Eli McMorn and the Strange Case of Kill Devil Hill – Part 16

I picked my way across the clearcut as light rain tapped against the hood of my green plastic raincoat. I could see Kill Devil Hill in the distance, but there was no clear path through the tangled labyrinth of mixed and rotten wood on the ground. I took my time, careful not to shatter an ankle while crossing the twisted, dystopian landscape of treacherous crisscrossed deadfalls.

I cast my eyes down as I stepped over a gnarled, decayed pine and spotted an ancient arrowhead on the ground near where I planted a boot. The small stone point was perched atop a queer clump of soil that had been exposed by recent rains. I knelt, plucked the point carefully from its resting place and examined it with my magnifying glass.

How many unknown epochs ago had some long-dead Piachi hunter shaped this napped stone point? Had he fired it from a bow or thrown it with an atlatl? Did his sharp stone strike home or had the forgotten, prehistoric hunter gone home hungry?

The silent stone kept its secrets as tiny raindrops beaded on its chert surface. I rubbed a grimy thumb along its weathered edge and scanned the ground for other relics. I saw none, so I stowed the point in an empty pocket and continued my trek towards Kill Devil Hill.

As I approached, I made no attempt to conceal my location from the two strange women atop the Cyclopean hill. I considered what would happen if I startled them. This was rural Southwest Alabama. Both of them were likely armed. Getting shot by a pair of frightened, random backpackers would put a serious damper on my Halloween plans.

What were they doing here? Earlier, while hidden in the dark, amorphous woodline, I’d glassed the women with my binoculars. I saw no rifle, shotgun or bow, so they probably weren’t hunters. That didn’t mean they weren’t carrying handguns.

Perhaps they were thrill-seekers? Maybe they too planned to spend Halloween night atop mysterious Kill Devil Hill. After all, I wasn’t the only one privy to the esoteric stories about the weird hill and other such eldritch locations in the vicinity of Old Claiborne.

At the base of the isolated hill, I looked up the brown, sandy ribbon of singular trail that snaked its way to the summit. I couldn’t see either woman over the rim at the top, but I could hear them talking. I couldn’t make out their obscured words, but I sensed they were oblivious to my presence.

I started up the steep trail and thought about what I would say to them. A minute or so later, I found myself at the end of the trail, slightly out of breath from the brief climb. I stood there on the edge of the bleak and blasted hilltop, catching my breath and taking in the scene.

I could see that the women were young, less than 30 years old. Their backs were to me, and I saw no visible weapons. Their hands were busy with the makings of a camping tent, a sign that they planned to spend the night. I smelled faint, unnamable perfume.

The woman closest to me wore a shirt so orange that it almost hurt my eyes to look at it. I noted that she had on a pair of new hiking boots. As I took in the slick condition of her boots, something else caught my eye.

In one fluid motion, I drew my Beretta, quickly took aim along its cruel, deadly length and squeezed the trigger.

(All rights reserved. This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.)