The Blood You Owe
Page 5
Still shaken, he checked the area again, but saw no sign of child or man. With the wind, having died, the Green seemed peaceful. The sun had reappeared above, spearing the tree tops with a thousand golden rays, brightening the heart of the woods.
Chad brushed at his shirt, knocking away small clumps of soil and grass which still clung to the fabric, a chilling reminder of what he had just been through. Quiet or not, he wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. His priority now was to get to his parents and let them know that had happened, especially the part about Billy Baker disappearing with the horrible stranger. The police had to be notified.
Or the military, he thought grudgingly. I hope they bomb this fucking place and put in a parking lot.
Chad began to walk in the direction of Crystal Springs. As he turned, the sight of a large furrow marking where had been forcibly dragged greeted him. The memory of that massive shadow bearing an uncomfortable resemblance to a hand surfaced, evoking a shiver. He still didn’t know it that’s what it had been, but it didn’t matter. Something had grabbed him. He wanted to be gone before it decided to return.
A thin scratching sound intruded on these thoughts. Chad searched for the source, finally pinpointing it as coming from somewhere above him. He looked up and saw a strange object hanging from a short branch, some two feet up. The limb protruded from the trunk of the same tree that was the source of the root Chad had used to stand up.
It was a totem, a figure several inches long, constructed of what appeared to be sticks held by wire and yarn. It was hanging by a tiny, makeshift noose tied to the end of the branch, swinging back and forth ever so lightly. The scratching was produced as the figure scraped against the trunk of the tree.
It looked to Chad like the tiny body of someone who had been hung, swinging on gallows. His flesh crawled and he took a step back, not sure what to make of this development. Before he moved further away, something about the totem caught his eye, a specific detail he hadn't noticed at first glance. Curiosity momentarily overruling his unease, he stepped underneath the figurine, peering at it intently.
There was something fastened to its body. It appeared to be a folded piece of paper. As Chad watched, the object slipped loose, somersaulting end over end as it plummeted to the ground. He regarded it warily for moment before cautiously reaching down and picking it up.
Chad unfolded the slip of paper, his heart sinking as he saw what it was.
His name and student identification number, plus an accounting of his various mid-term grades from each class, stared back at him. He had no idea how the old report card had gotten here or why it had been attached to the bizarre stick figure. All he knew was that finding it here was the scariest thing to have ever happened to him. It rendered all of this grotesquely personal.
The last vestiges of his composure fled him and he bolted toward the field with abandon.
Another growl, this one even deeper than the first, shook the ground. Chad tripped over his feet, collapsing face first into the dirt. He quickly scrabbled to get back up, but the earth began to twist and churn around him, further throwing him off his balance.
Thick, black roots erupted from the floor of the Green on either side of the teenager, weaving out of the ground like ghastly serpents. Chad cringed, tossing a panicked glance left and then right. In both directions, four long tendrils and one short, crooked one had forced themselves from beneath the earth. The roots extended from a pair of thick stalks, each as large as any log Chad had ever seen.
They looked like arms, wriggling out of the ground to claim him.
Chad no longer had the capacity for thought. Blinding, animal fear had assumed complete control, shutting down everything but his most base responses. He locked his hands behind his neck and lowered his head, waiting for the inevitable.
The roots wound around his body, entangling him in an unbreakable grip. The ground began to disappear beneath him, opening a black abyss which dropped away into oblivion. For a single second, Chad was suspended over the gaping hole.
In that moment, Chad saw movement in the spot where had been standing, in the brush beneath the totem. The stranger was there, once again playing his harmonica. The wind began to rise as the evil music saturated the woods. The sunlight, so brilliant mere moments ago, dissipated under a gray haze.
Something stirred beneath him. Chad had just enough time to stare down into the darkness and see two massive, yellow eyes staring back. A sense of something ancient and unholy swept over him. The thing was an unnamed horror, lurking in the bowels of the earth.
He was dragged into the depths, his final cry of terror muted as the fissure repaired itself behind him.
The forest remained silent in the face of Chad’s removal from the world.
The stranger slipped his harmonica into his pocket, reaching up and sliding the totem off the branch. A small, cold smile stretched his lips as he regarded the tiny figure. He approached the tree on which he had hung it, dropping into a crouch and reaching toward a large rock nestled in the crevasse of two large roots.
Sliding the stone to one side revealed a hole he had underneath. A circular, tin cookie can had been placed inside. The man pulled it out, popping the lid. A smaller figurine, with stubbier arms and legs, already lay within. Wrapped around it was the plastic ring from an old pacifier once belonging to Billy Baker.
It was so easy to acquire the things necessary to make the magic real. All he had to do was rummage through the trash of the homes they guided him to. The homes with children. Anything would do, that's what his hosts dwelling down in the dark places had told him. A discarded report card, a used pacifier…. whatever he could find. If an item was specific to that child, it would work.
He lay the totem of Chad inside the can with a smile. Already, he could feel the satisfaction of his benefactors as they fed on the teenager. Not quite as tasty a meal as the purity offered by the little one he had lured earlier in the day- the younger they were, the more nourishing the life force- but still a welcome repast for their diabolical appetites. He shared their pleasure and, as they they drew sustenance from the young flesh, so did he feel his own body revitalize.
With the death of the second boy, he knew his time here would be limited. Two children vanishing on the same day in a town this size would draw too much attention. Too many eyes would be on the lookout for someone just like him.
It was okay, though. There would be other towns and other children. If he ensnared them with his music, the ones below could feed. If they continued to feed, he would live. That was their promise. A century had proven it true.
The Green rustled, as if celebrating along with him. He supposed in a way it was. It was only an extension of them, after all. They lived nestled in the roots of the black world below, the place where the sunlight did not reach. They ascended through the plants, the dark, twisted soul of nature, hungry to devour the offspring of the species corrupting a world over which they had once held dominion.
They had chosen him to play his music and serve as their herald. It was an honor.
He set the cookie tin on the ground, reaching into the hole and grasping a small pouch he had placed there earlier, beneath the canister. Opening the pouch, he spilled several small objects into the palm of his hand. He rummaged through the knick-knacks with a probing finger, settling on a dog eared, partially torn baseball card.
He flipped the card over, examining the back. On the bottom, written in block letters below the player statistics, were the words “Property of James Clarke.”
It was perfect, a small piece of the child's life abandoned to the refuse. He stared at the card, wondering how many dreams of growing up to hit the winning run in the championship game had been abandoned with it. Dreams might change with time, but beyond the lost hopes of childhood remained a residue the spirits of the earth thrived on. Through his music, they sang a lullaby tapping into discarded desire, reaching for those forgotten yearnings and forcing susceptible young minds into their trap
. The more personal the object, the stronger the spell.
Older children were more difficult, which is why his masters sometimes used special tricks, such as using the image of the little one they had consumed earlier to catch the older boy’s attention. Even then, the teenager had almost broken free, his mind already conditioned by enough cynicism to expect all sort of dangers. Fortunately, they had been strong enough to stop him, having just fed.
Enough, the man chided himself. You have things to do. Get to it.
He sat down next to the tree, crossing his legs and searching the immediate area for some sturdy twigs of reasonable length. He happened upon a small pile of them, stacked between two bushes. They were just what he needed.
He was certain the pile had not been there mere seconds ago. It was his friends again.
Smiling, he picked up one of the tiny sticks and got to work.
About the Author
D.S. Ullery lives in South Florida with his cat Jason, a relatively demented black cat who was born on Friday the 13th. The author has been published in multiple anthologies and magazines, including such titles as Journals of Horror: Found Fiction, Paying the Ferryman, Wild Things and When Red Snow Melts. He is also the author of Beyond Where the Sky Ends, a collection of horror fiction.
When he is not writing, or working as a records clerk for the Clerk and Comptroller of Palm Beach County, D.S. likes to hang out at the local park, where he points and laughs at how people look in their jogging shorts behind their back.
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