Chapter 2Goldie

Chapter 2

Goldie

M y memory doesn't fail me, though my footwear is letting me down. The blisters forming on my toes are screaming as I trudge up the narrow, nearly invisible pathway through the woods. These boots are not, in fact, made for walking. But I had to leave my car all alone at the bottom of the mountain when the road ended in a muddy parking lot, and for the past two hours I've ventured forth, my camping gear strapped to my back as I crunch through fallen leaves, a determined smile on my face despite my blisters.

"A smile is a frown wearing its Sunday best," I even said to myself at one point—a quote by my mother, which is why it's kind of a confusing one. She's a bit of a mess. And we never even went to church.

But now my smile has widened—not just wearing its Sunday best, but a red carpet–worthy ball gown. Because I'm on the right trail, I know it!

My hands start to shake as I grab the camera cord around my neck. This is the spot. This is where it all happened. I can hear the river, the exact roar and hush of the rushing water, just as I hear it in every memory of that terrifying day.

I had wandered off, away from my friends, trying to find a little privacy—because my small bladder was just as much of a curse when I was a kid as it is now. I'd just found the perfect bush to squat behind when I found myself face-to-face with the bobcat.

Like any sane person, I'd turned to run, and in classic Goldie style, I lost all balance and tripped. Falling, falling, falling, but before I could face-plant into the ground and become bobcat breakfast, I was scooped up by a massive pair of strong, shaggy arms.

And the funny thing is, I was never afraid, not of the Sasquatch—because that's what I realized held me in those massive and massively hairy arms. A Sasquatch. The real Bigfoot. And he wasn't a monster, not at all.

He had the kindest eyes.

Now, twenty years later, I'm close to where he saved me, I can feel it in my bones.

There's a sharp cramp building in my left shoulder because my gear is heavy as hell, but I press on. Onward and upward! I forgot to fill up my canteen, so I'm parched. But water is near! Water, and my hero.

Since they don't exist—ha! Yeah, right—no one knows the life expectancy of a Sasquatch. But my Bigfoot has to still be here. It's more than just the documentary—I never got a chance to thank him.

The bobcat, Bigfoot, looking death in the face, and then being carried to safety. What happened between being rescued by the Bigfoot and then arriving back to my friends is kind of a blur, though they swear when I got back to them I was all alone. They saw nothing, except that I had wet pants. Worse, they thought I was making up the encounters! Both encounters—the one with the bobcat and the one with Bigfoot. They thought I was just embarrassed that I'd peed myself and trying to make excuses to save face.

But I've never questioned my own experience. I know what happened.

Up ahead, there's a clearing. Sunlight filters through the foliage, shadows dappling the forest floor. The perfect campsite. I hurry forward, my arms spaghetti noodles as I finally set down the tent I've been lugging, and the backpack, and the small cooler. The relief instantly spreads through my whole back.

The crisp air carries the earthy scent of pine needles and freshly fallen leaves, and I take a deep breath, inhaling it all.

Okay, it's more like a wheeze. That hike was way more strenuous than the spin classes I took back when I used to worry about my less-than-petite size. And that's saying a lot, because Jason was a fierce body coach.

Looking around, I shake out my hands, trying to get some feeling back in my fingers, the chilly breeze reminding me of the coming winter season. I'm so glad I waited until fall was in full swing. It's gorgeous.

Pulling out my phone, I'm not surprised there's no service. But I am disappointed. I've been working hard on my social media presence, and a stretch of not posting is likely to cause a significant dip in new followers and mess up the algorithms. I'll just have to make sure I have loads of content for when I get back to civilization, in case I don't ever get a signal up here.

Sometimes you have to sacrifice for your art.

I take some photographs, which I'll edit later, and after touching up my makeup, I shoot a couple of quick videos to establish both the setting and my plans. I do several takes of each, so I can decide later whether I look better with or without the safari hat. Either way, my waist-length blonde curls look amazing highlighted by the sun. Unfortunately, the same sun makes me squint, so even though I'm a firm believer in making eye contact with my audience, my sunnies are necessary.

I'm using my phone camera now, but I have professional videography equipment—the very best—including my small, high-action camera (no blurry Bigfoot footage for this professional), and a slew of tricked-out hidden cameras that I plan to distribute throughout the area later. They're tiny and disguised as things like snails. So clever. Even if I don't spot Bigfoot with my own two eyes—though I plan to—I'm going to get evidence of his existence one way or another.

"Look at this scenery!" I say, holding my phone up and swinging it around slowly. "It's breathtaking, isn't it? Autumn has always been my favorite season, but up here, it is truly something else. I'm going to pitch my tent and then I'll be back…"

My voice trails off because I hear something in the near distance. I put a finger to my lips, even though there's no one but me to make a sound, anyway.

A series of deep grunts rumbles through the trees!

My eyes fly open, and my heart skips a beat. Is it possible? Could it be my Bigfoot? Hope and exhilaration replace fear as I imagine the possibility of encountering the legendary cryptid, again, not more than two minutes after arriving at my campsite.

I hear something else mixed in with the grunts. Laughter?

I spin around, excitement coursing through me. But there are so many trees…something or someone could be hiding behind any one of them.

My heartbeat quickens. Could it be another bobcat? Or maybe a playful raccoon? Didn't I hear somewhere that coyotes' calls sound like creepy laughter?

Hopefully not a coyote.

Hopefully not a bear.

I hold my breath and listen. It's definitely laughter, but not the kind that belongs to wild animals.

I eagerly head in the direction of the sounds, keeping my phone up in front of me, set to record so I don't miss anything. But I'm also grabbing for the high-speed camera at my neck, searching for the power button and pressing it on with my shaky fingers.

Suddenly, I'm caught in a tangle of fine, sticky near-invisible strands. It takes me far too long to realize I've walked face-first into a spiderweb.

A shriek of revulsion pops out of me. Holy shit, I really hope that spider isn't in my hair! Shuddering at the thought, I swipe at my face, wiping away the clingy, nasty threads with trembling fingers.

But I have to get a grip, so I take a deep, shaky breath and right my phone, which is still on record. It's a good thing I don't have reception and therefore couldn't go live, because that probably would have gone viral for the wrong reasons.

The grumbling, grunting, laughing noises are still going on, along with splashes—lots of splashes. Deep echoing ones, and I remember a swimming hole in the river…

Excitement builds in me again as I hurry toward the sounds, and then catch sight of movement—lots of movement through the trees. But my joy is dashed when I see the line of trees thinning 'til they're basically gone. Well, shit. I won't be able to hide in the wide open!

Creeping as close to the tree line as possible without totally exposing myself, I pocket my phone and switch to my high-speed, shockproof, waterproof action camera, zooming in as much as possible and holding my arm out, watching the screen as I center on the figures.

I stand, unblinking. Holy smokes. Holy shit. Their constant movement in the water makes it hard to focus, but even so, their big, burly, hairy bodies are right there on the screen.

Holy moly shitballs! I move out from behind my scrawny tree and inch forward, watching with more care now. I duck down behind a bush, so what I'm seeing doesn't see me.

That damn spider was in my hair, and it bit me and injected me with some sort of hallucinogenic venom, obviously. Otherwise, I would not be seeing what I am seeing. Not two, not three, but…a whole heck of a lot of them. Bigfoot! Bigfoots? Bigfeet?

I don't know, whatever, it's a whole lot of Sasquatches. A whole crew of them splashing in the water like children.

Ginormous, joyful children.

"You guys," I whisper, hoping the microphone will pick up my voice. "Are you seeing what I'm seeing? I cannot believe my luck!"

I squint at the screen, counting. Seven, eight of them?

I want to whoop and holler, like they're doing. I want to do a celebratory dance. I want to march right down there and introduce myself because—

Suddenly, the opening notes of the old Hall & Oates song, "Maneater," begins blasting. Mom's ringtone. Shit! Apparently there is service up here. That fact should make me happy, but as I frantically wrench my phone out of my pocket and scrabble at the buttons to shut it up with one hand while keeping the camera steady with the other, I glance in the direction of my newfound discovery and see that the Sasquatches, too, have made a discovery.

They're all looking in my direction. And, despite the majority of their faces being covered by hair—fur?—it's apparent that they are not happy with my presence.

And they do not look like a crowd you'd want to march right down and introduce yourself to, so I'm glad I didn't go that route. Especially not when "Maneater" won't stop blaring from my phone. The song choice seemed funny when my mom was marrying her eighth husband—her love life is one of those you either laugh or cry situations—but it's not at all humorous when one burly Sasquatch points in my direction and starts making snarly noises.

Surely I stopped the ringing already. Is she calling me back? Yes, there's her smiling face, popping back up on my phone.

Oh God, and they're all swimming toward the land. They're fast swimmers. They're clambering out of the water, lumbering toward the tree line. Toward me.

My brain is shrieking RUN!!! But my legs are not listening.

"ROSE-GOLD, ARE YOU THERE?" my mother's voice is squawking from my hand.

Oops. Did I accept the call?

"Mom, I'll call you back!" I hiss, my eyes glued on the approaching figures.

I'm going to die. The Piney Grove Trading Post and General Store lady totally predicted it. The breath of death or whatever is on my neck.

They're coming toward me and they look pissed. Maybe I don't remember things so clearly, because my Bigfoot did not look pissed. He had the kindest eyes ever!

And these guys are ginormous, did I mention that?

"Rose-Gold, it's over! Clive and I—"

"MOTHER! Holy shit, I've got to run."

Like, literally run.

"Rose-Gold Amber Locke, do not say holy shit to your mother!" Mother chastises. I can see her mauve-lined lips, which match the current dye job in her short-cropped hair, twisting with disappointment. "I need you right now. My marriage is ending. I cannot handle another divorce. I simply cannot—"

"MOTHER!" I shriek.

They're shouting. There are seven or eight or nine of them. What's a group of Sasquatches called? A gang? A murder? I don't know. But a flock of birds erupt with squawks of terror, flying off as the thundering mass of shouting, pissed-off Sasquatches chase me. Arms are pumping, their hair is flying behind them like streamers, and they are coming for me.

I'm going to die.

"Rose-Gold, are you listening to me? You better not hang up on me in my time of need. You're my only child. I can't go through another…"

Mother's words, words I've heard before—words I could recite like quotes, I've heard them so many times—blur together as my legs finally obey my brain and I take off running, questioning all of my life decisions.

The gift shop lady said the spirit of death was hovering around me!

Why didn't I listen?

You know how you always see women running through the woods in movies and they do it like they're gazelles or something, effortlessly bounding and darting over roots and fallen limbs?

Yeah, that's not real life.

Real life is tripping and stumbling and branches to the face. And I have to keep looking over my shoulder to see if they're gaining ground. Which is stupid and impossible, because in real life, there are stumps and roots that seem to pop up out of nowhere like nature's booby traps, bound and determined to send me flying onto my ass.

Dead meat.

I am dead meat.

"Rose-Gold, I can hear you gasping for breath. Baby, are you okay? Did you go back to that spin class?"

"Not okay. I'm dead meat. I have to call you back later. Sorry about Clive!"

The grunts and snarls are getting closer, and then, to my astonishment, one shouts, "Get her!" in perfect English.

My Sasquatches speak English!

So, I could stop and explain to them that, you know, as far as I know, we're still in the United States where murder is illegal.

I glance back in a moment of contemplation, just to see if the English-speaking Bigfoot could—

BAM!

Pain catches me in the forehead and radiates all the way down to my blistered toes, and I lose all the wind in my lungs from the impact. Even my scream gets caught in my chest as my body ricochets off what must be an enormous tree and my feet fly out from under me, my ankle doing something I'm pretty sure is not normal for an ankle to do, as I'm knocked on my ass.