"MULCHATNA":
I set out from the small trading post near the mouth of the Nushagak River, my pack heavy with supplies for the long winter ahead. The boat ride up the winding waterways took days, and by the time I reached my old trapping grounds along the Mulchatna, I felt the quiet wrap around me like a thick blanket. This land was vast and empty, full of beaver dams and moose trails, but it always made me feel small. Little did I know that this trip would change everything.
My name is Elias, and I'd been coming to these parts for five seasons now. I built a small cabin last year, just a log shelter with a dirt floor and a stove made from an old barrel. It was hidden in a grove of spruce trees, far from any village. The furs I caught paid for my life back in town, and the solitude suited me fine. But that fall of 1925, whispers had started among the traders. They spoke of a man called Klutuk, a local who roamed these rivers like a shadow. He didn't like outsiders on what he saw as his land. Folks said he watched from the hills, silent and mean. I brushed it off as tall tales, the kind men tell around a fire to pass the time.
The first few weeks went smooth. I checked my traps each morning, skinning marten and fox with care. The air was crisp, and the leaves turned gold before falling. One day, I met old Henry at a bend in the river. He was a prospector, panning for gold in the shallow streams. His beard was gray and tangled, and his eyes darted around like he expected trouble.
"Elias," he said, squatting by my fire as I boiled coffee. "You hear about the missing fellas up north?"
I nodded, pouring him a cup. "Traders mentioned something. Said a couple trappers vanished last winter."
Henry leaned in close, his voice low. "It's more than that. I knew one of 'em, Bill from Anchorage. He set lines near the Kuskokwim fork. Never came back. His cabin was empty, traps untouched. But the door was busted in, like something strong had forced it."
"Animals?" I asked, though I knew bears didn't break doors that way.
He shook his head. "No claw marks. And his rifle was gone. Folks say it's Klutuk. He's Yup'ik, lives off the land like his people always have. But he's gone bad, Elias. Thinks these rivers are his alone. He follows you, waits till you're alone, then... well, you don't come out."
I laughed a bit, trying to shake the unease. "Come on, Henry. Probably just got lost or froze. This country's hard on a man."
He stared at me hard. "You watch your back. If you see smoke where there shouldn't be, or hear footsteps that stop when you do, get out quick. He's out there, hunting people like we hunt beaver."
Henry left the next morning, heading downstream. I watched his canoe disappear around the bend, feeling a knot in my gut. That night, as I lay in my bunk, the wind howled through the trees. I heard branches snap outside, but told myself it was a moose. Sleep came slow.
A few days later, things turned strange. I went to check a trap line along a creek, one I'd baited with fish heads. The traps were empty—not sprung, just gone. The chains had been cut clean, like with a knife. Nearby, the ground was scuffed, but no clear prints. I knelt down, running my fingers over the dirt. Something felt off, like eyes on me from the brush. I stood quick, rifle in hand, scanning the hills. Nothing moved. But the hairs on my neck stood up.
I hurried back to the cabin, barring the door tight. That evening, I cooked stew over the stove, trying to push the worry away. Outside, the dark pressed in. Then came a sound—a low whistle, like a man calling a dog. It echoed from the trees, faint but clear. I grabbed my lantern and stepped out, holding my gun.
"Who's there?" I called, my voice steady but my hands shaking a little.
No answer. The whistle came again, closer this time. I swung the light around, seeing only shadows. "Show yourself!"
Silence. I backed inside, bolting the door. My mind raced. Was it Henry playing a joke? No, he'd gone downriver. Or maybe wind through the branches. But deep down, I knew better.
The next morning, I decided to scout upstream, toward where Henry said Bill had trapped. The hike took hours, through thick alder and over rocky bars. I found the spot—a ruined cabin, walls caved in, roof gone. Inside, old pots scattered, a bedroll torn. No sign of Bill, but on the floor, dark stains that looked like old blood. My breath caught. I poked around, finding a journal half-buried in the dirt. Pages were ripped, but one entry read: "Heard him last night. Footsteps circling. Must be that mad one they talk about. If I don't make it..."
I stuffed the journal in my pack, heart racing. As I turned to leave, I saw it—a fresh boot print in the mud outside, bigger than mine, heading into the woods. Not animal. Human.
I started back fast, the trail seeming longer in the fading light. Branches grabbed at my coat, and every rustle made me jump. Halfway home, I heard it again—that whistle, now behind me. I spun, rifle up. "Leave me be!" I shouted.
A figure moved in the trees, tall and dark, gone in a blink. Was it real? I ran, boots pounding the ground, breath coming in gasps. The cabin came into view, and I burst inside, slamming the door.
Night fell hard. I sat by the stove, gun across my lap, listening. Hours passed. Then, scratching at the wall, like nails on wood. Slow, deliberate. I froze, sweat beading on my forehead.
"Go away," I whispered.
The scratching stopped. Then a voice, rough and low, from outside. "This land mine. You go."
My blood went cold. It was him. Klutuk. I gripped the rifle tighter. "I ain't bothering you. Just trapping."
Laughter, cold and echoing. "All bother. Like others. They gone now."
I thought of Bill, of the stains in his cabin. "What did you do to them?"
No answer. Footsteps circled the cabin, slow and heavy. I aimed at the door, finger on the trigger. The knob rattled. I fired once, the shot booming through the wood. Splinters flew, and a grunt outside. Footsteps retreated into the night.
I didn't sleep. At dawn, I packed what I could carry—furs, food, ammo—and left. The trail downriver felt endless, every shadow a threat. I glanced back often, expecting him to appear. But he didn't.
At the trading post, I told the marshal what happened. He listened, face grim. "Klutuk," he said. "We've heard. Killed many, they say. Trappers, prospectors. Hides in the hills, strikes quiet."
"You going after him?" I asked.
He nodded. "Gathering men. Big search. But that country's huge. Might take years."
They did search, for months, then years. Rumors spread—more missing men, bodies found with throats cut or shot from afar. Klutuk became a ghost story, but real. In 1931, the marshal found a cabin near the Mulchatna, burned out, bones inside. They said it was him, dead by his own fire maybe, or suicide. But no one knew for sure.
I never went back to those rivers. The fear stuck with me, that feeling of being hunted in the endless bush. Sometimes, in quiet nights, I still hear that whistle in my dreams, and wonder if he's really gone.
"THE BUSH PLANE":
I worked as a dancer in a small club on the edge of Anchorage back in the early eighties. The place was always full of men who came in after long days at work, looking for company. Most were harmless, just lonely folks in a big, empty state like Alaska. One night, a quiet man with glasses walked up to me during my break. He looked ordinary, like someone who baked bread for a living, which I later found out he did.
"Hi," he said, his voice soft but steady. "You seem nice. Want to make some easy money? Two hundred dollars for a quick job outside."
I paused. Money was tight, and two hundred sounded good for not much effort. "What kind of job?" I asked, keeping my tone light.
"Just something private," he replied with a small smile. "Nothing hard. Come with me to my car, and we can talk more."
I thought about it for a second. He didn't seem pushy or mean. I grabbed my coat and followed him out to the parking lot. His car was a regular sedan, nothing fancy. I got in the passenger side, and he started driving. At first, it was quiet. Then he turned down a side road, away from the lights.
"Where are we going?" I said, trying to sound casual.
"My place," he answered. "It's close. Don't worry."
Something felt off, but I pushed the thought away. We pulled up to a house in a quiet neighborhood. He led me inside, and the door clicked shut behind us. The living room was plain, with a couch and some hunting trophies on the walls – deer heads and rifles. He offered me a seat.
"Want a drink?" he asked.
"No, thanks," I said. "Let's just get to the point. What do you want for the money?"
He sat down across from me, then reached into his pocket. Instead of cash, he pulled out a big handgun. My whole body went cold. "Don't scream," he said calmly, pointing it right at me. "If you do what I say, everything will be fine."
I nodded slowly, my mind racing. "Okay," I whispered. "What do you want me to do?"
"Stand up," he ordered. "Take off your clothes."
I did as he said, my fingers trembling on the buttons. He watched without a word. Then he grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the basement stairs. "Down there," he said.
The basement was dim, with a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. There was a post in the middle of the room, like for support. He wrapped a chain around my neck and locked it to the post. It was tight enough that I couldn't pull away far. "Sit," he told me.
I sat on the cold floor, trying not to cry. He went upstairs for a bit, then came back with food – a sandwich and water. "Eat," he said, pushing it toward me.
"I'm not hungry," I replied, my voice small.
"Eat anyway," he insisted. "You'll need your strength."
He sat on the couch down there and watched me. After a while, he stood up and came closer. He hurt me then, in ways that made me want to disappear. It went on for hours. When he finished, he unchained me just enough to move a little, but kept the neck chain on. "I'm going to sleep now," he said. "You stay quiet."
He lay down on the couch and closed his eyes. I waited, listening to his breathing get even. The chain rattled if I moved too much. I looked around the room – tools on a shelf, old boxes, nothing I could reach. My wrists hurt from where he'd tied them earlier. I thought about my family, wondering if they'd notice I was gone yet.
Hours passed. He woke up and looked at me. "Time to go," he said.
"Go where?" I asked, hope flickering for a moment.
"Somewhere special," he replied. "You'll see."
He unlocked the chain from the post but kept my hands cuffed in front. He pushed me up the stairs and out to his car. "Get in the back," he ordered. "Lie down."
I climbed in, curling up on the seat. He drove for what felt like forever, the road getting bumpier. We stopped at a small airport – Merrill Field, I think. He had a plane there, a little bush plane for flying into the wild areas. "Out," he said.
The air was crisp, but I focused on surviving. He opened the plane door and started loading supplies – a rifle, some bags. My mind screamed to run, but he was watching. Then he turned to adjust something in the cockpit.
This was my chance. I pushed the car door open quietly and slipped out. My feet hit the ground, and I ran. Behind me, I heard him shout, "Stop!"
I didn't look back. My cuffs made it hard, but I waved my arms at a passing truck. The driver slammed on the brakes. "Help!" I yelled. "Please help me!"
The man in the truck stared, his eyes wide. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"He's got a gun! He kidnapped me!" I gasped, climbing into the cab.
"Okay, okay," the driver said, pulling away fast. "I'll get you somewhere safe."
He drove me to a motel nearby – the Mush Inn. I jumped out and ran inside. The clerk behind the desk looked shocked. "Call the police," I begged. "And call my boyfriend at the Big Timber Motel. Tell him I'm here."
The clerk nodded and picked up the phone. "Sit down, miss. Help is coming."
I waited, shaking. When the police arrived, I told them everything – the man's face, his house, the plane. "He was going to fly me out to the bush," I said. "I think he was going to kill me there."
The officers listened, but one seemed doubtful. "We'll check it out," he said.
Later, I learned the man's name was Robert, the baker everyone knew in town. He told the police I was lying, that I wanted money from him. But I had left my shoes in his car as proof. And there were marks on my neck from the chain.
They didn't believe me at first. Robert had friends who said he was with them that night. I felt so alone, like no one cared. But then more bodies turned up in the wilderness – women like me, shot and left in the dirt along the Knik River. The police connected the dots. They searched his house and found jewelry from those women, a map with marks where bodies were buried.
One day, an investigator came to see me. "You were right," he said. "He's confessed to some of it. He took women out to the bush, let them run, and hunted them like deer."
I shivered at the words. "How many?" I asked.
"At least seventeen," he replied. "Maybe more. You got away. That makes you strong."
I didn't feel strong. For weeks, I couldn't sleep without seeing his face, hearing his calm voice giving orders. The wilderness out there – the thick trees, the endless rivers – it all felt like a trap now. He used his plane to fly them far, where no one could hear screams.
They caught him because of me. In court, he admitted to the murders, but only some. He got over four hundred years in prison. No parole. He died old and sick behind bars.
But even now, I wonder about the ones they never found. The bush hides secrets. Women who ran, barefoot and scared, chased by a man with a rifle. I see it in my dreams – the chase, the shots echoing. I escaped, but part of me is still running.
The police found his attic full of guns and trophies – not just animal ones. Rings, necklaces from the dead. He kept them like souvenirs. One investigator told me, "He said he let some go if they promised not to talk. But most, he hunted."
"Why me?" I asked.
"You fought back in your way," he said. "You ran at the right moment."
I nodded, but inside, the fear lingered. Anchorage felt smaller after that. I left the club, got a regular job. But every time I hear a plane overhead, I remember the airport, the door opening, my feet pounding the pavement.
Friends asked me about it later. "What was he like?" one said.
"Normal," I replied. "That's the scary part. He baked donuts in the morning and killed at night."
She hugged me. "You're safe now."
I smiled, but I knew the truth. The Alaskan bush is vast. People disappear, and sometimes, monsters hide in plain sight.
I think about the other women. One they called Eklutna Annie – found stabbed, half-buried. Another, a dancer like me, shot while running naked through the woods. He stripped them to make it harder, to feel the power.
In his confession, he described it coldly. "I let her go," he said about one. "Then I followed with the gun."
The officer who told me that shook his head. "He enjoyed the hunt."
I try not to dwell, but the story sticks. It's why I tell it now – so others know to watch out. In a place like Alaska, the wild isn't just animals. Sometimes, it's people.
Years passed, and I built a life. But that night changed everything. The chain's weight, the gun's barrel, the plane's engine starting – sounds that echo. I got away, but the fear? It stays, quiet and waiting.
"THE LANDING":
I worked as a mechanic in Manley Hot Springs, fixing boats and trucks for the folks who lived out here. It was a small place, maybe fifty people total, everyone knew each other by face if not by name. One afternoon, a stranger drove into town in an old car packed with gear. He looked rough, with a beard and eyes that didn't meet yours straight on. I was outside my shop when he stopped and asked for directions to the river.
"You heading out to camp?" I asked, wiping oil from my hands.
He nodded. "Yeah, looking for a quiet spot. Name's Michael."
"I'm Dave," I said. "The boat landing's down that way. Water's high this time of year, so watch yourself."
He thanked me and drove off. Didn't think much of it—people came through sometimes, chasing gold or just the wild. But later that day, I heard shots echo from the landing. Sharp cracks, one after another. My gut told me it wasn't hunting. I grabbed my rifle from the shop and ran toward the sound.
When I got close, I saw bodies on the ground near the boats. Blood stained the dirt. Michael stood there, reloading his gun, calm as if he was target practicing. He had shot Fred, the guy who ran the supply post, and a couple others I recognized—neighbors, friends. My mind raced. Why? He hadn't said a word about trouble.
I ducked behind a tree before he spotted me. "Hey!" he yelled, like he knew someone was out there. "Come on out!"
I stayed still, breath caught. He fired a shot into the woods, bark splintering near me. I bolted deeper into the trees, heart pounding hard. The bush closed in—thick brush, fallen logs, the Tanana River rushing nearby. I knew this land; I'd grown up here. But he moved like he belonged too, fast and sure.
I hid in a ditch, mud covering me, listening. Footsteps crunched leaves. "I see you running," he called out. "No point hiding. I'll find you."
I waited, rifle ready, but I didn't want to shoot unless I had to. Minutes dragged. He passed close, muttering to himself. "This place is mine now." His voice was flat, no anger, just fact.
I crept away when he turned, heading upstream. The river was swollen from spring melt, cold and fast. I waded in up to my knees, using the noise to cover my steps. He fired again, bullet splashing water near me. "Stop!" he shouted.
I dove deeper, swimming across a shallow part, current pulling hard. On the other side, I ran into thicker woods, roots tripping me, branches scratching my face. My boots filled with water, slowing me. I found a hollow under a uprooted tree and crawled in, pulling leaves over me.
Night came slow. I heard more shots far off, then quiet. Was he gone? Or waiting? I stayed put, shivering, thinking of my wife back home. She must have heard the noise, maybe locked the door.
In the morning, I peeked out. No sign. I made my way back carefully, sticking to cover. The village was empty—folks hiding or worse. I found a radio in a cabin and called the troopers. "There's a killer here," I whispered. "Shot people at the landing. He's armed."
They came quick, helicopters whirring overhead. I told them what I saw, pointed where he went. They tracked him up the Zitziana, a wild tributary full of bends and hiding spots.
Later, I heard the full story on the radio. They cornered him by his canoe. He shot at the chopper, killed a trooper. They fired back, ended it. Turned out he'd killed nine total, including one in Fairbanks before coming here. No one knew why—just a drifter with guns and bad thoughts.
I still fix boats, but I watch strangers closer now. The bush hides a lot, and sometimes what comes out changes everything.
"BLOOD ON THE AIRSTRIP":
I remember the crunch of snow under my boots as I headed to the airstrip that morning. McCarthy was always quiet in winter, just a cluster of cabins tucked deep in the mountains, miles from anywhere. The weekly mail plane was due, and everyone looked forward to it—letters from family, supplies we couldn't get otherwise. I was carrying a thermos of hot tea for the wait, figuring it'd be cold standing out there.
Harley came out of his place first, waving at me. He was a sturdy guy, fixed engines for a living. "Morning, Les," he called. "Plane's early today. Hear that buzz?"
I nodded, listening to the faint drone in the sky. "Yeah. Hope it brings good news."
We reached the strip, a flat stretch of packed snow ringed by tall pines. A few others were already there—Donna with her scarf tight around her neck, Chris checking his watch, and Tim stacking some crates. "Any word from town?" Donna asked the group.
Chris shook his head. "Not since last week. But I ordered parts for the generator."
That's when the first shot rang out, sharp and close. Everyone froze. Tim spun around. "What was that?"
Before anyone could answer, another crack, and Tim jerked back, red blooming on his coat. He fell without a sound. Donna screamed, and we scattered. I dove behind a snowbank, heart pounding hard. More shots came, one after another, like someone was picking us off.
I peeked over the edge. A man was walking calm from the trees—Louis, the computer guy who'd moved here a year back. He had a rifle, the kind for hunting deer, but he aimed it at people. He shot Chris next, right in the chest. Donna ran for her cabin, but he fired again, and she dropped in the snow.
"Harley!" I whispered loud. He was crouched near me, face pale. "We gotta run."
He nodded, and we bolted for the woods. Branches snagged my jacket as we crashed through. Behind us, more shots echoed. I heard a yell—someone else hit, maybe Max or Lena, who'd been coming late.
We made it to a thick stand of trees. Harley leaned against one, breathing heavy. "Why's he doing this?"
"I don't know," I said. "He always seemed quiet. Fixed my radio once."
A branch snapped nearby. We went still. Footsteps crunched slow in the snow. Louis's voice called out, even and cold. "Come on out. It's no use hiding."
My mouth went dry. Harley signaled to move deeper. We crept away, keeping low. The woods were dense here, full of fallen logs and brush. I slipped once, landing hard, but bit my lip to stay quiet.
He got closer. "I see tracks," he said, almost to himself. A shot blasted bark off a tree above us. Harley gasped—shrapnel hit his arm, blood seeping through his sleeve.
"Run!" he hissed at me. But Louis was there, stepping out like a shadow. He raised the rifle. Harley lunged at him, but the gun fired, and Harley slumped down.
I turned and sprinted, zigzagging through the pines. Bullets whizzed past, one grazing my leg, burning like fire. I fell into a ditch, rolled under some roots. Pain shot up my thigh, but I clamped a hand over my mouth.
Louis walked by, boots inches from my face. "You're hurt," he said softly. "It'll be quick if you show yourself."
I held my breath, eyes squeezed shut. He poked at bushes with the rifle barrel, then moved on. Minutes stretched like hours. The cold seeped in, but I didn't dare move.
Finally, his steps faded. I waited longer, listening to distant shots—more people? The town had only twenty-two of us in winter. How many left?
When quiet settled, I crawled out, leg throbbing. Blood trailed behind me. I tore my shirt for a bandage, tied it tight. The airstrip was maybe a mile back, but Louis might be there. Instead, I headed for the old mine road, hoping to flag someone.
The woods felt endless, trees closing in. Every rustle made me jump—a squirrel, or him? My mind raced: Why Louis? He'd talked about the pipeline once, how it ruined the land. Said it brought too many people, changed everything. But this?
I heard the plane land, engines whining down. Then voices—shouts, confusion. The pilot must've seen the bodies. More shots cracked. I pushed faster, ignoring the pain.
Dusk came early in March. Shadows grew long in the trees. I found a creek, followed it upstream to hide my trail. Water soaked my boots, numbing my feet.
Night fell, stars sharp overhead. I huddled in a hollow under a log, shivering. Sounds echoed—weird cries from animals, wind moaning. But no more gunshots. Maybe he was done.
At dawn, I moved again. My leg swelled bad, but I limped on. Reached the edge of town by noon. Smoke rose from a cabin—whose? I snuck closer, peering through windows. Empty rooms, blood on floors. My stomach twisted.
Then engines roared—a helicopter. State troopers, landing at the strip. I stumbled out, waving. "Help!" I yelled, voice hoarse.
Two officers ran over, guns drawn. "What happened here?"
"Louis," I gasped. "He shot everyone. Harley, Donna, all of them."
They got me to the chopper, bandaged my leg. "Where is he?" one asked.
"I don't know. In the woods, maybe."
They searched. Found Louis at his place, calm like nothing happened. He didn't fight when they cuffed him.
Later, in the hospital, I learned he killed six that day—Harley, Tim, Donna, Chris, Max, Lena. Wounded me and another who hid better. Said he planned to kill us all, then blow up the pipeline. Thought it was destroying Alaska. He'd been plotting for months, even made a silencer for another gun.
Troopers found his notes, maps of the pipeline. He got sentenced to hundreds of years, locked away forever.
McCarthy's empty now in winter, just ghosts in the snow. I left for Anchorage, but the woods call sometimes. I wake up hearing those shots, his voice in the trees. The bush hides things—secrets, pain. And once it grabs you, it doesn't let go.