by Brian Keene
Without another word, he ran for home. I’d never seen him move so fast. His arthritis usually bothered him after the most menial of tasks—taking the trash up to the road or trimming with his weed whacker. It was especially bad on rainy days. If it was troubling him now, Jeff gave no sign. I yelled after him but he didn’t answer.
Marlena opened the door and called to me. Dylan peered out from behind her.
“I want to go outside.”
“Not now, Dylan. Quiet.” She must have seen the expression on my face because her tone was concerned. “What’s wrong?”
I started to speak, but wasn’t sure how to verbalize what I’d just seen or how it made me feel. “Try calling 911,” I said. “Thena’s place is flooding. The water’s up to her front door and they can’t get out.”
“Oh my God. Are the kids okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“I want to see,” Dylan insisted. “Please, Mommy? Let me go see.”
Marlena and I both told him no at the same time. She shooed Dylan away from the door. Pouting, he plopped down in the living room and returned to his trains. Marlena ran off to try the phone, while I shrugged out of my wet coat and shoes and toweled Sanchez dry. He shook, spraying the kitchen with water, and then trotted off to check his food dish. Now that he was inside, he seemed no longer concerned with the thing we’d seen near the creek.
I wished that I could shrug it off just as easily.
I hurried into the bedroom and felt around on the top shelf of the closet until I found the handgun. I kept it locked in a box, and I had the only key. You can’t be too sure these days. It wouldn’t do for Dylan to get his hands on it. The only other items in the lockbox were the owner’s manual, a cleaning cloth, and a small container of bullets. The Taurus held five shots. I loaded it with trembling fingers and clicked the cylinder back into place. Instead of a manual safety, it had a special key that unlocked the activation pin. I turned the key and then stuffed the revolver into my back pocket. Even though it was small, it felt big and bulky back there. I put the lockbox back on the shelf. I didn’t bother with my father’s rifle because I had no bullets for it. I hadn’t been hunting since I was fourteen, and I kept the weapon strictly out of sentimentality. It was an heirloom. My father had loved that gun, and had shot many deer with it over the years.
Marlena walked into the bedroom as I was closing the closet door. I quickly pulled my shirttail over my pants, hoping she wouldn’t see the gun and start asking questions. I don’t know why I wanted to hide the truth from her, but I did. Maybe it was because I didn’t know what the truth was. Maybe because I’d just been confronted by something that shattered my illusions of protecting her and Dylan—just like the storm that had preceded it. I wanted them to think I could keep them safe, and if they found out what was going on, they’d know I couldn’t.
“The phones are still down,” she said. “And there’s only one bar on the cell phone.”
“Keep trying. I’ve got to go.”
“Where?”
“Jeff and I are going to try to help Thena.”
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
She didn’t try to talk me out of it. Sometimes, I wish she had. If she’d tried, maybe I’d feel differently about things now. If I’d stayed inside with her and Dylan, instead of returning to the creek, maybe the world wouldn’t have intruded upon us.
But I didn’t stay inside. Instead, I got back into my wet raingear. A car horn blared as I slipped my boots on, and I glanced out the window. Jeff’s Dodge truck sat idling in our driveway. As I walked to the door, Dylan and Sanchez clamored to go with me, but I made them both stay inside. I gave Dylan and Marlena a quick kiss, told Sanchez to sit, and then stepped out onto the porch.
“Be careful,” Marlena repeated.
“I will,” I promised her again, sounding anything but confident.
She shut the door behind me. It sounded very loud—and final.
I hurried over to the truck and climbed up into the passenger seat. Warm air blew across my feet, and my glasses fogged up again. Waylon Jennings played softly, singing about how this outlaw bit had done got out of hand. I asked Jeff why he didn’t have the local radio station on, instead.
“Damn WSBA is off the air. I’m betting lightning hit their tower. And that station out of Hanover only plays rap music. I don’t need to hear that crap. Especially now. My nerves are already shot.”
Jeff struggled with the gearshift and the transmission made a grinding noise. We lurched forward. Wet gravel crunched beneath the tires. Jeff turned on the wipers to clear away the mist.
“Where’s the rifle?” he asked.
“I don’t have any bullets for it, but I brought this.” I pulled out the .357 and showed it to him.
“It’ll have to do, I guess. I’ve got the 30.06 in the back.”
I turned around and sure enough, the rifle rack, which was mounted behind the seat, held a gun. He’d wrapped the stock with camouflage tape. A box of shells sat on the seat between us.
“I want to know what’s going on,” I said, as we reached the top of the driveway. “What the hell was that thing?”
“I thought you said you knew what it looked like?”
“Yeah, I did. It looked like a big fucking tentacle.”
He made a left out of our driveway. No other vehicles passed us. The road was a mess—full of fallen branches and limbs. Muddy water streamed along the sides. I noticed with dismay that my mailbox had fallen over. The embankment around the post had eroded from all the rain.
“It wasn’t a tentacle, Evan. It was a tail.”
“A tail? The tail to what?”
He paused. “You ever hear of Old Scratch?”
“Sure. That was a nickname for the Devil, back in medieval times. You mentioned it earlier, too.”
“It’s also the name for a Central Pennsylvanian legend. Old Scratch is a giant water snake. He’s supposed to live in the Susquehanna River, between Wrightsville and Walnut Island. You don’t hear much about him these days. He was sort of like our Loch Ness Monster. People used to see him all the time, up until the Thirties, when they built the Holtwood and Safe Harbor dams. After that, sightings were less frequent—but he still popped up from time to time.”
“A giant water snake ...”
Frowning, Jeff slowed down as we neared the bridge. The waters churned and crashed beneath it. More debris floated by.
“Looks sturdy,” he muttered, and then rolled across the bridge. “Yeah, a giant snake. I’m surprised you never heard about it, what with you drawing funny books and all.”
“They’re not ...”
“I’ll tell you something else,” he interrupted. “Old Scratch isn’t the only giant snake in the State. From the early 1900’s up until last year, there’s been sightings of a forty-foot long snake on Big Top Mountain up north. And Lake Raystown supposedly has one swimming around in it, too. They call him Raystown Ray. I know, it’s kind of a stupid name. I think the chamber of commerce came up with it so they could sell t-shirts. But people have seen it. You and Marlena ever take Dylan to Gettysburg?”
I stared at him, unblinking.
“You know Devil’s Den?” He continued, oblivious to my silence. “That big jumble of rocks and boulders where the soldiers hid? It had that name before the Civil War. Supposedly, there was a giant snake named Devil that lived inside one of the crevices. Devil’s Den—get it? All the farmers said he was real. He used to eat people’s livestock. The Indians have legends about giant snakes, too. They knew all about this stuff. They carved petroglyphs of Old Scratch on rocks along the Susquehanna.”
I wanted to protest. I wanted to tell him that there was no such thing as giant snakes in Pennsylvania—unless somebody’s pet boa constrictor escaped or something like that. But even then, a boa constrictor couldn’t reach the size of the thing we’d seen. I didn’t tell him any of this. I didn’t speak at all, because I knew better. I had to believe because I’d see
n it with my own eyes. So had Sanchez. What Jeff was saying—bizarre as it sounded—was true. I wouldn’t have believed it the day before, would have chuckled at the story and then sent Tim Graco an email, telling him I had an idea for our next comic book.
But it was real—and that reality made my stomach churn and my ears thrum and my breath catch in my throat.
We reached the end of the bridge, and Jeff took the next left, turning onto a dirt road that looped around back to Thena’s house. It had washed out in places, and we bounced over the ruts and puddles. My head smacked against the rifle rack.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” Wincing, I rubbed the back of my head. “So, you said they’ve been spotting this thing—this Scratch—since the Thirties?”
Jeff nodded.
“Well, then how is it still alive? Is it supposed to be immortal or something?”
“Ain’t nothing immortal in this world.” He shrugged. “Snakes can live a long time, I guess. Or maybe this is a descendant of the original Old Scratch. But whatever the reason, it’s real. We saw it. Ain’t no denying that.”
“Jesus ...”
“Look, I know how you feel, Evan. I never really believed it myself. I mean, I’ve seen some weird things. Me and some buddies pulled an eight-foot catfish out of the river up near the Pennsylvania Power and Light company dam about ten years ago. It was pure white, and when we touched it, the skin sloughed off in our hands like slime. That was strange, to say the least.”
“Pollution?”
“Maybe. Who knows? All I know is it was weird. Like I said, I’ve seen some weird things, but I always figured Old Scratch was just a legend, like the Goat Man of LeHorn’s Hollow, or Gravity Hill, or the seven gates of Hell. That’s how I knew about it. I like all that local folklore stuff. But now I know better.”
“But you said he lives in the river.”
“So?”
“Well, if that’s true, then what’s he doing in our creek?”
“Hell, Evan. We’re only three miles from the Susquehanna. Our creek flows right into it.”
“Yeah, but the creek is awfully shallow in some places. For a thing ...” I paused. My mind refused to think of it as a snake. That hadn’t actually hit home yet. “For something that big, you’d think it would stick to the deeper waters, where it’s safer.”
“He probably does,” he agreed. “Except in rare instances like now, when it’s flooding.”
Jeff slowed down as we approached the spot where the creek had jumped its banks and flooded out the road.
“Looks like this is as far as we go,” he said. “We’ll have to walk in.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“I hope they’re okay.”
“Me, too. If they managed to get upstairs, they should be all right. I’ve been in her house, and that stairway is pretty narrow. Maybe Old Scratch can’t fit up there.”
Jeff’s voice had a plaintive, almost pleading tone. It was obvious to me that he didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. I wondered if he was trying to convince me, or convince himself.
We got out of the truck. Jeff loaded his rifle and motioned me forward. I followed along behind him, clutching the handgun. Soon, the road disappeared beneath our feet, and cold water rushed into my boots. The floodwaters were halfway up my shins, and still rising. The current pulled at me, and I had to struggle to keep my balance. It was like walking through fast-flowing cement. The roar of the water was deafening.
“This isn’t going to work,” Jeff yelled above the din. “We’ll have to go around. This way!”
He led us up the hill and into the woods. I wondered if he should be shouting like that, but decided that if Old Scratch heard us, maybe we’d get lucky and frighten it off before it could hurt Thena or her kids. Then again, maybe we’d attract its attention instead. I wondered if we’d even be on time. I wasn’t sure how many minutes had passed since we’d spotted the creature. It seemed like forever.
The forest was a mess. Even though the rain was finished, water still dripped from above. Droplets rolled off the leaves and kept splattering my glasses. Although the mist had dissipated somewhat, thick wisps of tenacious fog still floated at ground level, obscuring everything below our knees. Between that and all of the fallen branches, our progress was slow and treacherous. Both of us stumbled several times.
“Maybe we should unload the guns until we get there,” I suggested, fearing an accident if either one of us fell.
Jeff shook his head. “We need to be ready. What if it rushes us? I’m sure as hell not facing down that thing with an empty rifle.”
I took a deep breath and tried not to puke.
When Dylan was six months old, he got sick one night. It was the weirdest thing. He’d been fine all day, happy and cooing. Then, night came and he started throwing up. His fever spiked, refusing to go down. We’d rushed him to the emergency room and watched, helpless, while the doctors tried to figure out what was wrong. Marlena sobbed. I felt numb—stunned, like someone had smacked me in the head with a hammer. In the end, everything turned out okay. He’d caught a bad case of the flu. They got some liquids in him and arrested his fever and we took him home. A few days later, he was back to normal. But I’ve never forgotten it. I remember that time well, because I’d never been more scared in my life.
Until now.
We reached the top of the hill, and the mist cleared. Thena’s shed was just a few paces away from us, right on the edge of the woods where her backyard ended. Beyond the shed, on a slight downhill slope, sat her house. It was silent, and there was no sign of the snake—or anyone else. I glanced across the swollen creek and caught a glimpse of my own home. It seemed very far away at that moment. I glanced up at the sky and wished the clouds would part and the sun would come out in full and burn the rest of the fog and the gloom away, but it didn’t.
Jeff raised his hand and motioned me forward. He readjusted his grip on the rifle, and nestled the stock between his arm and shoulder, holding it at the ready. Maybe he was trying to project confidence or bravado, but the whole thing seemed ridiculous to me. We weren’t soldiers. He was a retiree in his sixties and I was a pudgy comic book artist who got winded if I ran more than a quarter mile. But there was no one else to help Thena, or her kids, and helping is what neighbors do. Like it or not, it came down to us. If the situation was reversed, I’d want my neighbors to do the same for me and my family.
We stepped out of the tree line and crossed through the yard. The grassy slope was slippery, so we moved slowly. The only noise was the ever-present floodwaters, and Jeff’s heavy breathing, which sounded very loud in the silence. Thena had a dog, a small Beagle named Henry. I used to see him running around in their yard with Derrick and Josie. He had the most annoying bark in the world. When Henry wasn’t running around barking at ducks in the creek or taunting Sanchez from the other side, she kept him tied out back, in a small doghouse between the shed and the house. I wondered why we didn’t hear him now. Surely, Henry would have sensed the presence of the snake, just like Sanchez had done. Then, we rounded the corner past the shed and I saw why. Henry was missing. The doghouse had been flattened. A steel chain lay in the wet yard. One end of the chain was attached to the pile of splintered lumber. The other end was attached to an empty dog collar.
The ground around the doghouse was pretty muddy, and a long, wide trench led from there to the house, and then disappeared around the side. I shivered. I’d seen trails like it before. We had lots of black racer snakes and garter snakes on our property. Sometimes, if I was under deadline and put off mowing the yard, and the grass was higher than normal, they’d leave tracks like this. Except smaller. Much smaller. The track we were looking at now was at least five feet wide and one foot deep. It was more of a furrow than a trail. Again, it didn’t seem possible, but when confronted with the evidence, I had no choice but to accept the reality, no matter how outlandish or horrifying it might seem. My apprehension doubled. My temples
throbbed. My stomach was in knots and my palms grew sweaty. The pistol slipped in my grasp, and I fumbled with it, almost dropping it in the mud. We paused, staring at the creature’s wake, and I stuck the gun in my back pocket and wiped my glasses clean again. They were fogging up, due to the weather and my own hyperventilating.
“You okay?” Jeff whispered, looking concerned.
I nodded. “Steady now, Evan. I need you with me on this.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“What are we going to do when we find it?”
Jeff grinned humorlessly. “All snakes in Pennsylvania are protected by Fish and Boat Commission regulations, but I think the game warden will make an exception in this case.”
I tried to respond, but all that came out was a choked whimper.
“Evan, if it helps, just know that I’m scared shitless, too.”
It didn’t help, but I smiled and pretended that it did.
We crept up to the back porch. The snake’s path crossed over onto the cement patio, leaving behind a trail of mud, before going back into the yard. Had it stopped here, investigating the house, looking for a way inside? Maybe it had looked through the windows and seen Thena or one of the kids in the kitchen. I shuddered at the image, imagining the snake’s tongue flicking in and out, and those inhuman eyes staring through the glass, watching Thena cooking, or maybe Derrick and Josie sitting around the kitchen table, eating their dinner. Watching them without blinking.
“I hope they’re okay,” I whispered.
“Me, too.”
We tiptoed around the side of the house, following the rut in the yard. Jeff pressed his back against the wet aluminum siding and peeked around the corner. He started forward, rifle raised, and I followed along behind him. We reached the window, and heard a muffled thump coming from inside the house. We paused, listening, but the sound wasn’t repeated.
At some point before the snake’s arrival, Thena’s window had been broken. Maybe it happened during the storm, when the hail was falling, or maybe it had occurred before the storm. In either case, she’d tried to repair the damage by taping clear plastic sheeting over the gaping hole. By the look of things, Old Scratch had pressed right through it, ripping it free. The plastic hung from one corner of the hole, flapping with the breeze. The window frame was bent, as if a bulk wider than the opening had been squeezed through it. Something was stuck to the bottom of the windowsill. At first, I couldn’t figure out what it was. It looked like parchment or cheesecloth, fluttering in the wind. Then I took a closer look, and reached out to touch it.