My friend Maurice said he was
going to become a monster hunter.
He intended to hunt the monsters alone
at night when the forest went dark.
I told him going into the forest alone at night
was a bad idea, and what if all those rumors
about cryptids in there were true?
He called me a pussy for being afraid,
and he was right.
I was a pussy about hunting monsters,
real or unreal, in the forests in the dark of night.
Even if there were no monsters in that forest,
bears and mountain cats prowled for prey there.
I had a bad feeling about Maurice going there alone
in the darkness of night, even with his Remington shotgun.
I almost thought about going with him for extra protection, but the inner voice inside me screamed, “DON’T DO It.”
Maurice began his monster hunt in the spring of 2007, and though I’m not usually superstitious, I noticed a full moon came out that night.
The next morning I called Maurice curious about his daring monster hunt, wondering if he found anything.
He didn’t answer his phone. I had to leave a message, and I never heard back from him.
His mother called me and asked if I had seen him. I said no and told her about his monster hunt.
The police were informed. Search dogs scoured the forest. It seemed Maurice had disappeared until the dogs discovered his body
surgically mutilated with astonishing precision and drained of blood like the cows had been on a farm a few eerie days earlier.
Bob Boyd
