Song of a Lost Child: A Horror Novel (Invasive Species Book 1)

by Craig Wesley Wall

  Mr. Boyd dropped back into his recliner, wiping his hand on his shorts, a sour frown on his face. “Tried poison, chainsaw, and been looking in all these books for something.” He pointed to the books on the table. Lewis could read the spine of one—History of Celtic Druids. “All I've found is some old Viking folk tale that sounds similar, but offered no dang solutions. No, there's no way to kill that damned thing. Not even sure if we should,” he finished, tossing the crushed beer can over the bar and into the kitchen sink.

  “Then what can we do?” Lewis asked, pointing to himself then Clinton.

  “We,” Mr. Boyd replied, pointing to himself, then the boys in turn, “have to kill the first one infected. Just like Titus did. That's the only way to stop her.”

  “Yeah, but we don't know if Jerry was the first or if one of the twins were,” Lewis stated calmly, wrenching a startled glance from Clinton.

  Mr. Boyd looked at Lewis and then Clinton, his eyes full of sincere regret. “We may have to kill all three of 'em.”

  Clinton raised his hands in surrender and catapulted to his feet. “Okay, I'm outta here. You've both lost your minds.”

  Mr. Boyd jumped up as well and shouted, “If we don't do something she will destroy this entire neighborhood: your families, your friends, and most likely me and you too, so I don't give a rat's ass if you believe me or not. You came to ask me what I know, well I told you what I know.”

  “Clinton, sit down,” Lewis urged in a soothing tone, then turned to his neighbor. “I believe you, Mr. Boyd. Clinton didn't see Jerry. I did. I felt like something was wrong with him. But after hearing your story I know for sure now.”

  “Okay. Even if all this is true,” Clinton said, sitting back down next to Lewis, “what the heck are we gonna do? Chop off their heads? Blow their brains out? I don't know about y'all, but I don't think I can do that.”

  “Well, I'm afraid that's all the advice I got for ya, son,” Mr. Boyd said, flopping back down into his chair. “Nobody's gonna help us with this problem. Not the police, not your parents—nobody. This is somethin' we gotta do ourselves, unless you wanna be sent off to the funny farm.”

  Neither boy responded to this, so Mr. Boyd continued, “You boys remember a year back or so, that backhoe operator uncovered all them ancient human remains?”

  “Yeah,” Lewis answered. He remembered watching the story on the news and what a huge deal it had been at the time, especially since it happened so close to home. One of the most significant archeological finds in recent history, the newscaster had said. Over one hundred skeletons had been unearthed from the mass grave. The one tidbit that had excited Lewis the most had been the fact that several of the skulls still had brain tissue preserved inside them, leading him to conjure up images of revived mummies and oozing skeletons crawling from the muck. “That was only five miles or so away. He was digging to build a house or something. The Windover Bog People, right?”

  “Right,” Mr. Boyd said, pointing at Lewis, then lowered his voice. “That was because of her … the witch. Those people buried their dead deep in the bog of the swamp, using stakes to keep the bodies down, because they feared the witch would bring them back. They buried ‘em so deep the peat in the swamp preserved them bones.”

  “Wait. How do you know that?” demanded Clinton.

  “I had a dream about it,” the old man said, tapping his skull, a toothy grin on his face.

  Clinton raised his hands in mock surrender once again and looked at Lewis. “Oh, okay. He had a dream about it.”

  Mr. Boyd glared at Clinton, leaning forward, pointing to the boy's chest. “Don't ignore your dreams, boy. They have a funny way of coming true. Especially for those of us living here in Poisonwood, so close to that evil thing in the woods. It's like it leaks something. Some kind of … toxin, that worms its way into your dreams.” Mr. Boyd's glare dropped to his feet, his eyes clouding over, as if remembering something he'd rather forget.

  “They say those bones are over a thousand years old,” Lewis said, saying anything to get the image of his recent dreams from his mind, and also trying to diffuse the tension between Clinton and Mr. Boyd.

  Mr. Boyd shook his head. “They carbon-dated those suckers. They’re more like seven or eight thousand years, son. That's my point. How the hell do you kill somethin' that's been around for that long? I’ll tell you how. You don't. You just do whatever you have to do to keep it from winning.”

  Mr. Boyd leaned back in the recliner. “You're gonna have to kill your friends. I'm sorry, boys, but that's just the way it is. They're already dead anyways.”

  Lewis and Clinton looked at each other for a moment. Without saying a word they both stood.

  Lewis spoke first. “Okay, Mr. Boyd. Where do we start?”

  A proud grin flashed across the old man's wrinkled features as he nodded and stood as well. “You can start by calling me Clyde. Mr. Boyd was my old man's name. I've got to get a few things ready, so come by tomorrow morning and we'll pay a visit to her little tree. That's where they're most likely hiding out.”

  Lewis and Clinton agreed and were moving toward the front door when he added, “Oh, and boys? If you see any of those missing three … just come get me.

  “And one more thing … stay out of those woods for the rest of the day.”

  Neither boy had a clue they were being watched.

  Lewis and Clinton exited the home of Mr. Boyd under her vigilant yellow eyes. From the deep shadows of the storm drain she watched the pair leave the house and cross the street.

  The hated boy … Lewis.

  She watched her prey like a hungry lioness as they entered the home across the street.

  Tonight, she thought, and turned to face her minions, tonight we add to our little group.

  She then proceeded to probe the vapid minds of the twins, gathering the intelligence needed for the night's hunt.

  19

  When the boys stepped into the welcome normalcy of Lewis's bedroom, Clinton asked, “So, what are we gonna do for the rest of the day?”

  “I don't know. I definitely think we should stay out of the woods, like he said.”

  “This sucks,” Clinton said, lifting the lower bunk mattress, fishing out a hidden copy of Fangoria. He thumbed through the issue, barely glancing at the photos he'd looked at a dozen times already, needing something to replace the horrific images engraved in his mind from Mr. Boyd's story. Huffing, Clinton closed the magazine and tossed it on the bed. “Maybe we should tell our parents, or maybe the cops.”

  “Yeah, right. I can just picture their faces as we tell them that story. We'd end up in a padded room wearing straightjackets. Mr. Boyd would probably be thrown in jail. Then who'd stop her? And if we just tell the cops I saw Jerry, they’d send even more people back into the woods to look for him, and they might end up just like him. ”

  “So you totally believe Old Man Boyd's story?” Clinton asked.

  Lewis sighed. “I do. I mean it makes sense, ya know? If you'd seen Jerry last night you'd believe it too.”

  Clinton shook his head. “But why would Jerry, or even the dumb twins, eat sand? I mean I know the dude from Old Man Boyd’s story accidentally breathed it in, but what are the chances of that happening again?”

  Lewis tugged on his bottom lip, thinking. He released his lip and snapped his fingers. “Maybe Jerry didn’t have a choice. Remember when the twins made me eat mud?”

  Clinton’s eyes widened. “Oh shit,” he whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  Both boys were silent for several seconds as they pondered the enormity of the situation, and their roles within it.

  Clinton broke the quiet. “Maybe I should come back later and stay here tonight.”

  “Yeah. Good idea. That way we can go over to Mr. Boyd's house first thing tomorrow morning, see what kind of plan he's come up with. I'll okay it with my mom.”

  Clinton started toward the door. “I'll do the same. See you later.”

  Clinton left his best friend's
house with his head hung low. This is starting out to be one crappy summer, he thought, hopping on his bike. He pedaled toward home, his mind fighting against the notion of an evil zombie-making witch living somewhere in his woods. If she was out there, and if Jerry is dead, she was going to pay, that was for sure.

  He rolled within inches of a storm drain, crinkling his nose at the foul stench wafting up to him, and continued on his way home, unaware of the peril lurking only inches away.

  From the darkness of the drain, a small boy's wicked glare followed the homeward bound youth until he vanished around a corner.

  Clinton.

  His name is Clinton.

  Lewis kept himself busy while he waited for Clinton’s return. He tried watching television but couldn’t keep his mind off tomorrow and what it might bring. He also did some chores—shocking his mother—to eat up time and subdue his overactive imagination, but nothing worked. He could not shake the dread he felt, the feeling tomorrow was going to change his life forever—for the worse.

  Lewis had the urge to confide in his mother every time she walked past, but caught himself each time, knowing she wouldn’t believe him, possibly jeopardizing any chance of halting the events Mr. Boyd had warned him about. His mother assumed her son’s odd behavior stemmed from his worries over his missing friend, and left him alone with his thoughts, offering a reassuring smile every time their eyes met.

  The prospect of seeing the tree terrified Lewis. If Mr. Boyd’s story spoke the truth, then what could a couple of twelve-year-old boys and a sixty-five-year-old man do against something so ancient and powerful? He also asked himself the most important question of all: could he kill Jerry? Even if it wasn’t actually Jerry? Lewis wasn’t sure if he could. On the other hand, when it came to the question of killing the twins, Lewis smiled and nodded … Yeah, I think I could do that.

  Lewis was in his room pondering these questions when Clinton’s signature knock tapped out its familiar melody at the front door, pushing the morbid thoughts from his head.

  The boys never left the safety of Lewis's backyard except to go inside for more refreshments. When Justin joined them around midday, the three played several games of pickle and wiffle-ball before Clinton sent the younger boy home for supper, acting as if everything was copacetic.

  Actually, everything did seem right with the world; birds sang and butterflies danced under a picturesque sky filled with the sweet scent of jasmine and honeysuckle, as if the threat of impending death didn't exist. The boys played and laughed, the thoughts of witches, evil trees, and the living dead momentarily forgotten. However, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the onset of darkness chased away the joyous mood, once again sending their spirits spiraling down like a crashing plane.

  After supper, the boys huddled in Lewis's bedroom. No matter how hard they tried, the subject of the tree and the witch worked its way into their conversations.

  “What do you think we'll find tomorrow?” Lewis asked.

  Clinton busied himself sketching a scene for a new comic, the pencil scratching across the paper, the tip of his tongue protruding through his lips. “Hopefully nothing. Let's talk about something else.”

  “Okay. Sorry, dude. Actually, it's getting late. We should probably just go to bed so we can start early,” Lewis said, glancing at the detailed drawing in front of Clinton: an enormous dark tree with an evil face and giant maw of dripping fangs towered over a terrified boy, a shotgun falling from his shaking hands.

  Clinton placed the sketchpad on the dresser and announced, “I get top bunk.” He said this every time he slept over, even though he knew Lewis never slept on top. Clinton launched off the bottom bed, flew through the air, bouncing onto the high mattress. Stretch, who had been asleep on Lewis's bed, jumped up and hissed, fleeing the room. Lewis switched the light off—remembering the nightlight this time—and settled in.

  The boys stayed awake for a while, chatting in the dark, the conversation a comforting reminder to each other that they weren’t alone. This time they managed to stay off the subject of tomorrow's daunting task. They discussed their favorite X-Men and how they would fair against other superheroes. They even rehashed the events and victory of the war, somehow omitting Jerry's fatal run into the woods as if it had never happened, trying their best to make the memory a happy one.

  Soon enough, the sounds of slow, heavy breathing floated down to Lewis, bringing a smile to his face. He always lasted longer than his friend. He often wondered how much of his conversations were wasted on a sleeping Clinton. Like always, the familiar sound of his friend's light snores hypnotized Lewis, lulling him toward slumber as well. He stretched out on his side, drifting in and out of sleep. A cool breeze seeped through the open window, mingling with the flow from the wobbling ceiling fan, evaporating the moisture from his scalp. Finally, Lewis dropped off into the realm of deep sleep. The reoccurring nightmare wasted little time in disturbing his slumber.

  … He's hopping onto the moving train, hauling himself into the warm, dusty air of an open freight car with surprising ease, sitting on the edge with his shoes dangling above the passing rails. Rust flakes onto his palms as he clasps his hands to the metal edge of the car. The scent of burning wood assaults his nostrils, but there are no flames in sight. The sun-drenched woods slide past, a blur of greens under a perfect blue sky. He's at the mercy of the train as it carries him away from his small town on its journey to alien cities, propelling him toward adventures only the mind of a twelve-year-old can fathom. From the deep, dark recesses of the boxcar—between the blaring of the whistle—odd noises reach his ears: wet lapping sounds, and a low animal grunt, followed by a muffled tearing like pages being torn from a sodden book. Lewis squints into the darkness, his limbs frozen in place, his muscles like hardened clay as a thin stream of dark liquid creeps from the shadows, angling across the dirty floor of the rocking car, threading its way toward his precarious perch. The noises cease; the wheels thump beneath him. A single word floats out of the blackness. The strange voice is familiar, full of malice, turning the warmth of the car frigid. The word slithers through the chill, just above a whisper, as the tepid trail of blood reaches his cold, paralyzed hand … “Leeewiiissss”.

  Lewis snapped awake, his name echoing in is head. His wide eyes stared at the springs of the mattress above, the bottom of Clinton's bed, barely visible in the weak green glare of the nightlight. The memory of the previous night and the rude awakening from Jerry’s laughter forced its way into the forefront of his thoughts.

  Rumbling snores filled the room, drifting down from the bed above. Lewis sighed with relief and relaxed the taut muscles in his neck.

  The snoring woke me up, that's all, he assured himself.

  He closed his eyes, but sleep eluded him this time. He could not recall Clinton ever snoring so ferociously before; the grating sound kept him awake.

  Lewis was about to wake Clinton when he heard it—sinister laughter, the same as the night before. Lewis sprang to a sitting position, the hairs on his arms trying their best to jump from flesh that had turned rigid as stone.

  Not again oh shit please not again.

  He clutched the blanket in a death-grip and forced himself to look at the window, relieved to find the frame void of any faces. He strained his ears but heard nothing; even the snores above had ceased.

  “Clinton,” Lewis whispered. “Did you hear that?”

  Silence from above.

  “Clinton,” he whispered louder this time, and heard the laugh again.

  Lewis crawled from his bed, his hands shaking, and walked in a crouch to the window. He peered over the sill, nobody there, the dark street outside quiet and empty. He stood there staring out his window, focusing on the pools of light cast down from the streetlamps, searching the shadowy spaces in between for any signs of movement, sure he would see someone. He knew Jerry or the twins were out there somewhere.

  The laugh came again.

  From behind Lewis.

  Lewis spun, hi
s heart pounding against his sternum. The nightlight shined bright enough to burn away all but the deepest shadows. The room appeared to be empty, just himself and Clinton, sleeping on his side, his back facing Lewis.

  “Clinton, wake up,” Lewis spat, his mouth as dry as paper.

  Lewis stifled a scream as the laugh came once more, from the bed where his friend slept. He could see Clinton's shoulders bouncing with each sadistic giggle.

  “That's not funny, man,” Lewis gasped, holding a hand to his thumping chest. “You jerk, you scared the crap out of me.”

  Clinton shuddered, the bed shaking, as the laughter swelled in volume.

  “Hey! Stop it,” demanded Lewis. “That's not funny.”

  The laugh stopped. Clinton and the bed ceased moving, as if a switch had been thrown. The room was so silent Lewis thought he'd gone deaf.

  “Clinton?” he whispered, thankful to be able to hear his own voice, but once again received no response. Lewis approached his friend on legs that had turned to boneless tubes of quivering jelly, and reached out a trembling hand to Clinton's shoulder. His fingers were inches away when Clinton's head swiveled around to face Lewis—bones cracking, tendons and ligaments in his neck squeaking and snapping—until his head turned completely backward.

  Lewis stared into his friend's glimmering yellow eyes. A hungry smile split Clinton's face, his teeth glowing a pale green in the half-light. Clinton's ashen face lashed out like a cobra, his teeth biting into Lewis's still lingering fingers.