Max Helsing and the Beast of Bone Creek

by Curtis Jobling

  “There’s something in the air,” Max said abruptly.

  “Pollen?” Syd quipped.

  Max looked at the backs of his arms, where his hairs stood on end. “I felt like this when I went rappelling with Gideon and Boyle. On top of the cliffs, it’s like there’s an intensity. It’s hard to explain.”

  “You get an A for effort,” she replied, keeping her eyes peeled as they walked side by side. “So the hermit lives up here? Somewhere near the stream?”

  “Where it forks,” muttered Max distractedly, glancing back the way they’d come.

  Ahead, there was the sound of a whipcrack, followed by a whooping shriek. The two halted instantly, looking to each other with alarm, as a string of colorful obscenities echoed through the trees. Max recognized the voice and smiled at Syd.

  “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  He took her by the arm and pushed on, parting the bushes ahead. The brownie was suspended five feet off the ground, a black cord tight about his ankle, the other end wrapped around a branch overhead. He twirled and cursed, struggling in vain to get free of the trap. The ears of his rabbit-skin hat hung limp in the most forlorn fashion. Max stifled a laugh.

  “Release me, Van Helsing!” shouted the brownie, struggling to rise and reach the snare about his ankle. His panpipes lay on the earth beneath him, out of his reach.

  “What’s that? I think there’s a magic word missing. . . .”

  “Please release me,” hissed the forest fairy, his filthy cheeks growing redder with each passing second.

  Max tapped his chin with his forefinger, contemplating the request. “You were dead set that I wanted to kill you last time we met. You even bit my damn hand! Monster killer, you called me. Why was that? Tell me and I’ll set you free.”

  “Set me free, then I’ll tell you.”

  “With all due respect,” said Syd, walking around the suspended imp and inspecting the rope, “you’re in no position to haggle, little dude.”

  Max grinned, glad to have Syd by his side. She gave the black cord a twang, causing the brownie to judder.

  “Don’t know what this is made from, but it’s strong as steel!”

  Max recognized the material. He’d seen it recently, tucked inside the jacket of England’s greatest teen monster hunter and the planet’s biggest dork.

  “Abel Archer,” said Max. “The snare is his handiwork.” He looked around the clearing and then back to the brownie. “No sign of your bigfoot pal though. So we’re going to let you down. And I can only hope you’ll reciprocate this act of kindness. Okay?”

  The little man nodded enthusiastically. Syd was already shinnying up the tree trunk, making her way to the branch that supported the offending rope. Whipping a penknife out of her belt, she set to work on the bindings.

  “Sheesh, what is this stuff made from? I can’t even cut it with my knife.”

  “Knowing Archer, it must be some kind of state-of-the art black-ops gear that his lordship’s invested in. Maybe a blend of Kevlar and frost giant butt whiskers.”

  “I can’t cut it. Trying to pick the knot loose now,” she called down.

  “No rush,” he replied, patting the brownie’s upturned head and giving him a gentle push. The man of the forest spun slowly, irritation writ upon his dirty face. “You don’t mind hanging around, do you?”

  Max picked the panpipes off the ground and brought them to his lips.

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” said the little man. “In the hands of the untrained, those pipes can be dangerous.”

  “I played a mean recorder in elementary school,” said Max.

  “Did your recorder induce a brain hemorrhage when you hit the wrong note?” Max stopped instantly, as the brownie grinned. “No, didn’t think so.”

  The little man’s smug look vanished in a flash as the rope came loose overhead and he fell toward the ground. Max snatched him out of the air, cradling him like a newborn.

  “It’s a bouncing baby brownie!” exclaimed Max in his best new-father voice.

  “Gerroff,” grunted the little man, jumping out of Max’s arms and landing with a thump in the soil. He reached up to grab for the pipes, but Max held them high.

  “We made a deal, remember? We’ve already cut you down.”

  “You get your pipes back when you answer some questions,” said Syd, swinging upside down from the tree bough above like a true acrobat. She landed deftly beside Max. “You can start by telling us your name.”

  The brownie huffed for a moment before gathering what few shreds of dignity he had left.

  “My name is Kimble. And please be careful. Those panpipes are the key to all my good work.”

  “I’ve been hearing these in the forest since I got here, haven’t I?” said Max.

  Kimble took a sarcastic, over-the-top bow. “Yours truly. That’s me trying to keep the harmony in the forest. Not easy, all things presently considered, I can tell you. Without these pipes, I’m just a grubby wee fellow who wanders the forest. With them, I can cast spells, glamour people, perform all kinds of brownie magic upon them. I’d have done so to you if you hadn’t called upon your own dark magic to counter my spell.”

  “‘Bohemian Rhapsody,’” said Max proudly to Syd, who rolled her eyes with a sigh.

  Kimble continued, growing more animated. “I can embolden the most frightened spirit, and calm the wildest beast. I can make a heart feel love, a soul feel hope, a mind forget. They’re as important to me as your Monstrosi Bestiarum, Maxwell. Without them, my magic won’t work.”

  “Whoa,” said Max, grabbing Kimble by his rabbit-eared hat and pulling him forward. “You seem to know an awful lot about me, yet I know diddly-squat about you.”

  “You’re not the first Van Helsing to come to Bone Creek, Maxwell. One of your great-great-great-whatevers came hunting this way in the late 1800s.”

  “Hunting bigfoot?”

  “Who’s telling this story?” Kimble glowered at Max. “Bernhard Van Helsing—what a twisted soul he was. He turned up in the White Mountains, tracking an ursanthrope.”

  “An ursa-what?” asked Syd.

  “Werebear, for want of a better word,” explained Max. Kimble nodded.

  “Indeed, a shape-shifter who could turn into a bear. Originally a Scot, he went by the name MacMillan—he was a gambler, a huckster, a confidence trickster, plying his trade right across the Wild West. That is, until he killed a Pinkerton agent and was chased back East, back to where he had family, here in this valley. He wasn’t alone when he returned, though. MacMillan brought trouble to the White Mountains in the shape of a Van Helsing.”

  Kimble plucked a juicy millipede off a fern. He proffered it to Syd and Max, both of whom recoiled. With a shrug, he popped it into his mouth and slurped it down.

  “Mmm, tickly. Anyway, Bernhard Van Helsing cut a bloody path through Bone Creek. Here was a fellow who killed for pleasure, and he wasn’t fussy about what he put to the sword. Black bears and bugbears, wolves and will-o’-the-wisps, foxes and fey folk. You know, there was a clan of dryads who once protected this forest?”

  “Tree nymphs,” said Max, nodding. “I already met the water nymph in the river.”

  “One of many, Maxwell, but their tree-bound cousins called the woods their home for many centuries. Shy, peaceful beings that tended the trees throughout Bone Creek. That is, until Bernhard turned up. Slew the lot of them as he sought out the werebear, for no reason other than sickly, cruel pleasure.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Max, feeling the overwhelming guilt of his forefather’s wicked deeds.

  “Old Bernhard slaughtered all manner of creature, both fairy and natural, as he tried to find MacMillan. Did he find him?”

  “I’m guessing no?” said Syd.

  “Precisely,” said Kimble. “Bernhard came across a human settlement up here on a trib
utary of the Saco River, known to be MacMillan’s family home. The mad monster hunter butchered innocent men, women, and children before MacMillan finally arrived, enraged and transformed. Van Helsing and the werebear died that day, atop the falls that were named after their titanic struggle, locked in mortal combat, while the river ran red with blood. This region never got its name because of the white zinc in the mountains, no matter what anyone tells you. It and the falls were named after what happened that dread day. Battle Falls, Bone Creek: we have a Van Helsing to thank for that.”

  “I’ve never heard that story before,” whispered Max quietly. “Never heard of Bernhard, either.”

  Could one of his ancestors have really committed such atrocities? This Bernhard sounded worse than any monster he’d ever encountered. The brownie reached forward and patted the boy’s knee.

  “It’s not all bad, Maxwell. There was another in your family, a kinder soul, who paid Bone Creek a visit. Esme, her name was.”

  Max’s ears pricked up. “I know of Esme. She’s one of the main contributors to the Monstrosi Bestiarum.”

  “Well, she wanted to put right the wrongs of Bernhard. Even went so far as bringing other waifs and strays from the fairy world here and helping them relocate when their homes became too crowded with dangerous humans.”

  Max’s heart soared to hear this.

  “She’d turn up on occasion, bringing another fey stranger into the fold. Then she stopped coming. We figured she’d died. But by then, we were a community. Looked after ourselves. There hasn’t been another Van Helsing here in well over a hundred of your human years. Not until now.”

  “How do you know so much about me then?”

  “You Van Helsings give off a vibe,” said Kimble. “I’m guardian to this woodland and all that lives within it, so it’s my job to monitor what goes on here, who’s coming in and out and suchlike. I figured trouble wouldn’t be far behind you, and I was right.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Max. “What’s happened in Bone Creek this week—I had nothing to do with it!”

  “Maybe you didn’t cause it on purpose. But look at the facts: you turn up and bad stuff happens. Does that happen to you a lot?”

  Max didn’t answer. Trouble found him, without a doubt. Kimble continued.

  “Something profoundly wicked is at work in these woods. Fairies, nymphs, and all manner of harmless monster have been getting killed, snuffed out by who knows what. The Sasquatch, a powerful but peaceful creature, is getting framed. The young male you met yesterday has vanished, fled the forest as far as I can tell. Any sane fellow, human or fairy, should be hightailing out of here.”

  “I’m going nowhere, not until I find Boyle.”

  “The missing boy?”

  “He’s out here somewhere and he needs our help.”

  “If you were right-minded, you would run.”

  Max knelt down beside Kimble, his knee cushioned by the mossy ground. He looked hard at the brownie, who gave him the same stare back.

  “I’m a monster hunter, Kimble. I can’t run away from a fight. There’s something bigger and badder than a bigfoot out there, and it means to harm humans, fey folk, and cryptids alike. I’m going nowhere until I stop it. I’m making a vow to you, Kimble: I’ll protect your people in this forest, just as Esme did before me.”

  The brownie reached out and placed a tiny hand over Max’s, giving it a squeeze.

  “You’re all right, Maxwell. For a Van Helsing.”

  Max handed the brownie his pipes back and then stood.

  “We’re off to speak with Barnum the hermit. In the meantime, move everyone deeper into the woods. Head to where no man has gone before, to where no man can reach, and wait there until the storm has passed.”

  “I’ll tell them to hide, but there’s no guarantee they’ll listen to me,” said Kimble. “The fey folk of Bone Creek are a willful bunch. If you feel eyes upon you in the darkness, remember there’s a chance it could be a friend.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind when we’re running and screaming.” Max turned to Syd. “You ready?”

  “Sun’s going down,” she said as she prepared to follow Max. “This is going to be a long night, isn’t it?”

  “Be lucky, Maxwell,” said Kimble as the teenagers set off into the woods. “Be safe.”

  TWENTY

  TRACKING 101

  “Jed! Jed! Are we there yet?”

  Jed Coolidge slowly exhaled and turned. His flashlight dazzled Wing Liu, who was scrambling up the woodland path behind Jed with all the grace and coordination of a true city dweller. The boy was panting, knees and elbows coated in dirt, the sleeve of his jacket shredded after an altercation with a bush. His glasses were speckled with sweat and mud, and his big eyes blinked as he looked pitifully at his companion.

  “You have to be kidding me, Wing. You can’t be tired already!”

  Eightball had been leading the way since they’d parked up on the side of the road, not far from the camp parking lot. A single patrol car had been stationed there for the night in case there were any developments. Eightball had led Jed and Wing into the forest, sniffing as he searched for Max’s scent. Now the pup was walking behind Wing, urging him on with nudges from his nose. Wing wiped a grubby hand across his brow, leaving a filthy smear.

  “I’m just not used to this.” The ten-year-old wheezed, leaning hard on Jed’s arm as he gathered his breath.

  “The great outdoors?”

  “Exercise.”

  Jed grunted. “You’re a fraction of my age, I’m carrying all the gear, and I have a bum leg.”

  “I’m strong in a different way,” said the boy as his breathing slowly returned to normal.

  “A completely useless way?”

  “Far from it. My parents have spent hours, and many dollars, strengthening my brain. I have mental aptitude, an inquiring mind, and super smarts.”

  “Perhaps you should trade some of those super smarts for some old-fashioned common sense.”

  “How come?”

  “Because you’re standing in a pile of dung, kid.”

  Jed tried not to laugh as Wing pulled his sneaker out of the fecal surprise and proceeded to do the dance of the dog droppings. He wiped, dragged, and even kicked out from the knee, sending poop flicking with resounding splats into the surrounding bracken.

  Eightball growled as Wing stopped hopping, the devil dog’s eyes flashing bright and white.

  “What’s got his hackles up?” asked Wing.

  Jed crouched, his left leg remaining locked at the knee. The old wound always returned to haunt him. He’d been on the receiving end of a charge from a minotaur many years ago, when the beast’s mighty horn had gored a hole clean through his leg, curtailing his career in the field.

  “Easy, boy,” said Jed, putting his flashlight on the forest floor and patting the rolls of fat on Eightball’s neck. They felt hard, like coiled rope.

  The hellhound dipped his head, snarling at something unseen in the darkness.

  “Maybe he can smell bigfoot,” whispered Wing.

  The boy picked the flashlight up off the ground. It was slender, a foot-long cylinder of dull black metal, but rather than having the cold feel of steel, it had the texture of polished wood. Instead of an On/Off switch on the barrel, there were a series of strange symbols.

  “Hey, are these runes? What kind of cockamamie camping store did you get this from?”

  Jed looked up from Eightball and snatched the flashlight from the boy’s hand.

  “Gimme that back!”

  “Keep your hair on, Jed,” grumbled the kid.

  Jed sighed. “Wing Liu, stowing away in the trunk of my car was the single dumbest thing you’ve ever done. For all that intelligence, you really have zero wisdom.”

  “I left a note for Mom.”

  “I know you did, and I’
ve spoken to her. I told her that we’re staying at a guesthouse while we get Max, so I can bring you home to her tomorrow. Trust me, Wing: lying to your parents does not make me happy. Now I’m stuck with you by my side as I try to find Max, Syd, and the Boyle boy, in dangerous terrain where no doubt a supernatural horror is at work. You read those old reports, Wing; Bone Creek has history.”

  After he’d received the call from Max, Jed had gone into research mode. With Wing’s help, he’d discovered that there had been sightings of bigfoot reported in the New Hampshire press, but no evidence had ever been captured. The ever-resourceful Wing had uncovered an old scroll signed by one of Max’s ancestors, Esme Van Helsing: an agreement between herself and the fairy folk of Bone Creek that she would ensure their protection against humankind. The message had clearly never made it to the other Van Helsings.

  Eightball was still snuffling around, and his nose led him to the offending sole Wing was now scraping with a stick. The hellhound’s eyes flashed white, and his chest hummed as if he might belch fire at any moment.

  “Jed!” exclaimed Wing. “Can you shine your fancy flashlight this way? I want to take a closer look at this dooky.”

  Jed grabbed the boy’s ankle firmly, holding him steady as he focused the beam from his flashlight onto the stinking shoe. Eightball got in closer, his growl steady as an idle chainsaw. The hellhound’s eyes glowed white-hot as he took another tentative sniff at the sneaker. Jed could now see tiny bone fragments in the foul sludge, crushed and splintered by powerful teeth.

  “I think it’s monster mash,” said Wing.

  “You could be right. You think so too, huh, Eightball? Good dog.” Jed patted the pup as he straightened, his back creaking. “This is a predator that’s done this, and judging by the size of the deposit, it’s a big one.”