Crooked Hills

by Cullen Bunn

  “May I help you?” said a man’s voice from the other side of the wall of books.

  I stopped in my tracks and craned my neck to get a look at the speaker.

  One of the tall piles of books slid across the countertop. It looked ready to teeter over and collapse. A man stood behind the counter. He wore a tweed vest (even though it was a little stuffy) and a dark blue bow tie. His face was sweaty and red, and a pair of thick eyeglasses perched upon the bridge of his nose. He was bald on top, but on the sides his hair was thick, curly, and wiry. He looked like a stereotypical librarian, with a little bit of whacky scientist thrown in for good measure.

  He looked familiar, too, but I couldn’t quite place where I’d seen him before.

  “May I help you?” he asked again. “Is there something you’re looking for?”

  “Superstition and folktales?” I asked, certain the eccentric librarian would have no idea where to look.

  He disappeared behind the books for a second and emerged from around the side of the counter.

  “Local legends, is it?” He lead me to another room. “You’re a man after my own heart.”

  He maneuvered through the maze of books, trailing a finger along the spines until he at last came to a stop. Like a magician whipping a cloth from a table without disturbing water glasses, he yanked a thick book from the center of the stack. I couldn’t believe we weren’t crushed beneath an avalanche of paper.

  “This one might be to your liking.” He pushed the book into my hands. “I know it’s one of my favorites.”

  The book was titled Witches in the Hills, by W. D. Goodwin—the same author who wrote the ghost story book Mom bought for me. Something in my head clicked. I looked at the beaming librarian, then at the book’s byline. I opened the cover to check out the back flap of the dust jacket. The picture of the author smiled back at me—bow tie, thick glasses, wiry hair, bald forehead and all.

  “You’re W. D. Goodwin,” I said to the librarian.

  “The one and only.” The librarian seemed a little taken aback, and the volume of his voice rose in excitement. He obviously didn’t expect anyone to really recognize him. He shook my hand as I introduced myself. His voice changed in pitch from one word to the next, high and squeaky one second, low and deep the next, stretching some syllables to painful lengths. Maybe he was trying to pull off some exotic accent, but it sounded a little silly. “So, young master Charles, you know my work? You’re a reader? Dare I say, a fan?”

  “I have one of your books at home. Ozarks Ghosts and Legends.”

  “Oh, yes, one of my earlier works. That’s probably why you didn’t recognize me right away. I had a little more hair up top—” He patted his bare forehead. “—when I posed for the dust jacket photo.”

  “And you work at the library?”

  “Can you think of a better place to conduct research?” he asked, waving at all the books. “And the paycheck helps make ends meet between books.”

  At least a dozen questions raced through my mind. I wanted to ask Mr. Goodwin about the ghostly dog, about the Bleeding Rock, and about Maddie Someday. But I didn’t want to seem like a gushing fanboy, so I kept the questions to myself... for now.

  “Well,” Mr. Goodwin said, “I’ll let you peruse the book. I’ve got work of my own to continue. Working on a new masterpiece myself. If you need anything else, just give a yell.”

  With that, the librarian turned and weaved through the canyon of books, returning to the privacy of his desk.

  I didn’t see any tables or chairs nearby, so I plopped down on top of a short stack of books and started to read. Mr. Goodwin may not have been much of a librarian, but he could certainly tell a good story. The book drew me in, and I spent the next hour or so reading about spook lights and mysterious screams in the dead of night and undead things haunting deserted barns like mausoleums. I didn’t find anything about ghostly dogs, although I found an entry on “fetches and familiars” which froze my heart as solid as an ice cube in the middle of winter.

  According to the book, witches summoned spirits in the form of animals—usually cats, bats, or rats, but sometimes birds or goats or even dogs—to do their bidding. Much smarter than the average beast, fetches performed all sorts of tasks—guarding lairs, searching for potion ingredients, even murder.

  What if the dog isn’t a ghost at all? I thought. What if it’s a fetch working for a witch?

  Maybe even Maddie Someday.

  You could recognize a fetch by the brand on its body, a mark burned into its fur and skin branding it as the property of a witch. Once marked, a fetch served the witch until one—or both—died.

  I closed the book. I needed to know a little more about fetches, and I figured Mr. Goodwin was the perfect person to ask. Tucking the book under my arm, I went to find the author.

  Before I could find Mr. Goodwin, though, Marty jumped out from around a corner. He startled me so badly, I almost dropped the book. His face was flushed, his hair matted to his forehead.

  “We’ve got trouble,” he said. “Come on.”

  I put the book down and followed him.

  “Hey,” I said. “What’s the idea?”

  He shushed me. Standing at a window in the front room, he pointed across the street.

  “Take a look.”

  A black Firebird was parked next to the sidewalk, just in front of an ice cream and soda shop. Two guys sat on the hood of the car. One was Greg Crewes, his arms crossed menacingly, a smoking cigarette hanging from his lips. The other looked to be a couple of years younger, but also a little bigger and meaner. I guessed he was Greg’s brother, Hatch. He drummed his fingers on the hood in time with unheard music. Light glinted on the intersecting jigsaw pattern of the cracked rear windshield and smashed mirror.

  “You think they know we’re here?” I asked.

  “They look like they’re waiting for someone, don’t they?” Marty looked around. “Think there’s a back door to this place?”

  Not a bad idea—

  A customer stepped out of the ice cream parlor, and the Crewes boys jumped to their feet.

  Of course, I recognized their prey.

  Alex.

  “Oh, brother,” I muttered.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ALEX WAS TOO BUSY CONCENTRATING on a double-scoop ice cream cone to notice the Crewes brothers closing in on him.

  Greg Crewes stepped toward my little brother and barked something at him. Although I couldn’t hear him, I easily imagined what he was saying.

  “Hey, kid! Come here!”

  Alex snapped his head up and froze like a deer mesmerized by oncoming headlights. I’m surprised he didn’t drop his ice cream. He tilted his head back to look up at Greg and Hatch towering over him.

  “We’ve got to get him out of there,” I said.

  I hated the idea of facing the Crewes brothers—especially without Lisa’s trusty slingshot as backup. But I couldn’t just let my brother get pounded. If I stepped in now, took the bullies by surprise, maybe Alex wouldn’t get smeared across the pavement like road kill and I might get out of the scrape with nothing more than a few broken bones. I knew Marty was terrified of squaring off against even one of the Crewes boys, let alone both of them. To his credit, he barely hesitated before following me outside.

  We nearly flew off the front steps, along the flower-lined path, and out the gate of the picket fence.

  Hatch swatted Alex’s hand, and the cone fell to the ground, the frozen treat already melting on the hot summer sidewalk. The bullies laughed, Hatch’s bellow deep and rumbling while Greg’s sounded high-pitched and sniveling and evil.

  “What’s the matter?” Hatch stepped on one of the ice cream scoops and ground the heel of his scuffed hiking boot against the pavement. Rocky Road oozed out from under his foot. “You gonna cry?”

  Alex’s lower lip and chin quivered, but he held the waterworks at bay.

  We ran across the street, coming up quick behind Greg and Hatch. I wanted to avoid bein
g seen for as long as possible. As we drew closer, I kept waiting for some brilliant idea to pop into my head, some plan that might guarantee Alex’s rescue without blood being spilt.

  I heard Greg ask my brother, “Where are your friends? I’ve got a bone to pick with all three of you.”

  Alex stuttered, unable to form a sensible answer.

  Of course I was scared, but I couldn’t let my brother get hurt.

  “We’re right here.” I tried to make my voice sound deep and fearsome, but I probably sounded more like a chipmunk imitating a gorilla. “Leave him alone.”

  The brothers whirled around. Greg curled his lip into a satisfied sneer, and Hatch smacked his fist into his palm like a thug straight out of a cheesy gangster movie. Up close, he looked even larger—a brick wall with a bad temper.

  “You punks hiding from me?” Greg asked.

  “Just leave him alone,” I said again.

  Rage twisted Greg’s face into something monstrous. Hatch looked at his brother, then imitated his expression.

  “Are you telling me what to do?” Greg growled. “I don’t take orders from you.”

  “Y-yeah. You’re real tough—” I fought to keep my voice from shaking. “—especially when you’re picking on a little kid.”

  The words didn’t sound quite right coming from me. It sounded like something Marty would say in any situation except a confrontation with the Crewes boys. Next to me, my cousin visibly trembled. He didn’t so much as bat an eye at tarantulas or ghosts or witches, but Greg and Hatch terrified him. I wondered what had happened between them to scare Marty so. For now, though, I mustered as much bravery as possible, hoping some of it might rub off on Marty—and Alex, for that matter. All I needed was for the both of them to flee in a blind panic, leaving me fending for myself against a pair of fighting-mad rednecks.

  I’d never been in a real fight before, especially not with two older kids. I doubted the couple of months of Tae Kwan Do lessons I’d taken at the Y could protect me from the world of hurt awaiting me. Still, I dropped into my best martial arts stance.

  While Greg faced us, Hatch moved to stand behind us.

  They were trying to box us in.

  “Somebody’s going to pay for what you did to my car.” Greg didn’t seem to notice my aggressive posture, but at least he didn’t make fun of it either. “But if you just tell me who it was throwing rocks, I’ll be nice and let the three of you go.”

  “Nothing doing.”

  I wanted to play it tough. I wanted to tell the brothers that, while everyone in Crooked Hills might be scared of them, I wasn’t from around the area. I was from a real city where a couple of backwoods bullies like them wouldn’t last ten seconds. I wanted to tell them that if they ever met a real bully, they’d probably wet their pants. But I felt like my knees might buckle at any second.

  So all I said was, “Nothing doing.”

  But that was enough to make Greg even more furious. He stepped closer. Instinctively, I backed away, bumping right into Marty.

  My muscles tensed. How should I fight a couple of monsters like the Crewes boys? A punch to the nose? A kick to the shin? To the groin? I’d seen enough fights at school to know I’d have a better chance if I kept my distance. If they dog-piled on top of me, I was finished. In my mind, Greg’s footsteps sounded like something from a Godzilla movie. Throom! Throom! The monster approached! Citizens of Tokyo, run for cover!

  Greg grabbed me by the shoulder, jerked me closer.

  With his other hand, he took the smoldering cigarette from his lips. He breathed out, and smoke washed across my face.

  “H-hey...” Marty stammered. “Don’t...”

  Greg moved the cigarette closer to my face. I tried to pull away, but he held me tight.

  Hatch snorted.

  I felt the heat of the cigarette on my skin. I turned my head away. The glowing tip of the cigarette was mere centimeters from touching my face... or even my eye!

  A shadow passed over the faces of Greg and Hatch, like the sun had been momentarily eclipsed.

  Greg stopped short and released me. He and Hatch exchanged looks. Without another word, they scrambled toward the car. Hatch almost knocked Marty over as he brushed past. Greg cranked the engine and hit the gas before his brother even jumped in. Hatch raced alongside the accelerating Firebird, barely hurling himself into the passenger seat before the tires screeched and the car sped away.

  I touched my cheek. I could still feel the heat of the cigarette on my skin. It felt almost like a light sunburn.

  “What was that about?” I muttered.

  Marty and I looked at each other curiously.

  “Mighty proud of you boys,” said a deep voice behind us.

  We turned around and saw Uncle Shorty standing behind us. Where had he come from? It was him Greg and Hatch had been afraid of—and who could blame them? Even with his hands shoved in his coverall pockets and his shoulders slumped, he looked pretty intimidating.

  “Proud of us?” I asked. “It looked like they were ready to rip us apart until you came along.”

  “But you stood your ground.”

  Uncle Shorty’s pickup was parked around the corner at the feed store. We helped load several bags of animal feed into the back. The bags of corn and seeds made me sneeze. We picked Aunt Mary up from the grocery store down the street. She had a number of paper bags filled with groceries, and we hauled those to the pickup, too. Afterwards, Uncle Shorty treated Alex, Marty, and me to ice cream cones. I got black cherry, and Marty chose chocolate. Alex replaced his double scoops of Rocky Road. I was pleased to find a spinning comic book rack inside the ice cream parlor. I browsed through the titles and bought a couple. Even though the comics were a little beat up from the rack, at least my collection could continue to grow.

  We rode home in the back of the pickup, with the warm breeze whipping in our hair and bugs occasionally splatting against our faces. The ride was pretty nice, but once we hit the dirt road, the vibrations through the bed of the truck rattled my teeth and numbed my butt.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I told Marty as we bounced along the dirt road.

  “Ask away.”

  “How come they call your dad Shorty? I mean, that’s not his real name, is it?”

  “Might as well be,” Marty said. “His real name’s Martin, like mine. I’m a junior. But everyone knows him as Shorty.”

  “But he’s not really short,” Alex said, his mouth smeared with ice cream as he gnawed at the sugar cone.

  “Not to you and me,” Marty said, “but you should see his brothers. My dad was the runt of the litter compared to them. The three of them are considered the strongest men in the county. Why, I saw my Uncle Jasper tear a big, thick phone book apart with his bare hands, just to show off.”

  “So what happened to you?” I smiled. “Where are your muscles?”

  Marty’s shoulders sagged and his brow furrowed. “I’ll fill out one of these days.”

  I’d just been teasing him, but I could tell I hurt his feelings.

  Way to go, I thought. He stood by your side against a pair of thugs who scare the living daylights out of him, and you insult him.

  When we got home, we helped unload the bags of feed. As we hauled the sacks out of the truck, I asked Alex about his dream.

  “You know,” I said, trying my best to be subtle, “you were talking in your sleep last night. Sounded like you were having bad dreams.”

  “I did have bad dreams.” The color drained from Alex’s face. “Really bad.”

  “Was it about Maddie Someday?” I asked. Behind me, Marty spat.

  “I don’t remember much of it,” Alex said, hefting a bag from the truck bed. “But, yeah, I guess it was.”

  That much I already knew, of course. “Anything else?” I asked, urging him to continue.

  “Nope.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “All I remember is the witch chasing me.”

  I sighed an
d let the matter drop. My theory of the dog had been proven wrong.

  “Oh, yeah,” Alex added. “There was a dog, too, I think.”

  Marty and I looked at each other.

  “It had funny eyes,” Alex said.

  That changed everything.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “SO WHAT YOU’RE TELLING ME is the dog is working for Maddie Someday.”

  Marty spat twice and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He left a slug-like trail of slobber over his knuckles.

  We sat on the floor in Marty’s room, keeping our voices low. The weak glow of a small reading lamp pushed the shadows away. Looking out the window, I saw a light mist already creeping across the yard, the foggy shapes like living things. Talking about witches, I felt like I was huddled around a campfire telling made-up ghost stories—not getting ready to go outside and face a real one. I won’t even describe all the spitting going on while we talked about the witch. Suffice it to say, I’m surprised the carpet didn’t get soaked.

  “It all sort of adds up, you know?”

  For a few seconds, Marty looked at me curiously as he turned the idea over in his head. Then he gave up on trying to figure it out and admitted, “I don’t reckon I’m understanding you.”

  “According to what I read, witches and warlocks can call upon evil spirits to serve them. They’re called familiars or fetches, and they look like animals.”

  “I thought they used black cats.”

  “Sure they do, but there’s nothing to stop them from using a dog. You and I both dreamed about Maddie and the dog. That might have been a coincidence. But Alex dreamed about them both, too, and we never mentioned the dog to him. There must be a connection.”

  “Fair enough.” Marty nodded. “But Maddie died before my parents were even born. How come her mutt’s still snooping around in the woods? And what’s it doing digging near our house?”

  “I haven’t figured that one out yet,” I said.

  I should have told Marty I’d be spending the rest of my vacation inside, reading comic books and playing video games, avoiding the Bleeding Rock, avoiding the Crewes boys, and—especially—avoiding the fetch. But I knew I’d never be able to live my cowardice down. Besides, I was plenty curious to see what the dog was up to.