Crooked Hills

by Cullen Bunn

  I heard a rumbling, growling noise. Alex, sitting a few feet back watching the game, clutched at his tummy.

  “Was that your stomach?” I asked.

  His growling stomach answered for him.

  “No wonder you’re still hungry.” Marty didn’t look away from the TV screen. His thumbs worked furiously at the game controller as he blasted several nasty critters into oblivion. “You hardly touched your supper.”

  “He didn’t want to eat chicken,” I said, “because we saw Uncle Shorty lop their heads off.”

  “That’s nothing.” Marty paused the game and scooted around to face my brother. “Some time I’ll tell you about the old Haskins farm.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you right now.” He looked straight at Alex. “I’d hate to scare anybody.”

  “I’m not scared!” Alex said.

  “All right. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Marty leaned in close and turned his head from left to right to make sure no one else was eavesdropping. “There’s a man by the name of Haskins who owns this chicken farm on the outskirts of town. He was always trying to figure out a way to make a little more money, and he figured folks probably hated chopping the heads off their chickens, so he came up with this idea...”

  The light of the TV glowed behind Marty, and sinister shadows painted his face.

  “Haskins decided if people hating cutting the heads off chickens so bad, he’d save them the trouble. He started breeding special chickens—chickens without heads!”

  “What are you talking about?” I laughed. “That’s the silliest thing I ever heard.”

  “It’s true. I saw it for myself. Hundreds of chickens, all of them without heads, stumbling around the pen, bumping into each other, walking right into walls, because they can’t see where they’re going.”

  Marty couldn’t finish the story without laughing. I thought it was pretty funny, too, but Alex just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  Finally, Mom came into the room and said, “All right, kids. You’ve had a long day. Why don’t you hit the sack?”

  “Aw, Mom,” I groaned. “I thought this was supposed to be a vacation.”

  “It is,” she said, “but if you don’t get some rest you’ll be too cranky to enjoy it.”

  To be honest, I felt a little sleepy, but I was having too much fun to go to bed just yet.

  “I’m getting drowsy myself.” Marty put his game controller on the floor and exaggerated a yawn. “I should probably get some shut-eye. We’ve got a big day tomorrow, if I’m going to show you around.”

  “All right,” I mumbled. I turned the television off.

  “I’ll be down directly.” Marty smiled and suppressed a nervous giggle. “I’m gonna... help my mom with the dishes.”

  I figured the polite thing to do was to offer to help, even though I had an almost allergic reaction to any kind of household task, but Marty wouldn’t even consider it.

  “Naw,” he said. “You’ve got all summer to help me with my chores. I’ll give you a pass tonight.”

  He didn’t have to tell me twice. I didn’t wait around for him to change his mind. Alex and I headed downstairs to our room.

  A large plastic bucket sat on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. It looked like it might have once been used to carry paint. Thin streaks of dried yellow paint dribbled down the sides. I couldn’t see inside the bucket, though, because a flat piece of wood completely covered the top. I knew for sure it hadn’t been there earlier.

  All of a sudden, something thumped against the underside of the board—from inside the bucket. Thump! Thump!

  “There’s something alive in there,” Alex whispered.

  Thump! The board trembled as whatever was in the bucket bumped against it. Thump!

  What could be in the bucket, I wondered. Frogs? I’d heard of people in the country eating frog legs. Maybe Uncle Shorty had caught a few for supper tomorrow night. If so, would he want my help in yanking their legs off? I didn’t think I was up to the challenge.

  Thump! Thump!

  The bucket trembled. The board—which looked similar to the wood paneling of the downstairs walls—shifted just a little and popped up and down.

  “Whatever’s in there,” I said. “It’s going to knock the whole bucket over.”

  Alex nudged me. “Go see what it is.”

  Figured. He was too scared to check for himself, but too curious to pass the quivering bucket by without inspection.

  He nudged me again. “Go on.”

  “All right. Quit shoving.”

  I approached the bucket slowly, like a prowling panther creeping up on unsuspecting, plastic, paint-covered prey.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  I kneeled down beside the bucket, leaned in close and pressed my ear against the board. The thumping sound stopped. I heard what sounded like fingers drumming against the plastic, and I imagined a horrible, stunted backwoods mutant squatting within, biding its time until I released it. Then, I didn’t hear anything at all.

  Carefully, I lifted the board away from the top of the bucket. I put the piece of wood on the floor, peered inside... and gasped in horror.

  Spiders!

  Three fat, hairy tarantulas!

  Jumping right for my face!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE SPIDERS LAUNCHED INTO THE AIR, and every detail of their hideous features seemed magnified a thousand times. The twitching, hairy legs. The glistening eyes. The huge reddish fangs. I threw my arms up in front of my face and fell to the floor with a high-pitched cry.

  “Aah!”

  The fall knocked the wind out of me.

  The tarantulas sailed overhead and plopped to the floor behind me. Where were they? Scurrying up my shoes? My legs? I pushed myself up onto my elbows and—thankfully—saw the eight-legged horrors skittering away. My heart raced a mile a minute. I felt as though it might jump right out of my chest at any second, sprout a pair of tiny legs, and run for the door, shrieking, “Every man for himself!” The spiders weren’t really attacking me, but were just trying to make their escape from the confines of the bucket. As crazy as it sounded, they must have been more scared than me. Could’ve fooled me.

  “Surprise!”

  Marty stood at the bottom of the stairs, clutching at his stomach. His face was red, and tears streamed down his cheeks. He could barely draw a breath he was laughing so hard.

  “Are you kidding?” I stood and brushed myself off. “That was your surprise? Spiders? They almost bit my face off!”

  Marty shook his head and wiped his eyes. “Tarantulas don’t bite unless they’re really angry.”

  “They looked pretty angry to me!”

  “They look frightening, but they’re actually pretty shy.” Marty quickly chased the tarantulas into a corner. I thought they might try to crawl under furniture or up the wall to escape. The idea of a trio of tarantulas loose and hiding in the house made my skin creep. But Marty scooped one up in his hands and let it crawl over his forearm to show how tame it was. The spider was about the size of a hamster, although a few minutes earlier I would have said it was even bigger. The bristly fur on the tarantula’s legs brushed against the hair on the back of Marty’s arm. “I wouldn’t have done anything to put you in real danger. I was just trying to give you city folks a little scare is all.”

  City folks. Obviously, Marty thought it pretty funny, me being from a place that didn’t have a problem with tarantula infestations. Easy pickings for his backwoods pranks. At first, I felt a little angry, but then I remembered how many times I’d made fun of people from the country, calling them rednecks and hillbillies. At least he made fun of me to my face instead of behind my back.

  “Where did you find tarantulas out here?” I asked. I always thought spiders like that only lived in deserts and jungles, lurking in ancient tombs and waiting to sink their fangs into some unsuspecting treasure hunter.

  “Oh, they’re all over the p
lace.” The furry, brown tarantula scurried over the back of his hand, its pipe-cleaner legs tickling his flesh. Marty turned his arm to avoid dropping the spider. He stroked its back like he was petting a kitten. “Want to hold one?”

  “No, thanks.” I took a step back and raised a hand to ward him off. “I’ve been as close to them as I want to be for a while. I had no idea tarantulas lived in this part of the country.”

  “Oh, yeah. You should see them during their migration period. They’re all over the place. You’ll see thousands of them crawling out of the brush and herding across the road.”

  I couldn’t tell for sure if Marty was exaggerating or not.

  One by one, he returned the tarantulas to the bucket, then replaced the board. “I’ll let these go in the morning.”

  No sooner had the spiders returned to the bucket than they started jumping against the covering. Thump! Thump! Tapping his index finger against his lip, Marty looked around the room. He placed a pair of heavy work boots—probably Uncle Shorty’s—on top of the board for a little extra weight.

  “Just in case,” he said. “My mom will hit the roof if they get loose in the middle of the night.”

  Her and me both, I thought.

  Another shiver tap-danced along my spine as I thought of spiders crawling all over me as I slept, tickling my eyelashes, exploring my nostrils, crawling in my mouth—

  Stop it, I told myself.

  “Are there any other kinds of creepy crawlies around here I should know about?” I asked.

  “Scorpions, I guess.”

  “Scorpions! No way!”

  “Yes indeed,” he said. “I’ll show you tomorrow.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to see a scorpion. They almost creeped me out more than tarantulas. Almost. Even with the spiders safely enclosed in the bucket, I felt a little nervous. If they spooked me so badly, I could only guess how scared Alex might be...

  Alex?

  He had vanished into thin air!

  CHAPTER SIX

  WELL... ALEX HADN’T QUITE DISAPPEARED into thin air.

  More precisely, he had vanished beneath the covers of his bed. He must have run for the hills while I was preoccupied with the tarantulas. We found him bundled up and shivering, covered from head to toe in the bed’s quilt like a patchwork ghost.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  He peeked out from a tiny gap.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “It was all just a prank. No reason to be scared.”

  My brother’s one visible eye darted back and forth as he looked at Marty, then me, then Marty again.

  “Sorry I frightened you so bad.” Marty’s voice no longer displayed the showman quality. He sounded sincere, but I got the feeling he could be a pretty good actor when he wanted. “I reckon I just wasn’t thinking.”

  Alex opened the peephole a little more and looked at me. “I thought you were toast for sure.”

  “Who me?” I conjured up a little of Marty’s bravado. I puffed out my chest, placed my hands on my hips in a super heroic pose. “It would take more than a few measly spiders to finish me off.”

  That cheered Alex up, and he emerged from under the quilt.

  Still, I reminded myself to check for spiders beneath the sheets and under the bed before turning in. Putting on a brave face is important when you have a little brother, but you can never be too careful.

  Marty squatted down at the foot of the bed to examine the boxes full of my comic books.

  “You sure have a bunch of funny books!” he said.

  I groaned under my breath. I hated when people called comics ‘funny books,’ but I decided to let it go.

  “That’s only a small part of my collection,” I said proudly. “I have a bunch more back home.”

  Probably the thing I treasured most in the world was my collection of comic books, movie magazines, and science fiction and horror books. I couldn’t get enough monsters and ghosts and spooky legends. Mom sometimes said she worried about me rotting my brain with that kind of garbage, but as long as I didn’t give myself nightmares, she didn’t complain—especially not about the comics, magazines, and books. I had shelves stuffed overfull with the works of Bram Stoker and Ray Bradbury, Stan Lee and Jack Kirby. My closet barely had room for clothes, what with all the boxed-up comic books. The majority of my collection once belonged to my dad. He loved stuff like that even more than me! When he died, his collection became mine, a four-color memorial. Deep down, I knew Mom didn’t nag much about the horror comics and magazines because they were one of the ways I remembered my father.

  Dad had passed away several months earlier. Passed away. That’s what grown-ups say when they’re trying to be careful with their words. But sometimes I got so mad thinking about what happened to him, I didn’t want to be careful. I wanted to stomp and shout and scream. He didn’t just ‘pass away.’

  He was murdered.

  On the day he was killed, Dad had driven to the hardware store for supplies. He was converting our basement into a family entertainment room, complete with carpeting, wallpaper, a big screen television, and a pool table. I was pretty excited, mostly about the TV and the pool table. I even pitched in now and then, helping hang sheetrock, fetching tools, unrolling and gluing carpeting in place, and lugging around what seemed like an endless supply of heavy building materials. He asked if I wanted to go to the store with him that morning, but I decided to stay home. I’d just started playing a new video game borrowed from one of my friends. I remember thinking how cool the game would look on the big screen when we finally got it.

  “All right,” Dad had said, “but I’m going to need your help when I get back.”

  That was the last time I saw him.

  The police said the other car must have been traveling close to one hundred miles-per-hour when it sideswiped our station wagon and forced my father off the road. They were really only guessing, though, because the other driver never stopped. Whoever he was (I always just assumed it had been a man), he caused the accident and just kept on driving. The only clues left behind were a flaking streak of crimson paint across the crumpled metal of our car and a few spotty eyewitness reports of a red vehicle speeding away. The police never found the other car or the driver. My dad had become the victim of a hit-and-run.

  I cried for days after the accident, but once the last of my tears dried away, I started to feel another emotion stirring in my heart—anger.

  “Hey,” Marty said, “are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” I said, snapping out of it. “I’m just tired, I guess.”

  I loaned Marty a few of my comics—but only after he promised to be extra careful with them. I figured I’d need to fill him in on some of the back-stories. Some comics have complicated plots lasting for years and years. That’s one of the things I liked best about them.

  “I don’t usually read funny books,” Marty said. “I like reading Hardy Boys mysteries. You ever try those?”

  I shook my head.

  Marty could hardly believe his ears, and he pretty much dragged me to his room. Almost two-dozen books stood spine to spine on his windowsill. The blue and yellow covers were beat up and well worn from repeated readings, and the titles promised all sorts of hair-raising adventures. The Clue of the Broken Blade, The Phantom Freighter. The Secret of Skull Mountain. They sounded pretty interesting to me.

  Marty’s room was like a museum dedicated to his exploration of Crooked Hills. His bookcases were packed with all sorts of interesting things—odd-shaped stones marred with the fossilized impressions of insects, old arrowheads, pieces of wood resembling gruesome faces. As a doorstop, he used a quartz-lined geode he swore fell from the sky in a blaze of blue flame. Along the floorboard, lined up side-by-side like vibrant soldiers, were dozens of small, multi-colored glass bottles—the kind old-time pharmacists filled with medicine.

  “Where’d you get all those?”

  “Found them,” Marty said. “There’s a couple of spots out in the woods that use
d to be dumping grounds years and years ago. You can find all sorts of neat things out there.”

  “You must know a lot about Crooked Hills,” I said.

  “If I don’t know it,” Marty said, “it ain’t worth knowing.”

  “My mom bought me this book of ghost stories. It said Crooked Hills was the most haunted town in America.”

  “I don’t know if it’s the most haunted town in America, but it’s sure got more than its fair share of ghosts!”

  “But... they’re just stories, right?”

  Marty winked at me. “What do you think?”

  Honestly, I didn’t know how to answer.

  Before I went to bed, Marty loaned me one of the Hardy Boys books. The Twisted Claw sounded like something I’d like. I tried to read a little bit, but couldn’t concentrate. In the bed across from mine, Alex was already snoring up a storm. I put the book aside and turned off the bedside lamp.

  With the lights out, I lay in bed, listening to the cracks and pops of the settling house. Just outside the window, a cricket sang me a lullaby, for all the good it did. I stared up at the ceiling, watching blue-black shadows crawl across the plaster, thinking about all the odd things I’d seen since arriving in Crooked Hills—and it was only the first day!

  Somewhere in the distance, I heard the lonely cry of a train whistle and the distant rumble of huge metal wheels against the tracks. The sound of the passing train was soothing in a way, like a distant thunderstorm, one without the fierce lightning and wind. The cricket continued its steady trill.

  Finally, my eyes grew heavy and started to flutter. The bellowing train whistle sounded again, even farther away, vanishing into the silence of the night...

  Another howl rose out of the darkness, answering the train’s cry. Only, this wasn’t the steam whistle of machinery. This was an animal sound. And it was much, much closer.

  The cricket fell silent, and the absence of its song felt empty and—Unnatural.