The Cold Light of Autumn by Billy Ramone

The Cold Light of Autumn by Billy Ramone

Benny’s family had a cabin down in the Hocking Hills.I’d never been there, but I’d heard it was nice. So when he asked if I wanted to come down and spend Thanksgiving weekend with him and his folks, I was like sure.It sounded like fun.

Then I asked my Uncle Spence and he said no.This made no sense to me.Not only was it a drag and really unfair, but it was also totally unlike Spence.And I told him that.

Now, I understand that Uncle Spence was kind of a strange guy. He was a realloner: extremely reclusive and didn’t have a friend in the world.He’d already retired by this time, and I think there were times that whole weeks would pass when I was maybe the only one he’d talk to.But there wasn’t anything, you know, crazy about him.He was just the quiet, stay-at-home type.He’d been married once, for a few years, but his wife left him long ago.I sort of figured she’d probably just gave up on the marriage out of boredom.But if he wasn’t exciting, be was kind-hearted and dependable.At least to me.And for the most part I think that’s what I needed.He was my dad’s oldest brother, more than twenty years older than him.For an old single guy who never had kids of his own and never planned on any, he did a good job of raising me after my parents died. He cared, but he was laid back and practical, and we got along pretty well most of the time.

So when he said no about going with Benny, I really didn’t get it.He knew Benny.He’d even met Benny’s folks once.Even if he didn’t like to socialize, he’d never tried to stop me from having friends.

He was sitting at his desk in the study, filings from a case spread out before him, and he listened to my defense of Benny for a minute, then started shaking his head.

“It’s not about Benny or his parents, I know they’re o.k.” Then after a minute he added, “It’s the hills.”

I started to ask him what hemeant, but I saw the look in his eyes and the question died in my throat.He was looking at me, sure, he always has a way of looking a person right in the eye when he’s talking to them, but he wasn’t seeing me.He was looking through me into someplace else.He looked frightened.

His big hands tapped out a hasty rhythm on the desktop, then his eyes found me again and he gave a lean smile.“I can’t say that any of this really makes any sense.All I can tell you is that it happened, o.k.?I mean really.”

He swiveled in his chair.There was a fire in the hearth.He stared into the flames, his eyes hardening in the flickering reflections.

“This was about twenty years ago, the last time I was in the Hocking Hills. . . ”

& & &

“Spencer Johnson, the cross-examiner!”

Kilroy and Hicks erupted with laughter.They covered their mouths, but the staccato outburst rippled through the early morning of the southern Ohio woods. Spencer pulled off his orange cap and tossed it at Hicks.

“Fuck you.”

Hicks smiled threw the cap back.”What do you think?” he asked Kilroy, as he eyed the No Trespassing sign nailed to the oak tree before them.”Do we dare proceed?”

“Ah, let’s weigh the alternatives,” said Kilroy.

“Fuck you,” Spencer said again.

“Hicks, you still own the property?”Kilroy asked with a chuckle.

“Christ, it’s a reasonable question, Jack,” Spencer interrupted. He put his cap back on and pointed at the sign.”If it’s Hicks’ property and he didn’t put that up, who did?”

“I figure doofus got drunk one night and hung it and forgot.”

“Seems to me,” Hick’s drawled, “that night I got drunk I was too busy banging your mama to hang any signs.”

“Funny,” said Kilroy.

“But really,” Spencer said.”Are we sure it’s o.k. for us to be here?That’s all I’m asking.”

Hicks laughed.”Stop thinking like a lawyer.It’s my land.Hell, we’ve been deer hunting here for nineteen years.If it was a problem, I think we’d have heard about it by now.”

Spencer nodded.Hicks was right.He was thinking like an attorney.Of course, too many years in corporate law would do that to a guy.

“Help me out with this,” Hicks muttered.He handed Spencer his gun, leaned against Kilroy’s shoulder, and shimmed up the trunk of the tree. His splayed fingers tugged the edge of the orange and black sign, which didn’t budge.Hicks dropped back to the ground.”Hell with it.I kinda like it anyway.Let’s go.”

They skirted the edge of the hollow and started up the side of the neighboring hill.Occasionally they plunged into one of the ravines that scored the slope.Thin crusts of snow, remnants of the previous day’s flurries, nestled between chunks of limestone. Snatches of birdsong fluttered through the trees in the early morning light.

Spencer eyed his old friends as the light grew. The years on the Honda assembly line hadn’t been kind to Kilroy.His shoulders were bent and he held his head forward at an awkward angle, like he was leaning under the hood to adjust something.Beer weight puffed his face, which seemed to have grown to twice its former size between his obliterated hairline and the double chin.He looked like Kilroy’s dad. Bobby Hicks’ life as a pharmacist appeared to have treated him a little better.He was thinner and starting to gray at the temples, but he still looked like himself.

Spencer wondered what his friends saw when they looked at him.Was he still Spencer Johnson, or was he turning into Spencer’s old man?If his muscles weren’t as lean as they’d once been, at least he hadn’t bloated like Kilroy.Over twenty years had passed since Jack Kilroy had opened holes in defensive lines and flattened linebackers on their way to winning the state championship.Long years since he and Bobby Hicks had run the option together, clicking in perfect unity like Cornelius Green and Archie Griffin.Sometimes he wondered what had happened to that kid who, without thinking, just seemed to know when the ball was coming his way.

& & &

The cold November sun filtered through the trees and dappled his arm.His breath puffed white in front of his eyes.Spencer always liked the stillness.The electric tension in the pause made him feel alive.His every nerve strained for the first sign of his prey–the snap of a twig, the rustle of bush, the twitch of tawny movement.

The screams were so unexpected that they threw Spencer momentarily.Then he was running toward the sound, gun grasped securely before him, lean legs a pumping blur.A gun blast ripped through the morning air and echoed about the hills.The voice–Hicks’–rose in a guttural bellow of pain and disbelief, the enraged cry of a wounded beast, then broke.The quiet in its wake seemed empty and unnatural.

Even over rough terrain, it only took a minute before Spencer arrived at the station where he and Kilroy had left Hicks.His legs churned to a stop as he scanned the wooded slope. He saw no one.

“Hicks!” he yelled.

“Hicks!Spence!” It was Kilroy, off to his left.

“Kilroy!”

“Here.”

Spencer crashed through the underbrush and found Kilroy crouched alongside the trunk of a fallen maple.He held up something long and metal.A gun.Spencer took it and turned it over in his hands.The stock was gone.The barrel was black and corroded.

“It’s Hicks’s,” Kilroy said.

“Bullshit.”

“Look at the etching.I’m telling you, that’s Hicks’s gun.”

The faint remnant of design on the barrel did remind Spencer of Hicks’s gun.

“Hicks!”

“Hicks!”

They listened, but the wood gave back nothing.

“Are you sure it’s his?” Spencer asked.

“Yeah.Maybe.”

“It’s not.How could it be?”

“I don’t know.Hicks!”

“We need to look,” Spencer said.

“Yeah.I’ll go left.You go right.Two hundred paces, semicircle out and back.We stay in voice contact.”

“Yeah.”

In the middle of their third sweep, Kilroy began to scream.Spencer charged and found Kilroy in a clearing, sunlight bathing his figure.He appeared to be wrestling a rainbow.His legs were swinging, his arms waving in the air, all entangled in a kaleidoscopic web of goo.Spencer saw the colors blanch and then deepen again.As he drew closer, he saw that Kilroy was standing in a knee-deep puddle of the glop, screaming and rocking back and forth.He batted at it with his hands, and they came away coated.

Spencer hurried forward.In his agony, Kilroy didn’t seem to notice him. As he drew closer, Spencer saw that the stuff covering his friend was more akin to molten glass than to jelly.It moved smoothly and left blistered roadmaps where it had worked its way along his friend’s skin.Kilroy tried to move forward but appeared to be rooted to the spot. He saw Spencer and flailed toward him with his contaminated hands.Their eyes locked.

Spencer no longer heard the screams.But he witnessed the process of disintegration, inch by inch.Kilroy’s struggles did not prevent an orange tide from rising to his waist.His camouflage pants devolved into long strips of cloth. The skin Spencer glimpsed underneath looked raw and blistered. Spencer saw it happen without really watching.He focused on Kilroy’s eyes instead.He read the agony there, the plea.The impotence of his friendship ached in him like a rotten tooth.

Suddenly, Kilroy stretched his arms again, bones visible through his blackened, rainbow-coated fingers.Yellow-green rivulets had streamed up his arms, taking skin with them.The flashing tide now rose to his sternum.His jacket gaped open.The lower half of his gray OSU sweatshirt hung in tatters, as did the skin of his belly underneath. He took a half-step toward Spencer, then another, and then he tottered.Spencer realized that the simple movement required all of his friend’s strength.Just before Kilroy’s left leg collapsed, Spencer saw it had been reduced to bone and sinew.The right buckled a split second later.As Kilroy dropped to what was left of his knees, the pillar of molten death turned purple and raced upwards to engulf his head.

“Jesus Christ!”

Spencer’s paralysis broke and he charged forward, whipping off his hunting vest. He had to get that stuff off his friend.He tossed the vest over Kilroy’s head and began working it, towel-like, careful to keep the vest between his own skin and the hot plasm moving underneath. Just when he thought he was making progress, most of Kilroy’s scalp and face pulled lose in his grasp.

He let go of the vest and jumped back as Kilroy slid the rest of the way to the ground.As the lifeless body fell forward, the colors of the thing froze and then faded to silver. It sat quivering like a giant drop of mercury.In the sudden quiet, Spencer’s breakfast found its way back into his mouth.There was a damp pop and the blackened bones and cloth that were the last of Kilroy disappeared into the quicksilvery shape.

A clap of thunder roared through Spencer’s head.He realized belatedly that he’d fired into the thing.He wondered if this were an act of mercy or aggression, but it didn’t matter: Kilroy was beyond help, and the slug had no effect on the thing. It sat there, still now, looking like a small dome of bright plastic or chrome, two feet high and maybe six across. Motionless, it looked so innocent, so harmless, so fascin–

A bright blue rivulet suddenly spurted upward, almost catching Spencer in the chest as he flung himself backwards.He landed on his ass and scuttled crab-like to avoid the multi-hued wash that gushed after him.He rolled and found his feet and ran, not bothering to look back.He sprinted as hard as he could, then slowed to a steady chug when his lungs could not maintain the pace.When he could not go any further, he stopped and turned and looked back.

It was thirty yards behind him, stretched out like a rainbow anaconda and closing fast.

& & &

Twelve hours later, the thing was out in front of the cabin in a square of evening sunlight, basking like a silver tortoise.

When Spencer had found the old cabin, little more than a plywood shed, he had already run further into the woods than he had ever been before.The place stood decaying in the deep shade under a thick stand of white pine.He’d charged in thinking someone might be there, someone who could help, before he had a chance to realize that this was a ridiculous idea.Once inside, he’d been torn.The flimsy place offered a bit of short-term shelter, but he could not imagine it would help for long.Even worse, there was only one door and there were no windows.

In the end, he’d been more lucky than smart.The thing had stopped short of the cabin. Watching it follow the sun as the day went on, Spencer became convinced that the deep shade of the pines served as a barrier against it. Whenever he had opened the cabin door for a look, the thing had sparked to colorful life at the sight of him, but it had come no closer than the nearest patch of sunlight.Now, as nightfall approached, Spencer wondered again if the thing would be dormant once the sun went down.And if it was, could he find his way back to the road in the dark?

Spencer put his head in his hands and pushed the questions away.He’d already spent most of the day rehashing the possibilities. His gut said go at dusk: if he struck east he would eventually hit Egyptian Pike.It was his best bet.

He looked at his compass and slid it back into his pocket.He opened the door and looked out.For the first time all day, the thing was nowhere in sight.Spencer froze and scanned the ground, then looked up into the darkening trees.The sky still glowed faintly through the branches, but the flood of daylight had ceased.It was time.

The gathering darkness seemed to ripple with danger.The thing could be waiting anywhere in the gloom.He fixed his eyes on the ground ahead of him.He did not, however, use his flashlight–he needed to save the battery.He held his gun before him and walked slowly, careful of his footing.If the thing went dormant after dark, he had all night to find his way out; if it didn’t, he was screwed.Either way, speed didn’t matter.

Spencer felt more comfortable with each step.After five minutes, he switched on his flashlight and did a 360-degree scan.He saw no sign of the creature.He checked his bearing with the compass then snapped the light off again. In a few more minutes he would need the flashlight for real.He had two miles to go, maybe three.

When the night came fully down, Spencer turned the light on.He walked more quickly now that he could see the skeletal twigs that reached for his face, the roots that grabbed at his boots. But he could discern nothing beyond the shaft of light. The surrounding darkness felt predatory, even though he reminded himself that daylight hadn’t been too kind to his friends.He pressed on.

Even with the flashlight, going was slow.Spencer walked for an hour, then an hour more.His eyes ached from the constant strain, and the beam of his flashlight was growing weak.A brisk wind had started to blow, and the temperature was dropping quickly.Spencer’s skin tingled from the cold.He had just begun to wonder how badly he had misjudged the distance when he came to the cliff.

The drop was at least twenty feet.The beam of the flashlight was no longer strong enough to show him the bottom. At first, Spencer felt incredulous.How could there be a cliff on the way out if they had not scaled one on the way in?But he realized that he may not be badly off course: they did a lot of uphill hiking on the way in, and the path curved and twisted the whole way.His return route had been more direct and was not—he thought belatedly—designed to avoid sudden rises or drops.

He needed to work his way down without losing his bearings, which meant staying close to the edge watching for a path.He went south first, but it was a difficult, frustrating task.The weakness of his dying flashlight was complicated further by the squalls of snow that now darted in and out of the faltering beam.As visibility worsened, the deepening cold and rising wind made his ears burn, even through his knit cap.Spencer realized that he had a new problem.He needed shelter.

He found a small cave in the slope leading down to the cliff.A couple of chunks of limestone stuck out of the earth like old teeth, with dirt and moss filling the chinks between them.The pocket they formed was only a few feet wide and maybe six deep, but it blocked the wind.Spencer gathered twigs and leaves for kindling.Larger sticks and branches proved more elusive, but he found some.He piled them at the opening of the small hollow and started a fire.

The blaze’s warmth slowly took the tingle out of his ears and toes.He took off his gloves and sat them by the fire to warm, then rubbed his hands together over the flames. For a moment, Spencer wished himself back in the little cabin, but he knew he was better off here, closer to the road and home.He saw flurries glimmering in the firelight, but he did not feel them.

He didn’t want to sleep, but after a while something resembling sleep overtook him.He’d nod, then start, then nod again.Half-formed thoughts trailed off into hazy images. A flash of Hicks laughing.Kilroy’s agonized face. A silver streak racing through the sunlight . . . Spencer snapped awake.The fire had sunk to a dull orange bed.It was three a.m.He stumbled out of his nook.Two or three inches of snow covered the ground.The cold was brutal.Blundering in the dark, he found a bit of fuel to revive the fire and scuttled back.He nestled in alongside the restored blaze, and sleep reclaimed him without a struggle.

He awoke again with a thunderous sneeze.To his surprise, the sun was already up.His back and knees protested as he battled stiffly to his feet.He bent and stretched to pull the reluctant blood back through his chilled limbs.As he stepped across the bed of dying embers, he saw his danger immediately.A flood of morning sunlight washed over the slope before him, and there, half-way between his shelter and the lip of the cliff, sat the thing.It ebbed slowly forward.

Spencer waited until it was ten feet in front of him, then he sprang forward and faked left.The creature slid that way, and Spencer cut right.A green-grey arm snaked for him, but Spencer was too quick.He heard a thrashing recovery behind him and sensed the thing was close.He knew what he had to do.

He was over the edge before he had time to look down.As he dropped, legs pinwheeling uselessly beneath him, he caught a glimpse of the trucks–Hicks’ big red Dodge and his smaller Chevy–parked off to the right, no more than a couple hundred feet from the bottom of the cliff. He’d been on course all along.He felt himself starting to smile before the ground charged up to greet him.

Spencer came down on his right side.His shoulder crunched miserably, and he felt ribs crack, but after a few breaths he was still able to struggle to his feet.Once up, he was surprised to discover that his legs still worked, despite the fire in his right hip.Belatedly, he wondered if the thing might jump the cliff, too.He looked up, half-expecting to see it waterfalling toward him, but there was nothing.At least for the moment.

He made his way as quickly as he could.Each step set off a ripple of agony that flowed from his hip to his shoulder and back.Every few lurches he glanced back.When he finally reached the truck and got the door open, he could barely claw his way into the driver’s seat. He shook so hard from pain and cold and grief that it took several minutes for him to fit the key into the ignition.

& & &

Uncle Spence’s eyes remained locked on the burning logs of the fireplace.For a minute he said nothing, then he looked at me and cleared his throat.

“I told the police what happened.They thought I was nuts, of course. Who wouldn’t? Later, when it became clear that Hicks and Kilroy really weren’t coming home, they thought I was a killer. Goodness knows they asked plenty of questions.I’m sure if they’d found even one scrap of evidence, they would have locked me up.But there wasn’t any.I’m not a killer.”

He turned back to the desk, drummed the blotter lightly.

“I’m not a hero, either.I suppose a better man would have gone back.Regrouped, rearmed, whatever . . . went out to hunt the damn thing, whatever it was.Done something to avenge his friends.Proved to their families that he wasn’t crazy.

“But I didn’t.”He laughed.“I guess I was too sensible.It wasn’t going to bring Hicks or Kilroy back.And I had no idea how to stop that thing. So I limped on home.”

He shrugged and looked at me, a faint smile drifting from his lips.“I’ve been limping ever since.”

I thought of how my Uncle’s right hip always gave him trouble, and how he listed to the right when he was in a hurry.An old football injury, he’d told me.I hung there for a minute, half expecting him to burst into a laugh at my wide-eyed gullibility, until it occurred to me that he was one of the least-humorous people I’d ever met.He sat and gazed silently at his hands, looking for all the world like a sad, tired, old man.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Billy Ramone 2024