Under the Overtree

by James A. Moore

  P.J. looked at the man skeptically. How the hell could something like that not hurt? he thought for only a few seconds. “Let’s get out to the clearing then. I don’t think I’d get the nerve to try this a second time either.”

  Together the two men set off, heading again towards the Stone in the heart of the woods. As they progressed, the fog around them grew thicker and thicker, growing heavy enough to make them forget about conversations as they focused all of their attention on the meager light that illuminated the path they walked. Several minutes passed in relative silence, before P.J. asked Rick how he was doing.

  The man’s response was that he was fine except for the gnats he kept swatting away. “What gnats? I haven’t run across any as yet.”

  “You haven’t?”

  “Unh unh. Not too many bugs come out to feed in a fog like this to the best of my knowledge.”

  His only response for half a minute was the sound of Lewis’ breathing. The breaths slowly built in speed, until at last, the man spoke in a voice that was barely a croaking whisper. “Could you shine your light over at me and t-tell me w-what you see?”

  P.J. aimed his light in the direction of the doctors voice, stepping closer to the man so that he could see what might be covering him other than the fog. “Oh, Rick, oh sweet Jesus.”

  Rick stood bathed in the yellow light of the six cell torch, eyes wide and body trembling. His face was pulled in a rictus of fear, almost comical in its proportions. From the top of his head, all the way down to the tops of his penny loafers, the man was covered in small flesh colored forms, skittering and crawling over him as if he were a log and they were termites. Rick Lewis flinched one eye shut reflexively, as one of the countless spiders actually walked across his naked eye’s surface. The spider, small as it was, was crushed into his eye, pulped as its delicate, hairless body was pinched between his eye’s lids.

  P.J. shook his head in denial, watched the man shaking violently before him and took an automatic step backwards.

  “Please don’t leave me! Oh shit, P.J., help me, please!” The man’s trembling voice forced P.J. into action and he stepped forward to start slapping the creatures off of his friend. The first swing knocked more than fifty of the creatures into a gelid goo, the second did the same. P.J. fought back his bile, swallowing hard again and again and feeling the reflex at the back of his throat try to force anything that might be in his stomach back out. He continued slapping at the tiny creatures, pausing only when one was swift enough to climb on his own body.

  He was busy flicking one off of his own wrist when he heard Rick whimper-shriek. Looking at the man again, P.J. saw that the arachnids chasing aimlessly over his body were starting to grow, swelling like blood fattened ticks and growing darker, hairier as they went. By the time he had finally knocked the spider off of his own hand, the rest of the little monstrosities of Rick Lewis had grown to the size of cherry tomatoes. P.J. stepped back again caught off guard and the creatures continued to grow in size.

  It was more than he could take, P. J. Sanderson turned his back on Rick Lewis and ran, dodging trees and jumping over small shrubs with an agility he would have long thought gone from his body had he been capable of rational thought. Instinct guided him around the obstacles in his path and directly towards the Stone in the center of the woods. He looked over his shoulder only once and by that point, there was nothing to be seen of Rick Lewis’ body under the increasing waves of Tarantula sized spiders that were crawling from their nest on his bloodied arm.

  P.J. whined incoherently to himself, praying that the sounds he heard from behind him were only the sounds of the leaves from the forest’s floor settling down again and not the sounds of giant spider legs charging after him.

  He never heard the muffled cries that came from Rick Lewis’ throat, never heard the pained whimpers that continued for the next fifteen minutes, somewhere behind him. Even if he had, it wouldn’t have mattered, perhaps nothing ever would again.

  8

  A little over two miles from Summitville, just over a mile from the Red Oaks subdivision, the Basilisk Bookstore lay quiet, as still as the grave. The Folk spent several minutes outside the main entrance to the bookstore before finally slipping through the obstructing door. There was little curiosity about the many tales wrapped in paper and the comic books garnered no interest from the Folk either. But the large silent figure in the corner, the one entombed in a glass case, that was another story entirely.

  The Folk climbed atop the case, surrounded the case from all directions and slowly melted through the dust laden glass. The figure moved not at all, seemingly unimpressed by any threat that the Folk might make. No protest came from the hulking brute as they violated its skin, pushing into the latex and foam rubber, slipping into the mannequin on which it rested.

  Once inside the silent figure, They formed Themselves to accommodate the structural differences that separated the Demonic form from Their normal prey. Empty sockets were filled with Their mass, becoming fully functioning eyes, with reptilian pupils. Muscles were developed to accommodate in flight, latex teeth were hardened, as was the skin, though still flexible, the epidermis grew as strong as the stone it was designed to look like.

  They tested the wings and the slightest shrug of Their new limbs shattered the glass coffin. They sniffed the air with Their new nose, satisfied with Their olfactory senses. Blood flowed through the veins and arteries that They created and as one, They commanded Their new form to walk.

  Sligis the Gargoyle stepped away from the fiction that he had been and through the brick wall that kept him inside of the Basilisk. The bellow of triumph that ripped past his stony lips was thunderous and with a few small steps Sligis was soon in flight, ready at last to face his creator.

  9

  Jonathan Crowley met the shadows in the fog eagerly. He was ready for whatever they decided to throw his way and he was prepared to cause them serious harm. What he was not ready for, was the fact that they were not there. His leap was met with no resistance whatsoever and the collision he had expected was met a few seconds later, when he landed in the waters of the Overtree.

  Had it happened to someone else, anyone in Summitville perhaps, or even one of the Folk, he would have laughed. As it was the only thing that stopped him from screaming out his rage at the insult was the water that lapped around his neck. The lake was deceptively deep here. After a brief reflection, he decided it really was a rather ridiculous situation and silently scolded himself for getting too cocky, too ready to fight whatever was thrown at him by the enemy.

  Chuckling to himself, he started towards the bank only a few feet from him. And that was when the creatures he had seen above the lake’s waters attacked him from below. Water softened flesh and nearly petrified bone reached for his ankle and yanked him under the water’s surface.

  Crowley opened his eyes, trying to see through the silt that lifted from the lake’s bottom. No luck. He lashed out with his free foot at the force that held firmly to his ankle, there was no give, he was caught. Something rotten grabbed at him around the waist, pulling him further from the shore. Hellish green light glared from hollowed sockets and muck covered teeth from the remains in front of him latched onto his leg, just above the knee.

  The pain was too much, too sudden and Crowley screamed out the remaining air in his lungs. He started to reach for the figure on his leg, the same one that surrounded his waist, but was hampered by the sudden arm that locked around his throat from behind.

  The more he struggled, the more the dead creatures folded themselves around him, pinning his arms, his legs, even his neck, so that he could do nothing but try to slip free without success. The only sound he could hear any longer was the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, drowning out even the sound of the waters that pushed at his ears as he was forced further and further into the depths of the lake. What little light had been present grew fainter, or perhaps it was that he was blacking out, he saw only the darkness, lit slightly by the fil
thy light that rolled from the corpses around him.

  Panic started to build in his arrhythmic heart, his struggles doubled burning away the oxygen in his blood and weakening him further. Stupid! Just plain goddamn stupid! he chastised himself, knowing that there was no one else present to take care of the job for him. The rage grew stronger, even as his heartbeat weakened, stuttered, preparing to stop completely. Jonathan Crowley forced himself to stop struggling, knowing that it would do him no good, knowing that it was already too late.

  He cleared his mind.

  He opened his mouth.

  He said forbidden words where none could hear them, watching the bubbles of air flow upward, away from his sinking form. The figures that held him grew panicked, broke away from him, trying to escape before it was too late.

  They never had a chance.

  10

  From their spot in the woods, Tyler and Tony heard the sounds of what seemed to be multiple explosions and a few seconds later, after looking in the direction of the unnatural sounds, saw a geyser of water lift from the Overtree far above them.

  “What now?” asked Tyler, looking at Tony and trying desperately to see him clearly.

  Tony continued to look only at the lake, shaking his head slightly. “Dunno.” He could no longer think, it hurt to even try, everything seemed to hurt, the healing bruises on his body, the chip from his tooth, the cracks in his rib cage and most of all his soul.

  How many blows was his psyche supposed to take before he broke? He had been bested at the one thing he could ever do well, fighting. He had been terrified by a man that was no taller than him and a good deal lighter in proportion. He had betrayed a friend and now he had lost his sister to whatever was out here in the woods. Tony desperately wanted his mother’s arms around him, comforting him as they had when he was so much younger and his parents had still been capable of love.

  The pain was so extreme that he simply grew numb. Tony Scarrabelli had never been meant to handle pressure and the last few days had drained him of all his fight. The man that Tyler was looking towards for leadership and or advise was simply not capable of helping him. Tyler would have never thought it possible.

  Tony looked at the lake for a few more minutes, listening to the complete silence of the woods and then he started walking. Tyler watched with a slack jaw, unable to conceive of what he was seeing—or almost seeing at any rate. “Tony where the hell are you going?”

  Tony looked over his shoulder with eyes on the verge of tears, shook his head and continued on his way.

  Tyler started walking after him, indignant surprise and a little fear of being by himself in the woods spurring him on. “Tony. Hel-lo, earth to Tony, are you in there? We have to get Lisa, remember?” Tony started walking a little faster, Tyler matched the pace, noticing idly that he was having no trouble avoiding all of the pitfalls that had sent him stumbling earlier.

  “Tony, goddamnit if you don’t come back here I’m gonna hit you.” There was a sight he could see vividly, his fist would probably do about as much to Tony as it would to one of the trees around them. Tony kept walking, ignoring Tyler completely. “Tony, I’m not kidding damnit, get the hell back over here.” Nothing. The larger boy kept on walking and Tyler was momentarily reminded of Mark walking through the woods just the night before. “Tony, one last chance. Come back here.”

  Tony kept on going, his shoulders hitching and his body shaking. Tyler lowered his head and charged like a bull, hitting Tony in the square of his back and dropping them both to the ground. Before Tony could turn over, Tyler was pounding with balled up hands—they really couldn’t be called fists, had he actually been using fists, his thumbs wouldn’t have been blanketed inside of his fingers—actually calling Tony all of the names that Tony had for so long called him. “Come back here you fucking queer! You’re not leaving her out here alone! I won’t let you! Get back over there you sonuvabitch!” There were more words, but they were mostly blubbered phrases that meant nothing in the long and short of it all.

  Tony stared at Tyler with wide eyes, watching the smaller boy’s fists come up and down, driving like pistons, but only causing glancing blows. Tony had automatically pulled into a defensive posture, fully expecting to get hurt by the punches and instead only getting pushed around a little. For perhaps the first time in his life, he really contemplated the differences between himself and Tyler in physical size.

  Earlier in the day, Tony had experienced the catharsis brought on by crying, now he experienced the cleansing catharsis of laughter. He howled his laughs out of his body, laughing so long and so hard that his eyes watered and his stomach muscles cramped and his cracked ribs burned. Tyler kept hitting him for several minutes and Tony couldn’t help but laugh even harder when the fists struck him, laughing so hard that he literally could not catch his breath.

  Somewhere along the way, Tyler joined in on the chuckles and the two of them ended the one sided fight with both participants on their backs, staring at the heavy fog around them and sharing a moment of almost sanity.

  Then Crowley showed up, spoiling everything. At least until they got a look at his muck covered body and the water that dripped from his hair. The sour expression on his muddied face was all that it took to start them laughing again.

  11

  P.J. Sanderson thought he heard laughter in the distance, shook his head to expel such thoughts and continued on his way. The guns were gone, Rick Lewis was gone (dead! Eaten by mutant spiders from outer space!) but it didn’t matter. Now or never, he had a mess to clean up. He was tired of running and too worried about Mark to do anything but go on.

  Next to him, one of the small streams that trickled from the Overtree whispered to itself. He stooped next to the lazily moving waters, cupped a double handful and washed it over his tired face. The freshness replaced the musty smell of his sweat, refreshed his body if not his spirit.

  “Too old for this shit. Too old to run from monsters. Just plain too old, Phil. That’s what you are. Too fucking old.” The words were only for himself. But apparently something agreed with him. because it replied with a hellborn shriek that shook the ground under his feet.

  He may have been older than he liked to think about, but for the second time that night adrenaline shot into his system like a brew from the fountain of youth. P.J. Sanderson turned his head sharply, sending a painful knot of burning heat into his neck and gazed over his shoulder and up at the creature that could make a noise straight from his worst nightmares. The beast matched up with the sound of his dark dreams perfectly. For the life of him, the author couldn’t accept that Sligis was hovering above him. He took in the scaly gray hide, he took in the eyes that matched his own personal vision of the gargoyle, he even noticed that the veins on the leathery wings was perfect down to the last detail. He just refused to accept what his eyes were seeing.

  Sligis landed before him, sinking a good inch and a half into the ground at where his feet made contact with the earth. The clear burning hatred that showed itself on the creature’s face was exactly right, perfect in every detail that his mind had created. The flaring stone nostrils, so like a vampire bats’, the fangs that matched, the serpentine tongue that licked at the edge of the lipless mouth as the mouth was drawn into a victorious smile, all of it was exactly as it should be, better by far than the costume that sat in his shop. Hell, this Sligis even had the tail that lashed slowly as it approached his prey. That would be me, P.J. mused as Sligis stepped slowly forward.

  For the second time that night, P.J. Sanderson started hurdling obstacles left and right, heading straight for the Stone in the center of the woods. Behind him he left a seven foot monster and a sizable portion of his sanity. The former at least seemed intent to join up with him again.

  12

  Mark Howell, Cassie Monroe and Lisa Scarrabelli all stared at each other, only one of them truly saw anything and that one was hardly what he had once been. What had been Mark Howell smiled in triumph, slowly removing his clothes, feeling
the body that housed Its strange mind start to respond to the ideas now forming in Its mind.

  Behind and above Mark Howell’s body, the Stone pulsed, sending out alien thoughts and pulling the Folk home, back to Their Creator. The massive pillar heaved, growing still larger, forcing more of itself out of the ground and eagerly awaiting the return of its children.

  The tortured, subdued minds of Cassie and Lisa screamed and their bodies did likewise. One screamed with fear and pain. The other with ecstatic pleasure. The cause of both was the same.

  13

  The screams caught the attention of P.J. Sanderson, even as he caught the attention of Jonathan Crowley, Tyler Wilson and his own nephew. Behind the author, they spotted the massive shape of Sligis the Gargoyle, even as that hideous figure grew closer to its target. The pursued and pursuer were coming directly towards them and John Crowley assessed the situation quickly, doing the only thing he could think of to save the author.

  Jonathan Crowley, stuck his foot out and sent P.J. Sanderson sliding across the ground, just as Sligis reached out and grabbed where the author had been a second before. Sligis turned its head and hissed loudly at the interloper, just before the figure stiffened and slammed into the trees that surrounded the Stone’s clearing. What had just seconds before been half a ton of animated granite once again became a Hollywood costume and the mannequin it encased and flopped to the ground tearing itself into fragments as the Folk escaped Their vessel.

  The Folk stared at Crowley, Tony and Tyler, shifted Their gaze towards P.J. Sanderson’s battered form, as he pushed himself off of the ground, trying to stand and failing. They fluctuated, shifting and reforming as Their attention focused on each individual. Static and shadowy, They stared at the only remaining forces that would try to stop Them. And then They charged the barrier of trees, disappearing into the clearing that was blocked to the mere humans.