The Mountain King by Rick Hautala

paper mill on Monday, but as soon as he was out of bed around noontime, he called Sam Barker, his department supervisor, to tell him what had happened over the weekend. Mark left out any mention of the “creature” he had seen—or thought he had seen—carry Phil off, but he insisted that Sam could contact the hospital emergency room for corroboration of his story. Sam told him it wasn’t necessary and mentioned that since yesterday afternoon he had heard about Phil being missing from at least six other people. He told Mark not to worry, that he could take the whole week off if he needed to. Mark thanked him and hung up. 
Even after nearly twelve hours of sleep, however, Mark still didn’t feel all that rested. His sleep had been so haunted by twisted fragments of what had happened up on the mountain that everything had taken on disorientingly surreal overtones. Doubts and strange imaginings were so mixed up with fact that he was no longer sure what was or wasn’t real. All he knew for sure was that one of his closest friends was missing and presumed dead somewhere on Mount Agiochook. 
Sandy had left for school hours ago, and Polly was off to work at the hairdressers in town by the time Mark, wearing only a T-shirt and underpants, lumbered down the stairs and into the kitchen. He sighed heavily as he ran his hands over his face, trying to focus on something simple, like scrambling a couple of eggs or getting a pot of coffee started. But his mind was totally preoccupied with wondering what had happened to Phil, and what Guy LaBrea and the other authorities were planning to do about it. He wasn’t even aware that he had taken a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator and a glass from the cupboard, and had started to pour juice, overflowing the glass until the splattering sound of liquid hitting the floor drew his attention. 
“Ahh, shit!”  
He grabbed a handful of paper towels and started sopping up the mess, but by then, the mere thought of anything—juice or eggs or coffee—hitting his stomach filled him with a squeezing nausea. Swearing under his breath, he threw the wet, wadded-up paper towels into the trash. Staring ahead blankly, he emptied the glass of juice down the sink. 
    “Damn it all! God damn it all! I’ve got to do something,” he whispered as he began pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor. His bare feet squeaked every time he turned on the slick linoleum. “I can’t just hang around the house all week, waiting for something to happen!”  
Pale sunlight angled through the kitchen window, glinting like white fire off the faucet and sink. Mark paused in his pacing, leaned over the sink, and looked out at the sunny afternoon. The world looked fresh and clean, rejuvenated. The maple trees in the front yard had already started to turn color. A hushed peacefulness had settled over the street. 
It seemed odd, almost impossible that just two days ago it had been snowing up on the mountain. Mark shivered with the memory of how cold it had been up there. His shoulders hunched up as he remembered the stinging pellets of ice and snow—his and Phil’s desperate scramble across ice-slick rocks—huddling for protection under the spread-open tent—the low, whistling howl of the storm wind—and that deeper, rumbling growl that had been ... 
—been what?  
That creature? 
Mark clenched both hands into fists but stopped himself from punching anything. Instead, he sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and just stood there, trembling as he fought to regain control. Worrying and getting angry wasn’t going to solve a goddamned thing—least of all what to do about finding out what had happened to Phil. 
Mark turned on the faucet and ran the water until it was lukewarm, then splashed several handfuls of water onto his face. It stung his eyes. Sputtering, he grabbed a dishtowel and dried his face, rubbing so vigorously that he took off at least a couple of layers of skin. Agitation