The Cedar Swamp Beasts

The winter of 1887 in Wexford County, Michigan, was a season of deep snow and bitter silence. Lumberjacks labored by day among white pine and hemlock, and by night huddled in the smoky warmth of a rough shanty. I was hired as a sawyer, earning twenty dollars a month, a bunk, and coarse blankets. Our camp stood on the edge of a cedar swamp, a place where even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Our foreman, Harland Pike, was a square-shouldered man of few words who kept order with quiet authority. He paired me with Tom Voss, a strong back with a reckless mouth, on the crosscut saw. Other men filled out the camp: Eli Sturgis, an old hand with a pocket Bible; Baptiste Lair, our best riverman, quick and scarred; Aor, the oxen driver; Silas Shaw, the trapper and hunter; and Jude, the youngest, eager for a full season.

We built the shanty in two days, its plank walls and high roof venting the smoke of Nells’s iron-flavored coffee. Work began at first light, the snow crunching underfoot, axes biting into frozen trunks. By the second week, our timber landing was stacked neat, and Pike promised we’d make quota if the thaw held off.

But trouble crept in quietly, through small signs. Silas found a deer torn half apart in the cedar line, its carcass hung on a branch, ribs cracked open. No wolf or bear could explain the long, strange tracks in the snow. That night, a howl rose from the swamp—two voices in one throat, eerie and unnatural. The men listened, uneasy. Our camp dog, Blue, whined until Nells silenced him with a kick.

The next day, Silas returned from his trap line with a sprung and twisted trap, the bait gone and chain cut deep into the sapling. No teeth or claws marked it. A sharp, old smell hung near the cedar edge, turning our stomachs, though none spoke of it aloud.

The second night, the strange howl came again, closer. Blue vanished by morning, his rope frayed and blood frozen in the snow. Aor claimed he’d seen something tall and upright moving on the tote road, its arms hanging long below the hips, ears rising from its skull—a sight that left his hands shaking.

Marks appeared on the shanty door, deep gouges at a man’s chest height. Pike dismissed them as porcupine scratches, but no one believed it. Silas and I found prints in the snow, long and narrow, four parts spread wide—no claws, just pressure lines. Bark was stripped high on the trees, resin bleeding where no man could reach.

The nights grew worse. The voices circled our camp, the boards creaked, and a foul breath drifted under the door. The oxen grew restless. We worked with eyes darting to the tree line, saws swinging out of rhythm.

One dusk, Silas failed to return from his trap line. Baptiste, pale and breathless, had lost sight of him near the swamp. We searched with lanterns, finding only Silas’s cap punched into the snow and two sets of tracks—one his, the other deep and wide, joining his path before both vanished. Blood stained the crust where something heavy had dragged him away.

Pike ordered watches at the door. During my turn, a shadow blocked the frost on the window, its breath fogging the glass. Jude raised the lantern, but the shape slid away in silence. At daybreak, Pike spoke plain: Silas was gone, and we would not split up again.

The next afternoon, while cutting timber, Jude spotted a fresh track crossing the bed of needles—long heel, four spread toes, no claws. The men gathered, breath steaming over the mark until it blurred. By dusk, Silas’s traps were found snapped and twisted, the chain kinked, the bait stick split. Eli said no man could do that with fingers.

That night, the calls came closer, three voices weaving through the trees. The oxen panicked, and Pike tied a rope from the shanty to the cookhouse so no one would lose the path. Watches were set, but sleep was thin.

Near midnight, the oxen bawled in terror. Pike, Voss, and I went out with lanterns. There, at the edge of the camp, stood a creature upright, massive shoulders, long arms ending in hands—not paws—that opened and closed with a dry sound. Its muzzle and ears caught the light, eyes reflecting cold and flat. Behind it, two more shapes prowled the tree line.

Pike ordered us not to run. The beast tested us, then melted into the darkness. In the morning, deep lines scored the sleds, prints circled the animals, and the snow showed where one had knelt, melting and refreezing under its weight.

Pike decided we would move camp to the river landing, leaving the swamp to its own. As we packed, every man watched the trees. On the path to the landing, prints crossed our trail. The oxen balked, and suddenly three shapes broke from the trees, attacking fast and low.

Axes and hooks swung, iron meeting hide and bone. Pike buried his axe in one beast’s shoulder, tearing it free with a wet pull. The creature charged, snapping the sled beam, sending the oxen bolting. Eli’s ankle twisted, Baptiste’s shoulder was crushed, and Jude was knocked breathless into the snow.

The beasts pressed in—snarling, claws flashing, teeth bared. One lifted Baptiste off his feet, bones shifting under its grip. Pike’s axe split bone, the creature collapsed, its breath whistling foul and sharp. Another pinned Voss, claws raking his chest, tearing flesh and cloth. Pike struck from behind, but the beast flung him aside, ribs broken.

Only Aor and I remained. Together, we fought, iron sinking deep, yoke pin cracking bone. The last beast circled Pike and Voss. It lunged, crushing Voss, tearing him apart. Pike drove his axe into its back, but was struck down, gasping for breath.

I charged, peave raised, driving it into the creature’s side. Aor swung hard, breaking its jaw, and the beast crumpled, blood pouring black onto the snow. Silence fell, broken only by my ragged breath.

Two of us left. The oxen had fled, the sleds wrecked, the dead scattered in the snow. The tree line loomed, dark and silent, but I knew eyes still watched. Pike forced himself up, clutching his ribs. “We move,” he rasped.

We left the swamp, broken men. The company believed it was wolves or a bear. We let them. But I know what I saw in those cedar woods. And when the wind rises at night, carrying a cry that holds two voices at once, I still hear it. And I remember.