That Rock by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

An early March weekday evening in 1919 near Bear Harbor (current-day Sinkyone Wilderness State Park) in northern California. A young Irish American lady in a long-but-simple beige dress is running through the taller-than-discernible redwoods as the gray sky darkens a shade or three with every foggy minute. It seems that someone is chasing her. She is afraid. Her mind is in a state of full-on panic. She stops, gasps, and looks back. Good, I don’t see him. Hope he didn’t see me. Sure hope he can’t see me right now. Gosh, I can hear my heart beating in my ears. Need to try to calm down. Take some deep breaths. Need to keep moving, though. He will soon be here. I know that he will kill me. After he rapes me. I am so sure that he will. Oh, the horror. He knows that I saw what he did to mom. Where can I hide from the bastard? Somewhere further ahead. Need to keep going. Why did mom have to settle for a vicious lout like him? Bill the boor. What a terrible pick – a horrible choice. Sure wish dad didn’t have to die [in the Battle of Belleau Wood in June of 1918] in the Great War. If he could have just survived for five more months. The Great War? The Great Tragedy for mom and I. Why couldn’t dad have come back like Mary’s [her best friend] father? Why? My life is a living hell. Time to run again. Can ponder this later.

Sylvia finally catches her breath and restarts her escape towards the sea on a fern-lined footpath. Soon she is descending through a mossy glade. The sounds and smells of the Pacific Ocean grow stronger. Sylvia is soon at the mouth of a shallow creek. She dashes across the moist, ash-colored delta sand to a point. A slew of tall sea stacks (now known as Cluster Cone Rocks) dominates her field of view.

The strangely somnolent, solely-surf soundtrack is suddenly shattered. Sylvia hears dog barks, faint at first but growing louder. She is very distressed again, fearing the worst. He must have gone back to the house to get his hounds to track my scent. Evil bastard! Now, what to do? Where do I go? Where?! Think girl, think! I know what I’ll do. It’s my only chance. Hope this works.

She then begins running towards the nearest and tallest rock, bounding over fallen trees. The front (northeastern side) of the massive monolith is not underwater, but the backside is. Right where the sand, the northwestern edge of the rock and the ocean come together, she turns northeastward and sprints into the woods for about 50 paces, drops back down to the area of fallen redwoods, and then quickly retreats back down to the towering rock.

<woof-woof> Oh my, they are so close now. Well, it’s now or never. Go!

Sylvia then climbs onto the dark rock that, fortunately for her, has a plethora of mini-ledge-like cavities, which conveniently make for good footholds and handholds. Hope I don’t get my feet wet. This water is freezing cold. When did dad let me touch this chilly ocean for the first time? Think I was six. Was it the summer of 1909? That sounds about right. What a nice day that was. A golden day. The weather was perfect. Mom and dad were so in love. We were a happy family of four. It was like a fairy tale back then. David [Sylvia’s two-years-younger brother] was still alive. [David would die in the house from diphtheria in 1911.]

<woof-woof> Well, Bill and his canine posse are almost upon me. It’s in the hands of God now. Should I pray? Guess it wouldn’t hurt. ‘Please dear God, spare me. I promise to live a virtuous, sin-free life from this moment on.’ Not sure if I can fulfill such a promise. I really hope there is a god. Surely there is. There has to be a god. A good god. Could there not be a god? Anatoly [a same-grade schoolmate] said there wasn’t one, but he is kind of different, as is his Russian father. Will have to contemplate this later. If I live.

Step by cautious step, Sylvia slithers her svelte body to the ocean-side of the greywacke sea stack, staying just above the spray of the crashing waves. Must not slip. Right here seems ok. Just hold on and hope for the best. The dogs sure are quiet. Wonder …

“Where, where, where are you, Sylvia?” Bill startlingly shouts from the other side of the imposing rock, 40 feet (12 meters) away. “Come out, come out, come out wherever you are. Ok, you won this game of hide-and-seek. I’ll give you a prize. Now, let’s go back to the house. It’s getting chilly out here. And rain is coming. Soon, very soon. Let’s just all go back together before it gets wet and cold out here. Don’t worry; everything is going to be alright. Me and your mom are fine. It was just a little misunderstanding. It’s all good now.” Yeah, I am so sure of that, Bill. What a lying monster you are. Please go somewhere – somewhere ELSE! Is rain really headed this way? How does Bill know this? What a devious bastard! His mother must have been very disappointed. Does a monster like him even have a mother? Poor woman.

Sylvia remains fastened to the rock like an octopus to a crab-ensconced section of coral. She is so quiet that she can’t even hear herself breathing. The swells slosh below; every fourth one breaks. Wonder where he is now. Is he circling this rock? Has he started to climb onto it? Please no. Dear God, not that. Glad the dogs have stopped barking. They must have lost my scent. My plan seems to have worked. Miraculously. Though, this isn’t over yet. Fingers figuratively crossed. ‘Move along, Bill. Take your dogs and get lost!’

Then she hears Bill cough. But the raspy, guttural sound is off in the distance. Bill and his dogs have moved away from the rock. They are now heading into the woods near the point. Whew! Please don’t return. Please, please, don’t ever return. Don’t let us ever see each other ever again. But, what about mom? Is he going back to the house to kill her? Maybe not. Though, mom will be very upset when I don’t return with him. What will she do? What will he do?

<woof-woof> The dogs are barking once again. However, the volume is decreasing. They have picked up Sylvia’s scent, but it is leading them right back to their log-walled cabin. Yep, my plan worked. Lucky me. But, how long should I stay here? To be safe. Would Bill take the dogs back to the house, and then hide in the woods just off the trail, so that he can grab me? And finish me? Would not put it past him. That man is pure evil – the devil incarnate. Must stay wary. Must remain smart.

Soon the dog barking is completely inaudible to Sylvia. Auditorily, it’s now just the wave action and an occasional cawing seagull. The minutes creep on by. Slowly, very slowly. Maybe just wait another five minutes. No, make it ten. Or fifteen? And then what? And then I could walk very slowly back towards the house. Is that the best plan? Not sure. What to do?

<splat> A lone raindrop lands on Sylvia’s forehead. <splat> And then another one strikes her nose. Well, the bastard wasn’t lying with respect to tonight’s weather. I think it’s safe now. I know what I’ll do: when I get near the house, maybe when about 200 feet away, [61 meters] I’ll break off from the trail and approach the house from a secluded angle. Yeah, that way I can surveil the scene before getting too close.

Sylvia executes her plan perfectly. Nothing happens on the way back to her house, except 79 sporadic raindrops score direct hits on her head and shoulders.

After spying the house for thirteen minutes from a hidden vantage point 30 feet (nine meters) off to the east, she slinks closer. Then she stops behind a red fir tree to consider what to do next. The lantern is still lit in mom’s bedroom, but I haven’t seen any shadows. Maybe take a look through the front window. Yeah, let’s do that. Must be quiet. Glad the rain has stopped. Well, for the time being at least. Probably just a lull.

Sylvia crouches behind a boulder and squints towards the front of the cabin. There are no signs of human activity. Is it a setup? A trap? Is Bill lying in wait? Has he already killed mom? Oh dear God, please not that. No, not that! What can I do now? What should I do now? Should I go to Mary’s house? Hmmm … Oh, I know …

Sylvia then picks up a stone and throws it at the front door.

<bonk> To her surprise, it strikes the wooden door dead-on. Wow! Hit it on my first try. Is Bill going to come running out in a state of rage?

Nothing happens. No one comes outside. The lanterns stay lit. No shadows or silhouettes appear. That’s odd. It really feels like the house is vacant. Have they left and gone somewhere in Bill’s jalopy? Should I walk down to where he parks it? Hmmm … Maybe if I get close I can hear if anyone is in the house. Hey, wait, where are the dogs? No barking. Don’t think anyone is in there.

Sylvia then quietly advances to within 10 feet (three meters) off the house, just behind a porch post. Still, there’s not a sound. Really don’t think that Bill is in the house. How could he keep the dogs quiet? They would know that I’m out here and be barking like crazy. I’m going for it.

She then runs from behind the rough-hewn redwood column on the front porch, raps the door three times with her right fist, and then quickly dashes off into the woods on the west side of the house. And still, not a sign of human activity. The house is vacant. If Bill was in there, he would have shot out that front door with his pistols blazing. Ah, I know my next step. Yeah.

After seven unnervingly silent minutes, Sylvia tiptoes up to her bedroom window and peers inside. It is dark, as there is no lit lantern. However, her eyes adjust. The cracked-open bedroom door allows muted light from the lantern in the front sitting room to suffuse the 75 square feet (seven square meters). No one is on my bed. No one is in my room. All clear. Next.

She then employs the same procedure on her mom’s well-lit bedroom, the front sitting room, and the kitchen. All rooms appear to be vacant. She then walks onto the front porch and turns the doorknob to find … no person – nor dog – in the house. Where’s mom?! Where did he take her? That malicious evil bastard! 

Sylvia would spend that night, and many more nights, with Mary’s family. Eventually a widowed aunt would move into the house, and Sylvia would reclaim her old bedroom. But, even a somber year later, there was no word from her mom or knowledge of either person’s whereabouts. And Bill’s 1903 Cadillac Tonneau and his dogs seemed to have permanently vanished into the Lost Coast fog.

Then, some 33 months later, Sylvia returns to that rock which she hid behind on that fateful evening. She sits down on the trunk of a downed-by-erosion coastal redwood and muses. Well, this is where my life went from bad to awful. What a horrid night. Lost mom on the third of March. Lost dad on the sixth of June. Lost my brother on the ninth of September. 3/3, 6/6, and 9/9. Cursed multiples of 3. Will it be 12/12 for me? Wait … Is that today’s date?

“Hello Sylvia.”