The Tanglewood Terror

by Kurtis Scaletta

  I woke up at the hospital, inside a big whirring machine. I realized that I was crying, but I wasn’t sure why. Dad was walking by. No, skating by. He wasn’t bobbing up and down; he was sliding off to the left. I grabbed at his wrist to stop him. No, he’d been standing still the whole time. I was the one moving. They were bringing me out of the machine.

  “Who won?” I asked him. He shook his head.

  “Please find out,” I said. “It’s important.” But Dad didn’t seem to think it was urgent at all. He reached out and patted my shoulder.

  “You hit yourself in the noggin,” he said.

  “No I didn’t. I ran into a pole.” Dad didn’t even know what had happened.

  “That’s what I meant,” he said.

  “Find out who won,” I said again.

  He reached for his phone. “Who do I call?”

  I tried to remember Tom’s number and couldn’t. I tried to concentrate—the first number was a 5, I was sure of that, but then what? Before I could think of it, the doctor came back in with pictures of my brain. He pulled up a chair next to me and asked me how much I remembered. I explained it as best I could, and he nodded.

  “You have a concussion,” he said. “Do you know what that is?”

  “It’s when you get the senses knocked out of you.” I’d seen guys on TV with concussions, and the dazed look in their eyes—it was scary stuff.

  “Exactly,” he said. He explained that in my case I’d bruised my skull and my brain along with it. Hearing it put that way made me want to throw up.

  “It could be worse,” said the doctor. “The CAT scan looks clean. Your pupils look good. The fact that you remember what happened is really good. You’re going to be all right, Eric.” He tapped me on the shoulder like I’d made a good play, which I guess I had.

  He talked to Dad for a long time, but I couldn’t follow it very well.

  I was in one of those hospital gowns with the rear window, so I got up and got dressed in my football uniform, which was in a pile on a chair. I didn’t really want to get back into sweaty, stretchy pants, but my street clothes were probably still in the locker room. Something was missing, but I couldn’t think of what it was. I looked around for it anyway, until I got dizzy and had to sit down. I squashed a pile of pads under me and couldn’t find the energy to move them. The doctor went on and on talking to Dad, who kept nodding. The doctor finally handed him a bundle of information and turned back to me. “The only treatment for a concussion is plenty of rest,” he said. “So no school tomorrow, and no football for a few weeks, okay?”

  “Football is done anyway,” I told him.

  One of my teammates had dropped my clothes off at the house. I poked through them and still couldn’t find whatever it was that was missing. There were a lot of messages waiting at home for me too: Coach, Randy, Will, and a bunch of other people wanted to know if I was okay. They also told me that the Oxen won. I didn’t care anymore. The game was a joke, like Tom had said. How many real football games are played shoeless?

  I couldn’t even make it through all the messages. My head was throbbing and I still felt sick to my stomach.

  I went up to bed.

  Brian came out of his room in his pj’s. They had the hedgehog heroes from his last favorite video game, before he discovered Gninjas.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Just a little banged up.”

  “What got banged up?”

  “Just my head. Nothing important.”

  “Do you have my little man?”

  “What?” It took me a second to remember the colonist. The carving I’d kept as a good-luck charm. Lot of good it did.

  “I lost it,” I told him. That was what I’d been looking for at the hospital, even though I couldn’t figure out what was missing. “It might be on the field. I’ll look later.”

  “Okay. Good night. Sorry you got hurt.”

  “Night. And thanks.”

  I replayed the touchdown over and over in my dreams, galloping toward the goal line and wishing I could go back in time and make myself swerve.

  I woke up in the middle of the night and remembered I hadn’t eaten anything since the apple I’d had that morning—or yesterday morning, since it was now well into Friday. Maybe a little food would make me feel better. I walked downstairs.

  There was plenty of blue-green light shining through the glass of the back door and spilling across the carpet into the hallway. Or at least that’s what I thought it was. When I got closer, I could see a row of mushrooms along the edge of the hallway near the family room. I reached down and pulled one up, ripping it out of the wood, breaking the tough little roots. I cupped it in my other hand and proceeded to pull up the rest.

  I started across the family room to toss them out the back door, and I realized the floor was all wrong—soft and spongy, like there was an extra layer of uneven padding under the carpet. This room was added to the house after it was built, so there was no basement beneath it. The mushrooms had bored straight up from the ground through the floorboards.

  When Dad came down an hour or two later, I had part of the carpet rolled back and was scraping at the floor with a putty knife.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Scraping up mushrooms,” I told him.

  “You’re supposed to be taking it easy,” he said. He came over and took the knife from me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “No. My head hurts and I can’t sleep. I’m sick of these mushrooms.”

  “Your mother is finally taking a day off. Let her sleep in. Come on—I’ll make omelets.”

  “That would be great.” I’d forgotten I was hungry.

  I followed him into the kitchen. Dad cracked some eggs into a bowl and whisked in milk. “Do you want anything inside them?” he asked.

  “No mushrooms,” I said. “No bacon bits.”

  He made mine with cheese and smothered it with salsa. It was great. I shoveled bites into my mouth, trying not to think about fungus or football or anything else. Dad started making his own omelet when Brian came in, still in his hedgehog pj’s.

  “Do I have to go to school?” he asked.

  “Um … why wouldn’t you? Want some eggs?” Dad dumped the omelet onto a plate and handed it to Brian.

  “Can I have ketchup?” he asked.

  “I don’t care. Why don’t you want to go to school?” he asked.

  “Because nobody else in the family is going to work or school,” said Brian. He opened the fridge and got the ketchup. “It’s not fair.”

  “Good point. Okay, take the day off. We’ll all have a three-day weekend.”

  “Yay!” Brian sat down and drowned his eggs in ketchup.

  Dad started a third omelet. I finished my own before Dad sat down with his.

  “I better go take care of Cassie,” I said.

  “Oh, no you don’t. You’re supposed to be resting. First you scrape up the floor, and now you’re going to go take care of a pig? It would be better to go to school.”

  “Somebody has to feed her,” I reminded him. “Michelle won’t be back until tomorrow or Sunday.”

  “I can do it!” Brian offered. “I’ve seen Eric do it. It’s not that hard.”

  “It isn’t, huh?” I said. “What would you do?”

  “Give her the bag of food from the restaurant and water from the hose and sweep up the mess under the trough and brush her if she needs it.”

  “She might not let you close to her.”

  “I can still feed her and give her fresh water.”

  “True.” I noticed he didn’t offer to shovel, but that didn’t need to be done every day. I figured he couldn’t mess up the basics.

  “Can he?” I asked Dad. I was feeling a little bit woozy, now that I thought about it.

  “Sure. Go feed Eric’s pig.”

  “Okay!” Brian finished his eggs in a hurry and left a moment later. I went back to bed after breakfast and slept like a stone.

  I was awoken
by Mom and Dad having an argument. Their voices were just loud enough to boom up through the floor, but not loud enough for me to hear what they were arguing about. I decided to clear out. I didn’t want to hear them shout at each other.

  I tried not to hear anything as I left the house, but I heard a few words—Mom telling Dad that he wasn’t in college anymore, and that he wasn’t just out of college either. Dad telling Mom that he knew how old he was because all he had to do was look in a mirror to see he was old, but old didn’t mean defeated. I shut the door before they realized I was leaving.

  From down the street I heard the whap whap whap of Allan practicing basketball. He saw me and ran over, still dribbling. He had good control over the ball, and I was impressed. He was winded by the time he got to me.

  “Hey (pant), Eric (pant), good (pant) game yesterday (pant). “He took a deep breath. “I heard you got a concussion. I hope you’re okay.”

  “I guess so.” My head hurt, now that he reminded me about it. “How come you’re not in school?”

  “My asthma is really bad these days.” He took another huge breath to prove it. “The mushrooms make it worse.”

  “Then how come you’re outside?”

  “It’s worse inside,” he said. “There’s mushrooms in there, too.”

  “They bother you that much?”

  “Yeah. I’m allergic to all kinds of fungus, mold, and mildew.”

  “Hey, do you want to play HORSE?” I asked. I needed to kill some time while Mom and Dad worked out whatever they were working out.

  “Sure!”

  He turned me into a horse right away.

  Brian came up the street, waving at us from our driveway. I waved back.

  “Want to play?” I shouted. Mom and Dad probably weren’t done fighting, and Brian didn’t need to hear that.

  “Sure!” He trotted on over. Allan scowled. Maybe he just wanted this to be a big-kid game.

  “Are you just getting back from taking care of Cassie?” I asked Brian. It shouldn’t have taken him that long.

  “I went looking for my carving,” he said. “I couldn’t find it.”

  “I’ll look later,” I promised.

  “You go first.” Allan bounced the ball hard at Brian and nearly took his head off, but he grabbed the ball in time.

  “Easy, man,” I said.

  “I said I was sorry,” Brian muttered to Allan. He bounced the ball and took his shot, rolling the ball on the rim and missing. I didn’t know what was going on and didn’t ask. We played three rounds. I invoked a no-layup rule, using my football injury as an excuse, but Allan still won all three games. By that time he wasn’t mad at Brian anymore and even wanted to play a fourth round, but we were both horsed out.

  Mom and Dad were still arguing when Brian and I got home.

  “How is that my fault?” Dad was yelling.

  “I didn’t say anything was your fault,” Mom said. “I was just speculating.”

  “Yeah, you were speculating all right. You’re famous for your speculations.”

  “It’s all right,” I whispered to Brian. “Just boring grown-up talk.”

  We sneaked past the kitchen and hurried up the stairs.

  We had dinner early. Mom and Dad just focused on their plates, not talking to each other. I cleaned up my own plate while Brian nibbled at his food, looking glum. He was probably thinking, like I was, that if Mom and Dad kept arguing, it would end with Dad leaving again, and soon.

  “So how’s your head?” Dad asked me, finally breaking the silence.

  “Good.” I’d taken another nap. It was a big help.

  “So I was wondering if you wanted to go camping,” he said. “It’ll be warm enough—it’s been a weird fall.”

  “What, tonight?” I asked.

  “Why not?”

  “Can we go to Moosehead Lake?” Brian asked, his eyes full of hope.

  “I was just thinking the backyard,” said Dad. “Since it’s so last-minute.”

  “How about the big field at Michelle’s house?” Brian asked. “It’s more like wilderness.”

  “Sure,” said Dad. “If you don’t think she’ll mind.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “That sounds great.” Dad was good at putting up a tent and making a campfire.

  “Isn’t Eric supposed to be taking it easy?” Mom said. “Not to mention grounded?”

  “What’s easier than camping?” Dad asked. “It’ll be fun and spooky with the mushrooms everywhere. I haven’t spent quality time with them since I got here.”

  “Yay!” Brian said.

  Camping did sound like fun, but I didn’t agree that the mushrooms would make it more fun.

  It was already getting dark when Dad pitched the tent close to the woods, not far from the pen but as far as he could from the compost heap.

  “Not exactly the woodland smell I’m used to,” Dad said, but he was in a good mood. We hadn’t pitched a tent together in over a year, but it all came back to us. Dad unrolled it. Brian and I spread it out and smoothed the wrinkles with our hands. Then Brian and I tugged on opposite corners, trying to keep it as taut as possible while Dad put in the pegs. Brian used to make faces and struggle, but he did fine this time. The kid was growing up.

  Michelle’s house was dark and quiet, and I didn’t know if Mandy was hiding there tonight or not. If she was, I kind of hoped she would come out and join us. I didn’t think Brian would tell on her. I didn’t even think Dad would tell on her.

  After the tent was up, Dad measured off about ten paces and slammed a shovel into a patch of mushrooms, then started to dig out the fire pit. He had to drive his heel into the back of the shovel to force the blade through the stringy roots.

  “These things are a lot tougher than they look,” he said.

  “I know.”

  He lined the hole with stones we found around the field and in the woods. It was going to be a tiny fire—not much for warmth, but enough for ambience and marshmallow toasting. Only we didn’t have any marshmallows, because Dad didn’t have a chance to go shopping for the campout. He said most marshmallows weren’t vegetarian anyway—they were made with gelatin, which was made from cow hooves. He’d prepped some apples at home, coring them and stuffing the middles with butter and brown sugar, then wrapping each in tin foil. We tossed them into the fire, waited a bit, then rolled them out to the edge of the pit. The foil cooled off fast, so we could pick them up, but inside the apples were warm and gooey. Dad called them camping apples, and they were one of my favorite things in the world.

  I looked up at Michelle’s house again, sure that I saw a flicker of light in the window, but I decided it was just the moon reflecting in the glass. I noticed Brian looking that way too. He must have been trying to figure out what I was looking at.

  Dad started strumming on his acoustic guitar, strumming and humming, like he didn’t have any particular song in mind. It was hypnotic listening to him and looking across the fallow field, the shadows of trees dividing the two vast seas of light—mushrooms below and stars up above. The mushrooms seemed especially bright, like they were happy to be alive.

  “Can you play that song about the horseman?” I asked him.

  “What?”

  “ ‘Through the woodland, through the valley.’ That one.”

  “Oh, yeah. ‘Donkey Hotay.’ ” He plucked a string and turned one of the pegs.

  “It’s not a donkey, it’s a horse.”

  “No. ‘Don Quixote.’ That’s his name.” He spelled it out for me, explaining it was based on some old novel. Somehow I never knew the guy really did have a name. Why did the lyrics keep asking “Who can the brave young horseman be?” if the answer was right there in the title? Dad played the song, and Brian and I started humming along, and for a few minutes everything was all right with the world. When we stopped, the guitar and our voices echoed over the field.

  Brian and I had gotten bigger since the last time we’d been camping, and the tent was a tight fit. Dad f
ell asleep right away, but Brian was more restless, whispering and mumbling in his sleep. Before I could get comfortable, I heard a noise outside. It sounded human. I slipped out of the sleeping bag, put on my shoes, and crawled out into the mushroom-lit night. When I reached back to zip up the tent, my hand hit Brian’s head. He was right behind me.

  “I want to help,” he whispered.

  “Thanks.”

  We crept along the tree line so we wouldn’t give ourselves away. There was definitely somebody at the sty. We heard voices, but no words—just a high-pitched chattering sound. It sounded like some little kids were mocking Cassie.

  A moment later I saw what was going on and laughed. Against the backdrop of blue-green mushroom light were the silhouettes of two raccoons, one foraging in Cassie’s trough, the other one perched on the roof of the shed, lifting its voice to chatter an emphatic warning. Cassie herself was inside the shed, probably sleeping and oblivious to this theft of her scraps. There were usually raccoons all over the place around here, but I hadn’t seen any trace of wildlife since the mushrooms took over.

  I’d never been happier to see an oversized rat. If raccoons were holding out, maybe there was hope.

  The raccoon in the trough climbed out, turning its head to look at us with contempt. It wasn’t afraid of us. It took its time waddling away, too, although from the size of its bottom, I’m not sure it could have run if it had to. It disappeared into the trees, and its little watchdog scampered after it.

  “I like living here,” Brian said in a whisper.

  “Me too,” I said.

  Dad was up first and got the fire going again. I unwrapped the last apple and fed it to Cassie, who responded with a surprised grunt when she found the sweet buttery mess in the middle. Mom brought us a box of donuts and thermoses full of coffee and cocoa. I filled my tin cup with half of each and grabbed two donuts. That was my idea of a good breakfast.

  We lingered until late in the morning. Mom hunched by the fire, holding her coffee. Dad strummed his guitar, and Brian played Cassie’s favorite game, Feed the Pig Another Donut, until the box was empty. I poked at the fire and thought about everything. It was all going to fall apart pretty soon. Dad would move back to Boston. Brian would go back to being bratty. I might go to reform school. On top of all that, the mushrooms would continue to spread through town. The cords were sprawling out beneath us, making their way into the foundations and walls of our houses. The fungus could make the ground give way, the walls crumble—even if it didn’t rise up from the earth and devour us all.