No dinosaurs in Maine

A free short story

“Hey, neighbor, you want a hand with that?”

I looked at the figure emerging from the trees and stifled a giggle. He was the stereotypical classic Mainer, just like you see in all the old postcards and tourist pictures: short, stocky, big beard, even a red check L.L. Bean shirt and a dark blue beanie. Or, as Elizabeth said later, just like the lumberjacks in that Monty Python song. I was surprised she knew Monty Python, but I shouldn’t have been. She has a habit of surprising me with the weird things she knows. She has one of those eclectic minds that has no problem holding information about Venetian glass-blowing techniques and Italian horror comics and medieval French poetry and how to read Egyptian hieroglyphics and cheat codes for obscure Nintendo games and the lyrics to every single Taylor Swift song.

“Sure,” I said, “I’d appreciate that. We’re just dumping everything in the garage for now. We’ll figure out where it all goes later after we’ve painted and fixed up a few things.” He nodded, jumped up into the truck, and grabbed one end of the dining table. It was heavy, oak, an antique that Elizabeth couldn’t bear to part with. He lifted it as though it was IKEA crap. I struggled with my end.

He didn’t say a word until we’d finished with the furniture, just grunted occasionally whenever I tried to engage him in conversation. Elizabeth had made herself scarce. Measuring for curtains, planning what was going in which cabinet in the kitchen, deciding who was getting which closet in the bedroom, all that stuff.

We sat on a couple of logs in the front yard, taking a breather.

“Bob,” he said, eventually. “I live over that way, end of the road. “Then you’ve got Jim on your other side. He’s a good guy, cooks a mean steak. Ron’s next to Jim, he’s been here thirty years. And Ben a little way down the hill, the house by the mailboxes. He’s nearly ninety but you wouldn’t believe it. You’ll want to talk to him about getting your driveway plowed.” I wondered whether there were no women up here, or if Bob just didn’t think them worth mentioning. And did nobody up here have a second syllable to their name?

“Nathaniel,” I said. “Good to meet you. And, thanks, Bob.”

“Welcome to the hill, Nat,” he said. “You’ll find we’re a friendly bunch up here.”

“Nathaniel,” I reiterated. “And my wife’s Elizabeth.”

Bob grinned, half amusement, half pity. “So what brings you folks up to our little bit of the world, Nat?” he asked. Well, shit. I guess I was going to be Nat whether I liked it or not. I hoped to God he wasn’t going to call my wife Liz. Or worse, Beth. She was not going to like that.

“This,” I said, gesturing at the woods all around us. “Couldn’t stand living in Florida any more. Couldn’t stand living in cities. Couldn’t stand being surrounded by people and traffic and strip malls and non-stop sirens and noise. Couldn’t stand spending my whole life living in air conditioning because it was too damn hot to go outside. We just wanted to be somewhere quiet and peaceful, get away from it all. So we came up here, loved it, and decided to stay. It sounds like a cliche, but, well, back to nature, you know what I mean?”

“Ayup,” he said. I waited, but that was all he had to say.

“It kind of reminds me of where I grew up. Small town, forests, seasons, all that. England,” I added, helpfully, in case it wasn’t obvious from my accent. “Not the same, obviously. We’ve got a lot to learn, especially when it comes to winter. That’s going to be a hell of a shock, especially for Elizabeth. She’s never even seen snow.”

“Ayup,” he said, again. He got up and walked away through the trees towards his house. Crap, what did I say? I’d heard some Mainers weren’t exactly friendly towards people from away. Maybe he didn’t like the idea of living next to a Brit from Florida who didn’t know how to handle winter. Maybe this move was a really bad idea after all. Maybe it wasn’t too late to put our tails between our legs and run home. I put my head in my hands and tried not to feel glum.

“Here,” he said, sitting down next to me and handing me a cold beer. Narragansett. I guessed it was probably local. And cheap. But when it’s in the mid-80s and you’ve been moving furniture and boxes all day and you’re drenched in sweat and a neighbor offers you a free beer, you don’t say no, even if it’s shit beer. Actually, it wasn’t bad, under the circumstances. I swigged it gratefully.

“Wanna shout for your lady, see if she wants one? I got plenty.” I texted her. Didn’t feel like getting up. Bob gave me that look again. I put my phone away.

“Elizabeth, this is our neighbor, Bob,” I said. “He brought beers.”

“Hey there, Ellie,” he said, holding out a can. “Welcome to the hill.”

Ellie? Surprisingly, she didn’t bristle. “Good to meet you, Bob,” she said. “And thanks. I was going to make you guys some coffee, but I haven’t found the machine yet. And it’s too hot for coffee anyway. A beer is just perfect.”

We sat and chatted for a while. Elizabeth talked about raising chickens, and growing vegetables, and getting involved with the local arts community, and whether there was a yoga studio nearby, while I tried to steer the conversation towards practical issues like getting the furnace serviced and best places to get heating oil and whether we needed to cut back the trees near the house in case of nor’easters and when we should put the winter tires on. Bob said very little, just drank his beers and gave us the names of some people we should talk to. I knew I’d forget them, and I didn’t have a pen and paper with me, so I made notes on my phone. I’m pretty sure I noticed Bob rolling his eyes at me.

It was pleasant enough, and it was nice to feel like we were making a new friend, but eventually, Elizabeth called a halt. We still had a load of boxes to move, and the truck had to be back by seven a.m. tomorrow, so we needed to get on with it. Bob looked up at the sky. “Gotta take the dogs out,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow, see if you need anything.”

“Thanks, man,” I said. “For everything.”

Bob shrugged. “You’re a neighbor. You hunt, Nat?”

“Never had the opportunity,” I replied.

“Monday morning, early,” he said. “Come out with me. I’ve got a spare weapon. Let’s get your freezer loaded up with some venison.”

“I don’t have a license,” I objected. “And it’s not hunting season, is it?”

He laughed. “That’s my fucking land. Near on two thousand acres of it, all the way from here to the Androscoggin. No government asshole’s going to tell me what I can do on my own land. So we’re good, Nat.”

I glanced at Elizabeth. She nodded her approval.

“Sure, Bob,” I said. “I’d like that.”

---

When he said he had a spare weapon, I was expecting a rifle. Bob handed me a bow and arrows. I guess we were going Last of the Mohicans, not The Deerhunter. Rifles would make too much noise, he explained. Made sense.

I don’t know how far we walked. It was impossible to tell. Five miles, perhaps? Ten? Felt like twenty at least. There were no roads, and no trails, not that I could see, but Bob seemed to know where he was going. We didn’t speak. Every so often, he stopped, listened, and then changed direction. I heard nothing.

Eventually, we stopped near a small stream. Bob settled himself by a tree and motioned for me to do the same. “Just wait,” he whispered. “He’ll be here.”

“How long?” I whispered back.

Bob shrugged. “Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow. Who knows?”

Tomorrow? Was he being serious? I hadn’t planned on being out here overnight. We had no food, no tents, no blankets, nothing. And Elizabeth would lose her shit if I wasn’t home by dark. But what could I do? It wasn’t like I could find my way back from here. I had no idea where I was. Didn’t even have my phone: Bob had insisted I left it at home.

He handed me a stick of homemade jerky, then lay back and closed his eyes. I couldn’t tell if he was napping or listening.

I waited, watching and keeping my ears alert for any sounds. Were there bears out here? Wolves? Fucking Bigfoot, for all I knew. I checked my bow a hundred times, with no idea what I was actually checking for. Last time I shot a bow I was six years old, playing cowboys and Indians at Mikey Greaves’s birthday party. Back then, nobody had a problem with kids running round the streets with toy guns. Not like now.

Bob tapped me on the arm and pointed. On the opposite side of the stream, a buck was taking a drink. It was the first time I’d seen a deer up close. He had magnificent antlers. Silently, Bob motioned with his head, telling me to take the shot.

I shot.

I missed.

Bob didn’t.

The buck fell to the ground, its legs kicking. Bob dropped his bow, drew a huge knife, and ran over to the dying animal. He muttered something and cut the buck’s throat. As it died, he continued talking to it, soothing it, almost as if he was saying farewell to an old friend.

“What was that?” I asked. Bob expertly cut it open, letting its innards out, then cut a branch, lashed the deer to it, and took the front end. I took the back end and hoisted it onto my shoulder. Jesus, deer are heavy. Had to be close to three hundred pounds. And we had to carry this thing all the way back? Oh well, it’d give us enough meat for the entire winter. Probably the whole year. We’re not big meat eaters.

“Letting its spirit go,” said Bob. “You kill an animal, you got to let its spirit go, otherwise it can’t rest easy and it’ll haunt you.”

“Are you, um, Native American?” I asked. That would explain the bow, the taciturnity, and so on, right? I couldn’t remember the name of the local tribe. I looked it up later. Wabanaki. It means People of the Dawn, because up here in Maine they get to see the sunrise before anyone else. Cool name, huh?

“Hell no,” he said. “I’m one hundred percent American.”

I started to say something, but figured it would be best to let it go.

“Really, Bob,” I said instead. “Haunted? C’mon, stop messing with me. You don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Don’t you?” he asked, seriously.

I laughed. “Of course not. I mean, sure, this is Maine, but you can knock it off with that Stephen King bullshit.”

Bob turned and looked at me. “You will,” he said, without a trace of humor. “When any creature dies violently, before its time, it stays where it was killed. And it’s angry. So when we kill an animal, we say thank you for giving us its life, and we let it go.”

“So you’re saying ghost deer, ghost squirrels, ghost worms, everything? Ghost mosquitoes?” I said, sarcastically. “If that’s so, this whole damn place would be full of ghosts. Think of all the animals that have died, right here. Why not ghost dinosaurs while we’re at it?” I had to admit, the thought of a ghostly T. Rex locked in eternal combat with a ghostly Triceratops was kinda funny. It would make a great scene in a low budget movie.

“Never were any dinosaurs in Maine,” he said. He was right, sort of. I checked it out later. Nothing between the Pleistocene and the Devonian. No fossils, anyway. Doesn’t mean there weren’t dinosaurs, though. We just haven’t found any.

I shook my head. He stopped and put down the deer.

“Now, you listen to me, Nathaniel,” he said, “and you listen good.” It was the only time he ever used my full name. “You don’t know shit about these woods, but if you’re going to live here, you’d better learn fast or you and your lady are going to end up like those other dumbass city kids who lived in your house before you and thought they knew everything. You spend some time out here, away from your phone and your internet and everything you’ve taken for granted all your life, and open your mind, and trust me, you’ll hear the ghosts, and maybe you’ll even see them, and if you don’t treat them with the respect they deserve, then you’re gonna find out just how fucking scary they can be. You say you come up here to get back to nature, well, you’d better get it into your head what that means. Nature is one hell of a lot bigger and more powerful than you or me and if we don’t know our place and thank her for everything she gives us, she’ll crush us like bugs and she won’t even notice we’re gone. And then we’ll be the ghosts. So yeah, Nat. When you kill an animal, any animal, you beg for its forgiveness and you let it go, and you do it right. Or you should go the hell back to Florida.”

Whoa. I had no idea he had that many words in him.

“Anyway,” he grinned, “where do you think Stephen King got all his ideas from?”

“Cocaine, mostly,” I replied.

“Well, yeah, that too.” He picked up his end of the deer pole. “Let’s go. We got a long way to walk, and I got cold beers waiting for us at home.”

---

As we trudged up the driveway towards the house, some hours later, a dark red truck passed us, heading down the hill towards the town. Jerry Royal, Exterminator, it said on the side in worn white lettering.

“Jerry’s a dickhead,” said Bob. “You ever have a pest problem, you go talk to Jim. He’ll take care of it for you. And if he can’t, he’ll know a guy who’ll do the job right and not rip you off. But Jerry? I went to school with his dad. Wouldn’t let any of that family anywhere near my house.”

“Got it,” I nodded. “Jim.”

Elizabeth waved cheerfully at us. “Nice one, guys! Where are you putting that?”

“We’ll hang it at my place,” said Bob. “Just figured you’d want to take a look first. See what your man brung home.”

“I missed,” I admitted. “Bob shot it. I just carried it home.” Nevertheless, I could see she was impressed. Nathaniel, the Mighty Hunter.

“Should be about fifty pounds for each of us, maybe sixty,” said Bob. “I’ll show you some recipes if you like, the way my grandfather used to cook it. Maybe let’s get together with Jim and Ron and Ben and we’ll all have a cookout.”

“Sounds good,” she said.

“Who was that?” I interrupted, jerking my thumb back down the hill.

“Oh, the exterminator?” she said. “Well, I was starting to clean up in the master bedroom, getting rid of the spider webs, and I found these crazy big nests. So I called a guy, and he said he could come round right away and take care of them. I’m glad we did, because there were like literally thousands of spiders in the ceiling. Not just our room, but the spare room, your office, my art room, everywhere. It totally freaked me out, thinking of them coming out at night while we’re sleeping. But he sprayed some stuff and that’ll deal with them. It’ll take a day or two for it to disperse, so we’ll be sleeping on airbeds downstairs for a bit. For two hundred bucks, I figured we should just get it done. Now we can relax at night.”

I looked at Bob.

Bob looked at me.

How the hell was I supposed to relax in a house haunted by thousands of pissed off ghost spiders?

I originally wanted to call this Ghost Spiders in the Sky, but that was too much of a spoiler. It began about ten years ago when we were staying in a strange little cabin outside Tallahassee, Florida, and we had a conversation about ghost cats - you know, the ones you can see out of the corner of your eye, or darting between your feet. (You do know what I mean, right? It’s not just me… is it?) Anyway, this led to the idea of other ghost animals: deer, squirrels, and so on. Which was all fine until we got into bed and I noticed the cobwebs in the ceiling, which got me thinking about ghost spiders, and I succeeded in freaking the shit out of both of us. We did not sleep well that night. It wasn’t until earlier this year that I finally figured out how to turn that little nightmare into a story.

My books on Amazon →
Visit my Web site →
Subscribe to my email newsletter →