Colony of the Lost

by Derik Cavignano

  Sarah glanced at the mirror and caught a glimpse of her ugly face. She could almost hear Joey Cobb making fun of her.

  Hey beaver face, why don’t you go chop down a tree.

  She squeezed her eyes shut until the voice faded into the wind that blew through her open window. They were all so mean. Why wouldn’t they just leave her alone? No one liked her, no one wanted her as a friend. She glanced out the window at the little trail worn into the grass by the edge of the woods.

  The boy wants to be my friend.

  The thought came out of nowhere. She had seen him every night for a week, the little boy beneath her window. The boy who wore funny clothes. Something about him seemed weird. Maybe it was just the strange clothes or a trick of the moonlight or maybe just her imagination, but something about the boy made her think of ... well, of a ghost.

  She knew she shouldn’t believe in ghosts. Dad had told her hundreds of times that there were no such things. Just in movies, he’d say. Dreamed up from someone’s imagination. At one time Dad’s words would have made her feel better, but that was when she believed he knew everything.

  She supposed that up to a certain age all kids believed their parents knew everything. For her, discovering the truth had been a big shock that forced her to doubt everything she had ever learned. How could Dad be alive for so long and still not know everything? Was he stupid, or was there really too much out there for any one person to know? The thought had scared her because if Dad didn’t know how electricity was made, how could he know for sure that there were no such things as ghosts?

  She shook her head. Ghost or not, she wasn’t afraid of the boy. He looked too sad and lonely to be scary. Last night when the boy had motioned for her to come outside to play beneath the stars in the woods, she had almost gone. She wanted to ask the boy who he was and where he came from. But she wasn’t allowed out after dark, especially not when her parents were asleep. And with Ryan and the other kids missing, her parents would be worried if they woke up in the middle of the night to find her gone.

  But she really wanted to talk to the boy. He wasn’t from around here. He didn’t know the kids who teased her at school. What if she could make friends with him before any of the other kids made him hate her?

  “What if he really is a ghost? What then?”

  Sarah turned toward the bed where Jenny sat with her head down, scratching Mr. Whiskers behind the ears. “Are you jealous, Jenny?”

  But Jenny didn’t answer.

  “We can all be friends,” Sarah said. “You, me, Mr. Whiskers, and the boy. We can play by the stream all night. Think of all the fun we’ll have!”

  After a long moment Jenny met Sarah’s gaze. “I guess it does sound like fun.”

  “What about you, Mr. Whiskers?”

  The cat blinked at her. “Well, I must admit, I am rather curious about this boy.”

  Sarah clapped her hands. She looked from Jenny to Mr. Whiskers and back again. “I’m going to meet the boy tonight. Who’s with me?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The grizzled old-timers who frequented Malley’s called it the Drink Dungeon, and it didn’t take a genius to understand why. It lacked even a single window and had such poor ventilation that the air tasted stale. Little more than a hole in the wall, it was dimly lit, with fourteen stools running the length of a scarred wooden bar. There were no tables, no booths—just a CD jukebox in the far corner and a cramped bathroom that probably hadn’t seen a thorough cleaning since the Reagan administration.

  Jay sat on a stool near the door, one arm curled around a pint of Sam Adams, the other resting on the edge of the bar, his sleeve still soaked from a spill three beers ago. He stared at the bottles lining a mirrored shelf and listened to the disembodied voice of Jim Morrison singing about the faces that come out of the rain.

  Look at you, sitting there like a loser. Is this how you want to live? No wonder Crystal walked out on you. You’re no good for her. You’re not even good for yourself. Nothing but a lousy drunk ... just like your dear old dad.

  Jay drowned the voice out with a frat boy chug and turned his attention to Steve’s camera, which sat on the bar before him. The Puritan boy gazed up at him from the digital display, his eyes dark and intense, a nebulous blue surrounding his body.

  He had shown Crystal this exact picture. So why couldn’t she see him?

  “Because he’s a ghost. And he’s haunting me. Just me.”

  He tapped the display and cackled.

  “I think you’ve had enough, Jay.”

  Jay glanced up to find Bill Malley looming over him, a towel draped over his hairy forearm. “I called a cab. You been babbling to yourself for half an hour.”

  “Come on, Bill. One more beer.”

  Malley shook his head. “Not tonight.” He wrapped an arm around Jay and steered him outside where a taxi idled by the curb. “Don’t come back here. For your own good.” He stuffed a leaflet into Jay’s hand. “Read this, get some help.”

  Jay crumpled the paper into a ball and pitched it into the gutter. “You think it’s so easy. You all think it’s so easy. Maybe I don’t want ... your help. Ever think of ... of that?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Tim’s eyes fluttered open, sensing a change in the light. From the window at his bedside, he detected the pale blue of the glow-in-the-dark necklaces that Randy had draped around the kid’s shoulders.

  He rolled out of bed and stood slowly, cocking an ear toward his parent’s bedroom where the warning growl of a German Shepherd and the haunting moan of a dying goose suggested that his parents were once again trying to outsnore one another.

  He slipped into a pair of Nikes and crept toward the window. The boy loomed near the tree line, his pale skin and gaunt features accentuated by a blue phosphorescence. Standing there in the darkness, the boy could easily have passed for a vampire.

  Don't freak, Tim thought. Take a deep breath, remember the plan.

  He focused on opening the window without making a sound. Once he slid the screen up, he leaned outside and grabbed hold of the stone chimney that ran up the wall past his window. He wriggled outside and gazed down at the darkened backyard.

  Probably just Randy’s kid brother. So just chill.

  Thirty seconds later, he dropped to the ground and stood in a low crouch. Dewdrops clung to the grass and shimmered in the moonlight. He scanned the shadows, but could see no sign of the boy. No sign of Randy or his goons.

  His plan was simple—lure them to the side of the house, soak them with the hose, and then climb up the tree at the end of the driveway. When they ran after him, he’d grab the ropes he had tied into ready-made slipknots, lasso them like cattle, and tie them to the tree for the night.

  The only thing his plan lacked was eggs. With any luck maybe his Mom had some rotten ones in the fridge. He’d give anything to pelt Randy right between the eyes, cover his face in a slimy film of yolk.

  But first he had to find the boy.

  A pale blue arc of light illuminated the grass near the edge of the yard, just beyond the garage. Somewhere around that corner, standing just out of sight, was the boy.

  Maybe he should just grab the kid and drag him back to the coil of hose. Draw Randy and his goons out of hiding. He drew a deep breath.

  Here goes nothing!

  Tim sprinted toward the garage, ready to pounce on the boy. But when he rounded the corner, the boy was gone.

  How did—

  He spotted the boy standing at the fringe of trees. Watching him.

  So much for the element of surprise, Tim thought, and bounded across the yard after him.

  The boy disappeared into the trees, and Tim crashed through the thick underbrush, vines smacking wet against his legs.

  A crescent moon shone through the canopy of trees, its pale light fading in and out with the shifting cloud cover. Tim didn’t dare run faster than a jog. He hadn’t lived here long enough to be familiar with the terrain in the daytime, let alone at night.

&nb
sp; He glanced ahead and saw that he had lost sight of the boy. He drew to a halt and turned in a slow circle, searching the darkness for any trace of the boy or that pale blue glow. He couldn’t believe it when he saw how far away his house was. The outline of the roof was barely perceptible through the trees.

  What if this was a trap? What if Randy expected him to follow? What if he and his goons were behind those trees right now, ready to jump him?

  He listened to his surroundings—hands on his hips, head cocked to one side—but all he could hear was the sound of his own labored breathing.

  The moon passed behind the scudding clouds, and the forest dissolved into darkness.

  Why don’t I hear any crickets? Why don’t I hear even a single sound?

  But he forced the thoughts away.

  At last the moon emerged from behind the clouds and the trees could again be seen apart from the shadows.

  Four kids missing. What if Randy is the one doing it? What if this is how he does it—using the boy to lure people into the woods.

  No. It didn’t make sense. It was too crazy. Wasn’t it?

  The boy appeared again. Fifty yards ahead.

  Tim raced after him, more determined than ever to catch this kid, to expose Randy, to confront his fears for good.

  The boy dropped out of sight, only to reappear again half a minute later.

  A strange thought suddenly occurred to Tim. He couldn’t hear the boy running. In fact, he hadn’t even seen the boy run. It was as if the boy were disappearing and reappearing like some kind of ghost or something.

  That was only an illusion, of course. He didn’t see the boy running because the boy was abandoning the path and stealing tree to tree. But the noise—he should be able to hear something, shouldn’t he?

  A sense of dread began to steal over him. What if Randy hadn’t put the boy up to this? What if this was something totally different?

  He thought again of the boy’s milk-white complexion, his dark, sunken eyes and pale blue glow, and suddenly his heart froze in his chest and the hairs on his neck tingled as if electrified.

  What if the boy ... what if I’ve been chasing ...

  He turned in the direction that his house should be in, but it was nowhere in sight. He clenched his hands into fists and fought to slow down his racing heart.

  Okay, get a hold of yourself. The path must have split off. You can find it, you can do it again.

  He retraced his steps, his thoughts of catching the boy now whole-heartedly abandoned. All he wanted now was to get home, and to get there fast.

  Several minutes passed before he saw something that drew him to a halt. The boy was now ahead of him. Somehow the boy had backtracked past him, unseen, unheard, and was now blocking the path that would lead him home.

  Tim shook his head. It wasn’t possible.

  He shuffled backward, inching away from the grim-faced boy.

  No—not a boy. Not anymore…not for centuries.

  The boy stepped toward him.

  Tim whirled around and dashed through the forest, tearing through the underbrush, dodging around boulders, and leaping over fallen logs. He glanced over his shoulder, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. He was aware that he was running further and further away from home, but he knew that if he could elude the boy until daybreak he would be okay.

  The boy materialized on his right.

  Tim screamed and hooked a left into the underbrush. He realized with dawning horror that the boy was steering him. But to where? And why?

  He charged through the forest, heedless of the twigs and branches that snapped back into his face. He glanced backward. Where was the boy?

  His foot caught beneath a root and he went flying through the air, arms outstretched like Superman. He came down hard, smacking his stomach against a rock, his palms raking the ground. He rolled onto his side, gasping for breath.

  The boy. Where’s the boy?

  And then he saw the foot. It was planted on the ground just a few inches from his face—old Reebok’s splotched with mud. Size ten. Maybe eleven.

  He scrambled to his feet.

  The man in the Reeboks lurched toward him, arms stretched wide. “See? Did you see?”

  Tim stumbled against the rough bark of a pine, a scream lodged in his throat.

  Just ahead, something came rifling through the underbrush. Tim and the man glanced at one another ... and then at the little girl who emerged into the clearing. For a long moment, the three of them stood gazing at one another.

  No one moved. No one spoke.

  And then the boy appeared between them, materializing out of the ether. An aura of blue framed his body, his skin so white it was almost translucent. He was dressed in tattered Puritan clothing, his eyes black and sunken beneath the brim of his hat.

  Tim’s brain screamed for him to run, but his feet remained cemented to the ground. It was a bizarre feeling, like being caught in a dream from which he couldn’t awaken.

  An unexpected threat of laughter bubbled in his chest, but he quickly choked it back, fearing he might lose his grip on reality, that his mind might simply become untethered.

  He could feel the boy’s gaze upon him, so unearthly it made his skin crawl.

  The boy’s lips parted to reveal crooked yellow teeth. “At last,” he said, “we have gathered in this moonlit glen.”

  The girl stepped toward the glowing apparition. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  The man seized her by the shoulder. “Careful,” he whispered. His dark hair stood in sleepy corkscrews, his face dirt-streaked and covered with stubble. A moment ago Tim had pegged him as a lunatic. Now he wasn’t so sure. The fear in the man’s eyes suggested that he’d been lured here too. But why? And why did he look so familiar?

  The boy shifted his gaze to the girl. “I am Samuel.”

  “What do you want from us?” the man asked.

  “Are you a friend?” the girl asked. “You are, aren’t you?”

  What’s wrong with her? Why isn’t she afraid?

  “I bear a message from the world of the lost. The beast of old hath returned, awakened from a slumber of centuries, stirred to life by the blood of the new. It lurks in the shadow of the forest and hunts in the world of man, this demon whose hunger knows no bounds.”

  “Who are you?” the man asked. “Are you…a ghost?”

  The boy nodded almost imperceptibly.

  This isn’t happening. This can’t be real. There is no way I’m standing in the woods in the middle of the night talking to a boy who’s been dead for three centuries.

  “Why are you telling this to us?” Tim asked.

  The boy’s eyes narrowed. “It is not I who sought you, but you who sought me.”

  “What?” the man cried.

  The sound startled a bird from its perch and sent it shrieking into the sky.

  “You have the vision,” the boy said. “You see what others cannot. That is why you must be the ones to destroy it.”

  ***

  Most alcoholics know there’s only one way to sober up quickly. Not coffee, not water, but fear. You want to sober someone up, you scare the bejesus out of him.

  Jay could see clearly now. No longer was the boy a pale blue smear against the night. Now he had features, substance, definition.

  It was a chilling sight—the boy standing there among the graveyard of pines, pallid face draped in shadows, dark eyes at once solemn and desperate. The only thing keeping Jay from bolting through the woods in a blind panic was the fact that he was drunk enough to have what his dad called barroom bravery. Just what was keeping the little girl and the other kid from tearing away like spooked cattle was beyond him.

  The boy’s words swam through the murky waters of his mind.

  A beast ... awakened ...

  He glanced at the violet sky and traced the flight of the bird he had startled. When he lowered his gaze, the boy’s eyes found his. “You have the vision. You see what others cannot. That is why you must be the ones t
o destroy it.”

  For a moment his mind was so clear he could see everything at once: the boy, the trees, the probing fingers of a ground fog.

  Destroy the beast.

  “What beast?” Jay asked. “Is it a man, some lunatic? Or is it something else?” He clenched his hands into fists. “It has those kids, though. Doesn’t it? This man, this beast. It killed them?”

  The boy nodded.

  “And you want us to kill it?” It was the kid who spoke.

  “Yes.”

  “And how are we supposed to do that?” The kid again. “Which is it, a beast or a man?”

  “It is both beast and man. A creature whose cunning is matched only by its hunger, its insatiable thirst for blood and death.”

  The little girl wrinkled her nose and looked up at Jay. “He talks funny.”

  Jay patted her shoulder. “Who sent you, Samuel?”

  The boy frowned. “I do not know.” Then suddenly: “You must go! Quickly! The beast—it has sensed us!”

  “What? Wait!” Jay said. But the boy pointed into the night and disappeared.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” the kid said.

  “Look,” the girl said. “He left a trail.”

  A thread of light—pale blue and as gossamer as razor wire—extended through the forest in the direction the boy had pointed.

  Jay took the girl’s hand. “Come on.”

  “But what about Samuel?”

  “Samuel can fend for himself.”

  “But the beast ...”

  A howl pierced the night.

  A dog? A wolf? The beast? Jay didn’t know and didn’t want to find out.

  “Let’s move!” the kid said, and bounded into the woods.

  Jay and the girl exchanged a glance and then chased after him.

  They ran together, tearing through the underbrush, following the thread of light that pulsed like a plucked guitar string.

  The effects of alcohol had vanished, leaving Jay with a strange exhilaration. He felt as if he had just taken part in some elaborate college prank and had barely escaped getting caught. For the first time in years, he felt free.