Paw Prints

It started last week when I was jogging.

We had a series of bad storms in our area. Nothing too out of the ordinary for the Midwest. After all, when you live in a place literally called Tornado Alley, you’re used to the weather turning on a dime. 

The storm damage wasn’t too bad. It was just a couple of busted windows and a few bent satellite dishes. Nothing a few insurance claims couldn’t fix.

Once the temperature started warming up, I donned my workout gear and headed out the door. I was eager to work off months of inactivity and winter snacking. But after last week, I think I’ll stick to the treadmill.

My favorite jog site was a winding concrete path which ran down by the river which borders our small town. It’s a pretty peaceful area, and I hardly ever see more than a few joggers and bikers at a time. Usually I gaze out at the river, noticing how the sun glitters off the river like sparkling diamonds, as the small waves bounce playfully off the shore. There’s typically more than a few geese along the river. They honk the moment I come into view, alerting their number to move towards the river, which they do in comical accord.

As the river came into view this one particular evening, I noticed there was tons of debris on the shore. I saw curling and broken tree branches of various sizes, all lining the shores. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. We had a pretty dry winter before spring, so the harsh wind of last week’s storm probably snapped the brittle wood before sending it scattering down the river.

I saw more of the storm’s handiwork as I continued my jog, but it’s what I didn’t see - or heard - that unnerved me even more. Silence enveloped the area. I had at least expected to see woodpeckers or perhaps the odd termite going to town on the downed lumber, but I didn’t see any animals in sight. The goose who normally littered the path were strangely absent, along with all other signs of life.

Undaunted, I continued on my jog, but even the river, usually glistening in the amber evening sun, seemed strangely still tonight. Still, I reasoned beggars couldn’t be choosers and with my schedule I needed to take jogs where I could find them, even if mother nature wasn’t cooperating with me.

I kept jogging at my usual pace, making my way down the path and trying to avoid the various obstacles the storm had thrown in my path. Half a mile later, I nearly fell on my ass, during which time I yelled out several decidedly unladylike obscenities. I was able to keep my balance, though I wasn’t too worried about falling anyway. Winter had bestowed me with additional padding on my backside, which came in handy even if I was desperate to lose the added weight. 

I initially thought I had stumbled over some of the debris from the storm, but I looked down to see that wasn’t the case at all. Instead, I had almost slipped on some mud on the path. On further inspection, I realized the river had crept over the jogging path, spilling dirt and water everywhere. In the days since, it had receded, but the muddy remnant remained nonetheless.

As I looked down the path, I saw the mud only became deeper from here on out, so I knew I probably had to cut my jog short. Digging my heel into the ground to the side of the path, however, I discovered the area to be slightly less moist than the rest of the area, giving me a short distance I could tread before turning back. I figured I needed to make the most out of my jog anyway.

I started my hike down what was left of the trail. It was slow-going, but at least I didn’t have to turn back as soon as I feared I would. Small paw-prints dotted the path before me, giving some indication of the wildlife which had frequented this area. I saw the small pinprick signs of raccoons along with the waddling signs of geese in the area.

And then I laughed when I saw two large human prints plodding through the mud trail. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who had been taken by surprise when the trail went to mud. What surprised me was the persistence of the track, as if the individual kept going. The tracks were large and almost seemed…barefoot even the outline of their toes. I promptly banished this thought from my mind. Many runners wear form-fitting shoes which could account for these shapes.

However, my logic couldn’t account for the shapes I saw next. The footprints seemed to contract and sharpen, becoming simultaneously more padded while also gaining sharp indentations on the ends. Did these tracks belong to a person walking a dog? But even if that were the case, why was it impossible to tell the owner’s track from his dog’s? 

A chill ran down my spine, and it wasn’t from the cold evening wind. I needed to turn back anyway. As I did so, I was face to face with a deep cut on a tree bark. I wasn’t a naturalist, but I could tell something was out of place. The cut appeared too jagged and erratic to be made by a blade. It almost looked like a . . . 

Claw mark.

I decided this was all too weird. I turned back and immediately started hiking up the way I came back to the concrete path, as muddy as it was. As soon as I had, a guttural cry rang out in the distance, too high to be an animal, yet too rough and deep to be a person. But there was no way in hell I was stopping to see what it was.

I leapt back onto the concrete path and burst into a full-on sprint. My feet slipped in the mud, but I kept running until I reached the start of the path. As I looked back into the wooded path, I swear I saw two red eyes peering back at me through the treeline, but that was probably just the product of adrenaline.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

Regardless, I haven’t been back to the river walk since. 

I don’t know what I heard that night. Or even, perhaps saw. I just know one thing - I’m not the only one. Only people around town have heard it, or seen just glimpses of it. No one knows quite what it is, but there is one consensus.

That bad storm blew something into our town. And whatever it is, it’s here to stay.