Max Helsing and the Beast of Bone Creek

by Curtis Jobling

“Yeah, prepared for all eventualities. Not the Armageddon.”

  “Sometimes, that’s the same thing.”

  Jed pulled out his pocket watch and flipped it open. “You’d better shake a tail feather. You need a ride to school?”

  “No, Syd’s mom is picking me up. The bus doesn’t leave until eight.”

  Max flipped open the kitchen cupboards, on one last raid for essential provisions. The five major food groups were covered: Cheetos, Hershey bars, gummy worms, Mountain Dew, and Combos. He crammed them into the top of the backpack and pulled the drawstring tight. All the while Eightball sat at his feet, stumpy tail thwacking the ground as if he might earn another treat. His goggle eyes blinked imploringly, one facing Boston, the other Salem.

  “You’ve blown it, dude,” said Max, patting the pooch on the head and deftly dodging a lick in the process. “You want food, go to Jed. If you’re really unlucky, you’ll get some homemade clam chowder.”

  Jed rose from his chair and stretched, before limping across to the bookshelf. His hands flitted across the spines of the books as he peeked over the rims of his half-moon spectacles. His fingertips stopped as he found what he was looking for.

  “Whatcha got there?” asked Max. “Rheingard’s Daemon Guide? Tales of the Undercity?”

  Jed tossed the pamphlet onto the counter.

  Max peered at it suspiciously. “Things to See & Do in the White Mountains? Hardly Goblin Slaying 101, is it?”

  “That part of New Hampshire’s something else. You should read that and get to know the place before you get there. Real scenic. It was always a popular place for courting couples. Spent some time up there in my youth.”

  Max whistled as he flicked through the brochure before shoving it into a side pocket on his pack. “Hard to imagine.”

  “Me courting?”

  “You being young.”

  Jed let that one go. “It’s a magical place. You’ve got canoeing, rafting, swimming, hiking, climbing, waterfalls . . .”

  Max stepped over Eightball and opened the closet door, reaching past brooms, mops, and a brutal-looking morning star to get to his bomber jacket. “Do they pay you commission straight into your bank account, or do you get a brown envelope once a month?”

  “I hope you’re taking a slicker as well? That old jacket won’t suffice if the heavens open. It can rain like nowhere else up there.”

  “I thought you said it was a magical place?” Max replied, donning the bomber and then lifting the pack onto his back. He clicked the belt around his waist. “You’re not selling this to me.”

  “Compass? Hiking boots?”

  “Packed.”

  “Flashlight?”

  “Can I take yours?”

  “Think again, kiddo. That was a gift from a very special lady. Crucifix, stakes, and wolfsbane?”

  “This is a school trip, Jed.”

  “Regardless, you know what kind of world it is out there. There’s the world the norms inhabit; then there’s the one below the surface, the one that we must walk in. Just because you’re out in the wilderness on an Outward Bound trip, that don’t make things any less dangerous.”

  “I’m heading to New Hampshire. It’s hardly Alaska.”

  “The White Mountains are mighty pretty; just stay on your toes. Don’t relax too much. Monsters are everywhere, remember?”

  Of course, Max never left home without having his monster-hunting gear with him, but he’d been looking forward to this chance to get away from the day job. He picked up his cell phone and popped it into his pocket.

  “You sure you wanna take your phone? What did Whedon say: ‘They’re antisocial and prevent you from enjoying the Great Outdoors to their fullest’? Aren’t they banned on this trip?”

  “For norm kids, sure.” Max grinned. “Hey, are you going to be okay while I’m gone? You have everything you need?”

  Jed raised himself to his full height and looked Max dead in the eye. “I’ve taken care of Helsing House for over forty years. I’ve raised both you and your father, all beneath this roof. I’ve fixed every broken window, leaking faucet, and faulty floorboard. I’ve seen families come and go—human and monstrous—and I’ve never once fallen short in my responsibilities. What I don’t need is a jumped-up, wise-ass kid treating me like some doddering old fool. You hear me, son?”

  “Winding you up is way too easy.” Max chuckled as Jed growled. The boy snatched up his trusty messenger bag before disappearing out the apartment door. “I’ll see you in a week!”

  Max’s descent through the four stories of Helsing House was less graceful than usual. His trademark banister hurdles were replaced by a clumsy pinball as his top-heavy backpack threatened to send him sprawling. He careened around the second floor landing and straight into Mr. Holloman with a clang. The silent giant caught Max by the backpack straps before he went head over heels down the next flight of stairs.

  “Thanks, Mr. Holloman,” said Max, as the iron golem brushed him off.

  The door to 2C flew open down the hall, and ten-year-old monster-hunting disciple Wing Liu exploded from his apartment. The homeschooler scampered along the landing, his Chuck Taylors squeaking as he skidded to a halt beside Max and the golem. Wing raised a fist, and Max met it with his own.

  “What’s happening, Max? Whatcha got in the backpack? You on a job? Can I help? Lemme get my gear—”

  “Whoa,” said Max. “Hang on, buddy. No, I’m not working, and I don’t need help. And what d’you mean, your gear?”

  Wing grinned. “I’ve been putting my own monster-hunting kit together. Mainly it’s just lots of bulbs of garlic, but it’s a start.”

  Max laughed. “Your mom’ll kill you if you’ve been raiding her pantry. Also, it’s only vampires that freak out at garlic. Apart from suckers, most monsters like it as much as you or I.”

  “I hear you. Mix things up a bit with coriander and cayenne pepper.”

  “Go crazy,” said Max with a grin.

  Ever since he’d found out about Max’s true calling, Wing had grown obsessed with monster hunting. Not only was he keeping his eagle eyes peeled for any monstrous happenings across the United States via the magic of the Internet, he was also helping Jed rearrange his extensive library upstairs. As well as alphabetizing the various monster manuals, spell books, and other arcane tomes the Van Helsings had gathered over the centuries, he was uploading those works onto his laptop, which he’d renamed The Beholder in homage to some monster or another. On top of all of this, he’d even started dressing like Max. He’d talked his mom into his own pair of Chuck Taylors, and could be seen sporting a bomber jacket on even the hottest of days.

  “So where are you going?” asked the ten-year-old.

  “School trip for the week,” said Max, squeezing past the silent Mr. Holloman as he went to descend the last flight. “Camping in the White Mountains in New Hampshire.”

  “Oooh, great place for cryptid spotting,” said Wing excitedly. “Two weeks back there was a flying reptile photographed north of Dover, and there’s been an increase in big wolf sightings over the last twelve months. Twice the size of regular ones. Don’t know what that is—could be a waheela or maybe a lycanthrope, but it’s gotta be worth—”

  “Gotta go,” said Max, speaking over the younger boy.

  “Bring me back a souvenir?”

  “Take Eightball for his daily walk and I’ll grab you a fridge magnet.”

  Wing grinned. “Epic!”

  The ringing of Wing’s fist bump with Mr. Holloman followed Max downstairs, as did his pained yelps. Then he was out of the front door of Helsing House, bouncing down the steps and marching down the drive. Syd waited at the gate, her mom’s dusty old Chevy idling behind her. She smiled and Max waved back as the sun shone overhead. Even with a pack on his back, there was a spring in his stride that hadn’t been there before, an excitement
building in his belly that if he didn’t know better he’d have put down to a bad burrito.

  “So this is what going on vacation feels like.” He grinned, kicking up gravel as he approached his friend. “I could get used to this.”

  TWO

  WELCOME TO BONE CREEK

  It was around midday, and the boards of the covered bridge clattered as the old school bus rattled across it and emerged out the other side into brilliant sunlight. Max peered out the window, watching the river rush by beside the road, all rocks and churning white water as it funneled through the gorge. Mrs. Loomis, school nurse and occasional bus driver, ground the gears as the incline grew steeper, the bus struggling to deal with the mountainous road. Ahead, the forest began to thin as vegetation was replaced by neat hedges and outbuildings, barns and farmhouses popping into view. The students of Gallows Hill Middle School cheered in unison as they passed a carved wooden sign at the side of the road, confirming they’d reached their destination. The words were gouged out of an enormous piece of red timber: WELCOME TO BONE CREEK. ENJOY YOUR STAY!

  There seemed to be only the one main road running through the town, reminding Max of frontier settlements from those old Western movies that Jed loved to watch. He did a double take as he spied a horse tied up outside a bar that boasted a SALOON sign over the door. Most of the buildings were wooden, although the more important ones—police station, bank, and town hall—were all built from stone. Every wall, stoop, and walkway was decorated with window boxes and hanging baskets that bloomed with vibrant spring wild flowers. The old yellow bus pulled over outside the general store, the hydraulics groaning with relief as Mrs. Loomis turned off the engine. Instantly, the gentle sound of folk music rolled in through the open windows of the bus, emanating from the store. Max smiled to himself. He really was a world away from Gallows Hill. As one-horse towns went, there seemed few prettier than Bone Creek.

  “Heads up,” said Principal Whedon, rising as two teachers remained seated on either side of him. Knowing they’d had to endure Whedon’s company for the last few hours, Max imagined Mr. Mayhew and Ms. Golden were both having second thoughts about having volunteered for this particular trip.

  The principal clapped his hands. “Your attention! Since Mrs. Loomis has made such good time, you have ten minutes to explore, folks.”

  “Good time?” whispered Syd beside Max. “For a while there I thought she’d made time go in reverse. I’ve never been on such a long journey!”

  The diminutive principal clapped his hands again, demanding their continued attention. “I don’t want to see anyone buying contraband here. Put your hand down, Levin; you know exactly what I mean by contraband. You may be away from school, but that doesn’t give you permission to violate the rules. My word is law, just like in Gallows Hill. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” the children all murmured.

  “Good. Ten minutes, then I want you back on the bus.” He stood, looking at them, mustache bristling. “Go!”

  Whedon stood aside as the twenty students piled off the bus. Those with smaller bladders ran ahead into the store, seeking out the restroom, while the remainder took a moment to stretch.

  “Man,” said Syd, arching her stiff back. “I hope the cabins are comfier than the bus. My back is wrecked.”

  “I bet there’ll be a Jacuzzi to help with that.”

  Syd gave Max the side-eye. “You’ve never been camping before, have you?”

  “We’re staying in lodges, Syd. You know—high ceiling, stone fireplace, big moose head over the mantel.”

  She clapped a hand on his back. “You have so much to learn, my poor little town mouse.”

  Max laughed. “Syd, this is my first-ever vacation,” he said. “I don’t care if I have to sleep in a hole in the ground: it’ll rock.”

  “First-ever vacation?” Kenny Boyle’s face, framed with carrot-colored hair, suddenly appeared between them from behind, forcing the pair apart.

  The eighth grader laughed. “You have got to be kidding me. You hearing this?” he shouted to his nearby buddies. “This is Helsing’s first-ever vacation! How pathetic is that?”

  Jeers erupted from Boyle’s two accompanying minions, Ripley and Shipley. The fact their names rhymed was the only amusing thing about the pair. Ripley was a squat, heavyset unit who was making waves on the school wrestling team. What Shipley lacked in muscle he made up for in smiles, a permanent grin fixed to his thin face as he nodded along enthusiastically to all of Boyle’s crummy comments. The bully turned back to Syd.

  “Perez, what are you doing hanging with this clown when you could be with me?”

  Syd smiled and patted Max’s shoulder. “I’ve got all the clown I can handle here, thanks, Boyle. You’d probably push me over the edge.”

  Boyle grunted, unsure whether to be flattered or insulted. Max wanted to assure him it was the latter, but decided to remain silent, staring ahead and hoping the bully would leave it at that. Boyle brought his eyes back to Max.

  “Gonna let your woman do the talking for you, huh?” He punched Max hard in the shoulder. “Man, you’re such a loser, Helsing. Holler when you’re bored of him, Perez.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” muttered Syd as the bully caught up with Ripley and Shipley. “God, he’s the worst, isn’t he? You okay?”

  Of all the kids who could’ve come on this trip, there was one name Max had prayed wouldn’t be on the attendance list: Kenny Boyle. The eighth grader’s mop of unruly crimson hair bounced as he and his gang entered the store. A chorus of laughter followed each lame joke. When you were the son of the chief of police, and a head taller than all the other kids in school, you commanded a certain kind of respect from your classmates. A kind of respect Max—and Syd, for that matter—had always refused to give.

  “Don’t worry, Syd. Like I said, I’m determined to have a good time, regardless of that crapweasel’s presence.”

  Max and Syd made their way onto the shop’s long porch. On the right side of the veranda stood what looked like an enormous carved figure of a bear up on its haunches, a rocking chair positioned beside it. The entire deck was loaded with all kinds of goods, mostly camping supplies. There were tin buckets and twig brooms, bags of chopped logs and baskets of kindling. An ancient-looking boat was suspended from the rafters, no longer water-worthy, its hide hull faded and threadbare.

  A notice board was fixed to the wall on the left of the entrance, covered with ads and events for locals and tourists. Numerous business cards had been pinned to the cork, showing off apartments and vacation rentals, boat tours, and campsites. Private sales, services rendered, school fund-raisers, barn dances, hiking meets; Max cast his eyes over the ads, looking for anything out of the ordinary but finding nothing. No strange goings-on. No people going missing. No weird eruptions in the mountains with diabolical entities having been sighted, rising from the earth.

  “Man, oh man,” he said under his breath with a grin. “I can be a norm for a whole week.”

  The pair entered the store. They walked past tables of fishing tackle and rods, live bait, and landing nets. Shelves were overflowing with guidebooks and maps. Their schoolmates were already rifling through the various candy bars, soda cans, and bags of chips that had lured them in. The two friends passed between racks of canned goods and toiletries as they approached the counter. Max was so busy looking at the store’s contents that he didn’t see one of its customers coming the other way.

  He collided with a toothless old man who carried a bulging brown paper bag in his scrawny arms. His dungarees had seen better days, while his leathery skin appeared to be fashioned entirely from California raisins. An enormous jar of pickles tumbled out of the top of the bag, but Max caught it before it hit the ground. Gingerly, he placed it back onto the old-timer’s stash of provisions.

  “Sorry, sir,” said Max, stepping aside as the ancient fellow gave him a nod of appr
eciation, bushy white eyebrows flexing as he winked. The man’s tobacco-stained gray whiskers twitched as he managed a smile and was on his way. Max was watching the man leave the store when he felt Syd’s elbow jab him in the ribs.

  “Looks like your vacation’s over.”

  Two twentysomething backpackers stood at the register, but behind them was what could only be described as a wall of weird. Framed newspaper clippings and corny-looking monster masks jockeyed for position, while cuddly stuffed apes hung from plastic danglers in every spare space. A poorly executed painting of a hair-covered figure crossing a stream held pride of place in the center, its crude brushstrokes set off beautifully by its gaudy gold frame.

  “Amazing, eh?” one of the backpackers said to Max in a thick Midwestern accent. He wore a big camera about his neck, and a pan, a pot, and two enamel mugs hung off the bottom of his backpack. “Bigfoot country, and we’re right in the heart of it.”

  “Really?” said Max. “We hadn’t heard.”

  “Oh ya,” the guy’s girlfriend chimed in. “They say there’s bigfeet in these hills. Right, Frank?”

  “Bigfeet?” said her boyfriend.

  “Ya,” said the girl. “How neat is that?”

  Max smiled, put on his cheesiest grin, and gave her a thumbs-up. “Oh ya. Real neat!”

  “You hoping to see one?” asked Syd, playing along with the couple’s joke.

  The man leaned in to Max and spoke in a whisper. “You know, there’s no such thing, really.”

  “No?”

  He laughed. “Pfft. No way! These little backwater towns survive on this kinda story pulling in out-of-towners like me and Sissy here. Bigfoot? Really? Did ya ever hear anything so preposterous? Betcha the town mayor wears a monkey suit once a year and gets his deputy to take a candid snap of him running across the creek!”

  He mimed taking a rapid series of photos with his camera, his pans and mugs chiming against one another.

  “Oh, Frank, be quiet, ya big goofball,” said Sissy, giving him a smack on the arm and blushing. “The storekeeper’ll hear ya!”