Seeing Red

Operator: 911, what’s your emergency?

Caller: Hi, yeah uh, there’s a little girl on the road.

Operator: Okay, sir, where are you?

Caller: I’ve been driving north on 24th, ummm been about twenty minutes since I looked at the mile marker, an’ I think it said mile 6. Ain’t seen nothing but trees til I see this girl.

*window rolling down*

Caller: “Hey! Are you okay?”

Operator: Sir, what is your name?

Caller: Randy. Ergh Randall, sorry. Randall Woodman.

Operator: Okay, Mr. Woodman, can you see anything else to pinpoint your location?

Caller: No, like I said nothing but trees.

Operator: Mr. Woodman, we’re going to trace your call. I need you to stay on the line, okay?

Caller: Yes ma’am.

Operator: Okay, Mr. Woodman, can you describe the girl to me?

Caller: Yeah uh she’s wearing a dress…maybe it’s a long coat? I can’t tell.

Operator: That’s great, Mr. Woodman, what else?

Caller: Uhh hang on let me get closer…it looks like a dark color. Maybe red? Or – oh my god is that blood?

*window rolling down*

Caller: “Hey! Little Miss!”

Caller: Shit she’s running away.

*car door opens*

Operator: Mr. Woodman, please remain in your vehicle. First responders will be there shortly.

*gravel crunching*

Operator: Mr. Woodman? Randy? What’s happening?

Caller: I think I scared ‘er, she’s runnin’ into the woods.

*huffing*

Operator: Randy, please go back to your vehicle. First responders are on their way.

Caller: “I ain’t gonna hurt ya!”…damn she’s fast.

*thud*

*snarl*

*man screaming*

Operator: Randy? Randy! Talk to me!

*slashing, shearing sounds*

*man screaming*

Operator: Randy?!

*gurgling sounds*

*dial tone*

--------

“This is the 9-11 call local man, Randy Woodman, made to dispatchers late at night last Tuesday – ”

I mute the TV as the reporter begins to describe how my father was brutally killed in what law enforcement is calling a wild animal killing spree. Serial maulings have been occurring for months here in rural Oregon. A specific animal has yet to be identified as the nearly constant and nightly heavy rains have washed away all tracks, and the bodies are mangled into complete unrecognition. Pops was identified via his shredded work uniform – the predator had enough grace to leave behind his full name patch, unscathed. The detectives let me have it, and I’ve been obsessively and compulsorily tracing his name with my fingers.

I unmute the TV as the reporter states, “Anyone with information regarding the little girl seen by the victim, Randall Woodman, is encouraged to call the tip number below.”

The little girl alone at night in the woods. The little girl supposedly covered in blood. The little girl of whom my father gave his last moments of life for. The little girl who doesn’t fit the pattern of these seemingly random attacks. It’s for this last reason the police and media are scrambling to identify her and ensure her safety.

I walk over to my living room wall, which has turned into my chaotic, pinboard mindscape for tracking these maulings. As a budding investigative journalist, my obsession with these cases began long before Pop’s attack. I’ve always had the feeling there was something else there – a presence that scratches the surfaces of your brain just enough to trigger warning bells. If these are truly animal attacks, why are police collecting DNA evidence? Why is there a town curfew? People have been ignoring this curfew, obviously, but it is enforced. I was even pulled over for coming back from the grocery store too late. The pattern of attack locations is also too random – the locations inadvertently form an oval shape. But this latest attack, Pops’ attack, completely shatters this pattern. Pop’s attack site is nearly smack in the middle of this oval. Between this and the little girl sighting, a break in the case is so close I can almost taste it.

I pace the 10 step-expanse of my living room in front of the madness of newspaper articles and circled maps, and to let my brain work through theory after theory to make this fit.

I nearly jump out of my skin when my cell buzzes violently on the coffee table. When I see, it’s Noah finally calling me back, I dive for it and answer on the second ring.

“Noah, tell me you’ve got something.”

“Hey Erin, you doin’ okay?”

“I’d be better if you had something for me.”

“Well, I cleaned up the audio on your dad’s call, like you asked, and there may be something weird at the end, but could also just be interference. But hey, seriously do you need anything? You know I’m here for -”

“Noah you’re the best, I’ll give it a listen now, thanks!”

I hang up on him and feel a twinge of guilt. I know he means well, but I can’t deal with the questions again. I fielded condolences and unsolicited advice all day today after burying what was left of my father – a few fingers, one toe, an ear, and his humerus cleaned to the bone. When we lowered his remains into the cold, dark earth, all I could think about was this damn little girl and why she chose that night to walk alone in front of Pops’ car.

My phone buzzes again with the enhanced audio file of Pops’ 9-11 call. I called in a favor to an ex who’s a patrolman now – I may or may not have had to sleep with the asshole again to get my hands on it. I hold my breath now, silently praying it was worth my breach in dignity. The audio plays the call again for me – I’ve listened to it so many times now, I have it memorized. I can differentiate the crunch of tires versus footprints, Pops’ versus the operators breathing. I’m not expecting an extra, unrecognized noise at the end, though, and it’s during the part I dread the most. I rewind and brace myself at the sounds of my father choking to death on his own blood – there! Right before the dial tone of the call ending. I play it again and hear it very clearly this time – softly crunching gravel, as if a small, lightly treaded person were approaching, and a giggle, then the dial tone. A shuddering chill runs down my spine. I play it again – gurgle, crunch, giggle, dial tone. It sounds to me like a little girl giggles, and then hangs up the phone. My stomach lurches, and if I’d have eaten anything today, it would be all over my couch right now. This can’t be right…and yet, I can’t deny my own ears.

A sudden surge of panic-induced adrenaline surges through my veins. I need to find this girl. A quick glance at my microwave clock tells me I have 4 hours of daylight left, and it’s enough for me to throw on a coat and grab my keys. With no time to waste, I floor it and weave my way through traffic toward the road Pop’s was driving on the night he was killed. I pull my phone out from my jacket pocket to double check the GPS. I hacked into the system to get the coordinates given to first responders by Pop’s dispatch call. I can tell I’m getting close when teddy bears, flowers, and signs start to line the road in small clumps. It’s meant to be endearing, but honestly, it just pisses me off. The car revs and the exhaust coughs thick, gray smoke as I slam my foot onto the gas pedal. I keep my eyes straight on the road because I’m getting the urge to run over the shrines. Bright yellow tape flaps in the wind ahead, and I slow to a stop in front of them.

A sudden flush of fear creeps down my spine and I stare at my white knuckles gripping the steering wheel. I need to get it together – it’s just a little girl for crying out loud, what is there to be afraid of? I take a deep breath, push away the memory of her giggling at my dying father, and open the car door.

I step into the crisp, damp woods and over the caution tape. There is no visible trail, so I slowly pick my way over fallen branches and through mucky leaves. I risk a glance up to search for clues as I walk and smack the back of my head on a tree branch. The pain and dizziness are instant and debilitating. I sink to my knees on the muddy forest floor and cradle my head in my hands – I take deep, shuddering breaths as my eyes try to refocus. When I can clearly see all ten fingers, I support myself to a stand and fight another wave of the spins. I immediately understand that this was a terrible idea, and am about to turn around when I see it – a flash of red. I blink a few times to clear the brain fog and fumble my way towards it through the underbrush. I reach it and rub it between my fingers to confirm to myself that yes this is real. I’m holding a torn piece of deep red fabric, like the color of spilled red wine…or blood. I think of what Pop’s said to dispatchers, “oh my god, is that blood?”, and feel a strange sense of pride overcome and propel me to move forward despite the pounding in my head. I weave toward another piece of torn, red fabric ahead, and step right next to paw print twice the size of my shoe and with deep indentations above each pad to indicate thick, sharp claws. My wide eyes scan ahead, and I spot another. I will my body onward to follow the trail, and I climb through the arms of the forest and hope I don’t end up in the belly of a beast.

Instead, I end up in front of a run-down cottage covered in climbing ivy and surrounded by blossoming wildflowers. Birds chirp soulfully in the canopy above and a fat bumble bee buzzes gluttonously from flower to flower. I’m so completely entranced by the quiet beauty of this quaint home that I don’t hear her approach. Still enraptured, I look nonchalantly to the left and gasp loudly clutching at my chest. Standing before me is a little girl in a red-stained coat with orange-red hair escaping her hood. She stares at me pointedly with unnatural and piercing blue eyes. In her hands she carries a basket with a blood-soaked white cloth overtop. I’m too stunned at her sudden appearance and still woozy from my knock to the head earlier to say anything – I just stare at her, mouth agape.

She smiles sweetly with dimples dotting her cheeks and says to me, “It was nice of you to come, Grandma is expecting dinner.”

“Huh?” I reply dumbly.

She takes my hand, “Come, meet Grandma.”

“Who are you?” I ask as I allow her to lead me up the slippery stone steps and into the cozy cottage.

“Grandma, I found dinner! Or, I guess, dinner found us!” the girl says in a singsong tone as she plops her basket onto the kitchen table. Flies buzz around the basket and I chance a peek inside while the girl’s back is turned – a rabbit. I sigh a breath of relief, as I was partly expecting something far more sinister.

“Do you like rabbit stew?” the little girl asks from behind me.

I yelp and jump again. She’s unnervingly quick and quiet.

A low and scratchy voice booms from the next room, “Red, try not to startle our guest, dear.”

The little girl giggles cutely and my breath catches in my throat. My heartbeat sounds like a thudding drum throbbing between my temples as it races beneath my rib cage.

“You don’t look so good,” Red comments and stares at me with a predatorial fascination.

“Sorry, um, I hit my head. Um could I have a glass of water?” I muster in reply.

She’s holding a glass in front of me before I even finish my question. I must have hit my head really hard because I didn’t even see her fill it up. The disorientation hits again and I reach for the table to steady myself. The little girl won’t stop staring at me, but her eyes won’t meet mine. Instead, her eyes seem to be trained on my neck. I reach my hand up to check for scrapes, but all I feel is smooth, sweaty skin.

I take a long swallow, and clear my throat to ask, “Red, is that your name?”

She nods.

“Red, were you walking near the road at night last week?”

She shrugs.

“Did you see a man?”

“I see lots of men,” she replies with a flash of a smile. Although brief, it was somehow…wrong…and unsettling…and are her teeth pointy?

I’m taken aback by this odd response and stammer, “Y-you what?”.

“Enough questions, it’s time for dinner. Grandma! Are you ready to meet our guest?”

Red grips my wrist and pulls me to the next room. Her fingers are ice cold and impossibly strong. We step into the den that is dimly lit by a warm fireplace. Grandma stands tall and wide facing the fireplace stirring a large pot with a long wooden spoon held by even longer nails. The shadows of the fire illuminate a long nose with glasses perched on the end. The aromas emanating from the pot are foreign yet delicious and I feel my stomach clench from hunger. Grandma turns her head slightly when we enter and her ear sneaks out from under her bonnet – it’s huge and hairy. Everything suddenly feels familiar and foreboding – like déjà vu you can’t place.

“Hello, um Grandma. Thank you for your hospitality, but I won’t be staying for dinner, and I’ll just be on my way now.”

I turn to leave but Red blocks the door and smiles at me menacingly with sharp, pointed teeth. I backpedal but only get two steps until I’m engulfed by large, furry arms. I twist my head to look into the glowing eyes of a giant, sneering wolf with strings of drool dripping from its fangs.

Red giggles, and it’s the same giggle I heard earlier on my phone. She says singsong, “Oh no silly, you’re not staying for dinner…you are dinner.”

All I saw after that, and before the world went dark, was red.