The Night Has Bite

The first time I met Melvin, I was hitchhiking across Canada, and here I was stuck in the darkness, without traffic, mosquitoes salivating over my flesh. An Ontario Police Officer had driven me from Geraldton, a small town on the north side of Lake Superior, to the end of his route and left me under the stars, without even a house in sight. I thanked him for the ride, knowing it brought me sixty miles closer to my destination, only 3,000 more miles.

About an hour later, lights from a vehicle pierced the darkness with luminous eyes. I was oblivious to the horde of mosquitoes in a race to suck the last of my blood, and stood in the middle of the road, arms upraised, hoping the clatter of rusty metal heading for me would stop. It did, with some hesitation. “Got some problems?” drawled from the open driver’s window.

“Looking for a ride to the nearest place to rest my head. On the road to Vancouver.” I looked him over carefully, trying to discern whether he was an axe murderer or vampire. I took a deep breath and decided he was neither.

“Long way from here,” he chuckled. “I work in the woods and the next right turn takes me a good five miles to my shack. “I cut up logs there for a fellow, you know—firewood. Welcome to stay the night. Got a bunk bed, if you don’t mind the missing springs.” A low chuckle like a gargle escaped his throat.

“Well sir,” I almost pleaded, “I was getting ready to rub mud all over my face to fight off the mosquitoes, then plant myself against a tree back there for the night.” I was desperate. Not one person had driven this way so far and any shelter would rival the best motel room anywhere.

“Well, what I got ain’t fancy, but yer welcome to it. Bring you back in the early morning. To the road here then you can take off on your trip.”

“I accept,” I said climbing into the passenger side of the old Chev truck. “Thank you. Thank you.” I felt like kissing his hand. I could barely imagine the wild things roaming in this darkness. There was nothing out here but deep woods.

“My name’s Melvin,” he said, jerking the truck into gear.

“I’m Richard” I answered, and sure enough, five minutes later we turned onto a road fit for a bicycle, then bumped our way into the inky night.

Melvin was right it was a shack, a simply constructed shelter with a window, four walls and a floor space of, ten by twelve. A double bunk in one corner, an indoor pump by a small kitchen table and a cooking area with a forty-gallon drum cut out for a stove, completed the decor. I hoped the rusty stove- pipe would last the night after he fired up his makeshift stove.

“Got to get some sleep,” Melvin said. “Don’t worry about any strange noises in the night. The door is locked.”

The bread and cheddar was a nice snack, along with half a bar each, the last of my food supplies until I could find a store tomorrow. But my imagination was teasing me; noises in the night?

They began about two in the morning, something moving around outside my side of the bed. I hoped the wall was stronger than it looked. A good push might set the shack on its side. I tried to sleep on the better half of the spring mattress. At least if I fell through it was a short distance from bottom bunk to the floor.

Then a growl followed the scratching. It was impossible to sleep. Melvin snored happily above me. He said there was only another two weeks to cut wood before the snow arrived so he too had to get up early in the morning. A couple more hours should do it. I tried to move noiselessly across the floor. There was more scratching below the window.

I had to see what was outside. There was a bright moon and should provide a view. Maybe it was a raccoon. They were always around the neighborhood where I lived. I moved to the window and stuck my face against one of the four panes. Something seemed to block the view and I moved to clean the glass. Then it moved, a face, and I jumped back. An animal stared back at me, and I let out a howl.

Another howl came from Melvin as he jumped from his bunk. He stamped on the floor several times to chase away the intruder.

“Wha … what was it?” I stammered.

“It’s a wolf. He comes around all the time, more like a friend. Won’t let me get close to him though. Sorry I didn’t tell you about it, before.”

This was about the longest conversation we had since hitting the hay a few hours ago. The wolf didn’t come back, so we had a chance for a more lasting chat during an early breakfast. Coffee, eggs and bacon hit the spot.

“Don’t have too much savings, so figure to hitch-hike to see my brother, out West.”

“You’re brave,” Melvin said.

“Not like you, though. Out here, all by yourself.” I tried not to be condescending.

He shook his head, wiped his face and led me outside into the morning chill. “Look around, he said. “The hill’s full of game, trees to cut, sunrise, a wolf that likes to hang around. Nothing boring out here.”

I agreed. Before long he returned me through the beautiful woods, saw a deer on the way to the highway. We didn’t say anything until he finally stopped, and let me out. “Don’t owe me a thing,” he said. “Good trip,” then turned around and headed back.

I waved until he disappeared down the road and into the forest.

© Richard L. Provencher