You've Never Met Someone Quite Like Me

The flames danced lazily in the night air. Another day had passed, and another successful hunt had ended. The scar decorating your left shoulder twinged, reminding you that it was there. With every monster you killed, with every life you saved, you hoped to feel a little better about that night so long ago. The night you learned that there were things that went bump in the dark. The forest around you hummed softly with life, small animals scrambling to investigate the crackling fire consuming the body of the predator from which you'd freed them. You couldn't say that wendigoes were a common prey of yours, you weren't even sure many of them existed, but the creature had been a worthy opponent. It took you the better part of a week to follow it back to its den. Or rather, the abandoned mine shaft; filled with rotted wood and spiders it used to store its meals. You shuddered. Spiders. Of all the hunts you had been on, you'd never gotten over your fear of those tiny eight-legged beasts. The carcass of the monster creaked, slumping further into the flame. You needed to get back to the motel, having spent a week running on little sleep; it was time to tend to the soreness in your muscles. The walk back to your car passed quickly. With the forest now safe, it was easy to get lost in thought as you made your way back to your cherry-red Chevy Chevelle. It had been your dad's car before he was killed by whatever it had been that had gone bump that night. You hadn't seen the beast, but you'd heard it. It moved so fast through the dark of your home that you may not have even believed it was there if it weren't for the souvenir it left knotted on your shoulder. Guilt bubbled in your chest as your beloved car came into view, the moon reflecting in its glossy paint. If you had known then what you know now, maybe they would be alive today. Maybe, you wouldn't have the burning need to drive from state to state investigating strange occurrences. Perhaps, you would have been a normal girl. One drowning in an oversized sweater, all her time spent with her face buried in a romance novel, living in her tiny apartment over a bookstore. But that wasn't what had happened, and you were sure there was never going to be a version of your life where you could be that kind of girl. Your thoughts were snapped back to your surroundings by the sound of branches cracking and two male voices bouncing through the trees. Out of habit, your body tensed as you lowered yourself to the ground, straining to pinpoint the source of your unwanted company. Careful not to announce your presence, you trailed behind the sound, trying to get closer to hear what the voices were saying. "How many times do I have to tell you, Dean, when there are missing people in the mountains, we need a map," the voice paused, the loud crashing of leaves filled his silence before continuing, "We're lost, and I am not carrying you back when you twist an ankle in this mess," it finished. The second voice grunted in response. You inched closer, still not being able to make them out in the dark. "It's not that hard, Sammy. Watch where you're stepping and follow the claw marks on the trees. How many times have we done this?" The crunching of the forest floor stopped while his question hung in the air. You seized the opportunity to quickly flank the voices, drawing close to the side of them, and peered around the brush to find two men standing in a small clearing. They weren't far from where you'd left the smoldering corpse of your wendigo. Their flashlights flicked through the trees, both of them huffing from the effort of walking up the mountain. "Enough, but if we had a map," the taller one drew a deep breath, lacing his words with frustration, "we would have known that we could have driven most of the way." He gestured fruitlessly towards where your Chevelle sat, "There's a road over there, Dean. This walking is ridiculous." His partner turned his flashlight towards him, revealing the voice to be the massive mop-headed shape of a man. He wore jeans, matched unironically with a red plaid shirt and heavy-soled boots. Wincing at the brightness of the light, he turned his own on the other man. He was shorter, with a more military haircut, and dressed nearly the same with the addition of a dark, heavy jacket. "Walking never hurt anyone," he breathed heavily, hands on his knees, blinking through the sweat dripping through his brow, "Don't get old on me now." "It's not me I'm worried about," the mop said, almost to himself before turning his light back on the trees surrounding them. The light danced around where you were hiding, threatening to reveal your location. The walking continued now, inching ever closer to the mine opening where you'd left your prize. You trailed behind, careful to step on the softer ground to not announce your presence. It took longer than it had taken you, but eventually, the men found themselves standing in front of the remaining embers of your work. Confusion danced between them. "Were there others working on this?" the tall one asked, poking the remains with the toe of his boot. "Not that I know. Bobby didn't say he was sending anyone else to look into this." The military-looking man crouched and carefully sifted through the dirt, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say this is our wendigo." "So we walked up here for nothing?" "I guess," he paused, standing to shine his flashlight into what had been the wendigo's dwelling, "We should check it out to be sure. Wouldn't want to make you walk all the way back, would we?" You watched as the two men drew guns from their pants and entered the mine. As silently as you could, you crept to the opening, positioning yourself just outside and still out of sight, patiently listening to them explore the length of the shaft. It had never occurred to you that others may also know about monsters. That other people might take it upon themselves to rid the world of these dangers, allowing regular people to go about their lives none the wiser. Looking up at the sky, you determined that it would be dawn soon, and, unwilling to be discovered, you decided to make your way back to your car. Hunger pains ravaged your stomach; you had spent your entire day up here struggling with righting the wrongs of nature, and eating was something you'd forgotten to do. You found your car where you had left it, tucked skillfully away from the small dirt road that led you up the mountain and into the forest. The interior still smelled of old leather and motor oil. The way it had always smelled, even when it was your father driving it. Putting the key in the ignition, it turned over eagerly, the engine purring at your touch. Taking a deep breath, you put the car into gear and made your way down the mountain, passing a beautiful classic impala on the way. You made a mental note of it. That must be the car of the two men you left in the mine. ~ The water drummed against your skull. There was nothing as refreshing as a hot shower after a long day. The heat seeped into your aching muscles, willing them to relax. The pain melted away, and the smell of cheap little motel soaps filled the air. You were sure you would never grow to appreciate the sickeningly floral scents motels chose to stock the rooms, but it beat the smell of burning flesh-eating monster by far. As was your habit, you stood in the shower until the water began to run cold, the steam forming a sort of barrier between you and the evils of the world behind it. Shutting the water off before it ran completely cold, you pulled back the curtain and stepped into the main of the bathroom. The small white tiles on the floor bit at your feet while you toweled yourself dry. In your experience, every motel was the same. Each one smelled of dust and cigarettes. The linens were always a suspicious off-white color. And the rooms were always sparsely decorated with tacky wallpaper and hideous comforters. But they were better than sleeping in your car, so you did your best not to be too dampened by them. You'd been able to afford the rooms in each town you investigated, thanks to the substantial amount you had inherited from your father after his murder. You tried not to think about how you would get by when that inevitably ran out. Slipping into a pair of sweats and a tank top, you shook the thoughts of money and musty rooms from your mind and pulled out your laptop. There was no better way to find new targets than to read the news, as depressing as it was. There was always someone disappearing; or someone killed in a horrific, mysterious way. Before you'd found what you were looking for, your scrolling was interrupted by the deep rumbling of a car pulling into the parking lot outside your room. Car doors slammed, and you were surprised to recognize the voices of the two men from your wendigo hunt. "Call Bobby and ask him if he knew about anyone else in the area," one said, pausing, "Look at this. A Chevelle." You think you can hear the dull sound of someone kicking your tires, "It's gorgeous sitting next to Baby," he finished. You rose from your laptop and peered between your blinds. Sure enough, it was the men you had seen before. You could see them more clearly now in the early morning light. The short one was running a hand over the hood of your car; the taller remained beside the black impala. He didn't seem as small now, as he had in the forest, without his partner standing beside him. He was at least 6 feet tall. The dawn kissed his face, highlighting the strength of his features. His handsomely squared jaw worked in tandem with his glowing green eyes and gently freckled skin. He was stunning. You bounced your eyes almost unwillingly to the taller man, he too, was handsome; in a softer way. You didn't have time to digest his features before finding yourself opening your motel room door and surprising them both, "She's beautiful, isn't she?" you hear your voice say, startling your car's admirer. "This is a good piece of machinery," he says, turning to you. His eyes meet yours, bringing his gleefulness about the car to a halt; there's a moment of silence shared between you as nameless emotion dances across his face. Intense and warm as the sun. "Sorry if we woke you. My brother, Dean, loves cars and forgets his manners," the voice causes Dean to shift his attention to his brother, leaving you cold in its absence. The tall one strides over to you and offers you a meaty hand, "My name is Sam. It's nice to meet you." With a quick glance to Dean, you take Sam's hand in yours and shake it firmly, "A pleasure, I'm sure," you say, meeting his eyes. He's a sweet-looking man, presumably a gentle giant based on the softness swelling in his golden-brown eyes. He smiles at you and gestures towards your car in a sweeping motion, "I'm sure my brother is just dying to ask you about your Chevelle." You nod, stepping towards your father's vehicle, "I'm sorry to say, I don't know much about it. My father left it to me after he passed." You walk around the side opposite of Dean, running a limp hand lightly over the paint, aware of his eyes tracking you, "I keep her clean and take her for her oil changes, but as far as how she runs, I can't tell you. I've meant to learn more to take care of her myself, but I just haven't found the time." Dean grins at you, lips pulling back to reveal perfect white teeth, "Well," he pauses, looking at Sam for a moment, and back to you, "We should be in town a couple of days. I'd love to take a peek under her hood," he finished, never taking his eyes off you. You noted the kindling flame behind them and shrugged, "I think I'd like that."