by Arthur Slade
“That was one reason. But I don’t think he wanted us to see what he was doing.”
I went down the hall to the spare room and flicked on the light, surprised that it worked. There was a small bed in one corner, a workbench on the other side, and a number of carving tools on top of a cupboard. A few of Grandpa’s wood-burning drawings hung on the wall: a bear, a hawk, and a wolf. They looked so real that their eyes followed me when I moved.
Grandpa had left a book open on the bench. Beside it was a small object. When I got closer I saw that it was a wooden cross. He had been burning symbols into it. In the book there was an image of the cross, drawn in ink. Grandpa had about three-quarters of the runes from the picture burned into the cross. It looked beautiful. Next to the cross was a wineskin with a sticky note on it that said: do not drink . . . consecrated water.
I looked at the front cover of the book. It was hard and black, but there was no title. The words inside were Icelandic, of course.
“Did you find something?” Michael asked. He, Brand, and Angie had piled in behind me.
“I think so.” I showed them the book. They examined it. “Grandpa seemed to be working on this cross, but it doesn’t look like he was finished what he wanted to get done.”
“Do you think it was to ward something away?” Angie asked.
“Probably. But he had this water too. What was he doing?” I asked.
“Getting ready for something, I’d say.” Brand was touching the wineskin. “Is consecrated water the same as holy water?”
“I think so,” I answered.
“And don’t they use it on vampires?” He continued.
We were all silent.
I ran my hand across the cross. It felt warm, as if heated from the inside. I held it, found that it was only a little bit larger than my hand. On impulse I stuffed it into my jacket pocket. It was a tight fit, but I was able to get the cross in. Then I reached for the wineskin.
“What are you doing?” Michael asked.
“Taking this stuff with us. I just feel safer with it.” I looped the strap over my shoulder. “Did you guys find anything else?”
“Nothing,” Angie said. “The place is a real mess.”
“So what do we do now?” Brand asked.
I looked around. They were all staring at me, expecting an answer. “Do you know where your grandmother was going to meet the police?”
“Yeah,” Brand said. “It’s only a little ways up the road.”
“Why don’t we go check just to be sure she isn’t still waiting there?” I suggested.
“Well . . .” Brand said. “If she is there and she sees me in Grandpa’s truck, she’ll be pretty mad.” He paused. “But I do want to make sure she’s alright. She’ll understand.”
“Then let’s go,” Angie said.
We made our way out of the house.
22
“It’s just a little bit farther on,” Brand said.
We had turned off the highway and had been traveling down a gravel road for about ten minutes. The truck’s headlights only made a slight glowing dent in the darkness. Trees crowded around us. Little wisps of fog drifted here and there. “I’m sure it is. Just keep your eyes peeled.”
I was beginning to feel that familiar cold again. Right down to my bones.
“Is there any heat in this truck?” Michael asked. So I wasn’t the only one who was freezing.
Brand cranked on the heater. “It’ll take a while for it to warm up. I can’t believe how much the temperature has dropped.”
The fog was getting thicker. Our lights seemed to be fading, not even close to casting brightness as far as they had before.
We crawled ahead. The truck didn’t get any warmer.
“I think that’s it, coming up.” Brand pointed. “I’m sure of it.”
I could see a turnoff ahead that led onto a flat, open area. As we got closer I saw that it was a rest stop in the middle of nowhere. “This is where a lot of the hunters park when they go hunting,” Brand explained. We turned off the road. The clearing ended suddenly, surrounded by a wall of trees and underbrush. It was obviously empty.
“Well, she’s not here,” Brand said. “We must have missed her, somehow.” He stepped on the gas, began doing a U-turn.
I saw a glint of metal in the trees as the truck’s lights swept the area. “Wait a second,” I said.
“What is it?” Brand stepped on the brakes.
“I thought I saw something reflect the lights out there.” He backed up and swung the truck the other way.
“There!” I pointed my finger when the light glinted again. “Right there!”
“I see it,” Michael said.
Brand pulled straight ahead. A few of the trees were broken and bent over as if something big had been dragged across them. “I can’t see anything through all this underbrush. We’ll have to take a closer look on foot.”
“Go outside?” Angie asked.
“It’ll be okay,” I said, flicking on my flashlight. “We won’t be too far from the truck.”
Brand left the Chevy running. We got out and made our way to the underbrush. I ducked and fought my way through thorn trees that poked at me. Whatever was out there was still too far away to see. I could just barely make out a large shape.
“That’s weird,” Michael said. He stopped for a second, bent over, and rubbed at his ankle.
“What is?” I asked.
“Well, you know that bruise I got last night? It’s aching like crazy. I can hardly put any weight on it. And my cut hurts too. The farther we get into this bush . . . the more it hurts.”
“Do you want to go back to the truck?” Brand asked.
Michael stood up. “No. I’ll be okay. It’s not too far away.”
We carried on, forcing our way through the underbrush until we came into a clearing. I pointed my light, Angie pointed hers.
I drew in my breath.
It was Althea’s truck.
23
All the windows had been smashed and the tires flattened.
“Grandma!” Brand yelled, and before I could say anything he went running to the truck. I followed, the light from my flashlight bobbing and jumping with each motion. I could barely see where I was going.
I reached the truck a step behind Brand. He yanked open the door and glass rained down onto the ground. “Grandma! Where are you?”
I pointed the light inside the cab, over Brand’s shoulder. It was empty. Broken glass was scattered across the seat. Brand backed out, went around the other side yelling.
Angie and Michael joined us. “What happened?” Angie asked.
“I don’t know—an accident I guess.” All I could see was glass and twisted metal. The door looked bent. Had Brand done that? I shone my light along the side. “Do you remember these dents?” I asked.
“No,” Michael answered. “It was in rough shape, but I don’t remember anything like that.”
“Get a light over here!” Brand yelled. He sounded desperate. We ran around to the other side of the truck, both pointing our flashlights. Brand was down on one knee, examining something. “Closer! Closer!”
I ran up. On the ground in front of Brand was Althea’s shawl. Or half of it at least. It had been torn in two. Brand was gripping it tightly. “Whoever did this is going to pay.” He stood up, the shawl in his hand. His face was pale and his jaw muscles tight. “Someone’s dragged her away.”
I pointed my flashlight just past him, illuminating a trail of broken branches and turned-up dirt. “You’re right . . . it looks like they went that way.”
Brand handed her shawl to me. “I’m going to find her.”
“Wait,” I said, “we should go back to Grandpa’s and call the police. Then we can start looking.”
Brand shook his head. “No.” He reached out and took
the flashlight from Angie’s hands. “You three take the truck and head back there. I’m going to look for Grandma.” Then he turned on his heel and started running through the trees.
“But we shouldn’t split up!” I yelled.
He was already gone. A small blur in the distance, flashlight bobbing like a firefly.
I looked at the other two.
“Now what?” Michael asked.
I shrugged. “Let’s hurry back to Grandpa’s and phone the RCMP. Then we’ll double back here and help him look.”
They agreed. We turned and forced our way through the underbrush, heading for the truck. Its lights were a beacon to guide us. A thorn scratched a line across my forehead. When we got closer, I realized something was wrong, there was a sound I couldn’t hear. I made it through the last branches into the open.
“Didn’t Brand leave the truck running?” I asked.
“I . . . I can’t remember.” Angie was silhouetted in the lights, squinting. “I hope the battery didn’t die.”
I got in the driver’s side, found the keys. They were in the on position. Michael and Angie jumped in the passenger side. I took a deep breath, pushed in the clutch, and turned the key.
Nothing.
I tried again.
Nothing.
“Oh no,” Angie whispered. “This is bad.”
“Hurry. Hit the dash or spin the steering wheel or something,” Michael suggested. “Maybe it’s just some kind of loose wire.” I did those things, moving the wheel and twisting the key as hard as I could.
Just when I was about to give up, the motor began to turn. And turn and turn, slower and slower, like it was losing power. “C’mon,” Michael said, slamming his fist on the dash.
I thought I could hear a ghost of a sound, like someone yelling in the distance, maybe even calling my name, then the truck roared and I stomped on the gas a few times. “It started! It started!” I exclaimed.
It took me a moment to find reverse. The gears ground. I pressed the gas too hard and we shot backwards, a cloud of dust filling our headlights. I slammed on the brakes and we skidded in a half circle. When we came to a stop I realized we were on the road, pointing towards the highway.
“Great driving, Sis,” Michael said. I didn’t know if he was being sarcastic or not.
I found another gear, stepped on the accelerator, and the truck rocketed forward into the mist. “Not so fast,” Angie said. “We can hardly see two feet in front of us.”
It was true. The fog had grown grayer and thicker. Our light seemed to bounce off it. But I had to hurry. Brand was out there all alone.
And Grandpa and Althea.
“The cops must have been here and not seen her truck,” Angie said.
“Probably,” I agreed. “It was pretty far in the trees.”
“Yeah, but how did it get there?” Michael asked. “She wouldn’t have accidentally driven it into the trees.”
“Maybe she was trying to hit something,” Angie suggested.
“Or it got dragged in there,” I added.
“By what? What could drag it in there?” Michael asked.
“The same thing that put the hole in Grandpa’s cabin.”
We were silent for a moment. No one seemed to want to argue with me.
The fog was clearing a little, so I sped up.
Angie screamed. A moment later I saw why. A figure was on the road in front of us.
The little boy. The ghost boy. Holding out his hands, warning us to stop.
I slammed on the brakes, but it was too late—we were heading right through him. He turned into mist and we came over a small rise into clear air, the truck skidding on gravel.
There in front of us, illuminated for a second, was a half man, half monster, his mouth open in a growl.
24
I yanked on the wheel.
I had a moment to see him clearly as we passed right by, his eyes huge and glowing, his dirty, lumpy hair blowing in the wind. We were so close he could have reached in the driver’s window with his enormous arms and yanked me out.
The truck fishtailed past.
The wheel spun, I lost control, and we shot into the ditch and up an embankment, saplings snapping in front of us. It didn’t seem like we were going very fast anymore, or perhaps my mind was slowing everything down.
We piled into an old, giant pine tree. I was thrown forward, my head bashed into the steering wheel, and I rolled down to the floor.
Then there was only blackness.
For a few moments I thought I heard voices all around me telling me to wake up, that it was time to move, to go. They sounded so familiar. They gave me the courage to open my eyes.
I couldn’t see anything. I heard moaning though. I wasn’t sure if it was coming from me or not. I tried to move and found my body wouldn’t respond. Had I broken any bones? Why hadn’t I put on my seat belt? I was in too much of a hurry, I had forgotten it.
I realized it wasn’t me who was moaning. It was Michael or Angie. They must have been hurt bad. I twisted my head to look but this sent a sharp signal of pain to my brain.
I wasn’t going to do that again for a while. I hoped nothing was wrong with my spine.
There was a noise, a small cracking sound outside the truck.
This was followed by the sound of wrenching metal. Something was trying to yank the passenger door from its hinges. A cold blast of air came in.
“Help me,” Angie was whispering. “Help . . . me.”
I could hear her sliding on the seat. I tried to move but couldn’t. She started to scream, then was suddenly muffled as if a hand had covered her mouth.
I heard a thump.
Then silence.
The crack of snapping twigs was followed by the sound of sniffing. The smell of old graveyard earth—a dark, dank scent, rotten and sweet at the same time—rolled into the truck.
This time Michael moaned, then yelled in panic, “Hhhhey . . . let—”
He fell silent. Something else cracked. Not a twig.
Was it a bone? Michael’s neck?
I still couldn’t turn my head or move.
The familiar cold had stolen the strength from my limbs.
But not all of the feeling.
Because something rough and strong was wrapping itself around my ankle. It felt like the gnarled roots of a tree in the shape of a hand. The grip grew tighter and tighter so that I almost cried out in pain.
Then it began to pull. I slid towards the other door, helplessly dragged across the floormats. I latched onto the brake pedal with my left hand.
With my right I grabbed the gas pedal.
Now I heard grunting, a wet, monstrous roar, as it exerted more strength, trying to get me loose. I held tight, feeling the muscles in my arms and my legs stretching. I heard a popping sound as the vertebrae in my back straightened.
“No. No,” I whispered through clenched teeth. “You can’t have me.”
This seemed to anger it. The grip on my ankle doubled, threatening to crush my bones. It roared, pulling so hard that I felt like any moment now I would snap in two.
My fingers started slipping. Bit by bit. I didn’t have near enough strength to hold on. Whatever had a hold of me was too strong.
I kicked my free foot in the air, but couldn’t hit anything. Then I slid it to the side and propped it against the seat, finding even more leverage.
“You can’t have me,” I repeated. “Let me go!”
Again came the rumbling growling sound, like a dog but larger, wilder. It breathed out. And yanked harder.
My shoe came off, the thing’s grip slipped.
I heard a whomp as something huge hit the ground. I knew I would only have a second. I let go of the pedals, scrambled onto the seat, and reached out into the cold air to grab the open door.
&n
bsp; It wouldn’t budge. The door was bent open. There was a blur in my vision to the right of me, moving fast.
Coming straight for me.
I tugged hard, getting my whole body into it. The truck’s door screeched and scraped shut with a bang.
A second later the whole truck shook as a heavy weight plowed into its side. I tried to roll up the window, but realized suddenly the glass was gone.
A giant fist struck the door. The metal bent inwards. I quickly backed away. A second blow bubbled the door, spraying me with bits of metal and glass. I snapped my eyes shut and held up my hands.
When I opened them again I could see two glowing pools of light—eyes peering in at me. A huge, dark, hairy arm the size of a boa constrictor reached in, fingers spread wide. The truck groaned.
I pushed back against the driver’s side, tucking my legs under me. I tried to open the door, but the handle wouldn’t budge.
The hand came closer, the face pressed in the window. Eyes glowering.
I reached around for something to hit it with. My hand bumped a solid, small weight in my jacket pocket.
I unzipped the pocket and grabbed the cross my grandfather had carved.
It felt hot. I held it out in front of me and the cross glowed dull blue. I knew it wasn’t moonlight.
The monster paused. He pulled back slightly but not out of the window. It was like he was deciding what to do next.
“Get back!” I hissed, surprised at how solid my voice sounded. “Get out!”
The eyes blinked. Still it didn’t move.
“You’re Kar, aren’t you?” I said. “Kar. You were a man once, weren’t you?”
It breathed out, a slow sighing movement. The snakelike pupils went from my face to the cross then back to my face.
“Do you remember?” I asked. “Once you were a man.”
The yellow eyes blinked.
“I’m Sarah Asmundson,” I said, not sure why. I wanted it to know that I was a person. Maybe somewhere inside him there was still something human. “You have my grandfather . . . Thursten. You—”
It was the wrong thing to say. The pupils suddenly glowed, his eyes narrowed. With a hiss he pressed against the truck and leaned in, extending his arm to full length.