The Thing on the South Cliff

It takes a lot to rattle Buddy. He’s part hound, part mystery, and all business when it comes to anything that squeaks, slithers, or sneaks after dark.

He’s treed more squirrels than I’ve had cups of coffee, which is saying something. But that night, whatever it was up there in the trees, he wanted no part of it.

He just stood there, hackles up, growling low in his throat like a truck idling on cold diesel. I squinted toward the cliff, trying to pierce the dark.

The moon hung behind a thin veil of clouds, casting just enough light to make shadows look suspicious. Have you ever noticed how the imagination gets bold when visibility drops?

Every stump turns into a crouching figure, every rustle sounds like it’s plotting your demise.

“Go on then,” I whispered, giving Buddy a nudge.

He didn’t move. That should’ve been my first clue to leave well enough alone.

But curiosity, as they say, is stronger than good sense. I picked up my flashlight, one of those plastic ones that looks reliable until you actually need it.

Buddy followed close behind, doing his best impression of a reluctant bodyguard. We reached the base of the South cliff, where the trees thinned, and the ground tilted sharply upward.

Then it came again, that squeal, halfway between a scream and a snort, echoing off the rock face. It was close this time, too close.

I shone the beam upward. For a split second, I saw something pale moving between the trees.

It wasn’t large, but it was quick, darting behind sage like it had somewhere to be. My heart was suddenly too big for my chest.

Buddy barked once, sharply, then backed up and sat down, which is his way of saying, “You’re on your own, pal.”

“Alright,” I muttered, “you just sit there and take notes.”

I scrambled up a few yards, slipping, until I reached the ledge. There, lying in a tangle of roots and branches, was the culprit, a pig, or at least what used to be one, judging by the smell.

Something had been at it, but whatever did the chewing wasn’t around anymore. The “half-human” part of that squeal was probably just the way the sound bounced off the cliff.

I let out the kind of laugh that sounds brave in hindsight but nervous at the time. “Well, mystery solved,” I said aloud, for my own benefit.

Buddy tilted his head, unimpressed. But just as I turned to head back, something else stirred in the brush, a soft shuffle, followed by a long exhale, almost like a sigh.

Buddy’s tail went straight out, and I swear even the wind stopped mid-chorus. We didn’t wait for an encore.

I don’t remember running, exactly, but we were both back at the house in record time. Buddy went straight for his bed, and I locked the door, feeling mildly ridiculous.

The next morning, we went back in daylight. The carcass was gone.

Not dragged, but gone. No tracks, just flattened grass where it had been.

Buddy sniffed the spot, then looked at me as if to say, “Told you so.”

I nodded. “Alright, you win. Whatever it was, it’s your turn to investigate next time.”

He wagged his tail once, which I took as a firm “no.”

And that’s the thing about the South Cliff. Every so often, when the wind’s right, you can still hear that strange squeal.

Folks say it’s just echoes and boar, but we have no such animals. But I’ll tell you Buddy won’t go near it after dark, and I’ve learned to trust his judgment.