The High Point

This is a true story. 

Many winters ago, my best buddy Sibbitt and I were working on climbing to the highest point in each state of the continental United States. Well, just Sibbitt was really, and it isn't something you do all at once, so he had invited me along while he worked on a chunk of the Mideast. I was inexperienced at climbing, and it was the middle of winter and I hated the cold, but I was gainfully unemployed and kind of on the run from the greatest military power in the free world, so I figured why not? Plus, Sibbitt had been doing this sort of thing his whole life and with him there, nothing could possibly go wrong. 

Nothing major, anyway.

We were on our fourth high point of our trip. The first three had been pretty easy. The highest point in each state isn't necessarily the top of a sheer cliff face or something like that; many were in state parks, with designated roads and trails. Most of the time, we could reach the summit in one day. Florida, for example, had been a 65-foot hill.  

Things had gone smoothly until the fourth high point. We had bagged the third high point by midday, and then drove the rental car on to the next. The fourth high point was accessible by a dirt road that took you all the way up to the top. It was still a mountain, but a pretty gentle one.

By nightfall, we were almost at our destination. We were on the final approach, which was a winding, snow-covered dirt road. The rental car was an economy car, which was not our first choice but it was all they had left. About two miles from the summit, the car gently died. The engine stopped and all the lights went out, even the interior indicator lights. We tried to start it again, but nothing. It was a little odd. Still, there wasn't anything to do about it. We had no cell service, but we had food and water, and we'd been sleeping in the car the entire trip. The moon was full and bright. We decided to leave the car and hike the rest of the way up. We'd make the summit, get a few pictures, and then return to the car and hike the five or six miles back to the main road and go from there. 

Easy.

We trudged through the snow, our breaths turning into voluminous clouds of water vapor around us. There was no wind, and except for the crunch of snow beneath our feet, it was deathly quiet. That's normal; snow absorbs sound. 

We reached the top of the mountain, and the high point was indicated by a waist-high granite plinth with a plaque. Also pretty typical.

A dozen yards beyond the plaque, however, was a metal tower. It was a square, metal, skeleton of a tower, five stories tall, with stairs going all the way up to the top, which was just a platform with a short railing. There didn't seem to be any purpose for it. A red light glowed at the top. Maybe it was some kind of fire look-out tower? It wasn't sheltered though. Usually those are covered so the look-out isn't completely exposed to the elements while on watch. It was a little odd.

As I was looking up at the tower, Sibbitt said "Respect the mountain."

When you've been traveling with someone for a long time, you start to know what the other is thinking.

'Oh, I respect the mountain," I said. "If I climb this; I'll only be disrespecting the tower. And technically, that's the highest point on this mountain now." Sibbitt sighed, a cloud of breath glowing white in the moonlight.

So we climbed the tower. The first story had no stairs, so we had to climb the metal frame itself. Odd again, maybe you had to bring your own ladder? So animals didn't get up there or something?

I led the way, because it was my idea. Plus it was just stairs, and I was pretty good at stairs. I reached the platform on top first and was about to give a shout of victory, but my shout came out as gasp, and I froze.

The red light we had seen from the bottom was not part of the tower. It was a pair of glowing red eyes.

Something was standing on the short railing, looking directly at me, like it was waiting for me, with those bright red eyes. It was shaped like a person, but it was unnaturally tall, at least 8 feet, and thin, like it had been stretched out. And even in the full moonlight, it was completely black, but a shiny black, like velvet. And it had...wings. Sort of. They were wing-shaped, not like a bird's wings, more like a moth or a butterfly, with one big pair on top and then a smaller pair below. The wings were black too, but where the person-thing looked solid, the wings looked like they were made of smoke. The thing tilted its head at me and the wings slowly furled and unfurled, sending out little tendrils of that black smoke substance. 

There was no cloud of breath around its face. Below the eyes, the rest of the face was empty, like a pit. 

Sibbitt reached the narrow opening at the top of the stairs a few moments later. I was blocking his view of the thing, but he knew something was wrong. 

"Threat, threat, threat," I said, and drew my knife. I had a big hunting knife that I always carried around because I hadn't yet figured out that they're really not worth the weight. But I was glad I had it now. I held it low, blade downwards, like a murderer in a horror movie. Holding it out in front of you like a sword is a good way to be disarmed. No, hold it low, blade downwards, and if the threat comes in range, you punch and slash. Don't go to it; only if it comes to you.

Sibbitt looked around me and saw the thing. Its eyes turned to meet his, and the wings unfurled wide. He exhaled through his nose, the white vapor making him look like a determined cartoon bull. He grabbed the back of my coat in a big chunk, firmly, like he was gonna throw me off the platform. Then he turned around, not letting go, and began to step down the stairs. I was still facing forwards, but with him grabbing my coat like that, I could move with him, and step when he stepped. 

The first step we took, the thing moved that same amount closer to us. It didn't move its legs, or flap its wings, its whole body made a little writhing motion, or like a ripple from a pebble thrown into a dark pond, and then it was closer. I hissed, near panic, but Sibbitt stayed steady. He stepped, and I stepped. The thing moved with us.

Step. Step. Step.

We did this all the way down to the second story of the tower. The thing was still following us. There were no stairs on that last story, remember, and so we had to jump down into the snow. When we did, I had to finally turn my back to it so I could jump down safely.   

When we turned back, the moth-man was gone. But at the top of the tower, we could again see a glowing red light. 

We didn't say anything as we walked warily back down the mountain. When we reached the car, Sibbitt tried starting it one more time, and it fired right up, no problem.

"Respect the mountain," Sibbitt said.

"Yup," I said.

And we drove back down to the main road and drove for another two hours until we found a rest stop, and went to sleep.

We got a couple more high points over the next few days, and then we flew back home to Arizona, and the trip was over.

We never talked about it. It wasn't a secret, exactly, we just never talked about it.

I'm only telling this now because, lately, I've been seeing those red lights again. On the neighboring rooftops. Peering out from trees. One night, I even saw them looking up at me from under the water of the Tempe Town Lake as I walked across the bridge.

I don't know what it means. But I'll keep you posted. Until then, remember: respect the mountain. 

THE END