The Killer of Browns Brook

Editor's note: this story is very different from what I usually write and post, but I hope you will all find it enjoyable. I concocted this tale on the walk back to my car after fishing a heavily beaver-altered stream in a quite remote area. Finding an out of place object triggered a story line about animals with murderous intent, particularly animals you wouldn't expect to be murderous. It's the first and probably only time I'll ever write a tongue-in-cheek horror story, or any horror story. 

A hiker wandered down the banks of a narrow stream, red walking staff in one hand and binoculars around his neck. It was a beautiful early spring evening. The air was warm overall save for a light breeze that occasionally wafted through, bringing a bit of a chill with it. The sun had fallen low to the horizon, casting a golden glow through a layer of high, hazy clouds. The hiker gazed at the sky and thought to himself that there must be quite a lovely sunset coming in a couple hours. Those sort of high, wispy clouds really light ablaze when the sun reaches the horizon. A sound emanated from the woods; a cracking branch and a little shuffling. The hiker payed it little mind. Squirrels are everywhere, after all. What did catch his attention was the call of an inbound wood duck. Raising the binoculars to his eyes he watched a pair bank through the trees and make a splashdown on a beaver pond. The pair moved around the corner and out of site. Easing his tired muscles out of resting position and taking the weight of his walking staff, the hiker made a few short steps towards the bank. 

Ahead of him on the same bank was a tangle of green brier and tightly bunched saplings. Beavers had worked this area over and the emergent vegetation made passing through a difficult task. The opposite bank, though, was all mature forest. The trees were big and old, and the undergrowth sparse. He'd have to cross to the other side to continue downstream. Luckily those beavers had left him with a bridge. A big old oak lay across the creek. There was a branch sticking straight up, but though the man was in his 60's he was not one to shy ways from a challenge. Getting to the midpoint was easy, and though he nearly dropped his staff into the river and his binoculars swung perilously, he rounded the branch without incident too. From there it was a mere step onto the bank. At that moment a load cracking noise caught his attention and he startled, nearly wheeling off the log and into the water. He barely caught himself, looking around for the source of the noise. There was nothing to be seen, so far as he could tell. Collecting his whit he righted himself again the stump of the beaver felled tree and looked back down the bank he'd successfully reached. Neither that loud crack nor the ruckus he'd made disturbed the wood ducks, apparently. Though they were still out of sight there's been no loud takeoff and alarm call. 

Suddenly, another loud cracking noise arose from behind the startled wandered and he turned to see a well chewed tree beginning to give. It was a thick old tree and it was falling in his direction. He had but seconds to weigh the options. Taking the closest escape he dove toward the brook, rolling of the bank and falling into a hole that was every bit of four and a half feet deep. The wood ducks took off, calling loudly. Animals flushed throughout the area as the big old tree crashed to the ground mere inches from where the hiker had just stood. He didn't hear the wood ducks take off, of course, as he was too busy exploding back to the surface of the brook and gasping for air. The water was quite cold, probably not even 50 degrees, and he realized quite quickly he was in a bit of a predicament. scrambling up the steep bank, he flopped on the ground and struggled out of his backpack and soaking wet jacket. He knew the air temperature was dropping quickly, and he knew he was pretty far from his vehicle. 

Simultaneously catching his breath and wringing out his jacket, the hiker pondered his options. Hypothermia sets in quickly. He knew he needed to retain body heat. He hopped up and started doing jumping jacks. Then running in place. His muscles screamed. He had to get moving, this wasn't going to keep him warm long. Turning to examine his rout out, he noted that the newly fallen oak had created quite a messy tangle of branches. He'd have a hard time getting through all that mess, but it was either that or go back in the creek. As he approached the felled tree some movement caught his eye. Up the bank and near the chewed stump of the massive tree stood an enormous beaver. It must have be close to 80 pounds, he thought. And it was standing, up on its hind feet and staring at him. In his excitement at seeing such an enormous old beaver, the hiker forgot about his predicament. The beaver dropped down on all fours. As it did so the hiker realized that something was off about this beaver. It took a few lumbering steps toward him and stood back up. As it did so the hiker realized the animals eyes were a blazing crimson red. When it stood again it spoke. The beaver's mouth didn't move, but it spoke directly to the hiker. "Humans don't belong here, hiker" it said. Completely flabbergasted, the hiker couldn't muster a reply, he just gasped. "We don't like humans in this place" said the beaver. "I... I... I mean no harm" stuttered the hiker."

The beaver dropped on all fours again and continued toward the beaver. "I need to assure you won't return, and that you won't bring others." The beaver's deep, ominous tone elicited fear in the hiker, and he stumbled backwards away from the approaching animal. "I won't come back, I promise" he gasped out, in complete shock at what was transpiring. "I know you won't," responded the beaver, "you will never leave." Scrambling back, the hiker suddenly felt the ground disappear from underneath him and with a yelp and a splash he was in the brook again. The commotion was short lived this time, the hiker never rose back to the surface. A few bubbles rose to the surface, then a billowing red cloud. The beaver emerged moments later holding a red walking staff crosswise in his huge, sharp teeth. 

A few months later, an angler was fishing his way up Browns Brook. The bite had been fantastic and he'd already caught better than a dozen colorful brook trout when he came upon a beaver dam. In the center and at the top was a bright red walking staff, stuck in the dam handle up, as if purposefully placed there. How curious, thought the angler. He wondered how and why a beaver would come to incorporate such an object in his construction. It was stick shaped, of course, so it fit the architecture. But it looked so odd and out of place. 

From behind the angler arose a bit of noise in the forest, a branch breaking and some rustling. He ignored it. All sorts of animals make a commotion on the forest floor. 

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