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

by Craig Wesley Wall

  As control of his body crept back in, Lewis stood. He stared down his street, toward the wall of impenetrable blackness at the end of the grass field. He turned to look at the front door of his home, then back to the dark woods. Lewis rifled through his options until he came to a decision.

  I'm going into those woods. I need to know.

  But first, he had to make one stop.

  13

  “Clinton, wake up.”

  Clinton rolled over, grunted, and fell back to sleep.

  “Hey, wake up,” Lewis hissed, tapping on the screen, causing it to rattle in its frame. Lewis heard another grunt, some shuffling, and Clinton's sleepy face appeared at the window.

  “What?” moaned Clinton, scratching his head through a mop of crazed blonde hair.

  “Quiet,” whispered Lewis. “Meet me out back.”

  “Lewis?”

  “Yeah. Wake up and meet me out back.”

  “I'm sleeping,” whined Clinton.

  “Just do it. It's important.”

  “All right. Stop making so much noise.” Clinton's face disappeared so Lewis made his way to the back door like a thief in the night.

  The journey to Clinton's house had been quiet and uneventful, but terrifying nonetheless. Lewis had wanted to ride his bike to his friend's house, but there’d been no way to retrieve it from the garage without waking his mother; the inside door to the garage was in his parents' bedroom, and the big metal door on the outside made too much of a racket when slid open. So, he'd made the trip on foot.

  Lewis kept expecting to hear the laugh from every yard he passed, turning his head around every few feet, sure there would be somebody following him. More than once, he almost lost his nerve, thinking himself crazy for even considering going into the woods, the safety of his room beckoning for his return. He doggedly plodded on, if there was one person that would believe him, it was his best friend.

  Clinton, wearing only cut-off sweatpants, rubbing his eyes and shuffling like the undead, stepped through the back door into the shadowed back yard. Chewy—his brown, scraggly-haired mutt—followed him, moving off to the bushes, uninterested in Lewis.

  Lewis raised his hands and pleaded, “I know it's late but this is super important.”

  “What?” Clinton asked, still whining. “Do you know what time it is? If my folks wake up I'm dead.”

  Lewis sucked in a deep breath before saying, “I saw Jerry, dude.”

  “What?” Clinton repeated. “Where? When?”

  “In the street, outside my window, like, fifteen minutes ago.”

  Clinton rested his hands on his hips and offered Lewis a half-grin. “What was he doing?” Clinton's tone suggested he was prepared for a practical joke, or he questioned his friend's sanity.

  Lewis paused, his brow furrowing. “He was … smiling.”

  Clinton waited for Lewis to say more, realized his friend was serious, then said, “So he's okay then. That's awesome.”

  “No,” Lewis said, staring at the ground, “that's the thing. I have a feeling he's not okay. It wasn't … a good smile.” He lifted his head and met Clinton's sleepy eyes. “You know what I mean?”

  “Not really,” admitted Clinton, shrugging, and shaking his head.

  Lewis sighed. “It looked like Jerry. It was Jerry, but … I felt like I was looking at a total stranger. Something was weird about his eyes and the way he was smiling. It just felt … wrong.

  “Does that make any sense?” Lewis asked.

  “Nope. Not really.”

  “You think I'm crazy,” Lewis said.

  Clinton smiled. “I know you're crazy. Where is he now?”

  “I'm pretty sure he went into the woods. I wanna go find him.”

  Clinton stood there with his hands on his hips, nodding at Lewis, then his eyes popped open as he realized what his friend meant. “What, now? At night? In the woods? You are crazy.”

  “Shhh. We won't go in that far, okay. I just want to check it out. Who knows, maybe I was only dreaming, but I really don't think I was.”

  Clinton sighed and watched as Chewy trotted through the dog door, done with his business. He turned back to Lewis and stared at his friend for several seconds. “Okay,” Clinton said, caving in, the pleading look in Lewis's eyes not giving him much choice. “I'll go get dressed and grab a flashlight. Be right back.”

  Clinton turned and walked back into his house. As he passed under the outdoor light, a dark bruise stood out on his back, just below his left shoulder blade. Lewis assumed it was from the war, and shook his head at the events that have unfolded since that fun-filled afternoon just over a day ago; the victory he had so desired, now trivial.

  Upon Clinton's return, the boys agreed it would be much faster to climb Clinton's back fence and cut through the Nelson's yard to the next street over instead of walking all the way around—the Nelsons were in their eighties, half deaf, and slept like the dead. This route would also keep them off the street, unseen by anyone that happened to still be awake. The boys had used this path with great success many times, just never this late at night. In fact, they've never done anything this late at night.

  The first hiccup in the boys' quest came before they even left Clinton's side of the fence. They were in the process of scaling the rickety chain-link—Lewis straddling the only stretch of fence clear of bushes, his toes hooked in for purchase as the fence wobbled to and fro, and Clinton waiting to hand over the bulky flashlight—when a fierce hiss froze the blood in their veins.

  “What the hell is that?” Lewis asked in a shaking whisper, his grip tightening on the cross bar of the fence as he nearly lost his balance.

  Clinton jumped back. “Snake … don't move.”

  “Use the flashlight, jackass,” Lewis whispered over the malicious hissing. “Shine it in front of me.”

  Clinton thumbed the switch, directing the powerful beam at the top of the fence just in front of Lewis. Six inches from his friend's crotch, partially obscured by the bushes, perched a massive demon with glistening black eyes, bared yellow fangs, and coarse, matted gray fur. The creature's muscles fluttered, its sharp talons clasped to the top bar of the fence, ready to lunge and tear a chunk from Lewis's privates.

  With a clicking of claws, the beast lurched forward, its tapered snout full of needle-like fangs coming in for a taste. Both boys released a high-pitched scream, instantly covering their mouths. Lewis tumbled off the fence, crashing hard into Clinton, sending them both to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Lewis groped for the fallen light, retrieved it, and illuminated the creature.

  “Holy shit,” Clinton exhaled. “It's just a 'possum.”

  “An opossum,” Lewis corrected, gasping.

  “Whatever you call it, I think I just shit my pants. Maybe we should go the long way before we wake up the entire street,” Clinton said, glancing back at his house, expecting to see lights flick on at any second.

  “Sounds good to me,” Lewis agreed, staring at the frightened, innocent marsupial in the glare of the light.

  Clinton stood and dusted himself off. “This is starting out crappy, Lewis. I hope you know what you're doing. Are you sure you saw him?”

  Lewis stood and passed the light back to Clinton. “I wasn't dreaming if that's what you mean. There was a kid outside my house. And that kid looked just like Jerry. And if I told my mom everything I told you, she would think I'm bat shit crazy. I'm going into the woods to find him. You with me or not?”

  After a short pause, Clinton said, “Yeah, I'm with you. Let's go.”

  Together they headed off toward the woods—the long way—to search for Jerry, ignoring the omen crouched on the fence, warning them to go back home.

  Back to the safety of their beds.

  14

  While the boys were having their encounter with the demon on the fence, Maggie Burton lounged on her sofa watching television a few streets over, just a few doors down from Lewis's house. At thirty-eight years old, Maggie was divorced and living alone, which
suited her just fine after a troubled marriage like the one she had endured for a decade. Sometimes she would get lonely, but it was a small price to pay for her freedom. She’d been enjoying that freedom—watching whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, without having to worry about being verbally and physically abused by a drunk husband—when a knock at the front door sent her good spirits spiraling away, dropping a shroud of dread upon her like a damp blanket.

  Knowing it must be her ex-husband, and knowing he would be drunk and possibly belligerent, Maggie took her time answering the knock. She sighed hard, slapped her knees, stood, and moped to the front door.

  Gazing through the peephole, she was surprised to see an empty porch instead of the familiar drunk face swaying under the glare of the outdoor light.

  She opened the door, poked her head out, and looked around. “Dave?” she asked the quiet night. “I'm going to call the cops if you don't leave me alone. Remember that little thing called a restraining order?”

  No response. Not even the crickets answered her.

  Her porch, and the entire street for that matter, remained silent as a tomb. She searched the driveway and street for Dave's truck. Her Datsun sat alone in the drive, the street empty. She quickly shut and locked the door (the absolute silence unnerved her more than actually having to deal with the drunken jerk) and returned to the den where the couch and the soothing, faithful glow of her television awaited her. She turned up the volume with the remote, preparing to plop back down onto the sofa, when another knock boomed out, much louder this time, shaking the door on its hinges.

  She threw the remote onto the couch and stomped to the door, her anger increasing with every step. Furious, she skipped the peephole, unlocked the door, and flung it wide open.

  “Listen you son of a …”

  She recognized Andy and Jason Reed at once. The young punks had come by the house on a few occasions to buy joints from her ex-husband; she hated the way they leered at her, especially the one time they stopped by after she had kicked Dave out.

  Her eyes moved from one boy to the other. Their heads were down as if studying the socks on her feet, their filthy hair glistening under the light. Then she noticed Jason's grimy hand holding a dirty bundle of what appeared to be some sort of wet rope against his belly.

  “Are you guys okay?” she asked. “Everyone's been looking for—”

  She stopped when the smell hit her, causing her to retch—the rotten stench of dead animal.

  The boys raised their pale faces into the light and smiled. A puckering hole in Andy's throat dribbled dark fluid onto his stained shirt. When she saw this, and looked into the boys' yellow eyes, she knew something was most definitely wrong. They were already reaching through the doorway, pushing her back, before she could even consider shutting the door.

  Jason's guts smacked the front step as he reached out and seized Maggie's throat, stopping her scream dead in her lungs. He waded in, entering the woman's home, his feet punting his unfurling intestines, lassoing Maggie's retreating ankles as he squeezed her delicate neck. She tipped backward toward the floor, both hands grabbing Jason's wrists, unable to free her throat from the vice-like grip, her breath and voice shut off like a bent garden hose. White flashes like bursting light bulbs filled her vision, and a low hum invaded her head as she felt her body tilting backward.

  … She’s in the shallows of the river, just a child, being baptized under the summer sun, the preacher's prayer muffled as she’s submerged into the cool water, the sun's glare sifting through the dancing leaves of the trees at the river's edge, sparkling across her tightly sealed eyes like gemstones.

  Jason knelt with Maggie as she fell, slamming her head onto the tile floor, the back of her skull cracking like a gunshot.

  … She hears a muffled pop, like the sound of a firecracker tossed into a well, the report reverberating in her head. She opens her eyes to blackness; she’s in the dark well, the minor explosion hammering her skull, her body sinking into the frigid water at the bottom, the circle of light above shrinking to a pinhole.

  Her arms flailed, punching the air twice before slapping back down to the floor, her hands flopping weakly like dying fish in the bottom of a boat.

  … She floats from the cold water, the glowing circle of sun above growing larger until it fills her fully with its soothing warm light.

  Andy followed his brother into Maggie's home, eased the door shut, and unsheathed the hunting knife from his brother's belt, savoring the sight of the dark puddle expanding from the woman's ruined skull like a blooming rose. Beaming with excitement, Andy knelt on the opposite side of the woman's prone figure, raised the blade above his head with both hands, and brought it down on Maggie Burton's mid-section with such force the tip snapped off when it met the tile floor beneath her. With the broken knife, Andy perforated the dead woman's belly over and over again like a sewing machine; her blood and viscera filled the air, coating the furniture and walls.

  Using his hands, Andy pried the mutilated abdomen wide, dipped his entire head into the intestinal soup, and slurped, breathing in the woman's fluids like a drowning victim gasping for precious air. Jason made similar noises while gorging on the dead woman's throat, his front teeth shattering to pieces as he chomped into her spine.

  From the other room, canned laughter spewed from the television, accompanying the ill-mannered feeding frenzy.

  She could feel the energy coursing through her as the boys devoured the woman. The beautiful salty taste of the woman's blood and flesh filled her mouth, as if she were there, partaking in the much-needed meal herself. She felt alive when she fed. She felt unstoppable, the life-giving nectar affecting her like a narcotic.

  The weak inhabitants of this place would be hers, just like so many times before. Her long absence has turned out to be a blessing; she could not sense any fear or knowledge of her in the minds of the boys.

  She has been forgotten over the years.

  She lounged in her new hiding place—the labyrinth of underground tunnels she saw in the boys' minds, the sewers and drains beneath the streets. She relaxed, safe, as her others fed, feeding her, making her stronger.

  Her time has come again. This time she had plenty of flesh to choose from, conveniently located in her woods.

  Her own personal larder.

  15

  Escaping detection despite Clinton's nervous chatter throughout the entire journey, the boys stood at the entrance to the woods, the wall of vegetation looming before them like an oily black tidal wave against the night sky. The only sounds present were the hissing of their tense breathing and the constant drone of frogs and insects.

  Staring into the black, dense tangle of vine-choked forest, Lewis wished he had never looked out his bedroom window earlier. The incident with the opossum had shaken his nerves, but not his determination to find out if Jerry had been standing outside his window, on his street, or if he had imagined the entire ordeal.

  “Maybe he didn't go into the woods, dude,” Clinton whispered for the third time. “I mean you didn't actually see him go in did you?”

  “No … I heard laughter coming from this way.”

  “That could have been anyone,” Clinton said. “It was probably someone watching a Saturday Night Live rerun too loud or something.”

  Lewis snorted. “In the woods? No. It was Jerry. And something was wrong with him.”

  “Did the laugh sound like Jerry’s? That wheezing Muttley laugh he has?”

  The question surprised Lewis. He hadn’t thought about it at the time, but the laugh had definitely not sounded like Jerry’s. It had been clear, as if the boy’s asthma had been miraculously cured.

  “Yeah,” Lewis lied, unsure of why he felt the need to do so. “It was Muttley.”

  Clinton clicked the flashlight and directed the bright beam into the woods; the blackness swallowed the light. Lewis felt as if he could reach out and touch the dark—a physical barrier—believing his finger would disappear as if dipped in ink. He ti
lted his face to the sky; the moon was nowhere to be seen, hidden somewhere behind a blanket of clouds.

  “It's so dark,” whispered Clinton, as if reading Lewis's thoughts.

  Lewis held out his hand. “Give me the light, I'll go in first.”

  Clinton passed it over and asked, “You notice something weird?”

  “What, you?” Lewis said, a lame attempt to lift the tension.

  Ignoring the quip, Clinton whispered, “The bugs stopped, dude.”

  Clinton was right. Their heavy breathing was the only sound. No bugs or frogs sang, no breeze rustled the trees, nothing scurried from their approach. Lewis had the feeling the woods were listening to them, eavesdropping on their conversation.

  “Maybe we should go home,” suggested Clinton. “Come back tomorrow morning when it's light out.”

  “Clinton, I'm going in. With, or without you.”

  “All right … jeez, which way?”

  Lewis thought for a moment before saying, “We can take the main trail straight out. Then we can head back on the trail that comes out near the wall behind Old Man Boyd's house. If we don't find anything, we can cut through his yard and we're back at my house. How's that sound?”

  “Sounds great,” Clinton said with a sarcastic grin, then muttered, “I hope we don't find anything.”

  Lewis breached the veil of darkness and entered the woods, Clinton following on his heels. The flashlight’s beam made the surrounding shadows even darker, the gloom an actual weight on their bodies, a living entity crowding in from all sides. Several yards in, Lewis paused to listen to the silence. Clinton tapped him on the shoulder, causing him to jump. “Go,” he urged. “Let's get this over with so I can go back to bed.”