In the Woods

by Carrie Jones

  Today Dad is at the university to meet up with the creepy professor again, hoping to get him to be more helpful without my skeptical presence. There will be a lot of excited murmurings, outbursts of explanations, and happy dancing intermixed with the scholarly perusing of old texts. Let’s just say I’m glad to be bowling.

  Kelsey knocks over four pins and turns around with a disgusted look on her face.

  “You can pick them up,” I call to her.

  “Chrystal!” Katie says, giving me a stern look. “She’s on Logan’s team.”

  “Oh yeah. We can still be nice, though. Can’t we? We want her to do well.”

  “As long as we do better,” Katie says, then turns to watch her sister. Kelsey only gets three more pins. Katie looks at me. She doesn’t say anything mean to Kelsey.

  “You’re up,” I tell Logan. “Don’t be self-conscious about people looking at your butt.”

  He stops at the ball return and looks back at me, grinning. He has a really nice grin. “Who? Who would look at my butt? Tell me. Who?”

  “Look, Katie, someone let an owl in,” I tease.

  Together, Kelsey and I start saying, “Who? Who?” and then we break up laughing.

  Logan still gets a strike. He really does have a very cute butt. I would like to pack up that butt and bring it to Maine with me.

  * * *

  After three games of bowling, Logan buys us lunch in the bowling alley restaurant, then sends Katie and Kelsey with a roll of quarters to the arcade.

  “Kind of a lame day, huh?” he says.

  “I’m having fun.”

  “I wish I could take you to a movie tonight. Or something. Something interesting. You must think we’re all pretty backward if the best we can do is an afternoon of Monopoly or bowling with my little sisters,” he says as he plays with a burnt piece of French fry, dipping it into a glob of ketchup and drawing stick figures on his plate.

  “I understand what’s going on,” I tell him. “It isn’t safe to be out after dark. And I like your sisters. Maybe when this is all settled, people can feel safe enough to go out at night again. That’s what I want.”

  “If it ever gets settled. Has your dad found anything yet?”

  “No, not really,” I say. “Witnesses. He’s looked at the animals that were killed and found. He tried to look at … at that girl, at Karen, but the police wouldn’t let him. I’m glad. I didn’t want to go in there.”

  Logan nods. “Nothing’s happened much since then. At least, nothing around here. Just a couple missing sheep and that runaway girl—and who knows if that’s from that thing or not. Maybe it moved on, or went back where it came from, or whatever.”

  “Maybe.” I sip my soda. My gut is telling me that the killer hasn’t moved on, but I don’t explain that to Logan. I’m too busy trying to figure out why he’d want to go to a movie with me. Maybe he really does like me that way. My palms feel super-itchy suddenly. I look at him and say, “Thanks for lunch.”

  He smiles at me. “Mom gave me the money for lunch. It’s her way of paying me back for bringing the girls.”

  Then he clears his throat, looks down, and looks back up at me. “I’m paying for the games, though.”

  His sisters go through the roll of quarters in about a half hour, then Katie says she’s ready to go home. Logan drops me off at the hotel. He’s driving his mother’s sedan because we couldn’t all fit in his truck. He walks me to the door of the hotel and we can feel his sisters watching us.

  “Thanks for going with us,” he says. “I really like hanging out with you.”

  The air is awkward again. I hate awkward. But I like Logan, and his cutie family. They all try so hard to be nice and good. I want that kind of family. I love my dad, but … There is still awkward silence. I sort of bluster into it. “I like it, too. It was fun.”

  “You were amazing. Your dad’s car isn’t here,” he says, looking around.

  “He could be talking shop with that professor for hours. It’ll be okay. I can spend some time with my bass,” I tell him.

  “Yeah. When do I get to hear you play more of that?”

  “Next time you come alone,” I promise. He nods and starts to turn away. I stop him with his name. He looks at me and I step into him and put my arms around him. It isn’t a real hug. Not a boyfriend/girlfriend hug, just a friendly hug, but I know it’ll make his sisters tease him all the way home. He hugs me back, kind of hard, but good, then leaves me at the door of the smelly hotel.

  “You are amazing, Chrystal.” He says this so quietly I almost think I didn’t hear it, but I did. He said I was amazing. Logan Jennings thinks I’m amazing.

  We hugged.

  We hugged each other.

  That doesn’t mean anything.

  I try not to jump into the air.

  He is such a good hugger.

  * * *

  In my room, I check my phone. There’s a message from my dad. He sent it almost two hours ago, but I guess I couldn’t hear my phone in the bowling alley. DR BORGESS OUT TODAY. AT UNIVERSITY LIBRARY. LOVE YOU! I put the phone on the table between the hotel beds, sit on my bed, and slip my bass out of its carrying case.

  After about an hour, I pause mid-riff. Something isn’t right. I listen, but don’t hear anything unusual. I look around the room, but can’t see anything out of place. It’s a smell. The same awful bear smell. My eyes slide down the wall to the window.

  I shut the window. I checked that it was locked before I even sat down to play. Still, everything inside of me feels adrenalized, like right before an audition. The fear pulls my stomach into knots and paralyzes me.

  Listening as hard as I can, I lean forward. The smell isn’t as strong as the other time. Because the window is closed. If the window is closed and locked, I’m safe. Still, I slide my bass beneath the bed. I creep backward toward the wall opposite the window and closer to the bathroom and grab my cell phone. I hit the lights off so it seems like nobody’s here, and I tap out 9-1-1 but don’t push the send button that will connect the call.

  Nothing.

  The window has to be closed.

  “If it’s closed, I’m safe,” I mumble into the darkness.

  The glass shatters. An arm rips through the drape.

  Screaming, I run into the closest place, the bathroom, and slam the door shut. I lock it, but the door’s not super-heavy. Someone that can rip a calf’s head off can bash through that door. I push send.

  “Cherokee County Sheriff’s Department. Please state your location and the nature of your emergency.”

  “I’m at the Cherokee Country Inn. Room twelve. Someone just broke into my room!”

  “Miss, can you calm down and repeat what you said?”

  I do, but I don’t know if she can understand me. I shout out the name of the hotel again and beg, “Come! Come now!”

  I toss the phone onto the floor but keep the call connected. That way the dispatcher will be able to hear but my hands will be free to fight whatever is at my window. How am I going to fight it? Something thumps in the bedroom, just past the door. Something else is thrown against the wall.

  There’s no window in here. I’m totally trapped. If he figures out I’m in here and comes through the door …

  I need a weapon. Razor? No good. The blade is too little and all encased in plastic. Toilet? No good. Bolted to the floor. Air freshener? Okay … Okay … I grab the air freshener. It’s a spray can. I’ll spray him in the eyes if he comes in here. Maybe I can blind him, slip past, run into the hallway …

  The door rattles. Five long rips appear at head level and I think of fingers dragged across a chalkboard.

  I’m going to die.

  I’m going to die in the bathroom of a cheap hotel room in Oklahoma.

  The thing howls. It’s long and high and an A-flat pitch that shudders all the way down to a G7.

  Switching off the light, I press myself backward and step into the bathtub. There’s a curtain, but there’s no point. If it’s a bear, I
bet it can smell me. And if it’s a man? This is such an obvious place to hide. The curtain will do nothing to hide me from an animal, a predator, a monster.

  The door shudders again.

  I will not die. I will not die. I will not die.

  I hold the air freshener in front of me. Its scent is called Spring Rain. I need a match. I wish I had a match. At home, Dad lights candles in the bathroom to hide odors. If I had a match, then the air freshener could become like a torch.

  That’s when I make it out, thanks to the glow of my cell phone: above the sink, there’s a long, plastic candle-lighter thing my dad always uses because he’s useless with matches. I stretch out and grab it just as the door breaks in half. Wood shards fly everywhere. The smell is overpowering. My hands shake like hell, but I hold the air freshener and lighter in front of me.

  He bursts in, huge and brown-haired. From what I can tell, his ears point up like a dog’s, and his hands … His hands have pieces of wood in them. He is definitely a boy.

  My dad—my loopy, quirky dad—was right. There are monsters. Monsters that aren’t men.

  This is not a good time for him to be right.

  I can barely hold the spray can. I press my back against the wall.

  He howls again and the room shakes with it. His eyes meet mine, shining in the dim light. His teeth are more fangs and his eyes … his eyes glint.

  He steps forward, tearing through the rest of the door, fully entering the bathroom.

  I can’t help it. I scream. A high C.

  He growls, low and primal. A low F-flat.

  The cell phone light disappears.

  If he takes just one more step, then he’ll be able to reach me. I press the lighter on. Hold it up. Then I push the spray. It strikes the flame of the lighter and blows out a blast of fire. It hits his neck, I think. He roars and rocks backward, batting at his neck with his claws.

  I keep spraying. The flames could get sucked into the can, making it a bomb in my hand, but I can’t let go.

  “Get out!” I scream at him. “Get out! Get out! Get out!”

  I step out of the tub, move forward, closer to him. Fur burns and smells terrible. He roars again and backs up, pushing back into the darkness of the bedroom. He smacks his hand against the fur on his shoulder—I think it’s his shoulder—trying to stop the burning.

  “Get the hell out!” I scream, following him.

  Someone’s pounding on the door.

  “Police! Open up!”

  “Go!” I screech. “Go!”

  The beast continues to swat at the fire. The can fizzles out just as the hotel room door breaks open, bringing in the light of the hallway. A sheriff’s deputy busts inside, swears, then whips out his gun as the monster sees him. He lunges at the deputy and slashes his chest, ripping through the vest. The deputy goes down and the sizzling creature stands over him, roaring.

  Another cop enters the room and yells, “Hands up! Get them up!” which would be kind of funny if everything wasn’t so scary.

  The beast turns toward him and the cop shoots. The bullet goes wide. He shoots again. It nicks the monster’s arm. The thing roars again and flees, jumping back out the window on all fours, howling.

  I sink to the floor, still clutching the air freshener can. I must have dropped the lighter. The room is totally trashed. The laptop is on the floor, along with half the mattress. The pillows have been ripped apart. The table is cut in half. Hoping that my bass is okay, but not checking, I crawl toward the injured deputy as the other cop talks frantically on his radio, stepping over us and going to the window.

  The fallen deputy’s gone white in the face. I pull off his shirt, which has a zipper behind pretend buttons. His bulletproof vest is harder to remove.

  “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay,” I murmur when I finally see his wounds. They are slash marks, but not too horribly deep. Still, blood drips from them. “I’m going to get some towels and water.”

  The other cop has stepped through the window. I’m assuming he’s chasing after the monster. I’m not sure that’s a good idea.

  “What was that thing?” the wounded deputy asks. He’s dark skinned, brown eyed.

  “I don’t know.” I press the towel against his wounds, five long scratch marks.

  People are standing out in the hallway, peering into my room. Their voices get louder and louder as they’re asking questions and spouting theories and panicking. Sirens wail in the distance.

  “Everyone stay back,” I say. “Someone please call 9-1-1 and make sure an ambulance is coming.”

  The deputy cringes beneath my hands. Blood starts soaking through the towel.

  “You’re going to be okay,” I murmur again.

  He nods really quickly like he’s trying to convince both of us that what I just said is true. His eyes take in the mess of the room, the broken window, the splintered bathroom door.

  “I thought it was supposed to be Bigfoot,” he says.

  “I don’t think we’re that lucky.” My voice shakes just like his does. He’s some stranger, some hero man with a job that makes him face the horrible every day, and now he’s bleeding beneath my hands. I wonder if he has a family. I wonder if he has a dog or a cat or dreams. I hate that thing for doing this to him. I hate it.

  “First the cow, then the pigs, then that girl, maybe another girl.” He lifts his head so our eyes meet. “And then almost you.”

  “And you.” I grab his hand in mine.

  His grip is not so strong, which worries me. His head goes back to the floor and I use my free hand to make sure it touches down smoothly. He’s so tired, so hurt, but still he says, “But he came in here. He wanted you.”

  The horror of it is too much to think about. The eyes of it. The teeth. But still I make myself movie-heroine tough and say, “Well, he won’t get me.”

  “Nobody else.” The deputy shudders and lets go of my fingers one at a time.

  I think he might be going into shock. I yank the ripped bedcovers from under a chair and wrap them around him before repeating his words, “No, sir. Nobody else.”

  11

  LOGAN

  I’m working on one of my poems—a new one, and a real stinker, where I’m trying to make a piece of quartz crystal a metaphor for Chrystal’s soul. I’m about to give it up and tear the page out when my cell phone rings. I swipe the screen to answer. The screen glows pretty bright, making me realize it’s later than I thought. It’s Chrystal’s number. “Hello?”

  “Logan? Umm, this is Logan, right?” Her voice isn’t calm and sweet like the bubbling brook I was going to compare it to. The words are high and shrill, terrified. Something is obviously wrong. She’d know it was me. My name is programmed into her phone.

  “Yeah. What’s wrong?” I ask, sitting up straight.

  “He was here, Logan. He was right here in my room,” she says, then she’s crying.

  “Who was—” Then it hits me. “Oh my God, Chrystal. Are you okay? What happened? Are you okay?”

  I hear her taking several deep breaths, trying to get herself under control. In the background I can hear men talking. Calmer, Chrystal says, “He was outside the hotel. I smelled him. God, Logan, he smelled horrible. I was so scared. He just smashed out the window. I ran to the bathroom, and he came in. He was in the room.” She pauses, and I know she’s fighting to stay calm. “I hid in the bathroom, but after he trashed the main room, he ripped the bathroom door apart and was coming for me. I sprayed him with fire and the cops came in and he finally ran away.”

  I listen in awe. Sprayed it with fire? I have no idea what she means, but I’m not about to make her explain it to me now.

  “I think he was after me, Logan,” she says, almost in a whisper. Behind her, the men are still talking. One of the voices is her dad’s.

  “It sounds like it,” I agree. “You’re okay?”

  “I’m fine, but I mean it: I think he was after me. Specifically me. Why my room instead of one of the others?”

&n
bsp; “I … I don’t know.” Maybe ’cause she’s a girl? It seems to like girls. I don’t say that, though.

  “I’m afraid he’s hunting me,” she says, her voice still low. She cracks on the last two words and they come out as a sob. “Dr. Borgess said that the monster seemed vengeful. Maybe my dad did something. Maybe it doesn’t like bass guitar. I don’t know … I can’t think of anything that I’ve done that would make a monster come after me. Or maybe it’s just girls. Karen was a girl.”

  “Chrystal, who are you talking to?” It’s her dad. His voice is louder now, and I know he’s come to stand next to her.

  “It’s Logan,” she says.

  “We’re moving to another room,” he says. “We need to gather up everything we can salvage.”

  “Another room?” she asks. “Here?”

  The last word is so full of fear, I can’t stand it.

  “Chrystal,” I call, hoping she’ll hear me above everything else. “Chrystal?”

  “What?” she asks. “Just a minute, Dad.”

  “You can’t stay there. Not if it’s looking for you. No way. You can come here. Stay here with us.” That’s bad. I shouldn’t do that without checking with Mom and Dad. I jump up and hurry for the front door. “I mean, I better ask, but I’m sure they’ll be okay with it.” I move quickly into the house. Mom’s sitting in the living room with a book of word searches while the girls watch Wizards of Waverly Place reruns. I can hear Chrystal explaining to her dad what I’m offering.

  “Mom, we’ve got to help them,” I start. She looks up at me, obviously perplexed. I spill Chrystal’s story as fast as I can, watching Mom’s face slacken in horror as I talk. “They can’t stay in that hotel. Not if that thing knows she’s there. We have to help them. Can they stay here?”

  Mom’s mouth finally snaps closed. She looks up at the ceiling, and I know she’s thinking she should consult Dad before making a decision, but then her face hardens like it always does when she’s made up her mind about something. She looks back at me and says, “You tell them to get right over here. Mr. Lawson Smith can sleep on the couch, and Chrystal can either share with Kelsey or I’ll put the girls together.”