by Mr. Deadman
Things have changed a lot since that summer. I don’t hunt anymore, and there’s no way that I would spend one night in the woods. Daddy died in 2000 in a collision over in Roanoke, and Prez was in rehab by 15, and now, lives and works with addicts in Ventura, California. And Grandma, well, parts of her are still flitting around in that eclipse, I guess. Daddy sprinkled the rest of her over the mountain and in the creeks. Maybe she’ll come back together and live to fight Mothman another day, but these bones won’t be there to witness it.
When I have to drive past Wolfcreek on my way to Union, I can feel the land staring at me, but I don’t stop, and I don’t look. Most people would think it strange, I guess, a man disowning his family’s home place; but if I told them about my encounter with Mothman, I’m pretty sure they’d understand my decision to leave. I’m just not sure Grandma would.
About the author:
Sylvia Mann lived on 750 acres of land in West Virginia that serves as the setting for "Eclipse at Wolf Creek," where she dabbled in bee keeping and goat herding (more like rounding goats up who escaped the electric fencing). While she never saw Mothman on the mountain, she did see some pretty odd looking creatures, such as the jumbo, rat-like nutria that appeared after floods and looked to have fed off nuclear waste.
In 2007 she was a finalist in Glimmer Train’s Family Matters contest with the first chapter of her memoir, Love Me ‘til My Eyes Go Black. In 2012 she earned her M.F.A. in fiction from Warren Wilson College.
Currently, she lives in South Florida and teaches creative writing. Follow Sylvia on Twitter: @fivedollarhat
No. 7
William Marchese
Wind blew granules of sand against stray newspaper and debris, uncovering the knuckles of a hand. Fingers twitched, then straightened. Sand slid from a culminated center, cascading down the sides of an arm. Shoulders emerged, then a head. A body slowly rose from the earth, standing erect below scant moonlight. Elongated hands almost touched the ground.
A raspy croak heaved dry, groaning tones.
***
Three kids were playing on the other side of the beach, close to the playground, when they found a dark-green metal hull half-submerged in the sand. The shell was cracked open enough that they saw various helter-skelter buttons on the inside, their flashing lights growing faint. On the outside of the casing, painted in white, was the number 7.
Off on the sand, a man stumbled toward them. Sand plastered to his face, he wore army fatigues, arms reaching out. When he called for help, the boys took off, frightened by the sound of his voice. They ran for three blocks before slowing down.
"You see that shit? I knew we shouldn't've hung out here." Jake was breathing heavy, hands on knees. "You see what it was?"
"Your dad!"
"Very funny, Jimmy!" Jake glared, his curly, red hair almost seemed on fire.
"Aw, c’mon, Jake, you know I’m only playing."
"Come 'ere, look!" Ralph pointed back where they'd come from, his straight brown hair almost covering eyes franticly darting about the dimly lit street.
Jimmy had turned pale, causing a bunch of freckles to stand out more. He took out an inhaler and sucked hard on the nozzle. "What happened?"
Ralph threw his hands up. “I could’ve sworn that freak was following us. What was that? Someone doesn’t just come out of sand." Ralph shot a look at Jake who was hunched over. "Right, Jake?"
Jake opened his mouth to say something as they heard that gruff voice once again.
"He-e-elp!"
"Whoa, shit." Jake pointed at the trees and was able to make out a man in an army fatigue jacket. Sand slid from the guy’s disheveled hair. "Look, there's something in there."
"Run!" the voice yelled before they heard footsteps retreating into the woods.
Jake jumped, slipping on mud and falling to the grass.
"You okay?" Ralph held out a hand to Jake, glancing to the trees.
"Yeah." Jake pulled himself up. "Thanks. Where'd he go?"
A loud crack sounded from somewhere off in the distance, like a tree coming down. Then another. The tops of trees moved, bowing before shooting back up, some breaking from the weight of whatever moved them. It was advancing, and from the sounds of whatever progressed beyond the woodland’s edge, it was clearly coming for them.
The boys took off, ducking into an alley between a residential building and the neighborhood grocery store, which had closed for the night.
"What the hell was that?" Jimmy asked as they ran down the tight alley.
At the end of the alley, the man from before popped out. He stood there like Freddy Krueger in those A Nightmare on Elm Street movies, doubled over, gazing up at the boys as though contemplating something very wrong. "Jake?"
"He knows your name?" Jimmy asked in a shaky voice.
"How do you—?" Jake started.
"Your dad was in the army with me. He—" the man said while emerging from the shadows.
"He died," Jake finished. "What does that have to do with anything?"
The man lowered his eyes, reaching into the camouflage jacket. "He wanted me to give you something."
Fumbling around, the man pulled out dog tags. The glow from a streetlamp flashed off the stainless steel, piercing Jake's line of sight. The stranger deposited them into eager hands.
"Dad..."
"You look just like him, kid."
Jake stood mesmerized, looking at the nameless man.
"My name is Rick."
"Hey, Rick. Di-did you see that thing in the park? What the hell is it?" Jake pointed to the playground, surveying the alley in instinct. At this, the other boys turned as well.
A cracking of branches and trees came from the opening between the buildings, echoing down the alley.
Jake looked back, and the man named Rick was gone.
"What the hell's going on?" Jake asked, feeling as though something would jump out at any moment.
"Numberrrr Seveeennnn!" A deep, guttural voice growled, echoing in the night.
"C'mon, let's get to my place," Jake called.
"You think your mom still got some of that mac and cheese?" Jimmy smiled.
"Shut up, dope. You’re thinking about food? C'mon!"
Jake led the boys down the other side of the alley and behind some houses. The boys came to the end of a cul-de-sac near Old Man Buller's place. Jimmy was huffing harder than he'd ever done in gym class as they passed through grass and yards, and over a gate and across a porch. The boys panted, running for their lives from the entity that seemed to be everywhere.
Risking a peek back, Jake saw the elongated head and impossibly long arms which stretched down half of the thing’s body. It was a humanoid figure, only by definition. It stood by a street post. Standing erect, its muscular legs flexed.
The boys watched as the thing ducked back into trees, the cracking noise echoing in the darkness. Trees bobbed and pulled downward as the creature moved along the edge of the surrounding woods.
They all finished racing to Jake’s house, huddling at the back door.
Jake frantically reached into his pockets. "Shit. Where are my keys?"
"Dude, hurry. Don’t you have one hidden?" Jimmy swayed on his feet as though he needed to use the bathroom.
"Oh, snap! Yeah! I do!" Jake exclaimed, kneeling by the WELCOME mat. "Bingo!"
Ralph exhaled, brushing black hair from his eyes. "Thank God—WHAT?" He jumped. "Holy shit, don't do that, dude!"
Rick was now standing behind the boys, almost crouching behind the side of the house, which was where he must have come from.
"What are you doing, dude?" Jake clutched his chest. "I nearly shit myself."
"He was the lucky one," Rick said, ignoring the remarks.
"Who, man?" Jake’s face took on a wounded look, guessing this had something to do with his father.
"Your dad."
Jake's eyes were stuck on the man a moment longer before he tore them away to slide the key into the rear door lock. Numberrrr Seveee
nnnn! Jake remembered. He quickly turned back to the man. "Before you disappear again, what is number 7?"
Rick looked down.
"You might wanna let us know,” Jake said. “There's some crazy shit happening, and you seem to be a part of it." The alarm warned and he hit the code.
"It's my name—my project name. Your father was number 6."
"Oh, fucking great. My father was some sort of damn experiment?"
Jimmy and Ralph rushed inside, as Jake hit the lights in the dark kitchen. Somewhere faraway sirens wailed.
"Is that the government?" Jake waved at the window over the sink. "Are they looking for you?"
Wearing a feigned grimace, Rick shrugged. "I did what I came here to do."
Jake held a hand out to Rick. "Whoa, where you goin'? You need to tell me more about my dad."
Jimmy went to the stove. "Aha!" he called, lifting the pot lid above his head before grabbing some plates. "And she threw hot dogs in—yes!"
"Um, where are you going?" Jake asked Rick, who was wandering around the house. "Hey!"
Rick came back from the dark. "Where's the basement?"
Looking down at the dog tags, Jake saw his father's name and info stamped into the metal. He clutched them to his chest as if his father could protect him.
***
The basement was a place where Jake went to play video games, by himself and with his friends. The room had a sliding door showcasing the backyard and the group of trees they'd come from. Past those trees and further down was where they'd left the monster.
"Uh, guys? I may have done something very fucking bad," Jake said.
"And what the hell might that be?" Ralph asked, closing the shades on the sliding door.
"I-I didn't know it would work. I just did it, like this book says. Once we heard my dad was killed, I was so angry. I got the idea from a movie, Pumpkinhead. This guy's kid, he gets killed by careless city people, and the father—he goes to this witch and conjures up this monster to get revenge. I didn't know it was real!" Jake looked at each of them in turn, holding up a book. A lock of hair fell out.
Rick took the hair, and then eyed Jake’s with a raised brow. "The government is doing experiments on dead soldiers. They make ‘em come back to keep fighting. But there are these things designated to them. Demons."
The boys all watched Rick, captivated.
"See, I told ya." Jimmy swallowed a mouthful of mac. "He’s a zombie."
"Don’t worry, Jake. It wasn't you who conjured that thing,” Rick continued. “I must bring it back where it came from."
Just then a loud, roaring noise came from beyond the sliding doors as they slowly opened.
Jake’s face dripped with sweat.
Rick held up the lock of hair in front of Jake. "Is this really your dad’s?"
Jake nodded. Then he appeared to be thinking of something that distressed him. "I felt it kill him!" he blurted. “I know I did.”
"You’re connected to it. But I’ll take it back."
Jake grabbed the man's arm. But it wasn't enough. Rick was out the door, on the monster in seconds, gripping its neck. He punched, then seemed to shove his hand into its mouth. Jake couldn't actually see the monster yet. It was as though the two had merged, melded into one being.
The thing shrieked as it stumbled back inside the room, heading for the stairs. There was a great light which caused the three boys to shield their eyes. It walked like a primate, swinging elongated hands, reaching, smashing a lamp in its way. It stopped and an oblong face turned to Jake. Black leathery jowls worked as the muscular jaw ground teeth that reminded Jake of knives. Its eyes were imbedded within crusty flesh that had cracked and oozed an unrecognizable liquid. Those eyes locked on the boy, and Jake felt his bladder let go, warming the front of his jeans.
Rick's arm grabbed the thing by the waist, lifting it into some sort of hole that had opened at the foot of the stairs.
The creature was sucked in, and for a moment neither it, nor Rick, could be seen. Then Rick emerged, elbows on the edge of the hole in the carpet.
Jake reached forward, grabbing Rick’s arm.
Rick said, "Kid, let me go."
"But you can’t die..." Wiping his eyes, Jake feared losing Rick was the last connection to his father.
"Let him go!" Ralph called. "That thing doesn't belong here!"
"Yeah! Let him take it back where it belongs!" Jimmy said.
Jake shook his head. "No, I can't!" He looked down at Rick who now appeared familiar. "Dad!"
The man's features screwed up. "Jake, I'm not your dad. Trust me."
Wind blew out of the hole and seemed to suck it in simultaneously.
Jimmy was standing by the doorway, freckles bright red, crying like a baby.
"You have to let go," Ralph held on to the doorframe, reaching out for Jake to grab his hands.
But, Jake wouldn’t let Ralph pull him away. Jake was desperate to save the man sliding into the pit. Cringing, Jake’s fingers loosened, and his knuckles unlocked. He felt Rick's hand slipping away, fingers growing preternaturally long, as he fell back into the portal. The hole started to close.
Rick became smaller, getting sucked back into the void.
Jake didn't let go, even though the hand clinging to his forearm wasn't Rick's, but was black and leathery. Ultra-long nails dug into the boy's forearm, clawing for purchase.
"No!!!" But it was too late. The portal must have been open for too long.
The last thing on Jake’s mind was witnessing Rick vanishing into the blackness.
***
What have I become?
Rick gripped the dog tags, eyes closed. He'd done unimaginable things in the war, but this night was different. In his mind, Rick replayed seeing the kid on the other side of the portal, Jacob's son. Saw the boy uselessly holding on to thoughts of his father.
The next thing Rick knew, he had pulled himself back up and out of the hole.
"Oh, God..." Rick said to the empty room. Tears ran down his cheeks. He rubbed at the stubble, knowing there was no way he would be able to stop what was going to happen next. Even if he tried to change events, to think of something different in order to stop it, that wasn’t possible.
The way the demon inside him grabbed the boy, pulling his arm off, made him cringe. The string of skin stretched to an incredible length before snapping back against a blood-soaked chest. Jake's face was a mask of pure horror as Rick tore the boy to shreds.
He had climbed out of that hole to kill the other boys just as it closed. No witnesses, he heard a hardened army voice bark in his mind. Rick laughed. "What am I?"
The bottle of Jack Daniels at his lips, Rick took a pull and swallowed hard. When he brought it down to his lap, the hand holding it was elongated and black. He sent the bottle crashing across the room.
He reached for a revolver on the couch.
"I did what you wanted, though," Rick said to a picture of his platoon on the night table, the gun pointed at his temple. "I got it to your kid. The rest ain’t on me.”
About the author:
William works "the day job" in lower Manhattan, while still finding time to get his writing career going. He has been published in Hindered Souls, Deadman's Tome, and has a forthcoming story titled “Daddy” in Unnerving Magazine. He is currently an affiliate member of the Horror Writers Association.
You can follow him on Twitter here: @Wcmarchese, or visit his website at www.wcmarchese.com.
Criatura
John Palisano
“Well, gawd-damn it, Bertha.”
Bertha, being the unreliable Jeep Cherokee she’d been since Day One, has just decided to throw up all her coolant while mangling yet another perfectly good aftermarket radiator right here on the side of the northbound 118. The white hot smoke billows upwards, obscuring the perfect, clear Canyon Country sky.
I want to take off my baseball cap and smack it against the hood. I mean, I’ve seen that so many times in movies. It just seems like that would be
the olive in the martini. But I have another idea. There is an aluminum baseball bat on the backseat, along with all the painting supplies Jerry is entrusting I get back to Pasadena. I figure I can use the bat to beat the hell out of the damned Jeep. Take out some existential frustration, which, if I’m to be honest, is sorely needed. There’s just so much nothing a man can take out of a truck.
I inhale a deep breath and count backward from ten like Jerry told me to do when my temper flares. Give myself time for the red to pass and for my thoughts to unravel and wind down a bit. It works enough for me to think I should go back in the cab and plug in my phone. I can at least turn the ignition to the first position and power up the phone while I—
Something big, wet and nasty hits me squarely in the side of my head, knocking my cheap camouflage baseball cap straight to the ground. The whole side of my head is slimy and covered in warm goo. I put my hand up to my face, but stop touching it because my skin tingles and burns.
Then it stings worse.
Water. Get some water on it. You’ve got one of them mini-bottles of Arrowhead in the cup holder. I hurry over toward the driver’s side door, aiming to get the water onto my ever-hurting skin as fast as possible, when something else crashes into my shin and side of my left leg. I look down and see another heavy glop has struck, rolling away from me. As it does, I make out the distinct features of the skull of some kind of creature. Looks too small to be a person’s. Looks like it’s got a little snout. But maybe . . .
Its strange face looks gaunt, the skin uneven, bumpy, and colored reflective greens and silvers, similar to the lizards so prevalent to San Placerita.
A sound like a hellhound stepping on a rusty nail fills the empty desert air.
