The Mountaineer

Have you heard of the Mountaineer

who glides o'er the snow?

If you see him coming 'round

He'll drag you far below.

By raging fire or lake of ice

You never can escape

He'll chase you 'round and snatch you up

With claws and mouths that gape

Take heed, unwary children

lest you gaze upon your doom.

The mountains belong to the Mountaineer

But they shall be your tomb.

****************

I sat reclined on the sofa, gazing absentmindedly at the ceiling fan circling overhead. I realized that if I concentrated hard enough, I could see each individual blade as it spun in endless circular motions. My eyes were fixated on the fan, but my brain was somewhere else entirely.

I closed my eyes for a moment, and suddenly I was back on the mountain. I could hear the frigid winds as they shrieked into the dead night, and I could feel them as they blasted my exposed face with what felt like particles of solid ice. All around me, the snow was falling just as I remembered it. I could see it slowly accumulating on the ground around my tent. More than anything, I felt the all encompassing dread I had felt that night. I suffered through the unmistakable feeling that something was watching me as I spun in frantic circles. I was crying out for help; for somebody, for anybody to come rescue me. Nobody came. At least, nobody came in time.

"David!"

I jolted, as though I was awoken from a feverish nightmare. The God-forsaken mountains were gone. The shrieks of the howling wind was replaced by the rhythmic ticking of a clock. I turned my head to the right, half expecting to see the hideous creature that haunted my every waking thought, but I was relieved to see the concerned face of Doctor Stirling staring over at me.

"David, are you alright?" he inquired, quickly scratching something into his notes with his sharpened No. 2 pencil. I sat up from my reclined position on his sofa, rubbing the back of my head.

"I'm alright, Doctor Stirling. I guess I was just daydreaming."

"You were thinking about it again, weren't you?"

The room went silent. The ticking of the clock seemed to fade into oblivion. It was a rhetorical question. Doctor Stirling knew why I was here. It was the same reason I had been coming to his office weekly since I was 16. What happened to me was almost 10 years ago, but something like that...it doesn't leave your brain. At least, not without a fight. I knew what Doctor Stirling wanted to hear, so I conceded.

"Yeah, I was thinking about it again. I mean, it's hard not to, given the circumstances."

He nodded sympathetically.

"David," he spoke softly, "how long has it been now since your parents first brought you in?"

"I was 16," I responded, "it was a few days after that group of rock climbers found me out there. When I told my parents what had happened, they shipped me off to you.  I mean, who wouldn't think I'm crazy after who...what I saw?"

Doctor Stirling frowned, scribbling onto his notepad.

"Don't describe it like that, David. You didn't see any cryptid, demon, or whatever you claimed it to be on your first day.  This 'Mountaineer' character you've created is an amalgamation of an old rhyme used to scare children and your adolescent brain coping with the extreme stress you faced.  What happened was a natural tragedy; it couldn't have been avoided by anybody."

"Listen Doctor," I said defensively, "I know what I saw. I saw that thing ten years ago, and it hasn't left my mind ever since.  Every day, every night, I'm forced to look that thing in the eyes one more time and I'm forced to suffer!  Do you know why I suffer?  Because I'm the one who lived!"

Stirling frowned once more. This time he seemed genuinely concerned with what I had said, rather than simply being displeased that I kept up my insistence of what I saw.

"What do you mean? Surely you realize how lucky you were to-"

"How lucky I was to be rescued? The others, Doctor Stirling, they don't have to live with what I've seen!  I lived, but at what cost?  Do I have to go on living like this forever?  Because I would sooner cut my own throat than go back to those mountains.  I would do it just so I didn't have to remember it each day."

Doctor Stirling wrote something else, then put his notepad and pencil aside. He clasped his hands together and rested them on his knee.

"David, I believe I have a way to rid you of these delusions once and for all. Every type of pill I've prescribed for you has done nothing to quell the effects of your trauma.  It's a risky undertaking, and I'm not sure you're going to like it, but if you go back to those mountains, just for a night, you'll see for yourself that there's nothing up there."

I stared at him in stunned silence. Did he actually want me to go back to those mountains? And for what, some voyage of self-discovery?

"Doctor," I said, trying desperately to stay calm, "I know you don't believe me. I know you don't.  But you have to listen to me when I tell you that there is nothing in those mountains for me but death.  There was death waiting for my friends, and it's still up there waiting for me."

"David, the weekend you and your friends went camping was one of the most severe snowstorms this area has ever seen. Their deaths were tragic, but they were not caused by an otherworldly creature of any kind.  They froze to death, and as I've said before, you were lucky to be rescued before you suffered the same fate."

"We knew it was gonna be like that, Doctor. We came prepared with tons of food, supplies, and all the extra snow gear we could carry.  So tell me Doctor, why did our supplies vanish that night?  We brought all of that stuff so that we would be safe through the storm.  We had planned for it to be an adventure, but we still understood the risks and we had prepared for them.  There was nobody in that area but us, but something took our gear.  How do you explain that."

"Look," Stirling said, trying desperately to change the subject, "I'm not saying you have to go back to that exact spot, or even spend the night. All I'm suggesting is that you take a day trip back to the mountain so that you can come to terms with what really happened.  Studies show that victims of trauma find it helpful to return to the site of the trauma after a long period of recovery.  It's been ten years, David.  You need to face what happened, and you need to do it soon."

I sighed, weighing my options. It seemed like every bone in my body was crying out, begging me not to go back there. But my mind seemed to wrap itself around Stirling's words faster than the pit in my stomach could form. If I went back early in the morning, and left soon after, I would be alright. More than anything, I wanted this nightmare to end, and if what Stirling said was true, I would be able to end it on my own instead of having it fade out of my mind naturally.

I made up my mind. I would go to the mountains, confront whatever inner demon was torturing me for so long, and live the rest of my life as a healthy, sane, productive member of society. I hoped.

**********

It was about 8:30 AM when I officially set foot back on the mountain after 10 years. The mountain itself stood on national park grounds, so a path was carved out along the mountain so people didn't get lost and stumble across an unstable area. It was late autumn, and the air swirled with a brisk aura. It was nothing like the bitter cold I felt that night. As a matter of fact, the cold air on my face felt...refreshing. I could hear the slightly frozen dirt crunch beneath the tread of my heavy boots as I hiked along the path. The trees still had leaves on them, but they were clearly preparing for the harshness of winter. The trail I walked upon was a steep incline, but it was a picturesque trail dotted with unique trees, miniature natural waterfalls, and other natural wonders.

I hiked for about an hour and a half, but I couldn't tell exactly. I seemed to lose my sense of time up on the mountain. I knew it was still early morning, but I wasn't sure how much time had passed since my arrival. The further I went, the colder it became. My mind began to race with paranoia and suspicion, but I was able to suppress the creeping feeling of dread I felt. It never fully sunk in what I was doing. I still believed with all my heart that the creature that killed my friends was still roaming these mountains, so what the hell was I doing?

"I'm here to confront the past." I spoke out loud, as though I were arguing with my inner self.

After about 20 more minutes of hiking, I could make out a clearing in the distance. I couldn't see for sure, but it looked to be a circular clearing. Probably carved out by park rangers for campers to set up. As I enclosed on the clearing, my boot got lodged underneath a root that was sticking up out of the ground, and I plummeted onto my face, cursing in a mix of pain in confusion. The first thing I smelled was the metal scent of blood coming from my face. The next immediate thing I noticed was the smell of burning firewood.

I sat up, confusedly. In the clearing, which was previously empty, a campsite was set up. There were three tents: one red, one blue, and one grey. They were all set up in circular positions around a campfire which had since smoldered out. I stood, desperately trying to keep my pulsing heart contained in my ribcage. I knew for a fact that the campsite hadn't been there a minute ago. I knew.

Slowly, I approached the campsite. I recognized the three tents, but I kept pushing the notion out of my mind.

''This can't be happening. It just can't be.''

I could smell the smoke from the firewood, and I could feel the stinging sensation of my arm, which I had scraped in my fall. This was happening. The sensations were too real to ignore, or pass off as a lucid daydream.

Without thinking, I unzipped the red tent. Empty. I slowly moved to the blue tent. Empty. Cautiously, I turned around to face the grey tent, which was now unzipped. I crouched inside to see a sleeping back splayed out within the tent. Something was in the sleeping bag. I moved further into the tent, placing a shaky hand on the surface of the sleeping bag. Whatever was in there, it was ice cold. I could feel condensation building on my palm, even through the cloth of the sleeping bag.

Suddenly, whatever was in the sleeping bag sprang to life! The bag jolted alive, twisting and turning in a feverish rage. Overcome with shock, I fell backwards out of the tent flaps, my body splayed across the cold dirt. The smoke had died from the campsite. All around me was cold. Standing up while simultaneously backing away, my eyes locked onto the grey tent. I expected some hulking monstrosity to come shambling out of it, but nothing emerged. Slowly, I backed myself up against a nearby tree, keeping my eyes on the grey tent. Slowly, I removed the pocket knife from my back pocket, raising it towards the tent. Something was in there, and it had to come out sooner or later.

*******

I stayed on the mountain for 8 hours before a ranger found me. I was pointing my knife at an empty clearing of land, screaming and crying, telling something to keep its distance.

The ranger was doing his rounds when he found me. He told me his job was to patrol the trails that were closed off to the public. That's how he found me.

"I'll be damned how you got up here, son," he said concernedly as he lit a cigar, "nobody's been up here for ten years!"

So there it is. I don't expect anybody here to believe my story, but I swear to God, the things I saw were real. I felt something in that sleeping bag. I saw it spring to life with malicious intent...with sinister intent.

Something is up there in those mountains. In the town where I live, the parents tell their children a rhyme to encourage them to stay away from the mountains. They tell stories of a thing called the Mountaineer, that kills anybody who trespasses on its lands. I don't know why it hasn't killed me yet, but I dread the true answer.

And every night, when it gets even just a little bit colder, I clench my pocket knife tighter from underneath my pillow.