Under the Overtree

by James A. Moore

  He drove carefully, wanting more than at any time in his life to avoid even a fender bender. He might have written about homemade bombs that didn’t explode on contact, but that didn’t mean he trusted the ones he had made. No ego here, thanks just the same.

  Ten minutes later he pulled into the parking lot of the Charles S. Westphalen High School and killed the motor. He double checked everything in the bag, pausing long enough to wonder if he could dodge all of the bits of metal and leftover nail heads he had added to the Molotovs, before he got out of the car.

  P.J. Sanderson stared in awe at the sight of Jonathan Crowley waiting for him. The man was looking quite relaxed and casual, except for that damnable grin on his face. “Hi, Philly! What the hell took you so long?”

  4

  Rick Lewis sat in his office at the clinic, mind going over everything that had occurred in the last year; no matter how hard he tried, he could not get the pieces to add up properly. The dreams he had started having about Mark Howell scared him almost as much as the deaths that had haunted him since Tanya Billingsley’s body had been found.

  And now, as the true topper of everything else, Chuck Hanson was gone. Chuck had many flaws in Rick’s eyes, but cowardice wasn’t one of them. There was no way in hell that Chuck would have left voluntarily. He didn’t have it in him.

  Rick was a different case, he was giving serious thought to packing his bags and getting out of Summitville as quickly as possible. The town held nothing for him, not even pleasant memories of past relationships. The only reason he had stayed here at all was so that he could spend extra hours on his research and all that had gotten him recently was a severe headache when he thought about the stuff he affectionately called ectoplasm.

  That was another problem with this town; the little scab in the mountains was haunted. Rick wasn’t fond of thinking along those lines, but by God if Chuck Hanson said he’d seen a ghost then Rick believed him. Chuck didn’t have the imagination for ghosts and spooky stuff did not keep in line with the type of tall tales Rick had heard the man tell in the past.

  Rick sipped at his decaf and sighed. Getting out of town sounded better every day. Every hour. There was only one thing that stopped him from leaving right this very minute, the clinic. Summitville wasn’t exactly brimming over with doctors, there was Rick himself and the Posten Brothers and three General Practitioners who were effectively useless, taking care of the town. Tim and Jack were great guys, but they were only paramedics. Neither of them really had the drive to be doctors and even a town of only fifteen hundred needed at least one full time doctor.

  Obligations and considerations were the only things keeping Rick in town. He was rapidly learning to hate his morals. Other doctors got to make money on the side writing unnecessary prescriptions and charging an extra rate on people who had really good insurance. Not him, no sir that wouldn’t be right. Other doctors had lives in the places where they lived; girlfriends, wives, sometimes both. The only romantic consideration Rick had experienced while in Summitville had been Jackie and she had left earlier today with her beau. As if he’d ever have a chance with even a homely girl in a town as anal retentive as this one. Shit, you practically had to show your pedigree to the people in this town to get them to smile.

  So why the hell did he stay? Why would anyone in their right mind stay in a place that resented his or her existence? Just to please a roommate from college? Out of a sense of moral obligation? Nobody in their right mind would. Unless that somebody was as big a moron as he was. Pouring himself another cup of Decaf, Rick settled back behind his desk to sort over all the writings on the last year’s death toll. Hell, Chuck was gone, somebody had to figure out what was going on in town.

  5

  P.J. looked over at his unwanted assistant and decided he could no longer take the silence between them. Just for the sake of conversation, he asked him what he thought they should do when they found the Stone. As soon as Crowley opened his mouth, P.J. Sanderson regretted his question; Crowley’s response was as snide as the author had expected. “What makes you so sure the Stone has anything to do with what’s going on, Philly? Maybe the Stone is just a coincidence. Maybe it’s not the same stone you used at all?”

  “You don’t believe that anymore than I do.”

  “True,” the impossibly younger man responded. “I just want to understand your reasoning.”

  “It’s the only possible answer, Crowley. Nothing else even begins to make sense. Not unless my nephew had something to do with the book and I know him better than that. He’s read too many of my stories to screw with anything that powerful. Back to my question, what should we do about it.”

  Crowley looked back at him and shrugged. “Destroying the damned thing would be a good start.”

  “How do you propose we do that? I don’t recall there being a guide to destroying magical stones anywhere in that book of yours.”

  Crowley stiffened slightly at that. “It’s not my book.” The words were very slow, deliberate. “It’s your book.”

  “Well, it was my book. It’s in your possession now and I personally want nothing more to do with it. Call it a gift from an admirer.” The sarcasm-laced comment simply brought another smile to Crowley’s plain face.

  “My, my, my,” Crowley crooned. “Giving up on those childhood memories so easily?”

  “Kiss my ass. If I knew then what I know now, I’d have burned the book a long time ago.” P.J. glared at his companion.

  “Mmmm. No doubt. Pity you didn’t know then, hunh? Maybe you wouldn’t be trying to avenge your honor with the man you think has done so much to besmirch it.”

  “I don’t recall asking you along for the ride.”

  “Somebody has to make sure you do it right.”

  Silence welled between them, P.J. found himself wondering why he even tried. The self-righteous bastard next to him cared nothing about anything save himself. That and maybe the continued humiliation of P.J..

  Up ahead of them the trees were denser, drawn together in an almost solid wall. Crowley took the lead very abruptly and pushed off to the left. P.J. stared at the man’s back, wishing that he had a gun. No, with the way things had been going he’d only wing Crowley and that would likely piss the man off.

  P.J. shivered visibly at the thought. He’d never actually seen the man angry and hoped to avoid it as long as possible. Forever would be a good starting place. Up ahead of him, Crowley turned and smiled. He pointed towards a break between two of the malformed red oaks that blended into the formidable wall then he brought one finger to his lips in a gesture that suggested silence.

  P.J. joined him and stared into the clearing. His eyes refused to accept what he saw there. The stone, almost certainly the one at which he and his friends had cast their “mock magic spell” all those years ago, thrust out of the ground and pointed to the crescent moon far above. It towered a full seven feet above the fertile soil.

  The look on Jonathan Crowley’s face was challenging, daring him to destroy the monolithic rock. P.J. nodded grimly and opened his battered overnight bag, reaching for a Molotov Cocktail.

  6

  Mark lay in his bed, tossing fitfully while locked in the throes of a feverish dream. One second he was with Cassie, laughing or making tender love, the next second he was atop Lisa, pounding mercilessly at her. A second later the dream would repeat with Cassie and Lisa’s roles reversed and again it would rush through his brain in the original order. Throughout the dreams he could hear the whisper-voices of his special friends calling for him to decide, to make a choice between the two girls.

  Then the dream warped and changed into the distant memories of Tony and the Asshole Patrol beating him into the ground; behind them, Jonathan Crowley and P.J. Sanderson looked on, laughing at Mark’s pain, then joining the younger men in the fun. Joe was there too, calling him a little pansy and telling him to fight like a man.

  Everything went all crazy and instead of him being beaten on, he was being held in place by
Tony and his Goons while Crowley and P.J. stomped on his beautiful little friends in Their special place. His special place. He could see Their delicate bodies breaking like spun glass, leaking crimson stains into the carpet of grass. Crowley and P.J. were grinding Them into the ground, laughing at the sight of Their helpless victims’ death throes.

  Mark Howell sat up in his bed, eyes narrowed into gashes of unbridled rage. From his throat came a sound half whimper and half scream. He didn’t bother with clothes, he stepped from his room and headed for the front door. His friends were in trouble. That was all that mattered.

  7

  From her vantage point in the hallway, Jenny watched and smiled. Only a short time longer and everything would be like it was supposed to be. Mark was going to the woods, soon the whole family would be together again. She knew the time was almost here, Todd kept telling her so in her dreams, telling her that soon, he would be coming for her.

  Just like right after he left, when he told her to care for the baby, promising that he would be with her again someday, the dreams were too vivid to only be dreams. Somehow he was contacting her.

  He’d watched over her for a long time, waiting until the time was right for them to be together again. He’d told her so. He knew every place where she had lived, every thought that ran through her mind. He understood about why Joe had been important to her and he forgave her her indiscretions.

  There was only one thing that he urged her to take care of, only one obstacle between them being together forever. Joe. Joe wouldn’t understand the way things were. He wouldn’t see why she had spent so much time quietly urging him to go for the better job from town to town. Joe had already almost ruined everything with his wanting to move to New York, where he claimed the money was better and they could have an even bigger home, an even better life together than the one they were having now.

  Poor Joe, there was a lot he just didn’t understand. She supposed she might miss him from time to time, but that wouldn’t stop her from killing him. Anything to be with Todd.

  She quietly worked her way down the stairs, towards the kitchen. Her biggest problem right then was trying to decide if a knife was the best way to kill her husband.

  8

  Tyler felt the sick dread of Déjà vu as he watched Mark heading deliberately towards the woods. Of course, the last time he’d seen Mark doing this, he had been with Cassie and he had been wearing clothes. Tyler had a very bad feeling about what was happening. No real forethought went into his getting dressed. Jeans, T-shirt, Reeboks; that pretty much covered everything. Tyler didn’t even worry about being quiet. He just took off out the back door in the kitchen.

  It took him a second to find Mark, but when he did he called out immediately. None of that bullshit about not waking sleepwalkers, too much stuff could happen to Mark out in the woods at night. Mark gave no sense of having heard him.

  Tyler ran as quickly as he could to his friend’s side. Mark did not bother to acknowledge him. He just kept walking. “Yo, Howie, wake up guy.” Nothing. “Hey Mark! Mark! Earth to Mark, come in Mark!” Still no response from the walking dead. Not good.

  Desperate times called for stupid actions, Tyler tripped him. Mark landed on his face and got right back up, intent on what was ahead of him. He paid Tyler no mind whatsoever.

  If there was one thing Tyler hated in the world, it was being ignored. He waited for Mark to get past him again, watched the machine like motion of his friend’s legs—doing his best to ignore the third leg swinging like a metronome—and tackled him at the knees. Physics demanded that Mark go down, it also demanded that he land unceremoniously on top of Tyler. Tyler prayed mightily to any gods that might be up there, that absolutely no one on the planet with a camera was in sight of the tangled mass the two of them made.

  Whatever Mark’s problem was, it apparently stopped him from being able to use common sense. He got back up again. Tyler hooked his foot around the larger boy’s ankle and sent him sprawling a third time.

  It took seven more tries before Mark started to come out of his daze. By that time, Mark was covered in mulch and the muddied remains of the early morning dew.

  He didn’t want to, he really did not want to, but the stupid look on Mark’s face, compounded by Mark’s realization that he was butt naked in the woods, sent Tyler into a laughing fit. He loaned Mark his T-shirt for all the protection it provided and the two of them went on their way back to the Red Oaks subdivision. Mark forced a promise of silence out of Tyler. Still chuckling, Tyler agreed, but only after threatening to tell Cassie.

  9

  Jennifer Howell had the knife in her hand and was halfway up the stairs by the time that Todd’s voice called out to her. “No, Jenny. Not just yet. It’s going to take me a little longer than I thought. Kill him tomorrow night. By then it will be too late.”

  Jenny slipped the knife back into its holder, drank a glass of water and crawled back into bed with her husband. Joe stirred and awoke. To avoid any foolish questions, she kissed him hard on the mouth. Then she followed through with what he was obviously expecting after such a kiss, reminding herself that it would be the last time. For memory’s sake, she made it count.

  10

  Crowley watched from the sidelines as P.J. Sanderson made his attempts with the Molotov Cocktails. He watched the man carefully set the bottles out and then just as carefully unwrap the package of lighters he had purchased especially for this night. He nodded enthusiastically as the writer cautioned him to step back and then lit the fuses. He shook his head sadly as the homemade bombs shattered across the stone’s surface without catching the stone afire.

  Crowley managed to keep his laughter down, the Folk did not. The Folk had expected the Hunter to do something dangerous and had almost destroyed the Chosen One in the process. Against a normal man they had no reason to endanger Mark Howell, against The Hunter it would have been necessary in order to preserve Themselves. The laughter of the Folk, sounding so much like the wind through the trees, was as much out of the need for catharsis as it was out of sheer amusement at the author’s folly.

  Contrary to popular legend in Summitville, Albert “Stoney” Miles had not set the fire that destroyed Summit Town so long ago by accident. He had meant to destroy what he had called forth. He never dreamed that They would have Their own reasons for wanting to be summoned, or that They might not do as he requested of Them. This time They believed Themselves ready, this time They had fire-proofed the woods.

  They called the Chosen out of his dream and They called the Chosen’s mother from her cold murderous rage. If all went as planned, They could be ready tomorrow. Until then, the Chosen needed his rest and the Chosen’s mother still had her uses. They watched and waited. “Soon,” They whispered. “Tomorrow,” They promised.

  11

  Crowley was almost gentle as he led the confused man from the clearing. Sanderson simply could not comprehend what had happened. The man kept looking at him, begging with glazed eyes for an explanation of what had just happened. Crowley decided to have mercy on him.

  “They adapt,” he explained. “They’ve already been stopped with fire once. They won’t let it happen again.”

  P.J. Sanderson opened and closed his mouth several times before finally making his voice work. “I-I thought it was just the Stone out there, who are ‘They?’”

  Crowley tried to work that out in his own mind, tried to explain in terms simple enough for the dazed man to grasp. It wasn’t that Sanderson was stupid by any means; it was that he had just had his world shaken to its very foundations. One expects things to work in a certain way, one expects burning gasoline to burn as certainly as one expects the sun to come up every morning. He could sympathize with the man’s problem, he’d suffered the same disillusionment some time ago. “They’re whatever Mark has made them. I believe that They are the Fair Folk; Goblins, Elves, Faeries, Bogey Men, call them what you want. But this is a different country, one where the rules don’t apply the same way they did in Ir
eland and the rest of the British Isles.” He looked at the writer’s face, waiting for him to soak those phrases in before he continued. “But don’t hold me to that, I don’t know what the hell they are. That’s just a guess.

  “I don’t know much about them at all, except for what Stoney Miles wrote in his journal. Frankly, the man babbled too much for me to even trust that very much. I looked over that entire book, Phil and you want to know a secret? Not a single spell written in that journal was accurately reproduced. Whatever he managed to call forth that first time was probably something that just needed some kind invitation to get here. Truth is, I don’t even think it takes a spell to let them through. I think it just takes the desire.”

  Sanderson looked at him for a few moments as they walked and then he looked at the ground. Crowley watched the man’s jaw muscles clench and unclench a dozen times in conjunction with his fists balling and relaxing. He could have dodged the fist that came up and hit him in the side of his jaw. He could have stopped that fist about fifty different ways. He chose not to.

  Sanderson stood over him with eyes intense in their rage. Crowley looked up from the ground with a smile on his face as the writer screamed. “You bastard! You’ve spent half of your time in Summitville berating me for what I did to Mark Howell; accusing me of every crime in the book and threatening me every time you look me in the face. And now you say that I’m not even to blame?!” He kicked at Crowley, and this time Crowley blocked it. Then he yanked the author off of his feet and gathered his legs beneath him.