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what a severely disturbed neighbor described as, “Shrieking screams of death - evil incarnate.” The neighbor purportedly heard, “roars and bellows emanating from the woods.” The residents assumed
that the sounds of horror were, “coming from the school grounds,” specifically, “the ‘Pit.’”
“Hell itself had come alive,” said another agitated homeowner.
“Honestly? A kind of angry, sacrificial chaos.”
The claims deserved immediate investigation. One afternoon,
I strolled past the locked, yellow partition and entered the gravel expanse. Everything seemed normal. The calm summoned images from the year before, only there were no rows of cars parked haphazardly neat. A slinky feeling - something wasn’t quite right - crept into my stomach.
I turned to the north end. My gut instinct slugged my sternum full swing. As I walked slowly towards the unknown,
trees seemed to shadow my direction, as if they were trying to speak of dark whispers held taut in their roots.
The hairpin turnaround did not exist. In its place was an excavated pit, roughly seven feet deep and twenty feet wide. Curved around the punchbowl crater was a crudely constructed barbed-wire fence, electrified by an industrial, heavy-duty diesel generator. To the left was a row of steel cages- the size a full-grown grizzly bear could uncomfortably
inhabit - wrapped with strands of locked chain links. To my right was a coffin. I went over to it, looked inside and stood back, gasping.
Cattle prods, tasers, pistols, whips and war clubs with spikes protruding from their ends stared at me next to boxes
of ammo and flare guns. What the devil? I wondered in bewilderment. The hollow vibrated dark.
I threw an arms-length stick - the fence was off. No smoke. I began to expiscate the impression, unavoidably pricking my being and clothes on the rusty blade-like containment.
The fetid smell of rotting, fleshy excrement engulfed my nose. My eyes inadvertently groped gnawed baseball-bat-length bones shrouded with peeled leather strewn on the ground. Bashed-in skulls and jaw limbs were scattered among shattered remains; a very large animal lay brutally open. Flies, maggots, worms and larvae crawled on the pile of incestuous flesh. The exposed rib cage stomached intestines caked with raw earth. Claw marks and bites on the skin distorted the body. The black-gray fur was matted,
stained with blood and dirt. Big Foot seemed to have danced with the dogs.
That Saturday, dressed in black and wearing moccasins,
I made my way through the woods east of the “Pit,” perched, and waited.
The clock on my cell phone read 1:30 a.m. A wheezing
truck rattled up to the gate and paused. The barrier clanked open. Lurching forward, its glaring lights illuminated
the tomb. A convoy of burly, savannah-type trucks, each with a shuddering cage mounted to its bed followed. A group of Hemingway men dressed in boots, jeans and hunting
jackets dismounted.
“Get the generator going,” one growled. Others strolled toward the back of the trucks, cattle prods and shotguns in hand.
Leashed packs of barking bulk strained men forward, lapping up the nostril-flaring scents of previous disembowelments.
Ferocious, hulking beasts were forced into the barring, bloodstained boxes. Zaps of electricity glowed a bright blue. Sparks flew.
Have you ever seen an eight-foot tall, 900-pound Silverback
gorilla snap the spine of an attacking hyena? I highly recommend it. It became clear to me what was going on. Weekly contests pitting rabid, man-eating apes against groups of snapping, venomous jackals were in session. Jaws clamped assuredly on muscular, behemoth arms, thighs and necks, tearing tendons and ligaments. Bones fractured with sickening pops. Hearty laughs prodded the animals with cruelty. Fights lasted ‘til the gorillas ceased to live or until the mad mutts were too scared to piss themselves.
Match after match, the tension in the forest rose. Fiery yaps chewed through dark-furred brutes. Weathered
hands elongated vertebrae with furious power. I left quietly in awe.
Yes, this carnage and madness is the highly regarded secret
concealing the real reasons to why we can’t park in the “Pit.” No wonder we won’t get a straight answer explaining
why it was closed. Only when the true culprits of such heinous acts are exposed will we have the “Pit” back in the hands of those who really need it: the students and their high-powered, gas-guzzling transportation devices.
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