by Brian Hodge
—They want to get me!
—They want to break out of there and attack me just like they did to my mother!
—They want to tear me to shreds!
The squealing sounds rose until they were almost unbearably loud as Watson held the instant flare up close to the creatures. As he moved his arm back and forth, weird shadows waved across the cellar wall. The flame left blue tracer after-images across Kip's vision, but he could see the creatures as they strained to reach out between the boards to try to hook him.
Suddenly, the instant the matches burned out, the sounds the creatures were making cut off. Watson dropped the charred book of matches to the ground and stomped on it.
"We're okay... for now," he said. "I told yah, only after dark's when they come out."
"What are we gonna do?" Kip asked, his voice raw and tight. "What are we gonna do?"
Watson tossed his hands up into the air. "Beats the shit outta me," he said. "Sorta like living a bad dream, ain't it?" He took the board back from Kip and waved it at the now quieted creatures. Their eyes, though, were still open and watching, unblinking.
"Can they break out of there?" Kip asked, almost whining.
Again, Watson shrugged. "I doubt it, but they don't need to. That's what I've been tellin' yah. They have exit points all over the place—in the woods, the caves, who knows where else? There could be dozens, maybe hundreds of 'em. I know of this one and a few others, and I make sure they're all blocked, but that ain't all. It can't be all 'cause they still get out. Maybe they dig new ones all the time. Christ, boy! I do my best to stop 'em, but I can't get 'em all. It's like tryin' to piss out a forest fire."
As he was talking, a rising note of near hysteria touched Watson's voice. His hands were shaking, and his eyes danced wildly about, making him look like a lunatic.
"We gotta at least block this up," Kip said. "It looks like they could bust through pretty easy if they weren't so sleepy looking."
Watson's inaction seemed to spur Kip to action. He grabbed the board nearest to him, picked up a rock to use as a hammer, and taking a deep breath, approached the doorway. As he came up close, he could feel every creature's eyes boring into him. The rage and hunger to get at him was palpable.
How many are there? Kip wondered, figuring there had to be thirty or more here.
Their hooked, yellow claws still groped out at him, but by keeping well back and leaning forward, he managed to place the board and begin hammering it back into place. The first three nails went back in easily, but the fourth one bent over on the first blow. That threw Kip off balance, and he fell forward, banging his chest against the doorway.
Instantly, a wild shriek rose from the untcigahunk. In a wild scurry of activity, mouths opened and hissed. Teeth clicked, and claws tore at the wood as they tried to break through. Kip let out a shrill scream and tried to push back, but something snagged his shirt. A pin-prick of pain lanced his belly, and he was only half conscious when Watson suddenly grabbed him by the waist and pulled him back. There was a loud tearing sound, and once Kip was safely out of the creatures' reach, he saw that a corner of his shirt was hanging from one of the creature's claws.
"Jesus, boy," Watson said harshly. "You tryin' to get yourself killed or somethin'?"
Kip's whole body was shaking badly. He was too shaken up to speak. Realizing he still had the rock hammer in his hand, he handed it to Watson. Trembling, he raised the end of his shirt and looked at his belly, relieved to see only a superficial scratch.
It looks like the marks on Marty's arm, he thought, and he shivered when he considered the possibility of infection or rabies.
"Come on, then," Watson said as he approached the door again. "Hand me another one of them boards so we can get this done before dark."
Kip picked up a board and passed it to him. Watson positioned it and quickly banged it into place, making sure no part of him got close enough for a little brother to snag. They worked silently and rapidly until all of the boards were back in place. They could no longer see the terrible dark mass of creatures pressing against the opening, but Kip felt nauseous just knowing they were behind the barrier. Faintly, he could still hear them squealing and clawing the wood.
"It's dark in there," Watson said. "That's the way they like it."
When the work was finished, Kip stepped back, realizing for the first time how afraid he was. Sweat dripped down his chest and stung as it ran into the cut on his belly. He took a deep gulp of air when he realized how long he had been holding his breath.
Watson dropped the rock to the ground, then held his hand up and flexed it, trying to get the feeling back.
"Good job," he said with an appreciative nod as he clamped his hand on Kip's shoulder. "I was hopin' you'd do somethin' about it."
Kip looked at him, grateful to see that the crazy light was gone from his eyes. He found it amazing that in the space of a single afternoon, Watson had done what Dr. Fielding hadn't accomplished after more than two years.
I faced my fears... on my own.
I walked right up to them and faced them.
"They're real," he said after taking another shuddering breath. "They're not something I made up or something from a nightmare. They're really real."
Watson nodded. "Uh-huh, and now do you understand what I been tryin' to warn you and your father about?"
Kip glanced from Watson back to the doorway: the exit point. One of them, anyway. His hands were still trembling as he raised them slowly in front of his face.
"And you faced 'em," Watson said.
Kip was surprised to hear his own thoughts echoed, but he also registered the note of satisfaction in Watson's voice. He wasn't sure if it was because the old man was glad he had also confronted these things that had killed his mother, or simply because—finally—someone believed him. Someone else knew about the untcigahunk. But right now, none of that mattered.
"That might not be enough," Kip said softly as he scanned the ground around them. "We've gotta find something else, some rocks or somethin' to put up against the boards."
It took them another half hour of scrambling around to roll some fairly large rocks and a fallen tree trunk down into the cellar hole and jam them against the boarded-over doorway. The sun was trimming the western trees with gold by the time they finished their work. All around them, the sounds of approaching evening filled the woods. Mosquitoes buzzed maddeningly at their ears.
Kip couldn't deny the deep sense of fulfillment he was feeling and—yes, even pride as he hoisted himself, dirty and sweating, out of the cellar hole. It was the best they could do for now, but Watson promised he would come by tomorrow and check to make sure it had held. If during the night the untcigahunk made a determined effort, they could probably rip the barrier apart easily.
"I spoze you better be gettin' on home then," Watson said as they stood on the edge of the cellar hole, looking down and admiring their handiwork. If the boards alone had held the untcigahunk back, then what they had there now should last even if removing the nails had weakened the boards.
Kip shifted his feet as he scratched a mosquito bite on his neck.
"What's the matter?" Watson said gruffly. "I hope you ain't figurin' on stayin' out in the woods tonight. It ain't safe, you know."
"No, I wasn't," Kip replied. "It's just that—"
"Oh, I get it." Watson snapped his fingers and then pointed at him. "You're runnin' away from home, 'n you still ain't ready to call it quits. I should've figured."
At a loss for words, Kip stared down at the boarded over doorway and didn't say a thing.
"Now that your gear's been ruined, you ain't got any idea what to do. Right?" Watson said.
"Well... yeah... sort of." Kip cast a fearful glance at the darkening sky. A deep shade of blue spread from the east as evening approached.
"You know I ain't about to tell you what I think's right 'n wrong," Watson said, "but I'd think you must have a pretty strong reason to be leavin' when you consider what it will
put your dad through 'n all."
Kip nodded and, with a firm set to his jaw, said, "Yeah, I've got my reasons."
Watson stroked his chin and made a low, rumbling sound in his throat. "I 'spoze you could hole up at my place, 'least for a day or two, 'til you figure out what you want to do."
Kip took a deep breath and held it as he looked around and considered Watson's offer. It was exactly what he had been thinking, but he tried not to let his excitement show.
By now the sun was well below the hill, and the shadows in the forest were as thick as midnight. The night songs of the frogs was growing louder, and an errant breeze made the aspen leaves quiver. They flashed like silver dollars against the darkening sky.
"Can't say as I know of any boy that didn't think 'bout runnin' away from home at least once in his life." Watson smiled at him. "But if you're comin', come on. I sure as shit want to be back at my house before it's all the way dark."
"Yeah," Kip said, making a fist and smacking it into his open hand. "Let's go."
4
"You're sure he didn't mention where he was going?" Bill asked Marty for at least the tenth time since nine o'clock. It was now past eleven o'clock, and after several phone calls to Kip's friends, Bill still had no idea where his son was.
Vague, paranoid thoughts played tag with other even scarier thoughts, and before long, he had worked up quite a scenario wherein Woody had kidnapped Kip and was holding him hostage until Bill got all of the charges against him dropped. Of course, that required a phone call or a threatening letter from Woody, provided, of course, that Woody could even write. So far, anyway, neither a phone call or ransom note had arrived.
Marty shook his head from side to side, never letting his eyes waver from the flashing images on the television. He was feeling a bit wasted from his medication, but most of all he was thinking about what he could do to make Kip pay.
After his afternoon nap, around four o'clock, Marty had come downstairs for something to eat. Before going down, though, he had thought to check for his knife to have it handy in case he needed to produce it to help substantiate the lie about how he had cut his arm. After a short, frantic search through his bureau drawer, he had to acknowledge that it really was gone, and he knew exactly who had taken it.
Oh, yeah, he thought, Kip's gonna pay, all right.
"None of his friends have seen him since we got back this afternoon," Bill said, pacing the floor and rubbing his hands together. He kept telling himself to calm down, that there was a reasonable explanation for this, but Kip had never done anything like it before. If it was Marty, he could have understood it, but Kip was... well, Kip, and he wouldn't stay away from home unless something had happened... something serious.
"He's probably—" Marty started to say, but then he cut himself short and finished—"He's okay."
He had been on the verge of mentioning meeting Kip out at the Indian Caves the day before, but he decided it was better not to mention anything about that. One slip was all he needed for his father to find out about the pot they had hidden out there. Besides, it was nice not having Kip around. If Kip had been home, he'd probably be rubbing it in Marty's face about starting summer school on Monday. No, it wasn't "kind of nice" not having him around; it was great. And anyway, Kip probably was all right. His father was just over-reacting, worrying for nothing. He did that a lot since their mother died.
"I gave Parkman a call. You know what he said? He said I had to wait twenty-four hours before I could file a missing person's report." Bill smacked his hands together angrily. "Christ! I thought he was my friend. I can't believe he'd pull that official line business with me."
Marty had no idea what to say, so he just sat there, staring blankly at the T.V.
"Oh, yeah. And another thing," Bill shook his head with disgust. "Parkman asked me to ask you if you knew where Al LaBlanc was."
"What?" Unable to hide his surprise, Marty turned and looked at his father. His first thought was that somehow Parkman had found out about the stolen marijuana, and the shit was about to hit the fan.
"I—uh, I called him a couple of times today, but he wasn't home."
"He hasn't been for the last two days," Bill said. "Both he and Jenny White have disappeared. Parkman thinks they might have run away together. You know anything about that?"
Marty shook his head tightly. "No, I—uh, I haven't seen Al since the day before yesterday." As much as he tried, he was unable to push aside the mental image of exactly where he had last seen Al and what he had been doing. "I haven't talked with him, either," he added weakly.
"Hmm...I dunno," Bill said as he wandered off into the kitchen.
Marty watched the kitchen door swing shut behind his father and then looked back at the T.V., but he couldn't begin to register the images that flashed across the screen. It seemed like even when he wasn't around, Kip could screw up his life, and Marty vowed that when he did show up, he was going to pay dearly for stealing his hunting knife. He better not have lost it. Until then, Marty just wanted to lie low and let his arm heal, and he tried not to wonder where Al and Jenny might have gone.
A few seconds later, his father burst back into the living room and started pacing the floor again. He had a can of beer in one hand, but he never took a sip of it that Marty saw.
"Come on, Marty—think... think! Where could he have gone?" Bill unconsciously squeezed the beer can, denting the can. "This isn't like Kip."
"Maybe he ran away from home," Marty said, casually tossing off the idea but actually thinking it might not be too far off. The more he thought about it, the more he realized Kip had been acting really strange lately.
—Where was he going so early yesterday morning?
—What was he doing all alone out at the Indian Caves?
—Was there any connection between his disappearance and Al and Jenny being missing?
It was all too complicated, Marty thought, and his medication was blunting his mind, so for now he just let everything drift. His only clear thought was that Kip was definitely going to pay for stealing his knife.
Bill shook his head, his mouth a thin line. "Come on, Marty. Why would he do something like that?"
Marty shrugged, letting his gaze drift from his father back to the T.V. If he thought about it too much, he'd start to wonder why he had never run away from home. He considered mentioning to his father how, since their mother died, he seemed to have thrown himself so much into keeping the family going that he hardly ever had time to actually do things with them like they used to. But getting into all of that right now would require too much energy. All he wanted to do was rest.
"Goddammit! If the cops won't do anything about it, then I sure as hell will." He paused and looked at Marty. "I'm going for a drive to see if I can find him. You want to come along?"
"Not really," he said, shaking his head. "I'm feeling kinda wiped, and my arm still kinda hurts. I'll probably just hit the sack early tonight."
"Okay," Bill said. "It's just as well, I guess. You can be here to answer the phone if anyone calls. I'll check in with you every half hour or so, okay?"
Marty grunted his agreement as Bill fished his car keys from his pocket, jangling them in his hand as he considered where he'd start looking. Then, with a deep sigh, he put his can of beer down on the telephone table and went quietly out the door.
As soon as the door slammed shut behind his father, Marty leaned forward and snapped off the T.V. Moving slowly, he made his way up the stairs to his bedroom and was sound asleep seconds after his head hit the pillow.
5
Watson hadn't had anything to drink all evening. In fact, he hadn't had a thing to drink since he finished that bottle of whiskey at Kip's campsite, so by eleven-thirty that night, he was beginning to feel fidgety. He had to admit, at least to himself he didn't just want a drink, he needed a drink.
Kip was sitting on the couch, his legs pulled up underneath him and a frayed afghan wrapped around his shoulders to ward off the chill. His eyes k
ept being drawn to the shattered ruin of Watson's T.V.
He couldn't say he felt really comfortable in Watson's house. The place needed a good cleaning, for sure. For one thing, a peculiar smell permeated the house. It smelled like the week-old aroma of boiled cabbage and made his sinuses tingle. Everything he touched was coated with dust and grease as if no one really lived here.
"You... umm, you're positive those things are what killed my mother?" Kip asked. He knew the answer and realized he was just making conversation. His throat was dry, so he took a sip from the glass of water he was holding. He had carefully washed the glass himself before drinking from it, but there was still a milky film along the inside rim.
Watson was staring blankly at the wall, but Kip's words pulled him back from his grim thoughts. He nodded and ran his fingers through his oily hair, then paused to inspect his fingernails.
"You saw them for yourself," Watson said. "'N I would think you could answer that for yourself because of what you saw five years ago."
"—Help me!"
The mere mention of five years ago made Kip's stomach feel tense. A chill danced like cold fingers along the back of his neck, and in his mind, the darkness began to swirl. Thin, brown arms and yellowed claws and glowing eyes began to take form in his mind, peering at him. As his panic rose like a flood, he gritted his teeth and clenched his fists to keep from crying out when he remembered what his mother had screamed that day.
"—They're hurting me!"
A stinging filled his eyes. He knew the feeling, and if he had been younger—or maybe even now if he had been alone—he would have cried; but somehow he was reassured just knowing that Watson knew about them, too. That meant he wasn't crazy, and what he thought he had imagined seeing and hearing that day had been true. That blunted the edge of his panic, so it never got strong enough to blossom into the terror.
Watson suddenly stood up and began pacing back and forth in front of the couch, repeatedly smacking his fist into his open palm. He squinted so his eyes were narrow slits. His breathing came in short, shallow gasps, and Kip was suddenly afraid that he might after all be in some kind of danger from this old man.
