Max Helsing and the Beast of Bone Creek

by Curtis Jobling

  Out came his cell phone. He punched a button to turn it on, before throwing it onto his pillow while it came to life. He tugged on his ratty jeans, slipped into his Chucks without untying them. Torn limb from limb? Bigfoot prints found as well? Sasquatches were fiercely territorial, like many alpha predators. Had they somehow encroached upon a bigfoot’s turf? But he’d met that bigfoot. It had been defensive, not aggressive, protecting the brownie.

  The phone was ready for use. Max snatched it up and hit redial. In the other room, he could hear Whedon doing a head count, calling out all the boys’ names.

  “Helsing?”

  “Here, sir!” shouted Max to Whedon, before creeping into the corner of his room, out of the line of sight of the door. Jed answered. Jed always answered.

  “Jed.”

  “Max, thank goodness it’s you,” said his guardian. “The White Mountains, or more specifically Bone Creek: you’re not going to believe this, son—”

  “Reckon I am,” replied Max as Whedon continued to shout names. “You’ve got to get up here. Things just got real.”

  “Well?” shouted Whedon, louder now. “Has anyone seen him?”

  “Wait a minute, Jed,” said Max, holding the phone to his chest so he could better hear the principal in the common room.

  “One of you must have seen him,” Whedon said, the pitch of his voice rising with panic. “Anybody?”

  Max heard frantic footsteps now as Whedon kicked open every door of the lodge, checking every room. The last room he entered was the one he shared with Max and JB. The small boy stumbled aside as the principal came in like a whirling dervish. Max hid the phone behind his back.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “I can’t find him,” said Whedon, eyes twitching.

  “Who?”

  “Boyle,” he said, his face now draining of color. “I can’t find Kenny Boyle.”

  • • •

  IT WAS THE DRIPPING SOUND THAT SLOWLY ROUSED Kenny Boyle to consciousness, a steady, staccato drip drip drip that echoed inside his head. One eye opened, lazy and heavy, the lashes held together by something sticky. His vision was blurred and out of focus, the surroundings dark, dank, and murky. His mouth tasted salty, metallic, from the tip of his tongue to the depths of his throat. A foul stench clogged his nostrils, reminding him of Seamus, the family’s Irish wolfhound back home in Gallows Hill. Whenever he came in from a walk in the rain, he’d stink the whole house up, his steaming, damp coat carrying the reek of whatever he’d rolled in. This was that odor, only worse.

  Kenny tried to lift his head off the floor, but it felt heavy and cumbersome, as if twice its usual size. His other eye slowly peeled open, yet still his vision remained clouded, distorted. He clenched his eyes shut, casting his mind back to the events that had brought him here. His recollections were disjointed. He’d been boasting at supper, trying to show Perez how tough he was. What had he promised her again?

  His eyes were open again, his vision clearing gradually, but the gloom remained. Slowly, the chamber he was in began to shimmer into focus. The ground and walls were rough and misshapen, with puddles gathered here and there that reflected a light source from around a corner. Was that daylight? Was this a cave? Either his eyesight was shot or the illumination was faint. Kenny prayed it was the latter, but the skull-thumping headache he was suffering suggested a concussion.

  He’d promised Perez he was going to catch the bigfoot, hadn’t he? Better than that, carve one up. It was partly for the benefit of embarrassing Max Helsing; that jerk really grated Kenny’s gears. Kenny found him arrogant, cocky, a know-it-all. He always had that smug grin on his face, the one that said I know something you don’t. One of these days he was going to knock him out. Then everyone would see how clever Helsing was.

  Claiming he was off to hunt a bigfoot was one thing; acting on it was another. After waiting until Whedon’s snoring in the bunkhouse had reached peak drone, he’d climbed out of bed, fully dressed. With his friends covering for him, he’d jumped out of the window. Ripley and Shipley had wished him good luck, but he’d had no intention of going on some monster hunt. Instead, he’d crept off into the bushes on the camp’s edge, settling down with a chocolate bar to kill a half hour. The plan had been bulletproof: return at the appropriate time, breathless, filthy, and with his hair full of twigs. In his pocket he had a ragged bit of fur he’d stripped from some roadkill earlier. That would’ve been enough to convince the other kids—and most important Perez—he’d encountered, fought, and evaded a bigfoot. He would be a legend.

  Kenny struggled once more to rise, levering himself off the ground with his forearm. With his elbow locked, he took a deep breath, squinting as he searched the shadows. He felt like he’d been flattened by a truck, which had proceeded to reverse back over him again. He caught something suddenly in the corner of his eye: a glint, something shining, only for the briefest moment. Kenny moved his head, trying to focus on what he’d seen. There it was: a golden glimmer on the ground, an arm’s length away from him. He reached forward and clenched the tiny metal object as he dragged it back toward him.

  Kenny could feel the cold metal within and the chain outside, trailing against his knuckles. He opened his hand slowly. It was a golden crucifix, fixed to a dainty, fragile necklace. Kenny recognized it. He’d seen it before, very recently. He tried to think back, but it hurt so much, the pain in his head intensifying. And why was his face so wet?

  Lifting his free hand tentatively, he ran it across his brow and temple. It came away sticky. Even in the darkness, he could see the unmistakable sheen of blood on his fingertips. It was in his hair, across the bridge of his nose, and in his eyes. Clumsily shuffling into a seated position, he shoved the necklace into his pocket. Where was it from? His brain at last shuddered into gear, and the memory of last night’s horror returned with a bang.

  They were freeze-frames of his encounter in the forest. The sound first of all, a deep grunting snort that had caused him to look up. The giant shadow, a monstrous silhouette in the woods. The shaggy fur, the enormous frame. The eyes blazing a sickly yellow. The teeth bared. The teeth gnashing. The teeth opening as the beast lunged for him.

  Kenny tried to stand, frail as newborn deer, his head woozy as he staggered to one side. He hit the wall with a thud, trembling fingers clutching the rough rock as he fought to remain upright. Every time he blinked, he saw those eyes, burning in the darkness, gold on black. A noise ahead suddenly, toward the light. Kenny’s head came up, his blurred and bloody vision struggling to make out what was happening. A heavy snort, followed by a shadow growing upon the wall. It shifted as the ponderous footsteps approached, footsteps that confirmed he was facing a fiend from his worst nightmares.

  Kenny stumbled back, away from the dim light, into the recesses of the rocky chamber. The panic that he’d felt last night was back, multiplied tenfold, as he fumbled in the darkness. His hands searched the walls, looking for a way out.

  The creature was close now, stepping nearer on those dread feet, its yellow eyes burning with wicked glee. The crucifix! Kenny remembered now. It belonged to the woman, with the guy, the ones who were camping. The ones who had gone missing. What had become of them? What would become of Kenny? He sobbed for his mother. He wailed for his father. But nobody came. There was no rescue for the boy from Gallows Hill. Only the darkness, and the horror, and the Beast of Bone Creek.

  SIXTEEN

  VACATION VACATED

  The White Mountains had rarely looked prettier. Clear blue skies bloomed bright and brilliant, while the treetops shimmered with the passing wind. The snowcapped summit of Mount Washington loomed large, big brother to its smaller but still mighty neighbors. Below the peaks, rivers rushed and brooks babbled, few as picturesque as the crystal clear rapids of Bone Creek.

  But this idyllic scene was now blighted. Police officers took photos, sheriff deputies gathered evidence, and scuba diver
s searched the waters as the creek wound its way through the mountains down toward the Saco River. And a party of schoolchildren from Massachusetts made its way up a stepped woodland path, laden with luggage and heavy hearts.

  “Get your gear up there as quick as you can,” said Principal Whedon at the base of the slope, ushering the children on their way. “I want your bags back in the bus tout de suite!”

  All the while his eyes darted back to the camp and across the water to the hubbub of activity on the opposite bank.

  “Mr. Whedon,” said Sergeant Earl, sidling up to the teacher. “Walt will guide you back into town. He’ll make sure your party gets settled in at Greenwoods’ Guesthouse. I would, of course, ask that you remain there. Once I’m wrapped up down here, I’m gonna need to interview you. You know as well as I do that the business with Mr. Cooper happened across the river from where you were staying, but don’t you worry: we’re not looking at any of your party as suspects.”

  His smile was meant to be reassuring, making his droopy mustache flicker, but Whedon didn’t react. Earl continued.

  “I doubt there’s much you’ll be able to tell me—it’s clear you’ve all had an awful shock—but these are just formalities. I don’t want to cause your students any further distress. Once we’re done with the questions, you can be on your way, back to Boston.”

  Whedon smiled nervously and mopped his brow. “Thank you, officer. We’ll, er . . . we’ll be waiting for you there.”

  From the middle of the procession of kids, Max caught the conversation. As the police sergeant made his way back to his staff on the jetty, Max couldn’t resist having a quiet word with Whedon.

  “Hey, sir. I was wondering: have you actually told the police that Boyle is missing? It’s just that, well, it doesn’t look that way to me.”

  When Whedon turned to Max, his ashen face was slack with worry. He grabbed Max, jerking him away from the other kids and pulling him close.

  “He’s not missing, Helsing.”

  “Sir,” said Max warily, his voice low. “Boyle is missing.”

  The principal shook his head, sweat beading on his brow. “Boyle said he was heading to town to get a room in a hotel. We all heard him. I just need to get over there and knock on a few doors. He’ll turn up in no time.”

  Whedon was unraveling before Max’s eyes. The bluster and arrogance that made him the King of Gallows Hill Middle School were evaporating. He should have been informing the police and calling Boyle’s father. Thinking the boy would be holed up in a hotel was just clutching at straws, wasn’t it? He couldn’t really believe what he was saying, could he?

  “He’ll turn up in town,” whispered the principal. “Just you wait and see, Helsing; he’ll turn up.”

  Max had a sickening feeling that whatever the journalist Cooper had fallen foul of, it was the reason Boyle had vanished too.

  “Um, listen, sir,” said Max, hitching his thumb back at the lodge. “I think I might have left something in the bunkhouse. Can I just dash back and get it?”

  Whedon wasn’t listening, his mind elsewhere as he continued to wave the other students up the log steps while watching the cops go about their business. Max backed up, bumping into JB coming the other way.

  “Dude,” said Max, patting the smaller boy’s arm. “Can you tell Syd that something’s popped up?”

  “Popped up?”

  “Yeah. A work thing. She’ll know what that means.”

  “I know what you mean,” said the shy bespectacled kid. Max arched an eyebrow. “What? You think everyone who lives in Gallows Hill has their heads up their butts? Weird stuff goes down. All the time. And you’re usually involved. I’ll let Syd know she shouldn’t worry, and you’ll catch up with her later.”

  “Wow,” said Max, more than a little stunned that JB was savvy on the supernatural, even if only in a small way. He bumped fists with the kid and walked slowly until he was out of sight of Whedon, then dashed back to the lodge. He went in through the rear window again—Earl was at the front of the building, in conversation with a man from the state police. Hauling his backpack in after him, he opened it up. Loaded as it was, it would just slow him down, and there was only one thing he needed from it. He tipped the bag out onto the bed. Spare clothes, matchbox, comics, and souvenirs showered down. A squeaky toy for Eightball, a snow globe for Wing, beef jerky for Jed, a half-eaten bag of gummy worms—the bed was littered. Last of all came what he was seeking: his messenger bag. It went with him everywhere, on every job. Throwing it over his shoulder, he paused before grabbing the candy and shoving it into the bag. Always be prepared. He dashed through into the common room, mindful of the rotten, creaky floorboard, and quickly rooted through the kitchen area. Then he was back through the bedroom and clambering out the window.

  “Who’ve we got here?”

  The voice made Max start as he landed on the ground. He turned, surprised to find their tour guide standing there, hands on hips, looking stern.

  “Mr. Gideon!”

  “Just Gideon, Max. What on earth are you up to, young man? Don’t you know you need to catch up with your classmates? They’re all heading back to town.”

  “I, um . . . forgot my bag,” he said sheepishly, before patting his satchel. “Silly me.”

  “Indeed, young man. Silly you.” His smile was weary, as if the weight of the world were upon his shoulders. “You know, Max, I truly am sorry about all of this. Still, at least you’re all safe and sound, eh?”

  Safe and sound? So Whedon hadn’t told Gideon about Boyle’s disappearance yet, clearly hoping he could resolve the matter himself.

  “This really wasn’t what I had planned for you and your friends, you know?” said the tour guide.

  Max shrugged. “I didn’t remember seeing animal attacks, death, and disappearances in the brochure. Don’t sweat it, dude. This isn’t on you.”

  “No,” said Gideon, looking over his shoulder at the forest that bordered the adventure camp. “This is Bone Creek itself. I should’ve believed the gossip.”

  “The gossip?”

  “The Beast of Bone Creek. I never believed in bigfoot. Never believed such a monster could be roaming these beautiful mountains.” His face drained of color. “Doing such terrible things.”

  “Hey, it may just be a bear or a wolf, Gideon. Don’t leap to conclusions.”

  Gideon’s usually cheery demeanor had slipped, replaced by one of grave concern. “I’ve lived here long enough to hear every tale. And I’ve chatted with Ike Barnum enough to know there must be some truth in them too.”

  Max had heard that name before. “The hermit, right?”

  “Indeed. Nobody knows Bone Creek like Old Ike. He’s the best tracker there is around these parts.”

  “Why haven’t the cops brought him in to help them with the search, then?”

  Gideon whispered. “They reckon he’s touched in the head. Not all there. I’ve heard Sergeant Earl say he’s a liability.”

  “Do you think he’s crazy?”

  “Well, he does have an overfondness for pickles and chewing tobacco, and he doesn’t much like strangers, but that hardly makes him crazy. Eccentric would be a kinder description. They should’ve enlisted his help from the beginning, once that poor couple vanished.”

  An idea blossomed in Max’s mind.

  “Where does Barnum live again? You did mention it, last time we chatted.”

  “Did I? He’s way up beyond High Crag, where we rappelled the other day.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right.” Max snapped his fingers as if he were trying to recall the conversation that had never taken place. “It’s easy to find because of the . . .”

  He left it hanging.

  “Oh, his cabin is up past the waterfall, maybe half a mile, on the patch of woodland where the twin streams meet. Easy to miss, just as Barnum likes it.” Gideon suddenly loo
ked hard at Max. He stroked his goatee and eyed him suspiciously. “A lot of questions here about my old pal the hermit. You weren’t thinking of paying him a visit, were you?”

  Max kept his best poker face. “Criminy, no. I’ve had enough of Bone Creek. I just wanna get home now.”

  “Good kid,” said Gideon. “Leave the manhunt to the professionals.”

  “Take care, G,” said Max, shaking the man’s hand.

  “You too, Max Helsing. Now get a wiggle on, before they leave without you!”

  Max nodded and set off toward the tree line and the path that led up to the parking lot where the school bus was waiting. He looked back just once. The diminutive tour guide was standing at attention, performing an immaculate scout’s salute. Then Max was gone, up the log steps. Once out of Gideon’s sight, he hopped off the staircase, vanishing into the cool, dark shadows of the pine forest.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE HUNT

  Max knew he was being stalked.

  The last of the Van Helsings shared the same keen senses as his forefathers, picking up on things that others might have missed. A terrified scream in a chorus of cheers. A smell, sweeter than flowers, that promised rot and ruin. A pair of eyes, watching in the darkness. A branch snapping in the woods. Whoever, or whatever, was following him, it was doing so from a distance, but drawing ever nearer. He’d felt its presence for a good hour. The brownie? Perhaps. The Sasquatch? He hoped not. The true Beast of Bone Creek? Max’s pulse quickened. He ducked behind a big pine, flattening himself against the trunk as he waited for what might come. He lifted the flap of his messenger bag, hand slipping in to close around the polished wooden length of his lucky stake. Out came Splinter, his family heirloom, the weapon’s shining silver tip ready to dish out some damage.

  A distant gunshot sounded, causing Max to flinch. He hated firearms, and he’d heard plenty in the White Mountains this day already. Max’s breathing was shallow, allowing him to better listen to his approaching foe. The footsteps were steadily getting louder, twigs breaking under their weight. Could it be the Beast? Would it dare attack in broad daylight?