In Shadows

by Chandler McGrew

He staggered into the kitchen for another beer and stood sipping it, staring out the window into the darkness.

  “Get me my rain gear and my flashlight,” he shouted without turning.

  “Get ’em yourself.”

  “Get ’em!” he screamed, kicking over a chair.

  Behind him he heard the patter of feet.

  O YOU REALLY THINK HE’S UP THIS FAR?” asked Cramer. Jake stared at the muddy tire tracks that told him someone was up ahead.

  He, Virgil, and Cramer were all catching their breaths, huddled beneath a mass of spruce boughs, but the rain still got through. Jake was soaked to the skin by water that meandered around his neck, down his back, and puddled in the back of his shorts. And the deluge caused the darkness to close in around them claustrophobically.

  Virgil frowned. “There’s only one set of tire tracks in. Someone came up here. Can’t believe it would be anyone else but Ernie on a day like today. Can you?”

  “No,” said Jake, glancing at Cramer.

  Cramer shrugged. “Nothing like a brisk walk after dinner.”

  “All right, then,” said Virgil, heading up the trail again.

  The mud was a dangerous slurry, and deep rivulets ran down the tire ruts. The rain panned a dull staccato on the million pine needles overhead and echoed on the sodden ground below.

  “I’ve never seen it pour like this in Maine!” Jake shouted.

  “Not very damned often. Trouble is it’s been a hell of a rainy spring, and the ground is soaked through. Nowhere left for this rain to go.”

  “You know where you are?”

  “Yeah. I’m halfway up a mountainside, in the dark, in a rainstorm, with two city slickers.”

  “Thanks,” said Jake.

  “You probably remember more of this road than I do. I know it wanders all the way down to the mouth of the valley. It dead-ends down by the river, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah. But I have no idea how far we are from there.”

  “Quite a ways, I suspect.”

  “So we could have quite a walk yet.”

  “You petering out?”

  “No. Just belaboring the obvious.”

  But as luck would have it, Ernie was right around the next bend. And when they spotted him—even more wet and tired and bedraggled than they were—he let out a shout as though they were a special task force sent out by AAA. He glad-handed the three of them, slapping Jake on the back and nearly driving him into the mud.

  “Man! Am I happy to see you guys! I thought I was going to be up here all night! I am stuck! Stuck with a capital S!”

  He was all of that. And it looked as though he had done everything short of using explosives to get himself out. His old Chevy truck—buried up to the axles—rested in a low spot in the trail, and the area around it was swiftly turning into a pond. Jake figured he must have tried to take the dip at a run because the mud splattered over the top of the hood was so thick that even the heavy rain had not succeeded in washing it away. Branches and sticks were piled around the tires and the sides of the truck as though the vehicle had nested for the season.

  “Tried to get some traction,” explained Ernie.

  “We’re never getting you out of there without a tow truck!” shouted Virgil.

  Ernie nodded expectantly. “Where are you guys parked?”

  They all laughed at once.

  “About three miles back down the hill,” said Jake.

  Ernie glanced at him as though trying to understand the joke.

  “There’s a big deadfall down at the bottom of the trail,” said Virgil.

  “You hiked up all this way looking for me?”

  “Pam’s worried sick,” said Jake.

  “I was afraid she would be. Sorry I brought you out in this.”

  “Just enjoying the great outdoors,” said Cramer, frowning.

  “Come on,” said Virgil, leading the way. “Fun’s fun, but it looks like it’s going to be a long night for me as it is.”

  ICH ALMOST RAN HEAD-ON into the tree blocking the trail, and as he skidded to a stop his rear end clipped the front bumper of Virgil’s cruiser, hidden back in the woods. He stared at the deadfall in front and the empty police car behind, and tried to figure out what was going on, wondering if someone else really had seen the thing.

  Maybe the stupid bitch was right. Maybe there was a bounty on the son of a bitch, and the cops weren’t telling anyone. That would be about par for the course.

  He grabbed the shotgun and his flashlight and climbed out into the rain. If the cops were after it, then maybe they’d spook it back his way. He clambered over the fallen tree and took a minute adjusting the shotgun under his arm so he could get a better grip on the light. Frothy water ran down the road. In another hour or two his front yard was gonna be completely flooded, and he briefly considered leaving the hunt for another day. But if the cops killed the thing, he was out whatever money was on it. The best thing to do would be to follow the trail for a spell and then hole up. If the cops came back down the mountain driving it in front of them, he could blast the hell out of it and claim the money for himself.

  Screw the cops.

  He hiked up a quarter mile to the first bend and searched for a likely spot where he could see up and down the narrow lane. Finally he settled on the exposed roots of a big spruce, pulling the alders and brush back around himself. The trunk of the tree was rough and oddly shaped against his back, and he couldn’t get comfortable no matter how he twisted and turned. But it was better that way. He didn’t want to be falling asleep.

  But the longer he sat there, the more his alcohol-induced confidence dwindled, the darker the surrounding forest seemed, the more strange and horrid became his memory of the encounter with the shadowy creature in the yard. He fingered the shotgun nervously. Was the safety on now, or was she ready to fire?

  Finally he broke down and flicked on the flashlight long enough to ascertain that the safety was indeed on. He flipped it off, and turned off the light.

  Blind again. Smooth move, Ex-Lax.

  He remembered childhood stories of the Crowley curse. How it wasn’t just crazy Crowleys but a monster that had been raised from the dead by old Jacob Crowley himself. How he kept it in a hole in the ground behind the house. How kids had disappeared up there. Never kids that anyone knew . . . Over the years Rich had outgrown the story, laughing when anyone brought it up. But he knew that a lot of people laughed out the sides of their faces. And now he knew why, because whatever the hell he’d seen in his yard, it wasn’t an old wives’ tale.

  The rain took on a wavelike rhythm, stronger, then lighter, then stronger again. A million tiny rat feet playing through the pine needles. But even as he imagined a horde of vermin surrounding him he was squinting, listening, searching the woods nervously.

  Because he could have sworn that he heard the whispers again.

  Y THE TIME THEY NEARED THE START OF THE TRAIL, Jake was not only waterlogged but covered with mud. Their flashlights reflected off the wall of water ahead of them as though it really were solid, yet they passed through it like ghosts.

  “Your car’s going to look like hell after we get out of it,” shouted Jake.

  Virgil kept his head down—rain pouring off the brim of his hat—plodding alongside. They looked like a mismatched team of worn-out plow mules headed for the barn. “That’s what deputies are for.”

  “You hear something?” asked Ernie, catching up.

  “Stop,” said Cramer, holding out his hand.

  Everyone froze. Jake’s hackles rose, and goose bumps played along his arms when he heard the telltale sound of the eerie whisper all around him.

  “What’s that?” said Ernie.

  “Where’s it coming from?” asked Virgil.

  “I think it’s louder down the trail,” said Jake, squinting into the rain.

  “Careful,” said Virgil quietly. Jake noticed that he had un-snapped the strap on his holster.

  The four of them advanced down the hill more mindfu
l of where they placed their feet, their eyes and ears peeled. When they approached a sharp bend Virgil nodded, and Cramer did, too. The sound was louder, but it seemed to come and go, like wisps of breeze.

  “Watch out,” said Jake, waving at the others to slow down even more.

  “It’s moving,” said Ernie, turning slowly in the middle of the road.

  Even though the sound echoed all around them, when Jake listened carefully it still seemed just a little stronger down the trail, in the direction they were hiking. Suddenly it felt as though the branches overhead were reaching down for them. Jake could tell that Cramer felt it, too. Virgil flicked his light back and forth, nervously studying the trees. The only one who didn’t seem all that alarmed was Ernie. He smiled, searching the rain with his flashlight for the elusive sounds.

  This is going to happen fast, thought Jake.

  Cramer drew his gun at the same time as Virgil. Jake shielded his eyes from the rain, trying to see through the trees.

  ICH HAD THE SHIVERS, and they weren’t just from being wet and chilled. Before, sitting in his warm pickup, he’d managed to convince himself that he could take care of whatever it was that was running around in the woods. But now—as the weird whisper sounds slipped around him again, like sharks circling bloody prey—he didn’t want to be sitting here on his ass against this tree.

  He drew back the bolt and fingered the shell in the chamber.

  A man could blow a hole through an oak tree with this gun. But you have to hit the fucking thing first. What if it’s fast?

  What he’d seen of the thing had looked big enough to kill a bull, but it hadn’t moved all that quick. But then neither did rattlesnakes. Until they struck.

  Suddenly he saw the faintest glint of light through the rain and night. Was that headlights?

  The lights got a little clearer. Not headlights. There were too many of them, and they seemed to shine all over the fucking place, down, up, all around.

  Flashlights.

  As he stared into the night a darkness crept between him and the light and began to swell, as though a bear were slowly rising up onto its hind legs. His hands shook so hard the stock of the gun rattled against the tree beside him, but he managed to shove himself up the rough trunk to a near-standing position, lifting the gun to his shoulder. His breathing was ragged, and his knees felt like jelly. The darkness kept expanding, and inside that darkness, for the first time, he saw eyes.

  His mind couldn’t process the darkness, the deluge, the strange sounds, the fear, and the sudden explosion of light and sound caused by the shotgun. His fevered brain needed to relinquish control of some nonessential systems.

  He dropped a load in his shorts.

  But he still managed to chamber another round into the gun and fire again.

  And again, and again.

  Until the darkness had him. Until it was deep inside his brain, and terror was as real and hard as a hammer driving him back into madness. Until there was only one escape.

  HOTGUN BLASTS SUNDERED THE CURTAIN OF RAIN, the roar thundering at them through the trees. Cramer fired first, then Virgil’s pistol burped along with him. Finally Jake drew his pistol, but he couldn’t find a target, and he was afraid of hitting Cramer or Virgil. Above the roar of the guns, the strange whisper noise was now as loud as thunder itself. Screams of pain erupted as the trail became a cacophonous, muddy, swirling madhouse of darkness, sound, and flashing lights.

  When the gunfire finally ceased the screams and whispers died away, replaced by low moans from behind Jake. Ernie was down in the mud, his face white as a sheet. His pant leg was soaked with blood, and he was gasping for air.

  “Calm down, Ernie. I’m here. You’re going to be all right,” shouted Jake, not certain at all if that was true.

  “My leg.”

  “You’re gonna be all right.”

  “Hurts p-p-pretty bad,” stammered Ernie.

  Virgil and Cramer advanced toward the woods where the shots had come from, each taking a side of the trail in the direction of the original muzzle flashes.

  Jake jerked off his belt and used it as a tourniquet, tightening it around Ernie’s upper thigh. When he glanced back down the road, both Cramer and Virgil were gone. But he could see their lights through the trees. He noticed that—except for the rain—the woods were silent again.

  “Hurts,” gasped Ernie again, doubling up.

  Jake grabbed him by the shoulders, dragging him out of the runoff and up into some high grass, checking his face for pallor, keeping him talking. “It’s not far to Virgil’s cruiser. We’ll have you to the hospital in no time.”

  “Who shot me?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jake. “Cramer! Virgil! You hear me?” he shouted.

  Silence.

  “Cramer!”

  “Yeah! We hear you. How’s Ernie?”

  “Stable. He took a load of shot in the leg. We need to get him out of here.”

  “Sounds like that thing is gone. You better come here first. We found Rich.”

  Jake glanced down at Ernie.

  Ernie grimaced, but nodded. “Don’t take all night, huh?”

  “Right back.”

  Jake trotted toward the lights. Cramer and Virgil were holding their flashlights low, aimed at their feet. Their faces, lit from below, looked skeletal and eerie.

  All around them the branches and bracken and forest floor were twisted and torn, as though heavy equipment had ripped its way through. But even in the half-light and the rain, Jake could see that the tree was slathered with knuckle-size globules of bloody flesh. Beside the big spruce lay a man’s corpse, shotgun still gripped tightly in one hand. The man’s head was half blown away, and Jake knew instantly that none of their pistols had done that.

  Cramer shone his light around, and Jake could see more blood dripping from a thousand pine needles.

  “What do you make of this, Jake?” asked Virgil.

  Jake shook his head, staring at the shotgun resting close to the body. “Looks like he killed himself.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I have no idea. Must have gone off his rocker.”

  Cramer glared at him but said nothing.

  “Are you sure that’s Rich?” asked Jake, pointing at the corpse.

  “Yeah,” said Virgil, showing Jake a sodden leather wallet. “Unless someone planted his driver’s license here. That’s Rich Morin all right.”

  “Why shoot at us, then blow his own head off?” asked Cramer, looking at Jake.

  “I don’t think he was shooting at us,” said Virgil, staring at the mangled corpse and then Jake. “How’s Ernie?”

  “Bad, but not life-threatening. Yet. We need to get him out of here before he goes into shock, though.”

  “Well, let’s get to it, then.”

  The three of them lifted Ernie onto Cramer’s back, Virgil supporting his wounded leg. When they reached the deadfall pine they eased Ernie across, slipping him into the backseat as gently as possible. Jake got a blanket from the trunk and bandaged the wound with supplies from a first-aid kit while Virgil tried the radio without success. Finally he slammed the mike back into its slot on the dash.

  “This damned valley,” he muttered.

  Cramer gave Jake a questioning look.

  “Cell phones and radios don’t work well in most of the valley,” explained Jake. “There’s too many shadow areas, and some people think that iron deposits may cause the magnetic fields to mess with them, as well.”

  When Virgil put the car into gear the tires spun in the muddy grass. The cruiser didn’t budge.

  “Damn,” muttered Virgil. “That was what I was afraid of. You guys are gonna have to push.”

  Jake and Cramer climbed out of the car and leaned into it. Sputtering mud and bucking like a bronc, the big car finally slipped past Rich’s bumper and started downhill again, and Cramer and Jake slithered back inside. They looked like a pair of mudmen.

  “Whoopee,” said Cramer.

&
nbsp; As they passed by Rich’s trailer Jake noticed a face in the window, and he frowned. “Carly must be alone in there.”

  “I’ll send someone out to check on her as soon as I can. First order of business is Ernie,” said Virgil.

  AM WAS STANDING ON THE PORCH tapping her feet, arms crossed, as they pulled in. She raced down the path to Virgil’s cruiser, and as Jake slid out she shoved herself into the backseat, cradling Ernie’s head in her arms. She stared at the tourniquet and bandages on his leg.

  “What happened?” she asked, kissing Ernie’s forehead and holding his hand.

  “Rich shot him,” said Jake, leaning into the backseat. Pam made a face. “Rich?” Jake shrugged. “It may have been an accident.” “What does Rich have to say for himself?” Virgil glanced over his shoulder, and when Pam noticed the strained expression on his face her own expression became even more curious. “Rich is dead,” said Jake. “It was that thing,” she whispered. “Wasn’t it?” “We’ll sort this all out after we get Ernie to the doctor,” said Virgil.

  Ernie was conscious but appeared to be in that hibernating state where all he could concentrate on was his own pain.

  “He’s going to be all right,” she insisted.

  But Jake couldn’t tell if that was a statement or a question.

  “What are you going to do now?” she asked all of them.

  “After the storm’s over I’ll get as many men as it takes and search the whole valley if I have to,” said Virgil.

  “That doesn’t sound like quite enough.”

  “What do you want me to do? Call out the National Guard?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And tell them what, Pam? That we have some kind of unidentified monster running around in Crowley, and would they please come kill it for us?”

  “Somebody better kill it.”

  “We can worry about that later,” said Virgil, nodding for Pam to close her door. “And to kill it I suspect you have to see it. None of us saw anything.”

  “It ain’t always what I see that bothers me,” Cramer muttered.