This story originally appeared in An Echo in the Bone, a short story collection available on Amazon. Included here is an ASMR-esque audio reading of the story by Erik Peabody, narrator of my space horror podcast The Vessel.
In all my years of interviewing people, a practice by which I earn my living, no story has shaken me to my roots more than this one. I share it with you not to entertain or shock you, but to warn you of the horrors that exist outside our understanding of this world, so that you may proceed through it with the necessary caution it demands. Doing so just might save your life.
The story was told to me by a man named Sidney Arenas, a photographer of some repute who resides in the Potter County area of Northern Pennsylvania, the very region in which the story in question takes place. Why he chose to remain so close to a place that nearly took his life is a line of questioning very much central to the interview I conducted with Mister Arenas. By the end of this retelling I hope to make his reasons clear, if not for the reader then perhaps for myself.
Although his story is among the most unique, and dare I say terrifying of any I’ve ever heard, how I came to speak to Mister Arenas wasn’t much different than any other subject I’ve interviewed in my sixteen years of journalism. My journey to Mister Arenas’ doorstep began in Arkansas, some thousand miles south-west of Potter County, when I was sent to interview a tragic sharpshooter.
Jacqueline Sokal was a professional marksman who made quite a name for herself in the competitive scene by winning four of the five national firing competitions open to civilians in just under two years. What’s more, she did so with the use of only one arm and one leg, having lost them in a violent car accident at the age of seven. Involving an automobile transport trailer, the incident is still infamous among certain circles, most of all local law enforcement, as being one of the most gruesome collisions in the state’s history. The crash claimed the life of Jacqueline’s mother, and very nearly ended hers as well. Her father had long since passed as well, succumbing to a heart attack when Jacqueline was a newborn.
I sat in on one of Jacqueline’s practice sessions on a firing range located near Buffalo National River, within the ancient Ozark Mountains. In the course of our conversation I found Miss Sokal to be one of the most spirited competitors I’ve ever had the privilege of meeting, possessing of an energy one couldn’t help but find infectious. The only aspect of her personality that betrayed her tragic past was a kind of wistful tone that entered her voice whenever she spoke of her mother, Erica. In the sixteen years since it occurred, Jacqueline hadn’t said more than a few words to either family members or the police about the night of the crash. Even I, with what I would like to believe are above-average interview skills, was barely able to extract any additional information from the young woman. Only two things are known for certain about the death of Erica Sokal: one, that it was not instantaneous, and two, that both she and Jacqueline were fully conscious at the time of her passing.
And yet, despite the horrific origins of Jacqueline Sokal’s physical disability, her attitude toward such was nothing short of inspirational. As her and I spoke, I touched upon what I believed to be the central thesis of our interview: had Jacqueline’s obviously impressive sharpshooter career been achieved in spite of her disability, or because of it? That is to say, was it holding her back or had it in fact offered Jacqueline a unique set of challenges that allowed her to focus all of her energies, and thus thrive when otherwise she may have not?
My question, which I posed with the utmost of respect, seemed to have startled Miss Sokal to a degree I neither intended nor expected, as she took some time to reflect upon it before answering. Once ready, she gave me exactly two pieces of information before abruptly concluding our interview. One, that knowing one’s way around a weapon was especially useful in the presence of what she called ‘personal demons.’ And two, if I was serious about seeking an answer for my question, that for my next interview I should consider looking up a photographer by the name of Sidney Arenas.
At this point I must say I had no intention of doing any such thing. I already had an overflowing itinerary of interview subjects, as well as looming deadlines for each and every one of them. However I was intrigued, perhaps even disturbed, by the abrupt change in Miss Sokal’s temperament, and felt it hinted at a larger truth. One that required careful dislodging.
I have to admit to some personal confusion over why Miss Sokal believed I would find the answer to such a personal question in a man three times her age working hundreds of miles away in a completely different field. But I had long accepted my naiveté in such matters as a strength, as the curiosity it imbues me with has never led me astray. It has, in fact, given me a successful career doing work which fills my stomach as well as my mind.
My research into the photographer, whose existence was previously unknown to me, turned up a prolific body of work primarily in the area of nature photography. Much of the prints I turned up seemed to focus on death in nature and the natural breakdown and decay of living matter, mostly taken at night, though there were a good number of star and constellation shots as well. Lonely expanses of night sky, the juxtaposition of which gave the viewer the impression of an artist seeking truths in the darkest of places. Although I don’t usually take interest in natural photography- I tend to prefer figure and character studies, the topography of the face and so on- I found Mister Arenas’ work to be fascinating, and possessing of a mysterious, hypnotic nature. Seeing his work, poring over the impressive oeuvre of images, only worked to strengthen my fascination in the man, as well as Miss Sokal’s suggestion that I speak with him.
As far as personal details went there was little to be found. The only facts that were known for sure about him were that he was sixty-seven years of age, that his family had emigrated from Spain, and that he had not attended art school or formal college of any kind. Beyond that there were rumors he had been married once, but I couldn’t find proof of such in the public records, and it seemed he had no living relatives with whom I could corroborate what little information I had. The single photograph of Sidney Arenas on file was a press photo outdated by some thirty years. It showed Mister Arenas to be a tall man with dark hair, dark glasses, and a rather intense smile that commanded the viewer entirely. After failing to contact Mister Arenas through the usual means, I made the potentially foolish decision to visit him in person, hoping that along the way he might read my messages and reply, or at the very least become aware of the person showing up on his doorstep.
The drive from Arkansas to Pennsylvania took almost exactly twenty-four hours with only a few stops along the way, one of which being a motel just outside of St. Louis for an uncomfortable night of sleep. The interstate offered little in the way of pleasant distractions, an endless cycle of trees and farmland and towns large and small, until finally, near the tiny borough of Coudersport, I pulled up in front of the house that according to my research was the property of one Sidney Arenas.
The house, set into the woods enough to nearly disguise it from the road, was a poorly-kept farmhouse built partially into a hill. The house’s mailbox was mounted on a post near the street and overflowed with neglected mail. As I approached the house I noticed it was situated a good distance away from all the other houses in the area, and had no cars or even a garage to speak of. I wondered then if showing up unannounced- that is, if Mister Arenas hadn’t seen my messages- might have been a poorly conceived plan. However my journey to that point had been long and tedious, and a combination of curiosity and stubbornness kept me from turning around at this the last possible moment.
With no lack of trepidation I knocked on the door of the crumbling farmhouse and waited for some time, noting the smell of mildew that rose up from the wooden porch and its various missing slats, the wrong foot placement on which threatened to cause a terrible fall. The house itself sagged like a tired wretch, paint peeling from its once-white walls and roof sagging heavily. With no lights visible inside and the curtains pulled tightly in all the windows, I began to wonder if Sidney Arenas was presently in, as surely a nature photographer would spend much of their time away from home, nestled in the bosom of their subject, and the rest of it locked away in a private darkroom to see what they’d brought back.
Just as I was about to give up on the silly quest for answers that had made me drive a thousand miles out of the way, on little more than a whim, the door opened.
The man that stood before me was a far cry from the press photo I’d seen. His hair had gone altogether white, his formerly impressive height reduced to a hunched dependence on a walking cane. His skin, previously dark and healthy, had paled to an ashen tone reminiscent of dry, neglected leather. The once commanding smile was nowhere in sight, replaced by the tight grimace of a man accustomed to anger and confusion.
His eyes, covered up by the same dark glasses from his photo, held the greatest surprise of all. Sidney Arenas, I learned that day, was blind, and in fact had been since the time he was a young man of twenty-two.
After apologizing to Mister Arenas for the surprise visit- I realized then why he hadn’t responded to my correspondence- I explained to him who I was and what I did for a living, briefly touching on how I’d been sent in his direction by a young woman. As I did so, I began to understand Jacqueline Sokal’s suggestion that Sidney Arenas might hold an answer to my question of whether a disability was a setback or in fact a significant motivator. It was strange, I noted, that nowhere in my research was Sidney Arenas described as having an impairment of sight, the revelation of which would surely bring greater attention to his work. I wondered how Miss Sokal knew it at all. I asked Mister Arenas if he knew Miss Sokal but he simply stated that he’d never met her, though he did travel in a variety of circles.
Having thus explained my appearance at his doorway, tape recorder in hand, I expected Mister Arenas to decline my interview- politely or otherwise- so I was understandably surprised to hear him agree to speak with me. He stated that he had a space in his schedule caused by a broken enlarger, and in fact wouldn’t have opened his door except that he’d been expecting the delivery of a new unit when I showed up. He even joked that perhaps I’d been the one to break it in order to gain entrance into his home, though his tone betrayed a sense that the accusation was only partially in jest.
As we settled into uneasy conversation, I suggested he take me on a tour of his home before we begin, a tactic I use to get people comfortable talking about themselves. He acquiesced to my request on the condition I take no photographs, as he hadn’t been expecting guests. I agreed and he led me through the old house with a surprising level of dexterity for a visually-impaired man. It was not only the speed with which he moved through the space that impressed me- for a man with a cane he walked quite well- but rather his ability to sense obstacles, including myself at points, when we had to maneuver through a particularly tight space. With the amount of storage boxes and old equipment strewn about, there was no lack of tight spaces.
What surprised me more was the absence of even a single print of his work to be found throughout his house. As much as he couldn’t enjoy his work hung on the walls without the power of sight, my experience with artists has always shown a tendency to display at least a handful of personal work in their homes, from the elaborately staged to the haphazard afterthought. I did notice that there was one room Mister Arenas didn’t include on the tour, the door of which was closed and locked. I assumed it to be the trophy room of sorts where he stored or otherwise displayed his photographs and various awards.
The tour concluded, we settled down at the kitchen table while Mister Arenas brewed a fresh pot of coffee, the smell of which alone did much to wake me up after such a long and tedious drive. I launched directly into my questions, not wanting the lip-loosening effects of the tour to wear off.
I quickly learned something fascinating about Sidney Arenas: the more he spoke, the less I knew about him. That is to say, everything he told me seemed to disprove a fact I’d previously uncovered in my research. Some of the things he said even conflicted with one another, and when I politely pointed this out he gave the excuse that his memory wasn’t what it once was, even though at no point did I get the sense that his recollection of details was anything less than excellent.
When Mister Arenas had sufficiently walked me through the timeline of his career, from his early days of personal photography all the way through receiving the Siena International Photo Award and the Hasselblad Award in the same year, I took the calculated risk of questioning him about the rumor that he had been married when he was younger.
His face fell into a decidedly sullen expression at this. After a short pause he told me he’d never been married, only engaged. It had been to a beautiful girl named Gloria, when they were just twenty-two years of age. She was a ballet dancer as well as a singer, and to see Sidney speak of her, the way his face lit up, one could see how smitten he was with her even now, after so many years had passed. Sidney Arenas was no less a widow for having not gone through the ceremony that binded them legally. She’d been his wife in his heart, and still was. I asked him as gently as possible how she had passed on at such a young age, only twenty-two at the time of her death, the age at which- it hadn’t escaped my attention- Sidney had also lost his sight.
After much internal conflict over the matter, Sidney Arenas recounted the following story, the sharing of which is my intent. Not because some newspaper or magazine is paying me to do so, or because it might grant me some stature or notoriety, but because it needs to be heard. I believe it serves as a strong warning for those who may find themselves in similar circumstances, and as such have the very safety of their lives thrust into danger.
On Gloria Hewitt’s twenty-second birthday, Sidney Arenas, Gloria’s beau of four years, proposed to her under the shade of a weeping willow tree. The old tree was located on the property of the school in Philadelphia where they’d met as children. Gloria happily accepted.
Her snobbish parents, English by birth, were not as thrilled by the engagement, and had in fact never approved of the relationship. Their reasoning was two-fold. On the one hand was Sidney’s Hispanic bloodline which had been an issue of some consternation. On the other was the distraction from Gloria’s dance studies, even though Sidney assured them he wanted nothing more than to see her focus on her development as a dancer. They continued to resist Sidney’s presence in Gloria’s life, and in the end, despite his repeated attempts to gain their favor, Sidney proposed to Gloria without her parents’ approval.
To celebrate their engagement, as well as to seek temporary respite from her parents’ anger, Gloria and Sidney packed a few bags and a tent and drove north to Cherry Springs State Park. Named so for the black cherry trees once found in the area, it was a place Gloria had wanted to visit her entire life.
When they arrived in Cherry Springs, Sidney and Gloria weren’t surprised to find themselves the only human souls among the sugar maples and white-tailed deer. Created within the Susquehannock State Forest, the park was- and still is- one of the wildest and most remote stretches of land in all of Pennsylvania, these days serving as a certified Dark Sky Park for would-be stargazers. Happy to be alone, they erected their small tent and unpacked their clothes, choosing a shaded spot at the side of a freshwater stream to enjoy a picnic of finger sandwiches and lemonade. It was a seasonably chilly day, and they wrapped themselves in sweaters and huddled together for warmth as the Autumn sun began to set.
Soon, though, an eerie silence befell the surrounding forest, the usual din of beetles and frogs replaced by the hollow sound of wind whistling through the trees. The soft churring of nightjars, a nocturnal bird commonly found in the area, was conspicuously missing. They found it strange, but having never visited the area before they had no basis for comparison, and were forced to assume the silence was characteristic of the Susquehannock Forest.
Secretly, Sidney was concerned. Though he’d been living in the urban activity of Philadelphia for more than fifteen years at that point, he’d been born in Tionesta, a tiny rural town popular with hunters. Subsequently he’d spent his formative years out among the wilderness. He possessed an innate sense for the woodlands, so the silence they experienced that night felt to him not just strange but unnaturally cold. It was as if, Sidney said, the world of insects and animals had left them behind for safer pastures. But Sidney didn’t want to ruin their celebration, and seeing how much Gloria enjoyed the outdoors- not to mention the promise of a premarital frolic- overcame Sidney’s better judgment to pack up and leave right away.
It was a mistake Sidney Arenas would regret for the rest of his life.
With the sun fully set, the impressive night skies of Cherry Springs were fully on display for the young couple. Galaxies of stars filled the night, a bejeweled heaven glittering above their craned heads. Sidney pointed out constellations as he found them and Gloria told the stories behind their Greek origins to the best of her memory, both of them lost in the sound of each other’s voices.
And yet Sidney couldn’t shake himself of the feeling that something was amiss. Even the wind had taken on an almost human quality, as if passing over vocal cords made of poplars and pines. Silence pervaded the night, soaked in a sense of loneliness and despair. With the air temperature dropping, and the couple tired from their travels, they decided to retire to their tent for the night. As Sidney zipped up the flap behind them he glanced once more at the night sky, remarking how it felt as if the stars were staring back, watching them from across the cold, black void of space.
By this point thoughts of enjoying their time in premarital bliss had given way to fatigue, and they decided to turn in for sleep. They planned to wake up early and experience the forest in the daylight, when the sounds of waking life would hopefully remedy the eeriness that had taken hold. Sidney and Gloria crawled into their feather-stuffed sleeping bags, talking for a while of their dreams to buy a house and fill it with bright, beautiful children, and eventually drifted off into uneasy slumber.
Sometime in the middle of the night, Sidney was shaken awake by a visibly distraught Gloria. Through tears she explained to him that she’d been hearing sounds outside the tent, sounds which at first she had chalked up to some nocturnal creature. Raccoons, perhaps, or even a stray coyote. Soon, however, she felt a presence hovering around the tent, and several times even witnessed a large shadow fall across its fabric walls in terrible, undefined shapes.
Gloria was extremely upset, on the borderline of inconsolable, and refused to be placated by stories of black bears seeking food. Sidney tried to hide his previous fears of the surrounding woods in order to bring Gloria back from the edge of a nervous breakdown, but even he felt the hollowness of his reassurances. He decided to check the surrounding area for intruders of an either human or animal nature. Gloria didn’t approve of Sidney leaving the relative safety of the tent, but he promised her he was only trying to make sure their camp was safe, and that he would run at the first inkling of trouble. She tearfully agreed.
Armed only with a handheld lantern and the responsibility he felt for his young fiancé, Sidney unzipped the tent and stepped free, zipping it shut behind him. He checked all around the tent’s perimeter, finding no animal tracks or footprints in the soil. He only found a few drops of a dark, viscous substance on the ground near the tent, which he at first dismissed as tree sap fallen from the canopy above. Much later he came to know the meaning of his strange discovery, understanding it to be evidence of the thing that had been circling the couple’s tent.
By then, however, it was too late.
After making a full check of the area, Sidney concluded that if anything had been crawling around their campsite it was long gone. He returned to the tent, not bothering to tell Gloria about the unusual stains he’d found, assuming it would do nothing to calm her. The couple sat up a while, talking quietly of their plan to pack up the tent at daybreak and depart the strangely silent woods.
Just as they were growing comfortable, drifting off to sleep again in their sleeping bags, a series of wrenching cries rose up from the woods nearby. The cries had the guttural feel of an animal caught in a hunter’s trap, and yet they formed distinct syllables like only a human tongue could form. Sidney leapt up to investigate the source of the terrible sound. This time Gloria begged him not to leave the tent, saying she feared for his life. Sidney listened for a time, but eventually the pained wailing was too much for him to take, and he once again left the tent, lantern in hand.
Sidney tried to zip up the tent again but Gloria refused to let him close it this time, saying she needed to keep an eye on him. They argued the point for a few, brief seconds, but in the end Sidney acquiesced to her wishes. He left the tent flap open for Gloria to peer wide-eyed into the darkness.
Holding the lantern in front of him as if it were a Roman shield, Sidney checked once more around the tent before walking into the thick crowd of trees surrounding their campsite. The night was heavy and still, an ocean of cold silence. His own heartbeat sluicing through his ears was the only sound for miles. Not even the whistling wind remained. And yet Sidney had to put on a brave face and continue forward, if not for his own sake then for Gloria’s, who was watching him from between the trembling flaps of their shared tent.
Another pained cry wafted through the trees, this one to Sidney’s left. It was distant, but not distant enough, and he swore he could almost make out distinct words in its sound. He followed it, and soon others, until he nearly lost sight of the campsite and had to stop himself from venturing any further. He’d gotten himself turned around one time too many, and from his vantage point could no longer see the tent to which he so badly wished to return. Even more troubling, his lantern several times threatened to cut out, the flame inside flickering to the point of near extinction.
Retreating from those cold woods, Sidney stepped back into the clearing that held the couple’s campsite inside it. And yet a strange trick of light made it difficult for him to see the tent a mere twenty feet in front of him. It was as if his eyes had clouded over, a flake of campfire ash obscuring the tent from his vision. He rubbed at them with no effect. Then he ran, ran toward the tent with the horrid realization that nothing was wrong with his eyes.
A large, black mass hovered in front of the tent. A creature of shadow and shape. It was taller than a man and three times as wide, yet it made no contact with the ground. It floated on wings of pure blackness that stunk of putrid death.
On the ground behind it, Gloria Hewitt laid sprawled on the ground. She wasn’t breathing, her eyes as wide open as the star-stained sky above. And yet they had seen the last, frightful images they would ever see.
Sidney let out a cry. The thing turned around then to see him. It was so dark he could barely make out the details. Light seemed to die in the creature, a black hole consuming all energy. A hundred eyes slipped across the oily surface, each one fixing its gaze on him, rows and rows of teeth like hypodermic needles dripping with black saliva.
As it drew closer, Sidney felt a sensation the likes of which he’d never experienced before. His inner light, his very life force, was being drawn out of him, pulled through his eyes by the unthinkable being that had claimed Gloria’s life. He could feel the light draining from him, consumed by the evil that drew ever closer, whispering in the same, indecipherable language it had used to lure him away from the campsite. His mind reeled and shrank, turning over in horror at the images of pain the creature was pulling from him, forcing him to relive them even as it fed upon them.
On the verge of death, Sidney Arenas made one final attempt to save his own life. It was the only thing he could think to do in such a dire moment, one action that just might wrench the monster free of its hold on his blistering, screaming mind.
Sidney Arenas tore out his own eyes.
To be concluded next week…
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