I wandered for hours, exploring every culvert and hill. I found a stream, and alongside it, an old, abandoned rail-line, so overgrown I might not have noticed it but for the broad swath of daylight that cut through the canopy above. I was dying to follow it, but the sky was tinged with red, and I knew before long it would be too dark to find my way. I headed home, resolving to come back tomorrow.
And come back I did, the next day, and the next one, and the one after that. Dealing with my parents was easy. Every morning, a different story—swimming at Ben's, dinner at the Mercers', kickball at the school with Steve. They were so happy I was getting out of the house they never bothered to question me, and anyway, I'd never lied to them before.
On the fourth day, I found the shack.
It was a squat, windowless structure maybe eight feet square, perched on the slope between the old train tracks and the stream. Its pitched roof was covered in moldering shingles, and its walls were boards of rough, unpainted wood, grayed with age. Sunlight shone through the gaps between them.
I approached it cautiously. There was no latch on the door, just empty space where a knob should be. I touched the door and it swung inward on its hinge. I stepped inside. The sudden darkness was a shock after the glaring afternoon sun, and it took my eyes a moment to adjust. Eventually, shapes emerged from the darkness.
Along the far wall was a cot, atop which were a host of ratty, threadbare blankets, all folded and stacked in perfect squares. A lantern sat unlit beside it. Beside me, just inside the door, was a set of dishes, chipped and yellowed and arranged along the wall in order according to size. A large aluminum pot hung on a nail above them. In the corner was a stack of newspapers, desiccated and brown. There must have been a thousand of them. I took one off the top. It was a Washington Post, dated seven years ago.
"I don't remember havin’ no boy."
The voice was like a blade against a whetstone. I wheeled around, dropping the paper. Silhouetted in the doorway was a man, near as wide as the door itself. His hair was an unruly tangle of salt and pepper, falling to his shoulders in accidental dreadlocks and framing his likewise-bearded face. Despite the heat, he wore a thick coat and heavy canvas pants. In one hand, he held a knife.
He clambered into the shack. I retreated, pressing myself tight to the far wall. “An’ if I did," he continued, snatching the newspaper from the floor and returning it to its stack, “I imagine I'da taught him better than to mess with my things."
"I—I'm sorry,” I stammered. “I didn't think anybody actually lived—I mean, I thought this place was abandoned."
He sized me up, his face inches from mine. His skin was dark as coffee, his features disappearing in the gloom. “Yeah, I expect that's true,” he said. He turned and headed for the door, snatching the pot from its nail. “I got lunch on if you're hungry."
He left the shack and disappeared from view. I hesitated, unsure. After a moment, I followed.
He was around the side of the shack, tending to a small campfire. Strung up beside him were a half-dozen catfish. As I approached, he took one down and sliced it open. He dug out the innards with a flick of his knife, wiped the blade on the thigh of his pants, and then set about filleting the fish.
"You eatin'?” he asked.
"I'm not hungry."
"Suit yourself,” he said. The fillets hissed as they hit the pan. “You got a name?"
"Tim,” I replied.
"Take a seat, Tim. Name's Isaac. Don't get many visitors around here. Makes you special, I guess."
I sat down, the campfire between us. Isaac tended to his lunch. By the afternoon light, I saw his jacket was a faded green, all holes and frayed seams, with a V of darker green at the shoulder.
"Were you in the army?” I asked.
"I think so sometimes,” he replied. “Other times, I ain't so sure. Got these memories kickin’ around. Places, names, a coupla faces. Only I ain't sure if they're mine, or if I picked ‘em up by mistake."
"I'm sorry I touched your stuff."
"Didn't take nothin', did you?” he asked.
"No,” I replied.
"Didn't mean nothin’ by it, right?"
"No."
He smiled. “Then me an’ you are just fine."
"How long have you been out here?” I asked.
"Awhile,” he replied. “Don't really know how long, to own the truth. Time don't pass the same out here. Used to be when I needed something I'd wander out into the world, but folks didn't take too kindly to havin’ me around, so I stopped. Few years ago, I guess that was."
"You miss anything? From the world, I mean."
"I got everything I need right here,” he replied.
"Still,” I said, “there's gotta be something you miss, right?"
"I ain't had a MoonPie in a damn sight."
I laughed.
"What about you? How come you're runnin’ about in the woods all alone?"
"It's complicated."
"The world is that."
"There's this kid. Out there, waiting for me. I run into him, I'm dead."
"You're tougher than you think,” he said, removing the pot from the flames and taking a taste. “But you wanna hide from the world, it makes no nevermind to me. I'm happy for the company."
* * * *
"Come on, Isaac, where're we going?"
"You'll see."
We'd been walking for half an hour, following the stream as it parted ways with the train tracks and cut upward through the hills. What had started as a shallow incline had grown steeper and more uneven with every passing step. I was sweating and thirsty and my legs were burning. Isaac seemed unfazed by the hike—he strolled along beside me, nibbling contentedly at his MoonPie until all that was left of it was a constellation of crumbs in his beard and a smile on his face.
This was my third visit in as many weeks. Every time, I brought a MoonPie. And every time, when he finished, he smoothed out the cellophane wrapper, folded it in half and then in half again, and tucked it in his pocket. Twice now I'd watched in silence. But curiosity won out, and I wasn't going to make it three.
"Why do you do that?” I asked, breaking stride and doubling over, my hands on my knees.
"Do what?” he asked.
"The wrappers. Why do you save them?"
"Docs used to say it's somethin’ broke,” he said, tapping a finger to his temple, “but I never gave that much truck. I just like savin’ stuff, I guess. Keeps me from forgettin'. Come on, it's just a little further."
We continued on, cresting a small ridge and sidestepping our way down a steep, fern-covered slope. When we reached the bottom, Isaac swept aside a tangle of underbrush and turned to me. “What do you think?"
We stood at the edge of a lush, green valley, wide at one end and narrow at the other. Much of the valley was taken up by the stream, which pooled, clear and cool, the width of the valley mouth. At the narrow end, a cascade of water fell maybe twenty feet, feeding the pool.
"It's amazing," I said. Isaac smiled.
"There's a cave back behind it,” he said, gesturing toward the waterfall. “Ain't more'n a few feet deep, an’ a little wet for an old fogy like me, but I expect a strapping young man like yourself'd find it to his liking."
I was off in a flash. Isaac hunkered down on the shore of the pond, pulled some line and a hook from his jacket, and set about overturning rocks, hunting for worms.
We spent the whole day out there, Isaac fishing, me exploring. By evening, I was soaked and exhausted. I lay on the bank of the stream, drying myself by the heat of the sun. Isaac filleted his day's catch, humming tunelessly to himself as knife parted flesh.
"I should be heading home,” I said. “Mom's expecting me for dinner."
"Be dark soon,” he replied. “I'll walk you back."
"I'm not an infant, Isaac."
"Never said you were. But these woods ain't safe."
"I can handle myself."
"All right,” he replied. “But do an old man a favor
and stick to the stream, okay?"
"Okay. See you later, Isaac."
"Yeah,” he said, “I expect you will."
* * * *
It was stupid, I thought. Sticking to the stream. If I had my bearings right, town was due east of here, and the stream was taking me southeast. When I hit Isaac's shack, I'd have to head north, and I wouldn't get home for an hour. I was sure I could shave off a few minutes if I just cut through the woods. And what was the harm? Isaac would never know the difference.
Once I cleared the gully, I put the sun behind me and plunged into the forest. It was cooler in the shade of the trees, and I shivered, my clothes still damp from the spray of the fall. I trudged exhausted through the woods, the ever-deepening shadows pointing the way. It wasn't long before I came to the lean-to.
It wasn't much to look at, just a rotten, sagging piece of plywood propped against a tree. But its right angles stood out against the chaotic backdrop of the forest, and I knew I had to see what it was.
The first thing I noticed was the smell—a tang like pennies in the back of my throat. I approached slowly. The ground under the lean-to had been brushed clear of leaves, the dirt beneath tamped down and littered with bits of fur. Tacked to the underside of the board were yellowed scraps of newspaper, stained with flecks of brown.
I crouched beside the lean-to, peering at the clippings. The text was difficult to read by the failing light. The headlines, though, were clear enough. Animal Disappearances Plague Richmond Community. Predation Suspected in Recent Animal Deaths. Pet Problem Escalates: Sheriff Says Coyotes.
I felt sick. I scrambled backward, away from the lean-to. My shoulder connected with something behind me, and I screamed.
"You weren't meant to see this."
It was Isaac. I screamed again and backed away. He grabbed me by the shoulders. Strong, unyielding. I kicked at him. He didn't let go.
"This ain't mine, boy, you hear me? This ain't mine."
"Then whose?” I fought his grip. It was like iron.
"Damn it, kid, if I wanted to hurt you, I'da done it before now."
"Whose is it?"
"Don't know. Not yet. But I will. An’ until I do, you're not to come near this place, you hear me?"
I nodded. He let me go.
"You an’ me,” he said, “we're okay?"
"Yeah,” I replied. “We're okay."
"All right,” he said. “Then let's get you home."
* * * *
I didn't venture into the woods again that week, or at all the week after. I hung close to my house, shooting hoops in the driveway or skateboarding in the street, careful never to venture farther than a couple of blocks away, for fear that Billy was waiting. But as summer stretched on into August, the heat became unbearable, and I became listless and bored. I'd lie about, daydreaming about the vast expanses of unexplored forest, of the cool spray of the waterfall against my face, and of Isaac, fishing away the days alone.
Isaac. He must think I was scared of him. I don't know—maybe I should have been. That place and the things that had gone on there were too terrifying to contemplate. Most nights since, I'd awoken with a scream on my lips and a taste like pennies in the back of my throat. But Isaac was a good man. I refused to believe he was capable of such horrors.
I decided I had to apologize. I snatched a MoonPie from the cupboard and set out for the woods. When I got to Isaac's shack, though, he was nowhere to be seen. I checked out all his favorite fishing holes, but there was no sign of him. I hiked the length of the stream to the waterfall, scanning the underbrush for any sign I was being watched, but there was no stalker in the woods, and there was no Isaac, either. As the sun dipped toward the horizon, I turned toward home, defeated. I was still a hundred yards from the street when I heard the calls.
"Timothy! TIMOTHY!"
My mother, panicked and shrill. I was sure I'd been caught. I started toward the street, and then thought better of it, pushing through the underbrush and into the Bennett's backyard. I sprinted from yard to yard, the houses screening me from view of the street, my mother screaming all the while. I ducked onto a cross-street and rounded the corner. She spotted me immediately.
"Timothy, where have you been! I called the Mercers and they said they hadn't seen you all day—"
"I went up to the school with Ben to play some kickball,” I said. She grabbed me and held me so tight I thought my ribs would crack. “What's going on?"
"Just come inside, okay?"
"Mom, what's going on?"
"Inside."
She dragged me into the house. Dad was on the phone, pacing. When he saw us come through the door, he stopped.
"Never mind,” he said into the receiver, “we found him.” He hung up the phone. “Where the hell have you been? Your mother was worried sick about you."
"I was playing kickball up at the school. What's the matter?"
"It's the Ashbrook girl,” Mom said. “She's gone missing."
"She hasn't gone missing," Dad snapped. “She was taken. They found her bike on the side of the road, coupla blocks from her house. Looked like there was a struggle. Half the town's looking for her. For you, too, thanks to your mother. You gave us a hell of a scare, kiddo."
I sat down heavily on the sofa. My stomach churned. Alison had been taken.
"Do they know when she disappeared?"
"Sometime this afternoon,” Mom replied.
"Nobody saw anything?"
"No,” she said. “But the police have been brought in. I'm sure she'll be just fine."
Fine, right. But I knew different. I couldn't let it happen.
"They should search the woods,” I said.
"Honey, I'm sure they're doing everything they possibly can to find your friend,” she replied, but I cut her off.
"There's a lean-to a couple miles west of here,” I said. “It's covered in newspaper clippings of the animals that went missing."
"What the hell are you talking about?” Dad said, angry.
"They have to search the lean-to. Whoever killed those animals may have Alison. If I'm right, he means to kill her, too."
"When were you out in those woods?"
"That's where I've been going. Not to Ben's. Not to Steve's. Not for a while. You have to listen to me. We don't have much time."
Dad slapped me, hard. My face stung, and tears welled in my eyes, but I bit them back.
"You expect us to listen to you when you've been lying to us all summer? When you've been sneaking off to God-knows-where?"
"David, don't,” Mom said.
"He brought this on himself,” he replied. “We trusted him and he lied to us."
"Punish me if you want,” I said, shaking with rage. “But that doesn't change the fact that she's out there and if they don't find her she's going to die."
"I've heard all I need to hear from you,” Dad replied. “You scared us half to death. Go to your room, and don't come out until I say you can, you hear me?"
I looked at Mom. She looked away.
Without a word, I climbed the stairs to my room.
* * * *
I crouched low to the ground, invisible in the darkness. Ahead was the lean-to, black in the failing light.
I hefted the pocketknife in my hand. It wasn't much, but it'd have to do. I wondered if my parents had noticed yet. The empty room, the screen pried open. I hoped they had. They knew where I'd be going, and angry or not, they'd have to follow.
I crept toward the lean-to, knife held ready. My heart thudded in my chest. At the edge of the plywood, I stopped, listening. There was no telltale sound, no flicker of lamplight. I wondered if I'd been wrong. I half hoped I was. With a breath, I wheeled around the corner, knife held high.
There, lying on the ground, was Alison. Her hands and feet were bound with duct tape. A thick strip of tape sealed shut her mouth. Her eyes flitted behind closed lids. She was still alive.
"Alison,” I whispered, shaking her gently. “Alison, it's me, Tim. I'm here to resc
ue you."
From behind me, I heard the snap of a twig in the darkness. Sudden, close. I spun, slashing wildly. Blade caught fabric, and my attacker screamed in pain. Too late I saw the rock in his hand, swinging toward me. It connected with my temple, and I went down.
My vision swam. I forced myself to my knees, tried to stand. Then the rock came down again, and everything went dark.
* * * *
I woke by degrees. My head throbbed. My stomach roiled. My tongue felt too big for my mouth. Alison lay beside me, unconscious and still bound. I flexed my arms beneath me. They were leaden and stiff, but free.
I lifted my head and looked around. A lantern flickered in the center of the room. Beside me was a set of chipped, yellowed plates, arranged according to size. Hunched over the cot at the far end of the room was Isaac, his back to me. As I watched, he lifted his arms above his head, fists clenched together, and brought them down, hard.
I climbed unsteadily to my feet. On the cot lay a boy. Isaac raised his fists and brought them down again. They slammed into the boy's rib cage with a dull thud. I winced. He raised his arms again.
"Isaac,” I said. The word felt foreign in my mouth.
"You're not meant to see this,” he growled, not turning.
"Isaac, leave him alone,” I said, creeping closer. Isaac's knife lay beside him on the floor, glinting in the lamplight.
"You're not meant to see this!" he shouted, spinning toward me. I lunged for the knife. Isaac just watched.
"Get away from him,” I said, brandishing the knife before me.
"Tim—"
"Now, Isaac."
Isaac backed away. I circled toward the cot, my eyes never leaving Isaac. Once he moved beyond arm's reach, I turned my attention to the boy.
Billy McMahon lay still on the cot, eyes closed. His nose was bloodied and crooked, and he wasn't breathing. Across his chest was a single shallow gash, streaking his shirt with blood. The gash of a pocketknife.
Isaac's knife clattered to the floor beside me. "Billy?" I said.
"That's what she called him,” Isaac said, nodding toward Alison, “right before he gagged her."
EQMM, June 2007 Page 12