He sought reflection in still water — but what looked back was not his own.
I pull into the parking lot and turn off the engine. It’s been a rough few months—stress at work, stress at home. Too much to do, too little time or energy. That, in turn, led to arguments at home. My partner and I never fight, normally, so this was a warning sign.
We both realized we needed some peace and quiet—time for ourselves, and time together.
I wanted to go on a fishing trip for a few days: camp out, fish, grill, and just relax. Phone off. That would be my week of calm, all to myself. My partner booked a stay at a spa hotel. Next week we’ll fly to Turkey for a two-week vacation together.
But now I’m here.
I open the car door and stretch. My back cracks—another reminder that I’m not twenty anymore. It’s strange, really. I feel twenty-five, but my body keeps reminding me I’m creeping up on fifty.
I walk around to the trunk and pop it open. The backpack is heavy, but I tell myself it’ll be much lighter on the way home. Four six-packs of beer, plus all the sausages, burgers, bread and condiments—by the time I head back in three days, they’ll all be gone.
I swing the backpack onto my shoulders, grab the cooler in one hand, the fishing rod and tackle box in the other, and start down the trail. I used to fish here a lot when I was younger, and my friends and I almost always had the place to ourselves. Hopefully no one else is here this weekend either.
The autumn sun feels warm and pleasant, and it doesn’t take long before I start sweating. I take a short break, unzip my jacket, and continue on. If I remember correctly, it shouldn’t take more than two hours to reach the water. I used to come here all the time growing up—so many memories. The whole way down I find myself smiling, lost in thought.
When I finally arrive, I’m surprised it went so quickly—but my phone says it’s been just over three hours. Notifications light up from Facebook, Instagram, and my email, but I resist the urge to check them. I swipe everything away and put the phone in airplane mode. I won’t look at it once during these days—not even to take pictures.
The sun is setting, its reflection blinding me off the clear water. I drop my pack at a fire pit by the shore and sit down on one of the logs. I was smart enough to pack two beers on top, so I grab one and crack it open. A cold Norrlands Guld—can’t go wrong with that. I enjoy the warmth of the sun, the view of the river, and the taste of the beer when my stomach growls. “Guess it’s asking for grilled sausages,” I think to myself.
I finish the beer, crush the can, and toss it into the trash bag. Then I pull out the hatchet and chop some wood from the nearby pile. Soon the fire is going and heat radiates toward me. This is the life.
Three thick spicy sausages with mustard, ketchup, and crispy onions—and two more beers later—I sit full and content. It’s getting dark, so I decide to pitch the tent and call it a night. If I go to bed now, I’ll wake early and have a full day of fishing ahead. Perfect.
Setting up the tent is easy, and I fall asleep almost immediately after crawling into my sleeping bag. Sometime later, I wake to a sound outside—it’s like footsteps. But I ignore it. Probably just a deer.
The next morning, I wake to sunlight flooding the tent. My body creaks as I stretch, but it could be worse. I unzip the tent and step outside. It’s a beautiful autumn day—the sun shining, the air completely still. Doesn’t matter if I catch anything; just being here will do me good.
After brewing some coffee over the fire, I start unpacking my fishing gear. As I stand there choosing which lure to start with, munching on a snack sausage, I suddenly get the feeling I’m being watched. The hair on my neck stands up and I shiver. Uneasy, I glance around—but see nothing.
I try to shake it off and go back to my gear, but the feeling won’t go away. I look around again—still nothing.
Then my gaze drifts to the opposite shore and catches on something. In a thicket behind a fallen, dried-out tree trunk… something seems to be there. I squint, but can’t make it out.
I shake my head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I tell myself. “What would be standing there watching you?”
No, time to fish. I pick up the rod, pull another beer from the cooler, and slip it into my cargo pocket. Just then, movement—branches on the far side snap together, as if something had been holding them apart right where I was looking.
A chill runs through me. Maybe I should just pack up and head home, I think for a moment. But no—I came all this way. I’m having my fishing weekend.
I cast the line for the first time. Then again, and again. The lure flicks across the water, and after a few bites I forget all about what was bothering me.
The day drifts by. Two pike caught, a grilled burger dinner, and four beers later, the sun begins to set again. I sit watching the light fade when something moves on the far shore. I freeze, staring hard. Whatever it is, it’s coming closer to the water. My pulse quickens, my palms slick with sweat.
Then a person steps out—a fisherman, holding his fly rod high. Relief floods through me, and I can’t help but laugh out loud at myself. How stupid can you get?
The fisherman must hear me, because he looks up and waves. I wave back—but then freeze. There’s something behind him.
Before I can react, something large, dark, and hairy leaps onto him. It looks like a cross between a wolf and a man, tearing the poor guy to pieces.
I sit frozen, paralyzed with fear, watching the horror unfold across the water. I realize I need to get out of here—fast. I slowly crawl up toward the path into the forest, but my coffee pot tips over, clanging against the stones by the fire pit. The metallic sound rings out like a hammer strike in the silence.
I turn slowly toward the river. The creature’s gaze locks with mine, and my heart skips a beat. It moves toward the water—toward me. Panic rises in my chest. I jump up and run into the woods.
I can’t find the trail, so I just run, crashing through the trees.
Branches tear at my face, ripping my clothes. I can taste blood in my mouth from the exertion.
Up ahead—a tall cliff. I know this cliff; I climbed it countless times as a kid. Can I do it again? I have to try. Maybe whatever’s chasing me can’t follow me up there. Maybe I’ll be safe.
Each breath burns like barbed wire scraping my throat. Sweat pours down my face, stinging my eyes. My vision blurs.
My shirt sticks to my back, my jeans cling to my legs, my feet throb with pain. I can feel skin torn from my heels and toes, my socks soaked with blood. Each step widens the wounds—but I can’t stop. If I stop, I die.
Yet I have to stop. My pulse is hammering so hard it feels like my heart will burst through my ribs.
I pause, leaning on a tree, trying to catch my breath—just a few seconds of rest.
Then I hear branches snapping behind me. It’s coming. I have to move.
My jeans have rubbed my thighs raw, pain shooting up my legs as I push forward again. Every step sends waves of agony from my feet through my body.
The cliff must be close. I can’t last much longer. My body screams with exhaustion, but adrenaline and raw survival keep me moving.
There! Finally—the cliff. The footsteps behind me are closing in. I start to climb.
I grab a root, plant a foot on a rock ledge, haul myself up. A little higher. And higher.
The pain in my legs and feet flares again, my fingers raw and bleeding. Blood and sweat sting my eyes, blinding me, but I can’t stop to wipe them. I have to keep climbing.
I’ve made it nearly ten meters up when I hear it below me—snarling, panting. It’s right there. Please, let it not be able to climb.
I glance down. Two glowing red eyes stare up from a brown-black, fur-covered face. It bares its huge white fangs and roars.
It can’t climb. I’m going to make it. The thought gives me new strength, and I scramble upward. I should have been more careful—
A stone under my foot shifts. Suddenly I’m hanging by one hand from a root. My hands are slick with sweat; the root slips through my fingers. I reach desperately for another hold, but lose my grip—and fall.
I close my eyes, waiting for the impact.
With a jolt, I open them again. It was the worst nightmare I’ve had in years. I must’ve fallen out of bed and woken up.
But why am I lying on the ground?
I turn my head and look up. The huge jaw full of razor-sharp teeth rushing toward my face is the last thing I ever see.
Certainly filled with suspense and great visuals. But I'm not much for monsters in the woods, so it's not my best kind of story.
As I read, I thought maybe the scene of the guy being ripped apart was a part of a movie being shot there. You weren't alone, but you were deceived by what you saw and what was following you was actually a runner for the director to ask you if you wanted to participate in the movie.
The Butcher's Boy
- 2011 Readers Favorite Award Silver Medal Winner in Horror - Fiction
A Paranormal/Chiller by Michael Robb
Thirty-one years ago, Buxly the Butcher went to trial for killing h
Did you ever wonder what happened after the Archangel Michael through the demons out of heaven? Let one of them guide you through the origin of evil in the world.
I pull into the parking lot and turn off the engine. It’s been a rough few months—stress at work, stress at home. Too much to do, too little time or energy. That, in turn, led to arguments at home. My partner and I never fight, normally, so this was a warning sign.
