by Rio Youers
Oliver took off his sneakers, rolled up his jeans, and started to cross the spring.
“Where are you going?” Matthew asked.
“To get the treasure,” Oliver said, carefully planting his feet between the slippery rocks and pebbles. The icy water lapped around his shins.
“But you said it was near Rainy Creek,” Matthew said. He pointed north, where the long grass danced. “It’s that way.”
“No, it’s on the other side of that forest. Come on.”
Matthew sighed and looked back toward Point Hollow. He could see the top of the water tower and the clock on the town hall. He thought of his mother. She’d be worried, probably looking for him. He took a step backward.
Oliver had reached the other side. “Are you coming?”
“I’m not sure.”
“But we’re nearly there . . . just through those trees.”
“I don’t know, Oliver.”
“It’ll be like Indiana Jones. And if we find gold, we’ll be rich.” Oliver rolled down his jean cuffs and slipped on his sneakers. “You can buy whatever you want. Shit, if we find gold, you could buy the school and fire Miss Bramble. Nobody likes that bitch. You’d be a hero, Matthew.”
This made him smile, but for only a moment; he knew what was on the other side of the forest. “But the mountain is that way.”
Like all of Point Hollow’s children, Matthew had been taught to keep to the trails and stay away from Abraham’s Faith, the same way he’d been taught to not talk to strangers or go swimming in Wiley’s Crook, where the current was so strong it would pull you under in a heartbeat. Matthew’s father told him that giant rattlesnakes lived on the mountain, and his best friend, Bobby Alexander, told him that trolls lived there. Matthew, of course, believed both were true.
“We’re not going that far,” Oliver said. “And I’ll be with you. I’ll look after you.”
Matthew hesitated. Sweat dripped down his back. The trees behind Oliver looked so dark—so dead. The idea of buried treasure proved too persuasive, however. He kicked off his sneakers and started to cross the spring. The water came up to his knees.
“Cold!” he cried.
“Keep going,” Oliver said.
Matthew stumbled and splashed and made his way to the other side. He held out his hand and Oliver took it, like a friend.
“I’m going to fire Mr. Nordhagen, too,” Matthew said with a grin.
They walked through the forest, having to twist their bodies among the tightly grown trees. Strips of sunlight slanted through the canopy, but it wasn’t enough, and Matthew’s heart jumped in his chest. He stayed close to Oliver, flinching at every sound—chipmunks scrambling through the branches, or cones clattering to the forest floor, all too loud in the stillness.
“Are you scared?” Oliver asked.
“No,” Matthew said. “Well, maybe a little.”
“It’s okay. I’m with you.”
“I know. I’m glad.”
They emerged—after too long—into daylight that felt as refreshing as the spring water. With the forest at their backs, Matthew felt separated from everything he knew. He had never veered from the trails before, and even though the sunshine felt good on his face, his heart still pounded hard.
“We’re close now,” Oliver said.
But they weren’t close; they walked for another forty minutes, toward the mountain, clambering up rocks and over fallen trees. Matthew’s heart ached and his legs trembled. He thought about his parents, how worried they would be, and how much trouble he was in for not telling them where he was going. He’d be grounded for the rest of the summer. No doubt about it. He’d probably get a spanking, too.
They climbed higher. The sun worked on them, wearing them down.
“So tired,” Matthew said.
“Not far now.”
Higher still. The green of the Catskill counties spread out below them. Grey roads, as thin as pencil lines, weaved through the scenery, and the lakes and rivers flashed like ice. Point Hollow looked so small from this distance, no bigger than Matthew’s thumb. The only thing keeping him from going back was the fear of being alone, of having to stumble along the lower mountainside. What if he fell? Nobody would know. Nobody would find him. And he certainly didn’t want to walk through that endless forest on his own.
“How much farther?” he groaned. His small chest hitched and he really had to work at keeping back the tears. He wished more than anything that he’d stayed home. He would have cleaned his room by now, and his mom would have taken him to Fiddle’s Dari-King for—
“We’re here,” Oliver said, and pointed.
Matthew stopped. “I don’t see anything.”
“There . . . look.”
It took him a moment to see what Oliver was pointing at: what looked like a shadow in the rock face, but was actually a fissure—a narrow opening—disguised by the deliberate placement of rocks.
“What is that?” Matthew asked.
“A cave,” Oliver replied. He scrambled up the incline beside the opening and started to heave some of the smaller rocks aside. They tumbled noisily and Matthew had to step out of the way as they rolled toward him.
“Is the treasure in there?” he asked.
“Help me out.” Oliver had quickly uncovered the upper portion of the opening, but the rocks were larger lower down and he couldn’t shift them on his own. He tried, though—pushing against them, his face burning.
“I’m not sure we—”
“Just help me out!” Spittle flew from Oliver’s lips. His eyes were diamonds. Matthew nodded and swallowed hard, then scrabbled up beside him, and together—using their arms and legs—they were able to dislodge three heavy rocks.
The opening gaped, a jagged triangle, wide enough for them to slither through.
Oliver’s grin was jagged, too. He slipped off his knapsack, unzipped it, and reached inside.
“Are you going in?” Dust clung to the sweat and tears on Matthew’s face.
“Fuck, yeah. We both are.”
“Not me.” Matthew shook his head. “No way.”
“Fine. Stay out here. It’ll be dark soon.” Oliver pulled a flashlight from his knapsack, flicked it on, and directed the beam into Matthew’s eyes. “Or you can come with me. And the light. Your choice.”
Oliver snaked into the mountain and Matthew followed.
———
He had built a house off the beaten track, as close to Abraham’s Faith as he could get. It was accessible by a road that he had carved, and one you wouldn’t find on any GPS device. The garage had three vehicles inside: the nondescript Impala, an ’07 Corvette, and a one-ton Silverado, fitted with a plow for the winter months. The house was filled with luxury items: leather furniture, computers, flat screen TVs, a hot tub on the rear deck (overlooking Point Hollow, two miles away). Oliver often hosted parties, and all the town notaries would be there: the sheriff (who had the easiest job in America), the mayor (second-easiest), along with various members of the town council, all of whom looked up to Oliver. He was success personified. Point Hollow’s favourite son.
For his continued service, the mountain had looked after him.
But oh, he was weary.
He carried the little girl down the steps of his rear deck and into the wild country surrounding his land. She was still bound, still gagged, too tired to struggle, which made carrying her easier. Her bright hair swayed and her eyes shot terrified glances between him and the sky. He felt her heartbeat fluttering through her body.
He moved east—pulled east. A route he knew well and had made many times since that summer’s day in 1984. He splashed across the shallow spring and through the dense acreage of spruce and fir. Bluebirds cried at him, bristling their delicate feathers. The trees groaned, branches twisted, as if turning away. He passed through and tramped along the d
iscoloured landscape, wending a route into the mountain’s foothills. It roared hungrily and urged him on. And maybe the little girl heard it, too, because she moaned and fresh tears spilled from her eyes. They fell on the dark rock and dried instantly in the sun.
This was the longest and most dangerous part of the journey, not only because the terrain was treacherous, but because he was exposed. No one ever came out here, though. The trails and hunting zones were miles away, and there were countless signs warning of the danger (no detail on the signs—only that single word, red on a yellow background: DANGER). But if some adventurous hiker decided to stray from the trails or disregard the signs, and if they chose to cross acres of unmarked land and brave tangles of dark forest . . . then yes, there was a possibility he would be seen. Highly unlikely, of course. In fact, Oliver believed that if every DANGER sign were disposed of, and every gnarled and twisted tree burned to the ground, people would still stay away, because the mountain would keep them away. It was Point Hollow’s haunted house, and it was evil.
How much farther? A little boy’s voice in his mind. He heard it every time. Matthew, Oliver thought. His name was Matthew.
He reached the cave just as the sky in the west started to run red. It was going to be a beautiful sunset, and all Oliver wanted was to watch it in silence. Ninety-four miles away, at her home in Deer Grove, PA, the little girl’s parents—so distraught, barely able to form sentences—gave information to the police. Friends, neighbours, and townspeople were questioned. Abandoned buildings were searched. Dumpsters, trashcans, the trunks of parked cars . . . all searched. Certain information was released to the media, while investigators cross-referenced details with the disappearances of children in nearby locales.
Her name was Courtney Bryce. Eleven years old. He would read all about her in tomorrow’s newspaper. She was always the first to help, apparently. The first to laugh. But none of that mattered now. She could be a bag of straw or a faded photograph. Her strong heart and bright smile would mean nothing in the mountain.
Oliver set her down while he dislodged the rocks from the cave’s zigzag mouth. More rocks than he used to have to move, but he was stronger now. Everything equal. Perhaps sensing the mountain’s hunger, Courtney moaned louder, cried harder, and tried to shuffle away. But she couldn’t get far. Oliver set aside the last rock, picked her up, and carried her into the darkness.
———
Matthew clutched the waistband of Oliver’s jeans as they weaved through a tunnel that ran deep into the mountain. The flashlight’s beam floated across uneven sediment, slick with moisture. Matthew thought of bats and spiders. Worse: trolls and giant rattlesnakes. His skin crawled and he felt his heart shuddering, even in the tips of his fingers. He didn’t want to be in here. Not at all.
The ground was as uneven as the walls on either side, and slippery, too. Several times they stumbled and needed each other for support. Matthew fell hard on one occasion, grazing both knees. He lost his grip on Oliver’s waistband and for one second was horribly alone. He cried out and the flashlight’s beam jerked toward him. The older boy grasped his forearm and lifted him to his feet.
“I grazed my knees,” Matthew groaned.
“Don’t be such a baby.”
They walked on, following the hollow vein as it meandered through the mountain. Before long, the walls opened and the craggy roof drifted higher, until even the flashlight’s beam couldn’t pick it out. The floor crumbled away and they clutched each other, choosing their steps carefully, and even though it was too dark to see, Matthew knew they had emerged into some sort of cavern. The air felt different, and he heard water dripping distantly. It echoed, reminding Matthew of the sound his daddy’s stomach made when he nuzzled in for a goodnight hug. Up high—way up—he saw chinks of daylight where the sun found frailties in the mountain. He felt like an insect in a Mason jar, holes punched in the lid.
“This is it,” Oliver said. He seemed to have a thousand voices.
“I want to go home,” Matthew said. His tears shimmered in the flashlight’s glare. “I’m scared.”
Oliver tried to step away from him, but Matthew held on to his waistband.
“Let’s just go. Please.”
“Not yet,” Oliver said. He jerked his hips and Matthew’s grasp fell away. The flashlight’s beam stretched into the darkness. It fell on a twisted, glimmering shape less than ten feet away. Oliver walked toward it, his breath catching in his throat. Matthew whimpered like a hurt animal and followed close behind. He didn’t want to see whatever the flashlight had picked out. Nothing in this place could be good.
Realization came in increments. To begin with, Matthew thought the shape was an empty sack, and that the objects jutting through the dusty material were rocks. Only they were too smooth to be rocks. They actually looked like . . .
“Bones,” Oliver said.
Not just any bones. Not a bear’s skeleton, or a coyote’s. Matthew’s young mind clicked and processed, referencing school work and comic books and movies. Can’t be, he thought, but as they stepped closer and the flashlight revealed more, he realized he was looking at human bones . . . a human skeleton.
All the breath jumped from his lungs and his legs sagged. He uttered another hurt sound and grasped Oliver’s arm. Oliver shook him off. He rolled his wrist slowly, allowing the light to play over the skeleton, head to toe and back again, as if he were caressing it.
“Jesus,” he said.
Matthew couldn’t say a thing.
It was propped against the cave wall, legs splayed and skull turned sideways, covered with a wrap of leathery skin from which a few strands of hair floated like cobwebs. Its eye sockets were empty holes and its grin was overly long, as if it had too many teeth. Its clothes were crumbling rags, and the fingers of one hand were curled inward, as if he or she had died with a clenched fist. And were it not for the boys’ raptness, they would have noticed an obvious, and terrible, fact much sooner: the skeleton, from head to toe, measured less than four feet in length.
“It was a child,” Oliver said.
Matthew, still, said nothing. His heart roared. He thought he should hear it echoing in the cave, making the walls tremble and dust sift from the cracked and rugged roof. How cruel that the only light shone on something so terrible.
It was just the beginning.
Oliver moved the flashlight to the left, following the wall, and there, less than two feet from the first, was a second skeleton, curled into a fetal position, draped in dust and rags. Small bones and wisps of blonde hair. Another child. A little girl.
Beside her, another child’s skeleton . . . and then another.
“What is this place?” Oliver asked.
Matthew grabbed Oliver’s arm again. Shallow breaths were kicked from his lungs by the force of his heartbeat. So many thoughts and emotions typhooned through his mind that he thought they might whip him upward, twirling, like a helicopter. It hurt to think that he had been in his garden less than three hours ago, playing in the sprinkler spray, with everything he loved so very close.
“Want . . . go home,” he managed, squeezing Oliver’s arm.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Oliver said.
In a matter of moments, the flashlight revealed more skeletons, all children—ten, fifteen, forty—huddled in groups of three or four. Brothers and sisters, perhaps. Matthew closed his eyes and dropped to the damp ground. He drew his arms in, not wanting to touch anything, feeling like he was adrift in a sea of bones. When he opened his eyes, he saw Oliver standing a short distance away, shining the light on a boy-sized skeleton, dressed in blue jeans and Converse All Stars. He moved on, then stooped to pick something up, and as he lifted it into the light, Matthew saw that it was a skull, no bigger than a softball.
“A baby,” Oliver said, letting it fall through his fingers. It hit the cave floor and broke like glass.
And yet m
ore . . . everywhere the light shone. Drifts of bones. Hollow skulls, glimmering softly, smooth as pebbles. Here: a scatter of pieces, like a box of dropped matches. There: a framework of bodies that had fallen against one another, melded by dripping water, looking like the skeleton of some undiscovered creature. Everywhere: a holocaust; a nightmare; fairy tales with unhappy endings.
“There must be a hundred bodies in here,” Oliver said. There was disconcerting awe to his tone, as if he really had found treasure. “Maybe two hundred.”
Matthew blinked huge tears from his eyes. The sobs rolled through his chest, crashing against his ribcage like boulders. He looked at the seams of light above—as bright, yet distant, as the stars.
“What could have done this?” Oliver asked.
“The mountain,” Matthew said, and knew this for certain. It wasn’t trolls or giant rattlesnakes. It was Abraham’s Faith. Swollen and evil. “The mountain . . . it eats children.”
“Yes,” Oliver agreed. He unzipped his knapsack and reached inside. The hunting knife looked too big in his hand. The blade gleamed. “And now it’s going to eat one more.”
Matthew’s body turned numb. His mind, too. A white tundra where no thought or feeling existed. When thought came, it came with claws: I’m going to die. Oliver stepped toward him, crunching on bones. The knife caught the flashlight’s glare, the same shape, and almost as bright, as a flame.
“The mountain spoke to me,” Oliver said.
I’m going to die.
“It told me to bring you here.”
I’m going to die.
“It wants you, Matthew.”
I’m going to—
He saw his mother’s face, and with such clarity that he thought she was beside him. His body flushed with life and he reached for her—suffered a moment’s disorientation when she wasn’t there.
Oliver closed the distance. Bones crunched. The blade flared.
Reality dawned.
I’m going to die.
Matthew clawed at the ground and grabbed the first thing his hand fell upon—didn’t know if it was a rock or a bone, only that it was solid—and threw it toward the light. A perfect shot, mostly luck, but it surprised Oliver. He stumbled and the flashlight spilled from his hand. It clattered to the floor and for a moment the light blinked, and then it went out.
