by Rick Hautala
“Just the...the cellar door...right?” he said. “It used to lead up some steps to a bulkhead.” He no longer even pretended he could control the tremor in his voice.
“Goes down. Not up,” Watson said, grunting with effort. “I never even suspected this was here ‘til I checked around after your mother died. A couple of weeks after that, I came back out and sealed it off as best I could.”
At last, the nails gave to the steady pressure Watson was applying. The old man almost fell backward with the sudden release of resistance. After he caught his balance, he tossed the board aside, wedged his fingers under another, and started to pull back on it.
“Okay, I believe you,” Kip said. He clenched his fists so tightly his wrists began to ache up to his elbows.
Another board came loose, a little easier this time, Kip thought. The screech of nails pulling from the wood drove into his head like a dentist’s drill, but he found that he couldn’t turn away. He tried not to imagine some of the possibilities of what could be behind that door. He considered leaving, just climbing out of that cellar hole and running away as fast as he could. Let Watson mess around all he wanted to down here. Let him face whatever’s behind that doorway.
“Watch the nails on that one,” Watson said as he tossed the board down on the ground next to the other one and then continuing to work more boards loose.
“You know you don’t have to do this,” Kip said. “I mean, if you’re just doing this to prove these little brothers are real...you don’t have to. I believe you.”
“Watch,” Watson commanded. Grasping another board, he put one foot up on the doorjamb and pulled back. The board came free in his hand a little easier, and it joined the pile of others on the ground.
Kip’s pulse was hammering in his ears like a drum as he watched Watson pull the board off, one by one. Once the outer layer was gone, the inner boards came off faster, easier. Before long, the pile of wood behind Watson was knee-high. Quickly, he yanked off a couple more boards, but then he stopped and stepped back quickly, almost tripping over the pile of boards.
“Holy shit,” he muttered. He bent down and picked up one of the smaller pieces of wood, gripping it like a baseball bat. “You see that?”
“What?” Kip asked, his voice twisting off into a high-pitched squeak.
“Take a look.” Watson pointed at the doorway with the board he was holding. “Watch out. Not too close.”
Kip thought his knees were going to give out on him as he took one...two...three steps closer to the door. His heart was racing so hard and fast it made his vision jump with each beat. A vagrant breeze blew into the cellar hole, dancing like icy fingers along the back of his neck.
The sun had long since seeped out of the cellar hole, but Kip hadn’t registered the gradual change until now. Everything was shrouded in darkness as he stared at the doorway, but his eyes could just barely penetrate the darkness. It was as if a stain, a wash of black ink covered the rocks and wood.
But then his eyes finally adjusted, and Kip did see something.
“What the—” he managed to say, even as his throat closed off.
Several layers of wood still covered the doorway, but in places where the doorway was open, it looked like—
That’s impossible! Kip’s mind screamed. It can’t be real!
But there was something...something alive behind those slats of wood!
The longer he started at it, the more his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the easier it was to make out faces.
“Jesus!” he shouted. “What is it?”
“It’s them,” Watson said softly, edging nearer to Kip and still holding the board up like a weapon. “What I been telling you about.”
Kip could finally make them out. First one, then two, and then so many faces he couldn’t begin to count them.
They pressed up against the remaining boards, jammed and packed in so tightly their faces were distorted so they blended together. Their eyes were dull, staring, lamplike globes, and their claws—thick, yellowed, and curved—slowly flexed open and closed. They made harsh rasping sounds against the wood, and the creatures—whatever they were—were making low squeaking noises.
Like rats, Kip thought.
They stirred, and the sounds rose louder, grating Kip’s ears. And as he watched, he saw the entire mass of untcigahunk moving, seething. Their tangled arms and legs twined slowly around, making them look like one solid, pulsating mass. Their mouths opened and closed, showing rows of needle-sharp teeth. The wood blocking the doorway creaked and bulged outward from their weight, and it seemed not nearly strong enough to keep them back for long.
But it was their eyes, their eyes that horrified Kip. Steady, unblinking, and full of hungry evil.
“Are they...are they dying or something?” Kip asked, not daring to look away from them to see how Watson was handling all of this. He didn’t feel very secure, even knowing that the man was standing beside him.
“No, they ain’t dying,” Watson said softly. “They just ain’t fully awake yet.” He glanced up at the dwindling sunlight and took a deep breath. “Night’s when they wake up and come out. Even this little bit of daylight is enough to keep ‘em at bay. Livin’ underground most of the time, their eyes can’t adjust to light as fast as ours can. ‘Course, that means we can’t see in the dark as well as they can, either.”
The longer he stared at the tangled mass of untcigahunk, the more Kip began to realize that these things really were what he had seen five years ago. These things had come pouring out of the ancient doorway when his mother was down in here clearing brush. They had swarmed all over her and had torn her to pieces, and all he had been able to do was stand there on the edge of the cellar hole and watch.
“Check this out,” Watson said, as he fished a book of matches from his shirt pocket. He passed the board he was holding to Kip, then tore off a match and struck it. The match flared into life with a sputter, and Watson used it to touch off the whole pack. When the brilliant orange blossom of flame erupted in his hand, he held it close to the faces in the doorway.
The effect was instantaneous and terrifying. In the hissing glare of fire, the untcigahunk squirmed and writhed. Their ratlike squeaks rose shrill and loud until the foundation echoed with the sound. They blinked their eyes and turned away, trying to shut out the light as their claws, twitching shut in hard spasms, made loud clicking sounds against the wood.
Frantic, they pushed against the wooden barrier, reaching out through the gaps between boards. Kip was sure he could read what was in all of their minds. It was reflected in the cold hatred he saw in their eyes.
—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, t
he 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’d did that a lot since their mother died.
