Eli McMorn and the Strange Case of Kill Devil Hill – Part 13

I eased off to the shady side of the washed-out dirt road and stopped just far enough inside the woodline so that the casual observer might not notice the outline of my dark green Jeep. A large, faceless timber outfit based in Spokane owned this land but leased it to a local hunting club. I knew I was breaking the law and, if caught, I would end up spending the night in the Monroe County Jail on trespass charges rather than atop the Kill Devil Hill. 

No doubt jail would be safer.

I sat there for a few seconds and looked out my dirty windshield. I was miles from the nearest paved road and had reached the point closest to Kill Devil Hill. To make sure, I pulled out my creased topo map for a second look.

From here, it would be a hike west through thick woods. I traced the route with my finger, and it didn’t seem far. Best guess, it would be a two-mile walk if my compass didn’t lead me astray.

Early that morning, back at The Herald office in Claiborne, I reviewed aerial maps of this area on my laptop. Satellite images showed the infamous hill in the middle of a five-acre clearcut. Between here and there was nothing but a wide strip of thick woods, presuming the overheads were up to date.

I switched off my Jeep and prayed it would crank when I returned. It was a few minutes before noon on October 31 – All Hallows’ Eve – and first frost had fallen two days before. Cold weather will suck down an old battery faster than anything other than leaving your headlights and radio on overnight.

I stepped out of the Jeep and listened. The smell of autumn woods filled the air, and the longleaf pines rocked in the wind with the sound like tires passing somewhere on a distant highway. My boots crunched on the road’s surface as I stepped around to the back of the Jeep to grab my pack.

I pulled out my cell phone and waved it slowly in front of me. No service. I was too deep in the woods. There’d be no calling for help if I stepped on a late-season rattler or ran into a tweaker tending a hidden dope patch.

The solid weight of the Beretta M9 on my hip reassured me that I could handle anything I might encounter. Its 15 rounds would do the job. Plus, I had spare magazines. In one cargo pocket, I even had a magazine full of custom-made silver bullets.

I’d used that magazine of costly silver bullets before. The last time had been on a werewolf in Claiborne’s Narrows, that mazelike slum of old buildings, shunned warehouses and wretched shanties. But that is a story for another day.

My Jeep was about as secure as it was going to get. Who knows when another vehicle had passed this way? I saw no recent tracks on the way in and figured that chances were pretty good that my Jeep would still be here unmolested when I walked out in the morning.

So used to going it alone, I realized then that I’d made the mistake of not telling anyone where I was going. Did I really want to do this? What was the point? What was to be gained?

I’d had this conversation with myself many times before. Truth is, I was Eli McMorn, Alabama’s foremost paranormal investigator. I grew up playing in the Sinks, a place where over the years so many have entered but never returned.

I’ve been places like this before. I’ll be in them again. I am not afraid of the boogeyman. I was born to do this sort of thing.

With my mental pep talk over, I hoisted my pack unto my shoulders and was glad that I only had to hike two miles. Its weight consisted mostly of a special load that I wouldn’t have to carry back. Of course, that’s presuming that I can do what others say is impossible and survive through one night atop Kill Devil Hill.

(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.)