Some Legends Get Left in the Valley

It started off that way, in the dark. The tranquil swirl of snow made barely a whisper at the bedroom window of Grandma's cabin in Canaan, and the eerie critter-less quiet was a welcome discomfort for to keep awake. I was no more than a ten-year-old sprout when I sat awake under that quilt, listening for the footsteps I was sure I'd hear crunching in the temperamental valley snowfall, searching for its hulking shadow overtaking the floodlight leaking onto the opposite wall. And I laid up watching, watching that surface, flat and far and blurring from focus, slow breaths pressing in my lungs, afeared to turn round and look out that window, if I'm to admit it rightly now. I strained with all my might in that black room, and there it was! Accomplishment thrilled within my chest. I had one chance to turn around and look out that window, into the floodlit snow, to catch that sasquatch once and for all. So I twisted my little body towards the light, hoisting up high to see overtop the headboard, and the first thing to catch me was a red ribbon dragging in the snow, long streaks of muck left by a sharp, gaunt thing dragging a prize behind in its bloodthick maw, backing through the snow hunched with the weight of its prey. And as I saw that bundle of bones with the deer's leg in its mouth, son, it also saw me. I ain't never spoke it till now.