Revenge of the Manungulis

By Austin Morgan

A horror show is playing out in the backwoods, where a sinister presence looms ⸺

 

Cryptic sightings, strange disappearances―the forest hides a dark foreboding mystery.

Some folks in rural Littlebrook blame Bigfoot for their troubles, while others believe there's an evil, sadistic serial killer lurking in the shadows.

After naive eighteen year old Cole Varlin loses his entire family, he's left baffled―until he meets a bizarre stranger with a secret agenda.

Fearing his brother has been abducted by ruthless mountain thugs, he sets out on a month long frightening trek through vast untamed wilderness.

Terrified of the unknown, he won't be making the perilous journey alone―He has mentally unstable survivalist, Albert Boggs, as his guide.

The three-hundred pound gun crazy giant is hell-bent on plowing his way through any situation to get Cole to the finish line―to his brother, but there's a catch―Cole is the ransom. He's a trade-off for something tormented Albert desperately needs back―his lost soul.

Will Cole survive the harrowing ordeal to free his brother or will he become another missing person on the list?

Is Albert the Littlebrook serial killer or just an innocent guy caught in an insane predicament?

What does the end of the line hold in store for either of them?

How many more will have to die before the morbid details become unburied truths?

 

A tale of gore, insanity, mystery, courage, laughs and tears, guaranteed to make you question―Is it safe to go hiking alone in the woods?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Morgan
• Release date: Jun 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201805661

Book preview

Dedicated to those six fluffy puppies lost in the farmland forest so long ago. We searched the hills, valleys and fens, chasing your desperate cries that grew weaker each day. We never could find you and our childhood hearts were forever broken. We know you play now in the great green expanses of Doggy Heaven.

PROLOGUE 

SUMMER 1970

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In a quiet forest at the break of dawn, a desperate cry broke the eerie silence, as a wounded beast emerged from behind a tall pine. Stumbling toward the nearby roadside, it hunched into a fetal position. The foreboding presence was enough to frighten a foraging deer. With fists clenched, head slumped, it rocked in pain, as crimson drool flowed to meet its huge leathery hands. Weak and injured, it moaned in unforgiving agony.

A jake braking semi startled the wary beast. Forcing itself forward in a panicked frenzy, it hid in thickets until the noisy rig passed.

With the coast clear, it limped away from the desolate highway, vanishing into the shadows. There was an indelible stain on the underbrush that morning; its final chapter written in blood; a mysterious legacy that left the beast’s kin to exact future revenge upon the evil that befell it.

CHAPTER ONE 

THE VANISHED

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For many years, there had been unfounded reports of something frightening in the woods around Littlebrook. This all but forgotten mining town was nestled between a long winding highway and the looming Pinnacle mountain range. The area had it's share of bizarre incidents since the 1970's, with dozens of people disappearing each year; first, campers, then hikers on a popular trail, then fishing buddies. This led to renewed rumors of a sadistic serial killer in the area and a sense of mistrust throughout the once tight-knit community. Within forty-five years, two-hundred and nine names had been added to the missing list.

Families kept their children and pets close, fearful they'd be snatched away. Conspiracy theorists attributed the disappearances to Bigfoot, but citing rag sheet articles based on speculation, did nothing to bring loved ones home.

It was July 5th, 2019. Morning light filtered through  kitchen curtains as Ripley the terrier extended a paw in anticipation of a tasty treat. An iPhone blared a nerdy boy band pop tune at exactly 5:15 am.

Cole and Barty Varlin were two young forklift driver hopefuls on their way to a promising training position in  Milton City. Cole didn’t want to ruin this chance of permanent employment by being late on the first day. He'd gone to great lengths to find jobs for both himself and his unappreciative brother. He'd assumed Barty would happily pull his weight, but by 6:00 am, things were looking grim. 

We should've left two hours early to make the one hour drive. Get it together, Dimwit, before I kick you where it counts. He loved teasing his sensitive younger half, but could be pushy. In June, their outdoorsy parents, Bill and Cathy Varlin, went on a honeymoon camping trip and never came home. This left eighteen year old Cole in quite a predicament; he was now responsible for paying the utilities on the leased bungalow. He needed a better paying career than cleaning food trays at the local burger joint. 

A series of annoying bangs and clashes resounded throughout the house before skinny, red-haired Barty entered the kitchen, still wearing his pyjamas. Hey Ripley, who's my favorite doggy?

Get dressed already. This isn't a game. You know we have to be there for 7:30, Cole argued. Why can't you stop jerking around and take something seriously for once?

No way, weiner breath. I need my coffee buzz, my newspaper, my morning smoke.

By the way, stop polluting my breathing space with your nicotine or find somewhere else to live, loser.

So you think you're better than me? Just try kicking me out. I'll beat your sorry ass. I'm more like dad than you'll ever be, so stop trying to act like you're my father. Just because you get to drive his truck around town, doesn't make you King of the Mountain, he yelled.

Just be ready by 6:15, please. That's all I ask.

Yes, Your Majesty.

I mean it Barty. This isn't a freaking joke.

Huh! You're the joke, Barty snarled.

At exactly 6:20 am, Cole gulped his last mouthful of juice and they left hurriedly in a rusty pickup.

Forty miles later, they were rounding the famous curve in the highway known as Devil’s Turn. Named because of so many strange sightings there, it became the place of Bigfoot legend. First they argued over a radio station, then over something even more trivial. A few minutes of complete silence washed over the two hotheads, but it didn't last long. A heated exchange ensued after Barty lit up a cigarette, blowing smoke at Cole. He wasn’t amused. Jerking the truck hard onto the gravel, he rolled down his window, coughing. Get the hell out, he shouted.

Barty began cussing in protest. I fucking hate you. He flipped Cole a middle finger, then jumped from the truck, slamming the heavy door. Screw you!

Cole sped away in a fit of anger, leaving him in the middle of nowhere. He followed the winding asphalt for just over half a mile until out of view, then U-turned. I sure hope you learned something out of this, you little snot ball. Next time I'll kick your scrawny butt.

Barty wasn’t standing there. Where did he get to so fast? Cole called for him, Barty, get over here. There was no response. The punk must be heading home. Concerned, he drove toward Littlebrook, but there was no trace of him on the highway. No vehicles had passed him in either direction. He was baffled. Did a spaceship beam him up?

Back at Devil’s Turn, he stuck around for a couple of hours. In a scathing tone reminiscent of an angry lion, he roared, I think our job is fucking toast. He kicked the truck tire so hard, it would have shattered every foot bone if not for the steel-toed boot.

Littlebrook was the first recipient of Cole's panic attack. His blonde curls tousled, he looked like a madman. Thankfully, his friend Laran had a way of calming him down. They rounded up some locals and headed to Devil's Turn. For three hours, they called for Barty, scouting both sides of the highway. Horns were honked wildly, but to no avail. By nightfall, a search and rescue team had been organized by the local sherrif’s department. It included scent dogs, ATVs, police helicopters, drones and foot patrol.

If the boy is lost, we’ll surely find him, someone blurted.

Cole, still visibly upset, began to fear the worst. What if he's gone forever, just like Mom and Dad? he questioned. I'm sorry I kicked you out of the truck, little bro. He tried to hold back the tears, his pooling eyes like glossy blue marbles in the evening light.

After eight days without a single clue, the search was called off, another missing person added to the list. The only family Cole had left now was his dog Ripley.

Two days later, Albert Boggs, a former cargo pilot turned paranormal private eye, had been delving into several of the Littlebrook anomalies. While rummaging through his mess of paperwork and unorganized files, he came across an eerily familiar name.

Varlin. This is interesting. As he stared at cluttered newspaper clippings, one picture in an article stood out. It was the face of Bill Varlin, Cole and Barty's missing father. Now I know who you are. I'll be damned! He slammed his fist down hard on the big wooden desk.

Cole was sitting around gloating when his iPhone lit up. It was Boggs with important information to share about Barty. He'd never met the man, but there was something reassuring in his voice. In three days, on July 30th, the two would meet to mutually discuss the case. Coincidentally, that day would be Barty’s seventeenth birthday. Finally, there might be a solid lead to follow. He definitely wanted to know how this Boggs character got his cell number and what he had to say. Probably some useless little slimeball scammer.

At Burger Castle, Cole waited, impatiently twiddling his thumbs. A tall, hulking figure around six foot six walked through the door, making straight for his corner table. Boggs was a hairy, burly man in his late forties, built like a battle tank with a block for a head. The two green eyes below his thick dark unibrow seemed to pierce right through Cole's soul. He was about the ugliest man he'd ever met, but soon showed the demeanor of a gentle ape. Though puny in comparison to the giant before him, Cole bravely demanded, So fill me in, Boggs. How did you get my contact info? Where's my brother? If you know something, you big― 

Slow down boy. Take a breath, I am a private eye, afterall. Information collecting is my line of work. One phone call to the right source is usually all it takes to get answers. I’ve uncovered important news about your brother and I'm here to help, Boggs urged. Now, if you'll just hear me out.

Cole’s eyes welled up. Sorry, Detective Boggs. It’s been a tough couple of months. First my parents, now my brother. I couldn’t find him. I’ve been to Devil's turn several times since, hoping he’ll just reappear. It’s all my fault. I never should― 

Boggs interrupted again, First of all, you have to stop blaming yourself, young man. You didn’t light the fuse. He had a calming, hypnotic charm about him.

I guess not. Cole hadn’t really thought of it that way. Suddenly, he felt he could trust someone else’s judgement for once.

Boggs proceeded to fill him in on what he supposedly knew, but also challenged him to a top secret mission that he couldn't tell anyone about, not even his closest friend. It meant he would have to backtrack to Devil’s Turn, this time heading into areas of the wilderness where no civilized human dared to tread? Ultimately, the final decision was his to make, but he wouldn’t be going alone or unarmed. Boggs, also a natural born survivalist, would be there as his guide and guardian.

For almost a week, he quivered with nightmares of being eaten alive by cannibals or hanging off a steep, crumbling cliff. The wildernesss wasn’t his forte. The mere sight of blood or animal guts made him squeamish. Odd sounds freaked him out. For those reasons, he avoided hunting with his father as a boy. He was forced to do family camp-outs, but with critters scurrying by the tent, he often peed in his sleeping bag.

On the seventh day, he was more apprehensive than ever, not sure if he could even attempt the menacing trek. As confusion set in from lack of sleep, nagging questions consumed his every thought. What about Barty? Has he really been kidnapped? Is he being held for ransom by ruthless, greedy mountain men, as Boggs claimed? What do I do? How do I back out of this challenge without looking like a total wimp? Why did I have to take his call? he whined to himself. Now this big ape thinks I have no balls. I’ll show him who’s boss. He wasn't so much upset at Boggs as he was at himself. He wanted to be just like his father, perhaps even like Boggs, tough and fearless, but what he did fear most was suddenly biting him in the ass. He needed to step up and show some bravado, but he also wanted to revert; to hide under the covers from his childhood boogeyman.

At last, twelve days after the initial meeting, courage came from within; from the child inside the man, who wanted desperately to grow a pair. This was it, his defining moment. He would contact Boggs and let him know he was ready to conquer his phobias for Barty's sake. All brothers fight, but he was determined to find his and make amends, refusing to believe he'd perished alone in the wilderness. He just wanted him home.

Summer’s end was closing in. It was now August 12th, a month and one week had passed since Bartyvanished into thin air. The journey would take at least fifteen days. Instead, Boggs opted to lease a small plane and fly to Pinnacle Lake, sixty-seven miles past Devil’s Turn. This presented a new problem for Cole. He'd never flown before. From there, it would be a dinghy ride, then a long hike through harsh and roadless terrain. They'd have to rely on old fashioned legwork and trail markers to cover the final thirty-five miles. Cole was strictly ordered to leave his electronics behind and to find a sitter for Ripley. There wouldn't be a cell signal and the dog could be a burden. Where exactly they would end up, was still a mystery to him. For some reason, Boggs refused to reveal specifics. All he said was that everything would be fine; that Barty would be freed from his captors once they received the money. Even the ransom amount was a guarded secret. Cole would just have to put his trust in the primitive looking stranger to rescue his brother and reunite them. It was the only way.

A mile outside of Littlebrook was the busy Spirit River Marina, where all the float planes set down. As Cole hung out by the docks, nervously waiting, a slim, white bearded old man approached. "See that silver beauty over there? She's a sweet little sky bird; hasn’t given her owner any trouble since he got her