by Jason Parent
Morgan reeled in the loose line. She removed the rubber worm from her hook and set her fishing pole into a rod holder mounted to the front of her boat. “Come on. Let’s get some paddling in first before we get out of here. Milford Pond can’t be that big, and I still haven’t seen what’s at the other end.”
“It’s nothing special, but Lord knows I could use the exercise. Let’s go.”
The two paddled side by side across murky water. It was an early Sunday evening on a randomly hot late-September day. The sun was still high, casting its savage radiation upon the mostly unshaded pond. Dense heat scared away bites—not the ideal time or place for fishing. Still, Clive was surprised that the pond seemed reserved solely for him and Morgan. No other fisherman, boater, or adventurer was in sight. With the days getting shorter fast, the summer had reached its end for most, but Clive refused to relinquish his happiness to the cold of the dying year.
As they made their way to the farthest reaches of the pond, the shorelines became laced with trees. Houses turned into cabins. Lawns became forests. And the water grew darker.
Here and there, a thick, oily film covered the water’s surface. Green lily pads made way for dead, cobweb-encrusted branches. Their many appendages jutted out like daggers from beneath the surface, threatening to tear at anyone who drew near.
Clive peered into the water. He could no longer see his reflection. The sun had escaped their company, taking refuge behind the trees. Twilight had come earlier to this part of the lake. The water seemed frozen in place. Clive might have thought he could plant his palm firmly against it without breaching the surface—a solid ebony tabletop—had the sporadic skidding water bug and the slow wake of his kayak not revealed the lake’s liquid texture through the tiniest of ripples.
“Well? We’re here.”
“Is this the end of Milford Pond?” Morgan asked.
“Basically. It tails off into a narrow stream down that way, goes under Wood Road, and ends up God knows where.”
“Under the road?” she asked, sounding eager. “There’s a bridge?”
“If you can call it that. It’s more like an overpass.”
“Show me.”
“All right, but it’s going to get narrow, and there’s a lot of branches. It shouldn’t be too much trouble with our kayaks, though.”
Clive swatted a mosquito caught suckling on his forearm. His body was bare, aside from a bathing suit and life jacket. Morgan wore similar beach apparel—a one-piece with frills that made her slender physique look frumpy.
“Is your bug spray still working?” Clive asked. “There’ll be tons of bugs.”
“I think so. I don’t feel any bites or itchiness. I’ll probably be covered with them tomorrow, but oh well. We’ve come all this way. Might as well complete our journey now.”
“Then follow me.”
Clive led Morgan slowly around various obstacles, all inhibiting deeper entry into the forest. Clive maneuvered his kayak alongside, and sometimes directly over, fallen branches and immovable rocks. The trip was slow going, their movements deliberate and methodical. They had little margin for error. The slightest misstep would run them aground or snag them in a thicket.
At last, they came to the bridge, which, as Clive had suggested, looked more like an overpass from their vantage point. Although made of wood, it was so covered in grime and bereft of sunlight that it resembled grey clay similar in color to the concrete used by the highway department. The overhead portion of the bridge was no more than a row of planks tied loosely together. Clive doubted it could support a bicycle, never mind any motorized vehicle. But he had no idea where the dirt road above him led or why anyone would have occasion to travel it. The bridge’s practical usage and decaying features had been forgotten by the society that built it.
To say the road was sparsely traveled would be an understatement. The bridge, although man-made, appeared untouched by humanity in the long years since its creation. Its decaying wood surface, splintered support beams, and rotted cross braces all were left undisturbed except by time and the elements.
Clive stared under the bridge, intending to view the travel conditions beyond it. What he beheld was as magnificent as it was unnerving. His mouth dropped open in awe of the animalistic artistry. In the cool, damp darkness, an intricate mass of webbing sheathed the bridge’s undercarriage like a drape woven in silk by the most skilled of weavers. Its beautiful yet ominous patterns served as a warning to weary travelers who dared attempt passage. This is no place for humankind.
“I don’t like the looks of that,” Morgan said, floating up beside Clive. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Thousands of spiders must have made that nest, yet I don’t even see one. It’s creepy, when you think about it.”
“Well, this is as far as I’ve made it. I’ve never been to the other side.”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever been to the other side. You can’t seriously be considering going through there?”
“It’s just a little spiderweb,” Clive replied, carefree as usual. “How bad can it be?”
“That thing is anything but little, Cli. Maybe we should turn around. Besides, it’s getting late.”
“Nonsense. Watch.”
Clive grabbed the blade at one end of his paddle. With the blade at the other end, he slashed through the cobweb wall in front of him. The sticky substance instantly enwrapped the blade. Clive swished it back and forth in the water to wash off the arachnid leavings. He repeated the process, slowly drifting forward as he hacked a path across.
Clive sensed Morgan’s tension, but he dismissed it as paranoia. What was there to fear? Did she think he would awaken some unholy creature hidden in the darkest corners beneath the bridge? Don’t trolls live under bridges? he thought, chuckling to himself. He didn’t believe in trolls. There were no monsters under that bridge. Just webs. Lots and lots of webs.
“Clive, don’t you think we should head back now? We want to be able to load up the kayaks while it’s still light out.”
Clive turned his head, flashing Morgan a reassuring smile, momentarily taking his eyes off his forward progress. “See? I’m almost through,” he called back to her as his boat drifted slowly forward.
He turned back around just in time to have his head cocooned by what felt like thick, sticky gauze. It reminded him of cotton candy, and he was quickly mummified by it. One thing was certain, though: the large amount of webbing that entered his mouth didn’t taste like cotton candy.
Clive flailed wildly, dropping his paddle into the water and severing the strands connecting the webbing on his face to the webbing on the walls and ceiling. The kayak began to tip, and in his panic, Clive dumped himself into the stream. He disappeared under its black surface.
“Clive?” Morgan called.
From beneath the surface, Clive could hear her anxious voice through his silk snares. He did not come up for air. A few more seconds passed. His air supply grew short.
“Clive!” Morgan shouted.
“Blehhh!”
Clive rose above water, coughing and spitting. His life jacket on loosely, its shoulder straps floated up near his ears. He clawed at his face, desperately trying to remove every last strand of spider web. Finally, he stood up.
“Well, that sucked.” Clive laughed awkwardly, moderately embarrassed but somewhat amused. “I guess the water isn’t very deep here.” He stood waist deep in filthy swamp.
“Jesus, Cli,” Morgan said. “You had me worried.”
“It’s just spiderwebs. I think I washed them all off.”
Clive paused. His right ear felt blocked, as though he’d just marched in front of a blaring trumpet without wearing earplugs. He shoved his index finger inside to clear out the excess water. It was no use. His ear remained clogged. He tilted his head to the side and pounded above his left ear with his palm. Still, no luck.
“Oh, great. I got water in my ear.”
“Serves you right. I told you not to go through there. Anyway,
it’ll come out by itself. For now, please get back into your kayak. Who knows what lives in this water?”
“Yeah, there could be snakes and leeches,” Clive said, only half-joking. He laughed nervously, trying to downplay the discomfort brought on by Morgan’s suggestion of hidden enemies circling his submerged testicles. The thought hadn’t occurred to him before, and it didn’t make him feel too cheery about his current predicament. To show his toughness, he grabbed his paddle and hopped back into his kayak.
Normalcy returned. Clive felt okay, and by the sound of Morgan’s long sigh, she was beginning to feel okay too. The world was as it should be. He turned his boat around, and he and Morgan began their trek back to the boat dock, leaving the darkening woods for the ample sun remaining in the more commonly traversed, less shaded parts of the pond.
Every now and then, Clive would break stride, pausing only long enough to plunge his pinky finger into his ear, hoping to dislodge the persistent water nuisance. Once on land, he shook his head violently like a headbanger at a death metal concert. Still, the water refused to flow free from his auditory canal.
Clive and Morgan packed up their kayaks and headed back to their homes. Clive had forgotten Morgan’s promise. He was too preoccupied with his waterlogged ear to give a damn. He went about his nightly rituals, cleaned up, and readied himself for bed. All the while, his ear remained blocked. Frustrated, he went to sleep, fully expecting the water to seep out of his ear overnight.
CHAPTER 4
“T
ee-hee.” Alexia giggled. “I wonder where you could be.”
She didn’t know where her little brother was hiding, but she was wise enough to know how to find him. She quieted both her voice and her movement, slinking through the forest like an animal stalking its dinner. At only thirteen, she followed Timothy’s muddy footprints like a seasoned tracker. And when she saw the fallen tree, she knew she was getting close. She paused to listen.
Nothing. He’s learning. But he always picks the same old hiding places.
Alexia shrugged. She crept slowly toward the trunk of the oak, her fingers outstretched like claws, mimicking the roots of the tree she approached. Standing beside the tree’s base, she wondered if he knew he’d been found.
“Got you!” she yelled, darting around the oak’s roots. What she had caught, however, was merely disappointment. Her brother was gone.
“You’re getting better,” she said with pride. After all, she’d taught him everything he knew. You can’t get caught if you keep moving, she always told him. Of course, that plan worked for her because she was faster than Timothy. “But don’t get cocky,” she called, glancing about the woods. “I’m hot on your trail.”
She picked up the path blazed by Timothy’s muddy footprints and followed it deeper into the forest. It coincided with a dark-red streak that appeared as though someone had dragged a large paint brush along the ground, sweeping away the pine needles and leaves to create a landscape of red and brown. Along the trail, she saw a sparkling blue shimmer. Alexia reached for it and considered herself lucky. Someone had lost a beautiful sapphire earring, and now she was its proud owner. She stuffed it into her pocket and continued down the makeshift trail.
It wasn’t long before she came upon her brother. He stood with his back to her, motionless, silent, and unhidden. He didn’t so much as stir as she made her approach.
“Hey,” she said. “You didn’t even try this time.”
Timothy didn’t respond. He remained motionless, his back still to her. Alexia moved closer but more cautiously. Something seemed wrong. Timothy loved hide-and-seek. It was his favorite game. It wasn’t like him to miss the point of it so thoroughly.
“Don’t think I’m not going to tag you. You’d better start running and hiding.” Alexia laughed, but it was a nervous laugh rather than her usual joyous one. Her brother seemed lifeless, and it worried her.
“Timothy?” Her anxiety amplified. “What’s wrong, Timothy?” With no answer forthcoming, she ran to him.
When she reached her brother’s back, she squatted. Grabbing his shoulders, she wrenched him around so that the two were face-to-face. He didn’t resist.
Alexia felt like crying. The look on Timothy’s face caused her heart to beat faster, seizing on the fear she saw in it and making it her own. She tried to say his name, but a lump caught in her throat. His skin was clammy and as pale as that grey mold that grows over rotting fruit, what once was so sweet now wasted and soured. His eyes were blank, lightless, like those of the dead. He wouldn’t speak.
Alexia shook him softly. “What is it, Timothy? Tell me what’s wrong.”
Not knowing what else to do, she drew Timothy to her, clasping him snugly within her arms. Her chin rested tightly against his shoulder. From there, she could see behind him. What she saw made her scream, a scream so loud that it sent her parents running from their home toward them.
Behind her innocent, sweet brother was the body of a little girl no older than Timothy himself, perhaps a classmate of his even. Her flesh was torn and ravaged. Her remains told a story of unspeakable atrocities—a message mirrored in the face of its impressionable discoverer.
“Where’s the body?” Detective Samantha Reilly approached the officer. Her words were monotone, devoid of compassion. They reflected her composure—confident but stern. She had a sureness about her that one only obtained through experience. With her athletic body and wavy brown hair hidden beneath a drab grey trench coat, she made herself as androgynous as possible. But her face was all woman, beautiful yet unapproachable, grave enough to scare off the most daring playboy. It bore the markings of her long career.
Reilly had been a police officer for nearly a decade and had seen the worst Fall River had to offer: armed robbery, arson, gang rape, and the foulest of the foul—murder. A few years prior, the city had seen its first serial killer since Lizzie Borden hacked her parents to bits. “The beginning of the end,” Reilly had called it. But it was more like the end of the end, the city’s last step into the lowest depths of oblivion. The final chapter had closed on all that had once been good and moral about her city.
“It’s a little deeper in,” the officer replied.
Reilly knew the officer well. Captain Horatio Sanchez was a friendly face back at the precinct. Out in the woods, though, he didn’t seem friendly. Sanchez’s face was worn by the years. His voice was soft and dejected. Yet he was no rookie. Reilly knew he had spent enough time on the force to share her nightmares, provoked by the horrors their profession caused them to witness.
No ordinary body would have caused that distress in Sanchez’s eyes. Reilly prepared herself for a less-than-pleasant crime scene. When a child was involved, emotions often flared.
Reilly followed Captain Sanchez toward the dead oak tree that had housed a happy, playful boy only an hour prior. Timothy’s sneaker prints marred the earth amid splatters of blood. A decaying, outstretched branch pointed the way toward more death and the labors that would follow. Below the detective, halogen lights circled the tree’s roots and formed a trail deeper into the woods in preparation for the oncoming twilight. The lighting cast an eerie glow on the hollow innards of the tree. Reilly shuddered as she approached its uprooted veins.
“It looks like the victim was dispatched here,” Sanchez said. “Then she was dragged a hundred yards or so farther into the woods.”
Reilly stared at the blood—so much blood. It was everywhere, soaking the leaves around her feet, streaking alongside the lighted pathway.
“How many victims are there?” she asked, unable to believe that a single body could contain that much blood.
“Only one that we could find. My best guess is that the short rain shower we had earlier only soaked the ground enough to moisten the blood rather than wash it away. It flowed easier with the water, spread around more. Although it looks bad, I’m guessing that most of what you see is just bloodstained water. With the ground already drying, the blood is curdling and giving off that
horrid stench closer to the body. Come on—I’ll show you.”
As they neared the body, Sanchez stopped. “I should warn you. This ain’t pretty.”
“Same old shit, different day,” Reilly scoffed.
She cared little for the victims of the city’s depraved and lecherous. Her job had desensitized her, particularly over the last few years. Too many had been victimized, and it was no longer shocking but commonplace. The dead were no more than objects to her, something to analyze but never befriend. They weren’t innocent. No one in that shit hole was.
“If you say so,” the seasoned officer replied. Reilly sensed that her words had shot like bullets into his soul. She could see that Sanchez felt for the victim. She couldn’t understand why. When they beheld the body sprawled lifeless on the naked earth, Sanchez reeled. Then he steadied himself, a true pro-fessional.
Reilly couldn’t help her morbid curiosity. She moved in for a closer look. “Good God!” She thought she’d seen everything, but the victim before her produced a pang in even Reilly’s normally unfluctuating heart, dulled to the point of deadness by the somewhat recent demise of her partner and mentor. She covered her gaping mouth with her hand. “Who is she?”
“We’re not sure. We cross-referenced her with all the missing children in the area. She may be Valerie Page, who was reported missing two days ago. The description her parents gave us matches that of the deceased—blond hair, blue eyes. Even Page’s age, eleven years old, seems to coincide with that of the deceased. We won’t know for sure until somebody checks dental records or the parents identify her—or what’s left of her and her clothing.”
“Please tell me no one has called them yet.”
“The parents? No. We figured we’d let the morticians clean her up a bit first.”