Duplicitous Duplicate

A farmer comes up against a peculiar predator terrorizing his animals.

         Soft skies overlooked a pleasant pasture. Clouds drifted lazily as grass swayed in a gentle breeze. Sunlight beamed unabated, giving the world a cheery sheen and warm complexion. Fragrances of the outdoors--wild flowers, hay, even undertones of cow manure--blended together to create a rustic cologne. Birds collaborated to compose a score to commemorate the morning's beauty.

         If ever there was a downside to such a day, it was tedium.

         Grass swished against denim as Ellis made his way to check his cows. Monotony was a sign of good fortune in his profession, and lately he'd had plenty. The same chores, the same schedule, day in, day out; so much so, days began to blend. Rain had been consistent, animals were getting along without incident, and no major mechanical issues in months--life was good.

         Accompanying him was his carefree bloodhound, Hank. Long floppy ears bounced with the cadence of his trot. A droopy face hung over a slack-jawed smile and loose tongue. Years of loyal service were distinguished by the grey forming about the fringes of his muzzle.

         Routine had become such a part of the farmer, alarms were raised at the first sight of something different. Every morning the cows awaited his arrival at their trough, but today, they were absent. With narrow eyes and pressed lips, Ellis opened the gate for him and Hank to go investigate. Towards the back of the pasture, in a lightly wooded area, they found the herd huddled together.

         Huffing, snorting, stamping their hooves, and shaking their heads--their normally passive behavior was inordinately edgy. Unease dwelled in their soulful eyes, and their whipping tails exuded anxiety.

         "What's wrong, ladies?" Ellis asked as he approached.

         Disgruntled mooing reiterated their distress. They backed away from his advance.

         Ellis stopped and frowned; his cows loved him, he didn't understand their distrust. Inspecting them from a distance, he saw no obvious injuries or maladies. However, he thought he identified the problem. He began counting, "One, two, three..." up to, "nine, ten, eleven?" Double checking himself yielded the same result: one short.

         The farmer sighed--his streak was broken. Turning to take Hank's opinion, Ellis found his faithful friend already on the case. Hank was wandering off with nose to the ground, and Ellis followed without question. Creating a nearby hill brought the search to a quick end with a brutal answer. Laying next to the fence that blocked the pasture off from the full woods was the ravaged remains of his cow. Sorrow sank his heart and soured his soul, "Well, hell."

         Hank's gait sombered, tail lulled, and mouth tightened. He was the first to start surveying the scene with a series of sniffs--quickly moving past the corpse to inspect the fence nearby.

         Seeing it up close further twisted the farmer's expression. Brutality boiled his blood, "Damn coyotes." Predator attacks weren't particularly common, but Ellis had seen his share. Despite his experience, this one put him on edge. There was the typical gore left behind by predation; blood, bone, and other internal bile. But it's what the crime scene lacked that disturbed Ellis the most: signs of a struggle.

         It was even less common for a pack of coyotes to bring down an animal this big without a fight. The discrepancy brought the entire location into question, "Why's she by the fence, Hank? They move away from the woods when trouble's about."

         Hank had similar concerns. He sniffed the fence post so hard he risked getting a splinter in his nostril. Every individual wire underwent a full olfactory inspection. He even stuck his snout through to sniff the other side.

         Closer inspection suggested a large puncture wound on the back of her neck was likely what brought the cow down. Ellis grimaced and tightened his stomach as he tried to judge the depth of the wound. It was too large to be from the tooth or claw of anything around here, and apparently had enough force to break her spine. There were no surrounding cuts or punctures from other teeth or claws, just a single strike, straight down.

         A pit formed in his gut. Ellis stepped away wondering, What on Earth did this? But he dropped his line of thought when he noticed Hank had stopped sniffing. Tail straight down, ears back, floppy tongue in full retreat behind a tightly shut jaw--his dog stood stock still, staring into the woods.

         Ellis followed Hank's gaze. Seeing nothing at first, he was suddenly taken aback by a human face peering at him from behind a tree a ways into the woods. The pinprick of alarm exacerbated his irritation. He drew a sharp breath to shout, but it caught in his chest when he realized the face looking back at him was his own.

         Impossible information triggered a hard blink. When Ellis opened his eyes to reevaluate reality, the face was gone. "Wha--?" He looked at Hank.

         His dog was just as confused, with head cocked to the side. After a moment of stunned silence, he remembered to bark.

         Becoming suddenly aware that he was unarmed gave Ellis a bad feeling about pursuit. "G'boy, Hank. But leave it." Keeping an eye on the woodline, he started back toward his truck, "Let's get the backhoe and get her buried 'fore she attracts anything else." The pit in his gut gained density, and sank ever deeper; he mentally added, And the pistol for good measure...

         Weeks passed without problems. Ellis showed pictures of the inordinate wounds to others in the area, but no theories were helpful. Some suggested coydogs, others theorized errant wolves, one even proposed a puma--nothing sounded right to the farmer. Try as he might to dismiss seeing his own face in the woods, he couldn't let go of the dots it connected; the cows distrusting him, how it got one at the fence, the human-like angle and precision of the attack. But there was no solution to such an irrational answer, so that train of thought was inevitably derailed by dismissal. Eventually a scab formed over the memory, and life moved on.

         Upon arriving home one evening, Ellis was approached by his young daughter with a concerning question: "Daddy, why'd you take Henrietta and Hensley into the woods?"

         "Huh?" Ellis recognized the two chickens she referenced, but was certain, "I didn't."

         "Yeah-huh!" Her face wrinkled in offence, "I saw you!"

         Ellis was about to chalk it up to a child's imagination, but it caught the scab, and tore that memory open--his face fell and complexion paled. He stayed calm and tried to avoid saying anything alarming, "Was I wearin' these clothes?"

         "Yeaah." Confusion turned offence into skepticism, "You don't remember? I was colorin' in the kitchen. You came out of the woods, picked up Henrietta and Hensley, and took 'em back in the woods." His child's eyes narrowed, "You even waved at me!"

         The father forgot to breathe. No easy answer came for his daughter. He staggered and struggled, "Um, I believe you--I just--It's not..." His boots came right back on, "I'll go see if I can find 'em, sweetie." Ellis called, "C'mon, Hank!" as he charged for the door.

         Hank looked up from his water dish with a sigh; droopy jowls dripping, he took a few more quick laps before chasing after his master.

         Before raising any alarms, he checked to make sure the chickens were really gone. Sure enough, two chickens were missing. The farmer's blood simultaneously ran cold and began to boil. He quickly decided to do what he should've done after seeing the man in the woods at the scene of the slaughtered cow. First, he circled back and checked in with his wife. He spared the extraordinary details, and did his best to sound unconcerned, but there wasn't much he could do to soften the request to stay in the house with the doors locked until he got back.

         Ellis strapped his revolver to his belt, loaded his double-barrel shotgun, filled his pockets full of shells, and marched into the woods that touched up against his yard and cow pasture. Propelled by the fearsome force of a father protecting his family, Ellis prepared to fight.

         However, the deeper he tread, the deeper his dread.

         Branches breaking beneath his boots sounded like sonic booms. Having no idea where to look--or what he was even looking for--compelled Ellis to look everywhere, all at once, for everything. Movement from every squirrel, bird, and falling leaf was responded to with raised weapon. There were no tracks or otherwise obvious clues to follow, so it was up to Hank's sense of smell to provide their heading.

         When his house was past easy access, Ellis began to question where bravery turned into stupidity. But considering how easily this person had fooled his daughter into thinking it was him fueled the furious father further. Flashbacks of the cow sprung from his anxiety. Flesh torn by claws, bones scratched by teeth, meat ripped away--she'd been killed by a predator, not a person. He'd rationalized that a person had killed her, and scavengers were responsible for the rest, but something deep down didn't feel like it fit. That feeling had never bothered him more than right now.

         The woods was getting too dense to traverse quickly. Whatever scent Hank was on was clearly becoming easier to track, as he was getting carried away enough to get ahead. "Hank, slow down," Ellis commanded while struggling to free his pant leg from a thorn bush. He yanked his leg free fervorously enough to nearly lose his balance.

         Hank hadn't listened--he charged ahead sniffing hard enough to be audible from a distance.

         "Hank!" Ellis scrambled to catch up. Try as he might, he was not as deft as a dog at navigating the dense foliage, "Slow down, boy." When Hank went out of sight behind a bunch of bushes, fear of losing him boiled over: "Hank! Stop!"

         To his relief, he saw Hank's head pop up over the brush with ears perked, stunned by the intensity of the command.

         Ellis was breathing hard, more from nearly losing track of Hank than the hike; nevertheless, he questioned how much further they could go. When he caught up to his dog, it was clear Hank was waiting impatiently. He started off immediately, but before Ellis could stop him, something else did.

         Floppy ears jostled as they perked harder than before, his gaze shot off to their right.

         Whatever he heard was inaudible to Ellis, but his shotgun followed Hank's gaze like it had been a death threat. There was nothing out there. He scanned the woods near and far, but there wasn't so much as a songbird. In fact, the entire woods was eerily still. His stomach sank, and he began to feel like he'd made a mistake.

         After a moment of staring, even Hank decided there was nothing out there. He went back to sniffing, although a bit less enthusiastically. Lower to the ground, tail sagging, ears kept on alert--the dog knew something was amiss, but wasn't about back off the trail.

         Ellis slowly lowered his shotgun, "That's a g'boy, Hank," and shook his head, "But this is far enough. Leave it."

         Hank looked up at his master with a coked head, then back into the woods. He took a few more sniffs of the trail, then looked back to Ellis.

         "I don't want ya gettin' lost." Ellis pointed in the direction of the house, "Go home."

         Hank was stalled by his compulsion to follow the scent, but he wasn't about to disobey. With a sigh of frustration, and shotgun still at a low ready, Ellis and Hank started making their way out of the woods with an eye over their shoulder. His temper cooled, but was already starting to fester. Every step closer to home made him feel lighter, but nagged at him for backing down.

         "Haaank! C'mere, Hanky!"

         Now his blood froze solid. Hair stood on end. Skin raised in bumps. That was clearly his wife's voice calling out from behind them. Face pale, eyebrows tight, jaw slack, breath on hold--Ellis was taken so off-guard by the sound of his wife, he forgot to raise his weapon when he turned to check.

         Hank seemed equally surprised, but not nearly as disturbed. His tail raised, and posture boldened. His mouth opened to a droopy smile as he searched the woods for the source.

         "Haa-aaank! C'mere, boy!"

         Hank started to go back to where they'd been.

         "No!" Ellis snatched his dog by the tail just before he was out of reach.

         Hank flinched and wheeled around, his ears so far back and eyes so wide it amassed all his wrinkles on top of his head. The sudden and uncharacteristic reaction of his master made his lips twitch, but one paw come off the ground.

         Ellis braced the butt of his gun on his hip and pointed it in the direction of the call. He kept an iron grip on Hank's tail as he looked him deep in the eye, shook his head, and said, "That ain't Molly."

         Hank's paw went back down, and his ears came forward--his head cocked again.

         "Oh, Hanky. Wanna treat?"

         From solid ice, his blood went straight back to a boil. Though he was almost positive, Ellis couldn't fire a weapon in the direction of his wife's voice without knowing for absolute certain it wasn't her. So he angled his barrel toward the sky, BOOM! before letting one barrel loose.

         Hank ducked and tucked his tail so hard and fast he pulled it from his master's grip. He stayed hunkered down, frozen by uncertainty.

         Ellis clarified loud enough to be heard over ringing ears, "Go home, Hank! Now!"

         Hank operated on only that order and bolted toward the house with tail between his legs.

         This time Ellis didn't stop Hank from going ahead, but he still did his best to keep up to avoid being alone. Between the sounds of his own egress, and the screaming ring in his ears that synced perfectly with his anxiety, it was near impossible to hear anything running after them. Every time he turned to check, there was nothing but empty woods.

         Yet again, it was what was missing that disturbed him most: the lack of any response after he shot. He was certain that wasn't Molly. He'd asked her to stay inside, and she wasn't the type to play pranks, or outrun them deeper into the woods without them noticing. It couldn't be her. But there was no mistaking it, that was her voice and the exact way she called their dog--too lifelike to be a recording, but too empty to have been his wife. If it had been her, she would have chewed him out from Heaven to Hell for firing a gun over her head, if not divorce him entirely.

         Instead, there was nothing--cold, emotionless, silence.

         Hank didn't stop until he got to the back door, well before Ellis. When the farmer broke free of the woodline, he whipped around with his weapon up and ready. But nothing had followed. His temper flared--he hoped he hadn't been run out of the woods by a recording.

         No, jumped straight out of his subconscious. Even if it was a recording, it was a direct play at separating him from his dog: And it almost worked. Resisting the urge to fire off blindly into the woods was enough to make him grit his teeth. But he already had one gunshot to explain, he didn't need to add to it.

         Despite his hesitancy towards sounding insane, he confessed all the details to Molly; even the part about seeing his own face, but dismissing it. She was a compassionate listener and an understanding partner, this time was certainly no different. Like he feared, her theories leaned towards something rational, like an extremely perverse prank. Ellis had to grit his teeth all over and force himself to agree with her, because her idea was technically most likely correct, and he had no solid evidence to the contrary.

         Except a morbid feeling, and those memories of the mutilated cow: Predator, not person.

         He wholeheartedly agreed with filing a formal police report to cover their bases. As expected, there was certainly no talk of anything paranormal there. Ellis hadn't expected any, but he felt a little let down by the impression they took his report to humor him, and because they had nothing better to do. He tried to liven things up by showing them pictures of the cow on his phone. But not even pointing out the odd location, lack of struggle, or suspicious kill wound was enough to convince the officer it was anything more than some coyotes that got lucky. He desperately wanted to tell them about seeing his own face, but was concerned it would get him dismissed entirely. With no definitive crime, or solid evidence of foul play, they took his statement with a shrug, and told him to let them know if anything else happened.

         There was nothing he could do but wait.

         Windows and doors stayed locked at all times from there on out. Between Molly and himself, they did a decent job of not letting their daughter out of their combined sight, but she was getting to an age where that was difficult. Ellis did his best to not leave them at the house without him, but there was only so much he could do with a profession that demanded most of his daylight hours. Hank never left his side. They were already a close pair, but now that he'd been targeted directly, he wasn't allowed to go far.

         A quiet, albeit paranoid, week went by; then another, and another. Ellis wasn't soon to forget, but Molly began to let her guard down after nearly a month of no further occurrences. On one hand, Ellis understood, and couldn't ask her to live in fear of something she hadn't seen. On the other hand, he struggled to not get frustrated with her growing complacency. No matter how much he wanted to hunker down and watch the woodline through the scope of a rifle, life had to move on.

         Eventually, even Ellis had to make concessions on his strict security policies. When a mandatory meeting with his banker came up regarding a loan for his farm, he couldn't find anything to do with Hank. Molly was at work, nobody nearby was able to watch him, and it was too hot to leave him in the truck. He was tempted to make someone call in sick just to watch him for a couple hours, but again sided against coming off crazy. So he left Hank home alone, and regretted it the moment he'd walked out the door.

         It made focusing on the meeting more of a chore than it already was, so he rushed through it as quickly as he could. Ellis pushed the speed limit the whole way home. Upon turning the bend a few miles from home, he recognized a familiar figure walking along the ditch with his nose to the ground, "Hank?" His heart jumped into his throat; something was wrong, Hank never got out. The nervous pit tightened the knot in his gut: What if someone let him out? After all, he was confident he'd locked up. Fortunately, they were flanked by fields on either side, and the crops were still low enough to quickly tell nobody was lurking nearby. Once close, Ellis jerked his truck to the side of the road and threw it in park. He asked, "What the hell happened, Hank?" as he hopped out.

         The way the dog lit up at the sight of him further confirmed it wasn't a similar stray. Hank came trotting over, smiling wide with tongue and ears bouncing. His typical carefree and chipper attitude suggested he hadn't witnessed anything distressing, deepening the mystery.

         "Mighty cheery for doin' somethin' ya ain't supposed to." Ellis marched around to the passenger side and opened the door, "The Hell ya doin'? There's some nut-job out there lookin' like me, soundin' like Molly, and takin' my animals."

         Hank jumped in the passenger's seat without a care in the world; in fact, Ellis wished he cared more, "Ya gotta be more careful, boy." Memories of the mutilation returned. "For all we know, that freak can turn into--" Realization coincided with the slam of the passenger door, "Ah, shit."

         The bad feeling from the woods came back moments too late, but better than not at all. Ellis considered his options, of which he had very few. If this was Hank, he couldn't leave him on the road. If this was The Duplicate, then getting in that truck was more than likely an ambush. There was no good option, but he went with the best one he had.

         Ellis took a deep breath, subtly removed his pocket knife, opened the blade, and hid it as best he could. He reopened the door and took a big step back, concealing his knife at his side. Pointing, he commanded his dog, "Since ya want fresh air s'bad, how's 'bout ya ride in the bed."

         Hank's mouth closed, he looked at Ellis with coked head and perked ears.

         The farmer's gaze drifted to the glovebox; his revolver was within reach, but so were the dog's jaws. Looking back to Hank, he kept calm, "Go on, now. I ain't askin', I'm tellin'."

         Hank's gaze drifted to the side Ellis hid his knife. When their eyes met again, the farmer saw something switch. He'd seen it in every bull that'd charged him, every boar that'd taken a swing at him, and every rooster that'd gotten too cocky. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have been prepared for the fury that came flying at him.

         Teeth were inches from Ellis's face by the time his knife met them. Steel pierced the bottom jaw, embedding the blade in the palate and pinning its mouth closed. The collision brought them both to the ground. Spiking its jaws together bought Ellis precious time to throw the thing off and scramble for his gun.

         Retrieving his revolver was a blur, but time slowed when he whirled around to see the monster back on its feet. Head thrashing in an attempt to open its mouth, floppy snarling jowls flinging blood, a violence Hank was incapable of burning in its eyes--this was no person or pet, it was a predator. Ellis took aim.

         The deranged dog managed to shake the blade free. Its jaws opened with a splash of blood and a snarl so vicious it bordered on a roar; red fangs bared, and a knife blade jutting out between the bottom row of pointed teeth.

         BANG!

         The bullet found its mark above the thing's left eye, and it crumpled and convulsed. Then it went still, blood still pouring from its head wound. Not willing to compromise victory, Ellis emptied the cylinder just to be certain. Blood and gunsmoke stained the air. All went quiet, save his screaming ears.

         Ellis sighed in relief, then gasped for air--he had been holding his breath. Keeping an eye on the assumed corpse, he grabbed the box of ammo and reloaded with shaking hands. Six shots to the head had left little, but there was no way of knowing what he was up against. Ellis moved closer with extreme caution; revolver aimed, and cocked. The body stayed stagnant. He gave it a kick. Nothing. His lips pressed and eyes narrowed--he shot another round where he assumed its heart should be. Still, no signs of life.

         Begrudgingly, Ellis decided the body should be burned to be completely certain. He threw the body in the bed of the truck with great trepidation. He angled the rearview mirror so he could keep an eye on it as sped home with enough intensity to qualify as reckless driving. Even with a lead foot, the couple mile drive felt like hours. All the while, Ellis muttered, "That wasn't Hank," to push back against the memory of shooting his dog. Hank had never even growled at him, let alone tried to rip his throat out. Nevertheless, even missing most of its head, that thing was a dead ringer for his dog. "That can't be Hank," he told himself; yet, the only other option was something impossible.

         Some relief soothed his fraying nerves when Ellis arrived home to find it seemingly undisturbed. The front door was still locked. Looking over his shoulder to watch his truck bed made him take longer to unlock it than he would've liked. Once he got it, Ellis burst in yelling for, "HANK!"

         Eternal seconds past. The farmer nearly cried when his dog came ambling around the corner, still groggy from his nap. There was a look of confusion over his master's concern that reminded him of Molly when he'd asked her if it was her voice in the woods. Combined with the inherent gentleness in his eyes, it was enough to convince him this was the real Hank.

         "Oh, buddy! I'm so happy to see ya!" Ellis hugged his dog.

         The unexpected gesture added to Hank's bewilderment, but his tail flopped against the floor. The blood on his mater's clothes caught his attention, and he began sniffing at it vigorously.

         "I got 'em, boy," Ellis boasted. He turned to go outside, gesturing for Hank to follow, "At least I damn-well better've. If blowin' its head off don't do it, I don't know what will. I figure we'll burn it for good measure."

         Victory began to slip when he reached the driveway and saw a splash of red behind his truck. Ellis pulled his pistol from his beltline and approached with cautious haste. There was a dark pool of blood in his truck bed, but no body. He followed the crimson trail towards the woods. About half-way through his yard, it tapered down before stopping completely, as if its wound had healed enough for the bleeding to cease.

         Ellis was left staring at the woodline with a worried grimace. Dread drowned his heart and darkened his demeanor, "Well, hell."