by Rick Hautala
He knew exactly what it was.
He sucked in quick, shallow gulps of air that burned like acid in his throat. His chest felt cold and heavy as if a block of ice was lodged under his ribs. His arms and legs tingled with pins and needles, and he could barely control his actions as he frantically scraped away more of the earth.
“It’s right here!“ he shouted to Ryan over his shoulder. “When it rotted...once all the flesh was gone and the...the screaming finally stopped, it fell down from the branch, and it landed right here!“
His vision was spinning with dark spirals within darker spirals, but in the faint glow of fire and starlight, he could see that he had exposed...something...a rounded, gray object that certainly looked like bone.
“See?“ he called out, hearing the wild cackle in his voice. “It’s here! This is—“
He dropped the knife and, using both hands, clawed the dirt away until he had loosened the object that was buried in the tightly compacted soil. Wiggling it back and forth like a old, rotten tooth in diseased bone, he struggled to free the thing. At last, he exposed the dark wells of the eye sockets. They stared up at him with a chilling, sightless gaze. Dimly, Jack was aware that he was muttering to himself, but he had no idea what he was saying. His full attention was focused on exposing what he knew had to be ole’ Jed Harpe’s skull.
“He spoke to me...Jed did...in my dream... He told me that he was here...that he was still here...that he’d been buried here for over a hundred years...a hundred years!... The oak leaves have tannin in them... That’s what they used to use in the old days to tan hides... And that’s what preserved the skull...so it didn’t rot away to nothing... His skull didn’t rot!“
Jack was lost in a blind frenzy until he finally pried the skull loose from the soil. Gripping it by the eye sockets, he held it up to the night sky like it was a bowling ball.
“See?“ he shouted, turning around to show the skull to Ryan, who still lay there on his side staring at Jack with a wide-eyed gaze.
“Jesus, Ryan! Do you realize what this is?“
Scuttling like a crab across the ground, Jack came around the campfire and thrust the skull forward so his friend couldn’t help but look at it. The only sound, other than the faint sighing of the wind high overhead, was the ragged gasps of Jack’s heavy breathing. For several heartbeats, he looked at his motionless friend until the horrible truth hit him.
Ryan’s eyes hadn’t blinked.
They were wide open and staring, two glassy marbles that reflected the dying coals of the fire with a dull, lifeless glow.
“Ryan—?“ Jack said, his voice just a strangled whisper. “Oh, Jesus... Ryan!“
His whole body was shaking as he leaned forward and pushed his friend’s shoulder. Jack watched in stunned horror as Ryan’s body flopped over onto its back, but his head remained where it was. Only then did Jack notice the thick, black stain that covered the ground and saturated Ryan’s sleeping bag like spilled oil.
“No...oh, Jesus. No!“ Jack whimpered as he got up and stumbled away. His friend’s severed head just lay there, his glassy eyes staring at him with a blank, unblinking, dead gaze.
The night closed around Jack like heavy drapes. With so little light to see by, he wasn’t even sure what he grabbed as he gathered up a few things and stuffed them into his backpack. The cold, hard knot that had formed in his chest now dropped down into his stomach. His arms and legs felt numb, like foreign objects he could barely control as he hurriedly laced his boots. Without a backward glance at his friend’s corpse, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and ran off into the woods. He had no idea where the trail was or if he was keeping to it.
It didn’t matter.
All he knew was that he had to get away from Outlaw’s Cave...away from the oak tree and his horrible discovery...and away his dead friend!
As Jack struggled through the dense underbrush, he could hear all around him in the darkness the rising howl of someone screaming. The keening sound was distant at first, but as he ran, it got louder and louder until it echoed in the woods and from the cliffs on the opposite side of the river. It rose rising higher and higher until it drowned out everything else, even the heavy thud of Jack’s feet on the ground and the rapid, painful pulse of his heart in his chest.
Ryan—his best friend—was dead!
Murdered!
Branches whipped Jack’s face and hands, stinging him and drawing blood that streamed down and mingled with the cold sweat that bathed his skin. Time and again, he tripped on the uneven ground and had to flap his arms wildly to keep from falling. He was vaguely aware that the river was off to his left, and he figured as long as he kept close to it, he’d eventually reach an outpost or even a town.
Blind with terror, his only thought now was to keep running to get away from that horror, so that’s what he did.
He ran.
Dawn eventually came. The eastern sky gradually lightened to a dull gray, and still Jack ran. His face and hands were caked with mud from the innumerable times he had fallen down, and he was cut and bleeding from scores of scratches and gashes from thorns and branches that had ripped through his shirt and jeans. His throat felt like it had been flayed with flames, and his lungs were burning with a terrible ache that sent bone-deep tremors rumbling through his legs and back.
And still, he ran.
He was past the point of exhaustion. When he came to some low-lying, swampy ground, the mud sucked at his feet and tripped him. He fell face-first into the fetid water and, without thinking, gulped down a mouthful. Nausea squeezed his gut. When he staggered to his feet again, he was only dimly aware that his boots had remained mired in the mud, and he was now barefoot. He wiped his face on his forearm and kept running, unmindful of his pain.
The sun rose slowly, spreading sunlight and warmth across the land. Thick, twisting blankets of mist rose from the river and twined through the trees like heavy smoke. Bird song filled the air, but the only sound that registered in Jack’s brain was the memory—if it was, indeed, a memory and not the echo—of that high-pitched scream that had filled the night and followed him as he ran. It reverberated inside his head, mingling with the memory of the stench of death and rot, and the cold, hard touch of rotting bone.
Jack kept running even though every muscle in his body was wrung out and burning with exhaustion. A thick, salty taste flooded the back of his throat, and several times his stomach clenched, his mouth filling with hot, sour vomit. He didn’t even bother to spit it out. He simply swallowed it and let what remained dribble from his mouth and down onto his heaving chest.
As the day brightened and the mist dissipated, exhaustion finally took its toll, and Jack began to falter. He stumbled over a rotting deadfall, and when he hit the ground face-first, he no longer had the strength to get up. Placing both hands on the ground in front of him, he tried to push himself up, but he collapsed forward again, his nose hitting the ground hard. A wash of fresh hot blood filled his mouth, mingling with the sour aftertaste of vomit. But Jack was only distantly aware of this or anything else as he sank down...deeper...deeper into unconsciousness.
It wasn’t until many hours later, long past noon, that a small group of hikers—two men and two women—came across him, lying face-down in the brush alongside the path.
“What the hell happened to you?“ a voice said.
Jack couldn’t distinguish if it was a man or a woman speaking, but those were the first words he understood as he drifted slowly out of the dense weight of unconsciousness. He knew he had been hearing voices for some time, but they had been faint and indistinct. Only now did they make sense, and he had no idea who was speaking. The voices reminded him of the voice he had heard last night, when he had used the mound of earth covering Jed Harpe’s skull for a pillow.
Jack had no idea if he was lying flat on his back or sitting up as he tried to wedge open his eyes, but even the slightest bit of sunlight made him wince and cry out in pain. Whenever he moved, even if it was only a fi
nger, a searing flash of pain made him grunt and cry out loud.
“I... I...“ was all he could manage to say at first.
His throat felt as if it was swollen shut, and he was strangling. The first few times he consciously tried to take a breath, his chest felt like someone had slipped razor blades between each of his ribs.
“We have to get you back to town,“ said the voice that had spoken before. This time, Jack could tell it was a man speaking, and the sound of it brought him closer to the terrible memory of what had happened last night. A sense of total unreality swept over him, threatening to pull him back under. For all he knew, he might have been sprawled on the ground half-dead for days. It certainly felt like it. His body was iron-stiff.
As he became more fully aware, the memory of what he had seen, of what had happened last night, came back in a horrible, roaring rush. It was too much to take, and Jack wished fervently that he could sink back into unconsciousness and stay there, but he couldn’t. Whoever had found him, whatever time it was, wherever he was, he couldn’t escape from the memory.
“Here, have a drink,“ the man’s voice said. “Not too much, though.“
It pained him to move, but Jack could feel someone raising his head and holding the cool, metal rim of a canteen up to his lips. He opened his mouth and almost choked when the canteen was tipped back, and water gushed into his mouth. He forced himself to swallow a few drops and let the soothing coolness of the water trickle down his throat. Incrementally, it relieved the parched dryness.
“You sure had us worried for a second there,“ the man said as he eased Jack’s head back down onto the ground.
Once again, Jack wedged his eyes open and saw that he was sitting on the ground. His legs were splayed, and his pack rested on the ground near his feet. He was leaning back against a tree or a rock; he couldn’t tell for sure, but he was grateful for its solid reality. Through the watery blur of his vision, against the explosion of bright green trees and perfectly blue sky, he could see the man who was tending to him. Beyond him, standing in a close semicircle, but not too close, were three other people. They were little more than indistinct smears against the brilliant dazzle of the forest.
“I...I’m...alive,“ Jack whispered, even though his throat felt like it had been sand-blasted.
“Just barely, pard’ner,“ the man said with a tight chuckle. “But—yeah. You’re alive.“
Jack squinted, trying to see the man’s face more clearly, but a broad-brimmed hat shaded his features.
“’Nother sip of water?“ the man asked.
Even though it hurt like hell, Jack nodded and rasped, “Yeah.“ After another cooling gulp, he found the strength to raise his right arm and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. His vision was still blurry, but he could see that his hand and wrist were smeared with mud and the blood from more than a couple of dozen scrapes and gashes.
“Thanks,“ he said, happy to hear a slight measure of strength returning to his voice.
“Goddamn!“ the man said. “You are some beat up. We thought you were dead for sure when we first came upon you. What in hell happened?“
“I...I had to get away,“ Jack said, groaning as he leaned forward and vigorously rubbed his eyes with both hands. “It was... Jesus! I can’t believe it really happened! I mean...“
“What, did someone jump you and leave you for dead out here?“ the man asked.
“No, no.“ Jack groaned again as he shook his head. “I was... We were... Did you find him?... Did you see him?“
“Find who?“ the man asked.
“My friend...I was hiking with my friend, and last night...we were...someone—“
Before he could say any more, his voice choked off, and he had to take another, longer sip of water in before he could continue. In spite of the pain, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he said, “We set up camp under the oak tree by Outlaw’s Cave.“
“Ohh, that place’s ’spozed to be haunted,“ said one of the women.
Jack couldn’t see her face against the sky, but he couldn’t help but sniff with laughter. “You don’t know the half of it,“ he said, licking his dry lips. “Someone else was out there last night, too, and they...they killed my friend.“
“What?“ the man tending to him said. He cast a glance over his shoulder at his friends, then looked back at Jack.
“Yeah. They...I don’t know how,“ Jack said, “but sometime during the night...when we were both asleep, someone...killed my friend and cut off his head.“
“Jesus,“ said the man kneeling in front of him, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you sure?“
“Yes. I—I saw it, but I can’t believe it really happened. It can’t be true, but I...I saw it. I saw his head. It was just lying there, not connected to his shoulders anymore, and I...I panicked and ran.“
“Hell, I don’t blame you,“ the other man in the group said.
“I didn’t know what I was doing or where I was going. All I knew was I had to get away, so I ran. You understand, don’t you? I had to get away!“
“Yeah...sure. Sure, I understand,“ the man tending him said, but Jack thought from his tone of voice that he might be patronizing him.
The man looked away from Jack, and Jack noticed that his gaze shifted to where his pack was lying on the ground by his feet. A quizzical look crossed the man’s face as he leaned forward and gingerly touched the corner of the pack.
Jack looked down, and in a frozen instant he realized what had drawn the man’s attention. The bottom of his pack was dark, as if something inside had spilled and was seeping through the green nylon, turning it black.
A cold spike of terror drove through Jack as he watched the man slowly extend his hand and grasp the edge of the flap. The man and two women standing behind him moved in closer, their heads craned forward as they watched in hushed silence.
The tearing of Velcro was the only sound Jack could hear as the man slowly opened up the pack.
Jack couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t swallow.
He couldn’t even blink.
The man’s face was flat, expressionless until the pack gaped open, and he looked inside. Then he let out a low, strangled gasp and pushed himself backwards, scrambling to get away from the pack as if it contained a rattlesnake. As he did, his foot kicked the backpack and knocked it over. It gaped open like a hungry mouth, and the morning sunlight was angled just right so it illuminated what was inside the pack. The sight froze Jack where he sat.
“Oh my God! Oh my sweet Jesus!“ the man said, his voice rising until it twisted off to nothing. “Why did you do it? Why’d you bring it with you?“ Before he could say anything else, he leaned forward and vomited between his legs.
Jack tried to tear his gaze away from the backpack, but he couldn’t do it. There, nestled like a huge, horrible egg resting in a nest, was his friend Ryan’s severed head. The skin was sallow and pale, looking like old parchment and drained entirely of blood. The heavy eyelids were closed, but as Jack watched in fascinated horror, Ryan’s eyes slowly opened. Then his mouth peeled back into a wide, sickening grin, and before Jack could find the strength to turn away, Ryan opened his lifeless lips and began to scream.
COLLABORATIONS
Abduction
by Jesse, Matti, and Rick Hautala
“So when did this headache start?“
Nick Hansen rubbed his forehead just above his left eyebrow as he stared at his mother. She was looking at him over her shoulder as she stood at the kitchen sink and scraped the remains of their breakfast into the garbage disposal. When she turned it on, the high, whining, grinding sound jacked Nick’s headache up another notch.
“I—I’m not sure,“ he said, wincing as the needle-sharp pain jabbed behind his left eye. “Sometime during the night, I think.“
Nick caught the funny glint in his mother’s eyes when she turned and walked over to where he was sitting. Smiling tightly, she knelt down in front of him and gripped h
im by both shoulders.
“You think?“
Nick shrugged and tried to pull away from her as he nibbled on his lower lip for a second. Then he shook his head.
“Well, no ... not really.“
He shifted uneasily beneath his mother’s touch and her steady gaze.
“I’ve—I think I might’ve had it for a couple of days or so.“
“Just a couple of days?“
The expression of concern in his mother’s eyes made him feel a tiny bit better, but Nick also wasn’t so sure he wanted his mother to be babying him like this. The truth was, he’d been having bad headaches for a couple of months, now, but he hadn’t told his mom or dad or anyone else about them because he was determined not to act like a little baby about it.
But what if I have a brain tumor...or something else...something a lot worse?
He took a shallow breath and stared at his mother, feeling like he was going to cry.
What could possibly be worse than a brain tumor? He wondered but, at the same time, he acknowledged that this was exactly the problem: he could imagine too darned much!
“Yeah,“ he finally said, averting his gaze. It was too difficult to look his mother straight in the eyes. “And I...I haven’t been sleeping very good lately, either.“
“Very well,“ his mother corrected him. “You haven’t been sleeping very well lately.“
“Whatever,“ Nick replied, his voice almost a whisper.
He glanced at the kitchen clock and tried again to wriggle away from his mother, but she held him in check.
“So tell me, Nicky. What is it really?“
His mother was staring at him with a hard, penetrating look. Nick hated the way his parents—especially his mom—seemed to be able to see right through him. He wanted to say something about not wanting to be late for school, but the worry that was bubbling up inside him grew steadily stronger, eclipsing the needle-sharp pain behind his left eye.
“Come on, Nicky,“ his mother cooed. “You know you can tell me. What are you worried about now?“