Max Helsing and the Beast of Bone Creek

by Curtis Jobling

  “Where you kids staying?” asked Frank.

  “Some lodge on the creek, up in the woods,” said Max.

  “Oh, we’re camping up by the river too.”

  “Hey, did you see the hillbilly?” said Sissy, excitement building in her voice.

  “Hard to miss,” said Max, as politely as he could manage.

  “He was real quaint. Genuine hermit, lives up in the backwoods, so the storekeeper says. So neat.”

  “Look, if you’re camping by the river, we may yet see you again,” said Frank. “Be sure to say hi.”

  “We shall,” said Syd.

  “That’d be neat!” added Sissy. “Look out for the bigfeet!”

  “Neat.” Max nodded, still smiling, as the two backpackers left the store, clanging and waving as they went. Max turned to Syd. “Can you believe we’ve come all this way and there’re monster shenanigans happening on our doorstep?”

  “You don’t know that. Could just be a stunt like Frank said, to pull in a few bucks for a sleepy little town.”

  Max spied a snow globe on the counter, the rough likeness of a bigfoot soldered into place inside. He gave it a shake and watched the globs of white descend over the plastic figurine.

  “That’ll be ten dollars, boy,” said the storekeeper.

  “I hadn’t decided whether I was buying it,” said Max.

  “You touch it, you buy it,” said the man, pointing to a sign beside the cash register.

  “Wow, harsh,” said Max, forking the cash out of his wallet. “You could teach Odious Crumb a thing or two.”

  “What’s that, boy?” said the storekeeper, snatching the bill from Max.

  “Pleasure doing business with you, sir,” said Max, doffing an imaginary cap and turning to leave the store. He shoved the snow globe into his pocket. “Still, should make Wing happy. That takes care of my souvenir shopping.”

  Back on the porch Max heard the unmistakable chuckles of Ripley and Shipley from the right side of the veranda. Turning, he saw Boyle doodling on the wooden bear with a Sharpie.

  “Your friend’s disrespectful. Gonna get him in trouble.”

  Max and Syd turned and found the old-timer in the dungarees standing in the shadows beside the door, whiskers twitching as he worked his jaw. His bag of shopping sat on the porch at his feet, and he spat a blob of chewing tobacco into the ancient brass spittoon next to the veranda rail.

  “He’s no friend of mine,” said Max.

  “You kids staying on the river?”

  Max nodded.

  “I’m gonna say this once. Turn back.”

  “Back where?”

  “Go home, wherever ya came from. The woods ain’t safe.”

  “You live in the woods, though, don’t you?”

  “I know the woods. And more important . . . the woods know me.”

  Max’s face was a mask of confusion.

  “We’re just here for the week on a school trip,” said Syd.

  “There’s been bad things going on in the White Mountains lately. Real bad things.”

  “What bad things?” said Max, keen to hear more.

  “Beware.”

  “Beware what?” said Max. “Trust me, whatever’s out there, I’m not afraid of it. You’d be surprised at what doesn’t scare me.”

  “Hmm,” said the old-timer, spitting another glob of tobacco. “You’ll be scared if the Beast of Bone Creek finds ya.”

  Max felt his flesh chill at the old man’s warning. Ordinarily the idea of monstrous encounters or skirmishes with the paranormal got his blood pumping. But there was something about the old hermit’s dark demeanor that told him this beast was seriously bad news.

  “Is that your grandpa, Helsing?” asked Boyle from the end of the veranda, spying the conversation between Max, Syd, and the hermit.

  Max ignored him, concentrating on the old man. “I’ll be careful,” he said, but for some reason the words rang hollow.

  “You beware,” said the backwoodsman, picking up his provisions.

  “Enjoy your pickles,” said Max as the hermit hobbled down the steps.

  “Beware,” the old-timer added again before setting off down the dusty road toward the edge of town.

  “Grandpappy Helsing’s really let himself go,” said Boyle, his friends laughing at his cutting wit.

  Max turned to the bully, and caught a better look at the carved figure. It wasn’t a bear at all. It was a nine-foot wooden bigfoot, chiseled from a tree trunk. Max saw the Sharpie in Boyle’s hand and spied the graffiti. His temper got the better of him, rising like a flash flood. He covered the distance in a heartbeat and snatched for the pen. The eighth grader held on tight, refusing to relinquish his grip on the Sharpie. Then Boyle was tumbling back, over the porch banister and out into the street. He let go of the pen, leaving it in Max’s possession as he landed in the dust.

  Max stared at the carved monster, the giant wooden hominid towering over him. Its arms were raised, fingers ending in chunky claws, its jaws revealing rows of crooked teeth. Its eyes had been painted blood-red, giving it a demonic and distinctly unfriendly appearance. Its long, shaggy torso was held up by squat, powerful legs, supported by enormous, broad feet. It may only have been carved in timber and an artist’s impression, but it still conjured a shiver from Max.

  “The woods know me,” he whispered, repeating the hermit’s words.

  Max saw the graffiti up close now: “Gallows Hill Posse Was Here.” He shook his head.

  “Helsing!” bellowed Whedon. Max turned, finding the principal in the street, Boyle beside him, pointing at Max.

  “See,” said the bully. “Look what he did!”

  “You vandal, Helsing!” Whedon screeched, black mustache quivering as he spied the graffiti and the pen in Max’s hand.

  “Ah,” said Max, clipping the lid back onto the Sharpie. “I can explain everything.”

  Not that it would do him a lick of good.

  THREE

  LET’S GET CAMPING

  A brief drive through the woods brought the school party to its journey’s end, five miles north of town. The road stopped at a scratch of clearing, where an old camper van was already parked up. As Principal Whedon took in a lungful of fresh New Hampshire air, the other adults unloaded the bus. Backpacks donned, the kids set off after Whedon, who guided them down to the creek-side campsite. Mrs. Loomis and the other teachers brought up the rear, laden down with cases of food and drink. And Whedon’s luggage, of course.

  Max slapped a hand against his neck, splatting the insect that had just nipped his skin. He followed the principal but kept his eyes fixed on the forest. His nerves were on edge, and he couldn’t decide whether to blame his surroundings or Whedon. Max had gotten an earful on the perils of teenage delinquency after the business with the permanent marker. Pointing out that Boyle was responsible had been hopeless. In Whedon’s eyes, Boyle couldn’t put a foot wrong, probably because his father was the chief of police in Gallows Hill and a man Whedon constantly tried to impress. Max had no such guardian angel.

  “Get a move on, kids,” Whedon called back, proceeding down a set of steps that descended the hillside. A series of short split logs had been embedded into the earth, providing campers with a crude staircase that led to the creek below. Max was halfway down the slope when he felt someone bang into him from behind, almost sending him flying. He somehow managed to keep his footing, while simultaneously snatching hold of the shorter figure who skittered past him. His fingers seized the backpack of Joe Benjamin, also known as JB, the bespectacled quiet kid who seemed to be the only person on the trip who was minus a buddy.

  “You okay, JB?”

  The kid in the glasses nodded as Max dusted him off.

  “Quit cuddling him, Helsing, and get a move on!” shouted Boyle from behind.

  It was clear to Ma
x that the bully had shoved JB down the hill. Max helped the smaller boy steady himself.

  “Just follow where I put my feet and you’ll be fine.”

  At the bottom of the incline, the woods thinned out as the school group arrived at its final destination. Two totem poles supported a wooden sign that arched over the path, bearing the name of their home for the next week: BONE CREEK ADVENTURE CAMP. Boys and girls whooped as they passed beneath it, high-fiving, fist-bumping, and generally celebrating their arrival. The trees had been cut back throughout this area, affording visitors an unhindered view of the waters of Bone Creek as it cut through the forest. A pair of log cabins stood on the bank with a huge fire pit between them. A wooden jetty stretched out into the river, a diving board fixed to one end that would no doubt be getting some serious abuse in the coming days. An outhouse stood within the pines, promising spiders and bugs aplenty for any brave soul that chose to use it. Max caught sight of a third log cabin farther downriver, half-hidden by the trees, while upstream he spied a partially assembled white tent flapping in the breeze. Before he could investigate further, he heard a shrill whistle and the clapping of hands as a figure strode up the bank toward them and spoke.

  “Welcome, oh welcome, boys and girls of Gallows Hill Middle School, to . . .” The man paused to give his best jazz hands. “Bone Creek Adventure Camp!”

  The man was short—like, Principal Whedon short—with curly brown hair that sprouted out around a bald, pale summit. He scurried over excitedly, his goatee bobbing as he laughed. He wore a khaki shirt with a matching pair of shorts that were a touch on the tight side. A pair of shiny hiking boots completed the ensemble, with rosy red hiking socks rolled down around their tops. He strode straight up to the principal and took him by the hand.

  “You must be Irwin!” he exclaimed.

  “Principal Whedon,” corrected the teacher with an embarrassed cough as the kids snickered.

  The man winked in a dramatic conspiratorial fashion, giving Whedon a friendly nudge. “Principal Whedon it is. And I”—he pointed at a shiny brass name badge on his breast pocket—“am Gideon. I’ll be your go-to guy while you’re here in Bone Creek. I’ve got all kinds of fun activities for you boys and girls to get into. You are gonna have a wild time!”

  He clapped his hands again, encouraging the schoolchildren to join in. Max couldn’t help but get swept up in the tour guide’s enthusiasm. He grinned as he clapped wildly, matching the man’s high spirits and prompting a snort of laughter from Syd.

  “Dork.”

  It was Boyle’s voice, from the back of the group, low enough to be heard by Ripley, Shipley, and Max but not Gideon. Max couldn’t tell who it was aimed at, himself or the exuberant host. If the camp coordinator heard it, he didn’t react, continuing with his introduction.

  “I live thataways,” he said, pointing at the third cabin in the woods. “If you need any help at all during your stay, just holler and I’ll come running.”

  To illustrate this information, Gideon mimed jogging on the spot. This prompted more giggles from Syd and Max.

  “How happy is he?” whispered Syd. “If he walked around Boston with that smile on his face, they’d lock him up.”

  Gideon clapped his hands again.

  “Okeydokey, here’s what we’re gonna do. Girls, you wanna be in the lodge on the right. Boys, you’re bedding down on the left. Drop off your bags, grab a bunk, take a tinkle, and then I’ll meet you back out here in fifteen minutes. I’ve got a whole mess of sandwiches and soda here for you to enjoy for lunch. Then I’ll give you the full tour as we head to the first activity of the week: rappelling!” There was more clapping from their host accompanied by a muted response from the kids. “Let’s get camping, campers!”

  Max chuckled as he and Syd stomped over to the cabins, splitting when they reached the fire pit.

  “Technically, this ain’t camping,” said Max, smacking a midge that had settled on his hand.

  “What? You’re suddenly the world’s foremost expert on the great outdoors, city boy?” Syd laughed.

  “Just saying. Unless we have to pee in a bucket, this ain’t camping.”

  “I’ll see you on the other side,” said Syd, saluting Max as she peeled away toward the bunkhouse on the right.

  The boys’ cabin was a rustic affair, straight out of a Jack London novel. Steps led up to a deck that overlooked the creek, while an open doorway led into the lodge. An old oil lamp swung from the low ceiling, Max’s head almost connecting with it as he entered the building. The main room was around fifteen feet square, with a large beaten-up wooden table at its center. The names of previous occupants were carved into the top. Benches surrounded the table, while a black iron wood-burning stove dominated the rear of the room. The three bedrooms were situated off a short corridor running from the back of the kitchen area. Max stumbled as his foot found the rotten end of a loose, creaking floorboard. The timber bowed, threatening to twang up and hit him on the butt, cartoon-style. He danced lightly off the treacherous wood.

  “Just how old is this place? Did Davy Crockett vacation here?”

  He was shoved aside by the other boys as they charged in, keen to grab bunks with their friends. By the time he and the last kid, JB, reached the corridor beyond the kitchen, the first two rooms were taken. Even Mr. Mayhew, the younger male teacher, had picked a cot.

  “Sorry, Helsing,” brayed Ripley from the top of one bunk. “All the best beds have been taken.”

  “Looks like you and Nerdnuts are in the cupboard!” added Shipley.

  Cupboard wasn’t wrong—Max knocked over a yard brush on his way through the third door, stepping over boxes, logs, and half-empty cans of paint thinner. Sure enough, the last of the three rooms was barely big enough to swing a gerbil in, let alone a cat. A narrow gap of perhaps two feet separated the pair of bunk beds, while a cobweb-covered window faced out into the woods at the rear of the lodge. One of the top bunks was out of action, its mattress missing, revealing splintered slats across the frame. There was also a peculiar, rotten smell that Max couldn’t quite place. He wondered for a moment if it was perhaps coming from beneath the floorboards. Who knew what horrors lurked there?

  “Bit of a fixer-upper, JB,” said Max, as the smaller boy dropped his pack on the bed with the busted top bunk. Max threw his bags onto the bottom of the other and squeezed through to the window, stepping gingerly over an old tin bucket that seemed placed there purely as an obstacle.

  Pulling the sleeve of his jacket over the palm of his hand, he gave the glass a wipe. The grime smeared away, giving him a clear view of the forest. He watched it for a moment as JB proceeded to empty the contents of his backpack over his blanket. Beyond the dirty pane he could see birds hopping across the forest floor all along the camp’s edge. There was movement in the canopy overhead too, as the darting squirrels left shadows in their wake.

  Max thought about the Beast of Bone Creek. He’d never seen a bigfoot, but that wasn’t to say they weren’t out there. He peered through the maze of trunks, looking deeper into the wild forest. He felt the hairs tingle up and down his neck, and goose bumps briefly played across his flesh. He’d often joked about his Helsey sense to Jed, an innate feeling he got when something wasn’t quite right, when something supernatural was about to happen. Max was getting that vibe now as he stared into the woods. Something dreadful was coming.

  “Move,” snapped Whedon from behind, causing Max to jump and headbutt the window. He rebounded and fell back, clattering the bucket and causing it to roll onto its side. He turned, nursing his stubbed nose, amazed at how stealthy the principal could be. Whedon righted the bucket and tossed his pack onto the bunk above Max’s, causing the teenager’s heart to sink.

  “Looks like I’m up top, Helsing, where I can keep an eye on you,” said the principal, mustache twitching. “And try not to kick over the pee bucket again.”

  FOUR


  A GUIDED TOUR

  With their backpacks deposited and a picnic lunch tossed down their throats, the students were ready for all the thrills Bone Creek Adventure Camp could throw at them. Gideon gave them the tour of the grounds immediately surrounding the lodges, including the jetty that led out into the river. The water was crystal clear, and the tour guide pointed out the brown and rainbow trout that populated this stretch of the creek. A boat shed a little farther upstream housed kayaks, which the students would put to good use later in the week. There was a fire pit that could be enjoyed in the evening, with the assistance of a responsible adult. Whedon quickly let Gideon know that he’d been a Boy Scout in his youth, so getting a fire started would be no problem. He’d also taken the cell phones from any students who’d risked bringing theirs, insisting this was going to be a week with no interference from the outside world. Max, of course, had hidden his away, locked and on silent, before their arrival. He was in no hurry to ditch his cell, not when it was a lifeline to Jed.

  Mrs. Loomis said her good-byes to the gang, remaining at the campsite to start preparing the evening meal for everyone. Then they were stepping along the bank, the tour guide leading the way, waving his long knobbed walking stick like some backwoods Jedi.

  “So, Bone Creek gets its name from the veins of white zinc you can see in the rock,” said Gideon. “Just one of many unusual varieties of ore and precious metal you’ll find in these mountains. Anybody know the name of the indigenous group who hail from these hills?”

  JB raised a trembling hand.

  “Is it . . . is it the Pigwackets?”

  Boyle’s laugh caused some geese to take flight from the riverbank.

  “That’s not something to be laughed at, young man,” said Gideon, the humor gone from his voice. “Very disrespectful.”

  He shook his head as a stunned Boyle muttered an apology, unaccustomed to being put in his place. The funny little tour guide was growing on Max by the minute.