by L. L. Soares
She walked into the house and back to the kitchen. She removed the robe and pushed it to the back of a shelf in the pantry. She washed away the blood in the kitchen sink and put her damp nightgown back on. She climbed the stairs and crawled into bed. Robert snored softly. She cried silently for a few moments, but any memory quickly faded as she fell asleep.
Jimmy walked down the road to his house. He climbed back into his room through the window and went to bed.
Cathy tried to wipe the blood from the axe, and only managed to get it all over her nightgown. She sat a few feet away from Emily. Not knowing what to do, she lay back and fell asleep watching the stars.
October 1970
The rain pounded on the car’s roof. Steven didn’t notice the weather. He sat and stared at the wall in front of him. He hadn’t slept and couldn’t wrap his mind around what he had to do.
Snapping back to reality, he opened the car door, pushed the umbrella open outside the car and grabbed his briefcase. He rushed across the parking lot to the entrance and stood under the canopy.
“Come in before you catch your death out there.” Alexis held the door open.
Steven nodded. “How are you?”
“I’m fine. You’re a day early. Something must have happened.”
“Everything’s changed. I’ll see you in your office before I leave, and I’ll explain it to you then.”
They walked down the hall to the elevator. Steven, serious and quiet, got in and the doors closed. He reached Cathy’s door and knocked.
Wendy smiled at the doctor. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow. I guess I’ll just have an early lunch.” Wendy grabbed her purse and left, closing the door behind her.
Steven walked over to the table and sat down across from Cathy.
“What’s up?” Cathy smiled and looked up from her book. The expression on Steven’s face unnerved her. “What’s the matter?”
He looked into her eyes and, after a few moments, asked. “Can we talk about your mother?”
“Why do you want to talk about her?” Cathy blew out a breath.
A few moments passed before he responded. “Your father found her suicide note. She wrote out everything that happened in the field that night.”
“She killed herself?” Shocked, Cathy shook her head. “No. She accidentally took too many pills.”
“Your father thought it easier for you if you didn’t know. He only found this note two days ago.” Steven pulled the note from his briefcase and handed it to her.
Cathy unfolded the paper slowly and stared at the writing. She held back her tears. “I wish she hadn’t written this.”
“Why didn’t you tell us the truth, especially after your mother died?”
“I loved my mother and I miss her so much.” The tears overflowed. Cathy got up and paced the room, sobbing into her hands.
Steven stopped her and put his arms around her. He held her tightly and let her cry. Her body shook, tears streaming down her cheeks. When she seemed to finally calm, Steven handed her a handkerchief and, with his arm still around her shoulders, walked her to the sofa. Sitting beside Steven, she blew her nose and took deep breaths. She leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling.
“I thought I had it all figured out.” Cathy shook her head. “My dad told us a story once, about how his father and the other farmers had trouble with snakes. Big rattlers had moved into the fields, and they were afraid one might bite one of their kids. The farmers went into the fields together, wearing boots and carrying hoes and rakes, and scoured all the fields. They killed fourteen rattlesnakes that day and never saw another one after that.”
“Is this part of the real story?”
“I thought I had to find the answer. I saw scarecrows kill people and I saw them walk around that cornfield. I knew no one believed me. I went into the field that night to help Emily. My mother followed me and killed her. I couldn’t tell anyone what I saw, and the next day, Mom didn’t remember any of it. I thought if I told everyone the scarecrows did it, they would believe me. I thought my father and the other farmers would go into the field and kill them, like the snakes.”
“You used Emily’s murder to try and get rid of the scarecrows. Do I have that right?” Steven recognized her calculated plan.
She nodded and turned toward Steven. “Mom got really sick that summer. She couldn’t take care of me very well and she didn’t want my dad to know how sick she felt. Mrs. Cutforth would come over and help her. She’d cook and clean when my mother couldn’t. Sometimes she took me back to her house. The pills didn’t help Mom very much. Mrs. Cutforth brought her a special tea she made from leaves and roots. It made my mom sleep a lot, and sometimes she’d just forget stuff.”
Cathy stopped talking and got up. She walked to the window. The rain pelted the glass, obscuring the view. She stared through the pane. “I couldn’t tell anyone about the things she did during that summer. She never wanted my father to think she was crazy.”
“Were you ever going to tell anyone the truth about Emily’s murder?”
“I’ve almost told you a couple times. I just couldn’t hurt my father. He adored my mother. He still cries when he talks about her. It just had to wait.”
“Your father knows the truth now, and he wants you home with him. My only question is about…”
“You want to know about the scarecrows? I believed they were real. Jimmy committed suicide because I said he had to get rid of them. I told him to put them back into the pond. I thought it solved the problem.”
Steven walked to the window and watched the rain with Cathy. “We’ll talk about all this. You’re going home now. I’ll go tell Alexis and complete your release. Wendy can help you pack. We’ll leave in about an hour.”
Cathy sniffled back the tears.
August 1974
Cathy looked around from the swing on the porch. The city expansion plans had destroyed the old farms, rerouted the creek and filled in the ditch. Blacktop covered the road now and the highway ran four lanes. She could see the framework of a shopping mall sprouting in the fields across the road. The Cutforths’ property became an industrial building. City planners demolished the roundhouse, and only three tracks remained.
Cathy crossed the road and made her way around the construction site to the old racetrack. The concrete grandstands and stables had disappeared. She couldn’t find the pond at first, but the three old willow trees finally gave it away. Dirt filled the hole and shoots of grass sprang from the ground where the water had been.
It surprised her to find a bench under one of the trees, and she sat down in the shade. This would be her last time here. They were leaving in two days. The city expropriated the house, and her father arranged for the two of them to move to Brantford to live with her brother Richard and his family until they found a place of their own.
She sat at Jimmy’s grave. They never did recover his body. She remembered those days when he laughed at her books, and they sang songs, and caught frogs. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the pleasant memories.
The hand on her shoulder gave her start, and she jumped up and turned around quickly.
“I bet you thought you’d never see me again?” Jimmy smiled.
“I…I thought…how did…” Cathy’s voice left her, and she dropped back onto the bench and stared at him. He sat down beside her.
“I’m sorry I startled you. I missed you, Cathy.” He sat down beside her. “I’m not really Jimmy. I’m not sure who I am. I came up with him when they pulled him from the pond. He died in the water, and I thought I could just be him for a little while. Then you and I became friends.”
Cathy’s heart pounded. She listened to his voice.
“Those murderous thugs that took over the scarecrows, they came up too. I did get rid of them. I threw those sacks onto the bottom of the empty pond and watched truckloads of di
rt bury them for good. I wanted you to know I did what you asked me to do.” He looked sad. “I’ll miss you. I have to go now.”
Cathy sat on the edge of the bench, took a deep breath and slowly reached for his face. As her fingers touched his cheek, Jimmy grinned and disappeared.
About the Author
Christine is a Canadian writer, living with her husband in Windsor, Ontario. An avid reader from an early age, she cites a long list of favorite classic and contemporary authors. Introduction to Edgar Allen Poe at twelve, hooked her and the attraction to the macabre continues to this day. She studied English along with Accounting in University and worked as an Accountant and Business Consultant. She retired from a long and successful career in 2012, and now writes full-time.
Story telling is her first love and she’s been writing since high school. Christine constantly comes up with new ideas. She works hard at weaving her characters into interesting fictional accounts. Her office is stacked with books, and her desk is covered with numerous writing projects in various stages. This is her first horror story. She is already working on the next one, and constructing the outline for a third. Christine also writes contemporary fiction, and romance.
For more information about Christine, visit her website or Facebook page:
christinehaytonwrites.wordpress.com www.facebook.com/ChristineHaytonWrites
Winterwood
JG Faherty
Dedication
To my wife, Andrea, my parents, and my friends who continue to have my back through thick and thin in this crazy world.
To my second eyes: Rena Mason, Patrick Freivald, Erinn Kemper, Peter Salomon, and Chantal Noordeloos – as always, you helped shave off the rough edges!
To writers everywhere: you are the ones who are the story tellers, who keep the tales and traditions and legends alive.
And to the editors and artists at Samhain, especially Don D’Auria, who continue to put out exceptional quality for all those readers who enjoy a shiver and a nightmare with their reading.
Winterwood
Dec. 24, 1911
Death pursued Anders Bach and his friends through the freezing night.
“Faster! Faster!”
Anders needed no urging from his companions to hurry. Not when the Yule Cat had them in its sights. They’d thought the tales of the Jólaköttur nothing but silly bedtime stories, tales to terrify little children.
They were wrong.
He sped down the street as if swept along by the winter winds that carried the ice and snow from the mountains. Two of his classmates veered to the left. He couldn’t tell who, thanks to the tears in his eyes from the wind and cold. The rest of them flew as fast as their legs could carry them down the slick cobbled stones of the empty street. Someone shouted for help—“Hilfe! Hilfe mir!”—but to no effect. The words only bounced off the battened shutters and locked doors of the village homes. If anyone inside was awake to hear, they prudently paid no heed. Not during the nights of the Yule when the doors between worlds opened and the monsters roamed the earth.
Behind them, the Yule Cat roared in anticipation of its kill, and warm liquid dampened Anders’s pants as his bladder let loose. He didn’t let it slow him. Better pants soaked with pisse than eaten alive.
Somebody cried out, a high-pitched wail of pain and terror. Anders thought it might be Heinrich but he couldn’t be sure, not with his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Anders didn’t slow to find out. To slow or look back meant certain death. Or worse.
He saw his street coming up and waited until the last second to make his turn, hoping the cat couldn’t stop in time. He twisted his body and cut left, only to have his boots slip on the icy stones. Pain flared in his knees and elbows where they struck the pavement, but he ignored it, pushing himself to his feet and forcing his legs to move again. Another scream, this one cut off midcry.
That’s two it’s killed. Why won’t it stop?
He knew the answer, even in his terror. Once the Yule Cat had the taste of human blood, it wouldn’t rest until it got every foolish child who’d dared to tempt fate.
Three houses down, an open window beckoned to him. His bedroom. Once he got inside, he’d be safe. His papa would know what to—
A long, wailing yowl so close he pictured the giant cat a step behind him, a massive paw raised and ready to strike. Anders put on a desperate burst of speed, hunching his body forward to make a smaller target. Something tore his hat away, and he prayed it was only the wind.
Two more strides and he reached his window. He leaped up, grabbing the sill with both hands. He’d made it! He lifted one leg and—
Agony exploded across his side and the world spun around. His head hit the side of the house and the world went dark.
When he opened his eyes again, he lay on his back in the snow.
Staring into the face of hell.
The Yule Cat towered over him, twice the size of any jungle cat, its glowing, green eyes narrowed to slits and its ears laid back. A snarl rumbled up from its broad chest, and the stench of decayed meat fell on Anders like a foul sheet. The cat raised a paw, exposing claws as long as a boy’s hand. Shreds of bloody cloth hung from two of them.
An explosion echoed through the street and the cat moved back a step, revealing a most welcome sight. His father, nightgown flapping in the wind, standing at the open window with a rifle in his hands.
“Go away!” Josef Bach hollered at the cat and then fired the rifle once more. This time the shot had more of an effect. The giant cat roared and swatted at the window. Josef ducked, narrowly avoiding the lethal claws that shattered glass and carved thick gouges through wood. When he reappeared, he held something different in his hands.
A box wrapped in red ribbon.
“That’s enough, Cat,” he called out, waving the box. “This is new clothes for the boy.”
The cat’s eyes narrowed and it looked from the window to Anders, one paw raised to strike again. For a moment, Anders feared the presence of the gift might not be enough to stay the beast’s killing blow, that the old tales were wrong and it really could kill a child who’d received a present of clothing from his family for Christmas.
Then, with an angry growl still rumbling in its chest, the cat turned and slunk down the road. Anders remained on the ground as he watched it go, unable to believe he’d been spared. Only when it had disappeared into the night did he attempt to stand.
As soon as he moved, his pain returned a thousand times worse than before. He cried out and grabbed at his wound. Blood, hot against his cold hands, seeped through his fingers. Puddles of it darkened the snow where he’d lain. From far away, his father’s voice called to him, “Anders? Anders!”
Then the night closed in and claimed him.
His last thought was that the Jólaköttur had won after all.
Dec. 23, 1979
“And that is how I came to have these.” Anders Bach pulled up his shirt, revealing three twisting, white scars that ran diagonally from his back to the tops of his ribs and down almost to his navel.
His two grandsons let out simultaneous gasps and he nodded. “Ja, I’ve carried the mark of the cat all my life. A reminder that you must be good all year and earn your Christmas presents or the Yule Cat will come for you and eat you alive.”
Anders formed his hands into claws and lunged at the boys, who yelped and jumped back right on cue.
Despite the seriousness of his story, Anders had to fight back a grin at their wide-eyed looks. Twins in more than appearance, the boys reacted the same, moved the same and quite often thought the same. Which sometimes led to trouble since it meant neither of them had an opposite to advise caution when it came to making the kinds of bad decisions mischievous nine-year-olds were prone to.
“What happened next?”
“Did the Yule Cat ever come back for you?”
Anders shoo
k his head. “I never saw it again. But then, I never disobeyed my—”
“What the hell are you telling them now?”
Anders looked up and saw his daughter, Anna, and her husband, Paul, in the opening between the living room and the kitchen, their arms filled with shopping bags. White flakes of snow decorated their hats and shoulders. He’d been so caught up in his story that he’d never heard them come home.
“Grandpa says the Yule Cat is coming tonight, Mom.”
“And it eats children who’ve been bad all year.”
“Oh, for… That’s enough stories for tonight, I think.” Anna handed her bags to her husband and then pointed at the children. “Nick, Jake. Upstairs. Now. Time for bed. I’ll be up in ten minutes and you both better be under the covers with your teeth brushed.”
“But Mommm…” they whined in unison.
“No buts. March.”
Anna waited until the boys were out of the room before turning to Anders.
“How many times have I asked you to stop with all that fairy-tale nonsense? Thanks to your stories about Krampus and the Wild Hunt, they were so afraid of Santa last year they wouldn’t even pose for a picture at the mall. I finally had to tell them Santa isn’t real. Not that it mattered. Even after I took away that big chunk of their childhood before I wanted to, they still ended up having nightmares for weeks. Now you’re filling their heads with more bullshit to keep them up at night.”
“The old tales are important.” Anders knew too well the futility of his argument but couldn’t help himself. “Otherwise, they die out and then people aren’t safe. Besides, they do keep children from misbehaving. Look at you. You never got into trouble as a girl. You parents today, you coddle the children. Too much entitlement leads to spoiled brats and bad grades. And this time of year, that’s not good.”
“Oh, for the love of…” Anna shook her head and sat down on the arm of the couch across from him. “Did you ever think that maybe all these superstitions aren’t good, either? Look at you. You grew up afraid of your own shadow and did your best to make me the same way. Of course I was good. I had phobias about everything, thanks to your gruesome stories. You know how many times I woke up in the middle of the night from bad dreams when I was their age?” She motioned toward the stairs.
