The Puller

by Michael Hodges

Genres: Occult & Supernatural; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

Alone at a remote cabin in the woods . . . attacked by a mysterious force that won't let him leave . . . but how can he fight an enemy that he can't even see?



Matt Kearns just needed to get away from it all—to grieve for his father and let the rugged wilderness of Michigan's Upper Peninsula renew him, like it always had. But from the moment he arrives, nothing feels right. Strange happenings shake his confidence and have him questioning his sanity. Even the animals seem to know something is amiss. But each time he tries to leave, something—something truly malicious—violently pulls him back. What could it be? Why him? And what will he have to do to escape with his life?



Michael Hodges's debut supernatural thriller delivers visceral, edge-of-your-seat suspense as one resourceful man desperately fights for his life against a force more savage and relentless than anything the locals here have ever seen.

Release date: November 15, 2021

Publisher: Pyr

Print pages: 286

Sample

JOURNEY

Matt Kearns gazed out the windshield, the truck headlights slicing through the Michigan darkness. Moths and mayflies fluttered in the beams along the sloping embankment. He cracked the window and breathed deep. Clean gusts of air curled the edges of three photographs taped to his dashboard. Green glow from the instrument cluster illuminated the photos like museum pieces. The first photo was of his father and him, each hoisting a fresh brook trout. The second photo was of his ex-girlfriend, Stacey. The third photo was of his childhood dog, Elmo.

They were all dead.

His father from lung cancer, and his ex-girlfriend from a drunk named Ed Higgins. The inebriated Ed Higgins ran her over while she was jogging in Ruger Park. She never heard the drunken slob coming thanks to her ear buds. Elmo, good old Elmo, had been taken by cancer as well, but he didn’t go as quietly as his father. There wasn’t much quiet about Elmo. He’d been a protective, if not psychotic Shih Tzu.

Matt sighed and took in the Northwoods air, which always had a way of clearing his thoughts. He gripped the wheel and sighed again.

Trucks beat you up. At least that’s how they used to be before they became luxury couches on wheels. Matt liked his trucks the old fashioned way, the kind that kicked your tail on the highway and gobbled up logging roads. Like the truck he was driving now, a trusty old Toyota 4x4 he’d inherited from his father. He shook his head and couldn’t help but smile for a change. Here he was, heading up to the beloved shack for nine days of peace and quiet. And maybe along the way he’d figure out his life, and finally decide if he should go back to college.

The drive from Chicago was close to eight hours and uneventful until reaching the Ottawa National Forest. The “Ottawa,” as it was known to locals, was a million sprawling acres of undeveloped federal land on the Wisconsin/Michigan border. Long stretches of red pine, jack pine, and aspen dominated the drive. One of the reasons for this trip was the fishing on the Black River, a cutting stream with a slate rock bottom and numerous waterfalls. It was September, and the coho salmon would be spawning upriver, eager to strike any flashing lure dangled in the clear pools. The other reason for the trip was to heal. Stacey had left this world sixty-four days ago. Elmo one hundred and twenty days, and his father six months now. He thought the sorrow had fractured his mind for good, and even his mother noticed he wasn’t doing well. She insisted he go north. She knew this was where Matt was Matt.

I’m getting too old for these drives, he thought even though he was twenty-one. He snorted at this, knowing full well it was nonsense. The three hours of sleep the night before might have something to do with it. Might.

The four-cylinder engine rumbled on, not a force at highway speeds but a real fuel sipper. As he entered the Ottawa National Forest, the big pines increased. The Forest Service liked to keep the roadside trees tall while logging the hell out of the forest beyond view of travelers. If someone were to hike fifty yards in, they’d see stumps and clear-cuts. They’d also notice an abundance of stunted poplar and other overcrowding hardwood trees. These took the place of the giant old growth white pine and hemlock that had covered most of the Northwoods. He’d explored a huge portion of the area as a child, and over the years, he’d come to know this country as his home. He’d built up his legs hiking the ravines and rocky ridges of the Huron Mountains.

Despite logging, the Ottawa and Hurons managed to maintain populations of wolves. Native wolverines and mountain lions had long been extirpated from the ecosystem, the result of over-trapping and speciesism-based persecution. His community college biology teacher, Mr. Emerson, was always impressed with Matt’s knowledge of flora and fauna, and they often had lengthy conversations about the U.P. These were the school moments he remembered with fondness, the exchanges with teachers where you were equals, just two adults having a conversation.

High road densities in the once roadless forest facilitated the elimination of many predator species via poaching. Former roadless areas were whittled down to nothing over decades. The only remaining unroaded lands were a few twenty-thousand-acre wilderness areas protected by the federal government.

Matt had plans to explore the intriguing Huron Mountains further, always interested by the possibility they may well be the oldest mountain range on earth and at one point as high as the Rockies. Now they were just two-thousand-foot rocky knobs. But there was always something about them he found captivating. Isolated stands of old growth hemlock reached from ravines and granite-shrouded patches of soil. Wind-battered red pines clung to cliffs. These places were the opposite of the Midwest: scenic. Remote. The old hunting shack he was heading to this very moment sat in the shadow of the Huros, in a wide forested valley cut by the Black River and its numerous falls and glinting pools. The “shack,” as it was known, was surrounded by a defunct apple orchard that now produced miniature, tart apples. Bordering the orchard stood a forest of aspen, alder, balsam fir, and spruce. Springs and bogs supplied the Black River with water all season, refreshing the riverbed even as summer and fall wicked away the water. To the west of the shack loomed Twenty Mile Bog. The rest of the area consisted of thick forest, home to fisher, black bears, wolves, and owls. These creatures made the Northwoods what it was. The idea that they still existed made him smile. Coming from the Chicago suburbs, this was a paradise teeming with life and adventure.

Matt ran his hand through his brown hair and searched for some music to accompany the darkness that had crept over the land. In the fading light, the instrument cluster bloomed like a spaceship panel.

Green Day? Neil Young? Eh . . . not yet. Pink Floyd? Yes. If his parent’s generation did one thing right, it was rock music. No, they didn’t just do it right, they kicked all sorts of ass.

Matt inserted the disc into the Pioneer CD player and “Let There Be More Light” pounced through the speakers.

He rolled down the window by a third and breathed cool North-wood’s air. Such a contrast from Chicagoland.

The Toyota pickup rolled down empty U.S. 2. The locals were either at home watching TV or at a convenient watering hole, usually called “Insert Name Here showing possession” Northwoods Tavern. One of the benefits of this wild locale was the lack of people, so traveling on an empty road was a kick.

As Matt reached for the heater switch a stout white-tailed deer leapt in front of the truck. He hit the brakes and gripped the steering wheel. Tires shrieked and the sick smell of burning rubber stung his nose. The unlucky deer let out a sheep-like cry as the driver’s-side hood skimmed its left rump. The deer’s eyes widened to the size of tea cups as it sprinted up the embankment to the spruce trees. The truck screeched to a stop, rubber smoke wafting in front of the headlights. The chattering four-cylinder and radio penetrated the sudden stillness.

Matt rolled his window down. The deer was nowhere to be found. He turned the music down, grabbed the heavy-duty flashlight from under the seat, and inspected the truck’s grille. No visible damage, no blood and no deer hair. For good measure he walked over to the embankment, shining the flashlight into the ditch, working a good fifty yards in front of and behind the truck. If he found the deer he’d ease it out of this world one way or another. He hated people who ran over animals without looking back to see if they were still suffering. Running over an animal didn’t mean it was dead, not at all. A year ago in Glacier National Park (on a trip with Stacey) he’d seen a red squirrel run over by a car doing forty in a twenty-five miles per hour zone. Only the back legs of the red squirrel were run over. The squirrel had chirped and cried, valiantly pulling itself a few feet before collapsing in a heap on the road, still alive. Another red squirrel had scurried onto the pavement and tried to pull the crippled squirrel off the road. He remembered watching in horror as the scene unfolded, the desperate chittering of the healthy red squirrel, and the terrible screams of the injured one. When the healthy red squirrel had given up, he’d returned to his vehicle and proceeded to drive over the injured squirrel, ending its life before any more suffering could occur.

He’d never forgotten that squirrel. Sometimes he pictured it in his mind, its eyes bulging. Sometimes he could still hear the chirping as it tried to warn others of the danger, its striking cinnamon fur ruffling in the wind and the tiny, pink sliver of tongue like a tender plant root. But worst of all was how the squirrel looked up at him with its mouth open, a hint of teeth showing and the fear in its eyes right before death took it. That incident made him question a lot of things. One of those things was God. What kind of God would allow such a thing to happen? It didn’t make any sense. But then not much made sense to him—especially things like rules and the behavior of his peers and supposed authority figures. There was always friction with the world no matter how hard he tried. In many ways, he sensed a stronger bond with the creatures of the woods than he did with people—except for the ones he was already close to.

Some would find that disturbing or introverted but for him that was reality. That was what he saw out of his own two eyes and felt with his own heart. Did he exhibit an underlying anxiety when near people? Maybe. But it’s not like he was a loner. He had friends, but quality over quantity. He sensed that pull, that bit of fear in many social situations— probably why he kept a core group of friends and didn’t venture often into new social territory.

What he did prefer was hiking in wilderness areas. There were trips with his ex-girlfriend Stacey to Glacier National Park in Montana and Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming. They’d go during spring break sometimes, when most kids went to sunny beaches. Less people, too, snow or not. He could hear himself think in the woods and mountains, could spread his arms and kick back.

Balance.

The country out in Montana was still wild. A twenty-thousand-acre wilderness area was nothing out there. You could find two-million acre wilderness complexes and spend years exploring. Back in the North-woods, back in the Ottawa you were amongst endless logging roads. Less than one percent of the old growth forest remained. Most of the big animals that had sauntered across the Northwoods were ghosts. But for some reason, this place still had such a strong feeling of home. He liked it. No, he loved it. All the little streams gleaming in the forest. The clumsy porcupines fumbling around in tree-tops and bald eagles swooping from hidden lake to hidden lake.

A benefit of the Northwoods was the eight-hour drive from the Chicago suburbs. You had to travel twenty-two hours to reach Yellowstone. For a working man, this was all the difference in the world. He busted his ass six days a week in the summer for Stinson Construction. This entailed pouring concrete foundations for McMansions in the suburbs. The labor was difficult at times but he found it soothing. Being outside was always preferable to sitting indoors in crummy office air.

You have to spread your wings, his father would often tell him.

He couldn’t spread his wings in some little office. No room. He couldn’t spread his wings in high school, either (or the alternative computer-based school). Both buildings had always seemed like prison to him. Even worse was the dearth of windows. The only natural light entered from the ends of long hallways, piping into the halls and then pulling back as if to say I’m not going in there. So the light waited for him outside the doors, as the Northwoods waited for him. Stepping outside, he was reborn.

Even with the disdain for high school he did well, playing soccer and getting okay grades and dating pretty girls. Until The Incident . . . something he didn’t talk much about, or even want to remember. The most vivid recollection he had from The Incident was the look he got from his father when returning home that fateful day. His father had stormed out of the house. His mother, always one to plug the gaps and paint over the cracks hugged Matt when his father had left.

It’s for the best, Matthew, she’d said. He will be back. Time will heal this.

She was right, as she often was. Time did heal it. But time couldn’t heal his father’s cancer. “Big John,” they’d called him. Big John liked to smoke and smoke he did. And Big John didn’t just smoke the lights, he went right for Marlboro Reds at two packs a day. Big John had big hands. And a big everything else. His father was assertive, but offering encouragement where needed. It was his father who’d taught him about the outdoors. He was the one who initiated the quick trips up north. The “bonsai” trips as they were referred to were fast three-day trips up to the shack. His father would have the gear packed the night before, coolers and duffel bags stuffed with smoked sausage, canned goods, hash browns, camping equipment, and fishing gear. The old flannel sleeping bags were so bulky they’d take up half the pickup bed. Having everything packed the night before allowed them to head out when his father got off work from the phone company at 3:00 p.m. Big John was pretty damn slick with telecommunications. He was trained by the Army, even stationed in Turkey for a while, working on several top secret radio jamming projects that he couldn’t discuss.

Just know that what I know, people don’t want you to know, he’d say when prodded.

Sometimes he could tell his father was full of shit because his upper lip stiffened and his eyes widened. But that never happened when Matt brought up the Army. He never got it out of him, even on his deathbed.

The bonsai trips were scheduled around the working man. By leaving at 3:00 p.m. on a Friday, they could drive eight hours to the shack and get a decent night’s sleep. They’d stay for Saturday and Sunday, leaving Sunday night at seven. This would allow them to get back by 3:00 a.m., enough for three or four hours of sleep before his father had to go to work. ...

JOURNEY

Matt Kearns gazed out the windshield, the truck headlights slicing through the Michigan darkness. Moths and mayflies fluttered in the beams along the sloping embankment. He cracked the window and breathed deep. Clean gusts of air curled the edges of three photographs taped to his dashboard. Green glow from the instrument cluster illuminated the photos like museum pieces. The first photo was of his father and him, each hoisting a fresh brook trout. The second photo was of his ex-girlfriend, Stacey. The third photo was of his childhood dog, Elmo.

They were all dead.

His father from lung cancer, and his ex-girlfriend from a drunk named Ed Higgins. The inebriated Ed Higgins ran her over while she was jogging in Ruger Park. She never heard the drunken slob coming thanks to her ear buds. Elmo, good old Elmo, had been taken by cancer as well, but he didn’t go as quietly as his father. There wasn’t much quiet about Elmo. He’d been a protective, if not psychotic Shih Tzu.

Matt sighed and took in the Northwoods air, which always had a way of clearing his thoughts. He gripped the wheel and sighed again.

Trucks beat you up. At least that’s how they used to be before they became luxury couches on wheels. Matt liked his trucks the old fashioned way, the kind that kicked your tail on the highway and gobbled up logging roads. Like the truck he was driving now, a trusty old Toyota 4x4 he’d inherited from his father. He shook his head and couldn’t help but smile for a change. Here he was, heading up to the beloved shack for nine days of peace and quiet. And maybe along the way he’d figure out his life, and finally decide if he should go back to college.

The drive from Chicago was close to eight hours and uneventful until reaching the Ottawa National Forest. The “Ottawa,” as it was known to locals, was a million sprawling acres of undeveloped federal land on the Wisconsin/Michigan border. Long stretches of red pine, jack pine, and aspen dominated the drive. One of the reasons for this trip was the fishing on the Black River, a cutting stream with a slate rock bottom and numerous waterfalls. It was September, and the coho salmon would be spawning upriver, eager to strike any flashing lure dangled in the clear pools. The other reason for the trip was to heal. Stacey had left this world sixty-four days ago. Elmo one hundred and twenty days, and his father six months now. He thought the sorrow had fractured his mind for good, and even his mother noticed he wasn’t doing well. She insisted he go north. She knew this was where Matt was Matt.

I’m getting too old for these drives, he thought even though he was twenty-one. He snorted at this, knowing full well it was nonsense. The three hours of sleep the night before might have something to do with it. Might.

The four-cylinder engine rumbled on, not a force at highway speeds but a real fuel sipper. As he entered the Ottawa National Forest, the big pines increased. The Forest Service liked to keep the roadside trees tall while logging the hell out of the forest beyond view of travelers. If someone were to hike fifty yards in, they’d see stumps and clear-cuts. They’d also notice an abundance of stunted poplar and other overcrowding hardwood trees. These took the place of the giant old growth white pine and hemlock that had covered most of the Northwoods. He’d explored a huge portion of the area as a child, and over the years, he’d come to know this country as his home. He’d built up his legs hiking the ravines and rocky ridges of the Huron Mountains.

Despite logging, the Ottawa and Hurons managed to maintain populations of wolves. Native wolverines and mountain lions had long been extirpated from the ecosystem, the result of over-trapping and speciesism-based persecution. His community college biology teacher, Mr. Emerson, was always impressed with Matt’s knowledge of flora and fauna, and they often had lengthy conversations about the U.P. These were the school moments he remembered with fondness, the exchanges with teachers where you were equals, just two adults having a conversation.

High road densities in the once roadless forest facilitated the elimination of many predator species via poaching. Former roadless areas were whittled down to nothing over decades. The only remaining unroaded lands were a few twenty-thousand-acre wilderness areas protected by the federal government.

Matt had plans to explore the intriguing Huron Mountains further, always interested by the possibility they may well be the oldest mountain range on earth and at one point as high as the Rockies. Now they were just two-thousand-foot rocky knobs. But there was always something about them he found captivating. Isolated stands of old growth hemlock reached from ravines and granite-shrouded patches of soil. Wind-battered red pines clung to cliffs. These places were the opposite of the Midwest: scenic. Remote. The old hunting shack he was heading to this very moment sat in the shadow of the Huros, in a wide forested valley cut by the Black River and its numerous falls and glinting pools. The “shack,” as it was known, was surrounded by a defunct apple orchard that now produced miniature, tart apples. Bordering the orchard stood a forest of aspen, alder, balsam fir, and spruce. Springs and bogs supplied the Black River with water all season, refreshing the riverbed even as summer and fall wicked away the water. To the west of the shack loomed Twenty Mile Bog. The rest of the area consisted of thick forest, home to fisher, black bears, wolves, and owls. These creatures made the Northwoods what it was. The idea that they still existed made him smile. Coming from the Chicago suburbs, this was a paradise teeming with life and adventure.

Matt ran his hand through his brown hair and searched for some music to accompany the darkness that had crept over the land. In the fading light, the instrument cluster bloomed like a spaceship panel.

Green Day? Neil Young? Eh . . . not yet. Pink Floyd? Yes. If his parent’s generation did one thing right, it was rock music. No, they didn’t just do it right, they kicked all sorts of ass.

Matt inserted the disc into the Pioneer CD player and “Let There Be More Light” pounced through the speakers.

He rolled down the window by a third and breathed cool North-wood’s air. Such a contrast from Chicagoland.

The Toyota pickup rolled down empty U.S. 2. The locals were either at home watching TV or at a convenient watering hole, usually called “Insert Name Here showing possession” Northwoods Tavern. One of the benefits of this wild locale was the lack of people, so traveling on an empty road was a kick.

As Matt reached for the heater switch a stout white-tailed deer leapt in front of the truck. He hit the brakes and gripped the steering wheel. Tires shrieked and the sick smell of burning rubber stung his nose. The unlucky deer let out a sheep-like cry as the driver’s-side hood skimmed its left rump. The deer’s eyes widened to the size of tea cups as it sprinted up the embankment to the spruce trees. The truck screeched to a stop, rubber smoke wafting in front of the headlights. The chattering four-cylinder and radio penetrated the sudden stillness.

Matt rolled his window down. The deer was nowhere to be found. He turned the music down, grabbed the heavy-duty flashlight from under the seat, and inspected the truck’s grille. No visible damage, no blood and no deer hair. For good measure he walked over to the embankment, shining the flashlight into the ditch, working a good fifty yards in front of and behind the truck. If he found the deer he’d ease it out of this world one way or another. He hated people who ran over animals without looking back to see if they were still suffering. Running over an animal didn’t mean it was dead, not at all. A year ago in Glacier National Park (on a trip with Stacey) he’d seen a red squirrel run over by a car doing forty in a twenty-five miles per hour zone. Only the back legs of the red squirrel were run over. The squirrel had chirped and cried, valiantly pulling itself a few feet before collapsing in a heap on the road, still alive. Another red squirrel had scurried onto the pavement and tried to pull the crippled squirrel off the road. He remembered watching in horror as the scene unfolded, the desperate chittering of the healthy red squirrel, and the terrible screams of the injured one. When the healthy red squirrel had given up, he’d returned to his vehicle and proceeded to drive over the injured squirrel, ending its life before any more suffering could occur.

He’d never forgotten that squirrel. Sometimes he pictured it in his mind, its eyes bulging. Sometimes he could still hear the chirping as it tried to warn others of the danger, its striking cinnamon fur ruffling in the wind and the tiny, pink sliver of tongue like a tender plant root. But worst of all was how the squirrel looked up at him with its mouth open, a hint of teeth showing and the fear in its eyes right before death took it. That incident made him question a lot of things. One of those things was God. What kind of God would allow such a thing to happen? It didn’t make any sense. But then not much made sense to him—especially things like rules and the behavior of his peers and supposed authority figures. There was always friction with the world no matter how hard he tried. In many ways, he sensed a stronger bond with the creatures of the woods than he did with people—except for the ones he was already close to.

Some would find that disturbing or introverted but for him that was reality. That was what he saw out of his own two eyes and felt with his own heart. Did he exhibit an underlying anxiety when near people? Maybe. But it’s not like he was a loner. He had friends, but quality over quantity. He sensed that pull, that bit of fear in many social situations— probably why he kept a core group of friends and didn’t venture often into new social territory.

What he did prefer was hiking in wilderness areas. There were trips with his ex-girlfriend Stacey to Glacier National Park in Montana and Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming. They’d go during spring break sometimes, when most kids went to sunny beaches. Less people, too, snow or not. He could hear himself think in the woods and mountains, could spread his arms and kick back.

Balance.

The country out in Montana was still wild. A twenty-thousand-acre wilderness area was nothing out there. You could find two-million acre wilderness complexes and spend years exploring. Back in the North-woods, back in the Ottawa you were amongst endless logging roads. Less than one percent of the old growth forest remained. Most of the big animals that had sauntered across the Northwoods were ghosts. But for some reason, this place still had such a strong feeling of home. He liked it. No, he loved it. All the little streams gleaming in the forest. The clumsy porcupines fumbling around in tree-tops and bald eagles swooping from hidden lake to hidden lake.

A benefit of the Northwoods was the eight-hour drive from the Chicago suburbs. You had to travel twenty-two hours to reach Yellowstone. For a working man, this was all the difference in the world. He busted his ass six days a week in the summer for Stinson Construction. This entailed pouring concrete foundations for McMansions in the suburbs. The labor was difficult at times but he found it soothing. Being outside was always preferable to sitting indoors in crummy office air.

You have to spread your wings, his father would often tell him.

He couldn’t spread his wings in some little office. No room. He couldn’t spread his wings in high school, either (or the alternative computer-based school). Both buildings had always seemed like prison to him. Even worse was the dearth of windows. The only natural light entered from the ends of long hallways, piping into the halls and then pulling back as if to say I’m not going in there. So the light waited for him outside the doors, as the Northwoods waited for him. Stepping outside, he was reborn.

Even with the disdain for high school he did well, playing soccer and getting okay grades and dating pretty girls. Until The Incident . . . something he didn’t talk much about, or even want to remember. The most vivid recollection he had from The Incident was the look he got from his father when returning home that fateful day. His father had stormed out of the house. His mother, always one to plug the gaps and paint over the cracks hugged Matt when his father had left.

It’s for the best, Matthew, she’d said. He will be back. Time will heal this.

She was right, as she often was. Time did heal it. But time couldn’t heal his father’s cancer. “Big John,” they’d called him. Big John liked to smoke and smoke he did. And Big John didn’t just smoke the lights, he went right for Marlboro Reds at two packs a day. Big John had big hands. And a big everything else. His father was assertive, but offering encouragement where needed. It was his father who’d taught him about the outdoors. He was the one who initiated the quick trips up north. The “bonsai” trips as they were referred to were fast three-day trips up to the shack. His father would have the gear packed the night before, coolers and duffel bags stuffed with smoked sausage, canned goods, hash browns, camping equipment, and fishing gear. The old flannel sleeping bags were so bulky they’d take up half the pickup bed. Having everything packed the night before allowed them to head out when his father got off work from the phone company at 3:00 p.m. Big John was pretty damn slick with telecommunications. He was trained by the Army, even stationed in Turkey for a while, working on several top secret radio jamming projects that he couldn’t discuss.

Just know that what I know, people don’t want you to know, he’d say when prodded.

Sometimes he could tell his father was full of shit because his upper lip stiffened and his eyes widened. But that never happened when Matt brought up the Army. He never got it out of him, even on his deathbed.

The bonsai trips were scheduled around the working man. By leaving at 3:00 p.m. on a Friday, they could drive eight hours to the shack and get a decent night’s sleep. They’d stay for Saturday and Sunday, leaving Sunday night at seven. This would allow them to get back by 3:00 a.m., enough for three or four hours of sleep before his father had to go to work. ...