The Mountain King Read Online Free Page B

motion as something charged out of the forest and headed straight at him. 
    For a single heartbeat, Mark was paralyzed with fear. He felt more than saw the two eyes that were locked onto him. They burned with a cold, green fire. There was a heavy thumping sound of feet trampling the forest floor as the black shape rapidly closed the distance. Long arms reached out. Firelight reflected off two sets of long, curved claws. An instant before it was too late, Mark ducked to one side as he swung out wildly with the hatchet. 
The blade connected with ... something. 
The shock of contact almost tore the hatchet from his hand as a loud howl of pain and anger filled the night, so close his ears began to ring. 
The figure streaked across the open fire-lit space like a midnight freight train and then disappeared into the inky gloom of the forest. A thin haze of yellow dust from the forest floor swirled in its passing, the only visible indication that something had actually gone by. Silence dropped like a blanket over the forest, broken only by the raw gasping of Mark’s breathing as he crouched defensively and scanned the shrouded forest. 
“Come on! Come on, you son-of-a-bitch!” he yelled. 
His insides were trembling wildly as he shook the hatchet above his head. 
“Come back here and fight me!”  
He paused and listened, but could hear only the thundering rush of his pulse in his ears. The night was cold and silent, but it still seemed laden with danger. Mark stood rooted to the spot, his body tensed as he waited for another attack. Already his exhaustion and the sharp bolt of fear were giving this encounter the eerie dissociation of a bad dream, like it hadn’t really happened. Shuddering wildly, he ran his hand across his face. 
“Jesus! Gotta get a grip ... Gotta get a grip,” he muttered as he shifted back and forth, straining to catch sight or sound of whatever had just tried to kill him. 
Nothing but impenetrable silence filled the forest. 
After a while, Mark relaxed his guard a little and sat back down at his campfire to watch and wait. He knew he would be inviting another attack if he started traveling before morning, so he piled more wood onto the fire and let the blaze reach high into the night sky. 
Hours later, just as the first hint of dawn tinged the eastern sky, he packed up his few supplies and started out on the trail again, his hatchet in hand. He was determined, now, to get back to town and report the incident. After that, he would return to the mountain to search for his friend. Only this time, he was going to come well armed. 
All day, Mark hiked through the forest, keeping to the blazed trail that was the shortest route out. His progress was aggravatingly slow because he was tensed, expecting to be attacked at every turn. Shortly after noontime, nearly faint with exhaustion, he paused for a quick lunch at the crossing of the Bull branch of Sunday River. He was still more than five miles from the nearest road, and from there he had no idea how long it would take to walk or hitch a ride back to Hilton. 
    The day grew steadily warmer. He wanted desperately to rest but didn’t want to chance getting too comfortable and falling asleep. He was surprised that all day he hadn’t encountered any other hikers. Perhaps the bad weather yesterday had discouraged any plans anyone might have had for a weekend hike up Agiochook. The rushing roar of the Bull River masked all other sounds, so he ate hurriedly and then continued his trek, knowing that he had to get out of the woods before dark. 
    Although he never saw or heard anything to indicate that he was being pursued, he still couldn’t shake the persistent feeling that something was tracking him. Worn down by exhaustion, he began to imagine that he was being pursued by Phil’s ghost, which was hungry for revenge for leaving him dead back at the base of The Zipper. The bright, sunlit forest held dark, menacing shadows that seemed to coil as they