1974
You might know my photo, blurry as Bigfoot at Bluff Creek. Some kids go down the trail Saturday evening. Tara Hovorka has a brand new camera, not like the ones you all carry now, but a foldable thing that spits a white-framed image. She takes pictures and posts them in her locker, gives them away to friends, fifteen-year-olds in hot shorts and wide-bottomed jeans.
We all flee after the flash. They compare me to a bear on its hind legs. That’s no bear, but it’s not clear what I am, either. A costumed prankster becomes the consensus. The Hovorka Photo can now be found on websites and in louche books and a display cupboard in the Lainebridge Public Library.
These days you can take high-quality pictures wherever you want. Half of you would take them as evidence of my existence, and then I’d have to go further and deeper. The other half would see it as proof of a fake because, really, who would manage to get such a realistic photo? Staged for sure.
She hid behind that camera. Tara the teen stayed in the scene, but never connected deeply. She went to practices and performances and snapped quiet photos for the school’s yearbook. She laughed at every comment, even her own, then played the quiet scholar, introspective actor on a second stringer’s arm. When I reached out to her because I’d learned what that flash meant, she seemed to expect me. We sat on a bench along the trail and talked, the girl with floral-scented hair and her imaginary friend.
1984
Wyatt Creek runs on one side of the library and Lainebridge Farm Supplies rises on the other. A park snakes back along the waterside trail that cuts the town and touches my woods. I can slither my way to the library back door, the one they use to bring garbage to the parking lot. Wednesday, usually, the day they stay open late.
We sit in back, behind the stacks, in burgundy leather chairs, newly-donated by the Farm Supply family, and sip hot chocolate– tea in summer. She jokes about how the kids watch music these days, people with names like Madonna and Prince. She has tried showing me TV, but my eyes can’t track it properly.
Shadows pass in front. Tara’s father and the lawn-bowling league walk by, out late under the lights. Mrs. Hovorka died of cancer and Tara seems uninterested in marriage. “Don’t know what upsets him more,” she says, and laughs that old laugh.
1994
The library foyer displays three teak cases with items behind glass. The original cupboard presents artifacts of settler history. The table display case changes with seasons and local events. The newest cupboard presents the Lainebridge Lizardman: Tara’s fuzzy photo, Signpost clippings, artist’s drawings, and a model made by a kid who later left for the College of Art. I dislike the likeness; he heard “webbing” and decided my legs terminated in scuba flippers.
Tara’s not sure what he’s doing these days.
2004
Main Street Bridge runs over Wyatt Creek. Beneath it I play troll some nights, use the library’s Wi-Fi to search things on the laptop Tara gave me. These new screens work with my eyes and I learn why a few more people, lately, wander through my woods with cameras.
My last print reference, before the Signpost closed for good, was a charity haunted house over in St. Mary’s. I wanted to go, give that costumed buffoon a Halloween scare, but Tara dissuaded me. But online, my reputation has grown and darkened. An uninformed fringe believes in Lizard People and they have found my story. Apparently, I’m from space and part of a cabal out to conquer the world.
But most of us are hapax creatures, one of a kind. An unknown simian called Sasquatch? Settlers just started massaging the description of a hundred hirsute somethings living hidden in forests and fields so they sounded alike. Grassman and the Skunk Ape won’t even speak to each other. The Snoligoster mentioned the fact at that meet-up, arranged online, though he does seem the type to spin tales.
We’re all in awe of Sesq’ets. But Bunny Man? He was no cryptid, just a mad human in a rabbit suit living rough in the woods. “Maybe there’s something in the water in that part of Virginia,” Tara proffers, by way of explanation.
“Something in the water everywhere,” I say.
2014
Her hair still smells of floral things. She says she won’t dye the grey.
“Fewer creatures in the shrunken woods. I knew to stay away from your kind.”
“Glad you didn’t.” The laugh. “They call that stalking now.”
“I don’t come after anyone with cameras and rifles.” But really, these days it’s mostly kids on dares. I know the lizard-fanatics on sight, though, insecure men in ill-fitting camouflage vests and bright caps who grow uneasy when their internet access fades at the town’s border.
“They’re just interested in finding out.” She’s said it innumerable times. “You’re an adventure, the unknown.”
Hands touch and I make what is supposed to be a smile.
2024
I couldn’t visit her in the hospital. I finally see her the Wednesday she returns, her head wrapped in a brocade kerchief. A younger librarian has been running things. He finally leaves for the night.
“They say I’m responding well.” The burgundy leather wore after twenty-five years. The replacement chairs lack character.
“That bun-headed boy will take over?”
“I’d retire anyway,” says Tara. “I’m old.” She’s not. None of you are. “We’ll meet in the woods again.”
She yawns and takes one scaly arm, stands up, awkwardly, like a new fawn, and then sits down. “Just a minute.” She tries to reassure me. “Just tired.”
I will linger at the cemetery’s edge, my final appearance here. Some mourners will be charmed; I’m a part of her story, after all. Bad taste, others will say. They all agree, however, that it’s one heck of a costume.
About the author:
JD DeLuzio grew up in northern Ontario but has lived in southwestern Ontario most of his life, with his wife, a soprano. He has taught for many years and written numerous works of short fiction and non-fiction, including the novel The Con (2020), set in the worlds of SF/F and Jane Austen Fandoms, and the collection, Live Nude Aliens and other Stories (2022). Currently, he has a novel before a major publisher, and he is collaborating with an artist on a non-fiction book of obscure cryptids and small-town mysteries. He frequently appears as a guest and panelist at SF conventions and literary events.
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