Phillip Psutka

Thank you for joining me in this strange small town in northern Ontario. My name is Phillip Psutka. If this is your first time visiting, I’ll be your guide; if you’re a familiar face, it’s good to have you back. The town embraces newcomers and old friends alike, but be warned: it doesn’t easily let you go. And stay close, for you never know what might be waiting for you around the bend.

So dim the lamps, settle in; welcome to Dark River.

Paul had been hunting for as long as he could remember. His father, Don, started taking him out the moment he was old enough to be away from his mother; they always joked that Paul could hunt before he had learned to take his first steps. Of course, he had nothing to do with the actual hunt at that age -- Don hadn’t put a real gun into the hands of a toddler -- but Paul did have a small replica made of cast iron that he liked to put in his mouth and teeth on: a funny and disturbing sight. In this peculiar way, hunting had been in his blood from birth; it was part of his nature.

At first, being only a young toddler and freshly removed from his mother’s bosom, he would wail at the cold, at the jostle of the sled, at the wind in his face. If he made it any length of time without a cry, the gunshots would set him off anew, frightening the prey and forcing Don to drop him off at home before seeking real game. He knew that Paul was far too young for the roughness of hunting, even being pulled along in a sled. But Paul’s mother, Ava, was a force, and it was by her strong encouragement that Don conceded to bringing him along. It wasn’t common for boys this young to accompany their father on a hunt, no matter how short, for it was incredibly dangerous and inefficient. Still, Ava insisted he go as much as possible: if he didn’t grow up shooting, he’d be working in a mine or a factory before long. She’d seen too many mothers lose their sons to those places, gone to work and never come home.

It wasn’t long before Paul grew accustomed to the extremes of hunting, even as a toddler -- the intense silence (which he learned not to disturb) and the sudden punch of the gun’s shot splitting the air eventually stopped rattling him, and he would stay by his father’s side the whole time, observing his every move.

“Why’d you not shoot that moose?” Paul asked his father on the way home one day, after watching him lower his rifle only metres away from one.

“Butcherin’ a moose is too much for you just yet, and I can’t be haulin’ out that much meat on my own today,” Don replied. “Never kill anything unless you’re sure you can butcher and store it all properly. Nothin’ goes to waste.”

He sighed. “There’ll be others. We’re out for rabbits today.”

When he got a bit older, his father slowly began to introduce him to the rifle, starting with how to clean it. As he discovered each part and what it was for, he learned how to load and unload a round, and how to properly sight down the barrel to find the mark. Finally, in a spot out behind the house, sight aimed at a tin can, he learned how to “squeeze, not pull” the trigger, as Don would constantly remind him.

One of his earliest memories was of a cool summer day when the two of them, lunches packed, settled into one of their favourite spots, hoping for a deer. He couldn’t have been more than six and the largest thing he’d ever shot had been a plump grouse.

The sun had barely broken through the forest canopy when the unmistakable rustle of hooves in the snow crusted underbrush broke the silence of the morning.

“Son, this one’s yours,” his father whispered before kneeling down and positioning the butt of the rifle against Paul’s shoulder. The gun was a Colt-Burgess with a beautiful dark walnut stock and a marbled metal chamber and lever, and Paul distinctly remembered hearing many debates between his father and the other hunters who were in favour of the more popular Winchester. Don, though, always stood behind his Burgess, arguing that the toggle lockup was stronger. Regardless of how it performed, it was a prized possession in that it was rare. “There are only about six thousand of these in existence,” Don had lectured him. “Treat it with the same respect we treat our game.”

Heart pounding and hands shaking, Paul looked down the scope in the wobbly way that only a six-year-old can and closed the wrong eye. Don watched as his son’s back straightened slightly, a young boy feeling the weight of his first responsibility. In that moment he realized, as most fathers eventually do, that his job was changing. Stand down, he thought. Let him do it.

“Squeeze away,” Don said, and stepped back.

Paul squeezed the trigger and for a moment was utterly confused. The instant the shot had rung out the world had gone white. It now resolved itself into the shape of branches against a pale blue sky. He was lying on his back, fighting to catch a breath. Slowly, he became aware of a sound to his left. Anger and embarrassment brought hot blood to his cheeks.

When he sat up and turned to look over his shoulder, he saw his father, doubled over and holding his sides in a fit of laughter. Paul, having failed to take the time to check his stance before shooting, had been knocked off his feet by the recoil. Worse, his shot had missed, scaring the buck and sending it dashing back into the woods.

There was no reproach in his father’s eyes, only tears of laughter. This made it easier to bear and, after the shock had worn off, find humour in his failure. Paul had laughed until his sides had ached. The only thing they’d bagged that day was a memory that both would hold close.

Day by day, Don taught his son everything he knew -- how to kill in one shot, and how to properly clean the prize, wasting no part of it. He taught him how to set and check snares, and where to put them. The meat was portioned and salted to prevent rotting; the bones were given to the dogs, or ground up and dropped off at Barker’s Corn Field to be spread as fertilizer over the crops.

Occasionally, though, they’d keep some of the smaller bones for themselves. Ava would make beautiful homemade jewelry out of them, stringing them on thin strips of leather along with a few beads (only a few, for beads were expensive). These made perfect Christmas gifts for close family, so she was always busy preparing them at this time of year.

One year, on Christmas morning, Paul opened a very special gift from his mother. He and his father had bagged their first wolf that year, a difficult kill that had required steady patience and a lot of luck. The pelt laid like a trophy in front of the fireplace, a source of great pride for the whole family. Ava celebrated the success by attaching one of the teeth to a piece of leather lacing and presenting it to her son that Christmas. The tapping of the wolf tooth against his chest when he walked reminded him of that day so long ago, and the pride on his father’s face; although he’d had to replace the leather once or twice, he’d never taken it off, a talisman, keeping him on target.

All these memories flitted through his mind as he put on his boots, donned his coat, and grabbed his father’s old Burgess. It was a cloudy day in late November and the snow on the ground was gleaming; the trees weren’t quite dripping, but their branches looked heavier than usual, as though they carried a great burden. It was warm for this time of year, the snow packed and wet, and Paul wanted to take advantage of it.

His property backed out onto the forest, which went on for about as far as any man would want to walk. It would be difficult to navigate if not for the river. Many a time he had gotten turned around and thought that he was lost for sure, only to find it waiting there like an old friend to lead him back home.

He entered the forest along his usual path, following the ice-crusted water as it curved towards the east. The morning mist floated above the water like a comforting ghost. Paul loved winter; it was a great time for hunting and tracking, and he didn’t mind the cold. The chances of spotting a wolf were greater in the snowy months too, although it was still early in the year for that.

His feet crunched in the snow, the sound echoing off the trees around him. The smell was clean and crisp, reinvigorating after the warmth of the cabin.

By the time he’d reached manhood he had tracked and hunted almost everything worthwhile in northern Ontario: elk, moose, deer, bear (although only with a hunting party), porcupine, and coyotes, which had become a problem for the town. The townsfolk suspected the coyotes of converting the local hunting dogs to their own feral way of life, assimilating them into their packs and running off into the wild. This had sparked an all-out war between the hunters and the coyotes. Every kill was a triumph for the men, every missing dog a new assault.

But to shoot or trap a wolf: that would earn the respect of the whole town. It was rare to even see a wolf and when you did it usually wasn’t good news: they could be hunting you. Yet despite their elusive nature, they made their presence known in other ways. Food supplies and livestock were their primary targets, and many a farmer was plagued by their visits.

He wanted to nab one -- just one -- on his own; he touched the tooth hanging around his neck and thought, Just one.

He continued along the river, heading towards his favourite spot: a clearing with a small marsh nearby. Much of the larger game had migrated for the winter, the bears settled into their dens. Yet the snow on the marsh revealed stories that one could read, if they knew the language. The tale of a fox, out for his morning hunt, or of a hare recently passed, its tracks still fresh. And were those the tracks of an elk? Perhaps seeking refuge from even colder climes in the north. This ground would lead you where you needed to go, if you asked.

Paul continued on towards the clearing, the sound of his boots shaking the silence. He couldn’t complain about the temperature: at this time of year, every warm day could be the last of the season. The patches of sky visible through the trees were growing smaller and smaller as he moved deeper and deeper into the forest. The clearing was just up ahead and he quickened his step, anticipating the burst of sky as the trees stepped aside to give the sunlight domain. He sent up a prayer that the game would be as plentiful as those skies.

The river took a sharp bend to the left. Here we are, thought Paul, for the clearing was just around the bend. He turned the corner and blinked, the sound of his footsteps halting, returning the forest to its silence.

The clearing, which should have been right there … wasn’t. The land ahead was as thick with old growth pine as the forest behind him.

“That’s odd,” Paul said aloud before he could stop himself.

He had been along this route so many times that he’d worn a trail in the dirt … how could he have gotten turned around? Though he couldn’t see his trail for the snow, he recognized all of the landmarks surrounding it: the tree to his right, hit by lightning years before and still bearing the scars in its bark; two sharp rocks jutting in from the riverbank; the large stone shelf lying just below the surface of the water, right before the river curved; and then … no clearing.

Must be up ahead, he thought, giving his head a shake. It had been over a month since he’d come up this way, and although he was pretty sure of his memory, the trees couldn’t very well uproot themselves and move where they pleased. Dismissing his memory in agreement with the trees, he walked on. The river took another slight turn to the left and he exhaled in relief.

He followed the turn, expecting the clearing to appear on his right, but another dense patch of forest was waiting for him around the bend.

“For Pete’s sake!” he exclaimed, heedless of the noise. It was ridiculous to imagine he could have gotten himself lost so close to home. Am I dreaming, he wondered? Although he’d never been physically lost before, he did know himself to wander off in thought quite often. Had the river branched off while he’d been preoccupied, and he had somehow followed the wrong one?

“No,” he whispered. “I’m not wrong -- I know I’m not. This is. I don’t know how, but it is.”

There was nothing for it. All he could do was retrace his steps and start again. He had obviously wandered off the trail (although his instinct said that wasn’t true). Luckily the path back was clear, his large boot prints lying like giant breadcrumbs in the snow. He gave the snow his thanks, for he knew that as long as he kept his gaze to the ground, those crumbs would lead him home. He half expected to see a house made of candy around the next turn, and Janet Marley from town, standing on the butterscotch porch saying, “Come in, come in! What a fine specimen! What a catch!” He would likely find himself walking straight into her oven, only half surprised when the heat licked his chops.

He pushed the daydream away, giving his head another shake. The river now curved to the right and his tracks were still clearly visible in the snow.

He turned the corner, looking up briefly, and his breath caught in his throat: there he was, standing on the edge of the clearing.

“This is impossible,” he gasped. He would have had to walk right through it before, but he hadn’t -- he knew he hadn’t. Before he could work it out, another detail snared his attention: there was a deer standing right in the middle of the clearing, in full view, a perfect target.

He slowly removed the Burgess from his shoulder. The buck was a good size and it would keep him fed for months. Rarely had he been so close to one before; rarely had he had such an easy shot. It stood motionless, looking at him, almost quizzically. There was no fear in its eyes.

He brought the rifle up to his shoulder and sighted down it, closing the correct eye this time. He thought he heard the forest exhale, as if letting out a final breath; the woods around him were suddenly still as the deer. Even the sound of the river had stopped, as though it had frozen solid. Paul vaguely noticed these things as the scope reached his eye, for in this moment, the moment that hangs on forever, just before the trigger is squeezed, senses are heightened and all thoughts dissolve.

Which made what happened next a little easier to grasp; a little, but not much.

It was a wolf in the scope; no sign of a deer.

He dropped the Burgess, but managed to catch it just before it hit the snow. He frantically fumbled to get it back into position. If it comes at me now, I’m as good as dead, he thought.

But nothing did. The instant his hands were in position and he brought the gun back up, he saw the deer, just as before.

Just shoot it, he thought, and sighted again. There was the wolf. He began to shake with the absurdity of what he was seeing, but this time he managed to keep the gun on target.

The wolf eyed him, as a schoolteacher might eye a rebellious student about to stir up mischief. Paul didn’t know any other way to think of it; it was a look that saw right through him and he couldn’t help but feel as if the wolf was assessing his very nature. Those dark grey eyes pierced him with a calm resilience that made them almost impossible to meet. He felt as though a great judgement was being passed, and he resolved to end it.

As if it sensed the shift in his countenance, the wolf snarled at him, baring its teeth, its shackles spiking. Paul willed his hands not to shake; he made a simple pact with himself: whatever happens, keep it in your sights. Do not drop the gun. Stay steady.

He forced himself to take a breath … and let it out slowly. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. He was just about to pull -- no, by God! squeeze -- the trigger, when he noticed something odd about the wolf’s snarl, although he couldn’t place his mind on it. It was more like a feeling and …

That was the last thought he had before the wolf charged and his finger responded.

Thank you for listening thus far. In a moment, we'll site down the scope again, but first, I’d like to let you know that we have new original spooky stories coming every 2 weeks, so please subscribe on iHeart Radio, Spotify, or wherever you listen to your shows. Also, follow us on Instagram @darkriverpodcast. And if you know someone else who might like to experience this haunting small town, tell them about Dark River and where they can find it. It’s always welcoming new travelers. But now, let’s face the wolf.

He was just about to pull -- no, by God! squeeze -- the trigger, when he noticed something odd about the wolf’s snarl, although he couldn’t place his mind on it. It was more like a feeling and …

That was the last thought he had before the wolf charged and his finger responded.

Every time he thought back to this moment in his later years, he would swear that bullet had found its mark. He’d been hunting long enough to know from the moment a bullet left the chamber whether the shot was true or not, even for a moving target. He knew, down to the deepest part of himself, that this bullet was headed for the skull.

Yet that couldn’t have been so, for the wolf hadn’t fallen -- it hadn’t even slowed down. The bullet had gone astray.

Before it pounced on him, a lifetime’s worth of feeling rushed through Paul’s body. The smells around him became sharp and distinct: tree bark, water, earth, old snow packed down by the new flakes, and he could feel with every pore. His sight and his hearing, however, zeroed into the world inside the scope and though his mind was racing, everything around him slowed to a crawl, expanding that split second into a small eternity. His limbs refused to obey the rapid commands his instincts were firing at them and the wolf was on him and he fell, the Burgess deserting him into the new snow.

Black faded into white and he felt an enormous pressure inside of his head. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out, the world of white pressing -- no, squeezing -- him. He was trapped in a vacuum; his eyes popped wide in an effort to extract the tiniest detail around him, but he was greeted only by this bubble of … heavy nothingness. Was this death?

White … white … white … until colour leaked back in; a slow trickle. It now resolved itself into the shape of branches against a pale blue sky as the volume slowly turned up on his senses. For just a moment, he would swear he’d heard laughter, hearty and joyful, just to his left.

He was lying on his back, fighting to catch a breath. A light snowfall had descended and the Burgess was off to the right where it had been thrown. He was still alive and as he slowly sat up and checked himself over, he saw to his relief that he was uninjured.

The sight of the wolf coming at him flashed through his mind and he looked around the clearing, his body pulsing with heat and damp with sweat. Neither wolf nor deer were anywhere to be seen. The clearing was serene and quiet.

He stood up slowly, then bent to retrieve his rifle and the white swam over his vision, threatening to pull him back down again. He crouched and put his head between his legs and the pristine snow around him resolidified.

Wait a second, he thought. Pristine? How can that be? He looked around, blinked, and then looked again. There were no tracks save for his own, no indication that a deer, or a wolf, or any other animal had been with him in the clearing, not even a chipmunk. Impossible, he thought. But clearly it wasn’t for the evidence was right there: not a smudge to be seen in a sea of white.

There was nothing else to do but turn and head for home. The light snowfall continued and the river rushed past as if running away with a secret; if it had witnessed anything, it took that knowledge with it. Some things, nature just doesn’t give up.

What could Paul do but chalk it up to being tired? Nothing had truly happened, save that he’d fired a round at a mirage. Every hunter had done it once. He would rest it off and think no more about it.

And it didn’t cross his mind again that day. At least not until that night, after he had stoked the fire and adjusted the damper; not until he pulled off his shirt and saw what wasn’t there.

The leather string that had hung around his neck since he was a young boy, and the attached tooth that laid across his heart, were both gone.

“Damn thing must’ve fell off in the clearing,” he muttered.

But his own thought rang hollow on the walls of his cabin. Part of him knew exactly where that tooth was, just as part of him realized that sometimes, we can’t let a piece of ourselves go.

This has been a tale from Dark River, written by Phillip Psutka and Lindsay Bellaire. Podcast artwork by Chris Psutka. The show is hosted and created by Phillip Psutka. Thank you for stopping by, and see you soon.