by Ike Hamill
“Mike?” Gary asked again.
The small indentation shifted a foot towards Mike, leaving a trough of missing sand in its place. Without taking his eyes off the floor, Mike reached up with his flashlight-hand and turned off the radio to silence Gary’s voice. The hole began to grow again; its diameter widening to five inches and then six, while Mike stood paralyzed and entranced. The sand filtering down reminded Mike of a giant ant trap dug by a crafty spider.
Mike leaned forward, trying to see the center of the hole without moving any closer. He stood on his toes and reached out with his light. The center of the hole was two long strides away, but the edge crept closer every second as the hole grew and sandy dirt disappeared into the center.
A brown lump appeared at the bottom of the hole. The dirt stopped swirling. Mike watched as it formed a short column, and then another emerged adjacent to the first. Mike didn’t recognize the form until the second knuckle uncovered itself, and then it was difficult deny: he was watching the bones of a human hand materializing from the cellar floor of the old farmhouse.
Mike’s legs ached; he had no choice but to settle back on his heels before they gave out. The dirt shifted again as the rest of the fingers emerged. Once the bones of the wrist were free from the dirt, the hand bent and pawed lightly at the walls of the hole. Mike sucked in a shallow, trembling breath. The hand snapped up, with the fingers cupped in Mike’s direction.
The hand returned to pawing at the dirt, but moved faster with each swipe. When the elbow emerged, Mike realized that another small lump was poking through the side of the hole a few inches away from the arm. That lump lead to another set of fingers and soon Mike watched two skeletal arms struggling to break free from the dirt floor.
An egg shape, dirty brown like the arms, emerged next. The large shape resolved into a dome. Mike recognized the skull before the eye-sockets became visible. A few seconds later, when the head of the skeleton had shaken itself free from the dirt, the head swiveled, its empty eye sockets staring directly into Mike’s flashlight beam.
Mike leaned heavily on the bannister, trying to catch his breath. The naked jawbone of the entity began to clap, slamming its fossilized teeth into the upper jaw of the skull. The chattering accelerated to an impossible pace as the skull tilted left and right, as if regarding Mike.
The collar bones appeared quickly, now that the creature could reach the edges of the hold and press itself upwards. Mike heard a low moan and wondered why it sounded so close before he realized that it came from his own mouth.
The skeleton tapped its boney fingers in the dirt while gazing at him with empty eye-sockets.
“Mike?” called Gary from the top of the stairs. Gary pounded down the old stairs, nearly bending the treads to their breaking point. Mike turned to see him descending at fully speed with a red fire extinguisher clutched to his chest.
Just behind Gary, Katie picked her way down at a more controlled pace. She paused to flip on the light switch at the top of the stairs.
Mike squinted at the lights and looked around to see his skeletal friend now pulling its torso from the loose dirt. Mike counted four ribs as Gary landed at the foot of the stairs to Mike’s right.
“What the hell?” he asked.
Mike pointed towards the creature, but couldn’t get his mouth to form any words. Katie paused and crouched, halfway down the stairs, and pointed her camera in the direction of the moving corpse. Her flash lit the corners of the room just as Mike found his first words—“It wants skin,” he said.
“What?” asked Gary. “Maybe it wants this.” He pointed the fire extinguisher at the brown bones, still pulling to extract the rest of its spine.
Gary pulled the trigger before Mike could object and sprayed the creature with a thick white fog.
“Why?” asked Mike.
“I thought it might not like cold,” said Gary as they waited for the fog to disperse. When it had, they saw that the skeleton’s progress had not been impeded. In fact, the bones had picked up a fast tremble, as if they coursed with energy.
Katie’s camera continued to flash, freezing the skeleton’s chattering jaw with each strobe.
“We have to steal its energy,” said Mike. “Or at least slow it down. It’s picking up speed.”
“Wait. Wait,” said Katie from the stairs. “It’s us. We didn’t see any non-linear energy drain until you came down here. It’s taking our energy now.”
“Let’s go, let’s go,” Mike pushed Gary back towards the stairs.
They climbed quickly, pulling the railings and scaling the steps three at a time. Just before shutting the cellar door, Mike thought he detected the chattering teeth slowing down. He locked the door and then ran for the kitchen door, following his sprinting cohorts back to the van.
Once in the van, they pulled shut the doors, locked them, and turned to the monitors. The skeleton was attempting to pull its thigh bones free from the cellar. Its head spun and turned randomly.
“Looks like a top winding down,” said Gary.
“Yeah, doesn’t it?” whispered Katie.
“What’s the readout?” asked Mike.
“Oh, sorry,” said Katie. “Yup, definitely leveled off. It was up here when we left,” she said, pointing. “Still dropping, almost back to ambient.”
Mike looked back at the video and could see the change in the skeleton’s behavior. The twitching, chattering, and other movement had curtailed. As they watched the various displays and readouts, the creature became completely still and Katie’s readout had returned to the baseline.
“Do you think it’s dormant again?” asked Katie.
“Sure looks like it,” said Mike.
“Oh shit,” said Gary. He pressed his ear against the side of the van. “Homeowners.”
“Quick,” said Mike. “Grab them. Don’t let them go back in, that thing may wake up again.”
Gary tugged on the handle and then spilled out of the van to the driveway. Mike plowed out after him. The two jogged across the yard, waving their arms at the returning couple. When they had explained the situation, Mike invited the couple, Bob and Linda, to see the video displays.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Bob. “Is that my cellar? Did you guys plant that thing there?”
“No, seriously,” said Mike. “That came up from your cellar floor. Back up one of the streams please Gary,” As Gary made his way to the panel, Mike explained the technology. “These monitors are hooked up to our digital video recorders. We can watch the live stream or back it up while it’s still recording.”
“This is when I first saw the hole appearing,” Mike pointed at the screen when Gary had found the right spot. “This is a low-light infrared system, so it’s a bit grainy, but here you can see the hand coming out,” They all watched in silence until the picture changed substantially. “That’s where Katie turned on the cellar lights,” Mike explained.
“Lin,” Bob turned on his wife. “I thought you said these guys were just going to shoot some video, not dig up the entire fucking cellar.”
“You’re not listening, Bob,” said Linda. “I kept telling you there was something down there.”
“Jesus, babe,” said Bob. “Let me guess, you found this terrible thing in the cellar, right where Linda said you should look, and now it’s only going to cost ten thousand dollars to cleanse the evil, right?”
“Sir, we are researchers,” said Mike. “We have no intention…”
“I’m calling the cops,” said Bob. He pulled a cell phone from his back pocket and turned to walk back to the house.
“We don’t want your money,” said Mike.
“I bet you don’t,” said Bob. “You just brought all these crazy cameras out of the kindness of your heart.” He held the phone to his ear and waited for a response. “Well I hope you also brought some money for bail because I’m calling the goddamn cops. Hey, Joey,” he said into the phone.
“Who’s Joey?” Gary asked Linda.
“That�
��s his sister’s husband. He’s a deputy sheriff,” Linda answered. “They fish together a lot.”
Bob disappeared through the kitchen door and lights spilled from the kitchen windows. A few seconds later, he appeared on the video monitors.
“Nothing,” said Gary.
Katie bent over her display—“No energy drain here.”
“Want me to turn on the amplifier?” asked Gary. “That would probably change his mind.”
“No, no, we can’t do that,” said Mike. “Who knows what would happen. We can’t be responsible for that.”
On the infrared screen, Bob crouched next to the skeleton as he talked into the phone.
“Do we have audio on that?” asked Mike.
Gary turned up a dial and they heard Bob’s voice over the speakers—“Looks like an actual goddamn skeleton, Joey,” He paused. “Yeah, bring ’em,” he continued.
* * * * *
“WELL IT CERTAINLY DOES LOOK like it came from there,” said Sheriff Murphy.
Mike, Gary, and Katie had been repeating their story for several hours as more and more officials arrived at the site to examine the corpse poking halfway out of the cellar floor.
“When you find a skeleton in a basement, it would be really helpful if you give me a call instead of making music videos with the thing all night.” The sheriff waved dismissively at the van.
“Sir, I know it’s hard to understand, and we certainly don’t have all the answers about what happened here tonight,” said Mike.
The sheriff interrupted him—“Look, chief, just keep your tall tales to yourself and tell me how you happened to find the deceased.”
“The only information we had was that Mrs. Hubert described a funny feeling and voices coming from the floor of the cellar. That’s it, I swear,” said Mike. “This is what I research. I’ve got dozens of documented cases.”
“Bob told me that you wanted several thousand dollars to clean the evil spirits from the house.”
“No, sir!” said Mike. “That’s something he made up and ascribed to us. We never had any intention of trying to charge anyone. That’s not what we do. We’re purely researchers.”
“My deputy has been friends with Bob a long time. I’ve got no reason to doubt him. You get your equipment out of here and don’t darken the Huberts’ doorstep again and we’ll just forget that this happened. I won’t even arrest you for tampering with evidence or grave robbing.”
“But the video,” started Mike.
The sheriff held up his hand and walked away from the researchers. He sent over a different deputy who directed them to pack their things and leave.
Back in the van, Mike was furious. “Next time we’re getting the press at the site before we do anything.”
CHAPTER NINE
Crooked Tree
HE WOKE SEVERAL TIMES after sunset, but didn’t leave his cave until the moon rose above the tree line. Between naps he imagined himself absorbing the power of his father and brother. Then, he extended his aspirations and tapped the strength of all his dead relatives.
Pulling with his intact arm, he crested the lip of the cave and paused to survey the bodies of his family. At first, he thought they had all been carried away by scavengers: he only saw jagged rocks. By the time his one good eye came completely into focus, he had already guessed his mistake. What he took for jagged rocks were the pale remains and split bones of his kin.
Crooked Tree bent his head to respect the dead. When his eye closed, his perception narrowed to a pinpoint, until he was able to sense only one thing: a deep hunger. His eye flew open and he realized that his disobedient body had already started to pull towards the corpses smashed apart on the rocks.
The first sticky-wet body he reached belonged to a child. Crooked Tree tried to not recognize the young flesh, but couldn’t help but picture this child’s last few moments as he was flung from the cliff by his loving mother.
He reached for the boy’s pulpy brain, but drew his hand away. He knew he must reject thinking and become an animal once again.
An animal uses its paw to run or to kill, he thought. Not to feed.
Crooked Tree slid himself over the boy’s sprawled corpse and buried his mouth into the split in the boy’s lifeless skull. He pulled chunks of brain and swallowed them along with several of his own teeth, half-fractured in his mouth. The hunger intensified and rang through his body, stronger than ever.
Pulling back from his feeding, he paused and regarded the dead boy’s placid face. Only the mouth showed any emotion. The corner twisted. Crooked Tree remembered another time when this boy, Red Feather, generally called Little Feather, had held his mouth that same way.
Crooked Tree had taken Little Feather and several of his friends down to the river to show them how to catch fish from the small pool beyond the falls. With his long, fast arms, Crooked Tree was considered an expert at grabbing the fat autumn fish from the cool stream. He began by instructing the boys how to coat their hands and forearms in sandy mud and letting them dry in the sun. When everyone had a thin layer of sand baked on his hand, ideal for gripping slippery fish, Crooked Tree amazed the youngsters by darting his hand into the water and pulling out a shiny fish. None of the boys could master the skill, but this boy, Little Feather, had tried until the red sun had set. Crooked Tree remembered this boy’s little face turned up to him, his giant cousin, with that same twisted-corner mouth.
The boy’s eyes, half open, were barely visible in the moonlight. Crooked Tree leaned in to get his face as close as possible to Little Feather’s features and turned his head so he could bite at the boy’s juicy eyes. He sucked the fluid from the sockets until he felt his own dead eye begin to itch. The world began to sparkle for Crooked Tree as his once-punctured eye flickered back into operation.
Before he had finished with the boy, Crooked Tree’s good eye and new eye wandered across the rocks to spot his next nourishment. He sniffed the wind and slid himself over Little Feather until he could reach the boy’s sister, Snow Rabbit. Her arm had twisted and split when she crashed to the ground. Crooked Tree sniffed at her wrist and then bit into her biceps, gnawing through the raw muscle.
Even with the blood, gore, and feces in the air, Crooked Tree could identify his cousin’s familiar scent. She always had a funny story to tell, she would offer entertainment to lighten the mood as the family went without food or warmth during a long winter.
One time she had told a story about the foolish squirrels: “One crisp fall the acorns were scarce, so the squirrels got together and convinced the bravest black squirrel to talk to the bees. The squirrel climbed the tall maple to the bees nest and asked ‘Pardon me, but is it going to be a cold winter?’ The bees swirled around the black squirrel and buzzed an answer ‘Yes, it will be cold.’
“The black squirrel returned to the others and told them the bad news. They redoubled their efforts, but after a few days became discouraged. They begged the black squirrel to confirm. Returning to the hive, he asked ‘Are you sure it’s going to be cold?’ The bees responded immediately—‘Yes, we’re sure it’s going to be cold.’
“Finally, when the first frost came, the squirrels were exhausted, but still desperately hunting nuts. They convinced the black squirrel to check one more time so they could know how hard to keep hoarding. ‘I’m sorry to bother you again,’ said the black squirrel, ‘but are you positive it will be a cold winter?’ he asked. ‘Are you joking?’ asked the bees. ‘Of course it’s going to be a cold winter. Have you seen how hard those squirrels are collecting nuts?’”
Crooked Tree smiled at the memory of the joke, and wiped the blood from his mouth with his good arm. His injured arm tingled as the bones straightened and the muscles reconnected to his healing tendons.
He pulled in the power and substance of his tribe, collecting their memories and skills from their brains and muscles. Each time he consumed the flesh of an individual, he was visited with a memory or thought of them and he said his final goodbye. At the far side o
f the rocks, near the edge of the trees, Crooked Tree found his muscular brother—Running Deer. He stood over Running Deer’s broken form, Crooked Tree’s own body nearly complete; healed through his cannibalism.
Crooked Tree knelt before his brother, examining his injuries. Running Deer had always been the swifter, stronger, and more brave, but Crooked Tree didn’t know how to take that power from him. Running Deer’s arms and legs bulged with firm muscle, but Crooked Tree had bolstered his own strength and eclipsed his brother’s abilities. Thinking of courage, Crooked Tree sniffed his brother’s chest to find his heart, but the organ had been destroyed on impact. A long, jagged branch jutted from Running Deer’s chest.
He stepped past his brother’s body, finding nothing to absorb and saw one final body. He found Talking Bird just beyond his brother, lying on his side. Crooked Tree rolled Talking Bird onto his back and jerked back. Talking Bird opened his eyes.
“You have become all of us,” breathed Talking Bird, his eyes widening.
“I can’t find my father,” said Crooked Tree.
“You won’t,” said Talking Bird. “You’re not meant to.”
“Maybe he’s alive,” said Crooked Tree. “I lived, and you’re alive.”
“No,” said Talking Bird. “Neither of us should be considered alive. You’re a roaming spirit, and I am long dead.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Crooked Tree. “When I found myself down here I thought I was a roaming spirit. But I have eaten and grown whole again. How can a spirit grow and eat?”
“That’s all spirits do,” said Talking Bird. “You’re not just any spirit, you’re the spirit that infected our family, and now that you’ve been released, you’ve chosen Crooked Tree’s form and memories.”
“Am I to infect another family now?” asked Crooked Tree. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“No,” said Talking Bird. “Once released, the spirit becomes the agent, not just an infection. You know what to do, you just haven’t remembered it yet.”