by Rick Hautala
5
“You think you’re some smart, huh?” Old Man Clay said, his voice as rough as gravel.
Before Chuckie could answer, the old man clamped his other hand over Chuckie’s mouth and leered close to him, letting his hot, beer-sour breath wash over Chuckie. A cold pressure filled Chuckie’s bladder.
“You want to see what’s down in this here tunnel, huh? Well, mista’, you’re gonna get your wish.”
Chuckie’s eyes were so wide with fear he wasn’t able to blink as he stared up at Tyler’s grandfather and tried to shake his head in vigorous denial. The pain in his shoulder spread like fire up his neck. He wanted desperately to say something, to beg the man to let him go; he wanted to tell him he hadn’t meant any harm; but the old man’s other hand cupped his lower face like a baseball mitt, holding back anything he might have said.
“So now—” Old Man Clay said, his voice lowering. “Come with me, ‘n I’ll show you something you won’t ever forget!”
With a quick motion that caught Chuckie by surprise, the old man spun him around and hammerlocked one arm behind his back. For a moment, he removed his hand from Chuckie’s mouth, but as soon as Chuckie sucked in a breath to try to cry out for help, the old man stuffed a crusty handkerchief into his mouth. It tasted horrible. The sour taste of vomit bubbled up from Chuckie’s stomach into his throat, but the handkerchief forced it back down. Clasping both of Chuckie’s arms behind him at the wrists, Old Man Clay pulled his hands up hard like he was working a pump handle. A bright bolt of pain shot up Chuckie’s neck, exploding like a firecracker in his brain.
“Come along, then,” the old man wheezed as he pushed and dragged the boy up the hill and around the side of the barn. With his arms pinned behind his back, his mouth gagged, and his vision blurred by tears of pain and terror, the boy stumbled as he went, but the old man wrenched his arms back and forced him to keep moving forward. They went around to the front of the barn and entered through the front door. The rich smell of fresh manure and hay chaff stung Chuckie’s eyes, making it even harder for him to see in the dusk.
“You know right where it is, don’t ‘cha, boy?” Old Man Clay hissed as they walked down the row of stalls. Several cows turned and looked at them, their sad, dumb eyes glistening moistly in the evening gloom. Their tails flicked at the flies swarming around their haunches.
Chuckie worked his tongue against the cloth blocking his mouth, but it was stuffed too far in to dislodge. He was sure he was going to suffocate. Inside his mind, he was screaming...begging for Old Man Clay to let him go. When they reached the corner of the barn where Chuckie could see the dark square of the iron grating, his knees went rubbery on him. He stumbled and almost fell.
“You’re gonna learn something not too many people alive even know about,” Old Man Clay said. Chuckling deeply in his chest, he hawked and spit off into the darkness. He eased his grip on Chuckie’s arm, but before the boy could make his body respond to his mental command to run, Old Man Clay shoved him into the corner of the barn where he blocked any possible retreat. Chuckie heard a clink of metal as the old man fished in the pocket of his bib coveralls and produced a ring of keys. He held them up to the fading light as he searched for the right one.
Kneeling down, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on Chuckie, he felt blindly for the lock. On the verge of bawling like a little baby, Chuckie cowered in the corner, pressing his back against the dry, splintered wood. Old Man Clay fit the key into the rusty lock, twisted it, and released the shackle. In the darkness, the sound of metal clanging against metal was magnified as it echoed from the stone-lined tunnel. When the old man pulled the lock away, Chuckie heard something—a dull rasping sound—come from deep inside the tunnel.
“That might be them comin’ now,” Old Man Clay said. “Gotta hurry.” He sniffed with laughter.
Chuckie’s body was numb with terror as he stared at the iron grating on the floor. Whatever was down there making that noise sure sounded like it was getting closer!
“You see, boy, these here iron bars are necessary to make sure what’s down there stays down there. Catch my drift?” Old Man Clay said. “But you know—I don’t think that’s the only thing that keeps ‘em down there.”
Paralyzed with terror and too stunned to cry out for help, Chuckie slowly raised his hand to his mouth and pulled out the cloth. The inside of his mouth was as dry as paper. He had to lick his lips before he could speak, and when he did, his voice was tight and high.
“What—what’s down there?”
Old Man Clay glanced at Chuckie but continued talking as if he hadn’t even heard him.
“For the longest damned time, I was losing cows from the barn. Not very often. Every couple of years or so I’d come out in the mornin’ ‘n find one of ‘em all ripped up and half ‘et. Usually a calf. It took me a while to figure out the pattern to it, but I noticed it was happening every five years or so. Usually in the summer, but sometimes in the spring or fall. Then one night, must’ve been—oh, twenty years or more back, I heard one helluva commotion out here. I come a’runnin’ ‘n got here just in time to see—well, I ain’t ‘xactly sure what I seen, but I sure as hell saw somethin’! Looked sorta like a dwarf, all gnarly and brown. It went scurryin’ back down into that hole there quick as could be. Next morning, I got a couple of iron grates ‘n fixed one into place here ‘n put the other out back where you was just digging. This one, though, is a bit different. See? It’s got hinges.”
As he said that, Old Man Clay stepped forward, careful to keep his weight on the grate. It was almost as if—Chuckie thought—he was making sure to keep it closed … for now. Cold pressure filled Chuckie’s head as he stared at the old man, all the while listening to the faint scratching sounds that were definitely getting louder.
“What’s down there?” Chuckie asked, his voice raw and broken as the old man slowly approached him.
“I haven’t the faintest clue,” Old Man Clay said, smiling broadly. The, without warning, he leaned forward, and his hand darted out like a striking rattlesnake and snagged Chuckie’s arm. “This tunnel or whatever the hell it is must’ve been here since back when my grandfather built this barn.” He started to pull Chuckie forward. “But I have a theory. Wanna hear it?”
Fainting with terror, Chuckie didn’t have the strength to nod as the old man dragged him toward the grate.
“I think this here tunnel goes straight down to Hell,” Old Man Clay said in a voice low with reverence. “’N I think what I saw out here that night—what’s been comin’ up from underground every five years and killin’ my cows—is a horde of devils! Demons! You hear me, boy?” His eyes widened and rolled ceilingward with excitement.
A strangled squeak came out of Chuckie as he looked from the old man to the iron grate at his feet. He hardly noticed when his bladder released, spreading warm urine over his pants. The old man’s grip on his arm tightened, bringing him closer to the opening. When he was at the edge, Old Man Clay placed the toe of his boot under the lip of the grate and, with effort, lifted it. Reaching down with one hand, he took the metal edge and flung it open wide. The rusty hinges shrieked in protest as the door fell open and hit the dirt floor with a loud clang.
“You see,” Old Man Clay said, “I made sort of a deal with these particular devils. Once I realized they only come around every five years or so, I figured when I knowed they was comin’ ‘round, I’d give ‘em what they want so’s they’d leave my cows alone. Seems reasonable, and I reckon they’re satisfied ‘cause I don’t believe for a minute they couldn’t rip this open if they really put their minds to it. Actually, a while back, one of ‘em did come at me but—luckily—I had the grate closed, ‘n he only got a couple of my fingers.”
He raised his hand, palm out to Chuckie, and wiggled the stumps of his amputated fingers.
“Since then, they pretty much leave my cows be,” Old Man Clay went on. “That’s ‘cause every five years I send ‘em a little treat. One year it was a sick calf that
I didn’t ‘spected would live. Usually, though, I try to get ‘em a person. I find someone who’s been givin’ me some trouble, and I bring him on out to the barn here.”
Without warning, the old man gave a quick kick to the back of Chuckie’s knees, making him kneel on the floor. All resistance left the boy as he was pushed relentlessly forward, face-first toward the dark opening. Instinctively, he spread his arms and legs out wide, hoping to grab onto something to keep himself out of there, but it was no use. Old Man Clay was too strong. Chuckie’s hands and feet left clawed furrows in the dirt floor. Then he was pitching forward into the dark abyss. He grabbed at the furthest edge and clung to grate like it was a life raft when his legs dropped down into the black maw below him.
“Please, Mr. Clay,” he wailed, looking up at the smiling old man. “You can pull me up now. I’ve learned my lesson.”
He was hoping to find even just a small trace of pity in the old man’s face, but there was none. His lower lip was trembling, and he could feel his eyes filling with tears.
“Not by a long shot, you ain’t.”
“I know you’re you’re trying to scare me ‘cause of what we was doing. Please. Pull me up now.”
“Please nuthin!” Old Man Clay snarled. “You were the one eggin’ my grandson on to go down there ‘n see what’s in there. Now’s your chance.”
They both tensed when they both heard a loud scraping sound from deep inside the tunnel. Chuckie’s grip on the grate was slipping as his fingers went numb. His feet scrambled against the unyielding stone of the tunnel mouth, trying to find some support.
The effort was futile.
Chuckie was making strange, wounded animal sounds when the old man placed one foot on his head and started to apply slow, steady pressure.
“Yup,” Old Man Clay said, smiling broadly. “I’d say they’s definitely on their way.”
Standing back, he raised his foot and then brought it down hard on the back of Chuckie’s hand. Howling with pain, the boy reflexively let go. With a short, trailing shout, he dropped out of sight.
Old Man Clay moved quickly. Groaning as he bent down, he swung the hinged grate back into place. It clanged shut just as another muffled scream echoed from down below. This one was definitely human. It was followed by loud scrambling sounds and a burst of angry squeals. Chuckie’s shrill scream rose higher and then cut off abruptly. By the time Old Man Clay was fumbling the lock back into place, the only sound from down below was a wet, smacking, chewing sound.
Brushing his hands together, Old Man Clay stood up slowly, a smile creasing the corners of his mouth. He stared for a moment at the locked iron grate, then nodded with satisfaction and quickly scuffed out the marks Chuckie had made in the dirt floor. Once he was satisfied, he left the barn, heading back to the house.
“Well,” he said, smiling to himself, “he was a bit on the skinny side, but I reckon that oughta hold them little bastards for another five years.”
THE BIRCH WHISTLE
Spring, 1987
1
As Eric and Patty Strasser guided their bright yellow Old Town canoe into Cooking Pot Cove on the Saco River, Eric noticed something swirling in the water ahead of them. At first, he thought it might just be mud, stirred up from the riverbed by the current. But as they got closer, he thought the reddish-brown tint looked more like blood.
“Jesus, will you take a look at that,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at his wife.
“At what?” Patty said.
Her pale face was shadowed by the wide, straw hat she was wearing. She arched one eyebrow and regarded him with a sour, almost angry expression. Eric instantly read her frustration and, not wanting to bother or worry her, indicated the shore with a wide sweep of his hand.
“Why—at how beautiful this place is,” he said grandly. “It’s even nicer than Carmine described, don’t you think?”
“Umm—yeah,” Patty said non-committally, forcing herself to smile as she stopped paddling and wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm.
Straight ahead was a short expanse of clean, nearly white sand, no more than fifty or seventy-five feet long. Bordering both ends of the beach like bookends on an empty shelf were two large piles of boulders. Some of the stones looked as big as Volkswagens. Beyond the beach, the pine forest, brooding deep and green, rose up a steep embankment. Inside the sheltering cove, the river was calm, flat and black. It reflected the trees and cloudless blue sky like a polished mirror. Birdsong filled the clear, late afternoon air.
“I just want to stop paddling,” Patty said, her voice nearly breaking from exhaustion. She sighed deeply and let her paddle drag in the water behind her. “I have blisters the size of silver dollars on both hands, my shoulders are sunburned, and the muscles in my back and shoulders feel like hamburger.”
Eric smiled sympathetically, then dipped his paddle into the water and gave it a solid stroke. The canoe glided smoothly toward the shore, whispering on the water. As they passed through the swirling stain in the river, his eyes darted downward, but he kept his thoughts to himself—even when he lifted his paddle and saw it dripping with a thin, red wash.
“Full speed ahead,” he called out merrily as he leaned hard into the next stroke. He could tell by the drag at the stern that Patty wasn’t with him on it; now that they were so close to where they were going to set up camp for the night. She was just too damned tired to do anything else. His paddle blade flashed golden in the lowering sun as he increased his pace, trying to gain more speed.
The bottom of the canoe hissed up onto the sand, and Eric shouted, “All right! We made it!”
He shipped his paddle and stood up, bracing himself on the gunwales. Before Patty could even lift her paddle out of the water, he leaped onto the shore and started pulling the canoe further up onto the beach. The sand was warm, almost hot beneath his bare feet.
“There’s still enough daylight left,” he said. “I think we can take a bit of a break before we pitch the tent.”
He held his hand out to assist Patty onto dry land. Once she had her feet on solid ground, he pulled her close to him and gave her a tight, passionate embrace. His mouth sought hers, and they kissed, their tongues darting playfully into each other’s mouth. When Eric’s hand started sliding down her back to the curve of her hips, she pulled away quickly.
“Hey. Don’t start anything you can’t finish,” Patty said with a tight smile. She folded her arms tightly across her chest as she scanned the surrounding woods. A slight shiver shook her shoulders.
Eric shrugged and slapped his thighs with the flats of his hands. “Hey, who’s around to notice?” he asked, all innocence. His spirits dropped when he saw the cloud descend behind his wife’s eyes. “Come on, Patty,” he whispered. “You can’t let it get you down so much. It’s been—what? More than four months, now. And the doctor says we can try again real soon.” He craned his neck back and rubbed his shoulder as he looked up at the clear vault of sky. “And what better place to make a baby than right her, in good ole’ Mother Nature?”
“Speaking of Mother Nature, I think I hear her calling,” Patty said. Just a hint of a smile crossed her lips, and Eric smiled back at her, telling himself—at least for now—that was enough.
“Lady’s room is right over there, I believe,” he said, hitching his thumb at the pile of rock to his left. Keeping her eyes averted, Patty walked slowly away. Eric watched her until she disappeared behind the boulders.
“No fair peeking,” she shouted once she was out of sight.
“Ahh, come on!” he said, laughing perhaps a bit too loudly at her joke. But it made him feel good, knowing that, while she wasn’t exactly swinging from the trees, this weekend away—just the two of them—was definitely what she needed to help her finally get over losing the baby. It might have been easier, he told himself, if the miscarriage had happened sooner, during the first trimester; but with only a month to go... Christ! It was almost like losing a real person, even though they
had never gotten to know him.
While Patty was occupied, Eric figured he’d unload their camping gear from the canoe and choose a tent site. He went back to the beached canoe, but just as he was reaching in for the canvas bags holding their weekend supplies, a shrill scream echoed in the hollow of the cove.
Kicking up fans of sand as he ran, Eric dashed around behind the boulder. He felt an immediate rush of relief when he saw Patty standing there, apparently unharmed, but when he saw what she was pointing at, a cold terror tighten around his heart. He wanted to go over to her and hug her, reassure her, but for some reason, he didn’t dare take his eyes off the twisted, black thing that was lying on the ground in front of her. He could see that it was dead—that was obvious—but something about it gave him a queasy feeling in his gut.
“You know what that looks like!” Patty shrieked. “What it looks like almost exactly?”
Tears streaked her face, and she was nearly hysterical as she stood there, looking pathetic with her pants unsnapped and halfway down. The call of Mother Nature was all but forgotten. Splayed fingers of one hand covered her mouth. Her face was chalk white, and her eyes were near-perfect circles as she pointed with the other hand at the dark object lying face-down on the river’s edge.
“I don’t know what the hell it is,” Eric said as a tight dryness gripped his throat. “It looks to me like some kind of...animal or something. It’s dead, whatever it is.”
Walking quickly to the fringe of woods, he picked up a long stick and, crouching low, cautiously approached the dead thing. Patty cowered back against the rock. As soon as he touched it, blackened skin flaked off and dropped like sprinkled pepper onto the sand.
