It was a dead Indian, caught up on rocks in a narrow part of the stream.
“He just come bobbing along like an apple as I was filling the water bucket,” the boy said.
The Indian was wearing the ragged remains of a tanned hide shirt. His face had strong lines, twisted by the horror he experienced as he died. From the waist down he was naked. The soft meat of his thighs, buttocks and privates had been stripped away, leaving naked bone.
“Unfortunate bastard,” Francis said.
Stephen reached out with a stick and poked at the dead man. “Do you think it was animals?”
Perhaps a bear could have caused the look of terror frozen on the Indian’s face, Francis thought, but animals would have eaten more. They would have ravaged the face, the eyes. Francis had seen more than his share of corpses eaten by wolves or picked at by birds during the war.
“Most likely,” he lied. “Help me get him out of the stream. We’ll find a place to bury him and ask your mother to say a prayer. And don’t say a word about his condition. If she asks, just say he was dead. No need to offend her sensibilities.”
“Bury him, da? I thought the red men were heathens?”
“I don’t know what they believe, if anything at all. But we should show our respects for a man who died, savage or not. If he’s meant to be laid in the ground, so be it. If not, at least he won’t be exposed to the elements.” They buried the man downstream before they asked for a few words from Lorna. Stephen kept Molly occupied by their camp while Lorna said a prayer over a mound of fresh-turned earth.
A short time later Lorna, Stephen and even Molly were clearing undergrowth from the place where they would build their cabin, while Francis took his axe and began felling trees. A little cabin now, and one day, a great house, Francis thought.
Two weeks passed without incident, and Francis had almost forgotten the warning from Fish. October was almost done. It was the evening of the 31st and Francis was relaxing on a stump that was now his nightly seat by one of the fires outside. Despite his lack of superstition he still kept two fires burning until they were all safe and secure in the cabin for the night. He liked to end his day with a sip of coffee under the stars. The air was chilly now and he could almost smell snow on the way. He glanced at the cabin, proud, and sore. There was an ache in his back that had never been there when he was young.
It was very quiet here, day and night. From time to time they heard the distant rhythmic sound of Fish chopping wood down the road, and once they heard one of his children squealing with laughter, but otherwise the only sounds were the chuckle of water in the stream and the wind in the trees.
After their first week they had visited the Fish family, Francis presenting them with four fine trout. Mrs. Fish, her name was Adeline, gave them a fine blueberry pie in return.
The cabin took most of their time, from sunrise to sunset. The family had first laid a foundation of flat rocks from the river, tamping them down with wooden mallets until they were level and then covering them with dirt that would be replaced with a rough wooden floor during the winter. Then they constructed a simple cabin of notched logs. It was twenty feet wide by twenty long, a tight space for four, but in the spring they would begin building a house. Francis had been fortunate. Most of the citizen soldiers he served with in the Continental Army were men of skill, not means, and he had learned a great deal from them.
“We need a fireplace,” Lorna had reminded him every day as the cabin took shape.
When the cabin walls and roof were complete, Lorna and Molly filled the gaps between the logs with clay from the river. The family brought some small parts of their future house with them, including hinges and a latch for the door, but for the cabin leather hinges and a sturdy crossbar would do fine. Stephen made a small chicken coop, and he was quite proud of his work. Francis made the fireplace and chimney from stones and pale clay from the river. Most of it sat outside the cabin. He made sure it was vented properly and would reflect enough heat to warm the cabin. Francis and Stephen made the sleeping loft together. It spanned the breadth and width of the cabin, leaving the floor below open for Lorna’s kitchen, a corner for the children and space for Francis to work in winter. They also brought oiled paper, which they set in window frames that could be opened or closed.
Francis belched, his belly full of Lorna’s skirlie, a hearty oatmeal, bacon and onion mash. That was the last of the bacon, the last of their meat, but there were deer and rabbits and squirrels in the woods, fish in the stream, and the hens had already started laying eggs.
There was still so much to do. They needed a proper privy. They needed shutters; Francis would set Stephen to work on them in the morning while he split and planed logs for a proper floor. They needed a porch where they could knock dirt and snow off of their boots, and a roofed workspace behind the cabin where they could butcher game. Francis wanted a big comfortable chair, but that would come after a sturdy workbench, and proper chairs to replace the stumps around their table, and—
A twig snapped in the woods, a stark sound. Usually after sundown there was only the song of night birds and frogs and the stealthy rustle of mice and other foragers. Jefferson had been curled into a ball at Francis’
feet, his own belly full of white-bellied mice. Now the cat stood up and stretched, his golden eyes reflecting the fires.
“Don’t you go wandering—“
The cat trotted away and slipped into the dark woods.
“Cats,” Francis said.
The horses were secured nearby with hobble ropes around their forelegs, so they could graze on grasses near the trail but not run off. Now they began to snort and stomp. Francis led them close to the cabin, between the fires.
The woods were illuminated by a full moon bright enough to read by, and the multicolored fall foliage took on an unearthly glow. Francis realized the frogs down by the stream had gone silent; they usually sang to each other all night.
There was a low sound, half grunt, half exclamation of surprise, not at all human.
Jefferson raced out of the trees with his ears tucked back and his tail low. Francis scooped the cat into his arms, felt claws pierce his shirt, and held the cat at arm’s length by the scruff of the neck. He could feel the cat’s heart hammering away.
There was the snapping of dry wood and a heavy thud. It could have been a dead tree falling over… But s omething had chased the cat out of the woods.
Francis carried Jefferson into the cabin, his flesh creeping as if he had been caught in a cold draft. He put a tether on the cat and tied it to an iron hook on one wall, and then barred the door.
“What is it, Francis?” Lorna whispered. She was sitting on a log seat by their crude table, stitching a tear in Stephen’s trousers by candlelight.
Overhead, the children were asleep in their shared bed up in the loft.
“Something is out there,” he said softly. “A bear, mayhap.” That something came out of the woods and passed beyond the two fires outside. Lorna was terrified when she heard one of the horses let out a sound like a scream, and when Francis went to one of the windows as if to peek outside she grabbed his arm and shook her head.
“If it doesn’t see you it won’t come for you,” she said.
“What won’t come for me?”
“Whatever is out there,” she said.
The children were awake now, peering down from then loft, sleepy and curious.
Francis reached for his longrifle where it was hung over the door and began loading the weapon.
The Applebaker family heard the most unsettling series of sounds, a soft thump like heavy footfalls, accompanied by the rattle of dry branches.
Something pushed against the door, and Francis took a step back. The leather hinges were strained, but the cross bar held the door firmly closed.
The rattle and thump sounds carried to one side of the house, paused, and then a thick branch punctured the oiled paper over one window.
Molly and Lorna screamed, and Stephen
moved in front of his sister.
Fish reported only human remains, not animal, Francis thought, as he raised the long barrel of the rifle and aimed at the shape that was now just a shadow thrown by light from one of the fires behind it. And I’ve never seen any animal carcasses. What if this thing only has a taste for men?
He saw movement through the tear in the oiled paper and fired. The shot was like cannon fire inside the single large room. The ball connected and Francis heard the clatter of fragmenting wood, followed by an otherworldly moan. The shot filled the cabin with the bitter scent of burned powder.
They heard more of those odd rattling thuds as the thing moved away.
Francis guessed the thing was making for the road, and after a moment the sounds faded.
Jefferson had been standing with his back arched and his tail fluffed out. Now he relaxed, and began to wash one foot with his rough tongue.
Francis felt relieved, and immediately felt foolish and angry for feeling such relief. I am a man of the modern age, he thought, not some superstitious bumpkin! But that was no bear . . .
He opened the door, hearing Lorna gasp behind him.
The frogs were singing down by the steam again.
Francis stepped outside, and walked softly to one of the fires. Stephen followed, his mother reaching for him and failing to hold him back.
The horses were unharmed, but they were breathing fast, their hot breath white vapor in the chilly air.
There were marks in the well-packed earth around the homestead. It looked as if someone had dragged a crude wicker broom or a bundle of sticks out of the woods, in a wide arc around the fires, past the cabin and back into the woods, following a path running parallel to the road.
“Lorna,” Francis called, “Put out the fire in the fireplace. Then get Molly dressed and come out here.” To Stephen he said, “Help me hitch the horses to the wagon.”
He and Stephen put bridles on the horses. They were strapping the horses to the wagon when Lorna appeared, carrying Molly.
“A bit late in the day for a ride, is it not?”
“Get in,” he told her. “Whatever that thing was it’s making its way through the woods alongside the path to the Fish house. I have to warn them, and I’m not about to leave you and the children alone.” By the time the horses were hitched securely and everyone was in the wagon, the night had grown colder. The moonlight was stark and brilliant.
Francis gathered his weapons, paused to be sure the fires outside were banked and safe to leave unattended, and then snapped the reins and set off down the road.
The journey was a quick one. With the moonlight the horses were able to run as fast as they were able.
Fish must have heard the gunshot earlier and their approach now. By the time they pulled up at the end of the path near his home he was waiting for them as before, holding a lantern and his own rifle.
“Get away, get away!” Fish cried, waving them off.
“It’s coming,” Francis said, “And we should stand together and stop it for good. It tried to break into my cabin, and it will likely try the same here.” Fish was shaking his head. “No, we are safe inside, safe with the fire burning! Get away!”
“It’s not enough,” Francis said, climbing down from the wagon. “This thing will come for you and your children unless we—“ A cascade of breaking branches echoed within the forest. It was followed by a low, drawn out rumble that seemed to surround them.
Every forest creature from birds to crickets went quiet.
“It’s him,” Fish said, his eyes rolling in panic. “Big Jack has heard us.
Lord God Jesus Christ, save my sinning soul!” He ran back toward his cabin, the lantern swaying madly.
There was a cacophony of breaking branches as loud as gunfire in the night. Just as Fish approached the door of his home something stepped out from behind the cabin and slashed at his middle with a huge, misshapen hand. Fish let out a wretched cry.
Francis had not heard a sound like that since his time in battle, so many years before.
The lantern Fish had been carrying smashed upon the ground, spattering oil that set the front of the cabin ablaze.
Stephen and Molly peeked through the canvas flaps of the wagon, and Stephen immediately covered his sister’s eyes.
Fish’s rifle was snapped in two, and then the towering, indistinct thing broke Fish in two as well, grabbing Fish by the neck and the groin and bending the man backward until his spine snapped and his head touched his heels. His huge lacerated belly split open and spilled his guts upon the earth, where they steamed in the crisp night air.
Lorna screamed.
The monstrosity threw Fish flat on the ground and tore away the man’s breeches. It reached out and ripped a bloody, quivering chunk of meat and fat from Fish’s ample left buttock. It raised its misshapen hand, and in the light of the growing fire the flesh seemed to melt and be absorbed by the rough bark covering those crude fingers.
The oiled paper in the front window of the Fish cabin caught flame with a dramatic flaring light.
The Punkin Man backed away from the growing flames, and Francis could only stare. It seemed to be made of twisted roots and woven branches that made the shape of a man, with legs and arms and hands. Growing from the narrow stem of the neck was a huge pumpkin with two soft rotten spots that looked like eyes.
The Punkin Man began striding toward the wagon.
“Stephen,” Francis said calmly. “My rifle.” He and the boy had drilled for this, for trouble. Stephen was to always have his father’s weapons within reach when traveling and if they were requested the boy was to hand them over, the firearms loaded with powder and shot.
The horses smelled something then, their nostrils flaring. They began to dance with fear and Lorna had to fight the reins to hold them in place.
The Punkin Man was getting closer. It was a foot taller than Francis and he was a tall man, a little over six feet. The creature’s feet looked like clusters of roots ripped from the soil and there were small green buds of new growth all over its body, a body that creaked like thick branches in a strong wind with every step.
“Boy! My rifle!” Without looking back he reached out. Francis’
prized Kentucky Longrifle was set in his right hand. He swung the stock into his left palm, sighted down the long barrel and fired.
There was a sharp crack as the ball struck the Punkin Man in the chest. Splinters clattered and flew and Francis saw white pulp exposed under shredded bark. The thing let out a low rumble.
The Punkin Man was still coming.
“Pistol,” Francis said, handing the rifle back to his son without talking his eyes from the brutish thing advancing on him. He heard Stephen sniffing back fearful tears and was filled with pride when the rifle was taken and his flintlock was promptly set in his open hand.
The pistol was woefully inaccurate. Francis had cracked open more skulls using the walnut grip as a cudgel, but the Punkin Man was close enough now that the pistol could be put to use, close enough that he could see this was no perverse prank or Indian trickery. He could see through gaps in the woven chest of the thing as if looking through a thick hedge, those eye-like circles of rot in the pumpkin mesmerizing him.
He fired a single shot into one of the rotten spots that looked like malevolent eyes. Seeds and pulp blew out the back of the thing’s pumpkin head. It shuddered, moaned in a hollow, unearthly voice, and took another step forward.
Francis tossed the pistol aside and shouted, “Stephen, my sword!” The hilt of his old French hanger kissed his palm and Francis drove the blade into the center of the Punkin Man’s head. It convulsed, and then recovered. He withdrew the blade and struck again, this time where a human heart would be seated. The steel shaft clattered against wood as strong as iron, slipping between strands braided like wicker. The Punkin Man turned sharply and Francis was nearly unmanned by the strength of the monstrosity as the sword was ripped from his grip. The Punkin Man drew the sword out of its to
rso and tossed it away.
Francis turned to his wife. “Go! Leave me and get the children to safety!” He had always known Lorna would make a good frontierswoman despite her prim exterior and aggravating piety and he was not proven wrong now. Praying aloud, she snapped the reins and the wagon carried the children down the road to safety.
A cry from inside the cabin caught Francis’ attention. The front of the home was now sheathed in flame. He ran past the Punkin Man and circled around to the back of the long cabin, realizing that as strong as the creature was it was not very fast. He pulled one of the shutters open and saw four children huddled together in a corner. Their mother was standing by a blanket hung on a string, a makeshift wall, holding a knife in one hand and a swaddled baby in the other. The blanket began to burn, revealing a raging fire inside the cabin that was now engulfing the roof.
Francis gestured and the children scrambled out the window with his help. Fish’s wife gave him the baby. He took it from her as the other children began to yell, “It’s Jack, it’s Jack,” and turned too late.
Something that felt like a staff of solid ash slammed into the right side of his head and he fell, turning to land on his back so he would not hurt the child. He looked up and saw the Punkin Man reach through the window and grab Adeline Fish with a hand formed of twisted branches. He could see flames racing across the ceiling of the cabin and scuttled backward on his haunches. In cold silence the pumpkin-headed creature began peeling off the woman’s face as she shrieked her life away. The thing let go of her and stepped back just as the roof collapsed, engulfing the woman. Burning logs and hot coals danced across the ground behind the cabin.
Francis backed up against something solid. He turned and saw a broad stump used as a chopping block, and an axe. He got to his feet, his head still reeling as he pulled the axe free of the old wood. He carefully set the baby down on the block just as the Punkin Man came for him.
Past The Patch Page 3