by Rick Hautala
“...so what do you say about that?”
He realized his father had been talking to him all along, but he hadn’t registered a single word he’d said. His father’s voice sounded oddly distorted, as though he were speaking to him through a long piece of piping.
Kip blinked his eyes and tried to focus on his dad, pulling his mind back from the dark-fringed borders. He took a deep breath and then exhaled, straightening up in his chair.
“What’d you say?” he asked. “I was kinda drifting.”
“I was just asking if you’d like to come out to the building site with me today,” his father said. He sat back in his chair and rubbed his hands together. “You know, it gets kinda lonely out there, working all by myself.”
Kip tried to speak but could say nothing as a black wave of fear crested inside him. He wanted to scream, to shout, to ask his father where he had been yesterday when he had come out to the house site. The mind-numbing fear he had to live with all afternoon—that his father, like his mother, would be found torn to shreds in the cellar hole—still left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Besides, I’d like to think you were at least a little bit interested in this whole idea.” His father nailed him with an earnest look. “I mean, I pretty much expect that attitude from Marty; but I thought you, at least, would show some interest.”
The wave of fear rose like a swell on an ink-dark sea and swirled in Kip’s mind. It actually seemed about to swamp his vision, but with a sudden, vicious shake of the head, he was able to keep it back.
“Umm—yeah,” he finally said, surprised by the sound of his voice. “Sure. I’ll come with you.”
Where those words came from, he never knew; it was as if someone else had spoken them for him.
“Great.” His father stood up and began clearing the kitchen table while Kip sat there, marveling at how his mouth had betrayed him. After a stunned moment or two, he got up and helped his father by running a damp sponge over the table, sweeping up crumbs into his hand. He moved as though running on automatic.
Half an hour later, after making sure there was enough gas in the can for the chainsaw, Bill jotted a note for Marty, who apparently had gone back to bed, telling him where they were and when they’d be back. Kip filled the picnic thermos with ice water, and they got into the car and drove out to Kaulback Road.
If the dream from last night had been bad, and if the dark, unnamable fear at breakfast had been tough to take, they were nothing compared to the feelings that threatened to spill out during the drive out to the house site.
Other than briefly yesterday, Kip hadn’t been near the place in five years. He had avoided Kaulback Road like it was glowing with radiation. Even when he was walking or riding his bike along Beech Street and simply saw the road sign for Kaulback, he could never repress a shiver.
When his father clicked on the left turn signal, Kip glanced quickly at him. He knew his father noticed the expression of concern on his face, but he was sure his dad couldn’t tell how deep and terrifying it was. He smiled and gave Kip a quick pat on the back.
Kip had been riding with his elbow sticking out the side window, but now he pulled it inside and cranked the window shut. He sat in silence, his eyes registering the thick wall of pine trees that lined both sides of the road. His father told him about the new houses that had been built recently. Kip simply nodded, deciding never to mention that he had been out here yesterday. His memory of the road was too vivid. The mossy greens of the pines and the charcoal grays of the shadows vibrated with frightening intensity.
Nearly frantic with fear, Kip looked at his father. He was afraid to speak because his stomach might suddenly rebel and spew half-digested Cheerios into his lap. The icy fist in his chest seemed to extend and flex its steely fingers.
The road curved gently to the right, and Bill slowed almost to a stop as he turned into the driveway. The car bounced over several ruts and then stopped. Bill clicked off the ignition and settled back in the car seat.
“Well, Champ, what d’yah think? How’s it look?”
Kip squinted as he scanned the land sloping up to the cellar hole. He couldn’t see it from here, but even sitting safely in the car with his father, he could feel it crouching up there like some terrible, brooding monster. He swallowed with difficulty and pinched his lips together. The best he could do was nod. It looked just like it had yesterday, only more threatening if that was possible.
“I figure we can finish clearing out these saplings that have grown up, so maybe tomorrow we can get a backhoe in here to clear out the cellar hole.”
The cellar hole!
“Cleared out...?” Kip echoed.
But what if they’re still there?
“I’d like to get the foundation forms up and pour the cement by the end of the week. What do you think, Champ?”
“Sounds good,” Kip said, but he made no move to get out of the car. His eyes were darting back and forth as he tried to look anywhere but toward the cellar hole, but his gaze always came back to it.
“Well,” Bill said, exhaling loudly as he opened his door and stepped out. “I don’t think you want to wield the chainsaw, so after I cut the brush, you can haul it over there?” He pointed to where there was already a pile of brush, now rotted to a sickly gray.
Kip realized with a sickening rush that this was the same brush pile they had made the day his mother died. A feeble whimper escaped his throat, and just to do something, he opened his door and stepped out of the car. He was surrounded by a weird, muffled silence that seemed almost like being under water.
His father opened the trunk and started filling the gas tank on the chainsaw. Kip walked over to him, feeling like his knee joints were made of rubber. When the saw was filled, Bill screwed the cap back on, placed the saw on the ground, and gave the starter cord a quick tug. The chainsaw instantly sprang into snarling life so loud it drowned out Kip’s startled squeal.
And then another realization hit him: This was the same chainsaw his father had been using five years ago. The same saw making the same, crackling burr.
The rattling noise of the saw drowned out every other sound, and Bill wasted no time in getting to work. Saplings fell in rapid succession, and Kip, working hard to push aside his fear, soon was absorbed in the work of dragging the brush away and tossing it onto the heap. Before long, the bone-gray branches of the old pile were covered by a fresh green heap. With each trip to the pile, though, Kip tensed, fully expecting to see the ancient heap of brush suddenly explode as dozens—hundreds of—
Things...small, brown things with thin, wiry arms and needle-sharp, claws and teeth swarmed over him.
Things...like the creatures that had materialized out of the mist this morning and had clawed at his bedroom window.
He slowed his pace every time he approached the brush pile, and every time as he walked away, he’d stiffen and move as fast as he could without stumbling. When he dared to, he’d glance over his shoulder just to make sure nothing had emerged and was coming for him. After a while, he was convinced that, as long as he stared at the pile, those things wouldn’t dare to come out.
They wouldn’t be able to surprise him.
Kip’s fear occupied his mind so much that the work went smoothly and fast. The sound of the chainsaw made it impossible for any conversation beyond shouted commands. After more than an hour, when his father finally stopped the chainsaw to refill the gas tank, the silence that filled the woods was as thick and preternatural as the hush before a thunderstorm. Kip’s ears were ringing in the sudden silence.
“We’re doing well,” his father said, smiling as he wiped the sweat from his face and looked at the cleared swath leading more than halfway up the driveway. Kip poured a Dixie cup full of water and handed it to him. He finished it in three gulps and held the cup out to Kip for a refill.
Bill wondered if Gail might show up around lunchtime. Yesterday she had said she might, so—for now, at least—he left his shirt on. He had told her on thei
r date last night that he would be working out here, and he figured this would be a casual way for him to introduce her to Kip. Otherwise, he planned to drive into town for a quick lunch at McDonald’s.
After a short break, they dove back into their work. The morning passed quickly, and with it passed most of—but not all of —Kip’s fear. The fresh green brush covering the old pile of sticks seemed to smother any traces of fear...almost, anyway.
And the harder he worked, the more Kip concluded that he had been acting really dumb lately. He had let a couple of things Dr. Fielding said work his nerves until they had gotten way out of proportion.
Why is that? he wanted to know.
He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want to let any more crazy thoughts ruin his days or nights.
His father’s buzzing chainsaw filled the woods with a blue haze of smoke as it felled tree after tree. Kip threw himself whole-heartedly into the work, ignoring the scratches on his arms and face as he flung the saplings higher and higher onto the pile. Sweat streaked his dirty face and soaked through his T-shirt until it felt like clammy hands gripping his shoulders.
He and his father exchanged brief, wordless smiles, and Kip could tell his dad was proud of the way he was working so had—not like Marty who, if he helped at all, would have bitched and moaned the entire time.
Kip was panting from the exertion, but it felt good to feel the steady thump-thump of his heartbeat, and not out of fear. It was great to feel the tension in his arms as he pulled back in a half-turn and then tossed the branches. And it would be terrific when, once the house was built, they moved in and lived here. No more listening to the traffic roaring up and down Main Street at all hours. No sir. Not out here, surrounded by trees and quiet. Maybe the future wasn’t so dim after all.
A wide, contented smile spread across Kip’s face as he strode over to where his father was working. Leaf shadows speckled his dad’s back as he leaned into his work. The buzzing chainsaw spewed wood chips as thick as a snowdrift onto the ground. They covered his father’s shoulders like a terminal case of dandruff. The combined smell of gasoline and cut pine was almost intoxicating.
Bill glanced over his shoulder at Kip and heaved an exaggerated sigh, letting his tongue hang out. His mouth moved, and sounds came out, but over the crackle of the chainsaw, Kip couldn’t make out what his dad was saying. He thought he heard the word “McDonald’s.”
Kip pantomimed picking up something and taking a big bite out of it, and his father nodded eager agreement. His father signaled that he wanted to take down just a few more trees, and then they’d break for lunch.
Standing back and crossing his arms over his chest, Kip enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his back and the feeling of real accomplishment as the tree his father was working on suddenly pitched to one side. A prolonged snapping sound like a string of firecrackers filled the air, and Bill jumped back as the tree’s trunk opened up like ripe fruit. Whisking through the branches of still-standing trees, it slammed onto the ground, raising a puff of dust where it hit the driveway.
The chainsaw was still growling in his father’s hand as his father stood back, admiring his handiwork. Kip jumped when a hand suddenly clamped down heavily on his shoulder from behind. His shout of surprise barely made it out of his throat as he wheeled around. A tall figure—as tall as a grizzly bear, was Kip’s first thought— loomed up in front of him. With the sun directly behind it, all he could see was a roughly human-shaped silhouette, and from the silhouette, only the meaty hand that was holding onto his shoulder had any detail.
“D-d-d-dad?” Kip managed to say.
It felt as though the hand had him by the throat. The shadow seemed to swell, growing larger as it threatened to block out the entire sky.
“Dad!”
The words finally ripped out of Kip’s throat. He was still staring up at the man—
Yes. It has to be a man. There aren’t any bears around here, are there?
The chainsaw sputtered to a stop. Frantic with fear, Kip looked over his shoulder, relieved to see his father had finally noticed what was going on.
“Who the hell are you? What the hell are you doing here?” Bill shouted. He made a motion to put down the chainsaw, then seemed to think better of it and kept it in his hands as he approached.
Kip twisted out of the man’s grip and darted to one side so the sunlight wasn’t in his eyes, stumbling and skinning his leg on one of the tree stumps his father had left. His initial rush of fear started to fade when he saw that, yes, this was just a man. No bear...and certainly not a thing. Just a man.
The man turned and stared at Kip. Sunlight glanced off the side of his face, showing deep pores and traces of pockmarks in high relief. His skin was oily and nut-brown, and looked surprisingly tight for a man his apparent age. There were cracked lines around his mouth and eyes. His black hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, and he was wearing grimy blue jeans with holes in the knees, and a tattered red flannel shirt. He squinted as he studied Kip. The look reminded Kip of the way a hawk watches a field mouse.
“You happen to be on private property, mister,” Bill said, using his best lawyer ’s voice of authority, “and if you don’t tell me why you’re here, you’re going to be in a lot of trouble.”
The man slowly turned his head and looked at Bill. He blinked his eyes once, slowly, and then cleared his throat before speaking.
“Whose land is this?” he said. His voice rumbled like gravel tumbling from his chest to his throat.
Taken aback, Bill shifted from one foot to the other. “What? This is my land. I paid for all twenty acres around you, so you’d better—”
“Whose land is it...I mean really?” the man repeated.
Bill shook his head with more exasperation than anger as he took another threatening step closer, trying to get at least as close to the man as he was to Kip in case he tried anything crazy. Kip was bent over, silently rubbing his bruised knee as he looked up at the man.
“Wait a minute,” Bill said, pointing a finger at the man. He had stepped to one side and wasn’t looking directly into the sun. “I know you. You’re...Watson, right? John Watson. You live out on River Road by the school.”
Now that his first rush of fear had subsided, Kip also had finally recognized Watson. He had seen him enough times downtown or outside his house. There was plenty of talk among the kids about Old Man Watson, but, as far as Kip knew, there was no truth to any of it. He certainly never believed the story about how Watson caught and ate people’s dogs. The other stories he’d heard were even worse, so they were probably even more false.
The man nodded his head slowly. “Yeah. I’m Watson. And this is your land, you say? So you think.” A hint of a smile twisted up one corner of his mouth. His teeth gleamed with wicked whiteness.
“Look, ah, Mr. Watson,” Bill said, taking another step closer. “Is there something I can do for you? ‘Cause if not, I’d really to break for lunch so we can get back to work.”
Watson shook his head. “Naw, there’s nothin’ you can do for me, but there might be somethin’ I can do for you.”
Bill cocked his head to one side. “I don’t understand,” he said.
Watson’s smile spread wider, and his laughter—like his voice—rumbled like distant thunder. “I take a lot of walks in the woods ‘round here,” he said, indicating the land with a wide sweep of his arm. “This land belonged to my people long before you whites came.”
Bill couldn’t repress a laugh as he looked at the old man who now seemed not so much a threat as pathetic, almost laughable.
“Mr. Watson, if you don’t know who I am, my name’s—”
“William Howard,” Watson said quickly.
“That’s right, and you may also know that I’m a lawyer with a firm in Portland. I’ve lived in Thornton for pretty close to ten years now, and I—”
“I know who you are,” Watson said, glaring at Bill with his hawkish, gleaming eyes.
“Well, let me assure you, Mr.
Watson, possession is nine tenths of the law, and I’ve paid—quite a bit of money, in fact—for this piece of land. You can check it out with Sidney Wood if you don’t believe me.”
“Sidney Wood,” Watson said, snickering and shaking his head with what looked like disgust. He squinted his eyes to slits and looked from Bill to Kip. “You can tell me that you paid for the land, but can you tell me who owns it?”
“Look, I don’t have time for games, all right?” Bill was no longer trying to hide his exasperation. “We’ve got work to do, so if you’d kindly get off my property.”
“Take a look around you,” Watson said, lowering his voice and once again making a wide sweep with his hand. “Tell me what you see.”
Bill shook his head and let air hiss between his teeth, but Kip straightened up and cast a furtive glance to his left and right. Except for the car sitting at the bottom of the curving stretch of dirt driveway, all around him was a riot of sun-dappled trees, an explosion of intense green.
“Can you tell me what you see?” Watson said, and then he snorted with laughter. “I’ve lived around whites long enough to know what you see. You see a quiet, natural place—a perfect spot to build your house. The trouble with you people is, you don’t really see what’s around you. You don’t know who really owns the land.”
“Please,” Bill said, “spare me the Mother Nature talk, okay?”
This time it was Watson’s turn to sneer and shake his head. “You think by clearing the land, by cutting down trees and building a house that you can tame the land, but you don’t realize that the land belongs to—” He abruptly stopped talking and darted his glance up the sloping hill. “It belongs to someone who was here long before you whites came...even before the Indian came.”
“Okay, right, sure,” Bill said. He signaled to Kip. “Come on. Let’s go get some lunch.” Turning to Watson, he added, “And I’d appreciate it if you weren’t here when we got back. Got it?”