. Monkey Woman Bridge .
The creeks ran all
over our county like distraught mascara sliding down a cheek. What seemed
like thousands was at least a hundred and they were fun to fish, swim, or
piss in. They had names like Cripple, Cow Killer, Overall, and Dry. There
was even one named Last Creek, as if it had been the very last one discovered
by man. I was an amateur fisherman and I creek fished as many as I could with
my friend Toby, until that fateful day we decided to try a creek so far removed
from the city, the map didn’t even give this tributary a name. I learned
the reason for this omission later, but at that moment Monkey Woman Creek
was still an anonymous line running down a map.
It was on a Sunday like many before when I finally staggered up about 10 am.
I took a quick shower, put some old clothes on, grabbed my fishing pole and
tackle, and headed to Toby’s pad. While most of America worshipped inside
stuffy churches, Toby and I worshipped outside while wading some cool creek.
We gave our praises loudly when we landed a big fish. We spent every Sunday
in the summer like this: up at 10, early lunch or maybe a late breakfast,
fishing until 6 or 7 pm, a fast food supper, and then video games until 11
or 12. It might seem like a big waste to most, or maybe seem boring to do
the same thing every Sunday, but every creek was different and Toby and I
had great conversations.
“Did you see that girl last night at Andy’s party,” asked
Toby?
“The one with the short skirt?”
“Nah, the one with the big hooters,” drooled Toby.
“Yeah, she was nice,” I replied.
After that exchange of ideas, which really got to the heart of philosophical
thinking, we settled into the silence that two best buds going fishing usually
lapse into.
We made the outskirts of Dunsany, Illinois where we live by 11, so we stopped
at a Hardlee’s Restaurant for some quick grub to fuel our fishing. It
was another good hour before we neared the unmarked creek near the county
line on our map.
“Man, I need to find a store and get me some cigarettes,” said
Toby.
Cigarettes and soda; Toby was addicted to nicotine and caffeine. He could
drink 2 liters of soda a day and smoke 2 packs of cancer sticks. He made me
seem like a lightweight. Lucky for us, there was an old country store a few
miles down the road.
“Would you look at that,” said Toby, “ I didn’t know
stores still came like that.”
It was a sight. Hubcaps lined one outer wall, a long porch extended across
the front with old fishing tackle hanging from the beams, while gnats swarmed
over an ancient minnow box. A crusted tin sign swung lopsided hooked to an
old motorcycle chain. “Wendell’s Market” read the sign.
All Toby cared about was the cigarette ad barely visible behind a grungy window.
“Do you think it’s even open,” I asked Toby.
Just then an old, bald, dwarflike figure of a man burst through the screen
door carrying a broom that looked older then his self.
“Looks like they’re open for business,” exclaimed Toby.
He could barely contain his joy since he had recently smoked his last cigarette.
There were no neon displays, no posters of scantily clad women peddling beer,
and no sign of any other life besides the wizened old guy who had grunted
a greeting toward us as we entered. But there were cigarettes and some oddly
named sodas to make our stop a success for Toby. I didn’t find anything
and was wishing I had stayed in the truck. This place was hotter then the
asphalt, which for some reason was still littered with pop tops, and stuffier
then my first girlfriend’s bra. Toby finally got done looking at all
of the ancient wares and took his bounty to the counter where the register
sat. The little bald man was there waiting. He seemed to move like lightning
when we weren’t looking.
“My name is Spook, Mr. Spook. How can I help you two boys,” asked
this strange looking proprietor.
“I just want to buy this stuff,” Toby answered somewhat sheepishly.
“Why, you fellows ain’t from around chere now, are you?”
“Here’s my money,” said Toby.
Mr. Spook ignored him and began to speak to us in earnest, “What are
you boys doing chere? Strangers need to be careful around these parts.”
I looked away from Mr. Spook and Toby toward the parking lot. It appeared
Mr. Spook was what I had dubbed a “wonkah” person. It didn’t
mean they liked candy, it just meant they were crazy and wouldn’t leave
you alone. A friend of mine once met a “wonkah” person on a trolley
and the guy followed him all the way to my friend’s fiancée’s
home. When she came out, he asked how much my friend would take for her. I
let Mr. Spook’s words drift over me like smoke and paid little attention
until I heard him say, “Monkey Woman Creek is not to be messed with,
boys. You chear me? The monkey woman will find you and you boys will be the
one’s getting gutted.”
“We’re just going sport fishing,” Toby said.
I half expected the blind banjo player from Deliverance to spring out from
behind the counter. Mr. Spook was really getting worked up over this monkey
woman. I thought some humor would help get us away from him.
I told Toby, “Man, this monkey woman sounds like your last girlfriend.”
“You can wisecrack all you want, boy. The monkey woman will get you
and you’ll wish you had never been born,” growled Mr. Spook.
“Mr. Spook, or can I call you Wendell,” said Toby.
“I ain’t no Wendell. I’m Mr. Spook and that’s all,”
growled Mr. Spook.
“Anyways, have you ever seen this monkey woman? Is she anything like
the Goombah Chicken,” asked Toby.
The Goombah Chicken was a character in a goofy song we had once dreamed up,
so I knew Toby had decided to just yank this fellow’s chain a bit. Heck,
if we were going to have to put up with his craziness, we might as well have
some fun.
“Where do you get all of this monkey woman stuff from? The creek doesn’t
even have a name,” I said while showing the old coot the map.
“Let me look at that.” He slobbered over it for a minute making
grunting noises and wiping his snot all over it. “It’s just as
I figured. This is a gov’ment map. Gov’ment maps ain’t worth
spit. There’s places you boys can’t even imagine out there and
ain’t no gov’ment maps can show them to you. The world ain’t
like a butterfly you can pin to paper.”
He must have been getting sick of us by then because he finally took Toby’s
money. When he gave Toby his change, he suddenly got agitated again and he
grabbed Toby by the arm and instead of his former belligerent tone, an imploring
softness surfaced in his words.
“I’m begging you boys, don’t even think about fishing that
creek. Once you wade in, the Lord his self can’t save you if the monkey
woman appears.”
Toby lunged back. Mr. Spook’s iron grip seemed to give a lie to his
gentle words. “Ouch, mister that hurt.”
We made our way outside with the old man returning to his earlier screed about
the monkey woman ringing in our ears. We got into the Toyota and Toby cranked
it up, but nothing happened.
“Huh? That’s funny. It’s never done this before,”
muttered Toby.
After several tries, I got out and popped the hood and found a battery wire
had come loose. I went to connect it back when sparks flew up and a charge
went through my hand.
“Shit!! Turn the key off you lamebrain,” I yelled to Toby.
My hand was hurting, but I managed to get the cable reattached and we were
soon on our way.
“Is your hand going to be okay,” asked Toby.
“Yeah, it’s like a minor powder burn, no big deal really,”
I replied. “I just wish you had taken the key out of the ignition.”
“That’s what’s weird, I had the keys in my hand,”
answered Toby.
That was odd, but the weather was beautiful and the closer we got to the creek,
the more we calmed down. We wouldn’t let some oddly named elf ruin our
day. Soon we hit a dirt road and after about eight miles of bumps we found
the creek. An old wooden one-lane bridge crossed the water so we stopped on
it to take a look around.
“I guess this would be Monkey Woman Bridge,” I chuckled.
The bridge was in pretty bad shape, but Toby and me assured each other it
wasn’t any worse then the bridge in the movie Evil Dead. Mentioning
that movie got us to talking about how great the flick was and we didn’t
even notice the sun going behind a cloud until it got very cold.
“Man, I thought it was August,” I griped.
Toby starting making Twilight Zone noises while he lit up a smoke. The sun
reappeared and we got back in the truck and parked on the other side of the
bridge. The horrible warnings from Mr. Spook were disconcerting, but we figured
he was just trying to scare us away from a really great fishing spot. We had
run across water moccasins as big around as a man’s leg, been attacked
by snapping turtles, and almost drowned once when we stepped into some old
leaf deposits which can suck you down like quicksand. A crazy monkey woman
couldn’t scare us, at least as long as it was light out.
We got our tackle and poles and waded out into the water. Cool creek water
up to your knees in the middle of the summer is so refreshing. The water was
quite clear and the creek bottom was nice and sandy. It was almost like a
trout stream. We made a few casts and soon discovered it wasn’t like
a trout stream. It was a trout stream!
Toby liked to act like he was fly fishing with his open faced spinner and
it sometimes landed him a bass or a redeye, but today it actually landed a
trout. A big rainbow trout leapt out of the water as Toby’s line spooled
out with incredible speed.
“Man, this is insane! Help me hold the pole,” exclaimed Toby with
glee.
“Damn! That’s an honest to God trout. Now we know why this creek
doesn’t have a name,” I yelled.
“Yeah,” said Toby as we wrestled the fish in, “take that
monkey woman!”
We managed to get the fish out of the water. It was huge and it was gorgeous.
It reflected the sunlight off its silvery gills. Toby unhooked it, held it
up so I could snap a picture with my waterproof camera, and then he let it
down back into the water.
“Tell all your friends to come say hello,” said Toby with a goofy
grin on his face.
We must have stumbled on some trout release program we didn’t know about.
That trout must have weighed ten pounds. Man was this going to be a great
day. We walked down the creek some more, but didn’t get any more bites.
Even the brim that you can usually catch at will seemed to avoid us. The sun
went behind a cloud again and decided to stay there. A breeze began to blow
and we began to get a little disheartened after such a great start. But we
kept walking down the creek hoping one of us would land another fish, heck
we would even settle for a slimy carp.
The carp wouldn’t even bite so we took a break while Toby smoked a cigarette.
The sun just didn’t want to come back out and the creek was beginning
to feel downright cold instead of refreshing. The steady breeze decided to
turn into a very fast moving wind and I began to think about asking Toby if
he wanted to leave.
“Well, would you look at that,” said Toby as he pointed up the
creek. A huge bird was flapping its way toward a rock wall up ahead. It was
a monstrous buzzard. We trudged ahead to get a better look. Toby joked about
maybe finding a dead body ahead, but the water was turning so cold I could
have cared less. We made our way haphazardly to the area where the bird had
disappeared. The creek bed began to get extremely rocky and each step became
dangerous. We rounded the turn and Toby took a big step only to completely
go under!
“Toby,” I screamed!! I dropped my fishing pole and tried to run
toward where he had gone under. If you’ve ever tried to run in water,
you know how difficult this can be.
Slippery rocks under my feet did not help me. Something brushed by my legs
and then surfaced. It was Toby’s fishing pole. I was just about to dive
at the area where he went under when he finally surfaced a few yards ahead
of me.
He found his feet again and shook the water from his eyes. I must have looked
pale, because Toby asked me if I was all right.
“All right? You’re asking me? You’re the one that almost
drowned.”
I edged toward Toby, being extra careful to avoid the hole. He might not mind
being swallowed up, but it wasn’t my idea of fun. I was now more then
ready to call it a day, but now that Toby had survived almost drowning, there
was no way he was going to give up the hunt for the buzzard.
“Let’s go just a little farther around the bend and then we can
get out on the bank and walk back to the truck,” said Toby.
I was thinking we should just get on the bank now, but if we got out of the
water and then had to get back in, we’d be courting colds so his idea
made sense.
We made our way haphazardly around the bend in the creek. The smooth sandy
bottom had become just rocks and sludge. The banks were filled with huge limestone
rocks covered in buzzard shit. A huge dead tree with gnarled limbs loomed
over us at the next curve and the cloudy day became even darker as the scavenger
birds began to fly in to roost for the night. The water began to get deeper.
It rose to the dreaded “nut” level as we called it and quickly
got to stomach level. I had now had enough and so had Toby. Then we heard
the scream.
The buzzard shuffled on the limbs a bit and began to keenly stare at us.
“What do you think that was,” asked Toby?
“Maybe it was the monkey….”
And there it went again, except it sounded closer and louder. I’ve heard
people say things are indescribable, which is just what this sound was close
to being. The best I can say was that it was high pitched and seemed desperate.
“It sounds like an extra from a Tarzan flick, “ murmured Toby.
We looked at each other as the fright began to build in us brick by brick.
“Maybe there really is a monkey woman!”
We scrambled for the banks as fast as possible. The wind started picking up.
Toby’s hat flew off. The water began to churn and whirlpools were forming.
Another scream rang through the air. The buzzards took flight and began hovering
in a great circle over our heads. There was nothing dead down here. At least
there was nothing dead yet. The old man might have been right and if we couldn’t
get back to the car we’d be the buzzards next meal and they knew it.
The next scream was right on top of us and it wouldn’t stop. But there
was nobody or nothing to be seen. The high pitch of the scream modulated until
it was even in pitch with the sound of the wind, which was now blowing so
hard it was uprooting the small shrubs that grew along the rocky banks. Debris
began coming down the creek bed. Tree limbs, and old garbage like used tires
and beer can after beer can started swirling past us like some old environmental
disaster film. The banks that had been close appeared to recede in distance
until it now looked like we were in the middle of a big river instead of some
no name creek. It was beginning to sink in to both of us that the creek was
indeed Monkey Woman Creek.
By now, we had dropped our poles and were both scrambling to get out of the
water. The water was chest high and continued to rise. Toby and I were scrambling
over the rocky bottom and then we hit a leaf deposit. I could feel it sucking
my legs down while the water got ever higher. Toby saw me sink, but instead
of helping me he panicked and headed a different way. The buzzards were getting
lower and closer. I could smell a sickly sweet smell that reminded me of the
city dump. It came in waves and I realized it was the stink off of the birds.
I managed to pull my legs free only to sink deeper on the next step. I could
hear Toby cussing halfway to the other side. I turned to see him and it looked
like he was making much better progress than me.
The creek water then turned to blood. I don’t know how it happened,
but it did. It was a murky maelstrom of water filled with garbage one second
and the next it was a murky maelstrom of blood filled with garbage. My feet
sank deeper while I heard Toby say, “This shit sucks!” at the
top of his voice. Then everything stopped. It was almost like time froze,
but I know it really didn’t. The water became calm. The wind quit screaming.
Beer cans listed and sank. Several tires began to just lazily rotate on the
red surface. The blood was still present with an animal stench that made me
want to puke. I lifted my legs out of the waterlogged leaves again and took
another step forward and found solid ground under them again. I was almost
ecstatic over this. It looked like I might make it out of the bloody water
alive. Toby was not to be so lucky.
The water had calmed enough, he started to light a cigarette as he took another
step toward the shore. He screamed in pain and dropped his cigarette. He rolled
over into the water and then jumped back up. The reason for his scream was
simple; he had gotten tangled with a trotline full of rusty hooks. After falling
the trotline had wrapped around most of his body. Before I could yell at him
to remain still, the wind picked up once more and the homicidal screaming
started again. Toby’s body was getting gashes torn into it by the fishhooks
and his blood was beginning to mingle with the red water. A tire came around
the bend at full speed and knocked into him. Toby stumbled, but would not
fall. He looked like he was in shock. The tire reversed direction and came
back at him again. I caught a flash of light over the tire and then noticed
a faint image flashing on and off like a motel vacancy sign. It was a person.
It was the monkey woman!!!
She had the body of an ape and a face from hell. It was old and ravaged with
scars and pits. Her hair was gruesome, filled with bugs and worms. One of
her ears was chewed off. She definitely looked like somebody who’d hit
every limb on the ugly tree. Except for her teeth. They were perfectly white
and appeared razor sharp. They went well with the fingernails, which would
soon rip into Toby. She cackled and hissed as she drove the tire into Toby
once more. This time the tire didn’t bounce off. It held fast and she
started raking at my friend’s head. There was nothing I could do but
watch mesmerized. Then she glanced my way and my heart froze when I heard
her say in perfect English, “You’re next”.
She turned her attention back to Toby so I started to really kick chicken
toward the shore. I was almost ready to step onto the shore when I felt my
leg grabbed. Something sharp ran along my right leg until it reached my shoe.
I dared not look back for one look at her face that close up would have likely
frozen me with fear. I had no weapons with me like Perseus so my only hope
was of escape. But how does one escape something that’s obviously not
human?
The horrible screaming rang in my ears as I pulled with all of my might to
get loose. Pinpricks of pain broke out on my right foot and the monkey woman
began to make slobbering sounds. I had almost given up when the shoe came
loose and I tumbled head first into the bank. The monkey woman let out her
most high-pitched squeal yet. I figured I was done for, but by getting to
the bank I had exposed her weakness. She couldn’t touch me as long as
I was not in the creek. She just glared at me in a stroboscopic gaze of pure
evil. If I could just get to the main highway I would be okay. Except I was
on the opposite bank and I would have to cross the creek once more.
Then I remembered that we had parked the Toyota on this side of the creek,
and Toby always kept a spare key underneath it. I sprinted through the rocks
and bushes, falling down at times, but I didn’t let this bother me.
I got to the truck and reached underneath it for the spare key. I sliced my
hand up as I swept for it, but I found it and that was all I could think about.
I jumped in the driver’s seat praying there’d be no problems and
it cranked right up.
I let out a triumphant yell and started toward the old wooden bridge. I could
see the flickering image of the monkey woman on the water as I hit the bridge.
Then the truck quit on the bridge. Normally, the momentum would have carried
it right off, but this wasn’t a normal situation. The monkey woman had
power over the bridge. I was just about to jump out and make a run for it
when something inside me made me decide to stay in the vehicle. I rolled up
the windows and I locked the doors. The Toyota began to rock back and forth
and then the monkey woman began flying into the windshield repeatedly. A long
crack appeared, but it held. Her claws scrabbled the roof and then the water
in the creek started to rise. The sun was going down when I finally passed
out.
I woke to the sound of keys jangling on a belt. The sun was back out dappled
with rectangular shadows on the floor as the rays slanted down. An iron door
opened and Mr. Spook strode in bearing a tray of food. “Here’s
some goombah chicken for you, boy. The judge will be hearing your case this
morning.”
“Thanks, Mr. Spook,” I replied drowsily. Before I could ask what
he meant by a judge hearing my case, he spit out, “I’ve done told
you, I ain’t no Mr. Spook. My name is Wendell, boy”. By the time
I had looked at my food, the small man was already out the door and his jangling
keys sounded far away. I slowly pieced together the previous days events and
realized they must have thought I killed Toby.
Later that morning the judge arraigned me on the charge of murder. Every time
I mentioned the monkey woman, he just chuckled. I was given a court appointed
lawyer who told me to plead insanity, but I knew I wasn’t crazy. It
all happened just as I’ve said and if someone would kindly go out and
examine the roof of Toby’s old Toyota they could see the claw marks
for themselves and maybe then I could prove my innocence.
The END
Philip Wallace
4-28-2003
Comments From The AuthorCo
Supposedly there really is a monkey woman bridge somewhere in Rutherford County, Tennessee where I grew up. Your car would stall on the bridge and she would leap out and attack you leaving her claw marks on the roof of the vehicle. I tried to find the location of the bridge for years without any luck. I’ve long since decided the story is just a myth and there are likely to be monkey woman bridges all across America. There are some in Tennessee who claim the monkey woman bridge is on display in the colonial village of Cannonsburgh, but it’s only a pedestrian bridge so there’s no real way to test that story. At any rate, I hope you enjoyed this O. Henry meets Poe story I wrote just to remind me of the days when I used to get goose bumps hearing about the monkey woman and her bridge.