The Dweller in Big Misty

© 2004 Donald Sullivan
All rights reserved.

The hunter was a big, powerful man, armed with a hunting rifle, a pistol, and a Bowie knife. He had hunted in Big Misty Swamp all his life and was completely at home. As he made his way through the familiar surroundings, he was suddenly startled by an unfamiliar sound. Something was moving noisily through the brush, and it was making no attempt at stealth. The noise stopped abruptly, and dead silence followed.

Suddenly, something exploded through the brush a few feet in front of him, and the hunter froze in terror. A huge, grotesque, unearthly creature stood facing him. He tried to raise his rifle, but as in a nightmare, his hands would not obey him. He screamed.

The two boys stared at the carcass of the wild pig lying on the creek bank. Jodie, the older of the two, walked up to the carcass for a closer look. Pete, feeling somewhat squeamish, kept his distance.

Jodie squatted down for a better look. "Must've come for a drink and a gator got it."

"A gator?" Pete was skeptical. "I don't know that much about gators, man, but don't gators usually hang around to guard their kill?"

"Sometimes, but not always. But judgin' from the condition of the pig, I can't imagine what else could've killed it but a gator."

"Might've been a panther," Pete ventured, "or maybe it was a bear"

"Nobody's seen a panther in this part of Florida for years. I wouldn't rule out a bear, but I'd bet it was a gator."

An eerie sense came over Pete that he was somehow involved in the killing of the pig. His eyes roamed the dark and dismal surrounding woods. "My dad told me of Seminole legends about ghosts and horrible creatures that still lurk in these woods. Maybe we ought to go back. We can't be sure what killed that animal."

Jody laughed. "Indians are full of them kind of stories. You ain't scared, are you? Look, ol' buddy, it must've been a gator, and gators won't bother you unless you bother them." Jodie patted the 9mm on his hip. "I got this, and you got the .38 I loaned you. These babies will protect us against anything in these woods. Let's go on to the campsite and pitch our tent."

"You still plan to camp out all night?"

"Sure. Ain't that why we came? Hey, ol' buddy, you're gonna like it when we get to the campsite. It's on high and dry ground. I've got camping gear stashed away at the site, includin' just about everything that we'll need. Anyways, you're half Indian, so you ought to feel at home in a tent."

"I'm not scared," said Pete. "And I'm half Seminole. Seminoles never lived in tents—they lived in palmetto chickees." But Pete knew he was scared. Although he was born in Florida, his parents moved to Baltimore when he was only two. He knew nothing about swamps except what his father had told him.

His parents had promised him four days in Florida over the Thanksgiving holidays to visit his cousin Jodie if he kept his grades up. But the wild pig incident, coupled with the gloom of the forest, had dampened his enthusiasm for adventure.

Jodie, who had just turned eighteen, was four years older than Pete. He had lived all his life near Big Misty Swamp, a part of Ocala National Forest. He knew this part of the woods like his own backyard, although he had never penetrated into the deepest parts of the forest.

Jodie set out, and Pete followed. They crossed the narrow creek on a fallen log and slogged on through a swampy area, pausing at one point to allow a cottonmouth to cross their path, but it disappeared into a water hole before they could draw their weapons. About fifteen minutes later they came to a hammock, a stretch of ground rising a few feet above the surrounding swampland.

Although the hammock was only a few feet higher in elevation, it was dramatically different from the surrounding swampland. The swamp was boggy, with some areas covered with ankle-deep to knee-deep water. The trees, mostly cypress and black gum, were thickly covered with Spanish moss. The swamp was dank and gloomy, Pete thought, but it had a beauty of its own. The hammock was sandy and dry, covered with trees that were mostly pines and live oaks, with patches of palmettos underneath.

"This place is called Bobcat Hammock," said Jodie. He pointed to a palmetto patch. "The gear I told you about is in a plastic locker under those palmettos."

Pete found the locker and raised the lid. "Wow. You were right. You've got all kinds of junk in here."

"We're gonna have fun, ol' buddy. After we pitch the tent, we'll go back to the creek and fish for awhile. We'll have fish for supper instead of the Vienna sausages and junk we brought along."

As they were setting up camp, Pete's spirits began to pick up. They had just finished pitching the tent when they heard a loud yell. It was a man's voice, and it didn't seem to be too far away.

"W-what was that?" Pete whispered.

"I dunno. Sounds like somebody's in trouble." Jodie strapped on his 9mm. "Wait here. I'll go take a look. I'll be back in a few minutes, so don't wander away from the campsite while I'm gone."

Pete laughed nervously. "As if I would. Be careful, man. And please hurry, okay?"

Jodie had been gone about twenty minutes, and Pete was growing more worried by the minute. He decided to risk calling. The cry for help that he and Jodie had heard was nearby, so Jodie should be within earshot.

"Jodie! What's going on? Are you okay?" Pete waited for a reply, but none came.

Jodie had been gone about thirty minutes now. In spite of his cousin's warning, Pete felt compelled to investigate. Maybe Jodie was hurt and needed help.

He strapped on his .38 and set out in the same direction Jodie had taken, skirting water-covered areas to avoid alligators. He left the dry hammock and moved through the mushy bog. About ten minutes after leaving the campsite, he spotted something lying on the ground in front of him. He stopped, and then became nauseous as he realized it was the mangled body of a man. His head was turned at a crazy angle and one arm was almost torn from his body. He was apparently a hunter; he was wearing a camouflage suit, and his rifle lay a few feet from his body. The hunter was also wearing a sidearm and a knife, but apparently he'd had no chance to defend himself with either weapon.

Pete looked away from the grisly sight. Feeling faint, he leaned against a tree for support. Again, the odd feeling came over him that he was somehow involved in the killing of the man as well as of the pig.

Afraid now to make a sound lest he draw attention to himself, he had to work up his courage to call Jodie.

"Jodie! Where are you? Can you hear me?" He called several times, and after hearing no reply, he hurried back toward the campsite. He slogged through the swamp toward the hammock, determined to keep in a straight line. He stayed alert for sounds but heard nothing but the sound of his boots slogging through the mud and his own heavy breathing.

His watch showed four-thirty. He had been walking for a half-hour; he should have reached the campsite by now. He stopped, looked around, and realized that he was hopelessly lost. He stepped up his pace as he hurried through the swamp. Panic was beginning to take over his mind and body. The swamp had become a hostile thing. It was silent; not even a bird call broke the silence. Pete looked up at the mossy covering overhead, blocking out the sunlight and adding to the darkness and gloom. The everpresent stench of rotting vegetation filled his nostrils. He felt not the slightest hint of a breeze. He no longer saw any beauty in this swamp. He saw nothing but gloom.

His breathing became heavier and he was gasping for breath. He forced himself to slow down and move at a normal pace; he realized that panic would only make things worse. As he trudged along, something ahead caught his eye. It appeared to be an animal. Holding his .38 at ready, he moved toward the creature. As he drew closer, he could see that it was the body of a black bear. It had been badly mangled.

Once again he found himself fighting off panic. His legs felt weak and ice water seemed to flow in his veins. Once again his mind dwelled on Seminole legends of ghosts and terrible creatures. For a brief instant something within him stirred, and he again experienced the feeling that he was somehow involved in the killings. Just as quickly, the feeling passed.

As he walked away from the bear, his concern about leaving the swamp escalated. It was already past five, and he did not want nightfall to catch him in the swamp. He picked up his pace, hoping to find higher ground before dark.

He was growing tired. He had been slogging through the mud for hours. It was after six already; why was he still in the swamp? He should have found higher ground long ago. He saw something ahead—it appeared to be another animal.

As he approached the animal, his heart sank. He was looking at the same bear he had seen an hour ago. He had been going in a circle.

He was exhausted. The humidity and dankness of the swamp seemed to stifle him and add to the difficulty of catching his breath.

It would be dark soon, and he was resigned to spending the night in the swamp. His only option was to spend the night in a tree. It would be a sleepless night, but he could think of nothing better. As he looked around for a suitable tree, his eye caught a movement.

Startled, he drew the .38 and aimed it toward the direction of movement. He lowered the .38 when he saw that it was a man—a Seminole. He was wearing the ancestral dress that Seminoles usually wore only for ceremonies. He wore a wide, brightly colored headband with two large, feathery blue and white plumes affixed to the top. The plumes reminded Pete of ram horns. A knee-length tunic-like garment with ruffled sleeves covered his upper body, banded with many bright colors and designs. His feet were bare, but colorful bands of cloth were wrapped around his ankles and calves.

The Seminole held his hand up in greeting, and Pete was suddenly filled with a sense of peace and calm. The Seminole turned and walked away, motioning for Pete to follow.

As Pete followed, he noticed that the brush did not move as the Seminole passed, and the man's feet did not touch the ground. He was following an apparition, and he knew he should be scared out of his wits. But, strangely, the feeling of peace and calm prevailed.

Presently Pete found himself out of the swamp and on higher ground. This was not a hammock; he was out of the swamp now. Daylight was fading, and darkness was beginning to fall. Pete followed his guide for a few hundred yards more, and the Seminole abruptly vanished.

It was almost dark now. As Pete looked around to survey his surroundings, the sky was suddenly as bright as midday. The surrounding trees vanished, and Pete found himself standing in the middle of a Seminole village.

There were round palmetto-thatched huts with conical roofs. Other huts were simply poles with palmetto roofs, some flat and some pitched. A long, partly finished dugout canoe rested on several logs near a patch of corn. A pleasant odor filled Pete's nostrils, and he looked around to find the source. A woman was cooking meat over an open fire. A butchered gator lay close by.

Most of the people of the village were gathered in an open-air longhouse. Pete walked over to the gathering and stood next to a woman, who did not seem to be aware of him. Like the other women, she wore a full, ankle-length skirt, a full blouse with long sleeves, and a cape around her shoulders. Her clothing was banded with bright colors, and the cloth was heavily beaded.

A trial of some kind was going on. Pete understood what they were saying, even though they were speaking in the Seminole tongue. It was coming to an end, and the chief was passing judgment on the accused.

"Nightwalker, you have used your sorcery to cause the death of Beartooth. Before he died, Beartooth told of how he had learned of your plot to kill me—merely because I opposed your advances on my granddaughter, who will someday rule this clan. I live only because your able apprentice, Redhawk, countered your spell to kill me. Redhawk shall be rewarded by replacing you as head shaman of my tribe.

"You, Nightwalker, shall be banished from the tribe and left to wander in the great forest. Your bones shall not rest in our sacred burial ground. Your spirit must dwell in the great forest forever."

Nightwalker stood and raised both arms.

"You have passed judgment on me—now hear my curse." He pointed to one of the men standing with the chief, whom Pete recognized as the man who had led him out of the swamp.

"Redhawk, you have learned well," said Nightwalker. "Your medicine has become equal to mine, and so I cannot bring harm to you, nor to those under your protection. But I curse your descendants. So long as my spirit wanders the forest, I shall not permit those of your blood to enter. Fishing and hunting in the forest will be denied to them. Should any of your blood enter my domain, I will become Oloka, The Dreadful One. I will destroy them. They will know fear and terror, and they will die a horrible death."

Abruptly, the light faded to darkness, and the forest reappeared. The village and all its inhabitants vanished. All, that is except his guide, whom he now knew as Redhawk. Redhawk faced him.

"How ... I mean ... what was that about?" Pete stammered.

"I know you have many questions," Redhawk said, "but I have too little time. Please listen carefully to what I have to say, for when I go, I cannot return.

"You are my descendant. Your grandfather was my grandson. Because you are of my blood, you are in great danger. The spirit of Nightwalker has already sensed your presence in the forest, and he has become Oloka.

"Oloka is a werebeast. It takes form and becomes one with a spirit when it is summoned. It has become one with the spirit of Nightwalker. Oloka is strong and powerful, but its weapon is fear. It draws its strength from its victim's fear, and therefore must terrorize its victim before it kills. It sends fear into the heart of its victim, and when its victim is frozen with fear it attacks. The murdered hunter you saw had time to use his weapons, but he was too numb with fear to fight.

"Oloka searches for you now, and it will find you. It is impervious to ordinary weapons, but it becomes vulnerable if its victim overcomes fear. You must not allow fear to take hold or your weapon will be powerless. Overcome fear and you can defeat Oloka.

"If you kill the beast, you will nullify the curse of Nightwalker forever. But remember, be prepared for an onslaught of fear, and fight it with all the will you can muster. Remember what I have told you.

"Farewell, my time is gone." With that, Redhawk vanished.

Pete stood alone. What should he do now? Should he wait here or move on? Redhawk had said that Oloka was coming closer, so maybe it would be wise to move on. But to where? Maybe he would walk right into Oloka's hands. He decided to stay put.

The sky was cloudless, and the moon was bright. The forest here was fairly thin, and enough moonlight filtered through the trees so that he could see his surroundings fairly well. But there were shadows, and there were trees to conceal something trying to sneak up on him.

With darkness, the mosquitoes came out. He heard the whine of a mosquito near his ear and felt a bite on his arm. He pulled a small container of repellant from his pocket and smeared it on the exposed parts of his body. He pocketed the repellant, and his hand went for the .38 on his hip. He felt reassured as his hand grasped the handle of the weapon.

But it dawned on him that the beast had killed the hunter, an armed man. It had also killed the wild pig and a powerful bear. What good would his little .38 be against such a creature—even if he could overcome his fear? And he wasn't at all sure that he could conquer that fear that was already gnawing at him. He began to feel vulnerable, and once again he was fighting panic.

He was already filled with fear, and Oloka hadn't even found him yet. How could he, a teenage city boy, possibly resist this thing that used fear as a weapon? He began to tremble and broke out in a cold sweat. Maybe it had already found him. Maybe it was hiding in the shadows and watching him.

His eyes searched the surrounding woods, but he saw no signs of a stalker. He forced himself to calm down, and gradually the panic subsided. He decided that it was time to start thinking of a way to resist this creature.

He heard somewhere that humor was the best way to overcome fear. But what would he do—tell himself jokes? Or maybe he could think of his favorite sitcom on TV. He discarded the idea as ridiculous; he would have to think of something else.

Suddenly, he heard noises in the surrounding woods. He looked around, but the open moonlit areas in the woods revealed nothing. But something—anything—could be hiding in the shadows. Maybe the noise was made by an animal. The noise stopped abruptly. After a moment of dead silence, he heard a loud crashing sound behind him and spun around. He was facing Oloka.

It was about twenty feet from him. It was a huge, scaly thing, its shape vaguely human and its face frog-like. It displayed sharp teeth as it snarled, and its eyes seemed to bore through him.

He felt the icy probes of fear thrusting into his mind. But unlike the hunter, he'd been forewarned and knew what to expect. He tried to focus his mind on resisting, but almost immediately he felt his resistance begin to crumble. The creature was winning.

He sensed that the creature was toying with him, enjoying his feeble effort at resistance. It came closer; it was almost within an arm's length. It could almost reach out and touch him now, but according to Redhawk, it must immobilize its victim with fear before it attacked. Pete knew that he was already near total immobilization—even now his hands were unable to raise and fire the .38.

Desperately, he searched his mind for a way to resist. He remembered humor, and oddly, one of his favorite fantasies came to mind: dreaming up ways to embarrass Mr. McNulty. McNulty was his next-door neighbor, an ill-tempered old man who blamed Pete for everything bad that happened in the neighborhood.

Pete looked at the hideous face of Oloka and imagined it was the face of the cantankerous old man. He pictured himself holding a custard cream pie, ready to smash it into the old geezer's face. He could picture the surprise on old McNulty's face as the pie slammed into his sour puss.

The whole thing was so absurd that he giggled, nervously at first, and then his giggles became hysterical laughter. The icy probes of fear stopped, and the creature appeared confused. Pete raised his hand, but it did not hold a custard cream pie.

He fired several shots point-blank into the creature's face. It staggered back a few steps and fell. Then it struggled to its feet again and faced him. Pete felt the icy probes of fear and emptied the .38 into the creature's face before the creature could freeze him into inaction.

Once again the creature fell, and once again it struggled to regain its feet—but this time it failed. Its huge body quivered and grew still.

Pete watched as the prone creature transformed into the image of Nightwalker. Then Nightwalker became a shapeless mist and vanished.

It was almost daylight. Pete left to find his way out of the woods. His sense of direction, always poor, had inexplicably grown much sharper. He suspected that Redhawk was somehow responsible. He found the creek and followed it to the fallen log where he and Jodie had crossed the stream.

He made his way to the campsite and found Jodie waiting there. He told Jodie of his night in the swamp, but omitted the part about Redhawk and Oloka.

Jodie had also found the body of the hunter. He'd figured that a wounded bear had killed the man. Right after finding the body, he'd heard a noise in the swamp and climbed a tree in case it was the bear returning.

"When I started to climb down from the tree a limb broke and I fell. I must have took a good lick on the head, 'cause I was out a good while. By the time I made it back to the campsite it was nearly dark. I waited 'til daylight, and I was gettin' ready to head back and organize a search party when you showed up."

"I'm glad I found my way back," said Pete. "I guess I was lucky."

"Maybe the Seminole in you finally came out, ol' buddy."

"Could be you're right," said Pete.

Back to top of page