They followed the trail for several minutes, the sound of their progress painfully loud in the silent woods, stopping often to listen, all the while searching the ground for any sign of Jerry's presence. They sloshed through lingering puddles on the trail where the day's sun had not been able to reach.
Lewis scanned the forest floor with the light, his eyes following the bright circle like a hypnotist's medallion. The woods seemed dead to Lewis, undisturbed, and he had a sense they’d chosen the wrong path, that Jerry hadn't come this way. Regardless, he continued forward, compelled to move deeper as if pulled by the beam of light.
They came to the mouth of the connecting trail leading back to the neighborhood. Lewis walked past it without a glance, concentrating on the ground at his feet.
“Hey,” Clinton hissed. “We're going this way, remember?”
Lewis illuminated the mouth of the trail. Clinton stood there, vehemently stabbing his index finger toward the opening. Lewis sighed, nodded, and started down this new path. The trail looped out, cutting deep into the woods before swinging back toward the homes. They passed the location of their secret fort, hidden under piles of leafy camouflage. Lewis, Clinton, and Justin were the only ones who knew of its existence.
Clinton stopped to admire their handiwork. “We should work on the hideout tomorrow, make it even more invisible.”
“Yeah, sure,” Lewis grunted in agreement, scanning the ground with the light.
The boys trudged along, the woods offering no clues or sounds to validate Lewis's claims. They finally reached the retaining wall separating the woods from Old Man Boyd's back yard.
Most folks with homes bordering the woods dumped their grass clippings and yard trimmings over the wall—Mr. Boyd was no exception. Mountains of the dead grass reached to the lip of the wall in several spots. The boys sank into the saturated mounds as they hiked up, filthy water welling up around their feet, filling their sneakers. Their skin instantly itched from the disturbed top layer of sun-dried clippings.
Lewis's wavering light flashed across something red, half buried in the prickly grass. He trained the beam on it. “Clinton. What's that?”
Clinton waded over and picked it up. “Holy shit. It's Jerry's mask,” he said, his chin dropping. “You were right, he was here.”
Clinton held the damp Spider-Man mask in front of him with the tips of two fingers as Lewis tromped over to inspect the find, the slashing beam of his flashlight swimming with disturbed grass particles. That's when the boys heard the distant laugh, seemingly turning the steamy night air cold in an instant. They hunkered down, shoulders touching, backpedaling to the wall, pressing their backs against the rough cinder blocks, eyes focused on the dark woods from which they believed the sound had originated.
With their attention focused on the woods in front of them, neither boy noticed the scowling face scrutinizing them from above, looming over the wall. Or its wild eyes burning twin holes in the tops of their heads.
Until it spoke.
“What are you kids doin' out here this late?”
Lewis gasped, dropping the light. Clinton cried out, “Don't kill me!”
“Is that you, Lewis?” the voice asked.
“Mr. Boyd?” Lewis croaked, his mouth bone dry.
“Yes. Now get your butts over here,” commanded Mr. Boyd.
Lewis retrieved the flashlight. The boys climbed the wall, eager to be out of the woods, their hearts still pounding in their chest as they stood in front of the man, the whites of his eyes glaring in the darkness.
“Turn that thing off,” Mr. Boyd said, gesturing toward the light, slurring the words together. He swayed back and forth, and Lewis could now make out the sour tang of booze wafting from the old man. “That one of you mule-heads out there cacklin' like the devil?”
“No, sir,” Lewis said. Lowering his head, he added, “You wouldn't believe me if I told you who I think it is.”
“You think it's one of them missing boys, don'tcha?” the old man said with indifference. He raised a can of beer to his lips and slurped.
Both boys gazed at the man, slack-jawed, unable to speak.
Mr. Boyd scratched the gray stubble on his cheek and nodded. “You boys go on home now. I won't tell your folks I seen ya out so late. But don't go messin' around them woods no more. They’ve gone bad.” He turned his head and spat on the ground like a man who’d just discovered a worm in his apple.
Lewis regained his ability to speak. “Mr. Boyd, why would you say—”
“Go home,” he snapped, waving the beer in the air.
Clinton grabbed Lewis by the arm. “Yessir, we're going, sorry we bothered you.”
Clinton pulled the stammering Lewis across the back yard, through the old man's front gate, across the street and onto Lewis's front lawn.
“What are you doing?” whispered Lewis, yanking his arm free.
“Getting us away from that crazy old man, that's what.”
“He knows something,” Lewis hissed, pointing at the home of Mr. Boyd.
“Yeah, no shit,” Clinton agreed, raising the wet mask still clutched in his fist. “He obviously had something to do with whatever happened to Jerry, and probably the twins. We need to show this to someone.”
“They searched those woods all day,” Lewis said. He grabbed the mask and shook it at Clinton. “How did they miss this when we found it in the dark?”
“Maybe he just tossed it over. I mean, what is he doing up at this time of night?”
“The same thing we are, stupid,” Lewis said, lowering his voice to a whisper again. “That weird laugh woke him up. Look, I've lived across from him my whole life, he's a little weird, but I know he wouldn't hurt anybody. Besides, it doesn't explain what I saw, or what we heard, or what he said. I'm sure Jerry dropped this recently.”
“You're crazy. That old guy probably killed all three of them.”
“Then who did I see earlier?”
Clinton shrugged. “Probably Jerry's ghost.”
Lewis smiled. “And you call me crazy?”
“What are we supposed to do then?”
Lewis pointed across the street again. “I'm going over to his house tomorrow to find out what he knows, and you’re coming with me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Would you rather explain to your parents what you were doing out here at three in the morning?”
“Blackmail? That's messed up, Lewis,” Clinton said, then pointed to his friend. “Wait, you won't say anything because you'll get in trouble too.”
“Don't care,” Lewis said, shaking his head and crossing his arms.
Clinton stared at the determined look on his friend's face. “Okay,” he sighed, giving in once again. “But if that maniac kills us and buries our bodies in his back yard, it's your fault.”
“Awesome. Come over in the morning and we'll see what he knows. If he won't talk to us, then we show someone the mask. Okay?”
“Okay … see you tomorrow. That is if I can make it back into my house without getting caught,” Clinton said, then added under his breath, “you're gonna get us killed.” He turned and sauntered off in the direction of his house. “Dumbass,” he whispered to himself.
After the twins finished feasting on the carcass of Maggie Burton, the thing inside Jerry's corpse instructed them to put the shredded remains into garbage bags from the woman's kitchen, and dump the bundles into the stinking lake she had gleaned from their minds; it was a waste, but she was sated for now, and she preferred to feast on fresh meat. The boys—each looking like an evil Santa—shouldered the bags and made their way through the woods, passing the trail Lewis and Clinton had journeyed down just moments earlier. They tossed the gore-filled sacks into the deepest part of the lake, watching them sink. Thick, black bubbles popped on the lake's surface as the bags filled with the foul water.
There wasn't much she could do about the mess made of the woman's dwelling, her fervent lust for warm flesh and blood had taken over, the frenzied
attack beyond her control for a brief moment. Harvesting memories from the boys' minds, she knew the woman lived alone and hoped nobody would discover the macabre redecoration of the home until her siege was in full force.
Having the twin boys as her first victims and servants proved very fortunate indeed. They were big, strong, and seemed to have an intense dislike for everyone. Even though the boys were quite dead, their brains still had a trickle of life; she could sense their memories and strongest emotions—which in their case, turned out to be hate. Their deviant minds and malevolent hatred toward everyone and everything gave her valuable insight on many of the inhabitants of her new domain. She adored the human mind: so weak and pliant, easily usurped after death, basic carnal instincts the strongest emotions leftover in a resurrected corpse. Conversely, the memories of her current vessel did not offer much information on the area and its people. She sensed mostly fear and loneliness in its mind.
After disposing of the remains, she called the boys back to her new lair, the place she had foraged from their heads—the system of drainage tunnels underneath the streets and homes. The perfect refuge. She could hide during the day and hunt at night, using the storm drains and manholes to come and go as she pleased, snatching her meals from the bounty of human cattle. She no longer concerned herself with guarding the tree; as far as she knew, there was no way to destroy the dismal cell. It had been meant to imprison her forever, but she had discovered a way to break free—albeit until her vessel expired. She had no clue as to what would happen if the tree somehow did fall once she was liberated from its grip.
Thoughts of her tree brought with it snippets of memories. Her memories. However, as usual, she viewed these slideshow of images as if they belonged to another being, from another time.
She closed her eyes and let the scenes with their accompanying emotions play out: a woman's burnt corpse, the scent of cooked flesh filling the air; sorrow for the dead woman, replaced instantly with murderous rage; joy, as she spread disease amongst the people responsible for the woman's death; anger at the men who’d finally captured her, ending her orgy of pestilence, strapping her to the tree; torturous pain, as the flames engulfed her own body.
Then, her true life had started, with her first vessel, and the uncontrollable urge for revenge.
And her all-consuming newfound lust for blood.
Her second death had come after many more reprisals. Then nothing for a long, long time. She slept. She dreamed. She plotted, her need for retribution germinating, flourishing. Finally, she’d awakened in a new vessel, in this strange land.
Her land.
She opened her new eyes and the visions faded. Distant memories of a distant past. She focused on the present, on her quest for flesh and blood—on her vengeance.
As she rested in the musty tunnels beneath the inhabitants of Poisonwood Estates—sated, her belly full—she rifled through the twins simple, devious memories like thumbing through the pages of a mindlessly boring book, searching for pertinent information. One word kept peeking through the clutter of their minds more than any other—a name. An image of a scrawny, pale youth accompanied the offensive word. The name of a boy not well liked by the pair. A name also known by her vessel.
Lewis.
16
Lewis was finishing his bowl of cereal, slurping the sweetened milk leftover, when the familiar knock came at the front door. He placed the bowl in the kitchen sink, jogged to the door, and returned the shave and a haircut with his two bits. He opened the door to a frowning Clinton, shoulders slumped, the antithesis of Lewis's exited mood.
Lewis clapped his hands together with a loud pop. “Let's go see what the old guy has to say, shall we?”
Despite having trouble sleeping after last night's excitement, Lewis felt energized. His first thought upon rising from bed that morning was to tell his mother everything, but reconsidered when he visualized the look on Jerry's face, and recalled the flippant, then aggressive reaction of Mr. Boyd. Something strange was going on, and Lewis meant to find out what it was.
Clinton raised a finger, but Lewis closed the door, pushing past his friend before he could make a better suggestion. Dejected, Clinton followed Lewis as he marched across the street to the home of Mr. Boyd. Glancing to the right, the boys could see a squad car and a few people milling about the grass field, the search for the missing boys resuming. This sight fueled Lewis’s need for an explanation from the old man. He passed the three bushes on the front lawn without notice; during the light of day they were just bushes.
Lewis mounted the porch and stepped to the front door. He hesitated, fist raised, poised to knock, his bravery suddenly seeping away as he stood on the old man's porch. Before he could muster the courage to either bring his fist down, or turn back toward home, the door swung open with an eerie creak. Mr. Boyd—sporting a wife-beater tank top that bulged at the belly, Bermuda shorts, and blacks socks—blocked the doorway, a frown of disgust greeting the paralyzed boys on his doorstep.
When the boys remained silent, Mr. Boyd asked, “What do you mule-heads want?”
Lewis stammered, the slippery muscle in his mouth ignoring his mental commands, “ … Uh … we want to talk … about last night. About what you said you thought … we thought … the laughing in the woods was.”
“Huh?” Mr. Boyd said with a smirk, one eyebrow raised like a comma.
Lewis wrangled his tongue into submission and said, “What you said about the laugh belonging to one of the missing kids.”
Mr. Boyd stared at Lewis with blood-shot eyes. “Trust me, boy. You don't wanna know.”
“Know what?” Lewis asked.
“Go on. Go home.” Mr. Boyd waved them away and moved to shut the door.
“So I guess I should go talk to the cops then,” Clinton blurted, surprising himself and Lewis.
The old man glanced at the police cruiser, looked each boy in the eyes for several tense seconds, then stepped back, his threatening scowl melting into a look of sorrow and regret. “Come in.”
Lewis entered the home of his longtime neighbor for the first time. The old man was rumored to be crazy, and never talked much with his neighbors, but Lewis had always considered the old guy to be pretty nice. He would always smile, raise his hand, or nod his head in return whenever Lewis waved. However, upon entering the man's house, Lewis felt as if the rumor might have a hint of truth to it.
Like most of the homes in the neighborhood, Mr. Boyd's house presented the same layout as Lewis's, but seemed much smaller—cramped and unwelcome. He realized why as he followed Mr. Boyd down the short hallway and into the living room. Books were stacked everywhere.
Shelves packed full of ancient and new tomes overflowed onto the dingy carpet where they started new stacks like stalagmites, leaning against the walls, some pillars reaching as high as Lewis's waist. Against one wall sat a table, covered and overflowing as well, sheltering even more volumes underneath. Old newspapers littered the few spaces not claimed by books. The house smelled musty and damp, like the school library, only concentrated into this tiny room, the thick, dusty air making Lewis lightheaded. Lewis blinked several times, forcing his eyes to adjust to the gloomy morning light fighting to penetrate the soiled curtains covering the shut windows. At least the house was nice and cool, the air-conditioner humming away.
Mr. Boyd closed what appeared to be a journal or diary resting on the table, stabbed some loose pages with handwritten notes into a nearby book, closing it too, and motioned toward a grimy vinyl sofa. “Sit down, I'll getcha boys somethin' ta drink. Sweet tea? Lemonade? Soda Pop?”
The boys sat down, instantly feeling dirty as the couch sent dust motes scurrying to find a new nest.
“Sweet tea, sir,” Lewis said behind a sneeze.
“Nothing for me, thanks,” added Clinton.
Mr. Boyd turned and strolled toward the kitchen. Before he disappeared around the corner, Lewis noticed a thick, raised scar on the old man’s right shoulder, curling under the thin fabric of hi
s tank top. It looked as if something had tried to tear his arm from his body. The ringing of ice on glass and the sloshing of liquid reached the boys on the sofa. Lewis felt a tap on his leg and looked over to see Clinton shaking his head, genuine fear in his eyes, his brow furrowed with unease.
He waved Clinton off as Mr. Boyd returned from the kitchen and handed Lewis a murky glass of cold brown liquid, several white half-moon shaped ice cubes floating on the surface. The old man opened the beer in his other hand, ignoring the clock on the wall reading 9:30 am. Lewis had the impression the old man hadn't slept for quite a while, and didn’t follow a normal schedule.
“Cheers,” he said, tipping the beer back, taking an enormous swallow.
“Cheers,” Lewis echoed, taking a miniscule sip of his tea.
It was delicious.
Clinton studied his friend, searching Lewis's face for the classic signs of poisoning, ready to bolt for the front door if he started convulsing.
“That's good,” Lewis said to his host. He turned to Clinton. “It's good.”
Mr. Boyd slammed his beer onto the bar—the one surface free of books—white suds spuming over his hand, and shouted, “NO! It's NOT good!”
“No really, it's good,” Lewis pleaded, chugging the tea to prove his point.
“Not the tea, dummy. I'm talkin' about the situation. The situation is not good.”
Lewis and Clinton both asked, “The situation?”
Mr. Boyd took another chug of beer, wiped froth from his lips with his hairy forearm, and gazed at Lewis through thick glasses, his eyes magnified behind the lenses like two green fish in a fishbowl, a sad expression on his stubbly face.
“You're gonna have to kill your friend,” Mr. Boyd said, addressing Lewis.
Lewis stared at Clinton, who looked back at Lewis with panic.
“Not him, dummy. Your friend out there.” Mr. Boyd gestured toward his back yard—toward the woods. His face sagged. “When I heard about them missin’ kids I hoped maybe it weren’t happening. Then I heard that damn cackling, and I knew.” He placed the foaming beer on the bar, disappeared into the kitchen again, and came back with a fresh replacement. The boys' faces still showed terrified concern and confusion. Sucking in a deep breath and exhaling long and loud, the old man fell into the recliner across from the boys.
Song of a Lost Child: A Horror Novel (Invasive Species Book 1) Page 8
