The Beast of the Berkshires

(Editor’s note: The following was submitted in September 2023 as part of the Writers’ Playground Short Story Competition)

I arrived in the Berkshires unaware I was to come face to face with a creature not of this world. Had I known as much, I might have come armed with more than just a notepad and No. 2 pencil that fateful autumn morning I first met Charles F. Dayton.

“You there,” he called to me, “the young man with the notebook. Are you the newspaperman from Springfield?”

I stammered. This was a man with more money than God.

“I am, sir. If you have a minute, I’d like to get a few words about your expedition.”

Dayton wrestled with an overstuffed backpack sat out front of the town’s main street outfitter. He had stark white hair and a bristling mustache. A heavy wool coat hung over a checkered hunting vest and poofy britches were tucked neatly into sturdy black boots. He kicked at the pack and grumbled some unprintable muttering.

I cleared my throat. “Your expedition, sir? To find the creature?”

Dayton removed his huntsman cap and wiped at a wrinkled brow.

“My words are this: I will find the creature, this so-called Beast of the Berkshires, and I will kill it. The fine people of Western Massachusetts need no longer live in fear.”

“And what of your crew, sir? Supplies? Weapons, ammunition, that sort of thing?”

“All accounted for, my boy. Or nearly so, anyway.”

This wouldn’t do. I was good, but not good enough to wring fifteen inches out of only a few measly quotes. I scribbled feverishly in my notebook and pressed on.

“Then you must have a lead, sir, on the beast’s whereabouts. How do you intend to find such a thing?”

Just then, a man emerged from the store. He was an enormous fellow, a six-and-a-half-foot giant with lumber for forearms and a pair of large-bore rifles slung over a shoulder. He glanced my way and said, “Lyman’s waiting.”

“Ah, Purdy, there you are. Has the professor found a replacement porter then?”

The man shook his head. Frowning, Dayton turned to me and said, “Have you got a name, my boy?”

“Keating, sir.”

“And have you been at the paper very long?”

“Nearly three years, sir.” 

Charles F. Dayton, a man whose unthinkable wealth was rivaled only by Rockefeller himself, was sizing me up.

“Well, Mr. Keating, you seem in fine enough health. Sharp, too. Tell me, are you a marksman by chance? A crack shooter? A real deadeye dick?”

I had never picked up a firearm in my life. But this story wasn’t going to write itself.

“Absolutely I am, sir.”

“Splendid, you’re to join us then.”

He dug into a pocket and stuck a wad of crisp hundred dollar bills into my hand.

“Dress yourself for deep woods, my boy. Nights are cold and days are warm. We depart at half past nine.”

And thus did I find myself lost in the Berkshires with a monster.

* * *

“It was by accident, you know.”

I looked up, but didn’t answer. Ahead, I could see Dayton and his assistant marching steadily along, guns at the ready. Progress was slow. The land here was unforgiving, endlessly undulating. And the trees! Never in my life had I experienced so very many trees. Towering oak and hickory hardwoods, white pine and red maple. It was enough to make a city boy feel small. 

I adjusted my pack and stared down at my shuffling feet. Several embarrassing falls had taught me well enough already. And Forrest Lyman, I’d learned, didn’t like to have his equipment disturbed.

“A billion dollars by complete random chance,” he went on. “Can you believe that?”

“I’m not sure I can,” I said, though I knew the story well enough.

Everyone in America did. Once a struggling wheelwright living in rural western Pennsylvania, Charles F. Dayton had become a millionaire overnight after an 1878 earthquake unveiled a vast field of seeping crude oil on family property. Half a century of shrewd business moves later, the Dayton fortune had grown to dizzying heights.

I stumbled, a foot snagged on knotty roots. Precious cargo jangled in the quiet woods. 

“Careful with that!” Lyman said. “I can’t photograph the specimen with damaged plates.”

We’d been at it for two days already and had so far come across nothing close to resembling a “specimen.” Certainly, nothing capable of grisly murder. Though it would make for thrilling copy, some part of me hoped we never would.

It was one of my stories, in fact, that had first drawn the attention of my newfound companions. It was on account of a young boy from North Adams found dead in a wooded ravine. Authorities ruled it a tragic accident. The boy, they said, had taken a tumble. I reported the story for the Republican, which was picked up by outlets in Boston and Hartford and New York.

Lyman read the reports. So did Dayton. Neither believed the boy had taken a tumble.

It was only after a second body had been recovered—a woman found torn nearly in half—that Lyman was contacted by the Dayton estate with a cash payment and offer of a lifetime: The chance to etch his name in the annals of zoological study forever.

“When we locate the creature,” Lyman was saying, “I’ll need your assistance to achieve proper scale in my reference photographs. Cataloging a new species is tricky business. Accurate sizing will be crucial if we’re to—”

Gunfire rang out. I spun about wildly, my own rifle clasped tight in shaking hands. Dayton shouted from up ahead.

“Professor! On the double!”

We found Purdy standing over the kill, a scowl on his face. A mass of dark fur lay upon the ground. I set my weapon aside and dug out my notepad.

“Ursus americanus,” Lyman said. “Eastern black bear. Hell of a big one, too.”

“Is it a man-eater?” I asked.

“Not usually. But a male this size?”

Even dead, the animal seemed larger than life. It wasn’t difficult to imagine such a thing tearing that poor McGillicuddy boy to pieces. Relieved, I began to craft in my mind the lede to a story about a horrific killing spree brought to a sobering conclusion somewhere in the backwoods of the Berkshire hills.

Dayton plopped himself upon a stump, face drooping. 

“A fine kill,” he sighed. “But not our prize.”

Lyman agreed. He withdrew a measurement tool and began examining the body more closely. 

“A specimen this size is rare,” he said, “but I can’t imagine predation on humans. Not like in those pictures.”

I looked up from my notes. “It’s not the killer then?”

“I’m afraid not, my boy,” Dayton answered. “We seek a foul and wicked beast. A creature not of this world.”

“Not of this world?”

Dayton smiled.

“That’s enough for today. We’ll make camp and enjoy the spoils of our kill. Perhaps tomorrow will bring better luck.”

I put my notebook away and in silence watched as Purdy took a hacksaw to the poor animal lying dead before me.

* * *

The following day was hot. September in New England is famously fickle. One might go to bed in a pool of sweat and awaken the next morning to frost.

I would have enjoyed a good frost that morning.

Mosquitos swarmed as we trudged along the crest of a steep embankment. Tree cover here was sparse, and streaks of hot sun burned my arms and face. Soon, my stomach began to grumble. Breakfast was long over and lunch, I feared, still a ways off.

This proved to not be an issue. At first whiff of the rotting carcass, I lost my appetite entirely.

Purdy spotted it first. “Kill site,” he said, pointing.

Dayton winced. “And a rancid one at that. Lyman, have you protective gear?”

He did, and against my stomach’s better wishes, we moved down the slope for closer inspection. Lyman threw on a pair of gloves and an old gas mask that looked like it hadn’t seen use since the trenches in Europe.

“This was a bull moose, all right,” he said. “Though you probably wouldn’t guess it from this mess.”

The professor wasn’t wrong. The animal’s bloating body had been brutally mutilated. Its neck was snapped and two legs had been torn clean off. A gashed stomach left a slosh of pink and bloody intestines spilled upon the forest floor. Flies buzzed everywhere.

Though I wished to vomit, I retrieved my journal and began to take detailed notes.

“What’s wrong with the antlers?” I asked, gesturing at what looked like shreds of flesh dripping from paddles and prongs.

“Velvet,” Lyman said, and he explained how moose rubbed their antlers on trees, thrashing violently at branches in order to shed before winter. 

“Could the bear we killed have done this?”

“I wouldn’t think so. For one, black bears don’t typically prey on adult moose. And secondly, there aren’t any teeth or claw marks.”

I saw that Lyman was right—no marks at all. I recalled police photographs of the victims. They didn’t show bite marks or scratches of any kind. 

Staring at the mangled corpse, I felt a curdling sense of dread.

“Maybe we ought to head back to town.”

But Charles F. Dayton, I knew, would never allow such a thing.

“Not while our quarry remains at large, my boy. Believe me, no one will be returning home until we’re to claim our prize.”

* * *

That evening, Dayton retired early. Purdy joined him, leaving the professor and I to work in silence by the glow of a flickering fire. Nearing ten o’clock, I at last put down my pencil and left Lyman to his scheduled duties as night watchman. 

As I turned down my sleeping bag, I caught glimpse of a book in the professor’s hands. Aberrant Forms In Nature: A Zoological History of Unknown Species, it was titled. I thought again of Dayton’s remark about a creature “not of this world” and rolled over to sleep, wishing not to be disturbed by unpleasant dreams of ancient reptiles or killer apemen.

Sometime after midnight, I was awoken by something far more terrifying.

“The creature!”

I sat up, groggy and confused. Lyman stood at the edge of camp. He had his rifle aimed into the woods.

“I saw it! It was right here!”

Dayton and Purdy were already on their feet, weapons drawn.

“Are you quite certain, professor?”

“I swear to you, I saw it moving amongst the trees. The creature was here!”

Dayton asked if Lyman might describe what he’d seen. I reached for my notes.

“It was gigantic, at least thirty feet in height. I didn’t catch the whole thing. Just a leg, I think. I tell you, it was thick as a tree trunk! By the time I’d taken up my gun, it had disappeared into the woods again.”

Dayton’s face crumpled into a frown. 

“You did the right thing alerting us, professor. If your account is accurate, it would take a skilled hunter to fell such a beast.”

I stared into the forest. The dying fire cast faint shadows as swaying trees creaked and moaned in a chill breeze. Beginning to shiver, I was reminded of Lyman’s book.

“Do you really think it could be something… unnatural?”

There came then a terrible sound. A hateful, unearthly sound. It was the distant roar of what could only have been some unknown and terrifying creature—the Beast of the Berkshires!

As the frightful cry echoed and died, I saw in the eyes of Charles F. Dayton a look of primal fear. And bloodlust.

“That, my boy, is something I intend to find out.”

* * *

The next day was tense, but uneventful. No kills, no rotting corpses. By suppertime, all were ready for a good, long rest. Night fell. The others went to bed while I settled in for my turn as watchman. But I wasn’t as alone as I’d first thought.

“You bury yourself in that journal, Mr. Keating.”

I looked up to see Dayton chewing on a pipe.

“I take lots of notes, sir. My stories are no good without them.”

“And what do your notes tell you of these woods?”

I explained some of the history of the Berkshires. I spoke of Indians and settlers, renewed logging efforts to clear the way for gasoline-powered automobiles.

“Hardly anyone spoke of the beast until they started paving,” I said. “Guess we have more people out here nowadays. A creature that big can’t hide forever.”

“They’ll speak of Charles F. Dayton forever once I’m to slay the beast. How I long for the kill, my boy.” 

The was a look in the man’s steely gaze that unnerved me, but Dayton quieted and soon began to snore. I decided to throw another log on the fire and went to the edge of camp for more wood.

And there I saw it. The beast.

Not but twenty yards ahead stood a creature of immense size. It had an enormous head, broad shoulders, and arms that dangled nearly to the ground. Though it looked like a man, it was largely asymmetrical. Stubby protrusions covered its body and the thing had a viciously jagged look about it.

Staring upwards in horror, I thought to scream. Dayton beat me to it.

“My rifle, Purdy! Get me my gun!”

I turned to flee and saw the old man scurrying about camp. Lyman had gone for his equipment. There came a loud roar and I heard a crashing footfall behind me as the creature moved nearer.

“Purdy!” Dayton shouted. “Where the hell are you?”

There were gunshots followed by a muffled thud. Collecting my rifle, I looked to see Dayton’s burly assistant writhing upon the ground. The man had something clasped around his legs. Something large and prickly.

He was being dragged away.

The terrible roaring continued and I fired into the night. Dayton shouted something, and by the time I looked back, the beast was gone. The fire had gone out now, shrouding the camp in smoky darkness. I heard only thunderous footsteps retreating into the woods and a high-pitched shrieking. Purdy, a man I’d not heard speak but ten words in four days, was screaming like a frightened child.

And then all was silent.

There came a rustling and I squinted to see Lyman crawling out from his bags.

“Did you get a look at it, professor?” I asked. “Could you tell what kind of animal it was?”

Lyman went cold. 

“Yes, I saw it,” he said. “And it was no animal.”

* * *

Looking back, there was no reason for me to believe Forrest Lyman. It was absurd. And yet, with my own copy of Aberrant Forms in Nature now in hand, I can find no other explanation for the events of the following morning.

We rose early, anxious to be on the move. A fire was made and breakfast prepared. I sat writing and listening to Charles F. Dayton argue with the professor.

“Do you really expect me to believe such nonsense? That our weapons are useless?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Then how are we to kill the goddamned thing?”

“I’m not sure we can. Or that we should.”

“A man is dead, professor!”

Lyman didn’t respond. He sat unmoving, his face vacant. With brow furrowed, I followed his line of sight to find a curious thing. It was a tree, a young maple the size of a man.

And it was moving. 

No. It was walking.

“Your gun, sir,” I said, kicking at the butt of Dayton’s rifle.

Lyman spoke softly. “It’s already too late.”

There came a crash of branches and again the deafening roar. Cowering, I looked up to see that the professor had been right. The Beast of the Berkshires wasn’t an animal at all.

It was a plant.

Emerged from the woods was a great and terrible tree. It towered over the camp on trunk-like legs, every inch covered in thick and ragged bark. At the creature’s side now was the young maple—an infant. From a face cut deep into gnarled wood, the thing let loose another angry roar.

“The fire,” Lyman shouted. “Put out the fire!”

A heavy wooden foot came down. I leapt away, tumbling into one of the professor’s bags. I heard something break and realized I was sitting on a pile of cracked photographic plates. My own weapon smashed, Dayton alone was left with rifle still shouldered. 

And he had it aimed directly at the infant.

“No!”

Lyman lunged at him, knocking the weapon away. Bullets tore harmlessly into bark and again the beast howled. Dayton was incensed now. With a growl of his own, he turned on the professor, barrel raised.

“You’ll not deny me my kill!”

His finger fell from the trigger. A shard of bloody glass stuck out from the back of his head. Nervously, I readied another of Lyman’s precious plates.

Dayton charged at me, face throbbing red. 

“Why you ungrateful little—”

Dayton became swept up in a blur of dark wood. Clasped in a mammoth hand, he was lifted high into the air. He cried out in terror as the great tree swung him violently about until, finally, it hurled his flailing body clear across the camp. He slammed into the trunk of a sturdy oak and, with a sickening crunch of bone, slumped to the ground.

Charles F. Dayton was dead.

The lumbering beast turned on me now. I pinched my eyes tight and braced for the worst.

I heard only the soft hiss of extinguishing flames. 

I cracked an eye to see Lyman dumping soil onto the fire pit. Wisps of smoke swirled up through the limbs of the monstrous tree looming over me. I dared not breathe as it stared at me with unblinking eyes. 

And then, as if nothing had happened, the creature fell back. It retreated across the campsite in loping strides, stopping only to scoop up its sapling child. Booming footsteps died away and a last fading roar could be heard over the forest.

Lyman and I lay in silence for some time. An eternity, perhaps.

I said finally, “I think I owe you some new plates.”

The professor laughed. So did I.

We wrapped Dayton’s body. Getting him back to town wouldn’t be easy, Neither would explaining the sudden disappearance of the world’s richest man.

Preparing to leave, Lyman asked, “Think you’ll finish your article?”

I said I wasn’t sure. But this story, I knew, could never be written. Somehow, I wondered if I’d ever again put ink to paper.

The professor then plucked from a pack his copy of Aberrant Forms In Nature. It was tattered, well-loved. 

He tossed it to me and said, “Perhaps there’s more to be written than just newspapers.”