The Gully

Supernatural Horror

Wyatt Flemming went missing in the summer of ‘19.

There was no write-up in the newspaper, no 6 o’clock special on the news.

To his loved ones— he was lost a long, long time ago when he chose life on the streets over the recovery center. To the city—it was easier if someone like him disappeared. Council overwhelmingly supported the relocation bill which had the goal of revitalizing the streets of Freemont to create a safer downtown core. All the tents were folded up, the shopping carts loaded into vans. Hundreds of vagrants and street walkers were displaced from the corners and alleyways that they had been occupying for years. They were shipped from the bustling downtown metropolitan area to the outskirts of the city limits, near the forests and the gravel trails that led to the Gully. Far away from the five-star restaurants, the high-rises, the boutiques; they had been dumped near the new rehab facilities and low-income housing units. As far as the city was concerned, they had all disappeared.

So no one batted an eye, not for a vagrant. If he wasn't my brother, I probably wouldn't have cared, either.

***

I started my weekly wellness check, balancing a piping hot serving of meatloaf atop a styrofoam plate. I took the typical route along the tree line, following the gravel path until the scent slapped you: the razor-sharp whiff of acidity, the familiar smell of piss. That was your cue that you were heading in the right direction.

I slowly trotted down the embankment to his usual spot. The tattered, blue plastic tarp was strung across four pencil-thin pines. His pile of clothes underneath reeked of whiskey and unwashed armpit.

This was home.

As you got closer, the smell worsened. It choked you, forcing a palm to the bridge of your nose. A rusty shopping cart with a Pay-Less logo on the handle was pushed up against a fallen tree. It was filled to the brim with a man's life-long accumulation of belongings. Nestled into his carefully curated blanket of leaves and foliage pillows - his el-naturale mattress - lay a lonely, half-empty bottle of Jack. That's when I knew something was wrong. Those two were inseparable.

I trudged through the rows upon rows of trees, ignoring the pricks, the pine-needle arms that brushed up against you, pulling you in. I was following a squishy dirt-moss soup, a thin trail of the murky water leading deep into the forest. I called out for Wyatt, hoping the trees would carry my voice to him.

I was searching for footprints, signs of struggle, anything that would lead me to my brother. I made it all the way to the edge of the forest, to the entrance of the Gully. It was a steep drop-off, the side of the hill caved-in to form a deep ditch. Inside the ditch, I could see a shallow dark pool. As a kid, we used to call it the Witch’s Cauldron. It was a sign that a storm was brewing. The belly of the Gully—full.

I called out for Wyatt, again and again. I heard nothing in return.

I came back to Wyatt’s home every couple of days. A couple of days turned to weeks. The bottle of Jack, still in bed all alone.

I contacted the police, the Freemont Herald, the Channel 5 news. Anyone that would listen.

No one batted an eye, no, not for a vagrant.

***

The expansive stretch of forest was divided in two by a rip in the earth that we called the Gully. To the north, there were popular hiking trails and picnic spots for families. To the south is where Wyatt was found, near the relocation housing effort. The police reported that they had searched the entire south side searching for him. They looked in the adjacent river, the one that fed spring water from the mountains to the city for consumption. They told me it was highly unlikely he made it to the other side given the depth of the Gully, and it was even more unlikely that the Gully had been full. It would have taken a torrential downpour to cascade enough water from the river into the carved bowl. Their best guess was that he fell down the cliff and tumbled into the river, where his body was carried somewhere downstream. How far downstream? They weren't sure.

Their solution was a 4”x4” sign at the entrance of the gravel trail that read:

PLEASE KEEP OUT OF THE GULLY

The legacy of my brother was reduced to an image of a stick person flailing in the air. A metal pole stuck in the ground was going to be his tribute.

I punched the hood of my car as I left the precinct. “Fuck’em,” I muttered to myself, “ If they can't find answers, then I will.”

***

“This city’s gone to shit,” my friend Eddy declared in the backseat of my car. He had his head poking out of the window, his long, stringy strands flopping in the wind. Outside of city limits, we were passing pumpjack after pumpjack on our way to the Gully.

“What are you complaining about, Ed?” my other friend, Shariff, scoffed. “How else do you plan on paying for that big-ass apartment?“ He looked back at Eddy, “Nobody eats in a recession.”

Eddy rolled up the window. The flashlights rolled around in the backseat. “I just mean it used to be better. Before the bloody foreigners went and bought up all the property.”

He wasn't wrong. Business was booming in the city as we rode another economic peak. Awaiting the valley, and then the crash that would inevitably follow. It was the rollercoaster ride of the oil and gas sector. You had no choice but to hold on and hope you survived the ride.

The transient community weren’t the only ones being forced out of Freemont. The city had become popular. It had a lot to offer - with its low taxes and close proximity to the mountains. New property development was popping up everywhere you turned. Things were changing quickly, you could feel it. Apartment units were being stacked to the sky, one on top of the other. Developers were snapping together these lego-piece homes as high and as wide as the city permitted. To find anything affordable, you had to look elsewhere. The average person was pushed further and further out into the outskirts, resulting in urban sprawl.

A lot of the city's essential services began to follow suit—the recycling facilities, the water treatment plants and the dump— they all had to be relocated further and further away as the city expanded.

I parked the car, and we headed down the familiar path, walking past Wyatt’s memorial sign. The wind bit through our fleece jackets, an odd chill for a summer evening.

Everything in his home was how he left it—the piss stench, the half-empty bottle.

We continued south, hollering his name, flicking on the flashlight as the sun dimmed. We passed other homeless encampments, other campers finding solace in the wilderness. Those that were coherent had confirmed they hadn't seen Wyatt in awhile.

“We need to cover more ground,” Shariff said. “I think we should split up. It will be dark before you know it.”

We agreed to meet back at the sign at 9:30pm. After a quick nod, we marched off in separate directions.

I called out his name, turned over logs and looked under bushes. There were still no signs of him anywhere.

When 9:30pm approached and the sun began to hide behind the huddle of trees, I made my way back to Wyatt’s encampment. The sky was a charcoal grey, the rain pattering down soft droplets that partially dripped through the canopy of the trees.

Enroute, I heard a screech so deafening it rustled the branches. It made my stomach turn as I sped off in the direction of sound.

“Wyatt!”

I sprinted towards the screaming, the trees scratching and clawing me as I ducked and weaved. It led me to the edge. I carefully looked down into the Gully. Smoky-black water sloshed around, tree branches and debris floating, trapped inside the carved-out crevice of the earth.

No sign of Wyatt.

Just murky-grey puddles around the edge of the cliff. A thin trail of the liquid disappeared into the forest.

“Wyatt!”

I followed the trail of slosh to a dead end in the middle of the forest. The abrupt stop gave me goosebumps tingling up my spine.

It was pitch-dark now, water pouring down from a dense arch of clouds above. Every rustle, every stir, made me wield the beam of light in my hand like a sword. I heard long drawn-out howls that made me shudder. I tried to trace my steps back through the void, the never-ending maze of trees. It felt like I was making loops upon loops; the trees' sharp fingers pointing me around in circles.

I had never been so happy to smell the odor of urine. I couldn’t be sure how long I was out there before the piss-tent revealed itself.

Just past the blue tarp, I saw a figure. Another beam of light.

“Shariff? Eddy?”

I shined my light at the figure's chest. His long, chocolate hair was drenched and covered in leaves. “Eddy! Where’s Shariff?”

His eyes widened. His stare empty and astray.

“I was hoping he was with you?”

***

When Payton Mckenzie disappeared, the public finally began to take notice.

Pictures of her were popping up everywhere—her shiny, golden locks curled up into spirals, her icy-blue eyes staring back with a glimmer of optimism. She had a face that people cared about. It was the face of innocence.

A cropped shot of her in a family photo was plastered on every light pole in suburbia. The flyer read: “Payton Mckenzie - Help us bring her home.” The story spread like wildfire. Every news outlet was replaying a fifteen minute interview with the parents where her mom and dad were begging the public for help.

Their extended family was having a picnic get-together on the north side of the Gully. Payton’s parents must have lost sight of her, only for a moment, while the adults were mingling about adult things around the barbecue. She must have wandered off, just a little too far from her siblings and cousins. And a little too close to the Gully.

All Shariff’s disappearance did was put the microscope on me as a suspect. I had nothing to hide, so I told them everything. The cops completed another search with the canine unit sniffing out the trail, divers searching the river and rescue boats looking for bodies. They came back with nothing.

But someone like Payton didn't just go missing. Not without a public outcry.

The story broke the hearts of every mother and father in the city. Search parties were organized pronto, candlelight vigils were scheduled immediately. We all needed to bring the girl home, the one that could have easily been our daughter. We had all enjoyed picnics north of the Gully. We had all hiked a trail in that neck of the woods.

I decided to join the search party because I needed something to do, anything to fill the empty, sunken feeling that lingered in my stomach. I considered the blood of Shariff to be on my hands. And while part of me feared the absolute worst, I still had to believe my brother and him were still out there.

There must have been fifty of us gathered in the north side parking lot. We were equipped with flashlights in hand and whistles around our necks. I was placed in a group with a lanky fellow named Paul and an older lady named Edith.

Payton’s mom, Gweny, was holding up a map that had been sectioned off in colored marker. She motioned to our group with a gentle smile that did not match her bloodshot eyes, “You guys search the south-west corner—here,” she pointed to the map. The south-west corner of the map, a pocket of land closest to the Gully.

This side of the Gully was much less wild. The trees seemed to crowd you less, their stalking felt less forceful. You felt like you could actually breathe. Like today, we had a chance.

The north side had gone through extensive landscaping to create a family-friendly picnic destination. It was a parks initiative that council felt made the city more attractive. It had worked - typically the barbecue pits were booked up solid for the summer. That was all before Payton's disappearance.

“Payton!” we all screamed. Groups of us headed in opposite directions, on our dead girl scavenger hunt.

We had searched for a couple of hours, hiking in the woods, examining smudges in the dirt that could have been footprints. Everybody played detective, while Payton played hide-and-seek.

Eventually we stopped for a break, leaning against some trees. The unstable terrain and occasional incline had knocked the wind out of Edith.

“I just need a moment,” she said, beads of sweat collecting on her forehead. “You youngin’s don't know what it's like to have 70 year-old knees.”

Paul and I chuckled. The afternoon sun looked like it was baking every bit of his pasty body. His face was beet-red, the sweat dripping down his large forehead. He pulled out a granola bar and began eating as we all rested in silence.

It started with a trickle. A thin trail of earthy-grey. The liquid snaked around a cluster of trees in a slow drizzle. I wouldn't have even noticed it, had we not come to a complete stop. I watched it pool up, slowly. The murky-grey getting darker and more opaque. Paul and Edith were staring off into space, observing the tops of the trees. Payton’s name was echoing in the distance.

I didn't think much of it at first. It could have been a tiny leak from a nearby drain pipe or some sort of tiny offshoot from the river. But, the puddle got deeper. Too deep - spreading out in a small wave behind a tree.

“Uh..guys!” I shouted.

The shallow puddle had gathered into a thick, dark, sludgy pool that had oozed itself around Paul’s feet. Before he could look down, a mucky tentacle wrapped itself around him. It yanked him under, the pool swallowing him up. His body disappearing into the viscous glob like quicksand. He let out an ear-splitting scream.

“Oh my God!” Edith shrieked.

I tried to lunge at him, hoping to grab on to an arm and pull him out. It’s orange beady eyes glared back at me. And then they were gone.

I rushed after it. Edith, with her geriatric knees, slowly following behind. My legs were wobbly, my heart thrashing in my chest. The thing that consumed Paul was quickly flowing away.

The thick gob was almost swimming now, moving like a viscous tidal wave, weaving in and out of the trees in the trail of liquid it had entered in. What it left behind was a murky liquid trail that almost blended in with the dirt. Items were being displaced from the monster, slipping out of the gob’s core in a slimy film.

A mixed-berry crumble wrapper. Tiny shoe laces. A styrofoam plate.

It was leaving behind a strong smell in the wet left-behinds. A mix of methanol and grease, and the rotting stink of decay.

I chased with all my might, chasing this thing that was now moving like it was sliding down a slip-and-slide at the local waterpark.

I could see it now.

The frac chemicals, the garbage, the human intestines. All swirled up in a big old pot. All brewing for years in the Witch’s Cauldron.

My lungs burned as I watched the thing wash away, down the side of the eroded cliff. Into the Gully.

I peered down, in horror, as the thing slid into the belly. Swishing around in the eroded half-pipe. A dark pool, it’s nightmarish orange eyes blinking back at me.

Edith caught up to me a few minutes later, gasping for air. A few others came running after hearing all of the commotion. We looked on, helplessly, as the orange eyes disappeared into the swirling liquid.

***

Payton’s search party came up empty. The police’s search of the north side came up empty.

All they had were our stories—first hand accounts of a monster from Edith and myself. A senile lady and a whack job obsessed with a hole in the ground, those were the labels that they gave us.

In the fall of ‘19 they took a man into custody named Alphonso Heraldo. He was a low life rapist and career criminal. They said that he had been camping out in the Gully and preying on random victims. They said they had his DNA, but I never heard about any recovered bodies. He had a receding hairline and piercing raven-black eyes. His face was a face that people despised. It was the face of guilt.

It wasn't the fairytale ending for Payton Mckenzie, but at least it was an ending.

A few weeks after the unsuccessful searches, I tried to stop by the Gully to visit Wyatt’s home. I noticed the sign had been replaced. Tall, barbed-wire fences and plastic boards now covered the area. Miles of fences, all confining the vast forest. Hundreds of advertisements were hung from the metal fence poles, displaying new coffee shops and restaurants opening up in the city.

The signs change, but the fences still remain.

I haven't slept much since that final visit to the Gully. In my nightmares, I feel the layers of oily muck sliding up onto my face. Its slimy tentacles wrapping around me in a vice-grip, restricting my movement. I try to scream, but I drown in the sludge.

In this up and coming city, we have pushed away a dark secret. For years.

This morning I noticed something when I was making my coffee. I was reading the paper, patiently waiting for my bread to toast. As I took a sip of water, the way the light hit the glass, I could make out a faint hue. A pale tint of ashy-grey.

I ran to the sink and spit it out.

This city has gone to shit.