Matador Run

“Is it true? You’re really gonna try to do matador run tonight?” *

Luke leaned back casually in a green and blue striped lawn chair. It was one of several mismatched pieces of furniture organized around a roaring bonfire, an excessive blaze that was a bit much for the mild sixty degree cool of the last night in October. In the assortment of chairs and roaming about the surrounding area lit by the fire’s flickering light, roamed a host of ghouls and ghosts, doctors and nurses, assorted TV and movie characters galore. Luke took a sip from a cup that contained nine parts kool-aid, one part whatever mix of alcohol had made its way in, and tipped back his wide brimmed hat. He himself had arrived as a cowboy, his fine attire made of a red button up shirt, faded blue jeans, cowboy boots and hat. In truth the outfit was a mishmash of whatever he had found around the house, hence the plastic light-up laser gun he had borrowed from his younger brother. To any curious enough to mention the inconsistency, he would just joke he was a space cowboy. Glancing up he saw that the question was levied by a girl with a red wig slightly askew in a small green dress and fairy wings. *

“ Is that what people are saying? That doesn’t sound quite right.” He took another sip from his drink, the sweetness chased by the low burn of the alcohol. “I plan on completing the matador run tonight. No try to it.” ** He stood, finished the rest of his drink, and tossed the plastic cup into the nearby fire. Stretching, he realized many eyes were on him, and with an exuberant shout he yelled, “Who wants to make the run with me tonight?” *

Various yells answered in a chorus, many with no idea what they were yelling for. The party had been going on since near sunset, and by this point the moon was high overhead. His fellow partygoers were largely inebriated and had little interest in what he was saying, but his commanding shout roused a response nonetheless. Luke counted it as a voice of agreement and grabbing a partially burning branch from the fire, getting more than a bit singed in the process, he pulled his makeshift torch free and thrust it into the air with another yell. More discordant voices joined his call, and he began to march across the yard to where matador run always took place. *

Mallory was a small town, one that still clung to life by virtue of the farming community that surrounded it. While some were still going strong, the Old Miller Farmstead had long ago drifted into bankruptcy and now ruin. Most of the surrounding land had been bought by its more successful rivals, but the old house itself and a few surrounding buildings were left untouched, the small copse of trees that once lent it meager shade had become overgrown, placing the buildings in a small grove that kept it sheltered from outside eyes; the perfect place for parties for the local younger generation. There was a clearing kept open in between the various slowly rotting walls, the ruined buildings used for little more than a place to toss downed drinks and trash from parties past. It was one of the town’s poorly kept secrets, and the frequent parties in this isolated shelter were only rarely busted by the police.

Luke walked away from the area to where his challenge would commence. Not far from here a haphazard field was kept mostly clear by an old wooden fence that struggled valiantly to keep the surrounding bit of wood at bay. The field where he would start the run had a bit of history to it, dating back to the last years of the Miller Farmstead. According to local legend, Harold Miller had used the field to house Sampson, the biggest and meanest bull to ever live. Sampson was slated for bull riding, a last attempt to generate some money for old Harold before the place went bankrupt, but when his youngest son was killed by Sampson, he simply couldn’t go through with it. Supposedly the bull was left alone, all by itself in this field until it vanished, presumed dead. No one had wanted to keep the mean spirited thing for fear of its bad temper. The old folks who told the story would nod knowingly, saying that when that thing (never bull, always that thing) had taken its first life it would stay fond for the smell of blood. The incident and the bull in question counted as fascinating gossip for the small town, and what would have been passed off as a tragic accident in other places grew in stature until the modern legend emerged. Supposedly if you ran across the field under a full moon, Sampson would emerge from one corner, determined to run you down. Any who couldn’t outrace the enormous creature would find themselves trampled to death. Every few years, stories spread of people who attempted to cross his field and failed to make it, never to be found.

Luke was not a suspicious or especially imaginative man. What he was, was fit and popular; a star player for the football team, and determined to make one more mark before he went off to college. He walked around the fence surrounding Sampson’s field until he reached the far side, where the challenge always took place. While not superstitious, he nevertheless felt a thrill at the challenge ahead. Sampson’s field was full of holes from various burrowing creatures, tall grass and shrubs, all ready to break the ankle of the reckless individual. He clambered onto the top of the fence and looked across the field. Lights of various cellphones and flashlights shown on the far side of the field from whoever was interested enough to watch his attempt. Luke grinned, dropping down on the other side of the fence. This would be talked about for the rest of the semester. With one more yell he lifted his still smoldering torch above his head and began to sprint.

He made his way across the field, the light of his torch causing the shadows of the grass and shrubs to swing crazily with the motion of his arm. He honestly could have done without, the moon overhead doing a fine job illuminating his surroundings. He was more than halfway across, cheers echoing from the other side of the fence, when their sounds were drowned out by a deep, guttural bellow.

Stumbling to a stop, he turned toward the sound. Emerging from the shadows cast by trees huddling against the fence was the largest creature he had ever seen. Sampson, for who else could it have been, was enormous. His horns curled outward, beyond the span of Luke’s own arms, and centered between them were small eyes that glinted redly even in the silvery light of the moon. Jets of steam seemed to emerge from its nose, and beneath its broad chest one muscular leg tore at the ground, sending clods of earth to the sky. With one more bellowed challenge, the beast lowered its head and charged.

Luke screamed in panic, all thoughts of glory gone, and tossed his still burning torch at the approaching bull in panic. The light flashing across his eyes must have blinded him, because as he turned back, he couldn’t see the lights of his friends. Trusting he was heading the right way he ran faster than he ever had in his life. He kept his eyes to the ground, occasionally having to leap to avoid a shrub, or take a few staggering, short steps to dance around a hole that threatened to snap a limb. The whole time he could hear the approach of Sampson, the ground seeming to shake at the creature’s approach. Closer and closer, the gentle shake becoming a tremor, now joined with the sound of thunder as enormous hooves punished the earth below, coming closer and closer to the bull’s target. Luke screamed in defiance against the sound, no longer looking down but ahead, the fence rapidly approaching but not fast enough. *

He was mere yards from his goal when something with the force of a truck seemed to slam into him. He flew through the air, spinning end over end before crashing hard onto the ground. Luke groaned, curling into a ball, awaiting the final hit, the thunder surrounding and shaking his frame, the bellow of the bull filling his ears as—as nothing happened. ** Luke slowly stood and turned. Behind him stood the fence, and beyond it the field stood empty. There was no sign of Sampson, no sign of its trampling charge in the undisturbed earth. His torch was even gone, vanished from view. He glanced away and saw a crowd of people, cell phones in hand, looking bored as they glanced across his field. Eventually, fairy girl noticed him and turned, drawing the attention of the others. *

“Hey, what happened?” She asked, looking annoyed. “We’re still waiting for you to go, did you chicken out?” *

Luke stared at her in disbelief. “What do you mean chicken out? I just did it! You didn’t see the bull, he was right on me, he threw me across the fence!” *

Fairy girl was clearly not impressed. “What a stupid joke, Luke. Why make us follow you all the way out here just for that?” *

“It’s not a joke, I’m telling the truth!” He waved his arms for effect. “I was halfway here when Sampson charged me, I dropped my torch and ran, I almost made it, but…”

His audience had gone from annoyed to disinterested, and before he had a chance to explain anymore they disappeared back in the direction of the party. Luke watched them go, still in shock over what had happened. He glanced back across the still empty field, shock and terror fading to confusion. He climbed up and leaned over the fence, trying to see any sign of what had transpired.

As his head broke the perimeter of the fence Luke saw his torch still burning near the center of the field, charred grass surrounding where it lay, and slowly meandering across the field, back to the dim corner where he had appeared, Sampson let loose one more defiant bellow before vanishing from view.

Luke explained himself again and again over the coming weeks but none believed him. Many even went so far as to climb into the field but they didn’t see the same thing, didn’t see Sampson emerging from the shadows. Luke had no explanation for what happened that night, but he knew one thing. He would never enter that field again.