by Brian Hodge
Chuckie shrugged. "Who knows? But don't you think we ought to get in there and see for ourselves?"
Raising his dirt-stained hand to cover his mouth, Tyler shook his head, his eyes wide with apprehension. "I dunno... I think maybe we ought to leave well enough alone."
"You ain't going chicken-shit on me, are you?"
"No. No way," Tyler said, shaking his head harder.
"Well, then—get digging. These bars sure as heck don't go all the way to China."
4
The sun was setting by the time Tyler and Chuckie finished digging the hole down to the bottom of the frame that held the iron bars. Sweat carved pales tracks in the dirt on their faces as they sat back and admired their work so far.
"We've either gotta get this thing out of the cement, or else dig down far enough so we can get up underneath it," Chuckie said, huffing like a team engine.
Tyler sighed with exasperation and shrugged, thinking either prospect seemed like much more work than he cared to undertake.
"My mom's gonna kill me for tearing my T-shirt," he said, displaying the rip he'd gotten while leaning against the rough stones of the foundation and trying to get leverage to loosen the grate.
"Yeah, well, just don't tell her how you did it, okay?" Chuckie looked from his friend back down to the hole they had dug. Nodding with satisfaction, he asked, "You wanna give it a try now, or should we wait 'till tomorrow?"
"I think we ought to wait." Tyler's frown deepened. Wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm left a thick streak of mud above his eyes that looked like Indian war paint. "It's getting too dark, anyway."
Tyler didn't want to mention it, but several times while they had been digging, he had heard—or thought he had heard—something from the tunnel—a faint scuffing echo from deep inside. He only mentioned it to Chuckie the first time he heard it. After Chuckie teased him about "going pussy," he decided it must just be the echoes of their work... or his imagination.
"And anyway, it don't matter how dark it is," Chuckie said. "It's gonna be dark as West Hell in there, no matter when we go in. 'Sides, we've got flashlights. I say we do it now."
Before Tyler could tell his friend no again, the harsh clanging of a cowbell—his mother's signal to let him know it was time to come home for supper—started ringing. Trying hard not to let his relief show, he got up, hastily brushed his knees, and shouted that he was on his way.
"Gotta go. Catch you later," he called over his shoulder as he ran up the slope toward the house. Before Chuckie could say anything, Tyler was out of sight.
For a long while, Chuckie stayed where he was, sitting back on his heels and staring after Tyler. Then his gaze shifted back to the iron grate, the stone-lined tunnel, and the digging they had done so far. It was all well and good that they had gotten a start on this, he thought, but why wait until tomorrow to get in there? What if Tyler's grandfather came out behind the barn and saw what they had done? He'd know in an instant who had done it, and Chuckie knew that gimpy old pirate wouldn't hesitate a second to blame him for instigating the whole thing.
"What the heck!" Chuckie muttered.
Sucking in a breath, he gripped the shovel with both hands, leaned forward, and started digging again, throwing scoop after scoop of dirt over his shoulder. With the lessening of light, he found it increasingly difficult to see what he was doing. He considered using his flashlight but decided that he didn't want to chance drawing attention to himself.
Darkness seeped in all around him, spreading like an ink stain from the woods behind the barn. Crickets trilled in the field, and bats fluttered overhead on leather wings. The sudden squawk of a night bird sent shivers up his spine, but Chuckie kept working furiously. He couldn't quit now—not until he got that iron grating out of the way and could see for himself what was inside that tunnel. He didn't realize someone was standing behind him until a strong hand clamped down like a vise on his shoulder. His first thought was that Tyler had come back to give him a scare, but when he looked at his shoulder and saw that the hand was missing two fingers, a feeble little squeak sounded in the back of his throat. Tears instantly filled his eyes as the white nubs of scar tissue dug painfully into the meat of his neck.
5
"You think you're some smart, huh?" Old Man Clay said, his voice as rough as gravel.
Before Chuckie could answer, the old man clamped his other hand over Chuckie's mouth and leered close to him, letting his hot, beer-sour breath wash over Chuckie. A cold pressure filled Chuckie's bladder.
"You want to see what's down in this here tunnel, huh? Well, mista', you're gonna get your wish."
Chuckie's eyes were so wide with fear he wasn't able to blink as he stared up at Tyler's grandfather and tried to shake his head in vigorous denial. The pain in his shoulder spread like fire up his neck. He wanted desperately to say something, to beg the man to let him go; he wanted to tell him he hadn't meant any harm; but the old man's other hand cupped his lower face like a baseball mitt, holding back anything he might have said.
"So now—" Old Man Clay said, his voice lowering. "Come with me, 'n I'll show you something you won't ever forget!"
With a quick motion that caught Chuckie by surprise, the old man spun him around and hammerlocked one arm behind his back. For a moment, he removed his hand from Chuckie's mouth, but as soon as Chuckie sucked in a breath to try to cry out for help, the old man stuffed a crusty handkerchief into his mouth. It tasted horrible. The sour taste of vomit bubbled up from Chuckie's stomach into his throat, but the handkerchief forced it back down. Clasping both of Chuckie's arms behind him at the wrists, Old Man Clay pulled his hands up hard like he was working a pump handle. A bright bolt of pain shot up Chuckie's neck, exploding like a firecracker in his brain.
"Come along, then," the old man wheezed as he pushed and dragged the boy up the hill and around the side of the barn. With his arms pinned behind his back, his mouth gagged, and his vision blurred by tears of pain and terror, the boy stumbled as he went, but the old man wrenched his arms back and forced him to keep moving forward. They went around to the front of the barn and entered through the front door. The rich smell of fresh manure and hay chaff stung Chuckie's eyes, making it even harder for him to see in the dusk.
"You know right where it is, don't 'cha, boy?" Old Man Clay hissed as they walked down the row of stalls. Several cows turned and looked at them, their sad, dumb eyes glistening moistly in the evening gloom. Their tails flicked at the flies swarming around their haunches.
Chuckie worked his tongue against the cloth blocking his mouth, but it was stuffed too far in to dislodge. He was sure he was going to suffocate. Inside his mind, he was screaming...begging for Old Man Clay to let him go. When they reached the corner of the barn where Chuckie could see the dark square of the iron grating, his knees went rubbery on him. He stumbled and almost fell.
"You're gonna learn something not too many people alive even know about," Old Man Clay said. Chuckling deeply in his chest, he hawked and spit off into the darkness. He eased his grip on Chuckie's arm, but before the boy could make his body respond to his mental command to run, Old Man Clay shoved him into the corner of the barn where he blocked any possible retreat. Chuckie heard a clink of metal as the old man fished in the pocket of his bib coveralls and produced a ring of keys. He held them up to the fading light as he searched for the right one.
Kneeling down, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on Chuckie, he felt blindly for the lock. On the verge of bawling like a little baby, Chuckie cowered in the corner, pressing his back against the dry, splintered wood. Old Man Clay fit the key into the rusty lock, twisted it, and released the shackle. In the darkness, the sound of metal clanging against metal was magnified as it echoed from the stone-lined tunnel. When the old man pulled the lock away, Chuckie heard something—a dull rasping sound—come from deep inside the tunnel.
"That might be them comin' now," Old Man Clay said. "Gotta hurry." He sniffed with laughter.
&nbs
p; Chuckie's body was numb with terror as he stared at the iron grating on the floor. Whatever was down there making that noise sure sounded like it was getting closer!
"You see, boy, these here iron bars are necessary to make sure what's down there stays down there. Catch my drift?" Old Man Clay said. "But you know—I don't think that's the only thing that keeps 'em down there."
Paralyzed with terror and too stunned to cry out for help, Chuckie slowly raised his hand to his mouth and pulled out the cloth. The inside of his mouth was as dry as paper. He had to lick his lips before he could speak, and when he did, his voice was tight and high.
"What—what's down there?"
Old Man Clay glanced at Chuckie but continued talking as if he hadn't even heard him.
"For the longest damned time, I was losing cows from the barn. Not very often. Every couple of years or so I'd come out in the mornin' 'n find one of 'em all ripped up and half 'et. Usually a calf. It took me a while to figure out the pattern to it, but I noticed it was happening every five years or so. Usually in the summer, but sometimes in the spring or fall. Then one night, must've been—oh, twenty years or more back, I heard one helluva commotion out here. I come a'runnin' 'n got here just in time to see—well, I ain't 'xactly sure what I seen, but I sure as hell saw somethin'! Looked sorta like a dwarf, all gnarly and brown. It went scurryin' back down into that hole there quick as could be. Next morning, I got a couple of iron grates 'n fixed one into place here 'n put the other out back where you was just digging. This one, though, is a bit different. See? It's got hinges."
As he said that, Old Man Clay stepped forward, careful to keep his weight on the grate. It was almost as if—Chuckie thought—he was making sure to keep it closed … for now. Cold pressure filled Chuckie's head as he stared at the old man, all the while listening to the faint scratching sounds that were definitely getting louder.
"What's down there?" Chuckie asked, his voice raw and broken as the old man slowly approached him.
"I haven't the faintest clue," Old Man Clay said, smiling broadly. The, without warning, he leaned forward, and his hand darted out like a striking rattlesnake and snagged Chuckie's arm. "This tunnel or whatever the hell it is must've been here since back when my grandfather built this barn." He started to pull Chuckie forward. "But I have a theory. Wanna hear it?"
Fainting with terror, Chuckie didn't have the strength to nod as the old man dragged him toward the grate.
"I think this here tunnel goes straight down to Hell," Old Man Clay said in a voice low with reverence. "'N I think what I saw out here that night—what's been comin' up from underground every five years and killin' my cows—is a horde of devils! Demons! You hear me, boy?" His eyes widened and rolled ceiling ward with excitement.
A strangled squeak came out of Chuckie as he looked from the old man to the iron grate at his feet. He hardly noticed when his bladder released, spreading warm urine over his pants. The old man's grip on his arm tightened, bringing him closer to the opening. When he was at the edge, Old Man Clay placed the toe of his boot under the lip of the grate and, with effort, lifted it. Reaching down with one hand, he took the metal edge and flung it open wide. The rusty hinges shrieked in protest as the door fell open and hit the dirt floor with a loud clang.
"You see," Old Man Clay said, "I made sort of a deal with these particular devils. Once I realized they only come around every five years or so, I figured when I knowed they was comin' 'round, I'd give 'em what they want so's they'd leave my cows alone. Seems reasonable, and I reckon they're satisfied 'cause I don't believe for a minute they couldn't rip this open if they really put their minds to it. Actually, a while back, one of 'em did come at me but—luckily—I had the grate closed, 'n he only got a couple of my fingers."
He raised his hand, palm out to Chuckie, and wiggled the stumps of his amputated fingers.
"Since then, they pretty much leave my cows be," Old Man Clay went on. "That's 'cause every five years I send 'em a little treat. One year it was a sick calf that I didn't 'spected would live. Usually, though, I try to get 'em a person. I find someone who's been givin' me some trouble, and I bring him on out to the barn here."
Without warning, the old man gave a quick kick to the back of Chuckie's knees, making him kneel on the floor. All resistance left the boy as he was pushed relentlessly forward, face-first toward the dark opening. Instinctively, he spread his arms and legs out wide, hoping to grab onto something to keep himself out of there, but it was no use. Old Man Clay was too strong. Chuckie's hands and feet left clawed furrows in the dirt floor. Then he was pitching forward into the dark abyss. He grabbed at the furthest edge and clung to grate like it was a life raft when his legs dropped down into the black maw below him.
"Please, Mr. Clay," he wailed, looking up at the smiling old man. "You can pull me up now. I've learned my lesson."
He was hoping to find even just a small trace of pity in the old man's face, but there was none. His lower lip was trembling, and he could feel his eyes filling with tears.
"Not by a long shot, you ain't."
"I know you're you're trying to scare me 'cause of what we was doing. Please. Pull me up now."
"Please nuthin!" Old Man Clay snarled. "You were the one eggin' my grandson on to go down there 'n see what's in there. Now's your chance."
They both tensed when they both heard a loud scraping sound from deep inside the tunnel. Chuckie's grip on the grate was slipping as his fingers went numb. His feet scrambled against the unyielding stone of the tunnel mouth, trying to find some support.
The effort was futile.
Chuckie was making strange, wounded animal sounds when the old man placed one foot on his head and started to apply slow, steady pressure.
"Yup," Old Man Clay said, smiling broadly. "I'd say they's definitely on their way."
Standing back, he raised his foot and then brought it down hard on the back of Chuckie's hand. Howling with pain, the boy reflexively let go. With a short, trailing shout, he dropped out of sight.
Old Man Clay moved quickly. Groaning as he bent down, he swung the hinged grate back into place. It clanged shut just as another muffled scream echoed from down below. This one was definitely human. It was followed by loud scrambling sounds and a burst of angry squeals. Chuckie's shrill scream rose higher and then cut off abruptly. By the time Old Man Clay was fumbling the lock back into place, the only sound from down below was a wet, smacking, chewing sound.
Brushing his hands together, Old Man Clay stood up slowly, a smile creasing the corners of his mouth. He stared for a moment at the locked iron grate, then nodded with satisfaction and quickly scuffed out the marks Chuckie had made in the dirt floor. Once he was satisfied, he left the barn, heading back to the house.
"Well," he said, smiling to himself, "he was a bit on the skinny side, but I reckon that oughta hold them little bastards for another five years."
THE BIRCH WHISTLE
Spring, 1987
1
As Eric and Patty Strasser guided their bright yellow Old Town canoe into Cooking Pot Cove on the Saco River, Eric noticed something swirling in the water ahead of them. At first, he thought it might just be mud, stirred up from the riverbed by the current. But as they got closer, he thought the reddish-brown tint looked more like blood.
"Jesus, will you take a look at that," he said, glancing over his shoulder at his wife.
"At what?" Patty said.
Her pale face was shadowed by the wide, straw hat she was wearing. She arched one eyebrow and regarded him with a sour, almost angry expression. Eric instantly read her frustration and, not wanting to bother or worry her, indicated the shore with a wide sweep of his hand.
"Why—at how beautiful this place is," he said grandly. "It's even nicer than Carmine described, don't you think?"
"Umm—yeah," Patty said non-committally, forcing herself to smile as she stopped paddling and wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm.
Straight ahead was a short
expanse of clean, nearly white sand, no more than fifty or seventy-five feet long. Bordering both ends of the beach like bookends on an empty shelf were two large piles of boulders. Some of the stones looked as big as Volkswagens. Beyond the beach, the pine forest, brooding deep and green, rose up a steep embankment. Inside the sheltering cove, the river was calm, flat and black. It reflected the trees and cloudless blue sky like a polished mirror. Birdsong filled the clear, late afternoon air.
"I just want to stop paddling," Patty said, her voice nearly breaking from exhaustion. She sighed deeply and let her paddle drag in the water behind her. "I have blisters the size of silver dollars on both hands, my shoulders are sunburned, and the muscles in my back and shoulders feel like hamburger."
Eric smiled sympathetically, then dipped his paddle into the water and gave it a solid stroke. The canoe glided smoothly toward the shore, whispering on the water. As they passed through the swirling stain in the river, his eyes darted downward, but he kept his thoughts to himself—even when he lifted his paddle and saw it dripping with a thin, red wash.
"Full speed ahead," he called out merrily as he leaned hard into the next stroke. He could tell by the drag at the stern that Patty wasn't with him on it; now that they were so close to where they were going to set up camp for the night. She was just too damned tired to do anything else. His paddle blade flashed golden in the lowering sun as he increased his pace, trying to gain more speed.
The bottom of the canoe hissed up onto the sand, and Eric shouted, "All right! We made it!"
He shipped his paddle and stood up, bracing himself on the gunwales. Before Patty could even lift her paddle out of the water, he leaped onto the shore and started pulling the canoe further up onto the beach. The sand was warm, almost hot beneath his bare feet.
"There's still enough daylight left," he said. "I think we can take a bit of a break before we pitch the tent."