Max Helsing and the Beast of Bone Creek

by Curtis Jobling

  “You could’ve killed me, you nugget,” grunted Boyle above, yanking Max’s rope and sending him spinning clear.

  “Are you all right, Boyle?” shouted Whedon below, as the bully continued on his way, cussing as he descended.

  Max watched him go, bouncing off the rock face all the way, but paid little attention. He could live with being the bad guy if it kept the dragon safe and its existence secret.

  Max hung there from the cliff face, contemplating a couple of conundrums. First, was there anything Max could possibly do to make Principal Whedon hate him more? And second—and most important—if a rock drake was alive and well and living in the wilds of Bone Creek, what other creatures inhabited this strange, secluded forest?

  SIX

  MISPLACED MONSTERS

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said Syd, her voice an excited whisper by Max’s ear.

  He shifted uncomfortably on the log, dabbing more insect repellent onto his exposed skin. “I kid you not. I swear I’ve been bitten to death. I’ve encountered zombies with less taste for my flesh.”

  “Screw the mosquitoes,” hissed Syd. “You saw an honest-to-goodness dragon?”

  “You make it sound like something dwarves would be scared of. It was actually a rock drake.” He held his hands apart to show the size of a pigeon. “About yea big.”

  The students all sat around the fire pit, toasting marshmallows in the flickering flames. The hour was late and it had been an exhausting day for all. Hard to believe they’d started the day in Gallows Hill as they now lounged beneath the stars. The evening meal hadn’t gone entirely as planned. Lighting the fire took twice as long as it should have. Principal Whedon had blamed a multitude of poor conditions for his failure to get it going, including damp wood, poor light, and hidden ground winds, whatever they were. Thankfully, Ms. Golden had stepped in and summoned up flames with a minimum of fuss. Chili was served, dinner was devoured, games were played, and then the marshmallows were unleashed.

  “But still: a dragon!” said Syd. “Would you expect to find them up here?”

  “I’d expect to find something like that in an area that was known for supernatural activity. As far as I knew, the White Mountains weren’t that place.”

  “The White Mountains cover a big area. Maybe Bone Creek is the range’s little corner of crazy?”

  Syd was no norm. She’d had plenty of monstrous encounters with Max in recent times. There was little he could say that would cause her alarm. But he kept his voice low so the norms around them wouldn’t lose their cool.

  “If we were going to bump into anything on this trip, I was expecting a hairy hominid, not a rock drake. Certain cryptids are usually sighted in specific areas—”

  “Cryptids?” said Syd.

  “Misplaced beasts, strange creatures that get spotted all over the world by the public who invariably fail to grab any proof that they’re real. Don’t get me wrong, some of them are hooey, but many do exist: the Yeti, the Loch Ness Monster, Ogopogo. The study of them is called cryptozoology. You should mention it to Wing when we get home. He’ll send you to sleep with what he’s learned about cryptids.”

  “So where would a rock drake normally be found?”

  Max spied Boyle and his pals across the fire, the bully’s freckled face twisted into a sneer as he watched them.

  “That’s just it,” he whispered. “They’re more common in areas of fey activity.”

  “Fairies?” said Syd, licking the last bit of marshmallow off her fingers. “Is Bone Creek a hotspot for fairy activity?”

  “I don’t have the answer. But Gideon might.” He rose. “But first, I gotta take a leak.”

  “Too much information,” said Syd, wrinkling her nose.

  Max stalked around the campfire en route to the outdoor latrine on the edge of the woods. Whedon was keeping to himself, sitting on a deck chair away from the marshmallow-crazed crowd. He had a head lamp strapped to his forehead, which he was using to read by. He was quite clearly sulking after his emasculation at the expert fire-starting hands of the younger Ms. Golden. As Max passed Whedon, he felt the principal’s eyes fixed upon him.

  Through the trees he went, branches crunching underfoot until he reached the tiny wooden hut that passed for a bathroom. He opened the door and stepped inside, placing his flashlight on the edge of the rickety sink that was fixed to the wall. He locked the door behind him and used a boot to lift the lid. Max had faced all kinds of horrors on the job, but he still didn’t relish getting surprised by a spider when his defenses—and pants—were down.

  As he finished his business, Max suddenly became aware of the sound of twigs snapping outside the outhouse.

  “If you’re trying to scare me, Boyle,” called Max, “you’ll need to try a lot harder.”

  No reply. Zipping up, he flushed and turned to the sink. He ran the water, rinsing his fingers, before drying his hands on his jeans. As he turned the tap off, he heard another sound: nails along timber, scraping and scratching. Nails . . . or claws? Max felt a familiar shiver race up his spine. The outhouse trembled suddenly, as if a great force had seized and shaken it. Grabbing his flashlight, Max flicked the latch and kicked the door open, leaping out of the shack and spinning around.

  Only trees and darkness surrounded him. A thin mist curled about his ankles. He peered around the back of the outhouse, searched the walls for telltale marks, even scoured the ground for footprints, but there was nothing.

  “Get a grip, Helsing,” he muttered, setting off back to the campsite. As he walked, he tried to convince himself that he’d imagined what had happened, but the feeling stayed with him: something was out there, watching him.

  He found Gideon sitting with Frank and Sissy, enjoying a mug of coffee.

  “Mr. Gideon?”

  The tour guide looked up with a smile. “Oh, no, it’s just Gideon. Max, isn’t it?”

  “Gideon tells us you rappelled down High Crag this afternoon. How neat was that?” asked Sissy, twirling her necklace around her forefinger.

  “Rappelled is a bit of a stretch,” Max said, smiling, before turning back to Gideon. “Could I talk with you?”

  “Do you guys mind?”

  “Go ahead,” said Frank. “We’ll keep the log warm for ya!”

  The tour guide rose and walked with Max toward the riverbank, the enamel mug still steaming in his hands. Max noted that Whedon’s eyes were following him. After the business on the rock face, Max had secured his position as Public Enemy Number One. Max and Gideon stepped out onto the jetty, where the sounds of Max’s schoolmates were dampened by the babbling rush of the creek.

  “I was wondering,” Max began, “after our chat this afternoon: do you believe in bigfoot?”

  The tour guide ran a hand through the wild nest of curly hair that encircled his bald head. “I’ve been up and down this creek more times than I’ve had hot dinners and I’ve never seen a Sasquatch. Only Ike Barnum knows these woods better than I do.”

  “Who’s Barnum?”

  “A hermit who lives in the forest close to the summit of Battle Falls. Backwoodsman.”

  “I think we met him when we arrived in town this afternoon. At the general store.”

  “That sounds about right. Old Ike comes down once every few months to grab essentials. Pickles, usually, and a tin o’ tobacco. He was born in these mountains and he’ll no doubt die here too.”

  Max nodded. “He said we needed to beware the Beast of Bone Creek.”

  “Barnum said that? Maybe he’s gone a little stir-crazy, up there all alone. But if anyone’s seen something, it’s probably him.”

  “But do you believe there’s a Beast of Bone Creek?”

  “Between you and me,” said Gideon, “maybe there is. I’ve heard things I can’t explain up here, late at night. Strange sounds.” He clapped his hands. “Barnum’s right to tell you
to be wary when you’re out in the mountains; there’re all kinds of things that can cause you harm. As for bigfoot, Max, I’d personally need a bit more evidence before I tied my flag to the ’squatch-mast!”

  They strolled back to the camp, in time to find Frank and Sissy leading a rousing chorus of campfire songs. Max rejoined Syd on the log, while the tour guide started to conduct the sing-along. Everybody seemed to be having a most splendid time, except for Whedon.

  “Okay, folks, let’s call it a night!” shouted the principal over the singing. There was a collective chorus of aaaaws from the students, and even the couple from the Midwest shared their disappointment.

  “Mr. Whedon,” said Boyle, making his voice heard over the noise of his classmates. “Any chance I can call for a cab to get a hotel room in town? This place is a dump.” He turned to Gideon. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” replied the camp director, rolling his eyes.

  “Kenny, you need to stay here with your classmates,” said Whedon. “I promised your father I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”

  “Sucks to be me,” muttered Boyle, sitting back down with Ripley and Shipley.

  “You heard me, didn’t you?” said Whedon to the others. “Bedtime. Let’s go.”

  “Aw, really?” said Gideon, pulling a sad face and putting his hands on his hips. “C’mon, Principal Whedon, the boys and girls are having such a swell time. Can’t you give them ten minutes more?”

  Even in the dark, Max could see the color flushing Whedon’s face.

  “Rookie error from Gideon,” whispered Max. “Mistaking Whedon for a real human being.”

  The beam from Whedon’s head lamp passed over the musical mob. “Tomorrow we’ve got an early morning and a busy day of activities. You have two minutes to get yourselves into your bunkhouses. What are you waiting for?”

  The children and teachers rose and trudged back to their lodges. The couple waved good night and set off back up the riverbank in the direction of their tent. Only Gideon was left behind by the fire pit, waving merrily to the departing school party while imparting one last cautionary pearl of wisdom.

  “Good night! Sleep tight! Don’t let the bedbugs bite!”

  SEVEN

  BEDBUGS

  Max lay in his bed, staring up at the warped slats of wood that spanned the bunk above. Each time Whedon moved, the thin strips of timber groaned. If Max concentrated, he was sure he could hear the fibers splintering, ready to deposit the principal upon him at any moment. Then, of course, there were the noises. Scratching, murmuring, belching, and other less palatable sounds, all emanating from the mustachioed headmaster.

  Max had witnessed some truly terrifying sights in his fledgling career as a monster hunter. Bloodsucking vampires topped the list, with flesh-eating zombies, shapeshifting lycanthropes, and tentacled schattenjägers all close behind. Few of these fiends matched the horror of Principal Whedon—dressed in vest and long johns—clambering up a bunk bed ladder inches from one’s face.

  He looked across at JB, fast asleep in the next bed. Max craned his neck, trying to hear if any of the other guys were still awake. He heard nothing but a discordant chorus of snores drifting throughout the lodge. Pulling back the blanket from his bed, Max swung his feet onto the cold timber floorboards. He winced as he rose, trying not to cause a sound, though the bunk betrayed his every move. The frame moaned as he levered himself from his mattress, but for once Max’s luck was with him. He stepped over the pee bucket—thankfully, thus far, unused—and across to the window.

  Max wiped the misted glass with his forearm and looked out. The odd shaft of moonlight found its way through the pine trees, illuminating the bare earth of the campsite. Nothing moved. Max lingered a moment longer, watching the forest for any sign of life. The occasional light twinkled, floating through the darkness, the glow of a firefly, no doubt. He felt a shiver race across his flesh. Squinting into the dark forest, he had that uncanny feeling that something supernatural was staring back. Reaching into his pajama pocket, he pulled out his cell phone and punched the PIN. The display came up, glowing blue. He still had questions, and there was only one person who could help him: Jed.

  What could Jed tell him of the Beast of Bone Creek? Of bigfoot sightings in New Hampshire? Better still, was he aware there were rock drakes and heaven knew what else living in the White Mountains? Max hit the compose button and started typing a text message.

  Hey, Jed—

  “I’ll take that,” said Whedon, reaching down from his bunk to snatch the cell from Max’s hand. “Consider it confiscated.” The principal slipped the phone under his covers. “You seem intent on pushing your luck at every opportunity, Helsing. Just like your father—until his luck ran out. What you need is some real discipline, the kind only professionals can give. You step out of line again, I’ll take steps to make sure you get it.”

  “What, like suspending me?”

  Whedon smirked. “And leave you to your own devices? Suspension only works when there’s a parent at home to reinforce the lesson.”

  Max shook his head. Whedon wasn’t making any sense. “What d’you mean? I’ve got Jed keeping me in line.”

  Whedon laughed humorlessly. “Cross me again and I’ll report that old fool to social services. We’ll have you whipped out of that dusty old house and put into foster care before you know it, with the state keeping an eye on you. How does that sound, Helsing?”

  Whedon had no idea what was at stake. Max had a job to do, protecting the norms from the monsters, the fiends, the things that went bump in the dark. Jed was integral to that mission. Besides, the old boxer was the only family Max had left. There was no doubting Whedon could pull whatever strings he liked and ensure that Max was thrown into the system. His life with Jed would be over, as would his life as a monster hunter, and who knew what that meant for humanity?

  “You and I have an understanding, young man?”

  Max nodded.

  “Back to bed, Helsing.”

  Max collapsed onto his mattress. Would Whedon carry through with those threats? Max couldn’t risk finding out. The principal shifted about again overhead, the bed frame protesting with every movement and causing Max to wince. There was a short, sharp, high-pitched emission that could only have come from one place. Max rolled over and buried his face in his pillow.

  This was going to be a horrible night.

  • • •

  SISSY PETERSON COULD NOT GET WARM.

  “Frank,” she whispered to her fiancé. “Are you still awake?”

  He didn’t reply, wrapped up in his sleeping bag beside her, toggle drawn tight beneath his chin. Typical. She hated being the last one awake. When she was a kid growing up in Fergus Falls, she and her sister had shared a bedroom. Invariably, her big sis would nod off first, leaving Sissy with only the darkness for company. She’d always had a wild imagination, and it didn’t take much for her to see the shapes start to shift in the shadows. It was the same beast, every night, creeping toward her, glowing eyes, gnashing teeth, breath steaming as it approached. A loud cough and a kick to her sister’s bed would be just enough to wake her sibling and disturb her from her slumber. Then it would be a race for Sissy to fall asleep.

  Sissy smiled. Those kids from Boston seemed a neat bunch, as was the tour guide who’d made them feel welcome since arriving in Bone Creek. It was going to be a fun week if they kept crossing paths with that crowd.

  The twig snap brought her out of her reverie instantly. She lay still, listening for further sounds. She and Frank often went camping, and were used to wildlife sharing their campsite with them. Chipmunks, porcupines, rabbits, and such. Those critters didn’t tend to cause twigs to snap, though. Only a heavy footfall would do that.

  “Frank,” she whispered. “I think there’s something out there.”

  No reply.

  Sissy shook her head. This was li
ke being a kid again. Her imagination was getting the better of her. She must have been hearing things. As she breathed a sigh of relief she heard another twig snap.

  Crack!

  A bigger one, perhaps a branch? What could break a branch? A coyote? Were there lynx in the White Mountains? A black bear, perhaps?

  “Frank!” She was louder now, giving her fiancé a shove. He grunted, reluctantly stirring.

  “Whassit, Sissy?”

  “There’s something out there,” she said, pointing at the tent wall.

  “Oh, c’mon, honey. You and your imagination. You’re just dreaming or somethin’.”

  “I am not,” she insisted, giving him another shove. “There’s something outside the tent, moving around.”

  “Probably a raccoon.”

  “It is not a raccoon.”

  Frank struggled upright in his sleeping bag, looking like a man-size caterpillar as he peered at her.

  “If it puts your mind at ease, I’ll take a look,” he said, smacking his lips, freeing one arm from the confines of his cocoon as he craned forward, doubling over.

  “Be careful,” Sissy whispered.

  “Sure,” said Frank with a smile as he grabbed the tent zip and drew it up. “Last thing I need is a smackdown with a squirrel.” He gave her a wink and turned back to the tent flap, drawing it back.

  One look outside was enough.

  Frank let out a cry and dropped the flap back into place, his fingers fumbling frantically with the zipper. Sissy let out her own yelp of shock, grabbing Frank by the shoulders and shaking him.

  “What is it, Frank? What’s out there?”

  Before he could reply, the foot of his sleeping bag was suddenly yanked out from under him, whipping his feet up, and causing him to fall back in the tent with a thump. He looked up at Sissy, one arm hanging out of his tightly bound cocoon, and gave her a look of abject fear. Slowly, something drew him down to the bottom of the tent toward the exit.