Under the Overtree

by James A. Moore

  Cassie held onto him as if to keep him from blowing away in the wind, he was grateful for the aid. He leaned ever so slightly forward and ran his hand over the unmarred portion of his niece’s face, hoping against hope that she would recover soon. Knowing that she wouldn’t. Not fully, not with the baby of a rapist growing inside of her.

  The thoughts he had were as depressing as the lyrics from one of his old favorites; like Mick Jagger, he wanted the world painted black. Looking over at the young man he almost wished were his son, P.J. realized that Mark had different lyrics in mind; he wanted it all painted red. Blood red. He suppressed a shudder at the thought, all the while wondering what was happening to his young friend. Just when had he developed that sneer of hatred and contempt? Just when had he started looking through people when he spoke to them instead of looking at them? He looked at the scar on Mark Howell’s face and again suppressed a shudder; he suspected he knew and he feared that it would soon be too late to save his friend’s life, to say nothing of his sanity, his soul.

  Slowly they left the room, with Mark taking up the rear, as if he were daring anything or anyone to touch anyone else that he cared about. Most who saw him got out of his way. For a boy just turned sixteen, he looked powerful and intimidating. P.J. prayed that no one cross his path. He knew just the same that someone would. A deep sense of dread filled P.J. Sanderson to overflowing. He didn’t know where, he didn’t know when, but he suspected that before long, the plans of something otherworldly would lead Mark into a confrontation. He thought about the past and prayed he was wrong.

  8

  Tony couldn’t hold the anger, it slipped away from him like a lost dream. All he could feel was shame; shame that his sister had been so injured and he had not been there to protect her. Why? Because while she was being raped, impregnated, he was looking for a book, the same book he now held in his hands. He longed to tear it to shreds, but the energy refused to hold, shame sapped him of all strength.

  Besides, it was his uncle’s. He could never do anything to hurt his uncle, not in a million years. He’d already hurt the man enough when he stole the damned thing.

  He looked at the book closely, squinting to keep the sun’s glare from blinding him; his shades were in his car and his car was at the house. He’d felt like walking today. The book was bound in fine grain leather, dyed to the color of rust with some primitive dye that smelled like leather, dust and age. He stopped to caress the supple cover, then pulled the book open to a random page, looking at the odd writing style, the language he couldn’t hope to read, with letters in its alphabet that simply didn’t exist in this modern age. He guessed that the old tome was worth a pretty penny, but he couldn’t understand the need his uncle felt to have the book immediately. He shrugged lightly, guessing that the damn thing was research for yet another of his uncle’s books. Maybe he needed to write, needed to write in the same way that Tony needed his anger, as a way of escaping the pain and frustration that tore into him more with each step. He wished his uncle the best of luck with whatever his need, he hoped his luck was better than the luck of his nephew, the loser, the one who watched while everyone he loved died or left or was injured by fate.

  He tossed the book casually in the air, unaware of the man that followed him, unaware of Them and the way that They watched the man, fear trembling in Their bodies.

  “Soon,” They whispered. “Soon We shall destroy him.” The wind in the woods howled as if with the laughter of mad men, mocking the courage in Their voices. “But not today…. Soon.” They silenced Themselves, remaining as still as statues, when They noticed the Hunter cocking his head, as if he had heard something, in the woods. The thought terrified Them: he shouldn’t be that powerful, he hadn’t been when last They had met.

  9

  Tyler watched from his window as life proceeded without him; he had always known that it would, but now he had his confirmation.

  “Useless,” he whispered through vocal cords made strange by lack of use. “I’m utterly useless.” With the weight of the world on his shoulders, he forced himself up from the too soft recliner in which he had spent the majority of the last week. He felt greasy from the lack of proper grooming and he knew his deodorant had died at least three days ago. Scratching at his chin, idly surprised by the stubble he found there, he made his way, slowly, towards the bathroom and the promise of a shower. It wasn’t so much that he cared if he was clean; it was more that the smell emanating from his body had started to become a distraction to his moping.

  Tyler was certain that he could have taken the entire situation with a light heart if she’d just dumped him and gone on her way; he was more than halfway expecting her do just that, even when they were on a date and having a great time. But, to lose his heart’s most recent flame because some asshole in a car couldn’t hold his liquor? No. That he could not tolerate. He set the water in the shower as hot as he could physically tolerate and stepped into the ferocious torrent. The scalding fluid felt more likely to burn the filth away then to wash it off, he didn’t care.

  A small part of his mind, the part that had, until recently been giving him directions, protested his apathy. He did his best to ignore it. It said: “What about Mark? Aren’t you supposed to be stopping whatever it is that’s happening to him?”

  Tyler replied with, “Who gives a fuck?”

  It called back, “Isn’t he your best friend?”

  “No, he’s Cassie’s best friend.”

  “Then who is your best friend?”

  “I don’t have one. I don’t have any friends.”

  In response to that last remark, the tiny almost silenced part of his brain decided to make him see reason. With a sudden fight for control over the depression that had taken hold of the rest of him, Tyler’s cynicism forced his eyes open, making him shriek with the sudden pain of too hot, soapy water running into his tear glands. Anger and depression fought a savage battle for Tyler’s soul and for the first time in his life, anger won. Tyler was tired of getting the shit beat out of him by life. Really, really tired of having to put up with that kind of shit. Standing taller than he had in…well, forever, really, Tyler stepped from the shower and looked at his soaking wet steaming figure in the fogged mirror. With the condensation in his way, he could almost consider himself to be attractive, in a geeky kind of way, but attractive nonetheless.

  He toweled himself off vigorously, promising himself that he would not tolerate the blues in his soul any longer. He felt better than he had in days. He even went all out and blow dried his hair. After discarding the filthy blue robe that had been his clothing for the last three days, Tyler got himself dressed in his best jeans and a plaid shirt he had never taken out of its original shrink-wrap. He slid into a pair of boots that he almost never bothered with, jet black and glossy enough to reflect his face. He put on his coke bottle glasses and looked again at himself in the mirror. His figure had filled out slightly over the course of the summer and he looked almost human in his own estimation. He studied his face with careful scrutiny and then pulled back with a look of contempt “Still too many zits, Tyler-me-lad and you still look like shit.” The morning’s ritual over with, he picked up the phone and started dialing P.J.’s phone-number. Time to get back on with the process of living. No more time for moping around the house.

  Sometimes, just sometimes, Tyler was almost convinced that he was a mad man; every time he decided to get good and depressed something stopped him. Nine out of ten times, that something was the face he saw in the mirror.

  10

  P.J. and Tyler were now at the Basilisk, sitting down and talking animatedly about what to do with what they normally called the “Mark Situation,” when Tony arrived with the book in his hand. P.J.’s eyes flew open wide, as he saw the binding on the book. With eager hands he all but ripped the tome from his nephew’s hands, eagerly scanning the pages.

  “And it’s so nice to see you, too, Uncle Phil.” Tony regretted the words, as he saw the man’s eyes turn away fro
m the book and lock onto his.

  “Where did you find it, Tony?” The voice was casual, but Tony knew better than to think he was in the clear, in a matter of an instant all of his problems were forgotten save that his uncle was very upset.

  “Uh, I loaned it to Patrick. I guess I’d forgotten about it. Sorry.” The words sounded like a lie to his own ears, he knew they wouldn’t cut the mustard with his mother’s only sibling. He felt his face redden as the man studied him.

  “Hmm. Well, we’ll discuss this at a more appropriate time. Perhaps we should leave your parents out of this one. I don’t think they’d take well to your relieving me of my three-hundred year old rare books.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Phil, I really am sorry.”

  The man nodded, apparently satisfied. “You didn’t by chance read this book, did you?” Again the casual voice, too casual to Tony’s sensitive ears.

  “No, just looked at some of the illustrations. Weird stuff.”

  “I should say so.” P.J. Sanderson walked slowly towards the island in the center of his bookstore, carefully flipping the pages of the old musty volume as he went. It seemed that he had lost interest in Tony, for the moment at least.

  Tyler looked past the author, nodding a hello to Tony who responded in like.

  Tyler looked at the writer, studied him briefly and looked over to where Tony was standing near the front door. “Maybe you should fill him in, P.J., maybe he can help.” Tyler wasn’t in the mood to watch anyone squirm, not even an old enemy like Tony, he just wanted this done.

  P.J. Sanderson looked up from the book, then glanced quickly over at his nephew before turning to lock gazes with Tyler. Finally, after what seemed like around a hundred years, he nodded. “Come over here, Tony. Let’s see if your imagination is suitably primed for the telling of an old story.” Tony stepped up to the island, smiling his thanks at Tyler for getting him off of the hot seat.

  Tony was about to reply, when the voice came from the front of the store, “Well, I don’t know about your young friend, Philly, but I’m always in the mood for a good ghost story.” All of them looked over at the same time, startled by the sound of a cold empty voice where there should not have been one; the bell connected to the door had not rung, an impossibility that had never before occurred.

  There, leaning against the threshold on the interior of the store stood Jonathan Crowley. His arms were crossed casually over his chest and the thin smile on his lips was equal parts cruelty and amusement. He stared directly over at P.J., only moving his eyes away from the author’s face to acknowledge the book in his hands. Phillip Sanderson swallowed hard at the dry lump that had suddenly formed in the back of his throat. His eyes flew wide with a dawning horrific recognition, even as his unexpected guest walked confidently towards the island’s stairs. Even looking up at the three of them, he was a scary figure. “Long time no see, Philly.” The voice was icy, mocking and challenging but confident that the challenge would go unaccepted. “Read any good books lately?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  1

  Mark leaned against the wall of the high school so empty and desolate now that school was out, he imagined that the hollow shell now emptied of all life felt a great deal like he was feeling right then. Try though he might, Mark could not understand what his world had become. Nobody was acting the way that they should and he couldn’t decide if it was he that had changed, or the rest of the world.

  Kicking at a stone that had indignantly sat itself near his feet, Mark almost wished that he was still the new kid. Relationships were so much more awkward than he had always assumed them to be; friends, girlfriends, parents, even enemies, none of it was easy to comprehend. When the hell did the good times start and just when were the bad times supposed to end?

  He pushed himself free from the faded brick wall and, hands in pants, walked towards the closest wire-meshed window. Through the crosshatches, all he could see was an endless, empty hallway stretching quietly through the gloom. The summer was almost over, the nights already turning chill and the thought of returning to the school-day routine sent almost forgotten but all too familiar chills through his spine. His reflection in the dusty glass looked haunted, he turned away before he could spend too much time thinking about that look.

  Quite naturally, his thoughts gravitated towards Cassie; her lovely eyes and her perfect smile. Again he was astounded that she could find anything about him attractive. Sure, he’d lost some weight and put on some muscle, but he was hardly a fascinating person for all of that. His conversations normally revolved around his dreams of tomorrow, when he would be the next great author of the world and his dreams were hardly as dust before the glory that was Cassie. No comparison.

  Unpleasantly, his mind also turned towards Lisa Scarrabelli and the dreams he was having about her almost nightly. The dreams both excited and repulsed him, the dreams had to do with her rape. They normally started with the memory of her running towards the road and him trying to catch her before it was too late, but they always ended with her pinned under his body, pleading through tear-stained eyes while he pounded into her mercilessly. As often as not he woke up whimpering, knowing in some strange way that he really was responsible for all that had happened to her. As often as not, he awoke with a fading smile on his face and a painful erection demanding his immediate attention. That always led his thoughts back to Cassie, the part of himself that he liked to deny was telling Mark that it was time to take action, even if she wasn’t ready. He tried to brush that attitude aside, certain that only his raging pubescent hormones were responsible, but now and again the thoughts refused to leave him for hours at a time. The darker part of him wanted to do to her what had been done to Lisa both in his dreams and in reality. No, he would never let himself hurt her in that way, never. Sometimes, however, his loins were sorely tempted to try.

  The sun was setting behind the trees near Lake Overtree and Mark knew that he would have to get home soon. Of all things, Joe was actually worrying about him. The thought of Joe even acknowledging his existence was still too new to Mark to allow him to fully comprehend the concept of Joe actually caring about what he did with his spare time. Yet another brick in the Great Wall of Confusion that surrounded Mark on all sides these days.

  With a sigh, Mark started towards the road home, he had no desire to be in the woods today. Today was one of those ever so rare occasions where the thought of running through the forest or stopping at the rock caused him to feel uneasy, almost afraid. He didn’t like to think about it, so he shoved the feelings away, back inside of their special cubbyhole. Hitting the road at a full run, Mark pushed himself to his limits again, straining his muscles and stretching for that extra inch in every stride. Running made him feel alive and as often as not was all he needed to do these days to feel better about everything. Had Chuck Hanson been sitting in his car, radar aimed at the trim and muscular figure darting down the road, he would have been forced to pull Mark Howell over and give him a ticket for speeding. The speed limit on this stretch of Third Street was clearly set at 45 miles per hour. Mark was exceeding the limit by at least fifteen miles per hour.

  2

  While Mark was busy feeling sorry for himself, the town of Summitville was learning about itself in a thousand small ways, as many towns are wont to do. Cassie Monroe, for instance, was learning more about her parents than she had ever wanted to. Cassie was learning that despite everything he had done for her, every little way in which Mark cared for her, her parents still didn’t trust him. The point made painfully clear, when her father started discussing just what their plans for her future were; not surprisingly, at least in hindsight, those plans made no mention of what Cassie herself desired out of life.

  Cassie sadly realizing that her once dream of being a professional gymnast had withered into dust even as her body blossomed, had moved her goals towards other things. Cassie wanted to be a writer, she wanted to be a doctor, she wanted to be a housewife, and she wanted to be a thousand different
things. Writer always came back up to the forefront, though. She realized as well as anyone that the desire came partially from her association with P.J. Sanderson, as well as from her association with Mark, but the dream was still a valid one in her eyes. Where the hell did her parents get off wrangling her towards a law degree, especially when they were doing it without her consent? Damn it, they were talking as if she wasn’t even in the room. Cassie knew better than to argue the point with them. Frankly, it just wouldn’t do her the least bit of good, even when she tried to explain herself it was brushed off as if she had suggested going to the movies or perhaps even going on a picnic as a family group. Nosiree, none of that nonsense, this family unit was as dysfunctional as any she had ever come across. Dad worked, Mom worked, Cassie did as she was told. Now and then, she wished her parents were a little less normal, not quite the picture perfect Yuppies that they had turned out to be.

  Now and then, she wished she had the strength to change them. She almost opened her mouth, she almost told them that she would make up her own damn mind as to what she would do with her own damn life and if they didn’t like it, they could eagerly go to Hell. Almost, because to have actually said it would bring about disfavor and disfavor brought about punishment. Not punishment like she knew some kids had to endure, nothing physical, but punishment in the form of silence, in the form of rejection from the rare moments of affection permitted in the Monroe household. She crept off to her room instead, wishing with all of her heart that Mark was there to hold.

  Mark didn’t show up. She didn’t call him and he never pushed his affections towards her by showing up without being invited, it just wasn’t something he could do. So instead, she took a nap. She was doing that a lot these days, almost every day as a matter of fact. One thing about the naps, the one thing that made it safe to get sleepy whenever she was sad or angry; she always had the nicest dreams about Mark while she slept.