Double Take

By J. L. Ender

Any minute. I knew he would show up. I stood at the forest’s edge, sweating in the humid, late afternoon air. Even at the end of the day, the summer heat sweltered.

A shadow moved among the trees. Finally! My proof.

I raised my disposable camera and took a photo. Oh, crud. I’d blocked the lens with my finger. The camera was a piece of junk, mostly paper and plastic. Assuming I kept my fingers out of the way though, it should take clear enough photographs of the Grassman. I’d stepped out because I’d heard strange, keening calls. I’d heard them before and knew it was probably a wounded deer or raccoon or something. But hopefully this time…

I lowered my camera.

Nothing to see but branches waving in a gentle breeze.

“William!” my mom’s voice called from the distant front porch.

Taking a deep breath, I bellowed, “Just a minute, Mom!”

“Bill!”

Oh crap, she’s calling Dad. I’m in for it now…

My stomach grumbled. It was spaghetti night, so there was sustenance to consider. I couldn’t photograph the impossible with an empty belly.

And then I saw it. Him. A tall silhouette stalked from the trees near the pigpen—seven feet tall and hairy with a thick mane of matted hair.

I froze.

He went right for a pig. Oswald. The pig squealed and squirmed as the Grassman picked him up. He dropped Oswald and backhanded him savagely. The pig went quiet, and the Grassman threw poor Oswald over his shoulder and returned to the woods.

The pignapping had taken maybe four seconds.

And I’d taken zero pictures. Forget spaghetti night! I raced after the Grassman and the helpless hog.

I checked my camera’s wind-up dial with my thumb as I ran. I didn’t want to take any chances and miss another opportunity to get proof.

Armed with a camera, penlight, and notepad, I ran into the trees, a messy forest of oak, elm, and ash that sprawled endlessly outward from one side of my family’s little farm. Could what I’d seen really be a Grassman? I’d thought the Ohio Bigfoot didn’t eat meat. They ate—and lived inside—grass, hence the name.

The beast was swifter than I’d expected. I sprinted down shadowed, twilight paths between tall trees, yellow bushes, and tufts of high, soft grass.

I emerged into a small clearing shaded from above by the forest’s dense canopy. A stretch of jagged, mossy rock loomed high above even the tallest trees.

At its base lay a thick, bulb-shaped clump of grass, like an odd sort of hut. There were bones everywhere. Something was wrong with my data. Either the Grassman was a carnivore after all, or this was a different creature altogether. I resisted the urge to pull out my notepad. Take notes later.

The Grassman entered the hut as I arrived, our pig still thrown over his shoulders. Oswald gave a little grunt. Still alive!

Cricket crap on a cracker. I have to save that pig. How would I get my photo and save Oswald? There had to be a way.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Dad’s favorite saying. I thought of Mom calling for him. I hoped they weren’t out looking for me. I’d get taken to the woodshed again for sure and certain.

I raised my camera and crept forward, muttering, “This is gonna end with me running through the woods with a pig on my shoulders, screaming at the top of my lungs.”

With a clumsy click of my finger, the camera’s flash stunned the huge, shaggy beast. Nearly blind myself, I grabbed Oswald and tore into the woods at top speed, Oswald’s trotters banging my shoulders. He squealed, grunted, and squirmed. I wasn’t screaming, but only because I had no breath to spare.

I raced between trees, zigzagging around tall bushes and trying not to drop my ward. I had to run hunched forward to keep hold of the panicked porker.

Oswald squealed, louder this time. Were those footsteps behind me?

I tried speeding up. “Gosh and gravy. Hold frickin’ still!”

Our backyard appeared ahead. I tried to redouble my efforts, but there was nothing to multiply. I took maybe ten steps before sprawling on my face.

Oswald flopped over my head like a flabby ton of bricks, trotters scratching at my face as he went down squealing. The rough palm of a hairy hand grabbed my elbow.

I shoved my free hand in my pocket and checked my camera with my thumb. Still unwound. I tried to wrench free, but the massive creature was too strong.

Oswald ran off, screaming. There’s gratitude for you.

I pulled the penlight from another pocket and shone it into the Grassman’s eyes. It wasn’t as bright as the camera, but his grip lightened. I wrenched free and broke from the trees close to the pigpen, all the pigs squealing.

“Will? That you?” a voice called.

I pulled out my camera and started winding the dial to power the camera. Time to drive the beast off, and I wanted my picture. I wasn’t sure the first one’d develop. Always take a backup.

I finished the wind-up and aimed my camera, but when I squinted through the viewfinder, the beast was gone.

“William!” Mom tore across the grass. “Been worried sick! Where’d you go? And why’s one of the pigs loose?”

“Oswald,” I corrected thoughtlessly. “He was… in the forest. I went to get him.” I wanted to tell her the whole story, but she’d never believe me. Not until she saw the pictures.

Mom frowned. “They’re food. They don’t need names. Go wash up ‘fore I tan your hide.”

A week later, I collected my pictures from the photo development counter at the back of Old Lou’s. I flipped through photos of the pigs, the woods, and my little sister’s seventh birthday party, then found Oswald and the Grassman.

Blurry.

I crumpled the photo in a fist.

Next time, I’ll take two.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

J. L. Ender is the author of the superhero series Steel Fox Investigations, as well as a number of novels and short stories across several genres. Ender has worked as a dishwasher, a beef jerky labeler, a warehouse worker, a shelf stocker, a greeter, a traveling technician, a laser engraver, a package handler, a copywriter, a graphic designer, a librarian, an editor, destroyer of worlds (in an unofficial capacity), a dispatcher, and a phone operator. You can find him on Instagram where he regularly tortures himself by trying to write even shorter fiction at 150 words or less.

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