22
His mother—for the same reason as Clinton's parents—would not let Lewis leave the house either. She believed the woman's ex-husband had something to do with her disappearance, and quite possibly the missing boys as well. When she said the word “disappearance” Lewis could tell what she really meant was “death”, and until the police caught the suspect, Lewis remained stuck inside—day and night. When Lewis protested, she reminded him that Jerry had gone missing during broad daylight.
Foreseeing his mother's reaction, Lewis had already made up his mind to sneak out of the house again. He'd done it plenty of times before with a high rate of success, and what his mother didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Unlike the other night, with his wild goose chase to find Jerry, Lewis had a clear destination. He needed to talk to Mr. Boyd, and phoning him was not an option—his mother could overhear.
Lewis pleaded with her some more, putting on a convincing show: whining, pouting, and pitching a fit. He moped off to bed early, his head down, letting her believe she had won the argument. The sooner he went to bed, the sooner she would too, and then he could get across the street and satisfy his need for information. He figured sleeping wasn't an option anyway, not after what Justin had said about Maggie's house … The walls were covered in blood.
Lewis brushed his teeth, turned out the light, and jumped into bed, the horrors of his real life overshadowing any desire to perform the ritual of the hedges. His mother peeked into his room thirty minutes later to check on him.
Years of practice have made Lewis a pro at feigning sleep. The key was not to look too comfortable: kick the sheet off a little, sprawl the limbs out a bit, and breathe slow and heavy through the mouth. Basically, make it look like you just fell off a two-story roof, rendering yourself unconscious. This night, Lewis even mustered some drool, letting it leak out the corner of his mouth onto his pillow.
She closed his door, convinced he was sound asleep, and moved through the house. Lewis could hear her checking all the doors, making sure they were secure, taking more time with the nightly routine than usual. Then the television fell silent and the door to her bedroom clicked shut.
He waited another fifteen minutes before slinking from his bed. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 9:47 in deep red. Lewis wondered if it might be too late to visit the old man but changed his mind when he peered out his bedroom window; light burned behind the curtained windows of Mr. Boyd's house. He was sure the old man was awake. In fact, Lewis thought the old guy was probably sleeping just as well as himself—not at all.
Wasting little time, Lewis slipped into shorts and sneakers and began his well-practiced route to the front door without making a peep. Once outside, he ventured to the right, past the garage, and peeked around the corner of the house to check his parents’ bedroom window. The window remained dark—another successful prison break.
Grinning, he turned to face his destination and his good mood instantly deflated. The light that had been on just moments ago was now extinguished—oddly enough, even the light on the porch was off—wiping the mischievous smirk from his face. Crap, he thought, I'm too late.
Lewis stood there in his driveway, next to his mother's Oldsmobile, pondering his options, when a snap to his left caught his attention. It came from the direction of his bedroom window, a twig breaking under foot.
Probably just Stretch prowling the bushes for something to murder, he convinced himself, and smiled with relief when the gray cat shot from the thickets, sprinting past Lewis with his tail puffed up as if electrified. Just then, the porch light across the street turned on again.
Cool, I can catch him before he goes to bed.
Lewis jogged on tiptoes across the street to the front door, stretching his hand out as far as he could like a sprinter crossing the finish line, his index finger landing on the doorbell. The classic “ding-dong” chimed deep within the house.
He heard the squeak of a floorboard from inside the house and prepared himself, expecting the door to fly open, a furious Mr. Boyd scowling down at him, his blood-shot eyes burning behind the thick lenses of his glasses.
Nothing happened.
“Mr. Boyd?” Lewis whispered into the door seam. “Clyde? It's Lewis. Clinton couldn't make it. Sorry I couldn't come sooner. Open the door.”
A muffled thud sounded from behind the door, deep within the house, like something soft hitting a wall.
“Mr. Boyd?” Lewis whispered louder, scanning his street, hopping nervously. “Someone might see me out here.”
The sound did not repeat itself, the house remained dark, the door did not open.
Without thinking, Lewis gripped the doorknob and turned it. The door was unlocked. Startled, Lewis let go of the handle as if it had scorched his hand. The door swung open several inches on hinges that sang out with lack of oil.
Standing frozen on the doorstep, Lewis peered into the dark gap. When he reached out to push the door further he saw that his hand shook.
He opened the door until it hit the doorstop, and whispered into the blackness, “Clyde?”
Still no answer. Lewis stepped into the house and swung the door closed, shutting out the light from the porch, thankful to be out from under its revealing glare. The soft click of the latch as the door closed made him jump. It's okay. He's probably just in the bathroom. He fumbled along the wall for a light switch, unsuccessful in his search. He moved further into the house, feeling his way along the wall, inching his way into the room he and Clinton had sat just yesterday, forming a mental image of the room from memory. As he moved deeper into the shadows, Lewis had the sensation of being watched, that he was not alone. Every step he took, he expected his fingers to brush against the soft flesh of the person standing there, quietly waiting for him. His leg bumped a stack of books, knocking them to the floor, the sound like an explosion in the silent room.
“Mr. Boyd? It's just Lewis. Don't shoot,” he announced to the dark room, his eyes squeezed shut. The old man must be deaf if he didn't hear that.
Lewis opened his eyes. He needed to find a light before he caused an avalanche and broke his neck. The curtains were still closed, but some light from the streetlights filtered through the murky fabric, chasing away some of the shadows. Shapes slowly materialized as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, but not enough to allow him safe passage through the gauntlet of books. Lewis cursed himself for forgetting his flashlight—again.
He could make out the black shape of a lamp in front of him. Reaching out, he fumbled for the switch and sighed with relief when he felt the familiar tiny node. He was about to push it in and froze, what if the walls are covered in blood? What if he didn't answer because he's dead? Lewis forced the thoughts from his mind and pushed the switch in with a satisfying click. Bright welcoming light filled the room for half a second before the bulb burned out with a crisp pop.
In that half a second, Lewis saw the man on the other side of the room in perfect detail.
It was not Clyde Boyd.
A few streets over, Clinton lie in bed chasing sleep with little success.
He'd spent most of the night sketching various scenes from Mr. Boyd's story, his fresh sketchpad quickly becoming a gory scrapbook of Titus and Chitto's battle against the witch. He'd finished that part of the tale and was in the middle of a detailed portrait of Jerry as described by Lewis, the boy's sinister grin the centerpiece of the drawing, when his eyes began to droop. Clinton dropped the pencil and closed the pad. He stumbled to his bed and flopped down onto the soft mattress. Even though his eyes were tired, Clinton tossed and turned for what seemed an eternity, the images he'd put down on paper still lingering in his mind.
He finally tossed the covers off with a loud sigh. Screw this, he thought, and heaved himself out of bed. He crept to his bedroom door, opening it just enough for one eye to peek through. His parents were still up watching television. They were out of view, but he could see the telltale dance of colored lights reflected on the living room wall, and the fain
t sound of canned laughter followed by his parents’ muted giggles. He could picture his mother stretched out on the sofa and his father in his recliner, sipping beer and enjoying the peacefulness of the childfree room.
Without a sound, Clinton shut the door and turned to look at his bedroom window. He loved his parents and his little brother. He would die if anything happened to them. He had to help Lewis and Mr. Boyd stop this evil witch if he could. He wasn't doing them any good stuck in the house, he needed to do something about the problem and he might as well start now.
Clinton took a deep breath and made his decision—he was getting out of this room. The threat of being punished by his parents was nothing compared to the threat lurking in the woods. He chose some dirty shorts from the floor and slipped into them. He put on his sneakers, without socks, and a t-shirt he also liberated from the litter of clothing strewn across his room. He opened his window further, pushed out the loose screen, turned and looked at the closed door of his bedroom, then climbed out into the night.
It felt good to be doing something, the anxiety he'd felt while lying in bed fading away the instant his shoes hit the ground; but what to do next? Clinton stood outside his window and realized he hadn't thought past this moment. He hadn't thought about anything except getting the heck out of his room; he had no idea what to do next. One thing was certain: he couldn't lie in bed for another second while the witch stalked his neighborhood. Clinton knew his mother would be sneaking out back to enjoy her nightly cigarette very soon, so he had to get a move on. Out of habit, he started off in the direction of Lewis's house.
At least his friend would have some news from his visit with Mr. Boyd.
23
Lewis stood paralyzed, the image of the man emblazoned in his mind like a photograph, a ghost image seared on his retinas. The man must have been standing there the entire time while Lewis fumbled about the room. Then Lewis realized something else as he quickly studied the image before it could fade away. The man was stark naked, grinning above a scarlet mess where his Adam’s apple should be.
Lewis, his hand like a vice on the neck of the lamp, could hear books sliding and tumbling to the floor as the man made his way across the darkened room. He detected the glint of eyes, the nocturnal glowing eyes of a cat, moving through the darkness like fireflies.
Lewis yanked the lamp toward him, freeing the plug from the wall socket with a fizzle of sparks, lifting the stout fixture above his head with both hands.
“Where's Mr. Boyd?” Lewis shouted, his voice sounding like a comedian imitating a frightened child.
The question was answered with a gurgling cackle, turning Lewis’s bowels to hot jelly. He launched the lamp at the disturbing sound as hard as he could, aiming for the glowing, bouncing orbs, and heard a gratifying hollow crash. A second later, the twin fireflies vanished, a heavy thump reverberated from the floor.
Lewis mentally screamed at his legs to move; they obeyed at half-speed. He turned in the direction he believed the door should be and stumbled his way over the fallen volumes, his shoes slipping, tearing pages. He moved as fast as he could, his hands stretched out like a blind man, the tinkling of broken glass from behind motivating him to quicken his pace.
Lewis could now make out a thin line of light leaking beneath the front door and lunged toward it, his hands slapping the wood. He searched for the knob, his panicked brain shrieking in his skull, the knob is gone, they took the knob, THEY STOLE THE DAMN DOORKNOB! Sounds of movement continued behind him, interspersed with a wet growling that brought back the image of the man's shredded throat.
The cool brass of the doorknob kissed his palm, quieting his ridiculous thoughts. Lewis turned it, thanking himself for not locking it, and swung the door inward with a loud crash; stealth no longer concerned him, freeing himself from this nightmare dungeon did.
Lewis barreled onto the bright porch and pulled the door shut behind him just as the man crashed into the other side, shaking the door in its frame. Lewis let go of the handle and spun around to run, looked up, and froze.
Across the street on the front steps of his own home, illuminated with perfect clarity from the porch light, stood little Jerry Harris. His face glistened with fresh blood. The bright red blood streamed down his arm to the giant butcher's blade in his small hand, dripping from the sharp tip onto the welcome mat under his sneakers.
Behind Jerry, in the open doorway, stood Lewis's mother. Her nightgown—once white, now soaked a deep dark red—clung to her body.
His mother and Jerry both raised their faces to Lewis, their identical eyes glared into his as their twin smiles taunted him.
NO NO NO NO, This can't be real, this is another nightmare! Lewis stood there shaking his head, refusing to believe the horrors blocking the entrance to his home. The doorknob behind him rattled and the wood thumped like a heartbeat as the naked man struggled to open the door, but Lewis couldn't hear it. The bloody pair on the porch across the street held him transfixed. Lewis's paralysis broke as the door wrenched open behind him and a hand grabbed his shirt, jolting his shocked mind back to the immediate reality. He pulled away from the grip, his shirt tearing, and ran. He ran from the nightmares as fast as his rubbery legs would carry him.
He ran straight for the woods.
24
The street stretched before him, quiet and deserted. Clinton kept to the sidewalk anyway, the many shrubs lining the walk would come in handy if he had to hide from a passing car of someone coming home from a night shift or a night out.
Or worse, Jerry and the twins.
He neared the end of his street—nerves tingling, on alert, but elated to be doing something pro-active—when the bushes just ahead stirred as if from a light breeze. Clinton slowed, his gaze locked on the bushes. The night air was silent and still, the full moon hung bright in a crystal clear sky, no wind at all.
He halted several yards from the tall hedge as he detected movement behind it, a shadow within the shadows. “Who's there?” he asked the bush, feeling like a complete idiot as the words fluttered from his lips. Tense seconds passed as Clinton waited for a response. He started forward again when none came.
That's when the woman stepped from behind the bush and out onto the sidewalk, blocking his path. The streetlight cast its glow on the woman from above, presenting Clinton with a full view. She awaited him, naked from head to toe. Clinton stopped, dumbfounded, his chin dropping to his chest as the naked woman—something he'd only seen in a magazine before—stood there without saying a word. Her skin appeared pale blue in the light, except at her throat, where a dark collar of bruises ringed her slender neck. Other than this minor flaw, she was beautiful.
Clinton's gaze shifted from her neck to her dark nipples, then to the black patch of down between her legs, his gaping mouth clamping shut with a click of teeth. The skin on his face flushed with heat as he felt uncomfortable embarrassment wash over him. That is until he gazed into the woman’s glowing venomous eyes, and the wicked smile stretched across her face. His childish discomfort melted away, morphing into icy terror.
Clinton's inner voice spoke up, surprisingly calm.
Run. Just turn and run.
He backed away from the succubus, keeping a wary eye on her, knowing once he turned his back she would attack. She stood still, like a sculpture of a Greek goddess, a mythical deity of death.
Clinton kept back-pedaling until he felt he had a safe distance, and then turned to run—his plan was to put as much space between himself and this fantasy-gone-wrong as he could. He took half a step and collided with something big.
He bounced backward and looked up, staring into the rotting features of Andy Reed. Before Clinton could react, the dead boy lashed out with cold hands, grasping his face.
25
She relished the reaction of the child called Lewis. The look on his face when he saw his murdered mother filled her with delight.
Her vessel had knowledge of the boy's home, guiding her, informing her of the location of his
sleeping quarters. She had been furious after crawling through the boy's window only to find his bed empty, still warm from his resting body, taunting her. A quick search of the house turned up the woman—the boy's mother—and her spirits lifted. Sleeping alone, the woman had been easy prey, another meat puppet to serve her devilish needs. Then the boy appeared. From the eyes of her new soldier, she saw him enter the home of the old man across the street. She finished her ritual, bringing his slain mother back to greet her son with a smile.
What fun she was having.
Her plan had been simple: enter the homes of the easiest prey, extinguish the strange lights—she could see well enough in the dark—and slay the inhabitants, reanimating most, feasting on the rest.
The ranks of her hive-mind band of undead soldiers were filling fast, but not fast enough. She gave up the chase as Lewis fled toward the woods. Let the boy run, she would get him soon enough. Her work was here among the homes of her sleeping cattle. She planned on reigning over these weak humans for a long time, and a silly puny boy would not stop her.
Nothing would stop her this time.
26
Lewis ran. He never looked back to see if the man still followed, he just ran as fast as he could, leaving the hellish scene far behind. He never slowed, even as he reached the ominous dark wall of the woods, he plunged through and sped into the forest of shadows, the sharp sting of fear's spurs driving him forward.
Before he knew it, Lewis stood next to his hidden fort, the brilliant moon casting dark shadows surrounding him like a hungry pack of stalking wolves, where anything could be hiding. Panting from his wild flight, he stooped, lifted the secret door, and crawled into the cave of vines.
Much like Chitto's hideout, Lewis and Clinton had removed several of the fallen tree's smaller branches, allowing enough room for the boys to fit comfortably. He sat down on one of the stumps he and Clinton had rolled in to use as chairs, and lowered his head, swallowing the humid night air. Lewis covered his face with his hands and wept, hot tears rolling down his arms, mixing with his sweat.
Song of a Lost Child: A Horror Novel (Invasive Species Book 1) Page 13
