by Matt Hayward
A gunshot came soon after, followed by Bob yelling, leading the creature away. I silently wished him luck. Then, nothing.
I opened my eyes to a grey sky. It had to be hours later. My face felt damp from the dew on the grass. I was nauseous. Sitting up slowly, I winced as agony shot through my arm. I tapped the bite wound lightly with my fingertip. Tender, and a little numb. Bob had tied it off with his shirt. A dark crimson stain blossomed beneath the fabric. Flexing my fingers caused me to suck air through my teeth.
The birds were singing, but it was still dark out. I put it to be about four or five in the morning. I lay in Brian Randolph's field. I could tell because of the white horse in the little stable, eyeing me from the far end, and because the field sloped upwards, with Pure Mile at the top. I stood and started toward the path.
I felt lightheaded, and walked very slowly, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. I tried to piece together what was happening, but struggled to absorb it. Why had my wife gone out towards that thing? Were there others? How had she known where to go? Are they being changed by something lurking in the trees at the clearing? Something that calls them? Too many questions, too few answers. I can't accept this as reality… Maybe I have gone senile, after all. Perhaps I'm in some hospital right now, muttering in an easy chair. I hope so.
The nearly hour-long walk back home felt like the longest stretch of time in my life. My thoughts were empty, I was surprised at that, but at the time I wanted nothing more than to get home. I concentrated on getting the scenery past me, one tree at a time.
When I got inside the house, as I said, I showered, did up my bandages, and surprisingly, ate. That was about two hours ago.
Then I stopped to write this.
I know in my heart that Bob White is dead, and I feel bad for wanting to hit him before, especially after seeing how courageous he acted. But I said I'd write down the whole truth, and nothing but. Well, at least, what I understand to be the truth. Don't ask me how I know he's dead. I just have a feeling. After the gunshot, before I fainted, there's something else, just out of reach.
They'll be looking for him by now, I bet. No one could have seen me come home, at least, so no one will come knocking. It was far too early when I got back into town. But leaving? They'll see me leave. It's hard to ignore an old man with a shotgun.
I'm going to wrap this up now, because I need to go and find my wife. I doubt what I find will be what I want, I'm no fool, but I need to know.
I just hope she's not one of them. One of those creeps.
I don't know how that's even possible, but something's telling me she very well could be. Maybe it's the damn bite screwing with my head.
God it hurts.
All I know is that I'm going to put this pen down now, grab my shotgun, and head back out to the clearing. Before the pain becomes too much. This time, I'm not going to run away.
PS— I can hear that singing now, Ellie. And you were right. It sounds so beautiful.
Meeting Gregory
I was eleven years old when I met the boy who haunts me.
I came back to Carbhin for my class reunion yesterday and couldn't get over how small the place looked now. The bus dropped me at The Brook and took off with a honk, leaving me standing at the Welcome sign by the old bridge. Tall pines waved overhead, and I smiled.
As a kid, I remember the river beneath the old bridge as a vast, mile long monster, snaking through packed, dry earth. It's really nothing more than about eight feet wide, if that. Leading down to it stood a wall of ferns that tickled at your skin as you skidded down a steep slope to the open, flat clearing. Going down that slope as a child was like smashing through a dark, primal jungle. I felt like a real adventurer. Yesterday, those ferns only reached to my stomach, and that decline was a few simple steps. I went down with ease.
But when you're a child, those small, hidden paths can seem like gateways to other worlds. And sometimes, that's exactly what they were.
The Brook, as it was known to the locals in town, was where I'd met the boy. There were many rivers that made their way through the surrounding woodlands, but for some reason, that particular run of water got the title of The Brook, even though it was actually a river. People in Carbhin weren't the most imaginative when it came to naming things.
The reruns of Bugs Bunny cartoons were starting to get on my nerves on that particular Saturday morning in 1996. I'd watched them every weekend on the dodgy aerial television in the living room, curled up in my Thunder Cats blanket while I ate cereal. As usual, I'd been the only one awake in the house. My brother, six years older than me at seventeen, wouldn't usually pop his head out until noon on the weekends. Being that age, he drank with his friends in the field behind our house until all hours of the night. My Mom knew, but there wasn't much she could do because she worked… A lot. Weekdays were spent at the local shop 'Up the Town', as locals liked to say. Saturdays and Sundays meant the mushroom farm in the next town over, an hour trip by bus, which she'd make every morning at six a.m. I'd get up at the same time as her to see her out. My father'd been long out of the picture by then, just an alcoholic sperm donor, more or less.
I'd discovered the Green Road about a month before that Saturday while out with my best friend Alan.
Alan had heard that if you cross through the school (which was right next door to my house at the end of the housing estate), pass the cemetery, and head towards the old saw mill at the entrance to town, there lay a spot where the teenagers used to go about a decade before us. Supposedly, it'd been abandoned for ages before we came along. Alan said those teenager's names were carved on trunks, and some of those names were still legible, so, naturally, we wanted to see. Besides, at that age, weekends were notorious for those kinds of adventures.
New discoveries along the way constantly grabbed our attention, stretching the ten minute walk to the bridge by about a half hour. At the back of the school (somewhere we were never allowed to go during school hours), we found a black sludge swamp, hidden behind the pines that lined the right-hand side of the building. One of the trees sprouted a branch that looked thick enough for hopping, and we did, screaming and holding on for dear life, trying not to fall into the murky slush. Thinking back, I'm pretty sure the puddle had come from a burst septic tank. Good thing neither of us fell in.
We were terrified of being on school grounds when we weren't meant to be. To play basketball on the front courtyard would most likely cause some cranky old git to yell 'get-the-fuck-out'.
Anyway, we passed the cemetery, and I will always remember laughing at Alan for making the sign of the cross. Most of the locals did that, my family probably being the only exception. Rural towns in Ireland tended to be very religious at that time, and my family's lax attitude towards the Church was best kept a secret.
Making our way past the cemetery, Alan and I noticed the road beginning to change. The potholes became more frequent and the footpath ended, forcing us to walk with our backs pressed to the thick bushes behind us. A single careless car coming too fast around a corner would mean the end of us, and it nearly happened a handful of times — not that we noticed the seriousness of it back then. Our attention lay solely on getting to The Brook.
The sound of babbling water grew stronger with each step. Then, a low brick wall lined the road to either side, and we knew we were standing on the bridge we'd been looking for. The stonework of those walls looked cracked and dilapidated even back then.
I clearly remembered the tall trees blocking the sun overhead and the overgrown ferns that kept the clearing from view of the road. I know most adults would walk that bridge and continue on, not sparing a thought to the goldmine of hidden playgrounds all around. But we were kids, and we knew better.
Alan and I stayed on our side of the bridge, listening for any approaching vehicles. We didn't want to be caught making our way off the road. People in Carbhin liked to talk, and if we were spotted, that meant an end to our adventure. We strained our ears for cars. T
here weren't any.
Racing to the ferns, we pushed the first wave aside, revealing a forest of the fuckers hiding behind. We ran through them, down that steep dirt hill, until we made it to the clearing. I'll always remember that fresh green smell that carried with us every time we broke through. It smelt of Summer. Of Freedom.
My baseball cap had the magical ability to to stay on my head back then, no matter what I was doing. Thinking about it now, it must've been too small for me. I remember taking it off my head to wipe sweat from my brow as I looked about the clearing, trying to catch my breath. My jeans were wet and green at the knees, and I loved it.
We smiled when we saw the markings on the tree trunks, and we recognized one or two of the names. Mrs. Browne, the nice lady who owned the apple orchard on the other side of the school, apparently used to date Kenny Porter, the local postman. It seems they were IN LUV 4EVR. Alan claimed to know all the names, but I knew he was lying. He lied an awful lot.
After reading the names and having a giggle, we sat at the edge of the river, kicking off our shoes and lowering our bare feet into the cool, dark water.
We'd went there to see a new place in town, and that had been the real reason. That excited us. The names on the trees were just an excuse, and we both knew it.
The water, pitch black in the shadow of overhead pines, didn't scare us. We never planned on getting in. I never knew how to swim, and still don't. We sat there for almost an hour, listening to the birds call from the trees, to the gurgling of the slowly passing water, and to the punch of air that the odd passing car threw. We talked about starting school again in September, about stories we heard from our other friends, few as they may have been, and about the latest Nintendo games, which we played almost every afternoon. Alan talked about trucks, too, because his father drove them, but I had no interest. We splashed our bare feet about in that cool water, simply listening, talking, and enjoying the silence of being away from town. I know Alan appreciated it.
Alan came from a family of four brothers, of which he was the youngest. The other three had an infamous temper that many local kids had the unfortunate luck of seeing. The Porter household was considered one of the poorest in town, and the local kids let them know it. Of course, those kids would never say it to any of the brother's faces. To do that would lead to a burst lip or broken nose. The Porters were like rabid dogs. You didn't want to be alone with one of them, or even make eye contact in a crowded place. Their house always stunk to high heaven of sweaty socks. That I remember clearly. It's strange how a scent can stick in your memory, long after you've left a place.
Their parents were alcoholics, I know that now, but back then I didn't understand. Their dad drove a big, white Globe-Trotter truck on weekends, and what little money he made was what they lived on. Still, the whole town was dirt poor, so I never understood why the Porters were gossip targets. Everyone needs to feel a little better about themselves, I suppose, and even people with little will try and shit on the ones with nothing, so's they don't feel like the bottom of the barrel, themselves. Hey, we might not have much, but at least we're not as bad as the Porters.
After our chat, Alan and I went home. We planned on coming back the following weekend to fish. Some older kids told us that if you broke off a piece of cheddar cheese and rolled it into a ball, you couldn't fail. We thought we'd try that. The water looked deep enough and we knew Rodger's general store 'Up The Town' stocked cheap rods and nets. I'd built up some allowance from previous weeks so I offered to pay for them. I paid for most everything with Alan, but I didn't mind. He was a good friend.
On the walk home, both of us absorbed the day's heat and said very little. I needed to get back and put some dinner on for my brother or I doubted he'd ever eat. He wasn't the most together teenager. When I reached that age, I'd turn out much the same, but that summer I was doing just fine. Alan and I said our goodbyes at the entrance to the housing estate and went our separate ways. My mom left some frozen dinners to microwave (same as every weekend), and I put them to heat. After dinner, I spent the night playing video games.
The following week dragged by. With our other friends gone on holidays, and with Alan having to stay at home to do chores pretty much twenty-four hours a day, I stayed home and kept myself busy. I read my comics from morning to night, watched the occasional movie with my brother when he finally bothered to wake up, and tried to teach myself the harmonica.
When Alan didn't call that Saturday morning, I knew that his dad had forced him to come and help him on the truck. It didn't happen often, but now was one of those times, and the day I had been looking forward to all week looked like it wasn't going to happen. I decided to make it happen anyway. I didn't mind spending time alone.
I walked to Rodger's at half past eight in the morning and picked up a net and some candy bars to keep me content while I tried to snag some fish. I had no idea how to fish, but I liked the idea of figuring it out for myself. It was another scorcher, and my baseball cap helped against the intense heat. Being pale as a maggot, I always seemed to burn if I didn't have some form of protection.
The walk to The Brook was beautiful and quiet. The air sat thick, and only the occasional fresh breeze soothed my skin from the baking sun. I passed through the school grounds, not stopping at the sludge pit this time. It wasn't as much fun by myself. I went by the cemetery and continued down the road until it became riddled with potholes. Once again, the ferns grew larger and the pines grew taller, encasing the road and telling me I'd reached the bridge. I broke through the embankment and fell out into the clearing, making my way to the riverside to eat my first chocolate bar. That's when I heard him.
There was a hooting, like an owl, but that was impossible because I knew owls were nocturnal, and it was only nine in the morning according to my wrist watch. It sounded different too— deeper. A human voice. A boy.
As far as I knew, I was familiar with every kid in town, and none lived out this far. I won't deny that I got a little scared. No kid I knew came out here. And who the hell hooted, for Christ's sake?
A rustling in the ferns grabbed my attention and I sat, paralyzed. I remember my breath tearing through my nostrils and the ringing in my ears. I wasn't afraid of logical dangers- kids never are. It never crossed my mind that it could be a kidnapper or something like that. I was thinking more along the lines of werewolves and zombies. That shit scared me.
When he fell through the bank of ferns, I let out a yelp. My skin burst into sweat and I wanted to run but my legs wouldn't move.
He looked about my age, maybe a year or two younger, with sandy blonde hair and dirty glasses crooked on the bridge of his nose. A snot bubble hung from his left nostril and he fought to keep it inside. He had a goofy smile, and that made me relax.
That was the first time I met Gregory. Only then I didn't know his name.
He made his way over to his side of the river and stood, looking at me with excitement. My heart still pounded but I cleared my throat and spoke.
“Hi.”
That's all I could manage. He stayed silent, studying me, his little hands flexing in and out of weak fists. I noticed he was slightly cross-eyed.
He called out to me, his speech slurred. “Ghost.”
I could tell then that he was mentally disabled. You could always tell by the voice. We had a few of them around town, and I know now that it was due to inbreeding, and that's no joke. Small towns without a lot of visitation and even less public transportation meant that there were quite a number of people who 'kept it in the family'. I knew three or four of them on a first name basis.
He started across the river with his attention still on me. Splashing into the waist-high water, he slogged across, dragging his body through the slow current. I stood and contemplated running, but part of me remained interested. I thought I knew just about everyone in this town, at least by sight. I mean, who was this kid? Where did he come from? I decided to stay.
I stood, took a few steps back without turning, a
nd waited for him to get across. He moved with ease, as if he did this all the time, and when he climbed up the embankment on my side, his white shirt clung to his wet skin. He pulled it from his flesh and let it flap back absently, eyes still trained on me behind those dirty frames.
He called out to me again. “Ghost.”
Strange.
I spoke slow and steady. “Ghost? What do you mean? My name's Owen. What's yours?”
“Ghost.”
Funny name. I knew it wasn't his real name, but I decided to play along. “Nice to meet you, Ghost.”
I extended my hand as he approached. Once again, fear crept through me, but I held my ground. I shivered as he took my hand in both of his and pumped my fist a good three times. His palms were wet and cold from the river.
“Is Ghost. Good.”
“It's good to meet you, too.”
“Trees,” he said, dragging the word out. “Is nice trees.”
“They are nice trees. Do you come here a lot?”
He didn't answer me. Instead, he made his way to a large pine that stood by itself in the center of the clearing. All the other trees created a circle around the area, but this large one stood alone. My new friend waddled over to it, sniffling up that troublesome snot, and fell to his knees. I winced at how hard he plopped down, but he didn't seem to notice. His head rolled around on the skinny stalk of his neck as his eyes scanned the packed earth. He began digging like a wild dog, his hands working the dirt into a frenzy, causing it to spray out behind him in clumps.
“What are you doing that for? Something down there?”
He looked at me, his mouth hanging open, and without a word, he returned to his work.
“Okay then.” I folded my arms and watched. After a good minute of this, he finally reached inside the fresh hole and rooted about. I could smell the turned earth from where I stood.
“Is good, Ghost,” he said. “Is good tree.”