by Brian Hodge
Bill looked around nervously as he started down the driveway back to his car. The night sounds of the woods rose all around him as he strained, trying to hear... what?
The sound of a branch breaking?
Footsteps?
What?
The gravel of the driveway crunched underfoot, the sound magnified as each step raised a puff of dust that glittered in the waning sunlight like dense smoke. When a sudden, wild screech filled the woods, he started running down the driveway. His feet slapped the ground, his arms beat wildly as he ran, looking from side to side, trying to identify the source of the sound but was so caught up by his fear, he couldn't see clearly.
The sloping ground added to his momentum, and when he got closer to the car, he couldn't check his speed. Small stones slid out from underfoot, and he fought to keep his balance as he tried to slow down. By the time he reached the car, he had cut his speed a bit, but he was still moving fast enough so he slammed into the front hood and ended up sprawled over the hood of the car like a splattered insect.
Both knees rammed into the fender, and sharp, stinging pain numbed his thighs as he rolled over and looked frantically around. He had no idea what he expected to see. Maybe a bear or berserk moose was about to come crashing out of the woods and charge him... maybe there was a rabid dog or wolf... or maybe some of those impossible creatures Kip said he had seen that long-ago afternoon.
Air whistled through Bill's teeth and burned into his lungs like acid as he watched and waited, tensed, but the woods were perfectly normal. Birds sang, frogs croaked, and insects buzzed, but there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary.
Bill suddenly felt like a fool as he straightened up and wiped the sweat from his forehead. His hands were shaking, and he had the unsettling sensation that other hands, unseen, had gripped his throat and were squeezing as he looked up the slope toward the cellar hole.
"Friggin' jerk," he whispered out loud, ashamed of himself for being scared about nothing. He took a breath and glanced at his watch. "Time to be getting home, anyway."
He chuckled, hoping to relieve the tension, but as he dug into his pocket for his car keys, the screeching sound began again. Ice water splashed through his veins, but this time he looked up and saw what was making the sound. Perched on one of the branches overhead was an owl, looking down at him with icy indifference.
Leaning against the roof of the car, he studied the owl for a moment or two as he tried to push aside the thought that this was some kind of warning. The owl's weight had made the branch it sat on creak. That's all. This was nature. This was the reason he and Lori had wanted to build out here in the first place. It was stupid, almost laughable, to be so jumpy. Finally, with a disgusted shake of his head, he opened the car door and slid in behind the wheel.
Before starting the engine, he glanced one last time in the direction of the cellar hole. Now that the sun had dipped below the horizon, he could imagine how dense and black the shadows filling the hole must be.
How silent.
How still.
How much like the grave was that spot where he had found Lori that day.
"But I did it. I went up there," he whispered aloud, slapping his open palm on the steering wheel. "I damn well did it!"
Tears stung his eyes, blurring the streaks of purple cloud in the evening sky as he stuck the key into the ignition and gave it a turn. The car started up, scaring off the owl who glided away silently on wide wings.
After five long, terrible years, he had done it; he had gone back there and faced his fear like he'd been telling the boys all along. Shadows turn real only when you avoid them. Okay, so he and Lori would never share the house; but in a way, he felt he owed it to her memory to go ahead and finish the place the way they had planned. Even if it wasn't a memorial to her, it would at least prove to him and the boys that life went on. Some dreams may die, and some dreams might get twisted, but life and dreams do go on.
He shifted the car into gear and slowly backed out onto the dirt road, heading back to town. Up on the slope, night filled the cellar hole, but the shadows there weren't quiet. Stones from the foundation shifted, and dark shapes began to move. The dark hole Bill Howard left behind him was not silent or empty.
6
Located just outside of Thornton, on River Road just before the Cornish town line, John Watson's house over-looked a bend in the Saco River. John was at the window over his kitchen sink, watching the sun as it dropped to the horizon and glistened on the river. His house, where he had lived the better part of four decades, was a small ranch house that had once been painted bright green but now was weathered to a burnished coppery sheen.
From his kitchen and living room windows, he could look out at six or seven receding ranges of mountains, each one hazier with distance. The river ran from the west, sliding swiftly from the White Mountains of New Hampshire. This time of year, the sun set directly in line with the river and laid out a sparkling silver road of water that looked like hammered metal.
It was sunset and the approaching darkness of night that John Watson feared.
With spring, the days grew longer and the nights shorter, but with the steep rise of Eagle Hill to the east of his house, even at midsummer, daylight didn't fall onto Watson's home until well after nine o'clock in the morning. But it wasn't just the time of day or even the time of year that bothered John Watson. It was something else—the time of a much longer cycle—that set his nerves on edge this afternoon as he watched the sunlight glancing off the Saco River.
Him, a Micmac Indian, afraid of the dark?
Such nonsense.
His ancestors had lived on this land for thousands of years before the white man arrived and, through subterfuge and outright murder, had stolen the land from them.
But traditions die hard, and Watson was one of those Native Americans whose father and grandfather valued their culture. They had made sure the boy learned the tribal traditions and stories before they died. Of course, like most children, John grew up wanting to cast aside such "old-fashioned" notions, wanting instead to embrace modern American life as he found it, to be accepted by the Anglo world. Still, in the darker corners of his mind, there were shreds and scraps of legends and tales that made him nervous, especially on an afternoon like this.
"They're coming," Watson muttered as he leaned his elbows on the edge of the sink and stared at the sinking ball of the sun. "By God, they're coming again."
Sweat sprinkled his forehead like morning dew, and he reached blindly for a paper towel, snapped it from the dispenser, and wiped his brow. He wanted to reach for something else to ease his nerves, but he knew that drinking what his father called the white man's "firewater" wouldn't drive away his fears. It might push them aside for a while, but in the end, it would only make them stronger. And, like always, he knew that once he started, he wouldn't be able to stop until he was in fact what the narrow-minded whites accused him so often of being... nothing more than a drunken Indian.
He couldn't bear that.
Not now.
But he also couldn't bear the thought of another—or any night—without his whiskey. Especially not tonight … not when he thought they were coming back.
Watson pushed himself away from the sink and began pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor. He wrinkled the sweat-soaked paper towel into a tight ball, and tossed it at the waste-basket by the entryway. It missed and bounced on the yellowed linoleum floor before rolling behind the refrigerator.
Watson's feet, no longer lively with the spring of youth, dragged on the unswept floor, making loud hissing sounds with every step. His big-knuckled hands were folded across his sagging belly as he paced, and air whistled between his teeth as his lips formed half-spoken, half-remembered words. He spoke softly to himself, muttering words only another Micmac would have understood.
As he walked the length of the kitchen, he never took his eyes off the square of glowing golden sky outside the window. The pale blues deepened to purple onc
e the sun dropped behind the distant mountains. The river lost its sparkle and turned a deep indigo. The contrail from a passing jet, no more than a silver speck in the sunlight, cut a sharp angle across the sky and then slowly dissolved into gray puffs.
Watson repeatedly wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, trying to force himself to breathe evenly and deeply. But he knew the one thing that would steady his nerves.
"But what if they come? What if they come here?" he hissed between his teeth. "What if they find me when they return this time?"
His throat felt as though steely fingers were trying to choke off his air, and when he went to wipe the sweat from his brow again, he took several seconds to study the long fingers and the big, bony knuckles of his trembling hand. He raised his hand and framed it against the deepening night sky beyond the window, shocked by how much it resembled a hawk's talons.
When he inhaled again, his throat made a gurgling sound as if he had come within seconds of drowning. Before he could consciously register what he was doing, he walked to the cupboard, bent down, and swung open the paint-chipped door. His hawk's talon-hand reached into the darkness and closed as if by second nature around the neck of a bottle. It felt cool and reassuring, like holding a trusted weapon.
With a trace of a smile, tight-lipped and grim, he pulled out the bottle and held it up, staring at the amber liquid it contained. His hand was still shaking so badly the whiskey sloshed around as he hurriedly unscrewed the cap, put the bottle to his lips, tilted his head back, and took three or four big gulps.
The whiskey hit the back of his throat like lava as it burned its way down into his stomach. In the fading light of the kitchen, he noticed that his hand had miraculously stopped shaking. The fingers that had been strangling him had begun to ease up as his grip on the bottle tightened. Warmth and a measure of reassurance returned as he leaned his head back and took several more gulps.
When there was more whiskey sloshing around in his stomach than there was left in the bottle, Watson screwed the cap back on and went over to the wall switch to turn on the overhead light. He hooked the leg of a chair with his foot, pulled the chair out from the table, stood the bottle dead center on the table, and then sat down heavily, resting both elbows on the soiled tablecloth.
In the harsh light of the kitchen and through the thickening alcohol haze, his fears began to melt. Well, maybe not melt, but at least withdraw. He realized this was the only bottle in the house, so he decided to nurse what he had rather than risk going out to buy some more.
Sure, he knew it was time for them to return, but he was Indian, he was "blood." When they returned, it was the white men they would strike, not him... not a full-blooded Micmac.
Still, there was no reason to be foolish. The untcigahunk, those who were coming back, had lived on and under the land much longer than the Indian, and John Watson, belly full of booze or not, was no fool. Now that night had descended on Thornton, Maine, he'd be a damned fool to go outside. No, he'd make do with this one bottle until tomorrow when, in the daylight, he could go to the store and get some more.
Smiling and nodding as the booze spun through his head, John Watson grabbed the bottle, spun the cap off, and drained the whiskey off in several deep gulps. He tried to place the empty bottle carefully back on the table, but the bottom slipped out. It spun on the table a few times before tipping over the edge and falling to the floor where it shattered.
"You fucking bitch!" Watson said, his voice slurred.
Lurching to his feet, he intended to get the broom and dustpan, but as if they had a will of their own, his feet directed him toward the living room. He banged his shoulder on the kitchen door jamb, almost fell, but then collapsed face down on the couch, letting loose a loud fart as he hit the cushions. The alcohol roared like a thousand angry voices inside his head, and as he sank down into unconsciousness, the voices seemed to take on a drumming, repetitive chant:
"The untcigahunk are coming... The untcigahunk are coming!"
Sprawled on the couch, Watson rocked his head from side to side as if he were trying to deny his thoughts. His arms twitched, and his hands made spastic grabbing motions like he was protecting himself from an unseen onslaught. And all the while, the voices in his head kept chanting:
"The untcigahunk are coming!... The untcigahunk are coming!"
CHAPTER TWO
"'The Forest of Growing Claws'"
1
"You're sure you don't want to come along?" Bill asked.
It was Saturday morning, and the weather was perfect—sunny and warm with just enough breeze to keep it from being really hot. As he sat at the kitchen table drinking his second cup of coffee, Bill looked out over the backyard. The grass was a deep, rich green, and the fluttering shadows of the trees gave it the illusion of being alive with energy.
Kip was standing at the sink rinsing breadcrumbs from his plate. His eyes were focused on the water swirling down the drain. He noticed that his hands were shaking.
"I—uh, don't think so," he said. "Not today, anyway."
Bill glanced at him for a moment, then let his gaze wander back out the window.
"Do you know when your brother got home last night?" he asked.
Kip shrugged and put his plate in the dishwasher rack. "I dunno. I heard him clumping up the stairs in the dark, but I didn't notice what time it was."
"Well, it certainly wasn't before midnight," Bill said. He had checked in on Marty early this morning and found him asleep in an S-shaped tangle of sheets, still dressed. His head was at the wrong end of the bed, and in the dim morning light, his face had a peculiar translucent cast that reminded Bill of a Hollywood vampire's complexion. He wondered what it was about teenagers that made them want to stay up all night and sleep all day.
Pushing his chair back, he stood up and brought his cup over to the sink. "Well, guess I'll get going then. You're sure I can't con you into helping me out? There's a lot of work to be done before we can start to build."
Kip edged away from his father, knowing his face had gone pale. "No, really. I've got plans to game over at Joey's today."
Bill smiled and tousled his son's hair. "I don't know if those games are all that good, you know? Not if they're going to keep you inside on a beautiful day like this."
Kip forced a smile."They're fun," he said weakly.
"Oh, I don't doubt that. I mean, I don't think stuff like that really invokes demons or anything like that. It's just I could use a bit of company while I'm working. A lot of that brush I cut—" He stopped himself before he said saying five years ago—"has grown back and then some. I could really use the help."
"You didn't ask Marty, did you?" Kip asked.
Bill shook his head. "No. Besides, it's his turn to mow the lawn." He snagged his car keys from the hook by the door, jingling them in his hand as he looked at Kip. "Well, I'll be out at the site all day. Maybe you'll ride your bike out and visit me after lunch."
"Yeah, maybe," Kip said, knowing he had no intention of doing anything of the sort. He watched his father go down the walkway to the car, start it up, and drive off.
As soon as his father was gone, the hum of the car rapidly fading in the distance, Kip was struck by how quiet the house was. He could barely hear the tick-tock of the clock on the mantle in the living room. The steady, measured beat—almost like a dripping faucet—started to work on his nerves as he cast his glance around the kitchen, trying to find the source of his uneasiness on such a beautiful June morning.
But he knew what it was... Oh, yeah, he knew.
It had started a few days ago, spreading like mold in a dark, damp cellar. It had been—when?—last Wednesday that his father had informed him and Marty at supper that he was going to start working on the house on Kaulback Road again. No more thinking about it—no more talking about it; he was going to start doing it.
That's when the disquiet had begun gnawing at the edges of his mind. Then yesterday afternoon, when he had gotten back from his appointment wi
th Dr. Fielding, his father had actually done something about it. No more talk. No more plans. Just before sunset, he had driven out to the house site.
Maybe he had even gone down into the cellar hole.
"No!" Kip said, his voice no more than a whimper. He spun quickly around and, slamming the water faucet on, filled his cupped hands with cold water, then splashed his face several times. Water flew everywhere. A chill danced up his back. Sputtering and blubbering, he reached blindly for a dishtowel to dry his face.
"You nimrod." The voice behind him spoke so suddenly he jumped. "You're dripping water all over the floor."
His breath catching in his throat, Kip looked up and saw Marty leaning in the doorway. His arms were folded across his chest, and his hair was an oily, stringy mess that hung down in his face. His T-shirt with the red-splotched ROADKILL looked as if he'd been wearing it for more than a week. He smiled with a leering grin as he watched his younger brother.
Water was still dripping from Kip's face, leaving pencil-long streaks on his shirt and pants. His fingers finally closed over the dishtowel he was reaching for, and he covered his face with it and rubbed vigorously. The rough cloth grated his skin like sandpaper.
"Dad... uh, Dad said he wanted you to make sure 'n mow the lawn today," Kip said after a moment. His voice was muffled by the towel, but he peeked over the edge to make sure Marty wasn't going to do anything like hit him while he wasn't looking.
"Where'd he go?" Marty asked, looking around the room. He moved over to the kitchen table and plunked himself down in his customary chair.
Kip rolled the dishtowel into a tight ball and tossed it into the laundry room before answering. He needed at least that long to try to swallow the dry lump in his throat before he spoke.
"He went out to the—uh, to the new house. He's gonna spend the day cuttin' brush."
