by Carrie Jones
“Are you ticklish, too?” I tease as my fingers do their wiggle magic at his sides, just above his waistband.
“No! No!” He pants and cringes. “You’re killing me.”
Galahad and I halt our attack for a second. “Then no more blaming yourself, got it?”
He nods quickly. “Got it.”
I flop onto the ground next to him. Little rocks stick into my back. The sky above us is blue and flat. Another crow caws in the distance. A crow friend answers him. It’s really super-hot. A bead of sweat trickles over my scalp. Galahad pants so hard, I think he might make the earth shake, and then he puts his head on Logan’s stomach and sighs, resting too.
“The world can be so beautiful and so scary all at the same time,” I say. “How is that?”
Logan grabs my hand in his. “I don’t know. But it is.”
* * *
We stand up after a couple minutes. Galahad runs off to explore the woods.
“He sounds like he found something,” Logan says, and whistles to make him come back.
“He’s definitely got something.”
There’s a piece of blue denim in his mouth. He rushes up to us.
“Drop it, Galahad,” Logan commands.
Fear hits me before I consciously recognize the smell. My hand covers my nose.
“L-Logan…” I sputter.
Galahad drops the fabric. It’s a man’s shirt, ripped, with no buttons on it anymore. Urine and berries smell up the air.
“H-holy…” Now it’s Logan’s turn to sputter. “That’s the smell, isn’t it?”
I nod vigorously, looking all around me at the trees that line the field. Anything could be lurking there. I wish we’d finished the stupid lesson.
“Is he here?” I whisper. “Grab your gun.”
He grabs it, but then he says, “Galahad would be going crazy if that thing were here.”
It makes sense, but my heart is still pounding eight hundred beats a minute. I manage to stop looking at the woods and focus on the shirt instead. Squatting down, I search for blood or marks.
“There’s no blood on the fabric,” I say. “The buttons are all popped off, or they were never on there at all. The seams are pulled away too. See? Look at the stitches.”
Logan squats down with me to look. He’s still holding the gun even though he said Galahad would be freaking out if we were in danger.
“Weird,” he says. “It reminds me of that old TV show The Incredible Hulk.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, “like the Marvel movies, right?”
He doesn’t quite answer. “When Bruce Banner turns into the Hulk, his shirt rips off.”
This sinks in for me, but Logan is confused.
“Why would a monster wear clothes? Unless…”
“Unless what?” I ask.
“These aren’t his clothes? Maybe…” He looks in the direction where Galahad found the torn fabric. “Maybe these are from a body lying over there.”
“Maybe,” I say, but he feels the doubt in my voice and looks at me, asking without words. “My dad has a theory.”
“What?” he asks, but his eyes go back to the field.
“That it might be a werewolf. Not Bigfoot. He think it’s a man who transforms into a beast.”
He looks at me again. “A werewolf?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” he says, his voice confused and defeated. “Bigfoot seems more, I don’t know, more real. A werewolf?”
“It’s a theory. It would explain the missing buttons,” I offer.
“We have to go over there and look for a body,” he says. He stands and pulls me to my feet. Both of us carrying guns, even though my lesson was incomplete, we walk in the direction where Galahad found the cloth.
There is no body. But under a lone tree there are more pieces of torn denim shirt. And ripped khaki pants, torn socks, and, what seems weirdest of all, a pair of dark-brown loafers, size ten, polished but flecked with dirt.
Logan squats down and looks at the clothes. He turns the waistband of the pants inside out. “Look at this.” He points to a ring of dark hair stuck to the waistband. The smell under the tree, clinging to the clothes, is nauseating.
I look at the hair—the fur—and nod. “We need to show my dad,” I say, and get out my phone to call him. It rings forever. I leave a message. While I’m doing that, Logan’s phone rings. His face goes white with shock.
“What is it?” I ask the moment he ends the call.
“We have to go back to the house,” he says. “Now.”
15
LOGAN
“What did your mom say? Logan? What is it?” Chrystal’s voice is sharp and agitated. “Is it there?”
“No. It’s … She said some weird men are outside, making a lot of noise. Snooping around.” I quickly tie the guns down on the rack of the four-wheeler, then jump on.
“Reporters?”
“No. Worse than that, I think.”
Chrystal gets on behind me and wraps her arms around my chest. That feels so good, and I wish I could savor it, but there’s no time. Mom said that the dogs are barking at the house and that Kelsey is scared. I gun the Kawasaki and we roar toward the house with Galahad running hard behind us, his tongue hanging out the side of his silly mouth.
We fly out of the pecan grove and I can see Thunder and Daisy standing between the house and the barn, barking their heads off, looking beyond the barn to the wooded hill. I can’t hear them over the sound of the four-wheeler yet. Mom’s face appears in the kitchen window for a moment, then disappears. A minute later she’s standing in the back doorway with Dad’s shotgun in her hands.
I park at the corner of the house and we jump off the machine. Galahad has already raced over to be with Thunder and Daisy, but being Galahad, he isn’t content to stand with them and bark. He runs for the fence, but the gate is closed, so he stands there and barks instead. I untie the guns and hand Chrystal the .22.
“Go on inside,” I tell her. “Stay with Mom.” She gives me a look that says she wants to stay with me, but no way I can let her do that. “Please—” I begin, but am cut off by a very human whoop coming from somewhere behind the barn.
“What was that?” Chrystal asks.
“It sounded like a whoop. Like you do when you’re encouraging your hunting dogs.” I scan the trees, looking for movement, but I don’t see any. “It’s probably hunters. Go on inside and I’ll check it out.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. I’ll go check it out.”
“Logan, you be careful,” Mom calls. “You’re not wearing a hunting vest. Make sure they know you’re coming.”
“I will.”
“I’m coming with you,” Chrystal announces.
I think about it. I can hear the men whooping closer now. I don’t hear any dogs other than our own, though. I nod at Chrystal and start off at a fast walk. Thunder falls in beside me. I have to push Galahad back into the yard with the butt of my shotgun to keep him from coming with us.
“You take Thunder, but not Galahad?” Chrystal asks.
“Thunder will behave and do what I tell him,” I explain and then we’re silent, listening.
We enter the trees. I stop us. I can’t hear anything now, but Thunder seems to know where the problem is. He whimpers and starts off to our right, then stops and looks back at us.
“Good boy, Thunder, but stay with us,” I say as I fall in after him. Chrystal is behind me.
“Thunder is smarter than Galahad?” Chrystal asks, whispering.
“Yeah. He’s a great hunter, too. We’ve tracked down hundreds of coons, possums, squirrels.… You name it and we’ve hunted it.”
“You kill them?”
“Not always,” I say. I stop suddenly because the hair is standing up on Thunder’s back and he’s growling deep in his chest.
“What’s wrong?” Chrystal asks.
“What is it, boy?” I whisper.
Thu
nder keeps growling, then I hear it.
Someone is hurrying away from us through the dry leaves.
“Who’s there?” I yell. “This is private property. The Jennings farm. Who’s out there?”
A moment later a big, burly man in jeans and a black T-shirt steps out of the trees ahead of us. He’s got long, curly hair and a short, scraggly beard. What bothers me, though, is that he has a rifle in one hand and an open bottle of beer in the other. Then two more men, with two more guns and one more bottle of beer, appear behind him. I don’t recognize any of them.
“We’re huntin’ Bigfoot,” the first man says, then takes a swig from his Rolling Rock. His eyes move from me to Chrystal, and he grins the kind of grin that makes you queasy. I step to the side to block his view, and his grin just gets bigger. “We heard he likes to hang out back in these woods.”
“These woods are on private property and you’re trespassing,” I tell him. “You’re going to have to leave.”
“You telling me that your skinny self, that pretty girl, and that mangy hound’s gonna make us?” he asks. His friends snicker behind him.
“My mom’s already called the sheriff,” I tell him.
“Ooooh, the sheriff,” he says, turning to look at his companions. “Well, I heard he took a bunch of men hunting over by Scraper.”
All this time, Thunder continues to growl. He’s not looking at the three men in front of us, though. His eyes are fixed on something to our left. I glance that way and see another, smaller man trying to hide behind a thick sycamore. There’s something wrong with him, but I don’t get time to study it. I don’t think Chrystal sees him at all.
“Let’s go, Logan,” Chrystal says. Her hand is on my arm. “We’ll just let the sheriff deal with this.”
“She’s smart and pretty. Smells good too, I bet,” the redneck says. This is the kind of trash that gives country people a bad reputation. “That your sister?”
“You guys are going to have to leave,” I repeat. “That thing hasn’t been back here since that first night I saw him.”
“You sure about that, boy?” one of the other guys asks. This one has long, thick red hair. “We saw some tracks back there that looked like they might belong to a Bigfoot. Maybe it was your mama, though.” He snorts at his own joke.
My hands tighten on the stock of my shotgun. Chrystal’s hand on my arm seems to shake. Thunder’s growl becomes a short bark, then a louder growl. The smaller man hiding behind the tree is moving, hurrying away from us.
I can’t make out any of his features, just a general size.
The first guy to speak drains his beer and casually tosses the empty bottle aside. He belches at us, then winks. “You’re wanting to use that shotgun, ain’t ya, boy? Maybe prove yourself to the honey there?”
I don’t answer. I just glare at him. I’ve never even thought about shooting a person before. I’ve never even had to point a gun in the general direction of a human, but I’m suddenly very scared of these three men. If one of them swings his gun in our direction, what do I do? Would they just shoot me outright, then hurt Chrystal? Would they just shoot us both? Or do they just want the fun of scaring us?
“Let’s go, Logan,” Chrystal says. “Let’s just go.”
Her hand pulls at my arm.
Thunder wants to go after the man who has already retreated. That seems pretty strange to me, considering the real threat stands right in front of us. Three of them.
“Thunder,” I say, my voice stern. “Let’s go, boy.”
He turns his head and looks at me, then back the way the man went, and growls again.
“Let’s go!” I tell him. I nudge him with my shin. Behind me, Chrystal is backing away. I do the same. The three men watch us, grinning, but not making any move to come after us, or to follow their companion. Thunder isn’t liking it, but he’s beside me, ready to go, though he keeps looking behind him. Finally I turn around and start walking, but listen for footsteps behind me.
“Maybe we’ll see ya around again,” one of the men calls after us.
“Ignore him, Logan,” Chrystal whispers. “Just keep walking with me.”
I do. Thunder does too. He calms down about the time we come in sight of the gate letting us back into the yard where Galahad is still pacing and barking. Up by the house, Daisy is sitting and barking intermittingly. I push Galahad back and let Chrystal and Thunder in, then close the gate behind us.
“Let’s go inside,” I say when Chrystal starts to say something.
Inside, Mom starts talking, but I cut her off too. I don’t want those men to get away. I pick up our house phone and dial the number for the sheriff’s office that’s posted with other important numbers on the wall above the kitchen phone.
“I want to report four trespassers,” I tell the woman who answers. I explain who I am and where I live, then add, “They had guns and refused to leave when I told them to.”
She asks if they pointed their weapons at me or threatened me with them in any way.
“Well, not exactly,” I answer. Mom looks to Chrystal, who shakes her head. The woman asks if I know the men and I tell her no.
“There is a county-wide search on for the person or animal that has been killing livestock and the Ferguson girl,” the dispatcher tells me. “It could be that those men were part of a search party.”
“There wasn’t a deputy with them,” I tell her.
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it too much if they didn’t point their guns at you,” she says. “But I will make a note that you called and give it to the sheriff when he comes back to the office. Will that be all?”
“They were drinking and carrying guns,” I argue. “They’re here, on our land, which is private property, and my dad is out in the hunting party with the sheriff.”
“I understand, sir,” she says. “I’ll radio the sheriff and let him know, but I don’t think he’s going to be able to respond, or even send a deputy today.”
“Okay, fine. Whatever.” I hang up the phone.
“I would like details about what happened,” Mom demands.
I tell her while Chrystal heads to her Dad’s computer and starts fiddling with it.
“Stupid white-trash rednecks,” she says. Behind her, Kelsey and Katie both gasp. Mom doesn’t usually say bad things about people. “Probably some hicks with a pot farm who thought this was a good opportunity to trespass on other people’s land and shoot things up. We’ve got the dogs in the yard to warn us if they come around here. We’ll just stay in the house, at least until milking time.”
“I guess that’s all we can do,” I agree.
“The girls were about to play a game of Monopoly,” Mom says. “Why don’t you and Chrystal join them?”
I look to Chrystal and she shakes her head. “No, thanks, Mrs. Jennings. I’m not very good at it.”
“Me neither,” I say. “I really suck at the money games. I like the war games.”
“Don’t say ‘suck,’ Logan,” Mom scolds.
“Sorry.”
“Logan, could I talk to you?” Chrystal asks. She makes big eyes at me and barely moves her head, which I think indicates she wants to talk in private.
“All right. Want a drink?” I open the fridge and grab two bottles of water. Chrystal ignores the offer and walks away. I follow her up the stairs.
“Which room is yours?” she asks.
I point and then go into my room. “This one. Come on in. It’s a mess.” It really is. There are clothes all over my desk, my bed isn’t made, and books are scattered everywhere.
“Can we close the door?” she asks.
“Sure.” I close it and offer her one of the waters. She takes it but doesn’t open it. Instead she starts pacing around the room, kind of wringing the bottle between her hands.
“I’m scared,” she says.
I sit down on my bed. “Of those guys? I think they’ll go away.”
“Did you see that one? The one who wasn’t with the others? The one Thunde
r kept growling at?” she asks, stopping and fixing me with a really intense look.
“A little, yeah. I was more worried about the three facing us with guns.”
“The other one…,” she begins, then gives the unopened bottle a good wrenching. “Did you see his face?”
“Not really.”
“Me either, but I have this weird image I just uploaded from my dad’s computer. I took a picture of it because I don’t want your Mom and the girls to know.” She holds out her phone and there’s a photo of her dad’s computer and a timestamp from early this morning. There’s a figure in it—blurry, but you can tell it’s a half-naked man holding his hand up towards his neck.
At first I don’t get it. I really don’t. I just stare back at her, wondering what she means. Then it hits me. “Ooooh. Oh man. Burned? Are you sure? You think this guy is burned?”
“I’m not sure,” she says. She opens the water bottle and takes a drink. Her hands are trembling. “Look. There’s a naked guy on your property. That guy who was hiding was obviously hiding. Why? Maybe because he’s hurt? Maybe those other guys were protecting him and distracting us so he could get out of here? I don’t know. I just know that there shouldn’t be men hiding in your woods. There shouldn’t be this image on Dad’s camera.”
“Oh God.” I reach for her, catch her by the shirt, and pull her onto the bed beside me. “You’re really sure? I mean, it couldn’t have been him. The monster. He was too small. That thing is huge.”
“All I know is that I burned the monster’s face and shoulder when he attacked me. This image—I can’t make anything out because it’s so pixelated, but the man looks like he’s injured. He’s sort of leaning and his hand is up like he’s protecting a wound. Of course that would mean that the monster—that he actually shifts his shape between a person and a monster.…” She breaks down suddenly and buries her face against my neck. I wrap my arms around her and hold her tight.
I stroke her hair with one hand while pressing her tight against me with the other. She keeps crying for a while. I say dumb things like, “It’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out. I’ll protect you,” but they sound pretty lame. Finally she snuffles real big and raises her face. I reach for my nightstand and grab some blue tissues from a box. She wipes at her eyes, cheeks, and nose.