My grandmother had told me Stories about the Leshy. She told me that it had taken my father away because he did not respect the land.

My mother told me that she was a crazy old lady. She told me that he had been killed when a Tree fell on him in the woods. My mother told me that he had died because he was not careful.

Today, I am sitting in the woods. Firewood stacked in the wagon, but I never cut live trees. I only take dead ones. I even do my best not to take limbs off of other trees when I drop one.

I am resting, my elbows on my knees and my butt on a stump, when I see it. To be honest, it scares the crap out of me. I have spent my life in the woods. I can sneak up on most animals and I have never been seen if I didn’t want to be. I have caught trespassers and poachers. I have stopped dumpers and even saved a lost cat. I am not usually caught by surprise. This thing, the size of a tractor, was a few feet away and I had no idea. I jumped, I admit it.

I looked at it, thinking I was done for. Remembering my grandmother’s stories and wishing I had my gun. It might not have done any good, but it would have made me feel better than the empty chain saw on the ground.

It stared for a bit, but neither of us made a sound. After a couple of minutes it turned and walked behind a tree that it didn’t come out from behind of. I didn’t move. I would guess I sat there, stuck in place like a bug in sap, for almost an hour. I just couldn’t do it.

I still cut wood every winter. I still make sure that the tree is dead and I still avoid hunting unless I need the meat. I am careful and I should be safe, but I keep looking over my shoulder.

So would you.