So when my grandmammy told me bout all them children gone missin affer playin round them gooseberries, names like “Caleb” an “Mea” an boys an girls I ain’t never heard of, I didn’t take no stock in it. Pickles or gooseberries, truths or tall tales, ain’t nothin was gonna git between a boy an his inclinations. I was like a huntin dog hot on a coon trail.
So I got in that boat, an I paddled right on over to Gooseberry Bramble.
Affer shiftin the oar from side to side fer a while, drippin water on my knees ev’ry time I switched, I was bout halfway cross that water. I member stoppin fer a minute, eyein a fat ol carp swimmin right beside the boat—sun reflectin off all them yeller scales. I member wishin I had my pole, cause I’d reckoned if I brought that sucker back to the lean-to, my grandmammy wouldn’t a got me with no switch. She’d a fried up that sonuva gun an fergot all bout me sneakin off. But I ain’t had nothin but that pocket knife that my pappy gave me, an that wun’t gonna catch me no fish. I s’pose that was the last thing I member thinkin bout just when I noticed somethin queer.
Well, not noticed, but heard. Comin from them gooseberry bushes on the shore ahead. I fixed my ears on that sound an done fergot all bout that carp.
Now I reckon mose y’all sittin out there is churchfolk, so y’all can magine what it was I heard. If y’all ever been outside the church doors durin mass—maybe cause y’all were runnin late on Sunday mornin, or maybe cause y’all had to step out fer one reason or another—then y’all can magine it.
First off, listenin to folks singin the Word a God is somethin beautiful when yer standin there inside the church, surrounded by all them angelic voices a yer schoolmates an neighbors an such. I won’t deny that—specially affer me swearin on this here Bible. But when yer outside the church, it sounds somethin unnatural. The way them harmonizin voices bleed through them walls an leak out them windows an unner the door—it’s right devilish. Maybe stretchin the notes or changin the pitch—I don’t rightly know—but what I do reckon fer certain is that’s just the funny sound I heard. Comin straight from that clump a gooseberries. Cept the only difference was, least from what I member, it wun’t all men an women singin. It was just the women, all high-pitched an waverin.
An there ain’t never was no church out there by the river. An ain’t no women neither.
Y’all folks prolly reckon that right then I shoulda turned that boat round an hurried on back to my grandmammy’s lean-to. But like I done already said, I was a youngin, an my curiosities got the best a me. An besides, I was practically touchin the other side. Might as well a finished what I set out to do.
So I kept paddlin.
When I got to the shore, just before my boat pushed up on the mud, I felt that chill again—but this time it wun’t just a moment, an it wun’t just up an down my spine. It draped round me an sunk into my bones, like I just done gone in that walk-in freezer at the five an dime. Like summer had jumped right over autumn an landed smack dab in the middle a winter. I ain’t never took a coat with me out in the woods durin July, an I reckon none a y’all’d do the same, but right then I was wishin I had anythin to wrap round my shoulders—heck, even that ratty ol quilt in the lean-to if I coulda got it.
I climbed on over the bow, rubbin my arms up an down, teeth a chatterin an mud a suckin at my shoes, an the singin got louder. Like they’s just on the other side a the bramble. But I wun’t plannin on stickin my neck in there to find out—I was just hungry. An I thought maybe I’d just mosey on up the bank an snatch me a few a them berries right quick, stash em in my shirt all folded up like a make-do bucket. Then I’d eat em on the boat while I went back cross the river an got warmed up in the sun.
Affer I scrambled up to the top a the bank, I realized the singin wun’t women—it was children. An it wun’t like the voices—wun’t like they’s comin from behind the bushes, but instead directly out of em. Like children stooped down in that scrub all hummin some ugly lullaby.
An just as I thought bout divin right back in that boat, the bramble went all quiet. It was like when ya hear some crickets chirpin in the grass, an soon as ya set foot near em, they all go silent, like they’s never there. Them voices stopped just like that, an all I heard was the soft splishin an splashin a the river behind me. I started thinkin maybe it was just a figment a my magination affer all. But one thing was fer sure—I was cold. An I was hungry, too. So right then, them gooseberries were lookin round an ripe, ready to pop in my mouth an slide on down my gullet.
So I done picked one at first, a fat ol berry, plump an purple, turnin it over in my hand. But then I seen them funny ridges on the skin. There was somethin familiar bout em. I coulda sworn they’s arranged just like a—well, like a lil face or somethin. Now, maybe my mind was playin tricks on me, but that wun’t the only thing, cause the berry felt warm against my fingers, too. I just told myself I was seein things, an maybe the sun had caught them berries just right, at least before that chill swept over.
As I brought that berry up to my nose, I can’t say I fancied the smell neither—magined it’d be somethin like a grape, but it was more like a peppery kinda apple.
Feelin my tummy rumblin an grouchin, I said heck with it an flung it in my mouth.
But when I squoze it between my teeth, I heard a lil peep—somethin like a mouse caught in a trap. Then it popped an the warm juice ran over my tongue—not thin an runny—more like thick an soupy, but tastin all silvery an metallic, like them ol spoons my grandmammy served with a bowl a grits. When I spat out that berry, I seen the juice that dripped down my shirt an speckled the ground, dottin all the leaves an grass. Reminded me of a time I shot an ol squirrel outta some tree an it bled all over the damn place.
As I stood there lookin at all that juice I done spat out, some rotten odor started burnin my nostrils, stinkin to high heaven. It wun’t that gooseberry neither—it stunk like a dirty ol dog an a rotten can a worms. I ain’t never fergot that smell.
But right then, somethin wicked reached out from that thicket an grabbed hold a my ankle.
I yelped an tried to make a dash fer the boat, but whatever it was had me gripped, squeezin so hard it damn near tore my foot off. I couldn’t do much but grit my teeth an try an kick the damn thing. But then it swiped my leg out from unner me, an I slammed flat on my face. My nose crunched against the ground, tears stingin my eyes as I gasped fer air. Before I could even git a breath, it started tuggin me in the bushes, an all I could do was claw at the ground, my fingernails jarrin loose as they scraped cross the dirt.
When I looked behind me, even though I was squintin through my tears, I seen somethin worse than my magination coulda ever dreamed up—vines an roots an leaves all twisted up like wiry muscles in some diabolical shape, one a them stringy arms wrapped clean round my leg an squeezin ten times harder than my pappy ever could.
An it was my pappy that saved me, cause he was the one who gave me that ol pocket knife.
Just before that wretched arm yanked me full into the bramble where I’d a been trapped in a tangle a brushwood, I dug a free hand down in my pocket an fetched that knife. As the creature hauled me cross the ground, my body draggin through the dirt, I had that blade out with a flick a my thumb. Reachin down, I slashed that knife straight away into them vines wrapped round my ankle. I done sliced my foot a handful a times, sawin back an forth with a mad fury—hell, I still got the scars to show fer it. But I knew I cut myself free when a nasty spurt a black goo run over my hand, the vines uncoilin fer a second.
When I scrambled to my feet, that demon lashed out with more tendrils, clutchin em all over my body like the legs a some big ol spider. But this time I was ready. Heart poundin against my chest, blood roarin in my ears, I squirmed through the vines an hustled down the bank, divin into that boat like someone shot me out a cannon. I slammed into the bottom so hard it pushed me right off the shore.
As I swiped the paddle from unner the bench, I seen how them root-fingers had followed me, grippin at the sides a the boat, curlin up round
the edges, tryin to pull me back to the shore. Couldn’t find my knife, but I swatted at em with the paddle like I seen my grandmammy clobberin at possums with her porch broom. I screamed at ev’ry last one of em, somethin primal boilin up inside a me. An affer I slapped the last a them stringy arms away, them tendrils went suckin themselves back over the water an up the shore into the bramble, like a burrow-spider crawlin backward down a hole.
I turned back to the opposite shore an never looked back. I paddled an paddled til my arms burned an til I couldn’t feel my fingers round the shaft no more. I member crawlin outta the boat an collapsin on the shore, huggin at the ground an warmin up in the sun as my breath came in gulps.
Any y’all can magine what happened when I got back to my grandmammy’s. What happened when she seen my shoes all mucked a muddy-brown an my shirt all stained a purple-red, specially figurin the way she waved that switch at me before.
I was due fer a whuppin.
But if y’all think she scolded me or spanked my bottom somethin raw, then yer wrong.
My grandmammy wrapped her slender arms round me an squeezed me tight—like if she let me go I might melt away. I member her warm tears drippin down her cheeks an into my hair. I didn’t say a word. It mighta been a half hour. I just let her hold me like that til she was done.
Fer the rest a that summer my grandmammy treated me polite as pie. Gave me all the pickles I wanted. She knew I wun’t ever gonna go back round that river.
Now y’all wanna pile up all this—whaddaya call it—“circumstantial evidence,” an prosecute Mr. Ramblewood over there fer the murders a all them children. Well, I ain’t no attorney, but I tell ya that ain’t somethin y’all can do. Cause them children ain’t dead. They’re alive as much as y’all an me. But stead a sittin here inhabitin human bodies like we all is, them children is livin in them gooseberries—trapped by that thing. Trapped fer all eternity like a livin Hell.
I see some a y’all smilin, thinkin I ain’t got all my facts straight affer so many years. But I ain’t told y’all bout what I seen just a few years back—right affer my pappy passed. It was a hot summer day when I buried ‘im right next to my grandmammy’s headstone—out there in the field a black-eyed susans next to the ol lean-to that ain’t nothin but a pile a sticks these days. An course I wun’t a boy no more, but my curiosities still got the best a me, cause I headed on out there again. To Gooseberry Bramble. But I didn’t go cross the river—I at least knew better’n that—I just strained my ears, listenin real hard fer an hour or so. An at some point, when the wind blew just right, driftin over the water from the other side, I could make out the singin, soundin just the same as it did in my boyhood, like a choir a women—cept this time I knew it was children. Missin children.
Yer Honor, I do unnerstan we’re in the middle a this here trial. An I unnerstan I ain’t nothin but a witness, but let’s just say we took one a them recesses, I think ya call it, an ya done took yerself on a field trip a sorts, drivin on up to Black Cobb. If ya parked off the side a the county highway an walked out into them backwoods past the ruins a that lean-to, an if ya tramped west through them fields an then ducked through that grove a all them pines an oaks—a course mindin the scrub—an made yer way down to the shoreline a that river, ya’d hear all them children a cryin like they been doin fer the last sixty-odd years.
An if ya got in that ol boat—assumin it’s still there an as sturdy as I member—an paddled cross that water, an if ya wun’t scared a that devil-thing, ya might crouch down an set yer eyes real close, just like I did when I was a youngin. If ya did that, I betcha’d see them same tiny faces danglin from the clusters, one a them Caleb Campbell, one a them Mea Jayson—the faces a all the other children ya have up there on that list.
There’s one face ya won’t see, though, an that’s the poor child I popped between my teeth all them years ago. But I’d rather see it like I put em outta their misery.
So I reckon if anyone’s a murderer in this here courtroom, well then, I guess it’s me.
SOLOMON FORSE is the founder of HOWL Society. After serving in Alaska with the US Army and completing a deployment to Iraq, Solomon moved back to his home state of Colorado to attain a master’s degree in education. He now lives among the lakes and forests of the Rocky Mountains where he teaches literature and writes fiction. If Solomon isn’t reading, watching, or writing horror, you’ll find him role-playing horror with tabletop RPGs like Call of Cthulhu—or shredding horror on the guitar in his Lovecraftian metal band Crafteon. Follow him on Twitter @SolomonForse.
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Illustration by P.L. McMillan
For years, families had moved in and out of the ancient home so much so that the neighbors were as accustomed to seeing U-Hauls as they were the weekly mail truck. The community welcome wagon had long grown tired of introducing themselves to each new inhabitant, and after a while, they simply ignored the new faces coming and going. While the house wasn’t necessarily a place parents would tell their children to stay away from, it didn’t matter because the neighborhood kids avoided it anyway.
The unique eighteenth-century building sat on the corner of Walnut and Third behind a row of disordered shrubs. Cracked shutters clattered against the stone walls, hanging from rusted hinges. The foundation sagged into the mud beneath the unkempt lawn. Vines clung to the veranda like a kraken engulfing a ship, and the small front yard was filled with knee-high clumps of grass. Every type of weed under the sun inhabited the overgrown chaos, which provided the perfect home for crawling ticks, slithering snakes, and swarming cicadas. Surrounding the front of the property, a faded wooden fence leaned forward, backward, and forward again because of the rolling cement of the sidewalk.
Lydia Carrigan couldn’t have found a better fixer-upper.
And for once, she needed to feel in control.
No one took notice when the middle-aged woman with brittle, dark-brown hair pulled up in her station wagon. The behemoth of a car lurched to a standstill in front of the dilapidated house. Had anyone noticed, they might have mistaken the woman for an English teacher, at least if they saw the dozen-or-so boxes labeled books piled in the back of her car.
Taking a minute with both hands on the steering wheel, rays of morning sunlight cascading across her knuckles, Lydia glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror. Tired eyes reflected back at her, hiding behind dark circles and her massive, clear-framed glasses. She remembered the day she bought them—dragging Michael along to her appointment because the high school had suspended him. The secretary ogled her son’s bloodied and battered knuckles. Lydia had never expected Michael to grieve for his father that way.
The growl of a truck zooming past the car ripped her from the memory.
After climbing out of the station wagon, Lydia walked around to the passenger side, pulled out a brown box full of hardbacks, and turned to gaze up at her new home. She wanted to savor the start of this new chapter in her life.
As she sauntered across the uneven walkway, the blades of grass from the neglected lawn tickled the sides of her legs. The wind blew Lydia’s linen skirt around her knees, emphasizing her petite frame. When she reached the end of the walkway, she found the porch steps surprisingly silent. Under a corner of the faded welcome mat, Lydia uncovered an envelope with her name scribbled in blue ink. Before she could bend down to grab it, her ears caught a muffled ticking sound coming from the other side of the door. Had someone left a clock behind?
Shifting her balance, she placed the box on the porch and picked up the envelope. Excitedly tearing it apart, she discovered the deed and three keys, which she slid out into her cupped palm. As the first key landed in her hand, the taste of metal swarmed about in her mouth, dancing to the tip of her tongue and sliding against the back of her teeth. She shrugged away the curious feeling and inserted a key into the brass lock.
Lydia pushed the massive oak door open with ease and stepped through the threshold, greeted with the smell of something sweet in the air. A light, crisp a
roma filled her nose, reminding her of the homemade butter rolls that David used to beg for—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d made them.
She took in her new home.
Well, it looks just like the pictures.
Last month, Lydia had worried about not being able to tour the house, but now that she saw it with her own eyes, she knew her intuition had been right.
A spacious, open kitchen with an island occupying the center stretched out before her, and to the left there was a dining room lined with faded yellow wallpaper. Around the corner to her right was a gorgeous living room with windows big enough to let the sun paint the floors and furniture. The rays of light swam with motes of dust.
I could put a couch there, a couple of shelves over here for my books.
On the far wall stood a brick fireplace stretching to the ceiling. And to its left, a staircase with a meticulously carved banister led to the second floor.
Besides a couple of scratches and the need for a fresh coat of paint, Lydia thought the place wasn’t too bad.
She softly stepped through the open living room adorned with windows that seemed to sprout from the baseboards and reach to the ceiling. She found herself at the base of the stairs.
Again, the bizarre ticking—seemingly coming from above—interrupted her thoughts.
As Lydia looked to the staircase, she marked how it showed its years through many scuffs and dents. Curiously, when she moved to investigate the second floor, she found the steps didn’t make a sound. As Lydia climbed them, she used the railing to keep her balance.
A ringing came alive that made Lydia jump and bring her slender hands to her chest.
Was there a phone here? Was it left behind? It couldn’t still be in service.
Howls From Hell Page 12
