Song of a Lost Child: A Horror Novel (Invasive Species Book 1)

by Craig Wesley Wall

  Sitting on his bike, Lewis closes his eyes; the rhythmic thumping of the train's wheels in the distance syncs to the racing thrum of his young heart. But this time, instead of his normal train-hopping daydream, the bemoaning whistle triggers unwelcome snippets of the previous night's dream—a warped reoccurring version of his vagabond fantasy. Like every time before, Lewis had awoken in terror, and as usual, he could only remember two things from the dream: something unseen in the deep shadows of a swaying boxcar, something whispering his name; and the overwhelming scents of burning wood and decay.

  Lewis’s eyes fly open, his reverie broken by the sound of tires skidding behind him.

  Clinton, Lewis’s best friend, slides sideways next to him, stopping his bike just short of a bone-crunching collision, spraying his daydreaming friend with a fine plume of dirt. Clinton’s younger brother, Justin, repeats the well-practiced maneuver, easing to a stop a foot behind Clinton.

  “What's up?” Clinton exhaled the question, gasping for breath in the soupy summer air, coughing dirt from his lungs.

  “Just waiting for you slowpokes,” Lewis lied, too embarrassed to voice his confusing freight-hopping nightmare. Strange dreams have plagued his nights lately, causing him to wonder about his sanity.

  “We were adding another block to the ramp,” Justin said, somehow breathing normal even though sweat saturated his STAR WARS t-shirt.

  It was a Monday, the first official day of summer vacation. Lewis and Clinton were fresh out of sixth grade, Justin the fifth, and all three boys had spent most of the perfect summer day riding their bikes in the woods surrounding their neighborhood, racing along the familiar and well worn trails that meander through the slash pines and saw palmettos. They'd had the trail to themselves all afternoon, a rarity on most days, but especially rare on the first day of summer vacation, so the boys had taken advantage of this occasion and made a little addition to the trail.

  One section of the trail—appropriately called ‘the runway’ by the trio—straightened out for a long stretch, allowing the boys to reach terminal velocity before the path twisted away once again. Upon entering the runway, the boys would stand on their pedals, legs pumping like pistons, whipping their bikes back and forth to the brink of disaster before hitting the first of many curves, their inside foot dragging the forest floor as they took the hairpin turns, pushing the pines needles into neat, compact mounds. It was on this stretch of straightaway that they decided to place the ramp.

  The ramp had been Justin's idea of course; most of their bad ideas seemed to originate from the youngest of the three. A few cinder blocks, a sturdy sheet of plywood, and the boys were instant daredevils. The scorching Florida heat and swampy humidity kept them saturated in sweat, and the lack of a breeze meant they had to create their own—the ramp provided this breeze. Building speed and soaring through the air felt wonderful on their drenched skin. Instant outdoor-air-conditioning.

  Fear and self-preservation lessened with each launch from the rickety construction. When the initial fear of crashing melted away and the jump became boring, Justin would demand another block be added, increasing the stakes. The cinder blocks, as well as the wood, were supplied by a crumbling pile of assorted and potentially hazardous building materials left behind from the construction of their neighborhood, kindly dumped in the woods for adventurous boys to use however they pleased.

  Soon enough, several more blocks had been added to the ramp. It was so high in fact, the boys were running short of precious landing room. Inevitably, the unwritten laws pertaining to young boys and bike stunts would be enforced, and somebody would have to get hurt—today's winner was little Justin.

  The youngest of the three daredevils pumped his bike to maximum velocity, streaking down the straightaway, a fierce stare of determination and concentration tinged with a respectful dash of fear burning in his bulging eyes. Lewis and Clinton watched in rapt amazement as Justin hit the plywood ramp at incredible speed, and both onlookers cringed at the sound of the ancient board snapping in half, wrenching a surprised yelp from Justin as he hurtled over his handle-bars, through the air, sans bike.

  Justin's feet continued to pedal his invisible steed, his arms wind milling, until he met solid ground again, performing the perfect imitation of Pete Rose sliding into home plate. Justin's face took the brunt of the impact, bouncing off the hard-packed dirt with a deep thud, his body sliding on the pine needles for several feet before grinding to a halt, motionless.

  “Oh shit,” Clinton blurted. “Mom's gonna kill me.” He tossed his bike to the side, ran over to his brother's body, knelt down, and rolled the limp form over.

  Dismounting his own bike, Lewis jogged over to stand behind Clinton. Resting his hands on shaking knees, he peered over Clinton's shoulder. Justin's face—spattered with blood and caked with dirt—showed no signs of life, his head wobbling on his neck as Clinton grasped his little brother's shoulders and shook him, shouting his name.

  Justin's eyes fluttered open and he pushed his brother away. “Quit yelling, I'm fine,” he said nasally, like he had a bad cold.

  “You don't look fine, I thought you were dead,” Clinton said, a hint of annoyance lacing the concern in his voice. “Are you okay?”

  Justin stood and swayed like a sapling in a storm, nearly toppling, then regained his footing. Blood flowed from his swollen nose as he nodded to his older brother. He tilted his head back, pinching his nostrils shut.

  “It looks broken,” Lewis said, failing to mask the shaking in his voice, pointing to Justin’s nose. He’d been a hundred percent sure he’d witnessed Justin’s death.

  Justin shrugged, staring at the treetops.

  Satisfied his brother's condition wasn't terminal, Clinton walked over to the remnants of the ramp and righted Justin's bike. “At least your bike looks okay. Think you can walk it home?”

  Justin displayed a bloody thumbs up.

  His head tilted back, one hand still clamping his nostrils to stanch the flow of blood, Justin walked his bike along the trail toward home to get patched up, and to most definitely get chewed out for ruining yet another good shirt with bloodstains. A squadron of gnats swarmed the boy's face and hand, eager to roost on the congealing blood.

  Lewis and Clinton, still on their bikes, escorted the injured boy. Like vultures they circled Justin as they talked about the crash, building the event into legendary-sized proportions, the height of Justin's failed jump already reaching upwards of twenty feet, and his body bouncing off the trail at least three times before stopping. In their retelling, the amount of blood that sprayed from Justin’s nostrils went from cups to gallons in a matter of seconds.

  Justin just listened and nodded as the older boys continued to rattle on about things twelve-year-old boys talk about: favorite baseball players, favorite television shows, comic books. They even worked their way up to talking about girls for a fleeting moment. They discussed which rides they would brave at the summer fair, horror films they planned to sneak into, and the latest games they wanted to play at the arcade; but the most important topic, the subject that always seemed to infiltrate their conversations lately, was this year's war—The Second Annual Swamp Potato War.

  “I just hope I last longer this year,” Lewis said.

  Remembering the war, Justin smiled and nodded, still staring at the sky as he walked alongside his bike. His swollen nose had stopped flowing, but his face remained crusted with blood and drowned gnats. The dried blood cracked as he grinned.

  Lewis had been the second man killed during that first war last summer, catching a small potato to the eye, the humbling bruise taking a week to dissipate, the embarrassment and disappointment of being the first on his side to die never fading.

  “Yeah, you blew it, man,” Clinton said, rubbing it in, following Lewis in a tight circle. He had battled to the very end, the last man standing for their side. The final barrage that killed Clinton made everyone watching wince, clutching spots on their own bodies, mirroring Clinton's pain.
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  The boys made their way out of the forest and onto the wide field of grass connecting the woods to the end of Lewis's street. They were only a few yards in, the tall grass whipping against their jeans, dragonflies taking flight from their approach, when Lewis heard his name shouted from the direction of his house, echoing throughout the streets.

  Lewis was convinced his mother and father had the loudest voices on Earth. No matter where he happened to be in the neighborhood, he could hear them screaming his name, calling him home for dinner. Lewis's mother shouted solo today; his father had left yesterday for a weeklong business trip in California.

  Lewis sighed. “Guess I gotta go.”

  “Yeah,” Clinton said. “Man, your mom has quite a set … of lungs that is.”

  Justin laughed, spewing bloody snot through his fingers, the floodgates reopened.

  “Shut up, Clint,” Lewis said, knowing how much his friend hated the short version of his name.

  “Whatever, see you tomorrow,” Clinton said.

  Laughing, the boys waved their good-byes as they parted and headed home for supper, all of them drained from the day's events, yet excited about things to come for the long summer ahead.

  The crickets played their delicate instruments as the sun descended from the heavens, shrouding the quiet neighborhood of Poisonwood Estates with a cloak of scarlet fire, which would soon scorch the glowing sky into night.

  3

  Nestled in the central Florida woods near the east coast of the state rests the small, sleepy town of Hopkinsville, boasting a population of just over 4,000 citizens. A number that easily triples during a Space Shuttle launch from nearby Cape Canaveral, bringing temporary excitement to what many Florida residents consider to be the most boring town in the state.

  Spectators from near and far gather on the banks of the Indian River, which separates the coast from the cape, vying for the best position to view the launch. While other towns closer to the spectacle absorb most of the crowd, latecomers find their gas, food, and lodging in Hopkinsville, boosting the small town's stagnating economy. One thing these visitors say upon returning to their respective homes is that the residents of Hopkinsville are some of the friendliest folks they've ever met. And also, that the town is indeed quite boring.

  A thirty-minute drive east from the center of town will send you splashing into the warm waters of the Atlantic Ocean. A fifteen-minute drive through the woods to the northwest of town will bring you to yet more woods, Lewis's woods, and the small community of homes known as Poisonwood Estates.

  Constructed in 1965, these sturdy, single-story homes were meant for the growing space industry on Cape Canaveral, and the families of the men and women employed there. Unlike other small communities closer to the cape, the expected growth and expansion of Hopkinsville never quite reached expectations—never came close, in fact—and as a result, Poisonwood Estates was left isolated from the town. An island of homes in a sea of trees, with a two-lane road to town its only lifeline. Seventeen years later, the thick forest in between remained undeveloped except for a small one-runway airfield, and the new baseball park with its adjacent playground.

  For Lewis and his friends, Poisonwood Estates comprised their whole world. School, the grocery store, gas stations, the movie theater, and every other convenience folks take for granted were all located in town. Which was fine if you had a car and were old enough to drive; however, the road to these amenities had long been deemed unsafe for bicycles, and most parents forbade their children to use it.

  This isolation meant the boys spent a large portion of their free time in the surrounding woods. The sweltering months during summer vacation relegated even more time for them to explore the vast area of wilderness without the hindrance of school, teachers, and the most heinous, twisted invention of all time—homework.

  Hopkinsville may have the unofficial moniker of the most boring town in the state, but growing up in Poisonwood Estates was fine for a child like Lewis: a child with a healthy—albeit morbid—imagination. Lewis found the stories and legends passed down about his woods fascinating. Stories of ghostly lights and eerie sounds warning children to keep clear of the woods at night, and yarns of strange creatures snatching the children who refused to heed these warnings.

  For Lewis, the most intriguing and frightening tale had to be the local legend of the drowned boy, who met his end in one of the many storm drains of the neighborhood. The drains, built high up from the gutters, allowed ample space for a small child to fall through to the darkness below, lending some credence to the tale. For Lewis this evidence was plenty; he completely believed the story, even though the location of the unfortunate event seemed to change day to day.

  Rumored to be on his way home from playing football with friends, the little boy found himself caught in a sudden torrential rainstorm, common for this part of Florida. His new football slipped from his fingers and washed away, swept down the rushing gutter. The boy gave chase and came within inches of his prized possession. In desperation, he dove for the ball, trying to rescue it before the looming mouth of the drain swallowed it—he was too late. Ball and boy were washed down the opening. The unfortunate child cracked his head on the concrete lip as he fell, dazing him. He drowned in the churning dark waters below.

  The legend states that if you are brave enough to put your ear close to a drain during a downpour, you can hear his ghost crying for help, echoing throughout the dark tunnels; but, if you get too close, his cold, dead hands will lash out and drag you down into his watery tomb. Lewis could easily envision those small hands, their flesh pale and slick as fish bellies, the fingernails caked with slimy green algae, latching on and ripping into flesh like bear traps.

  Lewis loved the woods and his neighborhood; he wouldn't change a thing about where he lived. The weird tales fueled his imagination, instilling wonder and fascination, making the unexplored areas of the woods mystifying and forbidden, the perfect combination for fun in his twisted mind.

  As long as Andy and Jason—the Reed twins—weren't involved that is.

  Come to think of it, there was something Lewis would change about where he lived.

  4

  As night seeped into the sky above his home, Lewis sat at the dinner table, finishing his meal. He paused with a forkful of mashed potatoes raised to his lips, recalling the day’s events. He realized he hadn't seen the Reed twins while racing through the woods on that first day of summer. He also realized how lucky he’d been, the ramp and Justin's magnificent crash had occupied all of his attention, leaving him open to attack. Lewis knew from experience that you had to be vigilant, constantly glancing over your shoulder, ready to turn on the jets at any given moment, the twins lurking threat always present.

  Big, mean, and ugly as sin, identical twins Andy and Jason Reed have bullied Lewis and any other kid within striking distance for as long as he could remember. The daily threat of being harassed by the boys has become routine, a simple fact of life for him and his friends. Over the years, Lewis's fear of the bullies has grown in accordance with their lumpy, misshaped bodies. They were now twice as big as Lewis, and twice as scary as they were just a year ago.

  Lewis Frazier, on the other hand, was not big. Taller but much thinner than most of the other kids his age, Lewis has become accustomed to the twins’ constant taunts about his physique, the list of hateful nicknames growing longer every year. There were the common garden-variety names: Beanpole, Twig, Birdchest, and Toothpick; and then there were the more creative ones such as Malnutrition-Boy (Justin's favorite), and the ever tasteless, Concentration-Camp-Boy.

  It wasn't a question of appetite. Lewis ate like a ravenous cannibal, but never seemed to gain weight. When Clinton made an innocent comment about tapeworms, Lewis became obsessed with the image of a giant scaly worm living in his gut. A worm with a sucking mouth full of tiny sharp teeth (like the lamprey eel his science teacher had shown the class), plundering the food he shoved down his gullet. Every meal Lewis would think to hims
elf, time to feed the worm. He even swore he could feel the slippery beast sliding around in his bowels, uttering low, hungry groans.

  Three years older than Lewis, the Reed twins would soon be allowed behind the wheel of a car. The thought terrified Lewis. The thought terrified everyone. Lewis tried to assure himself that access to a vehicle would keep the deviant clones out of the neighborhood and out of his hair, but he couldn't help conjuring the image of the evil boys running him down while riding his bicycle, the car roaring off, the twins hooting and hollering like the Dukes of Hazard as Lewis's broken body bled out on the asphalt, twitching in their exhaust.

  The twins despised Lewis, but they hated Clinton even more. Mainly because Clinton never let them push him around, even if it resulted in a beating, which it often did.

  Lewis and Clinton have been friends since the day Clinton first encountered the duo, the same day Clinton saved Lewis from the twins, all the way back in third grade—at least that's how Lewis tells the story. Clinton always seems embarrassed, shrugging it off as no big deal whenever Lewis mentions it.

  On that historic day, three years ago, daydreaming in his favorite perch high up in the nose of the rocket-slide, Lewis watched a baseball game unfold from the field next to the playground. Designed to resemble a vertical rocket ship landing on the planet, or perhaps gearing up for take-off back into deep space, the slide had been Lewis’s prime spot to hide from the twins since its construction a year earlier.

  Crewmembers accessed the rocket ship via a metal ladder ascending through the center of the structure, all the way to the top level. The first level—the largest but the most boring—never held any interest for Lewis. The slightly more exciting second level housed the slide allowing access to the planet's surface. The third level (smaller and as boring as the first) tapered inward toward the fourth and highest level—the nose cone of the rocket.