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

by Craig Wesley Wall

  Lewis spun and ran for home just as Jerry's father turned his sleek sedan onto the street, home from work. Lewis glanced at the car, turned away, and ran faster, his guilt increasing as he fled the scene.

  Lewis recounted the day's events to his mother as he stripped out of his wet clothes in the laundry room, peeling off the clinging material like a shedding snake, dropping them to the floor with a clammy smack. She was on the phone with Jerry's mother before he had finished putting on dry replacements, offering reassurance in a soft tone Lewis only heard when she spoke on the telephone. She talked to Jackie Harris in a way that surprised Lewis, in a voice of familiar camaraderie; he had no idea the two women even knew one another.

  Lewis checked in every few minutes in the hopes of receiving some good news, peeking his head around the corner into the kitchen where his mother paced, the long spiral cord of the telephone twisted around her thighs. Each time he made eye contact, she covered the phone with her hand and shook her head, a worried look in her eyes.

  Lewis tried his best to stay busy as the rain upgraded to a full force deluge, making it impossible to go outside. He wanted to call Clinton to see if he had heard anything different, but his mother still cooed reassurances into the phone. The lack of contact drove him insane with worry. After what seemed like an hour, his mother hung up, made Lewis a quick meal in silence, and was back on the phone, alerting other parents in the neighborhood. Lewis didn't have an appetite. He shared the meal with Stretch, who purred at his feet, patiently waiting for another helping of mac-n-cheese.

  After dinner, Lewis sat nodding off in front of the television, chin bouncing off his chest, when his mother tussled his hair and signaled him to go to bed. She told him not to worry, the adults were taking care of it, and Jerry would be just fine. He didn't argue; the events of the day had drained him physically and mentally. He went through the rigmarole of preparing for bed in a dazed state, moving like a lethargic robot, the battery running low.

  Before lying in bed, he approached the window to perform his nightly ritual, but could only stare at the three hedges across the street, his imagination incapable of mustering any horrifying scenarios. The rain still poured down in sheets. He thought of poor little Jerry out there in the storm, injured—or worse. He shook his head to dislodge the picture that flashed in his mind like a photograph: the image of Jerry's body laying in the dark woods, his open eyes and mouth filling with rain.

  He'll turn up, he assured himself. He'll show up with a big grin on his face, I just know it.

  With a sigh, Lewis backed away from the window and crawled into the dry safety of his bed. He lay awake, staring at the window, until his exhausted brain forced sleep upon him.

  Lewis was in the woods shouting for Jerry. The sky was clear, the sun bright and hot. He ran down an unfamiliar trail, shouting the boy's name, fleeing something on the path behind him. He ran as hard as he could but moved at half-speed, like running underwater, his feet sinking into the deep sand of the trail. The train whistle blared behind him, the bleating sound devouring his shouts. Lewis turned to see his pursuer, but saw nothing through the thick growth of the strange trail. The familiar chugging of the locomotive bore down on him, the ground quaking beneath his feet. The train’s whistle changed. It became a human scream, a wail of pain rising into a deafening shriek of hatred. The thumping wheels morphed into the blustering roar and crackle of fire. Lewis turned and ran again as the screaming blaze pursued. The thing behind him closed in, a lioness stalking her prey, close enough for Lewis to smell the rotting meat stench of its hot breath as it blew across the back of his exposed neck.

  Lewis snapped awake, face down in bed, the dream dissipating like mist. A strange scream echoed in his head. He touched the back of his neck, the skin warm and slick with sweat. The morning sun beat down on him through the window. He now recognized the scream. It came from the kettle. His mom must be making her morning tea.

  When the incessant sound persisted, Lewis arose to investigate. He found the kitchen empty, removed the kettle from the burner, and called out, “Mom?”

  No answer; she must be outside.

  Lewis dressed and stepped onto his front porch and into a scene from a movie. His street bustled with activity despite the early morning heat and humidity. Several police cars and a fire engine were parked at the end of the road, in the grass field leading into the woods. Lewis felt shame over his excitement, but cops and firemen were seldom seen in Poisonwood Estates, and never this many at once. But he realized what this meant—Jerry had never come home. The events from the day before came pouring back in.

  Children and their parents milled around to see what all the commotion was about. Most of them had to know already, making Lewis a little nervous; he couldn't help but feel slightly responsible for Jerry's disappearance.

  He heard his name called and searched the crowd for the familiar voice. Clinton pushed some younger kids out of the way, ignored their sour looks, and jogged over to the porch, a mingling of concern and fascination gleaming on his face.

  “Dude, have you heard?” Clinton asked.

  “What?”

  “Jerry never came home and they haven't found him yet. They're searching the woods for them right now.”

  “Them?”

  “Yeah. Andy and Jason never came home last night either.”

  “Shit,” Lewis blurted. “I knew those jerks had something to do with this.”

  “Probably,” Clinton said, nodding.

  “Have they found anything?”

  “Not that I've heard.”

  For Lewis, Clinton, and several neighborhood kids, most of the day was spent answering the same questions over and over from police and parents alike: Do you know the boys? Are you friends with the boys? Enemies? What kind of relationship does Jerry have with the twins? Do you know if they do drugs? Do you do drugs?

  By the end of the questioning, Lewis could sense their suspicions mirrored his own: the Reed twins more than likely had something to do with Jerry's disappearance.

  Lewis thanked the stars the focus stayed on finding the boys, and not on why Jerry had gone into the woods in the first place. But he caught glances from Jerry's parents as they spoke with the authorities, subtle glances that held a glimmer of blame in them. Or maybe he was just being paranoid. Lewis didn't see Mr. or Mrs. Reed anywhere, but the twins’ older sister stood about, chain-smoking cigarettes and answering questions.

  By the end of the day rumors were spreading like wildfire among his friends. Lewis heard some boys say Andy and Jason killed Jerry, chopped his body into small pieces, and buried them throughout the woods, and then ran away, probably stealing a car. Others claimed a child molester kidnapped all three boys and killed them, or had them tied up in a basement somewhere, torturing them. Lewis and his peers apparently shared the same morbid fascination with the macabre.

  The most ridiculous rumor by far, claimed that Crappy—the legendary giant alligator living in Horse Crap Lake—had all the boys for supper, storing the remains of their carcasses in the sewers for later consumption. Crappy the Alligator was just a fun story the neighborhood kids told each other, and a child molester didn't seem feasible—Andy and Jason could defend themselves. However, the first rumor wasn't all that farfetched to Lewis. He knew Andy and Jason Reed well enough, and it didn't take a stretch of the imagination to envision them as sadistic murderers.

  As Lewis watched the concerned faces of the crowd, the photo image of Jerry returned—the dead eyes and gaping mouth filled with rainwater. Only this time, Andy and Jason were standing over the still body.

  They were laughing.

  II

  A Feast Of Vengeance

  12

  The rigorous search for the missing boys lasted until nighttime crept over the woods. Not a single clue had been found, the heavy rain from the previous night hampering the searchers' progress, the soggy ground slowing them down. Lewis figured the rain would have washed away any evidence anyhow.

  O
nce again the events of the day left Lewis drained, not to mention a little frightened. He had watched enough horror movies to know this type of situation always ended poorly. This is real life not a movie, Lewis repeated to himself several times, but his twisted imagination kept showing him snippets of a horror film starring Jerry and the evil twins, directed by Lewis Frazier.

  With access to the woods denied, Lewis, Clinton and Justin had ridden their bikes around the neighborhood, trying their best to occupy their minds with mundane thoughts, pushing their worries for Jerry to the side for a while. For a change, Lewis was thankful when he heard his mother calling him home. He decided to stay indoors after supper, and noticed his mother's look of relief. He wondered what his mother had been imagining all day while she too tried occupying her time with meaningless tasks.

  Later, Lewis turned off the television he wasn't watching anyway, kissed his mother, and marched off toward his room. He read for a while—The Three Investigators solving yet another mystery for Alfred Hitchcock—before finally throwing in the towel.

  Lewis brushed his teeth, his tired face staring back at him like a stranger from the bathroom mirror, an older version of himself. The image of Jerry fleeing into the woods looped in his mind. Lewis hoped it wasn't the last memory he would have of the sickly boy. He returned to his room and turned off the light, the faintly glowing square of his window challenging him to create a new horror scene. He flopped into bed instead, skipping the ritual of the hedges altogether this time, fearful of the images his warped and worried mind might conjure.

  Sleep came faster for Lewis this night, the accumulative affects of two days of stress wearing him down. He slept solid for several hours until something awoke him from deep sleep, his eyes springing open like miniature jack-in-the-box lids. He glanced at the glowing digits of the alarm clock; they read 2:03. Confused as to what had jolted him from his slumber, Lewis propped himself on his elbows, searching the shadows of the dark room with sleep-fogged eyes. He'd forgotten to turn on the nightlight. The streetlight shining through the window was his only source of light, bringing the faint shadows of his room into focus as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

  The eyes from the Dawn of the Dead poster on his wall stared back in the dark, sending a shiver through him. He unlocked his gaze from the zombie on the poster, and searched his room some more. Except for his breathing—which was faster than normal—and the gentle click of the loose ceiling fan as it swayed back and forth, he heard nothing out of the ordinary.

  Nothing. Must have been dreaming, he decided.

  Satisfied he was alone in the room, Lewis shut his weighted lids and let his head fall back onto the soft pillow. He yawned heavily and his breathing slowed. Soon, Lewis teetered on the cliff of sleep. He was about to fall from the precipice into the land of dreams, when the sound of laughter forced his eyes open again. Stiff as a board, Lewis lay in bed. His skin shuddered from the wave of ice water rolling through his veins from toes to scalp. He waited for the sound to repeat itself.

  The room remained silent. Lewis once again assured himself he’d been dreaming.

  The faint laughter reached him again, mocking his conviction. It came from outside, through the open window. From somewhere close.

  It's just someone laughing, he thought.

  Then why am I scared shitless?

  Peeling the thin sheet away, Lewis crept from his bed, wincing at the creak of the bed springs, terrified to break the silence left in the wake of the laugh. He stood, reached for the light, and stopped with his finger touching the switch; something inside Lewis pleaded with him to leave the light off, to stay hidden in the shadows. He obeyed the inner warning, and in the dark, shuffled across the carpet to the open window, forcing his legs against their will, his ears straining to pick up any sounds. The night exuded an uncharacteristic hush. The buzz of crickets and cicadas—normally active on a sweltering night like tonight—were nonexistent.

  Lewis looked out the window at the quiet and empty street. Nothing moved under the pale glow of the streetlights. The houses he could see from his window were dark except for their porch lights. Despite the unusual quiet, all seemed normal. He glanced across the street toward the home of Old Man Boyd. Everything was as it should be, the silhouettes of the four skinny bushes stood out on the old man's front lawn.

  Lewis did a double take.

  Four bushes?

  Lewis froze as one of the bushes peeled away from the other three and sprouted arms, then legs, taking the form of a person. The dark shape walked from the shadows, across the old man's yard toward Lewis, and stopped. Lewis could feel the uncontrollable tremor spread throughout his body like an electric current as he recognized the figure. Standing on the edge of his street, bathed in the puddle of light from the streetlamp, stood Jerry Harris.

  Lewis crouched as instinct took over, his wide eyes peeking over the sill, locked onto the lurking figure across the street. Jerry swiveled his head from side to side like any normal kid would do, checking both ways before crossing the street, a huge grin on his face. Only, this kid didn't look normal, the smile too big, like the skeleton in science class. Lewis couldn’t pinpoint it, but something definitely seemed out of sorts with Jerry. His clothes were stained dark and shimmered with wetness, the whiteness of his teeth glowed in contrast to his grimy face.

  Resisting the urge to call out his friend's name, Lewis clamped his mouth shut, covering it with his hand. Jerry walked into the middle of the street, stopped, and walked out of view, headed in the direction of the woods, his stride confident and almost cheerful.

  Lewis turned and sat down hard under the window, his back sliding down the wall as his heart bounced up his chest, threatening to jump out of his open mouth onto his lap. He gasped for air, realizing he had held his breath during the entire incident.

  That was Jerry!

  That was not Jerry!

  Waiting until his heart dropped from his throat back to its normal position, Lewis turned and grabbed hold of the windowsill, and like a rock climber clinging for life, pulled himself up by his fingertips and peered over the sill.

  The street appeared empty.

  He stood up and pressed his face against the rough screen, trying his best to see further down the street, not sure if he wanted to see anything. Nothing there. He looked across at the three innocent bushes standing guard. No Jerry.

  The insects started their nightly performance as if nothing had happened.

  What did just happen? Did I really see what I think I saw? Did I dream that? Was that another one of my weird nightmares?

  Lewis pinched his arm to confirm he wasn't dreaming—the pain seemed real enough. He left his room, crept down the hallway, slithering across the thick carpet of the living room toward his mother's bedroom, stopping in front of her closed door. He lifted his fist to knock, then dropped his hand back to his side. He was already starting to doubt what he’d seen, the image of his missing friend seeming less corporeal with every passing second, fading like a dream upon awakening. He could picture his mother stroking his head, telling him in a soothing voice that it was just that, a dream, not to worry and go back to bed.

  He listened to her soft snores on the other side of the door and decided against waking her. What exactly would he tell her anyway? He wanted to be sure. He had to be sure. The only way to do that would be to look for himself. Until he did, he wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

  Back in his room, Lewis put on jeans and sneakers, crept down the hallway again, this time heading for the front door. The thick shag carpet masked his movements as he passed his mother's room, her slow breathing still audible.

  He unlocked the front door, the metallic click deafening in the silent house, and turned the handle. He had to see for himself, to make sure he wasn't dreaming, or crazy. He opened the door, thankful for the freshly oiled hinges, and looked down the street before stepping onto the front porch, closing the door behind him, taking care not to lock himself out.

  Standing on th
e stoop, Lewis felt exposed under the glow of the porch light, like being on stage for a school play, the whole world watching. His street remained quiet, the houses still dark except for their own porch lights that always burned through the night. He hoped everyone was asleep at this hour. The sight of a twelve-year-old boy wandering around would definitely raise suspicion, especially with today's chaos.

  He stood there on the porch, unsure of what to do next. Lewis shrugged to nobody and walked to the spot in the street where he had seen Jerry. Thought he had seen Jerry. He turned to his bedroom window to get a fix on the proper position. Lewis stared at the dark square of his window and imagined himself crouched below the opening, hiding from Jerry. He wondered again why he had stayed hidden, what instinct had kept him from turning on the light and shouting Jerry's name?

  I was afraid, he thought. Something about Jerry scared the crap out of me.

  He shook the thought away. Cursing himself for forgetting a flashlight, Lewis bent down to look for evidence of the boy's existence. It only took a second to find something. The dark stain, illuminated by the streetlamp, stood out on the road at his feet, in the exact spot Jerry had been standing.

  Blood, was the first thought to enter his mind. Lewis shook his head.

  It's just water, or motor oil, that's all.

  Lewis stood still, studying the stain, convincing himself of its innocent nature, when he heard it again—the same sinister laugh that had yanked him from deep sleep. It sounded far away, barely audible, but unmistakable against the hum of insects and quiet of the night.

  Rooted to the spot, Lewis felt as if his skin had suddenly constricted over his entire body at once, like wearing a suit three sizes too small. His sneakers adhered to the macadam, his leg muscles like cold stone. Lewis wanted to run, the distance of the laugh not far enough for comfort, unwillingly stuck in a crouch in the middle of the road. He took a deep breath and turned his gaze in the direction of the sound. Without a doubt, the laugh had come from the dark woods at the end of his street.