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

by Craig Wesley Wall

  Lewis screamed and pulled his hand free, leaving two dripping fingers behind in the jaws of his best friend. Clinton flipped the digits into his mouth like sticks of gum and chewed, crunching on the thin bones. He swallowed them down with a loud click in his throat, his alien eyes emotionless to his friend's scream of agony.

  Oh god oh god they got him they got him oh god, Lewis's mind ranted as he squeezed his wrist, a fountain of blood pumping from the ragged stumps of his missing fingers, the dark fluid hot against his cold flesh. His breath puffed out in short coughs, the pain flaring white-hot down his arm. He backed away from the bed, from the grinning nightmare that had replaced his best friend in the world, when something grabbed his legs. Lewis looked down to see small, filthy arms protruding from the darkness under his bed—the arms of a child, latched onto his bare ankles with crushing force.

  Lewis crashed onto his back as his feet were pulled out from under him, the back of his head thumping into the carpet and the unforgiving slab floor beneath. He screamed again, the thick carpet burning the flesh on his back as the arms pulled him under the bed where several pairs of yellow eyes and the foul stench of rotting flesh awaited him.

  Lewis awoke in his bed. Somebody gripped him by the ankle, shaking him. He looked up to see Clinton standing at the foot of his bed, a worried look on his face. The overhead light glared, burning his eyes.

  “Are you okay?” Clinton whispered, still clutching Lewis's leg.

  “Yeah … bad … dream,” Lewis managed between quick breaths. He lifted his hand in front of his face, wiggling his fingers—all five of them. A strange echo of pain persisted, a tingling in his hand and wrist. I must have been sleeping on my hand, he thought.

  Clinton released his grip. “I guess so. You were shaking the whole bed. Sure you're all right?”

  “Yeah,” he repeated, relieved to see his friend's normal blue eyes. “Sorry. Just bad dreams.”

  Clinton nodded as he released an enormous yawn, turned off the light, and jumped back in bed, resuming his slumber with ease.

  Lewis, on the other hand, stayed awake for the rest of the night.

  20

  As night descended on the secluded neighborhood, three figures crept from the street's depths to begin the hunt. She followed the twins as Jason—still cradling his guts with one arm—pushed the heavy manhole cover to the side with a low rasping scrape, and emerged from the hole. Andy came next, holding a glass jar filled with a white substance in one hand, and turned to help the small boy once known as Jerry Harris from the dark bowels of the streets. The missing boys stood in the night air, gleaming with dank wetness, surveying the quiet street.

  She searched the memories of the twins for her next easy prey—someone to add to their little group, or perhaps someone to feast upon after they recruited the hated, scrawny child called Lewis—when a car turned the corner and headed their way. The hive-mind engaged, and in unison, the trio ducked behind a row of nearby trashcans an instant before the car's headlights washed over them.

  The car slowed and turned into the driveway just a few yards from the boys' hiding spot. When the fancy sports car squealed to a stop and the headlights were extinguished, a man and woman exited the vehicle, laughing hysterically. The pair met at the front of the car and embraced, kissing and groping each other, moans of pleasure leaking through joined lips. Panting, the couple separated and stumbled up the drive to the front entrance of the house, laughing even louder as the man dropped his keys while fumbling with the lock. He retrieved the keys and succeeded in unlocking the deadbolt, the woman cheering her valiant savior as they entered the house and slammed the door, shutting out their drunken laughter.

  The thing residing in Jerry's corpse stood and walked toward the front door, the twins following with smiles matching her own. She walked alongside the vacated car, the gleaming metal ticking as it cooled, the heat from the engine enveloping her cold vessel. She stroked the hood as she walked past, admiring the strange machinery.

  She once again probed the twins' minds. The man lives alone. The woman is unfamiliar. Perfect. It seems the prey has come to us. Lewis will have to wait.

  Reaching the door of the man's home, she pressed her ear to the wood. The clinking of glass and more inebriated laughter seeped through the door, moving deeper within the house. She listened for a few minutes, biding her time. The faint sounds of music—strange to her ears—filtered through the door.

  She gripped the doorknob and twisted. Her smile stretched further, threatening to split the child's face in half as the unlocked handle rotated with her hand. They make it so easy, she thought.

  She opened the door wide and turned to the twins, performing a comic sweeping gesture with her arm, inviting them in. She followed the boys in and shut the door, turning the lock. They moved like expected guests through the dimly lit house, strolling along, defiling the beige carpet with grimy shoes, skirting crumpled islands of clothing as they made their way toward the music. Like breadcrumbs in the forest, they followed the trail of discarded clothes until they found their treasure.

  The man sat on a sofa, completely naked except for a pair of short black socks on his feet. His eyes were shut, his head tilted back, soft breathy sighs floating from his open mouth. One outstretched hand held a cocktail glass half-full with a translucent amber liquid, resting on the back of the couch. His other hand rested on top of the woman's head, bobbing up and down with the beat of the music as she orally pleasured him, her back to the three uninvited guests. Nude as well, she knelt between the man's legs, accepting his length into her mouth with greedy, wet, smacking moans.

  The couple continued their foreplay, oblivious to the audience of reanimated dead positioned in the deepest shadows of the room, watching them.

  The corpse that used to be Jason Reed strolled up behind the woman. Her hands caressed the hair on the man's thighs as she quickened her pace, the bumps of her spine standing out in relief. Jason casually reached into the crusting cavity of his belly and unfurled a length of glistening large intestine, the squelching of his innards lost amongst the music and the slurping of the woman's mouth. The woman, either sensing someone behind her, or smelling the putrid stench of three dead bodies, lifted her head with a wet pop, the man's guiding hand falling away from her scalp. Jason looped the foul entrails over her head and around her throat. He tightened the meaty lariat and dragged her backward.

  The man shrieked, lifting his head as the woman's nails dug deep into his thighs leaving parallel furrows of welling red behind. Her strangled gasps caught his attention. His stunned mind had only an instant to register the pain and the insane nightmare unfolding in front of him before Andy's blade penetrated his neck. The man squeezed the cocktail, shattering the glass, and grabbed for the knife. His hands fluttered like butterflies, slapping at Andy's wrist as the boy twisted the blade. The man screamed in pain, but a soft wet gurgle was all he could produce, choking as his lungs filled with blood. Andy removed the knife and watched with amusement as the man's hands explored the gushing wound, and then flopped to the cushions on either side of his spread thighs, a fleeting look of complete confusion meeting Andy's evil gaze. Urine arced onto the dying man's belly from his deflating penis, mixing with the spouting blood from his throat. His head eased back to its original position, surprised eyes staring at the ceiling.

  The woman's screams were hoarse croaks as she watched the man die before her. She kicked, her heels thumping into the carpet. She clawed at the strange soft repulsive rope around her neck as her eyes swam with squiggling black shapes and darting explosions of light. A small boy entered her field of failing vision, holding what appeared to be a mason jar filled with a white substance. The boy unscrewed the lid and sprinkled some of the jar's contents into the gaping mouth of her murdered lover.

  The last thing the woman saw before her consciousness and life left her, was the man's head lift up. He's alive, she thought, even though she knew it couldn't be true, not with his throat looking the way it did, n
ot with all that blood. It's just a prank, a sick practical joke.

  She tried in vain to scream as his eyes locked on hers.

  Inhuman eyes that made her thankful for the rushing darkness.

  21

  For the second time in a week, police cars cluttered Lewis’s street.

  Three cruisers were parked several doors down at Maggie Burton's house, the lights on their roofs extinguished, lending an air of somber foreboding for the lone resident. Lewis could see his mother among the throng of onlookers, still in her bathrobe and slippers, talking with Chief Richards on the sidewalk in front of the girl's house, her hands twitching nervously as she spoke. Mrs. Taggart, Lewis's next-door neighbor, stood alongside his mother, holding Doris, her little white poodle. Mrs. Taggart's liver-spotted hand hovered over her lips, and her expression, much like the looks of the gathered crowd, gave Lewis the impression something much worse than spousal abuse was the issue this time.

  Clinton joined Lewis on the front porch, rubbing his eyes. “What now?” he asked in a defeated voice.

  “Don't know, but it doesn't look good,” Lewis said as he surveyed the scene, his knowledge of recent events filling him with guilt. Lewis had the urge to shout the truth to the mob despite the consequences, but he held his tongue. He had been awake, his nightmare still fresh in his mind, when he heard cars roll down his street, and the thump of the front door as his mother stepped outside. When he didn't hear her return, he got up to investigate. The sight of police cars did not excite or surprise him this time.

  Clinton spied Justin across the street, gawking at the crowd and talking to Mike Simmons, the college student that rented the house next door to Clinton. He waved his arms, catching his little brother's attention.

  Justin jogged over to the porch. “Have you guys heard?”

  Clinton shook his head. “No. What's going on?”

  “Mike says that Maggie lady is missing and there's blood and stuff all over her house, splattered all over the walls,” Justin said, a little too excited.

  Lewis looked at Clinton and whispered, “Shit.”

  “Yeah,” Justin continued, “her friend came over to check on her and found the place that way. They think her asshole ex-husband had something to do with it.”

  “Okay, well, go hang out with your buddies, all right,” Clinton said. “Oh, and be home before dark and stay out of the woods. Better yet, have Mike walk you home, okay.”

  “What? Why?” Justin asked.

  “Duh, stupid,” Clinton said, poking his brother in the forehead. “That's four people in a week that's gone missing. Do you wanna be next?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Justin said, a tinge of fear creeping into his eyes. “Hey, do you think the asshole ex-husband killed all of them?”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” Clinton shrugged, wishing it were the truth. “Now go, butt-face.”

  Lewis watched Justin saunter off, then turned his gaze to the milling crowd. He almost envied them. They were oblivious to the danger they all faced, free of the heavy weight of responsibility Lewis felt. He turned to Clinton. “This is going to keep happening if we don't do something, man.”

  Clinton was also staring at his clueless neighbors. “Yeah. I know. But can you kill anybody? Because I don't think I can.” He turned to Lewis. “Maybe we should just go down there and tell the cops right now.”

  “No way. Think about what you’d say. Then think about what they’d say. And no, I'm not ready to kill anyone either,” Lewis admitted. “Let's just go talk to Mr. Boyd and see if we can find them first, then we'll worry about the rest.”

  The boys slipped across the street, managing to reach Mr. Boyd's front door without being noticed. Lewis knocked once and the door flew open.

  “Get in,” the old man hissed.

  The boys shuffled through the doorway, Mr. Boyd urging them in with a spastic wave of his hand. He eased the door shut.

  Once in the gloomy space, Lewis asked, “What's wrong?”

  “All those damn cops, that's what's wrong,” the old man whispered. “They see us gallivanting around the woods with guns they're gonna want to stop and ask a few questions.”

  “Guns?” the boys chorused.

  “Yeah. How do ya think we're gonna blow their heads off. With slingshots?”

  The boys didn't answer the question. They looked at each other and then at the floor, both of them realizing this was the real deal, not something from a comic book or a horror movie. This was life or death.

  Clinton spoke up. “We have to find them first.”

  “True son, true. But if we do, you’re gonna want to be ready.” Mr. Boyd made a pistol shape with his thumb and index finger and mimed shooting Clinton in the forehead.

  “You really think they're at this tree?” Lewis asked.

  Unease flashed across the old man's features before he answered, “If they ain't, then I don't know where the hell they could be. So let's hope they are.”

  Mr. Boyd waved away the thought with his hand. “We'll worry about that if it comes down to it. For now, wait until all those cops are gone before you come back. And don't talk to any of 'em. They won't believe a word and they'd just get in our way, ruin our chance of stopping her.”

  As the boys turned to leave, Mr. Boyd asked. “Hey, either of you boys believe in time travel?”

  Lewis and Clinton turned and exchanged a confused look. Lewis shrugged as he looked into Mr. Boyd’s pleading glare. “I don’t know, I guess so. Why’d you ask that?”

  “Never mind,” Mr. Boyd said, waving the boys away. “Forget about it. Just come back when you can.”

  The boys agreed and slipped back across the street unnoticed, back to the porch to wait out the police. Clyde Boyd also crept out, sitting on his porch swing, lighting a black pipe. He opened the journal on his lap and scribbled frantically.

  From a nearby storm drain she watched the crowd with greedy, hungry eyes. The mess leftover from her first meal had been discovered. She reveled in the stunned looks of fear pasted on the faces of the human cattle.

  Searching the memories of her group of dead minions, she collected information on several of the onlookers. She knew names, where they lived, how many they lived with—valuable intelligence for the coming night. Her hive-mind link detected fear and respect for one of the men in the crowd, one that seemed to be a leader of some sort.

  Cops, was the word that kept coming to her from the twins. Cops, stay away from cops. She laughed; a person of power would make a fine addition to her soldiers. His mind, full of information, would be an asset.

  Beyond the milling herd of meat, sat an old man on a porch, thick smoke from his pipe circling his head like a halo. It seemed he too did not approve of the cops, his stern glare following the uniformed men. She probed for information on this man and received an immediate response.

  Old Man Boyd.

  He lives alone.

  The police presence dwindled, but two officers still lingered at the home of Maggie Burton as the sun caressed the treetops on its descent toward the horizon. The officers went in and out of the house, lifting and ducking the yellow police tape strung across the door, conversing with the diminishing crowd and keeping the late-arriving news hounds at bay.

  Lewis anxiously wandered about the house as Clinton, still seated on the front porch, busied himself with more drawings. Lewis would steal glances of the pages as he passed. Clinton was finishing a detailed depiction of an Indian jumping from a tree. An arm holding an old-timey pistol entered the frame from the bottom of the page, pointed up to the falling man, smoke and fire exploding from the long barrel. The detail in the ruined head of the flying Indian as the imaginary bullet passed through his brain, and the hollow, dead stare from his eyes made Lewis shudder.

  Lewis sat down in the scratchy lawn chair for the umpteenth time and waited for the scene to dissipate and the police to vacate. His impatience gave way to hunger as his stomach growled in protest. Time to feed the worm, he thought.

  Clinton must hav
e heard the sound. He dropped his pencil and closed the sketchpad. “Dinner should be ready, I better head home.”

  “Okay. Ask your folks if you can stay over again. As soon as those cops leave we need to go over to his house.” Lewis tilted his head to the house across the street. “It’ll be dark soon and I don’t think we should go into the woods again at night, but at least we can talk to him some more about this thing we’re supposed to … you know.”

  Clinton stood and slid the pencil into the spiral binding of the sketchpad. “All right, I’ll see you later.” He held the sketchpad out to Lewis. “Keep this here, I’ll finish this drawing when I get back.” Lewis took the pad, handling it with obvious respect, as Clinton hopped on his bike and rolled away, his shoulders stooped as if carrying a heavy load.

  Lewis called out, “And get back here before it gets dark.”

  Without turning, Clinton raised a hand in acknowledgment.

  Lewis, feeling the same weight as his friend, stood and made his way inside to help his mother with dinner, unaware of the watchful eyes following him from two separate storm drains at opposite ends of his street.

  After supper, Lewis received a phone call from Clinton with the bad news.

  “They won't let me leave the house, dude. They say I have to stay inside at night until the cops find that ex-husband guy,” Clinton said, then whispered, “like that's gonna change anything.”

  “Shit,” Lewis whispered back, making sure his mother couldn't hear. “Well, I can go over there and talk to Mr. Boyd alone. I'll tell him what's going on and maybe we can try again tomorrow.”

  “Okay, Lewis, I'll see you tomorrow.”

  “All right, later.”

  Lewis placed the phone back in its cradle with a sinking feeling of despair.

  Yeah, he thought, see you tomorrow.