The Evil Within the Woods

by Kevin J. Fitzgerald

  The sun seemed bright. His head hurt. Joshua wondered just who the fat man was… what the whole conversation meant… and what things were to come. Without an answer to these questions, Joshua stood alone and looked at the scene below.

  From nearby, the white dove had watched the whole exchange with an unchanging expression of solemnity. It was not until much later when the boy finally turned and left the rock-shelf clearing that the white dove cooed loudly, and flew away into the pale sky.

  CHAPTER 15

  “A Day in the Life”

  Paladin’s new life was good—of that there could be no arguing.

  Unless, of course, one claimed his new life was perfect.

  He spent his days engaged in all manner of leisurely activities. His favorite was exploring the huge house. Paladin could devote hours each day to this particular pastime. In fact, many chapters could be written here describing all the adventures Paladin had during these days. Perhaps – someday – they will find their way into another book. There seemed to be no end to all the rooms, and each of them offered innumerable treasures. No matter how many times he explored the manor, Paladin always managed to find new adventures waiting for him in even the most familiar room. Without question, the one place that intrigued him above all others was the mysterious attic.

  Paladin would have admitted to you that – in the beginning – he was nervous about venturing up the narrow flight of stairs at the end of the upstairs hallway. I doubt he would have used the word “afraid”, but suffice it to say, whatever emotion he felt, fear came close. He would find himself at the end of his long, lazy days of exploring drifting toward the end of the hall. He would regard the cracked-open door with cautious wonder. He would sit and clean himself, or perhaps stretch out for a restless nap, all the while pretending to not be interested in the doorway or what lay beyond. Inevitably, his ears would raise high; his nose would work rapidly as he sought to detect some kind of scent from the other side. Paladin would stretch out his neck and upper body in such a way that suggested his hindquarters had been glued to the carpet, moving forward and pulling back again in a type of hesitant dance. It was quite a comical sight to see!

  It must be stated that the reason for Paladin’s reservation was not simple fear. For one thing, the carpeting of the upstairs hallway ended abruptly at the base of the attic stairs, and from there the stairs were made of bare wood. This, in and of itself, was good enough reason for Paladin to initially dismiss the thought of going up the steps (bunnies have such a hard time on slick surfaces!). But the more he thought about this, the more agitated he became with himself.

  “You’re a wild rabbit at heart, after all!” he snorted. “Imagine, a wild rabbit being bothered by bare wood under his feet!” And so, Paladin progressed beyond this being a valid reason for not bounding up the stairs.

  Another factor that turned him off of the idea of going up into the attic was the amount of dust his sensitive little snout picked up—even at the base of the stairs. Paladin was wise enough to know that if he ventured up any further, he would soon be sneezing his head off!

  Perhaps the biggest reason that kept Paladin from going up the attic stairs was the notion that he might get trapped up there somehow; that the door would simply close behind him, and the Son would have no idea where he had gone and would not be able to find him. The thought of being separated from the Son was unbearable to Paladin.

  In the end, his “inspiration” to venture up the stairs had come from an unlikely source. One day, as he made his way toward the end of the upstairs hallway, he found the attic door all the way open. Peering around the corner, he saw Bear laboriously making her way up the final steps into the attic. Paladin felt his pride bristle. He couldn’t be outdone by an old, fat she-dog! “If she can do it,” he determined, “I can do it.” However, it was still a few days before he actually did anything about it.

  The climb to the attic was steep and dusty. In one place, a board was loose on the stairs, and his foot slid through into a deep nothingness below. Paladin peered through the crack, squinting and straining to see. He could not tell, but wondered how far the dark chasm went, and what lay in wait in the shadows. He shuddered and got going again. When he reached the top of the stairs, he paused, amazed at the size of the place. It ran the entire length of the house, and was illuminated only by the pale light let in by a series of small windows set in either side of the sloped roof. “Oh my—” he gasped, looking around.

  The place was a museum! Paladin forgot all about whatever fears once held him back. He set about exploring. There were boxes everywhere: big boxes, little boxes, tall boxes, short boxes, skinny boxes, wide boxes, colored boxes, plain boxes, boxes, Boxes, BOXES! There was a lot of old furniture, several old trunks, and a coat rack with long dusty coats. Upon the wall hung signs, Christmas decorations, and old pictures. There was even a rotted life preserver, pocked with age and matted with mildew. An old piano towered over him like a dinosaur. And standing sentry in the one corner was a tall suit of armor. Paladin saw this and froze. He dashed beneath a nearby loveseat, whacking his head on the underside with a loud thump. There were a few nervous moments which Paladin passed by nibbling on the underbelly of the tattered loveseat, thinking. He finally poked his head from beneath the sheet thrown over the loveseat, only to find the suit of armor had not moved. Paladin stared and thought a long time, eventually concluding that the thing must not be a real elahs, but some sort of shell. Happy with his own deductive skills, Paladin once again set about exploring the place.

  Several hours passed. Paladin had the absolute time of his life, and made the most amazing discovery of the day quite by accident. He was climbing over a pile of dusty plastic items when a voice spoke.

  “Hello,” it cracked.

  Paladin jumped and crouched low to the ground. The voice had an old, hollow, mechanical sound to it, but very clear and very loud. Paladin looked in the direction of the voice and saw several bluish-green dashes floating in the dust. Paladin crept closer and saw that the reason the dashes were so dim was because of a dull sheen of dust. He wiped it away and looked at his dirty paw. He wrinkled his nose. The lighted blue-green dashes were displayed on some kind of small screen. Paladin sniffed at the plastic casing curiously. He noticed that – below the blue dashes, along the front of the plastic box – there were several buttons. Upon these buttons were markings that resembled the dashes on the screen. Paladin went to wipe the dust away from the buttons. As he did, the dashes on the screen changed. There was a beeping sound, followed by the mechanical voice saying loudly, “aitch”. Paladin drew back again. He looked everywhere for the owner of the voice, but there was no one to be seen. He looked suspiciously at the suit of armor again. Paladin sat there for some time, looking at the flashing blue-green dashes on the screen and the curious marked buttons on the front of the device. He moved closer again, and the set of dashes disappeared from the screen and a whole fleet of them marched across the screen. The mechanical voice announced: “Sorry; this is not a word. Try again.”

  You may have realized by now that it was Joshua’s old “Speak & Spell” toy that Paladin had discovered. It was sent up to the attic long ago with a bunch of other toys of Joshua’s, but the battery in it still worked.

  Now, you must understand that it took some time for Paladin to understand what it was he had found, and that the dashes on the screen actually matched the markings on the buttons. This was a long and tedious mental process, and to write it all down would take far too long. But Paladin rather enjoyed himself. After a while, he actually began to grasp the concept of the device, and before he knew it, hours had passed. But Paladin began to have a rudimentary understanding of the written English language.

  After this initial exploration, visits to the attic became a hobby for him. Paladin would escape into the attic with a scrap of lettuce, or hunk of apple, and curl up in front of the “Speak & Spell” the way you or I might with a favorite story. Paladin was quite bright, and this hobby soon
became a passion for him. Before long, he was underneath Joshua’s bed, reading through old comic books (when he wasn’t nibbling at them), or reading the scraps of newspaper used as bedding in his cage. On several occasions, he read accounts in the newspapers which did not exactly endear him to the world of the elahs—stories of violent acts, and the elahs’ senseless expressions of anger towards each other. Paladin would read these accounts and sense once again that the Father and Son were somehow different from the other elahs—set apart. There was one account which he read, written on a scrap from a newspaper called “The Messenger” (it said this in the top corner). The title of the story immediately caught Paladin’s attention:

  “Pet Bandits Strike Again”

  “In a most unusual string of robberies, people from all over town are reporting having their pets stolen. In some instances, people’s homes have been forcibly entered—with nothing more taken than the family pet. Dogs, cats, birds, the burglars – appropriately dubbed the “Pet Bandits” – seem impartial with their victims. But it is strange to think that no other goods have been reported stolen. All household items – safes, jewelry, electronics – have all been untouched. Authorities are baffled. “Why would anybody steal people’s pets?” Sheriff Gene MacMurray wondered as he investigated a recent scene. MacMurray and other authorities are particularly concerned that the string of burglaries and their relative ease may encourage other “petty” thieves (no pun intended) to attempt break-ins of a similar type. When questioned as to potential motives behind the burglaries, MacMurray only commented that the one similarity of the break-ins is that all the pets in question have been purchased at the same location: a large franchise of pet & pet supply stores known as “All God’s Creatures”. “All God’s Creatures” is well-known to most people as being owned and run by Theo . . .”

  §

  Theo lowered the newspaper and stared out the window. The December sky darkened as a new dusting of snow started to fall. He had read enough. Reported cases of the supposed “Pet Bandits” had grown recently, and Theo was starting to wonder. Was there any significance to the fact that all the animals stolen had been purchased from “All God’s Creatures”? The popular pet store chain had grown out of “The Garden”, that single store he’d owned and operated so long ago. The successful chain’s proceeds now funded The Kingdom, the animal and nature preserve he was setting up in the heart of the Prahmist Mountains.

  Could it be?

  Even when the reporter from “The Messenger” had first contacted him (Michaels had been her name) to ask him what he thought, Theo was only able to speculate at best. Now, glancing down at the article again, he was truly becoming concerned. Could there be something more sinister at work than mere pet burglaries? Could there be some kind of plot the local authorities had not been able to uncover? Theo looked up again. His mind teetered upon the edge of his next question, not wanting to consider it, but knowing he must. He closed his eyes. Slowly, hesitantly, he felt his thoughts go. They began to churn over and over in his mind.

  Could Lou Lyons have anything to do with this?

  Theo stood and sighed. He called to mind the unexpected visit from Lyons the other day. Christmas day, he thought. What was that all about?

  Theo stared out the window into the cold sky of late winter.

  Then, he looked at the newspaper in his hand again, and wondered.

  For now, it was the only thing Theo could do.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Cragpow”

  The huge bird landed atop the stone tower. The tower stood like a sentry ashore Thorn Island in the middle of Tehom Lake, a great grey finger pointing ever-upwards toward the unfriendly sky. Crumbling rock wall was covered in an ancient ivy vine that wound up and up around its base like phlebitic veins, making the structure bulge and swell in places. Two gaping window holes darkened either side of the tower about halfway up, not far above a tall, empty cavity where a door had once stood against the cruel wind outside. The openings gave the tower a face-like appearance, which is where it got its name: Skull Tower.

  The remains of ramparts looked like a crown placed atop a fractured cranium. The ramparts crumbled long ago, and left large piles of rock and debris scattered about the roof. Broken bits of bottles and trash stuck out from within the rocks. The cold December wind ruffled the large bird’s grayish feathers. The red evening cast a dim, but large, shadow of it onto the wet grass below. The bird was strange, with unusual black-and-white markings. It was the kind of bird Poe would have written about. At first the bird did not move. It might have been a statuette itself—a grim, watchful gargoyle surveying the landscape around. But slowly, calculatedly, it strutted along the tower, jumping between the ramparts, searching until it found a very particular type of rock. It lowered its neck and scraped its long beak up and down, side to side along the rock. Eventually, the roughness of the beak disappeared and once again ended in a sharp, pointed tip.

  A gust of wind blew in from the field. The bird with the queer markings lifted its head, as if expecting something upon the breeze. To anyone watching, the scene would have appeared normal enough. Upon closer examination, one would see that one of the bird’s eyes was red. Not red as in the color of the eye itself.

  There was no eye.

  Instead, there was only the burning of a single red dot of light. The bird cawed loudly—a harsh, abrasive sound in the evening air; a cannon blast. From away to the left there came a reply. The huge bird waited a moment, and threw back its head. With a louder, undulating stutter, it let out another call, like laughter. This time, another cry came from the right, just barely above the wind.

  They are gathering, he thought.

  Satisfied, he resumed the sharpening of his beak.

  Cragpow was his name. No one knew his age—not even those within his ranks. He seemed ancient. His head and tail were black, like the skin of a seal. His wings were bluish-black and his underbelly and back were off-white, into gray. Cragpow was an abomination – a Frankenstein’s monster of sorts – having been genetically engineered. Part of him came from crow, while another part had been taken from magpie. It was pointless to try to attribute any of his characteristics to either source specifically. Cragpow had simply gotten the best (or worst) of both breeds. His size came from the crow in him; his fierce, scavenger-like mentality from the magpie. He did not know where his ability to speak the elahs-slah, or ‘man-speak,’ came from—nor did he care. He only knew the elahs who had created him, given him life, and gave him his orders.

  Cragpow did as he said.

  Cragpow scanned the fields once more. The small camera built into his brain allowed him to see further and more accurately than any other bird of prey. His red eye focused. To the west, like black dots strutting upon the green background, he saw a large murder of crows feeding. To the east – miles away – magpies scavenged the rubbish bins lining the paved walkway of Midway Park. The time would come when Cragpow would unite these two groups. He could feel it; deep down inside, something was coming—looming outside the boundaries of the known for now, but just as real. Yes, something was coming, and Cragpow was going to play an important role. Of this, he was certain. The ‘man’ had told him—Lou Lyons.

  Another blast of cold air from the field. Fluttering his wings, Cragpow rose like a phantom into the sky. Skull Tower shrunk beneath him. He flew for some time, thinking and plotting in his mind. Tonight he was on a mission—tonight they were going after the rabbit.

  He flew until dusk was completely swallowed to the east. The large mansion appeared below him, nestled within the bony trees of a wood at the base of a small mountain. Cragpow descended and fluttered to a stop upon the roof. All was quiet. Nearby, some of his minions had arrived, and warmed themselves in the escaping heat of a large stone chimney. The feathered vagrants looked like urban street-dwellers gathered around an oil-drum fire. The birds knew him well. They parted and nodded as he joined them. He said nothing. One by one they flew away, leaving Cragpow to enjoy the warm
th alone. He waited. The setting sun behind the mountains set the sky ablaze with a golden fury. The complete night – full and dark and welcome – would be here soon.

  It will not be long, he thought.

  Then, once again, Cragpow cawed loudly.

  CHAPTER 17

  “A Lyons Roar”

  Dying leaves rustled in the treetops. Cold winds whispered down the lane. Like the shadow of an object thrown behind itself as the sun passes overhead, a black car rolled to a stop beneath the soft yellow glow of a street lamp. It was the slow approach of a dragon. The car’s engine was quiet – imperceptible – as though it were another sound belonging to the night, and not one disturbing it. Clouds chased from in front of the silver moon on cue. A lone wolf howled. Pale light revealed four letters on the car’s license plate: LYON. From out of the small slit where one of the windows had been lowered, a wisp of smoke rose. A tiny orange glow was the only indication that a person sat behind the wheel and the car did not drive itself. The orange glow reflected off two plates of glass where eyes should have been—dark sunglasses, despite the fact it was well after midnight.

  Not many houses populated this road; no other cars came at this time of night. It was a perfect time to be doing this. No one would see. The eyes behind the glasses were full of anticipation; patient eyes, waiting eyes—calculating eyes. The eyes narrowed a bit when moonlight glinted off something approaching in the opposite lane: another vehicle. Lyons waited. Headlights flickered. Without hesitation, he pushed open the door and walked down the lane to where the van waited. He did not look around to see if any late-night eyes watched from nearby houses. He did not care. He moved with the calculated stealth of a lion stalking its prey, seeking to devour. His fat lips pulled greedily upon his soggy cigar. Lyons reached the van and slid the door open. Two men sat inside. The interior was lit by an array of sophisticated-looking computer equipment. The men did not look up, but kept at their work. Hands moved quickly across a mass of keyboards, touch-screens, computers, TV monitors, recording equipment, wire-taps, satellite links, databases—you name it! They were listening, watching, waiting.