Sticks & Stones

by Jason A Anderson

  A single shrill scream was all she was able to get out, collapsing to the ground, trying to present as small a target as possible. One second...two...but nothing; then the girl gathered enough courage to open her eyes and look up.

  There, balanced precariously above her, a young woman with fire-red hair braced against the shadow, pushing back using a black spear.

  “Hi,” the girl said brightly, but it was obvious that she was struggling against the pressure of the shadow creature. “Run!” she exclaimed, then shoved the spear and swung it at the shadow. Where it connected, the shadow flashed into a solid image, then faded into translucence again a moment later.

  Not needing further instruction, the girl ducked around the far side of the nearest tombstone and raced back toward her small friends, gathering them and heading back toward the grownups and safety.

  Relieved the children were out of immediate danger, Jean jabbed and swung at the beast a few more times, connecting twice. Each time a black burst of energy revealed that the points of impact met something solid. Each strike that connected also drew a below of either rage or pain from the beast, she wasn’t sure which.

  She followed the shadow beast as it stumbled away from her, the other mourners across the lawns forgotten in its desire to get away from the red-head girl with the black spear.

  Years ago, Jean had once told Toff that every cemetery should have a “hangman’s tree”: some type of gnarly old tree, standing alone atop a knoll covered in sunburned grass, without any leaves, regardless of the season. Something that the moon can illuminate from behind, casting eerie shadows onto the tombstones below.

  The cemetery here in Shadow Valley had its own special hangman’s tree, but due to the rolling aspect of the grounds, and the obvious lack of a hill anywhere on the property, this one sat near the heart of the grounds, instead. It felt no less creepy from where it sat. About a foot worth of its roots remained above ground and exposed, creating a shadowy latticework that all kinds of crawling creatures could hide in.

  Twisted and knotted, the trunk rose above the soft earth, splitting into three massive branches about six feet up. The lower two didn’t gain much more height, but stretched out to the left and right, as if reaching for anything that it could get. The third branch, easily the tallest of the three, climbed an additional five feet, before leveling off. It was from here that early frontiersmen administrated justice to the guilty.

  As Jean hurried past the hanging tree, she imagined the silhouette of a man swinging from the tallest branch, barefoot, his hands tied behind his back. In her mind’s eye, she could even see remnants of the hanging rope still tied around the thick branch, the bark beginning to grow around it.

  Her moment of distraction nearly cost her everything when the Void creature lunged at her from among the shadows cast by the hanging tree and the few large burial headstones nearby. The impact of its stout muzzle against the iron rod knocked Jean against the “hanging tree” with enough force that she rebounded and hit the ground. She scrambled to her feet, trying not to get tangled in the tree’s exposed roots, or leave herself open for another attack.

  The monstrosity made another hard lunge, but this time Jean had the spear ready and she jabbed it harshly with one end. The creature cried out and for a brief moment it looked like Jean may have drawn blood, or what passed for greenish-yellow blood with this beast.

  Its next attempt didn’t come nearly as close as before, but the anger it emanated felt stronger, now.

  Backing away as quickly as she could, trying to not lose sight of the creature, Jean instead lost her footing and tumbled the few feet down into the narrow creek that snaked through the burial grounds. She managed to get upright, sputtering, just in time to block a jab from the creature’s claws, yanking the iron rod up to protect herself; the beast’s pincer flashed visible for a few moments after the solid impact against her weapon. It then reared back and roared.

  Not the first time she noticed it react to the iron she carried, she wondered if she could somehow make use of this.

  Still trying to maintain high ground, she backed through the chill, calf-high water and up the creek’s opposite bank.

  Focusing her inner awareness, she slowly twirled the rod in her hands like a baton.

  “Come on, you big, whiny sonofabitch,” she muttered, hoping that the motion of the rod would draw its attention.

  It did. With another bellowing roar, the creature stepped off the bank and into the creek. Its cry of rage turned to a shriek, and with every step it took to cross the water its visibility returned, like static from an old television set not properly tuned in.

  As she watched it flounder in the water, disoriented and angry, Jean noticed now that every point she’d already struck the behemoth oozed greenish-yellow muck. It reminded her of festering wounds left unattended long enough to contract gangrene.

  She didn’t get much respite, however, once the creature made its way out of the flowing water, Jean was back on the run. The thought occurred that she could stand her ground, meet the beast head-on, but her goal was to keep it away from the others in the cemetery – without getting herself killed in the process.

  The beast’s attacks now became frantic, clearly feeling fatigued by the conflict. There was less precision, more power in the attacks to the point of knocking Jean around more than trying to grapple with her or trap her in its jaws or claws.

  With each strike, parry, and counterstrike, the girl inflicted more damage and it lost more of its translucence. She didn’t need her sight to see it now and based on the cries of surprised fear from the nearest group of mourners they could see it, as well.

  Sure that she held all of its attention, Jean lead the beast deeper into the cemetery grounds and farther away from any remaining visitors. Moving from point to point seemed the safest method.

  Immediately to her right, one of the old, weatherworn, barely legible sandstone monuments shattered, nearly to dust. The force of the impact knocked Jean to her left, stumbling, trying to keep her balance and keep moving toward her goal: the fully enclosed, restricted area of the cemetery. As the original internment spot for all of Pine Bow County, this historic section took up almost half the acreage of the entire facility. Around its perimeter ran a waist-high stone fence, topped with wrought-iron, bringing the total height to almost six feet. With the combination of the stone and iron, Jean hoped this would be the best place to keep the creature contained, while awaiting the arrival of the angelic soldiers.

  As she approached the massive, iron gateway that divided the most exclusive burial plots from the rest of the cemetery, she felt an almost overwhelming oppression. It may have been the aches that she already suffered, or the dark gray slabs of stone covered in green ivy and illuminated by faux-1800s lanterns.

  The gate was cold when she took hold of it and she winced as she pushed, expecting a “genre required” screeching sound. The smooth, quiet way both sides of the gate swung open came as a surprise. When she thought about it, it made sense that the well-established “first families” of Shadow Valley and Pine Bow County would demand well-oiled and perfectly balanced gates.

  Beyond the wall, the historic area of the cemetery had a much different feel. From the look of the headstones to the statuary, to at least three walk-in family crypts, it astonished Jean how vast it was. The contrast between the active cemetery and the historic area struck Jean abruptly. Whereas the active cemetery felt functional and well organized, the historic section reminded her of pictures and video she’d seen of historic cemeteries in places like New Orleans. There was a lot of money in Shadow Valley and Pine Bow County in the early years. Monuments of all types had been erected to immortalize the early townsfolk. It presented her with an excellent assortment of hiding spots and blind alleys. With no reason to do so, she’d never ventured this far in. She’d never ev
en come with the Rainns to put flowers on Noelle’s grave. For some reason that seemed like a serious oversight to her, today.

  Jean paused inside the gateway, still in the center of its path, then turned to watch as the beast lumbered closer. It no longer towered high above the ground, as it once had. Now it seemed to lope along the ground, still much larger than any man Jean had ever seen.

  As it advanced on her, she stepped back slowly, drawing it into the enclosed area. When she was sure it had cleared the iron gate, she turned and vanished down the path between several tall memorial markers. The creature bellowed and stumbled after her.

  With the beast’s diminished mobility, it didn’t take much to sneak among the tombstones and loop back around to the gated entrance. Now Jean thanked the angels that the wealthy families required the groundskeepers maintain the gate as well as they did, because she was able to close the iron gate without alerting the foul creature.

  She then ventured back in among the memorials, zeroing in on where she could hear the most racket. It seemed that the beast may have become stuck between the rows of headstones.

  As she reached what she thought to be a safe distance, the ornate stone vase on the headstone beside her exploded from a stone thrown with maniacal strength.

  Jean managed to escape permanent injury, but the suddenness of the attack threw off her concentration and also caused her to drop her iron spear. After that, it was a matter of self-preservation. A deadlier game of cat and mouse ensued: Jean ducking and hiding from the creature, then slipping away as it prowled among the graves.

  She lost track of how long she crept from hiding place to hidey-hole, trying to keep her wits about her. Twice she nearly strayed into the creature’s line of sight, only escaping by remaining completely silent, hoping her racing heartbeat was quiet enough to avoid detection. Without her iron spear, she could only mark time and hope to stay ahead of the creature enough to not fall victim to it, but close enough and tempting enough that it didn’t lose interest in her.

  Before her loomed the largest, grandest of the three family crypts, that of the Andrews clan. Its granite walls, decorative entry and two narrow columns on each side of the ancient oak door gave the impression of solidity, of something that would stand the test of millennia.

  And then, low and behold, as she crawled along, her hands came across the feel of cold iron on the ground beneath them. She had found her iron spear. The feeling of exhilaration and a rush of boldness came none-to-soon. The moment that Jean stood up, iron rod in her hands, the beast reared up from crouching among the memorials to her right. With a bellow, it charged at her.

  Jean spun, managing to get one end of the spear upright, driving it nearly a foot into the chest of the massive nightmare.

  It thrashed to the left, then to the right, yanking Jean off her feet, tossing her like a ragdoll among the headstones. It took all of her training in ballet and childhood tumbling classes to land without splashing her brains against one of the old family plots.

  As she lay there, propped up against a heavy, granite headstone with the family name of VanBuren engraved on it, her vision blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again.

  “That’s it, Valera,” she whispered. “I’m empty. I have nothing left.”

  Before her, the summoned Void creature crept up and onto the three-foot-high slab of stone. Completely solid, now, this close she could see its entire form. It resembled a mutated gorilla with six legs, two mandibles at the jaws and a set of crab-like pincers growing out of its back. Jean’s iron spear protruded out of its chest, scraping across the granite, out of reach of her grasp.

  “Nothing left,” Jean whispered again, but refused to look away, even as it lunged.

  The beast made an unusual gasping, croaking sound as its movement suddenly halted, yanked upright from behind by the fleur-de-lis lodged into the near-side of its chest. It tried to roar again, this time ending in a pathetic croak, as a sword-tip slashed from behind it, running through its throat.

  The blade then twisted and with one wrenching slice, the beast’s head spun off its shoulders and thudded to the ground.

  Jean gasped, then tried to laugh, choking back a cry of relief. As the beast’s corpse sloughed to the ground, Valera loomed up where it had stood, her bloodied sword in one hand, Jean’s iron spear in the other.

  With an approving smile, Valera said, “Not completely empty.”

  Jean’s relieved laughter rang clear, like wind chimes, out past the cemetery walls.

  Over the last couple weeks, Shadow Valley had weathered a vast amount of damage, both from natural – and un-natural – causes. Oddly, it had seemed that the funeral home at the city cemetery was impervious to these waves of chaos and destruction. Not so, today. The viewing hall now stood in shambles and two ambulances idled in the main drive, awaiting the most dire of the injured.

  Jean stood off to the side, her arm bandaged and bound against her chest, awaiting a trip to the doctor for X-rays to check for broken or separated ribs. Beyond that, her friends and parents had all managed to escape with minimal injury, considering the amount of metal and broken glass that had flown around the room.

  Monique watched the red-head from across the driveway, as her friends visited with her, making sure she was alright.

  Despite Jean somehow managing to drive the creature away, from Monique’s point-of-view the experiment was a resounding success, having accomplished all she set out to do. She’d summoned a creature from “the Void” and set it on a path of destruction. The technique would take time to perfect, but she felt certain that with time and practice, she would master it.

  Indeed, Monique knew this was only the beginning...

  Tremendous thanks going out to my series editor, JC Carter, alpha reader Melissa Brinkerhoff, and Criss “Papa Bear” Rosenloff for one final go-through of the text. Any remaining errors are mine and mine alone.

  Jason Anderson was raised in Southern California before moving to Utah to attend high school. While a teenager, he conceived and began writing his teen adventure series, “The Starriders Saga”. Never one to let grass grow under his feet, he continued exploring different story concepts and struck upon what has become the “SoulChaser Universe”. Besides being a father and writer, his passions include theater production, fast cars, off-roading, rock’n roll, and is a Harley-Davidson enthusiast.

  Thanks to the following music makers, (in no particular order): Bon Jovi, Night Ranger, Breaking Benjamin, Crimson Glory, Sixx:A.M., We Are the Fallen, Brother Firetribe, Halestorm, W.A.S.P., Disturbed, Rush, Hinder, Queensrÿche, Midnight Syndicate, Pink Floyd, Rob Zombie, Joe Satriani, Shinedown, Styx, and all the others that helped inspire during the many long days and longer nights...