The Herald Covert Letters. A Paranormal Romance Part 7.
Beginning In the latter part of the 1990s, I received letters from a man calling himself “Herald H. Covert.” I present them here for whatever entertainment value they may have.
“None of this is true…..probably.”
“Why is it impossible for evolution to take place quickly? “She said. “In a single generation or a single lifetime? Even a single night? Hundreds of people go missing in the forest every year.
Don’t you wonder what happens to them, what really happens?”
Happy Camp California. September; 2019.
Funny how Agency directives and expense outlays seemed to pick up during the Covid years. I’d been sent to the US state of California to interview a woman in town. Her name was Ms. “MBR” She lives in a largish camping trailer with several cats, a couple of large dogs and a smallish husband. She was a bit under five feet tall herself, but made up for it in bluster and venom. I include this account here to illustrate what I do, day in and day out. The encounter was — fairly typical.
What resulted was far less typical!
We met on some unshapely picnic tables at her RV park in downtown Happy Camp California, all of four blocks of it. The term “RV Park” here used optimistically since nearly everyone in the park seemed to be living there permanently. Mrs MRB’s trailer was packed to the gills with her stuff which consisted of boxes crammed with papers, lots of brik-a- brak, the two barking dogs and a blaring TV set.
“The air out here is so nice, let’s sit and chat outside” I said. She enthusiastically agreed.
I’d been asked to interview Ms MRB due to some cryptozoological reports obtained by BFRO. The Bigfoot Field Research Organization. Seems that hairy hominid sighting reports took a sharp spike in the area starting a year or so ago around Happy Camp. BFRO discovered that all of the reports coincided with the movements of a single person.
You guessed it! One Ms MRB.
After about five minutes I determined that Ms. MRB has never actually seen a Bigfoot. She was sure that one was hanging around her trailer (in the middle of town) protecting her from stalkers and terrorists. Bigfoot was being helped by her spirit “husband” Billy the Kid and his Regulators. Billy was her husband in a past life you see. While I was wondering what her real husband “Manny” thought about all of this she launched into a diatribe about how she was going to beat up and then sue Mark Zuckerberg for suspending her from Facebook and preventing her from becoming rich by being a psychic medium.
“I should be making over 30 thousand dollars a month” she exclaimed. But Facebook keeps suspending my account just because I tell the whole truth about how Mark Zuckerberg is PAYING people to spy on me 24–7!”
I nodded. There is simply no way to debate such things with people. I tried to steer the conversation back to why she was sending in all of those Bigfoot reports.
She finally admitted that she hadn’t actually seen the big-guy.
“I know he’s around here and I saw footprints!” she exclaimed. Then she pulled out her cracked iPhone and displayed — some photos of dirt.
“He’s here alright! “ she said, I get psychic traces of him all of the time! “Besides! I’ve been psychic since I was three years old!” she said.
Ok — OK, I said getting up. “Looks like you have some good proof there.”
“I have better than proof,” she said, “you should go and see Her if you don’t believe me!”
This flummoxed me for a second because I’ve heard of Her. Supposedly “Her” was one of the old-school weed growers around here and had several real experiences with the big-guy. She didn’t make reports though. She was well known to the Cryptozoological biz, in stories told around lonely camp fires mostly. She was someone that even the BFRO people steered clear of, but nobody knew exactly why.
This of course piqued my interest.
“Where can I find Her?” I Asked.
Ms. MRB hesitated for a moment, the first time I saw her speechless. “I shouldn’t have told you that! She warned me! “I — I’ve told you too much!” she said. I- I can’t tell you where She is. She values her privacy!” Go away! Stop bothering me, Stalker! “ GO AWAY!”
She SCREECHED this last and ran back to her trailer, slamming the door amid the loud barking of her dogs.
****
I asked around a bit, most people in town knew about Her and I got the impression that they knew where She was too. I also got the impression that they had no intention of telling me — an outsider much about Her.
That’s OK, I’ve been an outsider all of my life.
Eventually I was able to track Her down, one of the weed vendors in town bent for about fifty dollars. “Take Elk Creek Rd to the end, make a left on ____ road and follow it until you can’t go no-further. You’ll see the house.” He said.
****
The following was taken from memory and may or may not be accurate. People ask me why I don’t use a digital recorder or even write down notes. In my business, recorders stop working, pens run out of ink and pencils mysteriously break, and I don’t use cell phones for a very good reason!
****
It was a seedy looking house, decorated in what might be called “feral hippy.” Moss grew in abundance and the windows seemed — less than transparent. A smell of woodsmoke hung in the air and a hint something else that I couldn’t put my finger on. The scent of old rot and decay. Deep rot and even worse. The scent of decaying fecal matter, like you would find in a neglected outhouse.
She was standing in the doorway as I walked up. A tallish, hulking figure. Hair was down to her waist, She was wearing a faded blouse and very loose trousers. Sandals on large feet, almost absurdly large. She peered at me with dark looking eyes in the bright daylight. Without a word she grunted and gestured for me to come inside, then vanished into her domicile.
I entered and stopped at the lintel, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. She was moving about a kitchen with very old looking appliances. I could see an ancient Frigidaire refrigerator encrusted with decades of grime. When she opened it though, its light was bright and the interior looked clean.
She said nothing, just moved about the space with an almost unearthly grace and speed. I cleared my throat awkwardly and she said one word —
“Sit!”
This was in almost a grunt, and indicated a largish chair, one of four around an old, heavy wood table that looked handmade. I sat and waited, she picked an old teapot off of a pot belly wood stove, poured steaming water into an earthenware jar, then after returning the teapot she pushed the jar over to me and sat down across from me. She seemed to be humming, but the tune escaped me and her humming was very low pitched, almost inaudible. I felt a heaviness in my head, like I had been awake for days.
“What is “ I began —
— “You drink, or go” she muttered. Her words were harsh, as the utterings of one who found speaking painful. She glared at me with those eyes, no longer dark in the gloomy kitchen, Now they seemed to glow reddish in the waning sunlight.
I took the rough thrown-clay jar and sniffed the contents. It was a bitter smelling liquid. I looked up, She angrily gestured for me to drink— no longer speaking. In a reflexive action I quaffed the liquid, almost choking in its bitterness. For a moment I felt detached from my body, as if I was a puppet and someone unseen pulled the strings. Again she hummed in that low-pitched, nearly inaudible sound.
She watched me for a time, humming all the while. I perceived the room to grow brighter, as if the gloom was being shaken off to be replaced by — I don’t know how to describe it. Fairy lights, bioluminescence crawling up and down the old furnishings.
She looked different too. More elegant somehow, regal. Her features took on a cast that seemed ancient and learned,
“That’s better” She began, her voice was natural and very beautiful, her lips did not seem to move in synchronization with her words. Like an old Japanese film dubbed into English.
“What did I just drink?” I asked.
“It’s very old,” she said, “There are those who would give much to know the contents of that cup. Now you, listen and listen well young man. You have poked your nose in a place where you Poor Brothers seldom tread, and those who do are forever changed by it. We of the Brethren are changed too. That is the way of things. The Brethren and the Poor Brothers are the same. Forever apart, but one. So it has been since the beginning. Those who stumble into the secret are changed. And we are changed too. Do you understand?
I shook my head.
“It is as simple as I can say.” She said, “You however cannot be changed “ she continued.” — because of your warrant, your quest. I cannot interfere and may not alter — what is to be. Others have put a stamp of strangeness on you. You are guided by — others. You are static. We cannot touch you.
I was not really understanding this, but remained silent for it seemed questioning was not a good idea. I began to feel warm inside, peaceful.
“Now” she began, her words ringing in the still air and penetrating me. “You have come here asking questions. Questions that are best unasked. Questions for which there are no good answers.
Yes I said, we are the same?” I said.” These Brethren's, are they the ones called Big Fo—
“ — DO NOT UTTER THAT WORD!” she said loudly.
“Names carry power and that name is a Poor Brother thing which diminishes both of the Brethren and the Poor Brothers. Allow me to show you how this works. We know who you are. Your name is Herald Algernon Hedwig Von_____ !. “
She saw my shocked expression — nobody knows my real name!
— “You see?” She continued. Names have power, Power to build or destroy. But also to preserve that which is.”
Who are the “Poor Brothers” I asked.
You are the Poor Brothers because you believe you have little. When you are cold you burn the trees. When you are hot you build machines to make cold. You are never satisfied with what you have. You dig the spine of the ground, foul the air and taint the water. Your clothes, your houses, your metal things — so disgusting!”
“But you use those things yourself,” I said.
“ Yes,” she said, “I am now a bridge between the Brethren and Poor Brothers. That is my warrant and my curse Once I was a queen among the Brethren, but your magic made me move into the realm of the Poor Brothers and here I remain. “
She indicated a framed photo covered by opaque cloth, silk or satin. I gingerly looked underneath and saw a photo that was very familiar to me. It was frame 352 of the Patterson Gimlin film. One of the clearest depictions of Sasquatch ever. If it was a Sasquatch and not some dude in a bear suit.
We sat silently for a while, then I asked “So you are “Patty?” You don’t look at all like her, and that was nearly fifty years ago!
She made an expression that was almost an indulgent smile. “It was a long time ago — yes. I was young and beautiful then. Desired and ravished by the Brethren. How we celebrated under the light of the small sun. But then, the Poor Brothers came into our places of power. With their riding beasts, their automobiles and their guns. Worst of all, their cameras! Things to steal our souls and transform us back into Poor Brothers ourselves.. I was no longer desired. You looked at me! You look at graven images of me! I can feel it! The pain of being changed back into a Poor Brother comes from that. The more of you Poor Brothers looked upon my beauty, the more that I moved out the realm of my kin and into your realm. And so you see me as I am today. Between both worlds and no longer a part of either.
“We are the same — what we call Poor Brothers and the Brethren, what you call Sasquatch are the same. We are one people, but separated by veils of power and language. A human who actually sees one of the Brethren changes — becomes more pliable. We on the other hand become more like you. More rigid. Stuck in the realm of the Poor Brothers.”
“ You see why we avoid you?” She said.
We have been here forever. We have been called many things . Almas, Yeren The natives of this place call us Bagwajiwinini, Nun Yunu Wi, the Stone Man or sometimes the hairy Man, Kecleh-Kudleh, Sometimes you call us Cain, brother to Able. Oh Mah, meaning Boss of the woods. And sásq’ets, the wild man which is where you get the term “Sasquach.” And many others.
“Of course, you need to understand. She said, “The line between the Brethren - what you call Sasquatch and you Poor Brothers, is very thin. It’s an evolutionary branch, but it’s taking place in real time — all around us! It’s a dynamic process which ebbs and flows. “
“ Humans are evolving too, you see” she continued.” You travel swiftly on your machines, even living in the sky, or deep in the sea. But some of you Poor Brothers remember when you lived in harmony with the land. When you lived as Brethren. Some of you evolve — into the Brethren again. Your flesh remembers. We remember!”
She must have seen my puzzled expression. “Evolution takes millions of years!” I said.
“Why is it impossible for evolution to take place quickly? “She said. ” In a single generation or even a single lifetime? A single night? Hundreds of people go missing in the forest every year. Don’t you wonder what happens to them, what really happens?
Are you saying that missing humans go and live in the forest? “I asked, not really understanding .
“No.” She said, not just live as poor brothers in the forest. Sometimes they evolve into creatures of the forest and learn to live in harmony with nature. As masters of this environment. They no longer fight nature, they become one with nature. They become more closely attuned with this place you call Earth. They stop fighting it with fire and metal. “
“They adapt.”
“We are in the same family, “ she said.” Except we happen to be more advanced on the evolutionary chain than you are” You see; we have adapted to life in this world, really adapted. Not simply by changing the world using machines.
She sighed, “most of the time when you poor brother’s nose around here we hasten the process forward a bit, then you don’t bother us — simple!
“ But you!” She said.
“Me? “ I asked.
“You have forces behind you that we don’t want to get involved with. You humans interfere far too much and what you are about to hear might be dangerous. The natives of this land know of us and leave up alone for the most part. We have been here far longer than they have and much longer than you folk of European stock. You know of us, dimly, but you don’t understand. Do you know that when Sasquatch hairs are tested, they always turn out to be human?”
Her speech seemed to be changing. Her words became more and more unsynchronized with her lips. As if some agency was translating for her.
“Even your legends of the Lycanthrope, are based on The Brethren. Some of your Poor Brother can make the transformation easily. Some move back and forth with the periods of the Moon.” We are part of you! More than even your fire — your machines. The Brethren and the Poor Brothers are part of a whole. A unit, and if part one dies, the other will surely perish. This is the message I wanted to give you, knowing that you will tell others.
“ — But I won’t” I began.
- Please! Said the voice. We know where our words will be conveyed. We wish for it! It is only one reason you cannot join us Tonight.
“What is the other reason? I asked.
“That, you will have to discover yourself” She said.
She began humming again, low -almost subsonic. I could feel it in my chest. Like sandbags piled on top of me. The room began to change and I saw that She was not alone. Several dark figures were standing behind her. Tall — dark indistinct with conical shaped heads.
“ You will remember and you will tell them… She hummed.
you will tell them……..
you will tell them………”
I must have passed out, I awoke up to hear large footsteps fading away into the distance. I was outside, in a field of low grasses and much taller plants. Cannabis sativa apparently. I seemed to be in a large “weed" field. Other footsteps were approaching and voices, when I pulled myself off of the ground I saw a number of figures, human figures approaching. One bearded dude in a rough looking leather parka demanded what I was doing here. I answered that I wasn’t sure where “here” was. The landscape was unfamiliar. certainly not northern California. A snow covered mountain was in the distance, it looked like Mount Adams! Leather Jacket Dude was saying something about how I was trespassing on his spread and where was the other big dude?
“We saw a very large figure carrying something on our infrared scope” He said,” It looked just like a body, then you showed up!”
“What were you doing with IR gear out her in the middle of the night?” I asked. I was worried that they were guarding an illegal pot plantation, but one of the group blurted out.
“We are watching for alien spacecraft!” before he was shushed.
“Oh,” I said. Have you seen any? “
Bearded dude repeated “I need to know what you are doing here and what was that thing carrying you?”
I told them that I had no idea but I’d somehow traveled a long distance in a single night. I mentioned that the last thing I remember was talking to Her in northern California.
The leader was silent for a moment, “you were talking to Her? he asked.” you are in south Washington!”
“you’d better come inside the Sativia Sanctuary. “he said.” I think you have some explaining to do!”……
A word on Herald Covert.
I started getting The Herald Covert letters several years ago. They were sent via a number of anonymous re-mailers and never the same one twice. I’ve replied to a couple and gotten responses, but always using a new mail system.
According to his story; Herald is associated with a shadowy organization — private or governmental I have no idea. This “agency” (according to Herald) sends him to various parts of the world to discover the truth about physical and social “anomalies.” Cryptozoology, paranormal phenomena, UFOs and sinister oozings for all I know. Most of his material is of questionable value and sounds like fiction to me.
He claims it’s not.
— more to follow.
G Allen is a technical geek who does various IT related things and writes on the side. If you liked this story, please mash the “like” button. Or leave a comment.
