The Hunting Tree

by Ike Hamill

  Something about the paint which coated the door made him recall his childhood bedroom. He found the cold brass knob, but it wouldn’t turn or pull. The door didn’t move even a hair as he pushed and pulled at the handle. If he hadn’t just heard it shut, Mike might assume it was an ornamental door, bolted to concrete.

  Hand-over-hand, he felt his way to the right and found a cool plaster wall. He worked up and down the wall and then found the switch-plate slightly more to the right. His fingers paused when they touched the plastic plate around the light switch. Even in the complete dark, he could tell it wasn’t a plain rectangle. Sharp peaks defined its irregular, rounded perimeter. Suddenly, Mike could picture it perfectly. If there was any light he would be looking at the Scooby Doo switch-plate that had adorned his childhood-bedroom wall. He flipped the switch, but no light came from the overhead fixture. He tried the switch several more times before giving up.

  Mike spun, put his back to the plaster, and sunk to a crouch with his back against wall. His eyes were useless. Open or shut, the result was identical. His heartbeat and breathing comprised most of what he heard. He reached out with his hearing and tried to pick up any sound from the room. He thought he could almost hear the sound of his own breathing, echoing off the surrounding walls.

  He swallowed and considered yelling for help. After a few seconds, he reasoned that it was unlikely that calling for help would yield any results—he wasn’t even sure he was still in Bill’s house. As he finished his swallow, his dry throat clicked. He heard a radio switch on.

  With just this one clue, Mike could put a time to the place. The texture of the painted door and the Scooby Doo light switch had given him the place—his childhood bedroom—but there was only one time in his childhood when he would turn on the radio in the night. That had been when Mike was eleven: the year after his baby brother had died.

  Mike lowered his butt the last few inches to the floor and pulled in his adult feet as he listened to 102.9’s version of classic rock for the middle of the night. After his brother and roommate, Charlie, had passed away, Mike would wait up past midnight, until he knew his parents were asleep, before turning on his bedside radio.

  In the dark, the adult version of Mike listened to the classic rock for just a few seconds before the dial changed position, turning the music into static. This had also been part of the eleven-year-old Mike’s routine. The classic rock station had been just a placeholder, so he could remember the position where the static came in best. Soon the room was filled with scattered white noise.

  “Charlie?” a young voice whispered. Mike recognized it as his own. “Charlie?”

  The white noise changed shape, flowing in waves through the room.

  “Charlie?” eleven-year-old Mike whispered in the dark.

  Adult Mike pressed his back harder against the wall.

  The radio static began to swirl again, and Mike heard the envelope of a syllable. “Miiikeeeey,” the white noise whispered.

  “Charlie? Is that you?” asked boy-Mike.

  “Yessssssssssssss,” the white-noise-Charlie trailed off.

  “Where are you Charlie? Are you in heaven?” boy-Mike pleaded.

  “Yesssss, ehhhhn nooooh,” Charlie shaped the noise.

  “What do you mean?” asked boy-Mike.

  Adult Mike cradled his head with invisible hands in the pitch black and heard a low moan coming from his own throat. He suppressed the noise—he didn’t want to call any attention to himself.

  “I’m nahhhhhht,” said Charlie. “I’m nahhhht all-a-way deeead,” he hissed through the noise.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” boy-Mike’s voice began to break as he tried, and failed, to hold his voice to a whisper. “You had the leukemia. You were in the coffin.” His voice hitched.

  “I gahhhhhht,” Charlie paused, “awaaay.”

  “Away?” asked boy-Mike. “Away from what? Charlie—where are you?”

  The white noise flared, but the shapes within the noise decreased, and Mike was only able to make out the long words. He pushed away from the wall and moved towards his childhood bed, accessing his ancient mental map of the room.

  “I gahhhhht … graveyard,” he heard, “… inna crahhhhwl spaaace.”

  “Charlie, you’re scaring me,” blubbered boy-Mike. “Why are trying to scare me?”

  Mike took to his hands and knees and started to crawl towards the sound of his young voice. He reached out a hand, expecting to find the edge wooden bedframe. A hot hand clamped around his trailing ankle and he was jerked back, with his hand swinging through empty space before slapping down on the unfinished plywood floor.

  He opened his mouth to scream and warn his young counterpart. Before he could make a noise, he heard Charlie shape the white noise one more time—“Onnna khiiiiilll yooouuuu toooo,” hissed Charlie.

  Mike clawed at the plywood, but was helpless to slow his backwards progress. Light flooded around him, forcing him to squint and raise his arms defensively as he was roughly rolled over.

  “Mike!” yelled Gary, inches from his face.

  Mike lowered his arms and saw his friend.

  “Gary? What happened?”

  “Come on,” said Gary, extending a hand to help him to his feet. “Let’s get going.”

  Once standing, Mike blinked against the bright light and found himself at the top of the stairs. Gary brushed at the sawdust and dirt clinging to Mike’s shirt, and Mike joined in, the two of them raising a small cloud. Gary led the way down the stairs and Mike followed slowly, gripping the handrail tight and moving one step at a time.

  Before descending too far, Mike took a look around and found the unfinished second floor once again completely unremarkable.

  “Where’s Katie?”

  “Garage,” said Gary.

  Mike glanced back once more before pulling the extension cord from the outlet at the bottom of the stairs, killing the upstairs lights.

  “What happened to you?” asked Katie, once they had closed the door to the garage.

  “I don’t know,” said Mike, shaking his head. “But are you okay? I heard you scream and then it sounded like you were being dragged away.”

  “No,” said Katie. “When the lights went out I called for you, but you didn’t answer. I went back to the stairs and then came down and found Gary. He told me to wait in the garage.”

  “Thanks for coming back for me,” Mike said to Gary, patting him on the shoulder.

  “No big deal,” said Gary. “The lights were on, and you were just lying there, whispering about a crawl space and some other stuff.”

  “Me? Really?” asked Mike. “What else did I say? Did you hear?”

  “Sorry, that’s all I could really make out. You were whispering really quietly. So what do you think? Is it real?” asked Gary.

  “Oh yes,” said Mike. “I think it’s definitely real. Did you find anything outside to change your mind?”

  “Nope,” said Gary. “Looked clean. This house is pretty remote, and I couldn’t find the sign of any accomplices.”

  They looked to Katie to see if they had consensus. “Well I didn’t experience anything except the lights going off,” she said, “but I did feel something, and that’s unusual for me.”

  Headlights flashed against the wall and the three researchers heard the approach of Bill’s car.

  “I’ll do the talking,” said Mike.

  Bill lifted the garage door and pulled it shut behind himself before addressing the group.

  “So? Did you make up your mind? Is it just me?” Bill asked.

  “We definitely heard the laughter again, and we’re convinced that it doesn’t need you around to perform,” said Mike.

  “Good,” said Bill. “So you’ll let me study your methodology?”

  “Yes,” said Mike. “But I will ask you to sign a non-disclosure agreement before I explain how it works. And we’ll have to bring it here to dial it in for your entity.”

  “Wait, wait,” said Bill. “
I don’t think that’s such a good idea. That thing is strong enough as it is.”

  “I think we have to,” said Mike. “Each time we’ve had success, it has only been after carefully testing everything and find just the right combination of inputs.” He looked to Gary to back him up.

  “It’s true,” confirmed Gary. “We have to adjust the frequency, amplitude, pulse-width.”

  Mike held up his hand, to stop Gary from revealing too much.

  Bill rubbed his temple and bowed his head for a second. “I’m just trying to get rid of this thing. Boosting it up seems like a really shitty idea.”

  “I hear you,” said Mike. “It’s the only way though.”

  “Okay, shit. Okay,” said Bill. “Can you set up in the daylight though? It doesn’t seem to be very observant in the daylight.”

  “No problem,” said Mike.

  “And I want to do this as soon as possible,” added Bill. “I want this done.”

  “Saturday?”

  “Good enough,” said Bill. He extended his hand to Mike. “Thanks, man.”

  “Thank you,” said Mike. “Here’s my phone number. You call if you have any problems between now and then.”

  * * * * *

  “WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU in there?” Katie asked when they were back on the road.

  “It’s kind of hard to explain,” said Mike. “It was like I was in the room where I grew up.”

  “Like remote viewing?” asked Gary.

  “No,” Mike shook his head as he merged onto the highway. “It was more like reliving an old memory from the third person.”

  “Was it a dream?” asked Katie.

  “Sure, I guess,” said Mike. “Yeah, that makes sense because it never really happened exactly like that, but it was close. I had a really active imagination when I was a kid, and I had a really hard time after my little brother died.”

  Katie sat back and adjusted her seatbelt.

  Gary studied the trees as they passed out of the angle of the headlights.

  “Charlie?” Gary eventually asked.

  “Yeah,” said Mike. “How did you know?”

  “I think you mentioned his name just before you woke up.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Crooked Tree

  SNOW FAWN HUGGED HER BABY CLOSE against the cold evening and rubbed his gums, checking for a tooth. She had executed this single-fingered move about a thousand times that day and in the previous few weeks. It was her waking obsession—the first thing she did when he woke her up with his insistent mewing, and the last thing she did before he drifted off to sleep.

  Her sister hadn’t come in over a week, which meant that Snow Fawn had survived only on what she could gather near her cold cave. She moved a hand from her baby’s chest and checked her own, feeling her sharp ribs poking through her thin skin. If only his first tooth would appear, she would be able to return to her home with no fear for his life.

  When her boy had descended in preparation for birth, that’s when she had known for sure. Her sister had warned her weeks before, but she had discounted her sister’s opinion as jealousy. Her sister, Rose Blossom, had warned her that her smell had become sour. Snow Fawn didn’t notice a change in her own odor, and tried to ignore the hard truth. She had sensed the same sour smell that Rose Blossom described, but she smelled it whenever Sharp Claw, her boy’s father, was around.

  But this was her first child and, given her age, would likely be her last. She was unable to admit to any possibility of a health issue until she saw him with her own eyes. When she did finally see him, she could deny it no longer.

  She froze when she heard the approaching footsteps. With her hand cocked just above her sleeping boy’s mouth, she prepared to clamp down her hand, to silence him if he should make a noise.

  “Fawn?” a timid voice called. “Fawn?”

  “Rose Blossom,” she whispered. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes,” her sister answered. “I brought you some meat and squash.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” Snow Fawn scrambled from her rocky den, careful not to wake her baby.

  “How is he?” asked Rose Blossom. “Does he have a tooth yet?”

  “No,” said Snow Fawn, “but I think he will any day now.”

  “I think you should come back,” said Rose Blossom. “You look so thin, I can tell even in the moonlight. He’s old enough. They won’t make you give him up.”

  “You remember Pidgeon’s baby girl? She was older than this boy, and they still dashed her head on the rocks.”

  “That was years ago,” argued Rose Blossom. “Sharp Claw has softened since then. He’s much more gentle. And besides, she had a closed hand. She would never have been able to work.”

  “I’m not taking chances with this boy. He’s my only child, and I won’t be able to have another,” said Snow Fawn.

  “Don’t say that,” said Rose Blossom. She sat down on a rock and laid out the food she had brought for her sister.

  Snow Fawn sat on the other side of the offering and rocked her baby.

  “How is everyone?” asked Snow Fawn.

  “Your nephew brought home a rabbit yesterday,” Rose Blossom smiled.

  “You must be so proud,” said Snow Fawn, tilting her head and putting her finger in her son’s mouth again.

  “Fawn? Did you ever think about why the men would smash your boy’s head on the rocks?” asked Rose Blossom, quietly.

  “Don’t say that,” said Snow Fawn. “I know why these things are done, but I’m not going to let that happen to my boy. He’s my only child,” she pleaded.

  “Okay, okay,” her sister consoled. “I just wonder what life will be like for him. I’ve heard of such boys. Sometimes they can’t talk, and can’t understand either. He may never have a name, and never bring home meat to his family.”

  “He’ll do all of those things,” said Snow Fawn. “You don’t know. He’s the son of a great provider, a great leader, he’ll do all those things and more.”

  “Then why do you have to wait for his first tooth before showing him to the family?” asked her sister.

  “They won’t understand,” said Snow Fawn. “They’ll see his mouth and his nose and just assume. A baby’s look can change you know. You remember how small your boy’s chin was when he was born?”

  “All babies have small chins,” said Rose Blossom.

  “I know that. I was just saying,” said Snow Fawn.

  They sat in silence and watched a puddle reflect the moonlight. Snow Fawn took a piece of meat from the rock and gnawed at it with her molars.

  “I should get back,” said Rose Blossom.

  “I’ll come back soon,” said Snow Fawn. “Don’t risk coming here again. I don’t want someone to follow you.”

  “Okay,” said Rose Blossom. She laid a hand on her sister’s arm and then touched her nephew on his soft cheek. “He’s sweet,” she remarked.

  “Thank you,” said Snow Fawn, not looking at her sister.

  After Rose Blossom made her way across the hillside and disappeared into the trees, Snow Fawn sat at the cave’s entrance and chewed on the meat. She wanted to save some for morning, but couldn’t risk drawing the attention of any nearby animals. Building a fire would keep the animals away, but likely draw attention of her estranged family.

  When she had finished her meager dinner, Snow Fawn carried her son over to the narrow river through the woods so she could wash his wrap and relieve herself before sleep. He squirmed and wouldn’t return to sleep after she swaddled him. She adjusted his little body, tucking his arm under hers so he could nurse while she moved.

  Walking back to her small cave, she heard the return of footsteps and waited for her sister to appear from the forest.

  “Did you forget something?” she asked the footsteps.

  Snow Fawn’s breath caught in her throat, refusing to return to her lungs. The shadow stepping from the dense trees didn’t resemble her sister at all. The form stood impossibly tall, taller than any person
Snow Fawn had ever seen. The hulking form rose from stocky legs that bulged at the calf and thigh. The creature’s torso cut a triangular hole in the canopy of stars it blocked. She sensed danger from only the tilt of the thing’s head, and she imagined the eyes staring at her. Her boy stopped suckling abruptly, picking up the fear in his mother’s body.

  The creature crouched and Snow Fawn found her breath. Although it stood many paces away, she turned her foot back towards the relative safety of the woods, and waited for it to pounce or leave her alone.

  It pounced.

  She turned as soon as she saw the creature spring, but heard it closing the distance before she even had her feet in motion. Snow Fawn knew instinctively that this was no mere human, and her only course of action leapt to the front of her mind: she must make it to the shallow river. Since childhood, she had been taught that demons and spirits couldn’t cross running water. Until this moment, that knowledge had been completely useless.

  Quick thinking took her to the left—downhill and into the thick scrub—as if she was being chased by a bear. The same rationale must apply; something so big would have trouble with the low branches and downhill slope. Even with the advantage, Snow Fawn knew the creature gained ground with every stride. Its chuffing, spitting snarls closed the distance and would overtake her.

  Darting to the right, away from the river, Snow Fawn extended her lead by weaving into a copse of alder. The frustrated creature growled as it snapped pliable limbs and squeezed between trunks. Snow Fawn broke from the stand of young trees and could see the small river just beyond several paces of moonlit ferns. She panted as she sprinted to the edge.

  The creature emerged from the dense trees nearly horizontal, extending its thick arms and long claws towards Snow Fawn. She heard its voice creating a low purr, and understood that its grip would soon close on her shoulder. Hugging her boy tight, she leaned forward and propelled herself towards the banks of the small river, leaving her feet just as she heard the creature crashing to the ground behind her. For a moment, she made no noise. Her breath and heart stopped as she dropped towards the shallow stream and her boy, pressed against her flesh, kept perfectly quiet.