The Hunting Tree

by Ike Hamill

  Pat scribbled a note down on his pad and tilted it up so only he could see it.

  “I didn’t think that much of the footprint until I saw the news today. On the news, channel six, the camera panned down after the press conference, and I saw another giant footprint. When I heard that another murder had happened in Montville, I put everything together and decided to come up and see the scene for myself, so see if I could find any other clues as to the origin of this giant-footprint creature.”

  Red leaned forward and whispered to Pat for a second time.

  “Thank you,” said Pat. “Can I get you anything? We’re going to have another officer come in and continue this interview.” Pat gathered his papers and pushed his chair back from the table. Red straightened his back and began to press down on the arms of the chair.

  “Am I free to go?” asked Mike. “I thought you had to let me go if you weren’t going to charge me with anything.”

  “Good question,” said Pat. “You’re actually not free to go, and we haven’t figured exactly what we’re going to charge you with yet.”

  “Wait,” said Mike, suddenly more concerned for his freedom, “there are very few entities that could actually do this kind of manipulation of the physical plane.”

  “Is that so?” asked Pat casually, not slowing in his preparations.

  “Yes,” said Mike, rushing his explanation to try to convince the men before they left, “it could be a ghoul or a revenant, but those usually don’t have the power to kill, but certainly like to feast on the dead. Maybe if the victims were weak already?”

  “Someone will be right in for you,” said Pat. He and Red moved towards the door.

  Mike turned around in his chair to continue his plea—“If you just give me more information, I’m sure I can help you figure this out. For instance, it can’t be a wight, because they’re always small, like dwarves.”

  The door clicked shut behind Pat and Red.

  * * * * *

  AFTER A FEW MINUTES, two uniformed officers offered Mike a phone call before moving him to a cell. He left a message for his lawyer with his location and his circumstances.

  * * * * *

  ELEVEN THAT EVENING, two new officers came to Mike’s jail cell and brought him to meet Bob Farrell, the lead investigator. They were back in the same interview room, and Mike sat in the same hard seat. Bob didn’t have a partner or any papers. He sat across the table for several minutes just staring at Mike. Uncomfortable under the man’s gaze, Mike looked at the table and the ceiling, only touching his eyes to Bob’s occasionally.

  Bob unbuttoned his cuffs and pushed his shirt and suit jacket up to his elbows before propping them up on the table.

  “What’s with all the fairy tales?” he asked, finally.

  “I’m sorry?” asked Mike.

  Bob narrowed his eyes and flared his nostrils as he inhaled. He spoke low, forcing Mike to lean forward to hear the question—“Why have you been ranting like a lunatic every time someone asks you about these murders?”

  “I haven’t been,” Mike said slowly with his voice low. He wasn’t trying to mock the lead investigator, but understood immediately that he sounded like he was.

  “What’s your game here, Mike?”

  “I really don’t have a game. I explained why I was looking…”

  Bob cut him off, “You have admitted to knowing details of the murders that have not been released.” Bob’s voice rose with each syllable, until the last sounded like a threat.

  “I have experience in this field,” said Mike. “I keep explaining that.”

  “You’re a geneticist. Murder is not part of that field.”

  “I am also a paranormal investigator,” Mike said slowly, enunciating each word.

  “Great,” said Bob. “Chasing ghosts also doesn’t get you access to unreleased information about an ongoing investigation. Who told you about the missing organs?”

  “It was a guess based on the type of entity that would…”

  Bob cut him off again, “Or did you take the organs? That would certainly explain a lot: how you just happened to show up at the first house; how you knew about the organs; how you knew the victims were sick.”

  “I didn’t know those things, they were educated guesses…”

  This time Mike was cut off by the door swinging inward and plain-clothes Pat peeking in the crack.

  “Bob?” said Pat. “Got a sec?”

  Bob locked his eyes onto Mike’s before rising from his chair. He thrust out his rear as he stood, sending his chair skittering back to the wall.

  Mike sat alone for several more minutes. He chewed at his fingernails, three of them already bleeding from the stress of the day. Finding no purchase, he turned his teeth to his cuticles and glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room. He regretted almost everything he had done that day. All the mistakes jumped out as he considered the events. Seeking the crime scene, impersonating an investigator, talking about paranormal things, guessing at the details, all the bad decisions looped over and over as he nibbled on his skin. Even with his hindsight firing on all cylinders, Mike hadn’t the slightest idea how to proceed without doing more damage to his credibility and freedom.

  The lead investigator, Bob Farrell, ended Mike’s rumination when he burst back through the door. He slapped his hands down on the table and hunched over without sitting.

  “Assuming you think you’re telling the truth, what next?”

  “Pardon?" Mike was genuinely confused.

  “In your crazy world,” explained Bob, “where murders are being committed by a paranormal entity, what’s our next move?” asked Bob.

  “Oh,” said Mike. He felt like his brain was mired in quicksand. There was some important information concealed in Bob’s about-face, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. With another flash of inspiration, Mike figured it out—“You found another victim didn’t you?” he asked. “Another person was killed while I was in here?”

  “Get back to your theory,” said Bob. “If you’re right about this paranormal thing, how do I use it to stop the killer?”

  Mike relaxed a little, feeling the accusations lift from his shoulders. “Well,” he began, “you can’t approach this like you would a human killer. There’s very little you can do to stop a paranormal being most of the time. You have to go after its motivation.”

  “And what would the motive be to kill these people who had nothing in common?”

  “But they did have a few things in common,” said Mike. “They were in a straight line, so they were on his way. You said they were sick. I only suggested that they might be weak. Maybe their sickness had something to do with it. He’s traveling towards something, but when he comes across a sick person he feels the need to stop and kill. Or maybe he just wanted those organs that he stole, and it was easiest to go after weak people.”

  Bob let Mike ramble and sat on the edge of a chair, hoping to hear some information he could make use of.

  “He doesn’t seem like he needs to go after the sick though. Moving quickly through the night like that, I think he’s strong; really strong. He’s got his clear mission, but he keeps being distracted.” Mike leaned his chair back and laced his fingers behind his head, feeling almost comfortable as he turned over the details of the mystery. “This seems really familiar somehow.”

  When his third and final flash of intuition of the day hit him, Mike was so surprised that he tumbled back, crashing his chair to the floor.

  “Sorry, sorry,” he scurried to get back upright. He hoped that the fall had masked his realization. When he looked up to Bob, he thought his secret might be safe.

  Bob was punching buttons on his phone and had apparently tuned out during the end of Mike’s analysis.

  “You were saying?” Bob asked as he looked up.

  “Oh, nothing,” said Mike. “I just think your killer’s victims are incidental to his overall mission.”

  “Great, thanks,” said Bob. “Mr. Markey…”


  “Doctor,” Mike corrected.

  “I don’t want you leaving the area, but you’re free to go,” he informed Mike. “You can pick up your things at the front desk, and your car is parked outside.”

  “Thanks,” said Mike.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Crooked Tree

  THAT NIGHT HE MADE good progress, running through the woods, tuned to the sights and smells of this time. He leapt small streams and creeks, with his target calling him east. Most of the time, the boy presented such a strong signal that Crooked Tree felt he could track him down with his eyes closed.

  Just before dawn, the signal became clouded. Crooked Tree realized he would need to remove another local distraction before he could continue. He veered out of the woods with just enough time before dawn to snuff the offending person and find a place to sleep through the day.

  Crooked Tree maneuvered down a steep hill and slowed as he emerged from the trees. He found himself on a narrow neighborhood road. Houses dotted the length of the street and behind them another line of houses sat on the next block. He felt momentarily overwhelmed with the sights, sounds, and smells from this high concentration of homes.

  A startled dog barked in a frenzy to the west. Crooked Tree wound through the streets to the east, circling his distraction and finding his way to the man’s door. He knelt and smelled the porch of the small house. A couple lived in this house, he discerned, but only the sick one and a cat were at home that night. He opened the screen door and pressed the handle of the front door until it buckled and snapped inward.

  Squeezing through the narrow frame, Crooked Tree dropped to a crouch and infiltrated the house. The owner’s hot, sleeping breath filled the small building. The cat regarded him through lidded eyes and then returned to licking its paw and Crooked Tree moved through the living room. Behind the staircase, Crooked Tree found the bedroom door cracked open several inches. The sleeping man didn’t even stir when the floor groaned, signaling Crooked Tree’s approach.

  Once close to the man, his face inches from his snoring face, Crooked Tree wondered why this man had clouded his lock on the boy. His sickness didn’t smell contagious, and Crooked Tree couldn’t sense that it was hereditary or likely to be passed on in any way. Without considering why, Crooked Tree reached one thick finger forward and tapped the sleeping man on the forehead.

  He woke with a snort and a fart, deep within the covers.

  “Babe?” he asked, squinting into the dark. “Is that you? Who is that?”

  Crooked Tree backed off a few inches, so the man could see his visitor.

  One sick hand fumbled out from under the covers. Without looking away from the giant looming over his bed, the man switched on his light and grabbed his glasses from the nightstand. Once his vision had cleared, the man took a deep breath between pursed lips.

  “I’ve dreamed about you,” he said to Crooked Tree. The admission was quickly followed with a racking cough which doubled over the supine man.

  Crooked Tree tried to parse the words, repeating the sounds in his head. “Ooo,” he croaked.

  “I’ve prayed for you to come…” He interrupted himself with his coughing, “while I still had the strength to beg one request before you send me to hell.”

  Crooked Tree straddled the corner of the bed and rose up until the tops of his shoulders and back of his head rubbed the ceiling.

  “So…” the man wheezed “big.” He squeezed his hands together in front of his chest and hunched forward with his final words. “Could you take my…”

  The man’s request was cut off as Crooked Tree’s fist crashed down, splitting the man’s skull. The giant killer brought his enormous fingers together and split the sick body from top to bottom, exposing his organs to the lamplight. He picked through the remains eagerly, taking what could help him understand why the proximity of this man had been able to blur his perception of the boy. As Crooked Tree knelt on the bed, feeding, the cat ambled through the open door and hopped up on the mattress next to his dead master. Crooked Tree and the cat paid no attention to each other as they both chewed the man’s flesh. With each organ he ate, Crooked Tree took in the man’s memories. Integrated with the knowledge he’d picked up from his previous victim, the new memories help Crooked Tree piece together a deeper understanding of the world he now inhabited.

  * * * * *

  A COMMOTION OUTSIDE woke him up. After his latest kill, Crooked Tree had found an empty house which hadn’t been entered in months. Breaking in as quietly as possible, he had made his way to the building’s old root cellar, damp and dark, to sleep through the day. But now something was happening outside his lair.

  He sniffed the air and reached out with his mind. The approaching dusk had brought scores of men and dogs. They had found his trail. He had been careless and not put enough distance between his victim and his current hideout. His impression of the warriors of this era was unfavorable. In fact, all the people he encountered, sequestered in their rigid homes, seemed oblivious and weak. He snapped a fist-sized rock from a corner of the stone foundation.

  Crooked Tree crept towards the rickety stairs and left the dirt floor of the cellar, climbing to the dark kitchen above. A man, dressed in black, held something in front of his face at the back door. In the shadow of the basement stairs, Crooked Tree watched as the man nudged the door inward with his toe. Although he couldn’t see them, Crooked Tree sensed several other men on the other side of the door, ready to pounce with the door-nudging man.

  These men moved like warriors, protecting their blind spots and moving as a unit, but Crooked Tree could smell ripe fear baking from their skin. He raised his right hand in the shadow, cocking back the rock. One of the men whispered. Crooked Tree couldn’t make out the words, but recognized the communication as a signal to attack. Before they could attack, Crooked Tree unleashed the rock, sending it splintering through the wall, just to the right of the doorframe.

  The wall exploded outward with the force of Crooked Tree’s throw. Still moving at a murderous speed as it exited the other side of the wall, the rock knocked two men flat. The third, on the other side of the door, flinched back and away from the flying debris. His flashlight came on as he spun. It described a long arc across the kitchen ceiling.

  Crooked Tree sprinted to the door as the men fell away. He heard another contingent of men bursting through the front door as he stepped on one cowering man lying on the porch. With three big strides, Crooked Tree had nearly traversed the long back yard. His destination was a high stockade fence. Dogs barked and snarled behind him, straining to be unleashed. He judged that he could clear the fence easily.

  He didn’t bother to weave or crouch as he ran—none of the men carried slings or even spears to hurl at him as he fled. His confidence plummeted as he heard the explosions behind him. Before the bullets closed the distance, Crooked Tree had guessed the source of the sounds.

  Hot metal tore through his calf as he cursed himself for not predicting that these small soft men would have superior weapons. Another bullet lodged in his thigh as he reached the fence. He dove towards the top of the fence and barely cleared it, tucking into a roll as his horizontal body reached the other side. With one tight tumble across the neighbor’s yard he rose, barely slowing his pace.

  By compensating for his injuries, Crooked Tree managed to even his stride, sprinting through the adjoining yards. He bounded over fences until he found the next side street. When he hit the asphalt he achieved even more speed. An approaching car only saw a flash as Crooked Tree jumped its length and wound left through another set of yards. Reaching out with his senses, he tried to gauge his lead on the hunters. Their pursuit had begun slowly, but now they had picked up speed.

  Crooked Tree scanned the horizon, looking for the densest forest. He knew these men spent most of their effort on making open spaces and wide roads, so he guessed he could outpace them in the woods.

  North showed the most promise. He turned and lengthened his stride, pushing h
imself harder. Confidence returned as the bullet once lodged in his thigh slipped out of his muscle and the wound closed behind it. He smiled as his full strength returned. One row of houses still lay between him and the wooded hillside. Roving lights approached from his right, and Crooked Tree realized that the hunters were trying to cut him off before he could reach the forest.

  He shortened his stride and bounded across the yard of a one-story house, preparing for a jump. Vaulting from one leg, he lifted his other and landed on the roof and climbed up and over the peak just as his angry pursuers arrived at the front yard. Crooked Tree sprinted down the back slope of the roof and dropped to the ground. Men approached, coming around either side of the house, but he could see the woods calling to him from the back of the dark yard and he decided to take his chances.

  This time he did weave—fearing the sting of their explosive weapons—but still made it to the tree-line before the men had time to fire. He sprinted up the wooded hillside, taking no time to look behind himself until he reached the ridgeline. Through the leaves behind him he saw the twinkling settlement, with lights from the houses shining in the dusk. The men below him had entered the woods, but moved at a fraction of his pace.

  Crooked Tree remembered the summer gatherings of his youth, when families would come together. Boys would leave their mothers to join the bachelor groups and girls would be wooed by young men. The largest of those gatherings Crooked Tree had attended hadn’t equaled the magnitude of the village beneath him. He wondered what his father would think of these sights.

  He shook his head to break his reverie and ran down the other side of the hill in a wide arc so he could turn back east to his eventual goal. Once he had crossed a few more hills, still running at full-speed, he paused at the top of another ridge to assess the progress of the pursuit. A stand of tall pines gave him a perch from which to survey. Echoing in the distance, howling dogs drove wildlife through the forest, away from the village. The sound of baying and crashing was soon muffled by a thumping, chugging sound coming from a flying thing, hovering over the woods to the west. Crooked Tree saw the lights of the effort on the ground and in the air and realized they had underestimated his speed, but wouldn’t make that mistake for long. They were poor trackers, and slow at the chase, but they learned quickly and possessed unfamiliar advantages.