I set off on foot from my Jeep a few minutes after noon. That
was two uncertain hours ago. I can’t say for sure how long it’s been. My
wristwatch stopped at 19 minutes after 12.
As soon as I entered the dismal woods, circumstances started
to slow me down. It was as if the woods wanted to keep me from spending the
night atop Kill Devil Hill on what was forecast to be a cold All Hallows’ Eve. Right
away, it started to rain, and unsettling, dark clouds forced me to use my headlamp
to find my way through the dark trees.
My brass compass – a relic of World War II – was useless,
unable to give me a simple bearing west. I pulled it from my pocket and checked
it again. I opened it with a snap and watched the red needle creep round and
round in a fruitless effort to find magnetic north.
The ancient ground was covered with a thick layer of decayed
leaves and pine straw. I kicked away a clear spot with my boot and saw chunks
of iron rock, like football-sized lumps of brimstone, mixed in with the loamy
soil. No doubt these dense, rust-colored rocks played havoc with the old
compass. I snapped it closed and stowed it away.
Wide, marshy bogs that I had to navigate around also slowed
my progress. On my topo map, these dank wetlands were shown only as thin, blue
lines, appearing to be nothing more than streams that I could jump over. In
reality, they were black, stagnant ponds filled with venomous snakes and bloated
spiders.
I let my heavy backpack slip from my shoulders, so I could adjust
my wet-weather top. Suddenly and without warning, a motion at the base of a
nearby tree caught my eye, and I jumped back. It was a loathsome, black cottonmouth,
moving slow on this second day after the first frost. The deadly snake slithered
furtively towards a marshy bottom fifty yards away.
The sluggish snake had been lurking near the base of an archaic
post oak. A few feet from the ground, the surface of the tree was covered with
thick, green moss. I knelt for a closer look. This was the north side of the
tree.
I turned to my right and looked into the distance for a
point that would carry me west towards Kill Devil Hill. The trees were close
together here, but I saw a rotten tree about 100 yards away that looked like it
had been struck by lightning. I shouldered my pack and made my way towards the blasted
tree.
I reached the gnarled tree to find it alive and well. The
large, dead spot that caught my eye from a distance was an amorphous patch of trunk
that had been stripped of bark. In the center was a carved, stylized rune that
looked pagan, probably wiccan, maybe voodoo.
The carving looked like two triangles joined at the point. My mind associated the rune with the hourglass mark of a black widow, a creature worshipped and feared by the Piachi Indians. However, the oddly female form also called to mind the image of a bird or a bat.
I’d seen arborglyphs before in the Sinks outside of Claiborne, but not this particular rune. It was hard to say what it meant, but it didn’t look fresh. It had been carved over a year ago, maybe longer.
I examined the enigmatic rune closely with my magnifying glass. Tiny marks told me it had been carved with a short-bladed knife. I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture of the odd symbol. I’d look it up later at the college library.
I faced west and peered into the distance. There, about 100 yards away, was another curious tree that looked like it also had been struck by lightning. I knew I’d find another tree stripped of bark and marked with a similar, if not identical, cryptic rune.
I picked up my pack and made two steps in that direction when I heard a twig snap nearby. The dense trees and patter of rain made it impossible to pinpoint the source of the disturbing sound. I drew my Beretta and chambered a round.
I was not alone.
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