Approaching midnight, the house was dark but for the darting images on a console television. Johnny Carson was joking about the fall premieres. To end the opening monologue, he said, “The Bionic Woman guest starred on the Six-Million-Dollar Man. I hope they get married soon—before the warranty runs out on their parts.” It was the biggest laugh of the night.

​

Fourteen-year-old babysitter Monica Tollefson curled up in an easy chair. She chuckled then groaned and took a sip of her Nesbitt’s Orange. It was Tuesday, a school night, and she had to get up by 5:30  if she was going to get her make-up right and fuss with her strawberry-blonde perm. Where are those two? They said they’d be back before 11. Monica sighed and took another sip. 

​

A bright light flashed through the closed curtains. At first Monica thought it was from headlights on high beam, but when she considered the extreme brightness, she had to think again. It was like the radiance of a lighthouse had washed over the entire farm. Another flash, even brighter. And there was a sound. A whirring hum. And it was getting louder. For a moment, she thought the house was shaking, then decided it must be her imagination. 

​

One of the kids had awakened and joined her in the living room. The child’s words were tremorous, “What’s out there Monica?” 

​

“I don’t know, Frannie.” She fought to stay calm as the glaring light blared and whirring hum loomed. “Go back to bed.”

 

“But what is it?” The child began to whimper.

 

With all due reluctance, Monica went to the window and pulled back the curtain no more than an inch. As she peeked out, it was pitch dark. All she could see was the glow of the bulb over the garage door. The window-rattling sound had gone silent and the bright light had evanesced. Monica timidly pulled the curtain back a little further and stared into the darkness. She took a slow, deep breath. “I think it was a plane, Frannie. Maybe a low flying jet headed for Fairchild.”

 

“Is it gone?”

 

“I think so . . . it must have been a military plane. Usually, they don’t fly that low. But I think that’s all it was.”

 

“What if it comes back?”

 

“It won’t. It’s long gone. It’s probably clear over in Washington by now.”

 

“I’m scared.”

 

“That’s silly. It was just a plane.” Monica walked toward Frannie and put a hand on her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you back to bed. You know your parents want you asleep when they get home.”

 

As they headed for the bedroom, Johnny welcomed his first guest—the warbling Anthony Newly. After getting Frannie settled, Monica hurried to the living room, checked all the windows, pulled the curtains tight, then made sure the deadbolts of the front and back doors were secured.  

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***

​

Through the foothills of the Idaho Rockies rolled a security entourage: A City of Eisenberg patrol car, a prisoner transport sedan, a coupe with hospital staff, and a state patrol cruiser. The well-weathered highway wound in endless S-curves, climbing ever higher into the mountains. It was the second day of autumn, September 22, 1976, early morning. The petals of the late summer edelweiss glistened even whiter than the snow on the distant peaks. Off to the left, the faded red walls and rusting roof of an orphaned ghost barn sat forlorn amid the leaning remains of a rough-hewn fence. To the right, down a ravine, was a stretch of lake that rivaled a Viking fjord.  Up ahead, perhaps a dozen miles, was the city of Eisenberg, population 7,560.

 

Leaking out of the cracked window of one of the vehicles was a staticky broadcast of Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” As the sound seeped out the air flowed in, air as sweet and pure as the breath of Heaven. Amber fields and flourishing trees became the landscape and dairy farms popped up here and there. A band of white-tailed deer innocently grazed. A mile outside of town a massive red, white, and blue banner spanned the highway: EISENBERG BICENTENNIAL OKTOBERFEST—OCTOBER 15-31. Next came the sign: EISENBERG PENETENTIARY EXIT NEXT LEFT. As the city limits came into view, the highway narrowed to MAIN STREET. The quaint and modest burgh portrayed a timeless village in the Swiss Alps.

 

On that business-as-usual Friday morning, breakfast patrons went in and came out of restaurants, students walked to school, a U.S. postal vehicle turned a corner, a livestock truck pulled up to a red light. As the security entourage slowed a stop, so did the town folk. All eyes fixated on the prisoner’s transport vehicle. Squinting or gaping, not a single soul could see behind the tinted windows. While they should have been grateful, there was no assuaging their curiosity, no quelling the fear and hatred in their hearts. The man behind the glassy veil was monstrous: six-foot seven, over 400 lbs., shaven melon-shaped skull, incisors filed to points, red-inked lips, hoglike snout, and crazed, bulging eyes. His name was Lamar Gene Juggler. The entire nation knew him as Bug Head.

 

***

​

Architecturally, Eisenberg Prison’s design had much in common with the Bastille and the dungeon torture chambers beneath the Tower of London. Practically speaking, only the 20th century building materials set them apart: Heavy metal fences topped with barbed wire, massive brick walls, looming guard towers manned by snipers. Imposing, threatening in both view and intent. If there had been a sign above the main gate it would have read: ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER.

 

Within the walls was an exercise yard, a chapel, a strictly regulated visitor center, a laundry facility, a boiler room, a library, halls, cells, and a cafeteria. Almost everything was sealed in concrete; there were no windows. The cells were cold and dark, furnished with a bunk, a toilet; a small, indestructible table and shelf, and a stool cemented into the floor. With no indoor commons, prisoner-to-prisoner communication occurred only in the yard, cafeteria, through the cell bars, and on work details.

 

***

​

On a forest management work detail near the city refuse site, the prisoners raked, dug, and threw debris onto penitentiary pickup trucks. As the mosquitos and deer flies bit, the sweat-soaked convicts talked about Bug Head.

 

“Heard big Bug Butt’s comin’ in today,” said a raker.

 

“Yeah, to the damn hospital,” said a shoveler. “Place he belongs is behind the cold gray walls along with the rest of us.”

 

Another man said, “That fat, ugly S.O.B. wouldn’t last two minutes in the yard.”

 

“True, but they’d never let him out in the yard. Worst of it is—he’s likely to bust outta that nuthouse before the sun sets.”

 

“God help this stinkin’ little cowpie town.”

 

From a clearing near a creek, a frightened voice rang out, “Guard! Guard! Come ‘ere. Look at this!”

 

Hustling to the spot where the convict was pointing, the guard stopped short and took a deep breath. Eyeing the impressions on the muddy creek bank he rubbed his stubbly jaw. Footprints, about 18 inches in length, twice the width of a human foot, brandishing thick bulbous toes resurrected stories that chilled both skin and bone. The guards and convicts anxiously scanned the woods. The German Shepherds sniffed the tracks and sniffed the air; they strained at their leashes and whined.

​

***

 

Eisenberg College was a liberal arts school mostly noted for its auxiliary medical school. Although a small institution with a student body of less than 2,000 the course selection was ample in science, social science, the humanities, and the arts. There were no technical programs. Pre-med and Pre-dentistry students were strongly encouraged to attend the campus medical school and complete their residency at either the prison or psychiatric hospital.  Lacking enough candidates to field a football team, the extracurricular activities included men and women’s soccer, basketball, baseball, and softball. Despite their size, the college touted one of the most extensive libraries in the country.

 

The city of Eisenberg, the college, the prison, and the psychiatric hospital (insane asylum to the locals) were tucked away in a near-forgotten valley in the Idaho Rockies. To the north was a public campground and a diminutive ski resort. The town gained most of its revenue by relieving summer vacationers and Oktoberfest fanatics of their hard-earned pay. The town’s main eccentricity was the Squatch Nest, a novelty shop dedicated to a gigantic ape-like creature said to have once dwelled among the abandoned coal mines near a county refuse site. The college campus and properties spanned nearly a dozen acres due north.

 

At 8: 50 am three guys headed down a walkway to their nine o’ clock chemistry class: Tim McCullough, 20, Jack Thorpe, 21, and Rory Groat, an older Canadian guy who was working on his Masters. Tim was a fair-haired, short ‘n’ shifty soccer player. Jack stood six-foot four, wore a long, dark shag, and played hoops. Rory was a pot-bellied redhead with a bristly cookie-duster; he had a two-year-old son back home in Vancouver. The newfound friends discussed an event that had reportedly occurred the night before.

 

Tim said, “You know that high school girl, Monica, who goes out the looney bin to play guitar on Saturdays?”

 

“Don’t know the kid. I ain’t got no reason to go out there. Gives me the creeps just thinkin’ about it.”

 

“Ah, it ain’t that bad, Rory.”

 

Tim continued, “Anyway, and I’m not making this up. She was babysitting at a farmhouse out toward the prison, and she claims to have seen a UFO.”

 

“Baloney, man. You believe that?” Jack scoffed.

 

Rory said, “Just a little girl in need of some attention.”

 

“No, no. She’s a good kid. Smart. The residents love it when she comes out and sings. I’m not saying there was some flying saucer out there, I’m just saying something weird had to have happened. She’s too good a kid to be making stuff up.”

 

Jack asked, “So did the cops check it out?”

 

“I imagine so,” said Tim. “Everybody knows Monica. She’d be a credible witness.”

 

The three continued toward the science building. It was called Bohr Hall after Danish physicist Neils Bohr. The two-story building was constructed entirely of tinted glass bound by steel frames. It was the home of courses covering all levels and sessions of chemistry, physics, biology, anatomy and physiology. As they entered the building, another student rushed toward them. His name was Nick “Tuber” Parker, an acne-faced sophomore whose main goal in life was to become body building’s Mr. Universe.

 

Tim said, “Hey, Tuber, what’s the hurry?”

 

A little out of breath he replied, “Have you heard? Some prisoners working out by the garbage dump found some tracks. They were huge, about 20 inches.” He held up and spread his palms wide.

 

The other three smirked and exchanged skeptical glances. Tim held Jack’s gaze, raised his eyebrows, and cleared his throat.

 

“No really,” said Tuber. “Some guys at the post office were talking about it. They heard it from somebody in the fire department. From the size of the prints, they were saying the thing could be eight feet tall.”

 

Rory said, “Gossip and rumors move pretty fast 'round these parts, eh.”

 

“No way, man. No gossip. These guys were serious.” Tuber’s expression was earnest, but the science geeks were far from convinced.  

 

Jack said, “OK now, let’s review: a UFO landed last night, Bigfoot has made a guest appearance, and the most hated homicidal maniac on planet Earth has just arrived in town . . . come on, guys. Think about how that sounds.”

 

Tim glanced at his watch. “Sounds to me like some folks around here are hyping things up for Oktoberfest.”

 

“Bicentennial Oktoberfest,” corrected Tuber.

 

“Isn’t that three weeks off,” said Rory.

 

Tim said, “Yeah, that’s about right. And they’re gonna fill every motel, hotel, and campground from here to Coeur d’ Alene.”

 

“That’s some big money,” said Jack.

 

“True,” said Tuber. “Even I’ll admit the timing’s suspicious. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t something to it.”

 

“Sure, I mean, there’s gotta be a statistical chance,” said Jack. “But you could measure it in angstroms. And that eight-foot-tall thing. Did those guys really say that?

 

Tuber hesitated. “No, that was my estimate.”

 

Jack massaged the back of his neck and prodded, “Uh huh. And how much did you say you bench?”

 

“Three and a quarter.”

 

“So, you’re sticking with that story?” Jack smirked. “The only way you could bench three and a quarter would be in hectograms.”

 

Tim laughed. “Hah, 70 pounds. Yeah, I’d buy that.”

 

Tuber countered, “Whoa, you guys are hilarious.”

 

They all looked at Rory. He said, “Hey, I’m staying out of this, you know.”

 

Again, Tim checked his watch. “It’s nine, guys. We’re gonna be late. See ya later there Tuber.”

 

As the guys hustled to class, Jack called, “Don’t let that Squatch getcha, Tube Man.” The other two smiled.

 

As the three guys neared the door to organic chem, Rory teased, “Who would you guys rather meet in a dark alley: Bigfoot or Bug Head?”

 

Without hesitation both Tim and Jack blurted, “Bigfoot!”

​

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       Chapter 2        Bug Head

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There is nothing closer to God than people at their best, and there is no greater horror than a human monster.  The townspeople of Eisenberg were  decent, hardworking, and God-fearing. Lamar Gene Juggler was a human monster.