman discovered me, still cursing and dry-firing my rifle, as the bodies of my parents lay stiff and gathered flies at my feet.
In the years that followed, I sensed it was in my best interests to cooperate with the doctors at the psychiatric hospital. I agreed with them that yes, of course there weren’t any such thing as skunk apes; that my father— a very sick man , they told me—had transferred his delusions onto me, an impressionable young boy . In time, satisfied with my progress, the hospital released me.
But I knew the truth. I’d never forgotten the demonic cacophony of the skunk apes laughing at me and mine, and I vowed, upon the graves of my parents, that one day I would have my revenge, and wipe the hateful smiles from their faces.
* * *
“Ever since then,” Salisbury said, “I’ve been hunting skunk apes, investigating every sighting—from the Florida Everglades, the wilds of North Carolina, the Louisiana swamps … and now here in the Bigelow Sticks.
“And as
Pop and I began stalking the swamp day and night, and yet the damnable creatures continued to elude us. We caught shadowy glimpses of them, found their tracks, smelled them all around us, of course, and endured their mocking catcalls … But always at a distance, always out of rifle range. It was as if they were tormenting us—for as well as devious animal cunning, every skunk ape has a cruel callous mean streak at its heart.
Our failure to capture a skunk ape slowly wore down my father. Within a year his enthusiasm for the sanctuary deserted him as suddenly as it had arrived. He stopped bathing, allowed his hair and beard to grow long and wild, and would spend long lonely hours brooding inside the cage we had built for the skunk apes. Mother tried desperately to raise his spirits. She begged him to see a doctor. When that failed to elicit a response, she threatened to take me to stay with my grandparents. But to no avail. Pop was beyond help, communicating only in guttural grunts and growls. The skunk apes had broken the poor soul.
It was left to me to restore order and salvage our beleaguered family. Using every bit of skunk apeing guile my father had taught me, I began hunting the swamp alone. They were out there, of that I was certain. As I stalked the wetlands—their foul stench choking the air—I often sensed their creeping presence slyly shadowing my movements, dogging my footsteps …
But when I turned I saw nothing but shadows.
Then one evening, returning home for supper after yet another day’s fruitless hunting, I had my first close encounter with a skunk ape. The creature was crouching behind the cabin with a bloody branch clutched like a club in its hand. Mother’s lifeless body lay sprawled at its feet. Her skull had been shattered like a melon. My cry of horror alerted the beast. Its head snapped up. Baleful red eyes glared at me through the filthy matted hair masking its face. It bellowed and flailed the bloody club above its head. I raised my rifle and fired. I had long ago given up using the tranquilizer rifle. The shot tore through the creature’s chest. The club slid from its grip. The beast crumpled to the ground. Rifle raised, I warily approached, and with the toe of my boot I rolled the creature onto its back. When I saw what I had done, I screamed.
As I fell to my knees beside my poor mother and father, weeping over their lifeless bodies, an infernal chorus of bestial howls arose from the wetlands.
They were laughing; the devil’s skunk apes were laughing at me in their malicious triumph. Screaming back at them, screaming myself hoarse, I fired my rifle blindly into the woods, and when the chamber clicked empty, I cursed them. Two days later, a travelling salesman discovered me, still cursing and dry-firing my rifle, as the bodies of my parents lay stiff and gathered flies at my feet.
In the years that followed, I sensed it was in my best interests to cooperate with the doctors at the psychiatric hospital. I agreed with them that yes, of course there weren’t any such thing as skunk apes; that my father— a very sick man , they told me—had transferred his delusions onto me, an impressionable young boy . In time, satisfied with my progress, the hospital released me.
But I knew the truth. I’d never forgotten the demonic cacophony of the skunk apes laughing at me and mine, and I vowed, upon the graves of my parents, that one day I would have my revenge, and wipe the hateful smiles from their faces.
* * *
“Ever since then,” Salisbury said, “I’ve been hunting skunk apes, investigating every sighting—from the Florida Everglades, the wilds of North Carolina, the Louisiana swamps … and now here in the Bigelow Sticks.
“And as
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