by Brian Hodge
"Goddamn, you scared the shit out of me, you motherf—"
"Ut-ut," Chet said, wagging a warning finger underneath Stan's nose. "Better watch your language, or else I'll tell mom. You're in enough trouble as it is. Hey! What you got in the bag?"
Chet made a grab for the bag, but Stan swung his body around protectively.
"It's none of your damned business," he shouted.
"Ohh, little mister foul-mouth," Chet said with a taunting laugh. "Com'on. Lemme see." He darted first one way, then the other in an attempt to get the bag from Stan, but after a few tries he gave up. "Well, it better not be any more rocks. God knows your junk takes up enough space in the bedroom as it is. We'll just see what you have to say once you get home, wise ass. Mom is royally pissed that you weren't back when she said to be."
"Yeah, well—I just sorta lost track of the time," Stan replied weakly.
He was still a little dizzy from the fall, and his pulse hadn't slowed down yet from the surprise Chet had given him. He was trying his best to control himself, but he felt like he had to go to the bathroom real bad.
"Come on, then," Chet said. He suddenly darted ahead of Stan, heading toward the open trench. At the very edge, he leaped up into the air. The flashing lights made his movements strobe like an old-time movie as he hung suspended against the night sky for an instant. Then he landed with a loud grunt on the other side. One foot caught at the edge of the trench and knocked dirt down into the darkness below. He looked back at Stan, his face horribly underlit by the flickering orange flame of the smudge pots.
"Hey, man—if you don't get a move on, I'll take your bike again!" Chet taunted. His mouth was still open, and he looked like he was about to say something more, but he cut himself short when a faint noise from down inside the open trench drew his attention. Craning forward, he looked down.
"Hey! What's the matter?" Stan yelled, remembering the odd noises he had heard inside the cave. His hand clutched the closed mouth of the burlap bag as the image of a severed arm rose up in his mind. Maybe the rest of this dead guy was buried down there!
Chet didn't say anything as he stared into the dark trench, waiting tensely to hear if the sound was repeated. When it didn't come again, he muttered a curse and kicked some loose gravel down into the trench. When there still was no response, he straightened up, looked smugly back at Stan, and started walking away. As soon as Chet's back was turned, Stan thought he saw a shadow shift within the darkness of the trench.
"Hey, Chet!" he called, his voice winding up tight with fear. "Hold up!"
"No way! You wouldn't show me what you've got in the bag, so I'm not gonna wait for you!"
The skin at the back of Stan's neck prickled as he eyed the opened trench and recalled the hissing, dragging sound he had heard from deep inside the cave.
"Come on! Wait for me!" he shouted.
It took effort to control the wavering in his voice.
"Come on, yourself, then! Move your lard-ass!" Chet shouted back, his voice receding as he disappeared into the darkness down the road.
Stan was about to yell again, but when he opened his mouth, a clump of dirt at the edge of the trench slid noisily down into the darkness below. One of the smudge pots teetered at the edge for a moment and then fell. It sputtered as it rolled into the ditch, the flame blazing higher just before it winked out. In that instant, Stan was positive that he heard a short, barking yelp of pain. Slinging the burlap bag over his handlebars, he took off down the road like a shot, hoping to catch up to his brother before he got too much further away.
4
"I was up in my tree house, mom. Honest!" Stan said. "I must've fallen asleep or something."
Cringing inwardly, he glanced over at Chet, just waiting for him to tell his mother the truth. Even when his brother remained silent, Stan was convinced that it was only so he could use this little white lie against him some other time.
"Is that how you got so dirty, and how you got that cut over your eye?"
Stan shook his head, trying hard to think of an excuse, but his mind was a complete blank.
"Well, you know what I think about that tree house of yours!" Lisa Walters said.
"Seriously. I must've dozed off or something, 'cause I never even heard you calling for me. Honest, mom!"
"I swear to God, I'm going to have your father tear that—that monstrosity down this weekend," Stan's mother said. The scowl on her face deepened as she placed her hands on her hips and glared at Stan. "How many times have I told you I don't want you up there? Why, just this morning, Mrs. Emerson was telling me about the problem they're having out there in Cornish and Limington with rabid squirrels. She—"
Before she could say more, first Chet, and then Stan started snickering with repressed laughter. One boy set the other off, and before they could catch themselves, both of them were fighting hard not to roar in hysterical laughter.
"Oh, so you think it's funny, do you?" their mother said, glaring back and forth between the two boys.
"Come on, mom," Chet said, snorting back his laughter. "You've got to admit that the idea of … the idea of a—"
He couldn't force himself to say any more when he looked at Stan, and another gale of laughter took hold of him. In an instant, Stan lost control and was howling with laughter, too. He lost control, imagining himself cornered in his tree house, held at bay by a rabid squirrel looming in the doorway.
No, not one—a whole pack of little gray squirrels, foaming at the mouths as they moved slowly toward him. The mental image sent him into a paroxysm of laughter.
"Well, you boys just go ahead and laugh," their mother said angrily. "You know, it isn't just dogs and foxes that get rabies. Squirrels—even field mice can get the disease." She let her voice trail away as her two sons continued to blubber hysterically. "But right now, I want the both of you to march yourselves upstairs. Move it! And you, Stanley Walters! You march yourself into the bathroom right now and take a shower!"
"Okay, mom," Stan said, still chuckling softly as he started up the stairs. The humor of the situation was almost enough to make him forget how much he still hurt from his roll down the hillside, but as funny as his mother's irrational fear was, the idea of being attacked by a rabid squirrel wasn't what occupied his mind as he undressed and stepped into the shower. He felt at least a bit relieved that he hadn't exactly lied to his mother; he had been in his tree house just before coming into the house. He had climbed the rickety ladder up into the darkness and deposited the football-shaped thing, burlap bag and all, in the safety of his tree house.
After his shower, as he settled down to sleep that night, he couldn't stop wondering what that thing might be. He could hardly wait until morning when he would even risk the danger of encountering a rabid squirrel to go up to his tree house and find out what was in the bag.
5
"I'm not hungry!" Stan shouted. "I'll have something later!"
The screen door banged shut behind him, cutting off his mother's shouted advice that breakfast was the most important meal of the day as he raced out across the back lawn, heading straight into the woods that fringed the backyard. About a hundred yards along a narrow path he came to the towering oak tree that supported his tree house. Without a backward glance or any hesitation, he scampered like a monkey up the wooden slats he had nailed into the tree trunk as a makeshift ladder. He was panting heavily as he poked his head under the canvas sheet he used as a door. It took his eyes a while to adjust to the gloom inside the tree house, but after a moment or two, he saw what he was looking for over in the corner, right where he had left it last night.
After waiting in the entrance for a moment, he hooked the canvas flap onto the nail he used to hold the door open and entered. Shadow-dappled sunlight angled across the rough plank flooring, but it didn't quite reach the burlap bag resting in the far corner. A tightening tension gripped Stan by the throat as he crawled over to the bag on his hands and knees.
"Now, let's just see what we've got here,
" he whispered, his voice hissing like sandpaper in the moist gloom.
His hands were shaking as he picked up the end of the bag, sucked in a deep breath and held it before dumping the thing out. It hit the floor with a dull thud and rolled to a stop in the darkest corner of the tree house. Stan sat back on his heels and stared at the object long and hard. Just like last night, he was strongly and equally drawn and repelled by the thing, whatever it was.
In rough outline, it was indeed about the size and shape of a football, but there the similarity ended. It had a thick, doughy look to it and was pinched at either end into a blunt point. In the dim light, the thick, segmented rings looked the color of sour milk—white blending into dull yellow. In the middle, where it was thickest, the thing was maybe half a foot thick, maybe a little more. Although the diffused sunlight didn't quite reach it, it glistened as if it had its own internal light source.
"Goddamn, but doesn't that look like a big maggot," Stan whispered. "A big, bloated maggot!"
He didn't quite dare get any nearer to it. Just the thought that he had touched it, had picked up and carried a monster maggot all the way home sickened him. And God-All-Mighty! Even though it had felt dead, the thing sure as heck looked like it might even be …
"Alive!" Stan whispered, sitting back and prodding it with the toe of his sneaker.
As soon as he touched it, the maggot-looking thing twitched. The middle segments puffed up, making both ends contract and point at each other like a fat, crescent moon. Squealing in surprise, Stan jerked back, banging his head on the low ceiling of the tree house. Tracers of light squiggled across his vision as he rubbed the back of his head and stared in utter disbelief at the thing.
It had to be a maggot or worm or cocoon of some kind; he could tell that much—but what? What kind of worm or slug ever got as big as a football?
Tense seconds passed as Stan just sat there, staring at the thing and waiting for it to move again. When it didn't, he tried to convince himself that it hadn't really moved the first time. It had to have been his imagination...or a shifting shadow and light that had made it look like it moved. How could a worm that big even exist, much less be alive?
After a minute or two, when the thing still hadn't moved again, Stan scrambled out of the tree house. Climbing up onto the pitched roof, he reached up and snapped off an oak branch about two feet long. After stripping off the leaves and twigs, he swung back down onto the platform and re-entered the tree house. With the stick held out in front of him like a sword, he cautiously approached the giant maggot again.
"Just what in the hell are you," he whispered.
His hand trembled as he reached forward and gently prodded the thing. He expected the sharp stick to pierce it easily, but the milky white skin had a rubbery resistance that deflected it. No matter how hard he pressed against the thing, even hard enough to press the thing against the tree house wall, he couldn't puncture it.
"Well, then, maybe a knife," he said aloud.
He leaned to one side and reached for his front pocket, then sighed out loud when he remembered that his mother had taken his jackknife away from him last week because she had caught him carving his initials into a tree in the front yard. With a sigh of frustration, he whacked the middle of the maggoty-looking thing with his stick.
In a flash, the wormy thing twisted around and flipped over.
Stan screamed so loud it hurt his throat when he saw the underside. It looked...weird, all puckered up and wrinkled like a dirty sock turned inside out. Inside the fat, folded wrinkles, it looked almost as though there was a face—a twisted face, distorted and squashed flat against the thick, milky wrapping. Round, bulging eyes stared unblinkingly out at him. Squashed up flat on each side and running halfway down the length of the thing, were what looked like the faint outlines of two arms... arms that ended in small, flat, clawed hands.
Stan was barely aware of the whimpering sound he was making as he scurried toward the tree house door. He felt his way blindly with his hands and feet, unable to tear his eyes away from the distorted face that steadily gazed at him. He tried desperately to convince himself that there couldn't really be a face—an almost human-looking face—on the underside of this thing. No matter what it was—a slug, a maggot, or whatever—there was no way it could have a human-looking face!
His entire body shook as though he were being jolted by a powerful electric current as he swung over to the ladder and started down. Halfway to the ground, he let go of the steps and sprang out into the air. Landing on his feet, he turned and ran as fast as he could back to his house.
6
Throughout the morning, Stan was uncharacteristically silent—enough so that even Chet commented on it. After lunch, he went right out and mowed the front lawn without his father having to ask him more than once. When he was finished with that job, he even offered to rake up the clippings—a job Chet usually did when Stan did the mowing.
A couple of times during the day, Chet tried to talk to him, to draw out of him whatever was bothering him. Stan was tempted a couple of times to spill his guts and tell Chet all about the weird human-faced maggot-thing he had stashed up in the tree house, but he kept his mouth shut and wondered if he had truly seen what he thought he had seen... and if those bulging, round eyes had seen him!
Supper came, and although Stan was still withdrawn, he was also feeling nervous and anxious … and curious. As he ate, he couldn't stop bouncing his legs nervously up and down. Although he was hungry, he had to leave his slice of lamb untouched because the light beige color reminded him of the thing in his tree house. Once supper was over, and he was free to go and do whatever he wanted to—at least until dark—he felt nearly compelled to go out to the tree house just to verify that he had seen what he thought he had seen.
Anticipation gnawed at his nerves like a worm working its way to the core of an apple. Before long, he knew that he had to go out there, only this time he'd be prepared. Although he knew his father kept a pistol in his desk drawer, Stan didn't dare to go quite that far. But he did manage to sneak his jackknife out of his mother's top bureau drawer. With that, Chet's flashlight, and a length of rope in case he had to tie the thing up or something, he left by the back door and disappeared down the trail that led to his tree house.
When he got to the tree, he stood for a moment, looking up at the underside of the tree house. Never in all the years since he and some of his friends had built it, had it ever seemed so scary... so ominous. The dark, jagged timbers of the roof line and flooring were black, dimensionless blocks against the paling evening sky. The sheet of canvas hanging down over the door looked like a sodden blanket, and Stan couldn't stop wondering what in the name of Sweet Jesus was behind that curtain.
"I'll take the human-faced giant-maggot behind Door Number One," he whispered, chuckling softly to himself as he started up the ladder to the platform. This all seemed so unreal, so unbelievable. His breath caught, dry and scratchy in the back of his throat as pulled back the canvas door covering. Before entering, he folded the blade out of his knife and held it in out defensively in one hand as he snapped on the flashlight. Bending low, he went inside.
The sun was setting behind his back. It angled across the tree house floor with a wash of bright orange that illuminated every detail of the rough planks of the floor and wall. The quiet of the evening magnified every sound around him—the harsh rasp of canvas, the creaking of rusty nails in weathered wood, the swish of leaves as the branches that supported the tree house bent beneath his shifting weight. The oval of light from his flashlight darted like a laser beam over to the corner. His eyes desperately sought the pale, maggoty thing. As soon as he saw it, his heart started pounding hard in his chest, and tears started in his eyes.
"You bastard!" he hissed as he swept the beam of light back and forth over the tangled, white mess that littered the tree house floor. "You lousy, scum-sucking, rotten, bastard!"
He couldn't believe what he saw. The only thing his brain could reg
ister was that whatever that thing had been, it was gone now, smashed and ripped and torn into hundreds of tiny, fleshy shreds. The floor was saturated with a thick, gooey liquid that had dried into a black crust on the old wood.
Stan had no doubt who had done this.
It had to have been Chet, the prick!
Sometime in the afternoon, probably while he was busy mowing the lawn, his older brother must have come out here, found what Stan had stashed up here, and destroyed it.
Why?
Simply to piss him off, of course—just like always.
"I'm gonna get even with you," Stan said with a snarl as he probed the remains with the tip of his knife. Even with a sharp blade, the outside covering resisted cutting or puncturing as if it were some kind of thick, milky-white rubber. He still couldn't quite bring himself to touch what was left of it with his bare hand, so he sat down and used his foot to push what was left of his prize into a pile over in the corner.
Once he had the remains all gathered up, though, he realized that something was dreadfully wrong.
"Wait a second... There isn't enough stuff here," he whispered.
His eyes darted back and forth, following the beam of the flashlight to see if he had missed any. As he was looking, a faint scratching sound from overhead drew his attention. Cringing backward onto the floor, he was just starting to swing the flashlight around and up when something dropped onto his back.
Stan let out a shrill scream as the thing—whatever it was—sank tiny, sharp claws into the back of his neck and ripped the back of his head. A small part of his mind realized that the thing must have been clinging to the underside on the ceiling where he couldn't see it, but he was consumed by searing white pain as his screaming rose louder and louder until it drowned out the high-pitched chittering sound close to his ears. His mind went blank with terror as his scalp was ripped open and blood flowed, hot and sticky down his back.
He swung out wildly with both hands, batting behind his head in a desperate attempt to dislodge the thing, but to no avail. Whatever it was, it had wrapped tiny arms around him like a clawed leech. His jackknife slipped from his sweaty grip as he thrashed about on the floor. The flashlight beam swung wildly back and forth, sweeping the inside of the tree house like a searchlight as he repeatedly hammered at the slick, skinny body that had attached itself to him.