by Carrie Jones
The thing out in the dark howls again. I can tell now that it’s not on our property, but our cattle begin to snort and shift, their sounds carrying clearly through the otherwise still night. Dad’s mouth tightens as we hear the thunder of hooves pounding the earth in the Hadley pasture. Something is chasing the cattle.
“What that thing did to her…” Dad says. “I don’t understand it. No animal would do it. The sheriff called the coroner out. Just an estimate, but he said it looked like she’d died a week ago. Her husband thought she’d run off with a guy he suspected she’d been seeing. That was two weeks ago. That thing kept her alive for a week, then killed her. Something just ain’t right about it. Animals don’t do that. People do that.”
A line of headlights appears on the road and turns into our driveway. Dogs in the backs of two of the trucks approaching the house begin baying.
“How’d they know?” I ask.
“I called as soon as I heard the howl. We set up a network—a phone tree is what Sam called it. I called him, he called others, and here they are.”
Men with guns start jumping out of the trucks. I see Mr. Thompson, with David and Carl, plus about a dozen others. The dogs are unloaded as me and Dad join the men.
“Logan, you and David stay here, watch the house,” Dad calls. “Go inside!”
“Let’s go get that son of a bitch!” someone else calls. The mass of men and dogs race off toward the road.
“Left behind again,” David says as he comes to stand with me, his rifle held loosely in his hand.
“Yep,” I agree. I almost want to say Now you know how it feels because of him always taking off with Yesenia, but it doesn’t matter much anymore really. Seems stupid and petty. Turning around, I stare at my home. Chrystal’s standing at the bedroom window with Kelsey, both of them peeking out. That’s what matters.
* * *
Dad and the other men don’t find anything. Nothing but a herd of tired cattle and one dead steer, partially eaten. The hounds track the killer’s scent to another road, then lose it. Dad comes home tired.
The incident is repeated the next two nights, except then it’s Dad getting the call and rushing into the night to chase the monster across someone else’s farm farther away.
Another woman goes missing. This one is the waitress from that first time Chrystal and I ate together.
Another woman is found mauled and dead. This one was apparently a student at the college Dr. Borgess works at. What she was doing in town? Who knows? But they found her car. And then they found her.
Even saying ‘another woman’ sounds wrong. Like they are disposable bodies, or statistics, when they are anything but.
Then there is a pause. It’s a pause of days.
But nobody’s nerves get any less frayed. We are raw people, ready to jump, to scream, to fight for our lives and our families.
Inside the house, the phone rings. A few minutes later Dad comes onto the porch with his rifle in his hand. He looks at us, then toward the road.
“It’s started again,” he says. “It just killed a hog over at the Benson place. Chased it out of the pen and killed it right under the kitchen window. Liberty Benson looked out and saw a huge, hairy thing loping away with the carcass.”
“At least it was just a pig this time,” Chrystal says.
Dad grunts, his eyes on the driveway. “Bill Thompson and his boys are coming to pick me up. David will stay here with you.”
Beside me, Chrystal clasps my arm. She knows how I feel about being left behind. She’s letting me know she needs me, and I understand that. Mom needs me. Kelsey and Katie need me. But I’d rather be out there hunting that monster.
“Is my dad going?” Chrystal asks.
“I asked,” Dad answers, and he doesn’t do a real good job of hiding his scorn. He has a hard time figuring out Mr. Lawson Smith, I think. “He started talking about flowers again. Said he wasn’t ready. He was on the phone with someone—Burgess? Burguest?”
“Oh. Borgess. He’s a professor friend,” Chrystal says. I catch her hand and squeeze it reassuringly.
Mr. Thompson’s truck turns into the driveway and approaches the house. Dad goes to meet it. David joins us on the porch.
“Together again,” he jokes, his rifle held in the crook of his arm.
“You all go inside and lock up,” Dad calls as Mr. Thompson turns the truck around and drives away.
* * *
About a half hour after Dad leaves, Daisy barks outside. Just once. Then Thunder barks twice. Inside the house, Galahad jumps up and rips off a series of his short, choppy barks. Then the house is still. Galahad goes to the front door and scratches at it. I let him out, look around quickly, then close the door.
“Logan, I’m going upstairs for more guns,” Mom announces.
I see Chrystal give Mom a surprised look and wonder what she thinks of a country woman always so willing to grab a gun.
And then our back door bursts open.
Kelsey and Katie shriek. One of the guys points at Kelsey.
David and I turn toward the kitchen and raise our guns. But we hesitate. We don’t shoot when the three men Chrystal and I saw in the woods charge through the doorway from our kitchen to the dining room. We don’t shoot as they look from the dining room to the living room. They have guns too. One points a heavy-looking black revolver at me. The one who’d pointed at Kelsey aims a shotgun in David’s direction while the third points a rifle at Mr. Lawson Smith.
David and I could have shot them. We had the angle from the moment they entered the kitchen doorway. We could have shot them in the dining room before they locked onto us. We could have, but we didn’t.
“Put those guns down, boys,” orders the big guy who’d done most of the talking the last time we saw him. He looks over his shoulder at his friends and says, “We want the older girls. Don’t hurt that one.”
“Fine. Take me.” Chrystal steps forward.
“Not just you. Her too.” He nods at Kelsey.
My blood seems to go cold when I hear that. What do they want? What are their plans? An image of Kelsey hurt, bloody, dead like those other women flashes across my mind and my throat goes dry.”
“We should have shot them,” I whisper to David.
“Who are they?” he asks.
“Friends of that thing out there,” I answer.
“Put them guns down,” the brute says again.
Chrystal’s face is deathly pale. Kelsey and Katie are clinging to each other and Katie is crying hysterically. Mr. Lawson Smith seems completely dumbstruck by the turn of events. He stands with his mouth open, staring from the three men to where David and I face them with our own guns pointed at them.
The leader of the trio cocks the hammer of his revolver.
“Damn.” I lower the barrel of my shotgun, then carefully lay it on the floor by my feet. David puts his rifle down too.
“Very good,” the man says. The three come into the living room, still holding their guns on us. The leader motions to his companions and they step forward to pick up the guns David and I just put on the floor.
That’s when I see Mom raising the rifle on the landing of the stairs. My mouth goes dry, then a single, sharp crack rings out in the house. The man in front of David grunts and crumples to the floor, a red stain blooming around a hole in his back.
I suddenly find my spine and shove the redneck intruder who was reaching for my shotgun. He staggers backward but doesn’t fall. Instead he raises his handgun even as he’s trying to keep his balance and I’m going for my shotgun.
Mom fires again. The man’s grinning head explodes, the left side flying away in gooey red pieces.
The third man turns and runs for the kitchen.
Me and David both grab our guns and run after him, but he’s out of the house by the time we get to the kitchen.
“Help me with the door,” I say. We close it. The lock is shattered, as are two of the glass windowpanes. We haul a wood-and-metal baker’s rack over
to block the door, then go back to the living room.
“I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe what I just witnessed,” Mr. Lawson Smith is jabbering.
Mom is on the phone, telling someone she just shot two men who broke into her house. “There were three. The other one got away.” She looks to me and David for confirmation. I nod at her even as she’s so calm, so quietly calm. “No, they’re dead. I told you: they’re in my living room.” She listens for a minute, then says, “Okay. Fine.” She hangs up the phone. “They’re sending a deputy. And an ambulance,” she says to us.
“I just can’t believe this,” Mr. Lawson Smith says again. “It’s … oh—ah … I’m so sorry. So sorry that all of this is happening to your sweet family.”
Chrystal pulls her dad into a hug, hushing him.
Mom turns to Chrystal and asks, “Are these the men you two confronted when I called you that day? The same men who were trespassing?”
Chrystal nods. Her face is still so pale. Her eyes are big and round and scared and I feel really bad for her.
“They pointed their guns at us,” she says. “At me and Kelsey. They were going to take us. Take us to him. And they have been casing out this house, your house, your farm, for days. Obviously. This is big. This is bigger even than some monster killing people. It’s … How can anything even be bigger than a monster killing people? But these guys … these guys must be helping him.”
Nobody can say anything for a minute. Outside, our dogs are quiet. Why? Why didn’t they go after the three men who came through the back door?
I rush to the front door and throw it open. All three dogs are lying there, happily tearing off huge chunks of meat from bones. Pork, from the looks of it. Galahad ignores me. Daisy and Thunder raise their heads, still chewing.
“With all the commotion out front, they probably never even heard or smelled them,” David says behind me.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Pretty scary, though.”
“Man, that whole thing was scary,” he says. Then he adds in a low voice, “Your mom just shot two men. She’s being super calm about it.”
“She’s probably still in Mom shock or emergency mode.” I nod, thinking of that, but refusing to process it just yet. I’m still holding my gun. “All our dogs bought off with chunks of meat. Let’s take them around back, see if they can pick up anything from the one that got away.”
“No, Logan, you’re not going out there,” Mom calls.
There are dead people on our carpet. I have to catch myself to keep from swearing. I’m already sweating up a storm and I just—I want to be away from the dead men. “I think you can handle things in here, Mom. We should make sure that guy isn’t still hiding out back. He could be in the barn or something.”
“The deputy is on his way. That’s his job.”
“It’s our farm, Mom. It’s our job.”
“Logan, please,” Chrystal says. That ends it. Her wide, scared eyes and shaky voice are not to be denied.
Mom looks around at Mr. Lawson Smith, Chrystal, and Katie and Kelsey, who are still holding each other. Katie’s crying, though she’s not hysterical anymore. Kelsey looks about like Chrystal, except she has wet tracks where tears have escaped and run down her face. I probably look just as freaked out as all of them.
“Come on,” Mom says. “Everyone out of this room. Kelsey, please take Katie upstairs. Read her a book. Play some music. Try to get your minds off what happened. These two are dead and that other one won’t be coming back.”
“I’ll go with them,” Chrystal says. She gets up and moves toward my sisters, then stops and hurries over to Mom. She throws her arms around Mom’s neck and hugs her tight. I see that she’s whispering something to her, but can’t hear it.
Mom pats Chrystal on the back and says, “Thank you. It’s going to be all right.”
We watch as Chrystal ushers my sisters up the stairs and into Kelsey’s room.
Then something happens to Mom. She falls into a chair, buries her face in her hands, and breaks down crying.
“Mom?” I hurry over to her, pull out a chair, and sit beside her.
“Will you help me in here, Mr. Lawson Smith?” David asks, leading Chrystal’s dad out of the room.
“Mom? You … You okay?”
She raises her face and she suddenly looks so much older than I’ve ever seen her look. Her hands are trembling and her face is wet with tears. “I shot two men, Logan. I killed them. I…” She begins sobbing again.
I put my arms around her and pull her tight against me, but I don’t know how much good that does, because I’m trembling too. “You had to, Mom. You had to. You knew that they were going to do terrible things to Kelsey and Chrystal. Maybe even little Katie. You had to do it. I wish I’d done it.”
“No, Logan, no, you don’t,” she says, pushing herself away from me. She puts her hands on my shoulders and squeezes so tight it hurts a little. “Don’t say that. It’s a horrible feeling. I know it had to be done. I know that. I know it, Logan. I know it, but killing is a bad thing. I feel … I feel like something inside me has died.”
Convincing me of this has brought back some of her strength. The tears are gone. Her face is set again.
I nod my understanding. “Okay, Mom. But you did the right thing. And, well, I’m proud of you. I’m sorry you feel so bad about it, but you just did what you had to do.”
“Fine. That’s fine. Thank you,” she says, and smiles at me just a little.
David and Mr. Lawson Smith come back into the room, each carrying a tablecloth.
“Not that one!” Mom jumps up and takes the white cloth from David’s hands. “My grandmother made that one. I don’t want that man’s blood on it.” She returns to the kitchen while me and David stare after her. Mr. Lawson Smith goes about the task of covering one of the bodies with the hideous striped cloth he has.
“She cries over killing men who are worse than animals, but straightens right up when her best tablecloth is in danger,” I whisper to David.
The home phone rings. I answer it and am greeted by Sam Davis from the feedstore.
“Logan, is your mom there?” he asks.
“Well, she’s kind of busy,” I say. “Dad’s out with the hunt and we had three guys break into the house. We’re waiting on the police right now.”
“I see. Is everyone all right?” he asks.
“Except the guys Mom shot.”
“Uh-huh. Logan, I hate to say this, but there’ve been some injuries. Your dad’s hurt. That thing got him pretty bad.”
18
CHRYSTAL
What you never realize in TV shows or books or movies is how loud gunshots are. Here’s more: What you never realize in TV shows or books or movies or even in real life is how fear isn’t just an emotion. It’s tangible but changeable. Sometimes it’s a straitjacket that pushes your arms to your sides, keeps you from moving, keeps you from saving yourself. That’s the way it was when those guys came in the house. Sometimes it’s a hand pushing at your back, whispering for you to run. That’s how it is for Katie upstairs.
“We have to go,” she says, scratching behind her ear. “We all have to just get in the car and go as fast as we can.”
She’s sitting on Kelsey’s bed, rocking back and forth, as if motion is the only safety. I try to soothe her by rubbing little circles on her thin back. Her shoulder blades are like tiny wings.
“We have to go,” she repeats. “Cars drive fast. They drive … We have to go. Maybe we could go live with you, Chrystal. In Maine. Maine’s far.”
Her eyes look up at mine, pleading. There are some thumps downstairs. Kelsey goes to the bedroom door, almost steps out, and then changes her mind.
“I would love to have you all live with me,” I say into Katie’s hair. It smells of chicken dinner and coconut, like Logan’s. “You’re all invited anytime.”
“Mommy killed them,” Katie says, totally switching gears in that little-kid way she has.
My stomach clench
es, but I manage to say, “Yes, she did.”
“Mommy’s a total badass.” She blusters the words out.
“Katie!” Kelsey admonishes from the door, but she also giggles. It’s just enough humor to break her shell of fear. That’s another way fear manifests itself. Sometimes it’s like three chugs of booze. It numbs you as it gnaws away at your insides. I think that’s the way it is for Kelsey.
And for me? The fear is a foreboding. It’s a monster with a burned face waiting for me. I can feel him under my skin, ready to strike.
“‘Badass’ is not a swear word,” Katie mumbles. She starts scratching at the skin behind her ear again. It’s a raw line. I move her fingers away. She jumps up and starts pacing. “And we should all just totally leave. Go far away. Like, to Disney. We never get to go to Disney. And they’re always promising. We should just go. You could come too, Chrystal.”
I watch her go to the window. She stands there for a second before she gasps.
Kelsey and I both rush over to stand behind her. Kelsey puts her hand on Katie’s shoulder. “What is it?”
“Someone’s hurt.”
There’s a black pickup truck on the road with about five men sitting in the back. They’ve all got rifles and there’s another man, convulsing in pain, flat on his back until the pain strikes and then he curls up. There’s blood all over his shirt, which is ripped and soaked into some unrecognizable color. There’s a white tourniquet wrapped around his arm. Blood’s soaking that, too.
Logan and Mrs. Jennings and the dogs are running across the front lawn, followed by my dad and David. Mrs. Jennings is leaping into the back of the truck, which means …
“Oh no…” Kelsey whispers. Her hand goes to her mouth.
“Daddy!” Katie screams. Then I recognize him too. It’s Mr. Jennings, who is so terribly hurt. Katie whirls away and heads out of the room. We follow her down the stairs, past the dead men and onto the lawn. Katie bolts right into the truck, yelling for her dad. Then her face goes white and she’s silent.
He’s trying to hold Mrs. Jennings’s hand. There are five massive claw marks across his stomach. The lowest looks like it cut clear down to his intestines.