Howls From Hell

by Grady Hendrix

Lilian is ancient, born when this world was young. She tells me that Mother is unknowable. Mother is infinite.

  And Mother is furious.

  Every year there are more sprouts in the clearing.

  M. DAVID CLARKSON lives in the Midwest, where he pretends to be grown-up about things. He collects toys and comics and obsesses over horror movies, and works in a trailer factory. Despite all of that, someone actually married him. He has been making up stories all his life, and can be found lurking HOWL Society or Twitter @vagrant6942.

  * * *

  Illustration by Joe Radkins

  Miles of ugliness smeared past the car windows. Dusty lands full of oil wells and arid citrus groves. Rickety towns compiled of worn churches, gas stations, fast food restaurants, and ratty dogs. Leigh glanced at her son Ben, who studied the blurring desolation.

  “How’s Boy Scouts?” Leigh asked.

  Ben shifted in the passenger seat, continuing to stare out the window.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Are you going on any backpacking trips this summer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When is that?”

  “August. Before school starts.”

  “With your troop?”

  “Yeah.”

  As sparse as his communication was, it was the most he’d said to her in months.

  It was no one’s fault. Things simply fell apart. Or rather, things changed.

  Leigh was in the thick of becoming her “true self,” as her therapist put it. However, Leigh had become a stranger on the inside. A new person she had to get to know from the start. Signs were there all along, of course: the way Leigh felt light and floaty back in seventh grade whenever Melissa Foster talked to her during science class; her borderline-weird fascination with her female basketball coach in college; the way her coworker, Mona, made her face and neck grow hot and her palms sweat whenever they talked. These clues were easy to make excuses for or flat out ignore for decades.

  However, the affair with Theresa, whom she met in her Thursday-night painting class—well, that made things crystal clear.

  “And where is your troop going?”

  “Joshua Tree.”

  “In August?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Isn’t that . . . sort of extreme?” Leigh asked. “Backpacking in a desert during summer?”

  “That’s the point. It’s about survival.”

  For the past three months, she’d been trying to survive herself—temporarily moved into her older sister’s guest house to give Russ and Ben space. But no contact proved impossible. She called. She texted. Neither of them responded. The rejection was excruciating. But she had plenty of processing to do, and she did so alone.

  First there was a period of overwhelming self-loathing. Layers of shame to peel off like sunburned skin. Then there were weeks where she desperately tried to cling onto who she was before the realization, tried to cram herself back into that persona again, but she no longer fit. Finally, she reached a state of numb acceptance. As of the past two weeks, that had shifted into an anxious willingness to let herself become whoever it was she’d been suppressing all along.

  The boy was going through changes himself. He seemed as uncomfortable in his own skin as Leigh. His forehead was broken out and oily. He smelled different, like decaying childhood.

  But these transformations only made Leigh love him more.

  The getaway was a chance for them to reconnect.

  Would it be all right if I took Ben on a trip? Just the two of us? Leigh had texted Russ.

  Russ finally replied and said he would ask Ben.

  Days later, she received a text from her son: Okay, I’ll go.

  It would be enough, Leigh decided.

  Gradually, the landscape outside the car changed, shifting from hulking oil wells to monstrous ponderosa pines as they drove up a winding, mountainous road. The higher they ascended into the Sierra Nevada range, the more Leigh’s ears popped. She eventually turned onto a dirt road that serpentined towards the cabin, supposedly perched near Junco Creek, which the schlocky property rental website described as a “woodsey owaysis.”

  She’d decided on the cabin because of Ben’s zeal for the outdoors, which had manifested when he joined Cub Scouts in the third grade.

  They drove past a few other cabins tucked back into the pines. Eventually the dirt road ended near their rental, as the caretaker’s directions stated in the email.

  When Leigh pulled up to the cabin, Ben’s eyes lit up.

  “Do you like it?” Leigh asked.

  “It’s cool,” Ben told her.

  The cabin sat at the top of a shady slope overlooking Junco Creek, which flowed beneath a thick canopy of pines and river birches. The single-story cabin was made of wood shingles with a covered front porch. Aged, rustic, and remote. Clearly built by hand from the foundation up to the last stone placed atop the chimney.

  As she exited her car, the fragrance of the Sierra Nevada pines soothed her, as did the faint chatter of the creek.

  Ben walked down to the water while Leigh carried a few bags from the car.

  She dug out the key hidden beneath a carved wooden owl statue that sat near the door. The statue looked as if it had been there as long as the cabin, the wood dry and aged. As she opened the front door, the cabin exhaled a musty breath. It was ugly inside—knotty pine in every direction, tattered rugs and shabby furniture—but at least there was a bathroom, running water, and a kitchen. It didn’t feel homey, but it was perfect for a teenage boy, which was all that mattered to Leigh. If anything, she admired the massive stone fireplace. Despite the summer temperatures, it demanded to be used.

  There were two bedrooms on either side of the short hallway. Plenty of windows in both, although the pines and the tattered red curtains filtered most of the sunlight. On each mattress were folded stacks of linens and blankets, which Leigh had forgotten to pack. When she returned to the kitchen, she saw a jar of honey sitting on the counter with a note: “Welcome to Junco Creek!” signed by Douglas Sable, that same name from the email exchanges.

  Ben entered the cabin. Looked everything up and down while Leigh explored the kitchen.

  “How was the creek?” Leigh asked.

  “It’s nice,” he said, his voice tepid. “I saw an owl in one of the trees by the water.”

  “Are they usually out in the daytime?”

  “This one was.”

  Ben disappeared down the short hallway to check out the bedrooms and the bathroom.

  “Hungry?” Leigh asked when he returned.

  “Sure.”

  “I can make you a peanut butter and honey sandwich,” Leigh said, holding up the jar. “Your favorite.”

  “That’s not my favorite anymore,” Ben told her. “But I’ll eat it.”

  “What’s your favorite now?”

  “Melted ham and swiss,” Ben said. “The way Dad makes it.”

  He intended the comment to nick her. And it did. She expected there would be plenty more thorny remarks during the trip, but she hoped they could talk. If he could hear her side of the story, then maybe he could come to some sort of understanding that she wasn’t doing this to hurt him, that it wasn’t a choice. Surely Russ had explained that to him, but Ben needed to hear it from her.

  But now wasn’t the time for that conversation. Instead, she busied herself making him lunch. She made a sandwich for herself as well, even though she wasn’t hungry.

  They ate in silence on the front porch.

  The porch swing creaked beneath Leigh. Ben leaned against the railing, his back toward the creek. Despite being thirteen, he still smeared peanut butter on his cheek and dribbled honey down his shirt.

  “Tomorrow it might be nice to—” Leigh began, but a snapping branch interrupted her.

  Ben turned and looked down toward the woods.

  “There’s a man walking up here,” he whispered.

  Leigh stood and saw a large man ascending the slope to the cabin. Shaggy, silver
hair snaked out from beneath a dark cowboy hat. He wore faded black jeans and black boots splotched with fresh mud. The sleeves of his black button-up shirt were rolled up to the elbows, revealing tattooed forearms.

  “Hello,” Leigh called down to him from the edge of the porch, still holding her sandwich.

  “Hello,” the man echoed.

  “Are you . . .”

  “Douglas Sable,” the man said, cresting the slope and approaching the porch steps.

  He took off his hat and placed it against his chest. Up close, his brown skin looked eroded. His smile, however, was oddly white, glowing against his leathered complexion. His eyes were amber, the same color as the dead pine needles crunching beneath his boots. She glanced at his faded tattoos: a snake coiled around a rose on his right forearm and a long bird feather on his left.

  “I hope the cabin is to your liking,” he said.

  A smile sprawled across his face, unnaturally still. He winked at Ben.

  Ben only stared back at Douglas Sable, still unaware of the peanut butter on his face.

  Leigh’s tongue felt suddenly dry. The lingering residue of peanut butter and honey in her mouth made the act of speaking sticky and strained.

  “Thank you for the honey,” she told him.

  “Of course,” he said. “I keep bees. A little hobby of mine.”

  His smile remained intact. Carved into his skin.

  “Do you live around here?” Leigh asked.

  “About a quarter mile down the creek.”

  “And you own all the property? The other cabins?”

  “That’s right,” Douglas Sable told her. “My family has owned this property for generations. Just me now, though. And the occasional visitors, like yourselves.”

  Cicadas chirped, the only dominant sound. Beneath it, the muttering of the creek below. Leigh was suddenly aware of their isolation in an entirely new form. Whereas before it was a welcomed environment for Ben to open up to her, now the unpopulated space made her feel vulnerable. They were the only ones around for miles.

  Leigh stopped herself. There was no direct threat. Douglas Sable appeared to be in his sixties and was likely checking in and making sure they were comfortable. Hospitable, no doubt. Lonely perhaps. Still, Leigh didn’t like the idea of him lingering around, monitoring their visit. His eyes. His smile.

  “It’s a good place for a boy to run around,” Douglas Sable said. “Plenty of woods. No end to them, really. And the creek is always full of fish. There’s fishing gear in the shed over there. Do you like fishing?”

  “Sure,” Ben said, his tone stiff.

  “Well, just be careful when you’re in the woods. Lots of critters. Plenty of snakes. More importantly, mountain lions. They’ll rip you apart if you aren’t ready for them.”

  Before Leigh could admonish the man for speaking that way to her son, Ben replied with enthusiasm. “What about bears?”

  “Oh yes,” Douglas Sable said. “I’ve seen one of those, too.”

  He winked at Ben. Leigh felt a chill needle the back of her neck.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sable,” Leigh said. “We’ll be careful.”

  Still smiling, the man placed his black hat onto his silvery head.

  “Nice meeting you folks,” he said, and turned towards the creek.

  Leigh and Ben watched his imposing figure move back down the slope in lean strides.

  Ben raided the shed, and after finding a fishing pole and tackle box, he spent the afternoon alone by the creek. Leigh busied herself with cleaning the inside of the cabin—removing cobwebs, dusting the furniture, disinfecting the bathroom. Beyond leaving honey, fresh linens, and toilet paper, Douglas Sable had not made the cabin very hospitable. But Leigh didn’t care. Cleaning kept her mind off things.

  Sweeping dust bunnies from beneath the bed in the bedroom, Leigh found a woman’s thin gold wedding band. Crouched on the faded southwestern patterned rug, she held up the ring, wondering about the woman who had lost it. It wasn’t much different from the one Russ gave her fifteen years before. They were babies then. Right out of college. Now her ring was in a small wooden box at home.

  She doubted there would ever be another ring on her finger, but it was too soon to know that. Eventually she would stop living within the void.

  She placed the ring on the nightstand and continued battling the dust.

  As twilight set in, Leigh walked down to the creek and followed the narrow trail along the bank, looking for Ben. She found him leaning against a birch near the creek which ran slow and deep. He heard her approach and turned to look at her but didn’t give Leigh any acknowledgement beyond a fleeting cool glance.

  “Have you caught anything?” she asked.

  “A few.”

  “Are you ready for dinner?”

  “No. This is the best time to fish. I don’t want to go.”

  “It’s getting dark,” she told him.

  “Mom, come on. A few more minutes.”

  “Fine,” she said, but she didn’t leave.

  Instead, she found a log near the bank and sat quietly watching her son reel in the lure and then cast it delicately back into the creek. The mosquitos were thick. Next to the tackle box was a bottle of bug spray. Leigh doused herself, and once the mosquitos left her alone, she was able to relax.

  The twilight teemed with melodies: the shrill stridulation of crickets, the soft babbling of the creek, the buzzing whine of mosquitos, the rustle of wind in the trees. Leigh closed her eyes and listened intently. All the disparate melodies were woven so intricately together—even the sound of Ben’s intermittent sniffs, evidence of allergies he insisted did not exist. Everything elegantly harmonized.

  And then the hoot of an owl pierced the polyphony, disrupting the balance.

  Leigh opened her eyes and looked upward.

  Perched on one of the birch branches jutting over Junco Creek sat an owl, staring down at them with its amber eyes.

  “Is that the owl you saw earlier?” Leigh asked.

  “Same one,” Ben told her, reeling in his line. “It's been watching me all day.”

  The owl hooted again; the sound filled Leigh with a cold, hollowing sensation.

  Ben didn’t cast. Instead, he stood gazing up at the owl.

  “Maybe we should go back,” he told Leigh. “It is getting pretty dark.”

  She helped gather the fishing supplies and together they walked the meandering trail along the creek bank toward the cabin.

  Although she didn’t look back, Leigh sensed the owl following.

  “I wonder why it’s called ‘Junco Creek.’” Leigh said, settling in front of the fireplace. “Maybe Junco was someone’s last name?”

  “It’s a bird,” Ben told her. “Although, I didn’t see any juncos today. Or any other birds, really. Maybe the owl scared them off.”

  Leigh didn’t want to think or talk about the owl, so she said nothing.

  To put the fireplace to use, Leigh suggested they make s’mores. Leigh had converted some wire hangers in one of the bedroom closets into roasting sticks.

  She watched Ben’s face closely as he tore open the thin plastic bag and jabbed two marshmallows on the tip of the straightened coat hanger. Ben sat on the hearth and eased the marshmallows into the flames. Leigh continued to study Ben’s face in silence. In the flickering firelight, she saw ripples of her soon-to-be-ex-husband’s face, ripples of her own. And hints of someone else. Perhaps hints of the man Ben was becoming, developing quietly beneath the boy’s changing skin.

  Ben did not look at her. He fixated on the distending white puffs charring in the flames.

  “Ben,” Leigh said.

  “What?”

  “I want you to know that the last thing I ever want to do is hurt you.”

  His jaw tightened.

  “I know.”

  “It’s just . . . I mean, it’s who I am, you know? I realize now that I spent my whole life fighting to not be who I am.”

  Although she had rehearsed the l
ines in her head innumerable times, they still came out awkwardly and like bad dialogue from a Lifetime movie.

  “I understand it, Mom,” Ben said, but not warmly. “You don’t have to explain it.”

  “But I’m still your mother. I’m still here for you.”

  “You’re not really,” he said. “Not how I need you to be.”

  “How do you need me to be?”

  “Like you were.”

  He was trying hard to keep his face hardened, as if this alone would protect the softness inside him. Like the time last year when she’d walked to the end of the driveway to get the mail and witnessed Ben fall off his bike while performing a stunt for his friends.

  He’d calmly stood after the crash and inspected his bleeding hands. His face was hard as granite at that moment. He walked toward the house, calling over his shoulder to his friends, telling them he was going to wash the blood off and would return in a minute. She followed him inside after witnessing everything. She barely had time to set the mail on the table before he fell apart in her arms. When he was done crying, she helped him wash and bandage the scrapes on his hands, and then his face hardened up again just before he ran back outside to face the other boys.

  “But, Ben, I’m still the same person.”

  He looked her squarely in the eye. “No, you’re not. You’ve changed.”

  “How have I changed?” Leigh asked, a strange fear creeping into her chest.

  “You’re just . . . different,” he said.

  “How?”

  Ben sighed and set the clothes hanger down on the hearth, the marshmallows immersed in the flames. He stood and left the living room, his form dissipating into the darkness of the hallway. A second later, she heard one of the bedroom doors close.

  While her heart tolled painfully in her chest for the first few seconds of being left alone, the pain shifted into something cold and frightening.

  What exactly had changed about her? What was it that Ben saw?

  Whatever it was had caused him to retreat and close the door.

  She searched desperately inside herself, doing a quick scan of any abnormalities that maybe she hadn’t picked up on. Other than anxiety and heartache, which were so prevalent in her life over the past few months that both felt normal, she felt something deep inside her. Lurking beneath the agitated surface. There was no label to attach to it. She could not identify the emotion. The inability to do so rendered it a threat. A heavy, cold lump. A burgeoning mutation.