My dad hit me when I didn’t perform well in baseball. He was smart. He would make me take off my shirt, ball up his fist, and just waylay my back and sides. The older I got, the harder he hit. No one ever noticed because none of my bruises were visible. I made damn sure I didn’t show any pain. In school, I walked proud and tall. I gave no hint of the tremendous pain I was feeling.

When I turned thirteen, my dad became obsessed with boxing. He put me in a gym with a boxing club. It wasn’t expensive. He just had to pay for my hand wraps, but the rest of the money came from us would-be boxers getting out on the street and basically begging for money. I hated it and most of the people hated us in turn. They would ask what charity we were collecting for, and when we would tell them its for the Jackson Boxing Club, they would get angry and roll up their windows. One woman told me, “If you want to box, use your own money.” I got admit, I agreed with her. Besides, I didn’t want to box. I was decent. I had a pretty good defense and I could land some punches, but I had no power. All my matches went the distance and I could only score with my punches, never cause any real damage.

My dad recognized my weakness. Hell, he always recognized my weaknesses. In his mind, I would find that power if only I had more endurance. He thought that I was strong in the early rounds but lost my power in the later rounds. My trainer thought otherwise.

“Larry needs to work the bag. It’s technique, not endurance.”

“What the fuck do you know? That’s why you are working in a rinky dink gym. You didn’t know how to fight when you were a professional and you sure as hell don’t know how to fight now.”

This is my dad talking to a former professional boxer. He always insisted that he was only paying the Jackson gym for its facilities and equipment, not for the advice of a loser has-been. Of course, he wasn’t paying anything. My dad always imagined himself as an expert, no matter his level of experience. He never played any sports as a kid. I guess he was compensating for his own failures by pushing me to succeed, and he pushed relentlessly.

“Larry, success is painful, but worth it. Worth every bit of it. I wish my dad would have pushed me more. You’ll thank me one day when you are sitting on top of that mountain.”

So, the running regimen began. I had to get up every morning at three in the morning, before school. We would drive over the bridge across Percy Priest Lake. He would park on the shoulder of the road and make me run to the state park, which was closed before sunrise. The gates were always shut and chained with a lock. I was trespassing, but my dad insisted on me running every day before school. He was convinced that the early schedule and the rigorous running would instill in me a discipline advantageous to developing the mindset of a professional boxer. I had to run about a mile to the hiking trail. The trail was not a round trip. It was four miles one way. When I got to the end, I would turn around and head back the way I came. I had to do it within a certain time limit, or I was punished- fists to the back, his favorite style of punishment, and now, with my boxing career in full force, an extra way to toughen me up against body shots. He would always say, “Boxers always underestimate the body shot,” like he was some damn expert.

July fifth was a day I will never forget. For once my dad bought some fireworks for the Fourth of July and he didn’t make me run that day. It was a great day, but the next morning he felt guilty, like he had slipped in his duties as a trainer, and he felt we needed to start extra early. He woke me up at one in the morning.

“Get up boy. It’s time to run.”

“But dad, I haven’t had much sleep. I’m tired. Can’t I have one more hour of sleep.” He grabbed the skin of my thigh and squeezed hard. It felt like he had grabbed me with some pliers and mashed down on the handle. I yelped in pain.

“Get up now. I won’t tell you again!”

I got up, took and shower, and put on my clothes. We drove across the bridge and parked the car.

“You need to beat your normal time or else I’m going to beat your ass. Larry, you can’t improve if you keep doing the same old thing. You’ve got to push beyond your previous goals. If you don’t, you’ll stagnate and never get better.”

I sometimes wished my dad was a drunk, then I could almost excuse some of the things he did to me as a child. He didn’t drink though. He wasn’t a religious man. It wasn’t about moral scruples. It was all about discipline for him, being a winner. Doing those things made you weak.

I got out of the car and immediately started running. I would run harder than normal until I got out of his sight. I was going to save my energy for the final stretch. I thought that if I could keep my normal pace, then I would be alright. I could gain time on the front and back end. When I got to the gate, I slowed down a bit, feeling relieved that he was no longer able to see me. I hated running. I was terrible at it. My dad just had this belief that if I worked hard enough, I would be a champion, but it just wasn’t in the cards. Yet, I did enjoy the hiking trail. It felt like an escape. Once I got to the trail head and started along that dirt path, I would enter an imaginary world where I was an adult and free from my father’s control. I would talk to myself, cussing my dad, telling him he was a loser and an idiot. I would get all my anger out. That trail, those dark foreboding trees, the early morning chill, were agitating forces, provoking me to release all my hate and anger. The forest was whispering in my ear that it wasn’t a sin to hate your dad; he deserved it.

I got to the end of the trail. I felt like I had a good pace going, so I stopped and stretched a bit. I heard some fireworks in the distance, and some laughter. It was a group of friends, something I longed for. They had snuck into the park like me, but instead of punishing their bodies for a career that never was going to be, they were having fun. I almost thought of finding them, but I had a task, and I didn’t want my dad to make a scene.

I took off down the path, and about half-way through I heard some screaming. I could sense an agonizing fear, beyond any kind of normal surprise or discomfort. They were fearing for their lives, that fact was easily discernable. There is no mistaking that kind of scream. It was qualitatively different, a degree of fear I hope to never experience again. I stopped and listened, trying with much difficulty to slow down my breathing. All was silent.

I didn’t think it a good idea to run. In fact, I got off the trail and hid in the brush for a while. I don’t know how much time I spent there but I wanted to make sure that whatever happened was finished. And then I heard some footsteps, or more appropriately someone dragging their feet across the trail, as if they were too weak to pick up their legs and walk with any effort. I was in a bend of the trail. Out from behind some trees came a shadow of a person barely able to move, limping with one leg, and dragging the other. There was a new moon, but visibility was opaque with the thick cover of trees. I heard him groaning and praying to himself.

“God, Jesus, I’m sorry. Help me. Protect me from this demon. Please. Please, I’m not ready to die.”

Whoever he was he hobbled into the brush on the opposite side of the trail from me. I think he decided it was best to hide like me, but he was hysterical. My feelings were ambivalent. I felt angry that he was hiding in the same place that I was, and worse, he wouldn’t shut up. He was mumbling and whispering to himself, invoking the lord God almighty for an intervention, a miracle and release from his diabolical suffering. His prayers really were poetic.

I heard more footsteps, but these were healthy and strong, predatory.

“Where are you little poodle? What an inferior species you are? Poodle. Poodle. I’m going to tear you apart.”

It was a metallic low shrill voice. I saw the silhouette emerge from behind the trees. At that point, somehow, someway, the moonlight shone upon the ghastly figure like a spotlight, enveloping the actor in ray of solitary light. He had long black hair. He had a grisly smile on his face, with sharp teeth, and blood all over his face. He was pale white, wearing a flannel shirt and blue jeans. He had his hands raised up to his chest and I could see that his fingernails were long and sharp, they too soaked in blood and flesh. His eyes were iridescent, shining with all the colors of the rainbow. Sometimes though, I detected a feminine quality in him, as if he was possessed by something and controlled by a sinister spirit. When he talked again, I heard more than one voice- one male, and one female.

“Little poodle. Don’t hide. Don’t run. It’s over. I’ll make it quick. I promise, but you must die.”

“I renounce you in the name of Jesus Christ,” he yelled.

“There you are poodle! I’m so hungry.”

This monstrous being grabbed the holy petitioner by the arm and bit down hard into his forearm and ripped out muscle and flesh. The victim screamed in pain, and I did my best to keep quiet and not reveal myself. I couldn’t make out much, but I could see that the monster was chewing its food and preparing to take another bite. It did bite again, and again, and again, until the forearm had been severed from the elbow. Blood was spilling onto the underbrush and the victim had passed out and fell to the ground. I could hear the chewing and crunching of human flesh. I was sick to my stomach, and I could feel the vomit pushing up through my throat. I swallowed hard, tasting the acid and the hot dogs from the night before.

“Come on poodle. I will eat you somewhere else. This spot too cold, too chill for me.”

The monster grabbed the victim by his other arm and dragged him up the path. I waited for a while until I thought that enough time had passed that the monster was far enough away for me to make my escape. I got a good distance, coming across a glade, and there in the middle, next to a tree, was a human leg. There was a shoe to the side, apart from the foot, while the sock, although still on the foot, was torn. The exposed foot was missing toes and there were obvious bite marks. I picked up my pace. Adrenaline and fear coursed through my body. My hands sweated profusely, as I tightened by fists, and swung my harms harder, hoping to move myself quicker through the murderous forest. The early morning sun was peeking through the trees, revealing the massacre that had transpired across the idyllic setting. Blood, body parts, and discarded clothing slung about the trail. It had been a bigger party than I had realized. Plenty of food for the monster to eat.

I took a look behind me to see if I was followed, turned my head, and then felt my nose explode with pain, crushed into my face. My father had grown impatient, came down the trail, and punched me in the nose. I fell to my back, almost losing consciousness.

“Boy, this half-ass effort ain’t gonna cut it. You’re gonna run after school today to make up for this piss poor performance.”

“Dad, there’s a monster in the woods. It killed a bunch of people. We got to get out of here!” He walked over and kicked me in my side, causing me to piss myself.

“Get up. I’m not putting up with this shit. You want to be a failure? You want to lose?”

I heard a screech, and I knew that now the monster was aware of our presence. More food. More to eat.

“What the hell was that?”

“I told you dammit. There’s a monster out here.” I pushed myself up off of the ground and grabbed my dad by the arm. I started running and pulling him along. I heard growling and heavy breathing.

“More poodles. More poodles to eat. Yes, inferior species is good for the belly!”

I looked back and there was the monster running on all fours, like a hungry, desperate wolf. His eyes were wide, glowing purple, and then flashing red. I let go of my dad’s arm and ran as fast as I could. I heard a thump and then my dad yell, “Help! Larry, don’t leave me.” I didn’t slow down and ran towards the trail head. I stepped on a persimmon, and it exploded beneath my foot, squirting out fruit and seed. At the beginning of the trail was a persimmon tree. It was a personal tradition that when I had finished my run across the hiking trail, I would always pick up a persimmon and squeeze it in my hand. I don’t know why. I guess it was a way to symbolize my accomplishment. Not only had I beat the trail, but I had proven my dad wrong, each and every time. This time the persimmon was destroyed by a different will and with a different purpose, one more mysterious and heinous than I could ever imagine. I hated my dad, but I never wished him dead. I turned and saw the monster dragging him into the woods. My dad looked unresponsive, maybe he had resigned himself to his fate. Maybe he decided that he didn’t really deserve to live. Maybe, he felt guilty for the monster he had become.