It was three weeks ago when I first heard it. I was feeling my way through the darkness of the basement, searching for the outside door that was my gate to the freedom of an early morning run. As I opened the door, it creaked in protest as doors will sometimes do. Yet, there was another sound as well; a sound that I can only describe as a whisper. It seemed to faintly say,

"It will soon . . . "

But the words trailed away unintelligibly when a slight breeze swirled by to sweep and rattle a small mound of dead leaves. I paused and listened intently--cupping my hands near my ears--but there was nothing more. I closed the door behind me and ran out to greet the dawn.

It happened again last weekend. I had awakened early in order to prepare and load my paddling gear for a river trip. As I bumped through the dark basement, the whispers floated out of the darkness and sent cold chills up my spine. As I groped for the lightswitch I heard,

"It will soon be . . . "

Suddenly two hundred watts of incandescence erased the darkness and the whispers ceased. I looked to the far dark corner where the voice seemed to have come from, but there was nothing more than a long wooden dowel with the sundry garb of winters past hanging silently from it. However, this time there had been no doubt in my mind; I had heard something mysterious that I could not explain. I nervously continued to load my paddling gear, stopping on occasion to listen--holding my breath--but there was nothing more.

Our whitewater trip was as all such trips are: paddling challenging whitewater in a beautiful, natural setting. There was a slight nip of Fall in the air, especially noticeable when the bends of the river took us into the shadows. Overhead and still attached to their provider’s thin fingers, leaves with tints of yellow and red fluttered in the breeze, perhaps testing their wings for an upcoming flight. My core-temp top felt good as the waves broke over the bow of my kayak, sending crisp sheets of water onto my bare arms and into my face. I also felt those small but chilly streams of water that had breached the security of my spray cover. They seem to always find those warm, hidden reaches of one’s anatomy where they’re least welcomed.

This morning I arose early in order to check the temperature. As I peered through the window, strange feathery etchings on the pane framed the thermometer nailed to the front porch rail. A skinny 26 degrees smiled back at me. "Burrrr . . . " I said, thinking about the day ahead. Better get it all together; I’ll need a little more gear than last week. I opened the door to the basement then paused as I looked down the steps that led into the dark gulf. Everything I needed was down there . . . where the whispers were. With the resolve that I feel at the top of a difficult rapid, I took that first step. I hadn’t journeyed far when I felt a presence . . . watching me. I stumbled through the mixed shadows of night and dawn and was far from the light switch when the whispers began,

"It will soon be . . . "

I wheeled around in the direction of the whispers just in time to faintly see a headless and legless shade come flying toward me from out of the darkness . . .

"MY TIME!"

I was taken by surprise as the creature wrapped handless arms around me. In a terrific struggle we fell to the floor where it soon engulfed me with its very form as we fought! I kicked and punched but to no avail. I felt tight grips upon each of my wrists--tenacious, strength-sapping constrictions--and then it began to choke me! I could feel the veins in my neck bulging and my face becoming red . . . then the shadows became darker . . . ever darker . . . and I passed out.

Woosh! I came to with a jolt as the first large wave slapped me in the face with its iciness. Then another and another followed in quick succession! Gosh, where did my summer wages go? I thought as I paddled downstream and slid into the shadowed eddy near a large wave. As I took my place in line with the front-surfers gathered there, a bare-armed kayaker looked at me and joked, " Hey, I’ve got a screen door I’ll swap for your drytop!" As I tugged at the tight neck gasket I momentarily considered his offer. I then looked at the goose-bumps on his forearms and laughed, "No way! This is late October in the Appalachians . . . time for a drytop!"

Ken Strickland