Long Story #6: Spooky Tales for Twisted Tykes (VIII. Hunters)

VIII. Hunters: (Content Tags: Monsters, fear, diapers, soiling, wetting, being hunted) He'd gone hunting in the woods without letting anyone know, and that was a mistake that should never have been made. He'd gotten himself lost among a sea of trees, in an area completely unfamiliar to him, and whatever cell signal he'd hoped to keep, had long faded into nothingness. The goal in mind had been to bag himself a nice buck, but he hadn't seen a single one out in this thicket. So much for proving himself a man. Hunter was brought up in a family that prided itself in being able to live off the land, and who took hunting season very seriously. His father, his grandfather, his uncle, his brothers, they were all skilled in the arts of tracking and bagging their prey. He'd gone on trips with them before, and before that, he'd caught plenty of smaller game in the woods right behind their house: mostly rabbits in snare traps. But he wanted something bigger, something becoming of him leaving childhood behind; he hadn't brought rope, or a pellet gun, not for this hunt! For the quarry he sought, he'd brought along a real rifle with real bullets. Big bullets, big enough to take down a thousand pound beast, almost too big for him to sling around his shoulder. He'd come into it without any expectations of bringing his prey back home, and instead he planned to just saw off an antler as his trophy. It was wasteful, he knew that, but it was the only conceivable way to haul back any part of it. Only now, he was hopelessly lost, and he knew it would be growing dark in a few hours. He'd forgotten his compass at home, an amateurish mistake, especially when considering everything else he'd remembered to bring in his backpack. ...Including extra pairs of a certain something that rustled beneath his pants. The bulk beneath was a big reason he felt so pressured to prove his maturity, because his designated type of underpants was a big symbol of the opposite. He'd had bladder problems all his life, the sort that made spontaneous urination less than predictable, and thus protective padding had always been a shameful necessity for him. His mother coddled him sweetly over it, but his father and brothers treated him like he would never truly be grown. Sometimes he wondered if they had a point, because his body's physical development had been similarly stunted, leaving him stuck in a prepubescent purgatory, which was only amplified by the Pampers. That was why proving himself was so important, and why he'd taken off from the house without asking permission. A man didn't get permission to hunt, it was just something he was supposed to do; a man was meant to provide, meant to protect, meant to kill. Even his name was a pressure to ascend. Hunter's thoughts were disrupted by hearing a twig snap in the distance; the boy stopped and tried listening for something more substantial. The snap sounded too large to be a squirrel or rabbit, and there weren't any bears out here; it had to either be a deer or a coyote, and he didn't think it was late enough for those hounds to be skulking. His breath hitched as he heard the crunching of foliage, and slowly, he pulled his rifle into his arms. He didn't want to spook his prey, and if it was a buck, then he also didn't want to make it get too territorial by announcing his presence. Slowly, he aimed the rifle ahead of himself, the barrel aimed into the thick brush, and one eye peering into the scope. He didn't see anything, not yet, but hunting was all about patience. Minutes would pass without any more noises, and unfortunately, he thought that his opportunity had passed him by. He lowered the gun and slowly trudged forward, hoping he could find some tracks to follow; the area had gotten a good rain earlier in the week, so the soil was soft and malleable, which was a perfect mold for hooves to imprint upon. No, nothing was there. The snapped twigs were found, but no proof anything had stepped on them; maybe his hearing had betrayed him? Maybe it had indeed been a rodent, something that was too light to make tracks. He tried looking for more evidence of anything in the area; damp moss coated trees and stones, patches of mud stained the ground, and... Blood? It was unmistakable. Crimson droplets that extended forward from a small puddle, something had been here, and it was already injured. He looked more closely at the ground around the vermilion pool, and he saw that there were indeed some tracks, but they didn't look like hooves; no, they almost looked human! Was someone out here and injured? Barefoot and losing blood? Hunter remembered the medical kit in his bag, and wondered if he should call out, but an anxious part of him also wondered if that was the smartest move to make in this situation. Appalachian myths were hammered hard in his brain, and while he knew he was too old for urban legends, he couldn't help but wonder if there was a dark cloud hanging over these woods. Maybe it was time to turn back. Lost or not, successful or not, he was losing faith that this hunt would yield him the results he wanted. Then again, the prints in the mud were small, like his own feet, so what if there was a lost child out here? Could he live with that on his conscience? Maybe he would follow the trail just a little further, to make sure there was nothing to worry about. A few more steps, and the sound of a baby crying filled the air. Following it, was the heartbreaking yelp of a little boy: "Help! Is anyone out there? Me and my little brother got separated from our parents! I'm hurt! Please help!" His instinct had been right, hadn't it? There was someone in trouble! Children in need! Maybe he couldn't bag a buck, but he could patch up a kid and lead them back to safety, couldn't he? Hunter picked up his pace. "Just stay there! I'm coming!" Just as he was scaling a log, something made his blood curdle. The baby was crying again, the boy was calling out again, but they weren't any different sounding than the first time. It sounded like a loop, like short sound bites that had been clipped, and which were now being repeated. Whatever was making those noises, it wasn't a pair of needy children. Hunter froze, thighs straddling the fallen lumber, and his eyes widened in terror. Immediately and deeply, regret rose from within him; he should never have replied, if he had waited just a few more moments, then the loop would have presented itself, and he would have known to keep quiet. The wails started a third time, again the same, and the boy slowly backed away from the log, while instinctively putting his hand on the side of his rifle. A warm dampness met his groin, and absently, he recognized what the horror had beckoned from his bladder; the diaper beneath his pants was a little wet now, but hopefully not so much that it would make fleeing more difficult. Halfway through the encore of the luring screams, the sound broke for a moment, and a raspy croak replaced the rest; it slurred slowly, grinding like the winding of a noisemaker at a birthday party, before returning mid-sentence to finish the 'kid' part of the call. He needed to leave. Now. Hunter's steps backwards were slow at first, cautious, because he didn't want to make much noise; it was impossible to tell exactly how close the mysterious 'thing' was, but if the blood somehow belonged to it, then it couldn't be very far away. He needed to create distance, but he didn't want to engage any predatory instincts by running. Slow and steady, hands on his rifle, with his unblinking eyes staring at the empty woods in front of him. It was only then did he realize how quiet things were out here: no birds, no squirrels, no toads, or crickets... Silence in the woods was a terribly unnerving thing, because that meant everything else already knew what he had just figured out: there was a predator out here, and it was out for blood. His blood. The only sounds that were greeting his ears were the ones coming from his own meddling in the forest’s affairs: the crunching of leaves, the crinkling of his diaper, and his gasping breaths. Most of those were drowned out by the way his heart pounded in his eardrums. His hands were shaking, slick with a nervous sweat. If he had to fire his gun, would he even be able to steady a shot? Would he have the confidence to pull the trigger? The further he moved backwards, the quieter the wails became, until they just suddenly stopped. His hope was that the thing making those noises had given up, but his more realistic fear was that they were only giving up on baiting him, and would instead now become more proactive. Night would be falling soon, and darkness would blanket the woods in an oppressive curtain that left him wandering blind; if he kept moving as slowly as he was now, then he’d never make it out in time. He didn’t fancy his odds in going up against a monster in the woods during daylight, but darkness would undoubtedly be a lot worse. Hunter needed to run, even if that meant provoking the creature. He took a deep breath and turned his head. He needed to take a moment to familiarize himself with his surroundings, so that he could retrace his steps more precisely. Without a compass, he would be working off of memory and basic survival training; one wrong move, and he might get himself even more lost than he already was. A tree with a gnarled series of exposed roots looked familiar, as did a stone that resembled the shape of Italy; that was good, it meant he was at least heading back the same way he’d come. If his memory served him correctly, then the best way forward would just be a straight line backwards. Thirty minutes of fast-paced travel, and he’d be back near the more established pathways of the forest, and from there, it would be easy to find his way out. He could be out of the woods in an hour, and back home in a little over an hour and a half. The boy took his rifle off his shoulder and peered through the scope one more time, deep into the trees that he’d just fled from. Nothing he could see. That was a good sign. He slung it back in place and took a few more heavy breaths, to prepare himself for the mad dash that would come next. One...Two...Three...And go! His sprint was reckless, it was tinged by fear, but it wasn’t exhausting. The adrenaline coursing through his veins was keeping fatigue at bay, and he was so focused on avoiding any trip hazards, that he hardly noticed how the damp diaper beneath his pants was chafing against his thighs. He might end up with a rash by the end of this, but that was a small price to pay in comparison to what could instead possibly be. The trees darted by him in a blur, the leaves crumbled and the sticks snapped under his feet, and rabbits hurriedly hopped to their burrows as he approached. Every thudding footstep rang in his ears, every panting breath dried his throat; his bladder was emptying more as he ran, making the diaper gradually swell in size, as if each inch it sagged was another notch in a set of meters traversed. Eventually, his legs would start to cramp, and his lungs would burn; he was no track-star, and the power of adrenaline could only push his body beyond its limits for so long, so he had to slow down. He wouldn’t stop, definitely not, but he couldn’t keep running. Hunter’s pace became more of a fast walk; his feet begged him to pause completely, to sit down for a spell, but his brain wouldn’t step off the gas. He’d just started to feel safe again, whenever he started to hear the whistling behind him. It was distant, but it was distinctive. It wasn’t a bird, not at all. It was a whistle that he’d only heard a human able to make: it was strong, it was loud, it carried intent. It was a whistle that meant to beckon him, to make him curious, or to make him feel that there were other humans out in these dreadful woods. Could it have belonged to hikers or hunters? Maybe, but he didn’t think so. The tune was too inhuman, as if it lacked the creative spark that made melody possible; it had multiple notes, but they were discordant and arrhythmic. The whistling was closing in too, and Hunter still had at least a half mile to go to get out of the deeper parts of the forest. He didn’t think he had the energy to keep running, but what other choice did he have? Even if it killed him, it’d be better than dying at the hands of whatever THAT was. The boy bit his lip, took another weary look behind him, and started to pound the ground again. He’d somehow made it to the edge of the forest whenever he finally tripped over a root and tumbled to the hard ground. The whistling was getting louder, and it was intermixed with horrible gasping croaks. Hunter didn’t think he had enough time to flee the rest of the way, he needed to hide. Conveniently, a large hollowed out log marked the boundaries between the woods inside and the plains beyond; frantically, he crawled into it and huddled his knees closely to his chest. Hunter was terrified, so much so that he had to stick a few fingers in his mouth to keep from whimpering out loud. Something crashed into the dirt outside the log, and he caught sight of a long, pale leg; it was very skinny, so much so that the bones were notably pushing out against the flesh. The sound of snuffling nostrils was deafening, and Hunter worried that the rot of the log wouldn’t keep his scent covered. Terror was rising higher and higher, and it reached a peak as he briefly saw the side of the thing’s face outside the hole of the log. It had gaunt features, sickly pallid flesh, and soulless black eyes; its nose was fused flat, with narrow slits for nostrils, and its jaw hung disgustingly low. Needle-like teeth, dozens upon dozens of them, filled its mouth, and a thick drool glistened on each one. It was too much for Hunter, he had hit his limit. The boy shit himself. He full-on pinched a fat loaf, and it immediately compressed in the taut confines of the diaper and smeared against his ass with a warm greeting. He’d always had bladder problems, but he’d never crapped his pants before, at least not since being the right age to be in diapers. He couldn’t even feel embarrassed about it either, no matter the fact that the entire backside of his diaper was now packed with shit, because his fear was so much greater than any other emotion he could muster. Hunter really thought that indiscretion would be the end of him too, that the quick sloppy sound or the pungent odor that ensued, would be enough to oust him. But it somehow wasn’t. The creature would sniff around the ground for a few more minutes, which felt like years, but it would eventually crawl off. Hunter waited a lot longer than he probably had to, stewing in his own droppings, before finally poking his head out of the log. Hunter didn’t wait around to see if that thing was still in the area, he ran the rest of the way out of the woods, and took his bike immediately home. There was no point in trying to explain what had happened. Who would believe him? He just wanted to go up to his room to change, and to take a shower. He wasn’t interested in becoming a ‘man’ any longer; he’d rather stay safe as a little boy, in a poopy diaper, than to be hunted and eaten as an adult. As he carefully waddled up the stairs, he heard his brother call up after him: “Hey, Hunter! Make sure to get plenty of rest. We’re going huntin’ with dad tomorrow.” His face paled, and another smelly log of fear dropped into his diaper.