The Yellow-Eyed Devils
Adventure. Adventure is what I craved. I wanted to gain the fruits of life that I had so long been denied in my youth—and, in those days, those fruits could be found and plucked in the American West. But if I had a hint of what would happen to me and my boys when I found that adventure, it would’ve made me never want to leave civilization… Of course, I’ve heard tales of Indian scalping and killing settlers, wild panthers and bears tearing men, women, and children alike, but the tale like you’re about to hear often go deaf on the ears of the common folk—those likely to want to settle the West like I did. If only they, and I, knew what deep, dark horror lay in the old American West… The four of us boys were riding on horseback, the hot sun hitting our backs like a match lighting up small branches, cacti flanking us on all sides, the constant fear of an Indian attack always keeping us on alert. To my left was my bestest friend, Thomas, a good boy, decently clean-shaven (apart from the stubble he often supported), new to the world of criminals, thieves, savages, and vagrants—hell, so was I. To my right, trailing the group as usual, was Richard, a drunk who we only keep around cause he’s good at hunting and fishing, and he can tell a good joke here and there, his long, unkept hair sitting uncomfortably on his broader shoulders. Then came our leader, John, a man whom I’d only had the greatest respect for. He had gentlemanly features—combed, parted hair from the left; a nice trimmed mustache with shaven cheeks; and these deep-set blue eyes which sat handsomely under his brown eyebrows. And though Richard was the oldest out of us boys, it was John who was the most natural leader. We hadn’t seen a lick of water or stream by the time the trouble started. Right as we were about to take a break after our day’s labors, John spotted an object and told us to halt. At this point, in my inexperienced state of existence, I didn’t know what to expect in such a harsh, unforgiving place like the American West. We slowly approached the structure, John unholstering his revolver in case any trouble arose. When we got to the mysterious device, the crew and I realized that it was an abandoned wagon of some pitiable family who saw their end, most likely taking form in the scalping that I heard the papers talk about. “It’s pretty run down, boys; let’s strip it of any usefulness,” said John. When we pulled away the sand-ridden white tarp, however, the bones of three distinct family members lay there, the stench of death hitting us immediately. There lay a family of three—so we thought—under the tarp, their faces torn and bones broken and eyes (what’s left of them) looking upon the Heavens and their gaunt expressions exhibiting the greatest despotisms the world had to offer at their point of demise and exit from out the world, from whence they demised. We took whatever valuables lay with the perished, flies leaping over us like stuntmen over horses at a circus. Clothing, watches, ink, instruments, incongruent food scraps—whatever lay with that godforsaken family we took (or thought was worth taking). Though I noticed something particularly odd: scratch marks. Not just those that the common grizzly bear would make, but an actual sign from another heathen dimension whose calling to our land stripped whatever inhabitants traveled through. “The hell you think happened to these poor folks, Capt? said Richard. “The hell if I know. But, since there are so many leftover valuables and the scratch marks, I’d reckon that it was a sort of band of critters—wolves, coyotes, maybe even one lone bear—but likely not a man or men,” responded John. “Oh, well, I don’t think any of them can do this, but I’ve heard of stories of lions, from Africa, traveling with those traveling circuses, and getting loose and mauling people and families,” Richard, in his usual daze, said. I interjected, saying that “It’s unlikely that a circus would travel through these uncivilized parts of the West”—then we heard the cry of Thomas, who ventured further up the trail to investigate whatever this crime scene had else to evidence. We ran over, seeing Thomas stepping slowly backwards towards our approaching direction, his tired eyes set upon whatever old, ancient horror he uncovered. Stepping by his side, our firearms at our ready, we, too, gazed upon that same esoteric finding, which culminated in our knowledge that there were more than three family members—five, actually. Holstering our devices, holding our noses with our dirty fingers, we saw the bleached bone of the child stragglers, yet, interestingly, with their organs plastered around the palace, like a painting of a monarchical castle in Europe, furnished with the pale, dusty red blood of their forefathers that reflected the everclear blue sky above. Fending off the vultures and snakes and other animals that also did their own investigating, we noticed that there was a femur there, a rib there, an ulna there, a long, complete vertebrae strewn out upon a sun-hot rock—a scene straight out of an account of a Jack the Ripper victim. The top of two sun-bleached skulls, along with their forgotten bottom mandibles, were organized like a compass in that dry dirt: North, East, South, West. Long fingernails, once belonging to a seemingly beautiful daughter, a caretaker of whom she loved, were sticking out of the sandy, gravel soil, reflecting off the sun that showed no mercy to the savage or the Christian or the partisan. It was then that I noticed those claw marks, the same back at the wagon, only a couple of paces away, dug into the sandy crevices that marked the ground, with red grains filling those crevices like lost swimmers and mariners who were thrown off their ships for mutiny. “By God, I ain’t see nothin’ like this—not even from Injun’ savagery!” exclaimed Richard. Thomas, in a quivering voice, said that “This, this is not natural to this world.” I put my arms around my friend, suddenly turned when there was another noise—not from any man, but from our horses, who were whimpering and hollering like they’d seen the Devil. We ran back to the wagon where we roped our horses, their hind legs kicking at some phantom spirit whose presence in these lands marks a mistake in God’s ways. Richard looked around, exclaiming that there was an Indian above us in the canyon, staring at us trying to make sense of the situation we were in, and started shooting at it until Thomas and I, in our infantile state, went along, unholdered our revolvers and shot at the Indian, whom we thought was an incarnation of a heathen. Once the Indian made haste away from the rocky canyon side, Capt. John (as we called him out of reverence) told us to hold our fire and that we should leave the premises. We followed our captain, to a word, scrounging up whatever we needed for survival in these harsh, untrodden lands. Set forth we did, West, out of the canyon, and that wagon tomb, trailing along behind the other members, only hoping for our dour survival. It seemed that days, weeks, maybe even millennia, went by before we felt safe enough to set up camp, passing by an old water well by the way, the water evaporated like souls from the bodies of those who fought in all wars past. The camp we made was bordered by rocks on two respective sides—good repellent from the wild savagery that lay across these western lands. The trees, old and crusted in their old and venerable age, had their dry branches extended down into that dehydrated soil. Spiders, scorpions, snakes, rats—the whole lot of them proving themselves to be greater nuisances than the Indians themselves. It was getting dark, so we knew we had to establish some sort of artisan fortification if we were to have a chance of survival in the land of the ceaseless mortality. The campfire, stoked hot with flame and inferno, provided some warmth to our unholy pilgrims to ventured into godless territory. The grub?—well, nothing, except a coyote that old Dick shot for us. Better that than an Indian, I suppose. We decided to sleep in shifts that night, to prevent any attack or dissension with the local tribesmen. It would be John, our most noble knight and gladiator, who would take first watch; then Richard, but who knew if he were to keep that promise of the protection of those accompanied by him. So exhausted from the day’s extravagances that Dick, Thomas, and I slept as fast as a deer may run from the humble snap of a twig, perhaps as a way to escape the melancholy disposition and situation we found ourselves in. John looked longingly into the dark depths of that Arabian-esque desert, his left hand at rest on that officer’s saber of his: With that southern drawl of his, along with that most stoic and militaristic nature, I couldn’t help but think that he served under Gen. Lee in the War Between the States. I awoke, the night still as dark as ever, the last flame of the fire breathing its last breath before it extinguished into oblivion, like all the pitiful souls of man would. Looking around, I saw that everyone—yes, including that most lamentable Richard!—was asleep, our guard down, my senses stinging with anxiety. I looked to my left and, perhaps because it was so dark, I could not see Thomas; something seemed off. Then, with such a silent passion as to queer any mute, I heard the rattling whispers of Thomas, seemingly out in the distance. I stood up, believing this to be some foolish prank between two friends, but as those murmurs stood among the small breezes of the night, I knew something was off. I listened, with great tension, to the voice of Tom that came from the far-away cliffs, from the backs of those night creatures, from the low-hanging branches of the millennia-old trees, from my very soul. So entrancing was it, those voices, to where I couldn’t help but walk away from the camp, towards the likely source of my friends’ gossip. The horses, who were stationed at a group of boulders a couple of meters away from us, were, as the day previous, shrieking, as if some demon came into our world to torture the souls that denied them eternal paradise. “What the hell are you doing, Neill?” hissed Thomas, awakened by the cries of our colts, turned over in his dark blanket. I was thus broken out of the trance that I was emplaced in, realizing that I walked about 20 feet from our camp, towards a hill where it was unknown what was on the other side of it. The other two woke up, looking at me, almost as dumbfounded as myself. “Come on, son, you ain’t abandoning us yet, are you?” said John with a low, deep voice. “Oh, let the boy take a piss, will-yah Johnny boy?” replied Richard. “Weren’t you supposed to be on watch at this hour, Richard?” questioned John with intensity. “Well, I suppose that I let my fatigue get the better of me.” I loomed there, in the pervading, still blackness, staring back with wide, tired eyes at my companions. “Are you okay, Neill?” said Thomas, standing up from his makeshift bed. “Yeah… well… I swore I’d just heard your voice over that there hill, whispering and whatnot.” “I’ve been here, sleeping, until I heard the horses, for whatever reason, hollerin’, likely because you were a disturbance to their rest!” John squatted on his heels, yawning, and just considered the fact that I was “just weary of yesterday’s events,” and just that I was inebriated or something. “Get some sleep, fellers, the journey to our Zion,” said with a sarcastic tone, “is not an easy, restful journey. I had no time, no reason, to think about my eccentric actions; thus, rest took me into her embrace. The next morning didn’t provide much of an extravagance as did the night preceding it. Bygone winds of Neanderthal howled pervaded the lands, cactus brushing on our horses’ legs, falcons and eagles swooping down to earn a meal of reptile snakes. We passed by the occasional dilapidated outhouse or former dwelling of a settler or Mexican family. The only thing on my mind, though, was the former night’s trespasses into my soul. By midday, we argonauts, on a journey of brotherhood, silently drove through a small canyon, walls of bygone natural materials on each side of us. Never had I, and perhaps the others, felt so watched by a bushel of eyes; but from which species, or from what fauna, I had not known—until we saw the stoic Natives observing us from high above. Again, just like the day previous, when we saw a very similar sight, we hoisted our arms in a defensive pose. But, again, John told us to put down our arms, lest we incite greater conflict than we already had in an unknown land. Holding up his right hand, blackened from skirmish and toil, he said in a calm yet defiant voice, “We bring no harm to or your people; we men are merely traveling ourselves.” One of the two Natives—the elder one—murmured something to the younger scout in their language, and proceeded to swivel their horses back, casting their shadows out of our dehydrated sight. We, at the moment, did not know what to make out of this, as they did not seem visibly angry nor discontented with our presence—but we could never be too sure. John led our band of pilgrims further through the canyon, which held so much history of the world—of men and beasts alike—in its bosom (a true wonder!). When we were approaching the end of that ravine, right when the incline was just mere meters from us, the two Natives rode their horses down to face us, their faces, as stated before, not showing anger, yet still exhibiting caution and prudence. Richard, always ready for a fight—so much that he never holstered his six-shooter—aimed only mere inches above their feathered heads. John, in response, being on the right of Dick, snatched his iron and pistol-whipped him across his face (which really shut the man up). “I apologize for my friend; he can get rather rancorous,” exclaimed John to the strangers, a hint of a smirk buried in his corner lip. The young scout moved closer to us, eyes kept on John, except for the few, quick glances to Thomas and I. The scout’s horse’s head was adjacent to John’s, and the scout spoke, in decently clear English, “White man don’t belong. These lands are cursed; demons and spirits roam all around. You bring war; we maintain peace. White men make those spirits angry, and they will hunt YOU if you do not leave.” Thomas looked at me for a brief second, unable to process what he was saying (I had the same issue). But, during those small intervals of sight between the scout and us, we—or at least I—noticed that the scout’s left eye was peculiar, off. It was a mix of those classic dark brown aboriginal eyes, but with a strong hint of a light, peculiar green, that, from my view, was in the shape of a thunderbolt, or arrow: A feature that was maybe odd for him, yet made me sympathize more with his station. “Now I don’t disagree with you, sirs,” replied John, “and we’re only passing by real quick, further into Arizona Territory until we cross from here, New Mexico.” “Go quick, then, and tell others not to come,” said the scout. With that, the scout and the elder turned back, went up the incline, and disappeared from our sight. “Now, why the hell would you let that savage tell us what to do? And why would you defend him—hit me!—for their sake?” yelped Richard. “Well, Dick, though I have no doubt that you’ve seen many of the despotisms that life has to offer, when you’ve seen the horrors of life’s existence that I’ve seen, even partaken in them yourself, you are quick to find that the White man can do much more to destroy each other than the Indian to the European,” calmly asserted John, looking down on the dirt, his cadence that of a stoic philosopher. We thus set course again, to the west, the ominous word of the scout reminding us that we, rather than the Indians, are the heathens, in unforgiving lands. Not too far from that encounter was Fort Wingate, where we band of travelers rested temporarily, obtaining foodstuffs and other resources. We crossed the border into the Arizona Territory, where, out of sheer desperation, we decided to take up camp soon, so that we could straighten our bearings. After traveling miles and miles through dry, arid desert, as we had done so long before, following the person in front of us like a line of ants, our heads hung low watching various critters dart from the hooves of our horses, we spotted an odd-looking, white structure ahead of us, clearly not in the classical English/American style we were used to. John told us to stop where we were, as he would venture into the unique building that we slowly neared with skeptical inquiry. Fast did he and his horse go to it, only temporarily halting as the doors to the establishment were closed—but only queerly, for the right brown door was ajar, as if there were travelers like us, who, too, had taken camp recently. Mere minutes after John and his horse entered this structure, he came out, walking, opening the brown doors, and raising his hand and whistling for us to approach. Once we were in imminent proximity with this edifice, our horses were disturbed by some unseen, dark presence that surrounded it; it was only John’s horse, that old, stalwart, war-horse, that was seemingly not disturbed by said dark, macabre energy. I, too, noticed that there was a dark-gold cross that adorned the top of the doors, which communicated to us that it was an old Spanish mission, long forgotten as the old Conquistadors themselves—but only to some. Once entering the mission itself, Thomas noticed that there were a multitude of scratches that decorated the doors themselves, as if there was a struggle not to keep something in, but out. However, we dared not allow these abhorrent hints get to us, for what we needed was not phantom ghost stories or supernatural histories, but rather much-needed rest. Yet, after we dismounted our wearied horses, the more we looked around the mission, the more disturbed the event that we supposed to occur there became. Pieces of wood, cattle sacks, iron, chipped white paint from the walls, more crosses, all became affixed in our view, as this place’s holiness was corrupted by an immoral, odious force. But if there was any one thing confined within those walls, half-illuminated by the setting sun over us (there was no main roof of the mission, merely multiple small structures within its walls), it was the thing that was blocked by the crouched sight of John and Richard, who were curiously studying some wretched, sitting object. This object, so it seemed—what it WAS—was a beaten skeleton of a priest situated in a dark corner of the mission. His clothes ripped, his bottom jaw snapped clean off, his ribcage was exposed, as if some mountain lion had pursed its claws into the man, releasing his organs and blood, and bones onto the ground in front of him—truly a grizzly sight to behold. Near him was a hunting knife that he was attempting to use against his mysterious attacker, but to no avail; and a bronze crucifix was held in his right hand—a last-ditch attempt to ward off this Satanic being. Thomas and I instinctively un-holstered our revolvers, expecting a beast to prey upon us at any second, after corralling us into its attack zone. But when looking around at this false pursuer, Thomas saw, above the doors but inside the mission, rather than outside, instead of a Christian cross, there was instead a deviant symbol. But, just as we two were about to inspect it, our horses started howling, and kicking up their hind legs, as if to fight an unseen foe that was near them—or us. “Dick, secure the horses, and Neill, bar the doors shut!” commanded John. Thus, we did just that, with Richard pulling on the harnesses of our disturbed stallions, and I running towards those scratched-stained brown doors, pushing as hard as I could in order to secure our survival. The wind stopped suddenly, and we all, at the same time, noticed. An eerie energy was felt by all, but unknown to all. However, since the sun was setting, we had no time to dwell upon our unforeseen circumstances, so, as Richard recommended, we gathered whatever in that place that could burn, so we could start a nightlight fire. In the center of the plaza stood—or rather sat—a white-tiled fountain, which at once held bright, inviting water, but had been bleached of its former contents, now only holding a small pool of blood-red elixer. We did not care in the moment, however, so we placed all flammable scraps into that fountain, blazing it alight, illuminating the crevices of that small plaza and all its darkened walls that we could not see previously. Thomas, still in wonder at that unknown symbol we saw earlier, obtained a long piece of wood sticking out of the fire, its tip blazed with orange light. Quickly did he, and I behind him, walk to those doors and, when we were in sight of the symbol, squinted to see all its quaint features. We both knew what we were seeing was not of any American or Christian or even Spanish origin, but of some unknown, perhaps aboriginal, significance. For it was, from our observation, a carving of two arrows pointing to each other, with four fletchings each, with a black circle between those facing arrows. We, in our ignorance, of course did not have the ability to decipher this symbol, so we left it, walking and scanning the inner walls of the mission, to find any more clues to this puzzle. We did find, in addition to some scratch marks—which we foolishly brushed off as the work of the builders of this place—one more thing, a crudely (again, like the symbol above the doors) etched word, which we saw as “ch’į́įdii,” a term hitherto unknown to us. But, since we knew the word was not of Spanish or English descent, we called over John—who was talking and planning with Richard about our situation and next steps—since we knew that he, in his educated vocabulary and life experiences, knew some Navajo due to his exposure to foreign cultures, so that he may be able to tell us what it meant. Indeed, when he came over, he was immediately stunned by the sight, as he knew what the word meant. “Christ, this doesn’t make sense,” said John, upon first seeing it. “Well, what is it?” replied Thomas. “I do, in fact, know some Navajo,” stuttered John, shaking his head in disbelief, “and this word, to my knowledge, means something like ‘spirit’ or ‘ghost’, and not a friendly one—or ONE’S—to say the least,” making us even more creeped out since he never was so nervous in his normal disposition, which did not help our already fearful situation. John looked at both of us, in a pursed-lipped smile, as if to calm us down, putting his hands behind our backs, walking us back to the fire. But I did not remember any of the words he spoke, as the malevolent words were held in my gaze, as it became harder to see as we were nearing the flame. “I’ve been in many odd, even horrific situations throughout my life,” laughed Richard, “but this, this is one that I cannot reason through,” the latter words he said in a more sober tone. “I can second that. But boys, clearly there is not something right going on here, so we’re gonna leave when light first hits,” spoke John. We all silently nodded in agreement, all wishing to leave the barren desert for some semblance of civilized intimacy in settled civilization. In an attempt to distract us from our plight, we shared stories with eachother about our lives before our coupling as a party, such as how Thomas was a performer for a travelling circus and how Richard was a cousin to Daneil Boone and was considered in Kentucky to be a master game hunter; John stayed mostly quiet, pondering what our next moves should be to secure our survival. But it was something that Richard said that still haunts me to this day, even more than some of the transpired events we witnessed and personally experienced. “You know boys,” he started, his dark eyes staring into the eternal flame of our fire, “I know you think of me as a fool, as one of the acts of Thomas’ circus, but I want you to know that I used to be a respectable man, beloved by my neighbors, feared by the beasts I hunted—I used to have it all. Yet, in something that our dear captain may relate to, I had it all stripped from me. It is no secret that I distrust the savage, but after you’ve seen what they can do to the ones you love, to the community you serve, then you would understand my position. Of course, they’re not all like that, yet always be vigilant for those that are.” He continued: “From my experience, while some may claim that War is God, I would say that that God Himself is War. GOD IS WAR.” Never had we three heard anything so philosophical from Dick, and we all just sat there, dumbfounded and exhausted, all staring into the flaming embers of the pylon in front of us. “Alright, we’ll sleep in shifts, with myself starting first, then Richard, then Thomas, and lastly, Neill,” declared John. “We need all the rest we can get for our journey, especially in our situation, so y’all start sleeping, and I’ll tend to the horses one last time.” We heeded his wise words, quickly making our cots and makeshift sleeping quarters so we could rest our weary eyes. Speedily did we sleep, slipping into a darkness of consciousness more unknown than the territory that we were currently inhabiting, comforted by the thought that our captain would be the first to watch over us, and the last to allow us to get hurt. My dreams—nightmares—that night were the worst ones that I had my entire life. It started, from my vague recollection, with me standing on a small, crested hill, overlooking… well… something along the lines of a Native ritual, with naked Navajo men holding torches, chanting and dancing around what seemed to be another Native. But this Native in the middle of this circle wasn’t normal. Though he was thrashing violently on the ground, I was able to spot some eccentric features he—or it—had. Long, mangled arms clawed into the ground around it, loud shrieks of pain screamed out, its whole body was very unnatural, almost alien to what we humans can fathom as existing on the same soil as us. Suddenly, it all stopped, all chanting and howling, and they all suddenly turned to me, including the creature. I saw its eyes—its eyes!—a piercing yellow looking at me upon my small, undefended hill. One Native—presumably the chief—pointed at me, and a whole profusion of screams came from all directions, and the white-skinned creature—in contrast with the darker Natives—darted right towards me. I ran as fast as I could, on a flat surface comparable to the dirt ground of the desert. I then fell, rolling into what seemed to be an eternal, dark oblivion. I softly landed in what seemed to be another realm, when cavalry soldiers—Americans!—saw me, and, when the officer reached his hand out to help me up, he was shot with an arrow, and an entire war party of Natives on horseback trampled through the cavalrymen, slaughtering them all. I heard, through all the chaos, a deep growl behind me, only to be that white creature I saw before; but before I could make out all its features, or had the chance to fight back, I was, I believe, bitten and swallowed by the creature, this yellow-eyed devil, engrossed once again into the darkness that I was enveloped it when I first laid to rest. Then I awoke. In a groggy state, my eyes bloodshot from the horrors of my nightmare—which I could only interpret as an omen—I lifted my head up around me to see great calamity. Thomas, my dearest friend, was convulsing on the ground, screeching many profanities and foreign tongues, while John and Richard were pinning him down in a crude attempt to calm him. Thomas abruptly stopped from his violent fit, exhausted by the pretensions and actions of his comrades. He leaned up, out of breath, sweat secreting out of every available orifice on his body, his mouth trembling, as if he was to say something. He looked down onto his skinny bosom and, lifting his blood-and-sweat-stained shirt, revealed there to be a carving—but not one that was manmade. Rather, from what we could gather, all huddling and surrounding our broken and sick friend, was that it resembled a deer’s skull, with antlers protruding so far that it scarred Thomas’ nipples, the blood being from an etching of red eyes. It was the same monster I saw in my dreams mere minutes before. “This is all insanity,” I thought. But Thomas wasn’t the only one of our ever-growing, pressing problems. I had noticed that, after I awakened, there was a terrible, conniving stench that reeked the mission—but I realized that it was not coming from Thomas. Instead, it had been from one of the corners of the place—specifically from the horse pen. With John consoling Thomas, Richard and I were so entranced with the sight that we saw at the pen. There was a blob of meat, bones, organs, tissue, fur, all together melted in the corner, causing a plague-ish vapor to arise from that scene. It was our horses, or what used to be them. Trailing up the wall behind was more blood—and scratches. The same scratches that we noticed the day prior. Whatever malevolent force had terrorized the mission’s former inhabitants also terrorizes not just our horses—who met a terrible, bloody, silent end—but also one of our own crewmates. Whatever beast did this was able to scale a wall not less than fifteen feet, slaughter all four of our horses, and climbed back up in silence. This could not stand. “Goddamn, we’re gonna need the Texas Rangers or, even, the Pinkertons here,” exclaimed Richard, his shotgun held in hand, while I grabbed my revolver from my bedside. John had put Thomas to rest in his cot, running over to us to also study the horror. “What happened, what happened?” I asked frantically, with an abominable urge to know what transpired by the time I awoke. “Richard woke up first,” John explained, starting deep into the bloody assemblage in front of us, “yelling that something was wrong with Thomas. You, of course,” looking directly at me, “were supposed to take the last watch shift, but something happened to Thomas on his watch which sent him into a shock. What he saw, I do not know—but I can clearly see what’s in front of me right now.” John rushed towards his cot, quickly packing his belongings up, as if he were to leave us, alone, at the mission. “What are you doing, sir?” I asked. He stood up. “There’s a place called Defiance, an Indian agency south of here, but since we just came from Wingate, I will retread our steps back there, in order to get help and supplies for us.” He briskly walked to Richard, putting his clenched fist next to the latter’s chest, remarking that Dick would be in charge while he was temporarily gone, and for us not to leave the mission’s walls unless the most dire circumstances arose. Dick nodded in agreement, finally, he seemed—other than the philosophical comment he made the night previous—to be fully aware of what is happening. With that, John took his packed belongings, not taking too much, as he thought it to be less than a two-day trip to Wingate. Dick and I accompanied him to the scratched, brown doors that led to the outside heathen world, wishing farewells and good luck to our regal captain. We closed and barred the doors behind him, to make sure that no creature to enter—but, in the moment, in our shaken minds, we did not remember that the monster could climb over the mission’s walls. “Well, Neill,” Dick said to me, “take care of your friend for now, and I’ll scan the perimeter for any antagonists.” It all sounded fine to me, and I discovered that I was more used to taking orders from him than I thought. For the rest of the day, I was both a maid and nurse for Thomas, but I had no regrets about it. He slept for most of the day, periodically jolting up from some unscripted nightmare, scanning Richard’s movements as he diligently looked for the beast. The sky, in particular, was also odd, as there were now dark, low-hanging clouds, yet there was no rain to water us dry fauna, which would’ve been a calming relief. There were seemingly no signs of the creature, with only the occasional whistle echoing through the mission’s walls, which we chalked up to an increase in wind. Night, just as before, found us hiding within the walls of Christ, holding out the hope that our leader would soon arrive with a dozen soldiers, to establish our safety. There was likely no sleep for any of us three, for we could not let our guard down, lest another one of us be afflicted with Thomas’ condition. Just as the sun finally set, we heard scratching outside the doors. Richard took up his double-barrel and slowly and attentively walked towards the large, brown doors, not knowing what horror was outside. He put his ear up to the doors, where the scratching was at head-level; he then knocked back, into the darkness that lay outside, the scratching subsiding, as if the creature was now in what was our former, vulnerable position. More scratches came, not from just the door—where it did return—but on all sides of our fortification. There was more than one creature. Richard shuffled back to us, stoking the fire so we could see our surroundings better. A rock, a small pebble, was thrown over a wall, landing a couple of feet from us. We didn’t know what to do. Petrified with fear, a sense of doom hanging over us like those dark clouds before, we got into a defensive position so that we faced the corner of two walls each, with Thomas resting between us. A howl erupted, then two, then three—there were at least three of them. Dread hung over me, especially, since I may have foresaw the menace that was to attack us in the dream I had the night before—and that terror was not one that I wished to face in a non-dream, physical world. A rhythmic thumping, just like the tribe in my nightmare, enveloped the environment around us. Dick raised his gun into the air and shot a loud, deafening noise. All went silent for just a moment. Behind three walls came the sound of scratching—but louder than before: They were climbing. I saw out of the corner of my eye long, pale, but seemingly shiny fingers, with massive claws that began to curl in on themselves. Peering from the top of the walls was the dome of a skull, illuminated brightly by the moonlight beaming through the cracks of clouds. Then, out of sheer horror, those piercing, bright yellow eyes looked back at us, as if they were studying us as animals at an exhibit. For a horrifying moment, that’s all its eyes, those devilish eyes did, was stare—and we stared back. A thump on each side of us was heard and, when we looked, two marauders leaned on their forehands, curled into the dirt ground. We looked back in front of us at our stalker, only to realize that it, too, was on level with us, or should I say still higher, as these yellow-eyed devils were massive. Apart from the yellow eyes came the matted black fur which adorned their pale, bony skin. Hunched over, resting on their clawed hands, their spine nearly protruded from their arched backs, almost like a threatened cat. Though they had that cat-like feature, there was no telling what these beings were, since they had a skull like a deer, the back of a cat, the profuse, labored breaths of a tired dog, and the eyes of a biblical devil. We were nearly cornered, except for behind us, which we slowly—and without fail, still staring back at the beasts—walked back while dragging Thomas. The middle one—let’s call it the alpha, as it was clearly in charge—shook its head like a deer with flies on its face, and howled such a loud concoction of dark symphony that it outmached even Richard’s rifle shot. One of the devils charged at Richard (only a few meters away from it), and Dick fired both shots at it, which temporarily inebriated it. The other one that came to me, however, was not fazed by the pistol cartridges that I fired, leaving me to jump out of the way of its path. The result was that it ran right into Richard, pummeling him into the dirt of the ground. I, at the moment, was dragging Thomas to one of the small shacks that lined the walls while firing my gun, but again, to no avail. Richard, terrified of his impending end, took out his hunting knife and, in a scene likely resembling what happened to the late pastor, was torn apart by the beasts, the sound of cracking bones and flowing blood echoing throughout the mission like the howls of those devils. The alpha, who at this point was not engaged in the struggle, walked to us, though it looked like more of a decadent dance. Either way, I was terrified, and just as it was a few feet away from us, a loud jolt of noise fired behind me, wounding the devil. It was Thomas who used his revolver against it, hitting it in the eye while it screamed out in pain. We could still not comprehend the horror that we were witnessing, at the sight of a man who, though not without his faults, was still our friend, was now being gutted like the deer he used to so often hunt in his native state. But before we knew it, more shots rang out, from an assailant unknown to us. It was John, who, just like the devils, jumped over the walls, screaming like a banshee, unloading all his ammunition to strike down the foe. We two also engaged in the struggle, firing whatever little shots we had left. Significantly, John blew the head—or skull—right off of one of the devils eating Richard, shattering the hind legs of the other in the process. He ran over to us, the alpha still sorrowing over its wounds, responding to our frantic questions about how he was here too early with an explanation that he passed out on his way to Wingate, awaking when it got dark, and ran back to us as quickly as he could. This meant that there was no army, no cavalry to save us—only ourselves. With this sobering realization, he implored us to escape the mission through the front doors, while he would finish off the other two devils. We obliged to his command, and I put Thomas over my shoulder, his gun in his other hand. We limped closer and closer to the exit, what may be our salvation, scurrily looking over my shoulder to see the melee. John did finish off the devil with the shot legs, it being unable to travel properly. The alpha not in sight, John poured alcohol out of a bottle on the two dead devils, using a piece of wood from the fire to light them ablaze. In the meantime, since I was the only one capable of doing so between the two of us, I was removing the barricades that ornamented the locked doors. Once I finally unblocked them, I again took Thomas over my shoulder, looking back to see that John was running towards us. We were safe. A large, black husk came crashing down between us, in front of John. The alpha came back, likely hot with rage from Thomas’ shot at its yellow-eyed vision. Due to the size of it, we could not see the struggle between it and John, but the former bested the latter. Thomas and I could only stare at the devil as, after some shots originating from John, it ate into our beloved captain. We wanted—needed—to run, but we had no mental or physical capacity to do so at the moment. The devil looked back at us, peering over its broad shoulder, its eyes reaching mine. The one peculiarity of it was not of its pure rage, but of the distinct color of this specific creature’s eyes. Sure, they were yellow, already an oddity, but this one was… different. It had a mix of that bright yellow, but also with another color akin to a green lightning bolt. Never had I witnessed such a beautiful color on a hideous being. It did not attack us, however, so we took that as a sign of providence for us to run away from these lands that birthed beings hitherto unknown to the man of civilization. From the East we came, and to the East we run back to. I went to the West thinking that it would provide new, bountiful opportunities to me and my companions. But all it provided us was a death sentence and lifelong traumas from the horrors experienced in those impious lands of the unbelievers. Never shall I even mention the direction West again. Never shall I travel West again. Never shall I forget those Yellow-Eyed-Devils. Credit: Walker Ramspott Instagram Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.