From behind, the slurping and squeaks halted.
Knowing he’d been caught, Justin stopped. Taking his time, he turned to accept his fate.
He spoke up before his parents could say anything: the preemptive-strike-method of innocence Clinton had taught him. “I'm sorry. I heard weird noises so I got up to … Mom? Are you okay?”
The sound that spewed from his mother's blood-smeared face turned Justin's flesh to ice. With her hands propped on the top of the chair she barked an evil laugh—a hyena celebrating a fresh kill. Justin could feel the strength leave his body like a flock of frightened birds, then the jarring impact of his tailbone against the tile floor as it hit him from behind like a rogue wave. Justin lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling, completely confused.
His mother's mocking laugh caught his attention. The laugh morphed into a low growl, and Justin could only watch as his mother crawled over the high back of the recliner, tipping it, and his father to the floor with her. Justin stared into his father's open eyes, then into the gaping cavity that had replaced his nose, and finally into the skeletal smile formed from his missing lips.
Justin's mother landed on all fours, snarling like a wolf, blocking the sight of his dead father's ruined face. Justin regained some muscle control and scooted back, away from the wild animal wearing his mother's face, the thick pain of his bruised coccyx breaking his mental paralysis.
His mother stood, casual and calm. She sauntered to her youngest son, teeth bared, her hands at her sides shaped into claws, dripping with his father's blood. Justin could sense her muscles coiling under her pale flesh, like a snake on the verge of striking, but could still not find the strength to rise. He propped himself on one elbow and raised his other hand to his mother.
“Mom … Stop … Please,” he begged, his voice quaking along with his outstretched hand.
She laughed at his pathetic pleas. A hearty laugh that brought her head back, her face to the ceiling. Justin knew nothing of the witch's tale, but he knew the chuckling monster standing above him was not his mother.
The beast stopped laughing and dropped her eyes back down to meet Justin's. She whipped her head to the left as something caught her attention. That's when the growling, brown blur flew over Justin, knocking the crazed woman to the floor.
Chewy attacked his owner with the ferociousness of a badger, latching onto her shoulder and shaking with savage, tendon-snapping force.
Justin stared at the attack with awe. Chewy—the lazy family pet—had gone wild.
With his execution pardoned, Justin's energy returned. He pounced to his feet, ignoring the hot flare of pain in his tailbone. Chewy sensed the recovery and released the woman. The dog barked once at Justin and ran to the back door, disappearing through the flap of the dog door. Justin received the message loud and clear and followed his savior. As he reached the door another crash and hissing growl came from behind; he glanced over his shoulder to see his mother rising, pulling furniture over to right herself, her left arm hanging limp at her side.
With tears blurring his vision, Justin opened the back door and ran into the night, following Chewy's commanding bark—a beacon in the darkness.
Away from one nightmare.
Straight into another.
40
Lewis watched the back of Mr. Boyd as the old man led the way down the moonlit path, stopping now and then to listen to the woods, slowing when the advancing clouds obscured the moon's glow. Old Man Boyd didn't seem quite so old anymore, and Lewis was grateful for his reassuring presence. Lewis shuddered when he thought of what would have happened if he hadn't come along with his shotgun.
As he followed his neighbor along the path, Lewis thought of his father, returning tomorrow from his business trip. How would he explain to his father the insane string of events that have unfolded since he left for California? Lewis had overheard his mother's phone conversation with her husband yesterday, so his father was informed of the disappearances, but that was all.
Lost in thought, Lewis ran headfirst into Mr. Boyd's back.
Mr. Boyd turned, finger pressed to pursed lips, and motioned for Lewis to duck down. He obeyed without question, crouching along with Mr. Boyd, peeking over the man's shoulder. He saw nothing but dark woods and an even darker slash in the earth just a few feet away—Horse Crap River. Then he heard it, the sounds of hurried footfalls approaching, swelling in volume with every passing second, more than one set of feet.
Stooped over, Mr. Boyd shuffled his way to the edge of the ditch. He peered down into the dark trench, turned back, and motioned for Lewis to join him. Lewis sidled up beside the old man.
“Hide in the ditch?” Lewis whispered.
Clyde Boyd shook his head and pointed into the darkness. Lewis followed his finger and felt his flesh pimple and his stomach churn; the finger pointed to the black mouth of the drainpipe.
Clyde slid his way down the rocky slope to the base of the ditch, surprising Lewis with his nimbleness. Lewis hesitated for a heartbeat, then followed, joining him at the bottom. They hunched over and made their way along the rocky ditch bottom to the black tunnel as the disembodied footsteps drew closer.
His terror increasing as the pipe's opening widened, Lewis followed Mr. Boyd on shaking legs. Andy and Jason were the only people he knew of that ever ventured into the pipe. Their tales of gators, snakes, and rats living in the drainage system kept everyone else away; not to mention the urban legend of the ill-fated little boy that had chased his football to his doom, and his vengeful spirit haunting the underground labyrinth. Lewis was sure the twins told the stories just to keep other kids from using their hang out, but he never had the desire to test the validity of their tales.
Lewis stopped as Mr. Boyd bent over further, and without hesitating, disappeared into the black hole. Lewis stood just outside the opening, frozen with indecision.
A faint whisper called out to him, “Come on.”
Lewis bent at the waist and poked his head into the cool opening.
Strong hands sprung from the darkness, grasping Lewis's arm, pulling him into the shadows just as two policeman materialized at the edge of the ditch.
From inside the dark tunnel, Lewis and Mr. Boyd could plainly see the policemen in the distance, bathed in the full moon's light. Chief Richards—his face drenched with glimmering blood, a nightstick dangling from his wrist—started down the side of the ditch, causing a miniature landslide. His deputy followed close behind, also covered in gleaming blood; the blood appeared black as oil in the moon's monochrome glare. When the pair reached the bottom, they paused—close enough that Lewis could smell the gamey scent wafting from the obviously dead policemen—and looked up the opposite slope of the ditch. Lewis noticed the deputy's neck spread open in a toothless grin as he tilted his head back.
Lewis could feel Mr. Boyd twitch behind him, sensing the man's desire to jump out and kill the cops. He braced his hands against the curved walls of the pipe, blocking the old man's way, the revolver in his hand scraping the concrete in the process.
The chief turned his head toward the sound, his faint glowing eyes burning twin holes into Lewis's own.
Lewis held his breath for what seemed an eternity, and didn't release it until the chief turned his gaze and the pair moved up the other side of the ditch, vanishing over the lip.
“Come on, let's kill those bastards,” Mr. Boyd whispered from behind with disturbing enthusiasm.
“Shouldn't we find Jerry?” Lewis whispered back to the darkness.
Mr. Boyd sighed. “Yeah. You're right. Just got a little excited at the thought of getting me a cop.”
Before Lewis could ask his neighbor why he hated the police so much, a hollow clang echoed deep within the tunnel, freezing the question on his tongue. Instead, he asked, “What the heck was that?”
“Dunno. Sounded kinda like a manhole cover moving. I bet this pipe connects to all the other storm drains in the neighborhood.”
The noise came again. A metallic scr
aping followed by a hollow toll like a death knell.
“You said they were probably using the drains to hide out, right?” Lewis asked.
“Yep.”
“Then maybe we should get out of here.”
Instead of a response, Lewis heard a click, and the beam from Mr. Boyd's flashlight shot down the gradually descending tunnel. Where the light ended, a circular wall of total darkness stared back, like a drop-off into an abyss. Graffiti surrounded them—profanity and logos of heavy metal bands adorning the curved walls. Lewis glanced to the right and observed a giant penis and hairy testicles spray-painted on the wall next to the old man's head, with the phrase SUK ME HARD scrawled below it—definitely the work of the Reed brothers.
“They don't know we're down here. Maybe we can sneak up on 'em,” Mr. Boyd said.
“What if we get lost?”
“If they can figure it out, then I know we can. Come on, let's go.”
As the old man inched forward, the light revealed more pipe, chasing the chasm's edge further down the tunnel. Lewis could hear the stock of the shotgun scraping the floor as the old man used it like a cane.
“Smells bad down here,” Lewis commented, hunched over, scooting forward in the confining space. “Like something died.”
“Something did … Let's go get ‘em.”
Lewis followed, his left hand on the old man's stooped back, his right clutching the pistol. Slimy sweat coated his skin, and he fought to breathe in the stagnant, stifling space. The graffiti dwindled as they ventured deeper, until the walls were eventually free from the moronic scrawls. Unease swept over Lewis as he realized he must have gone further than the twins ever have, followed by a strange sense of pride as well.
The tunnel connected to a slightly smaller one, forcing them to bend over further. Lewis had the sudden image of the small pipe that hung out over the lake; it was too small for a person to fit through unless they were crawling on their belly. Soon, he realized, this tunnel would be that size, causing the first hints of claustrophobia to creep into his head. Just as this thought came to Lewis, Mr. Boyd's light revealed a hole to the right.
“Look,” he whispered, stabbing the light into the new tunnel. “I bet this pipe links up to the storm drains from our streets.”
Lewis looked at the small opening, “Can you fit through there?”
“It'll be tight but I think I'll manage.”
“Look,” Lewis said, pointing to the edge of the opening. A single dirty handprint stood out on the cement above the pipe, urging them to stop. The handprint of a small child.
“Well, at least we know which way to go,” Mr. Boyd said. Lewis couldn't see the old man's face, but his voice sounded like it was filtered through a smile.
Hunching over even more, Mr. Boyd entered the side shaft, Lewis close behind. The confining space and slight incline slowed the pair down. This was probably for the best since the slickness under their shoes threatened to send them back the way they’d came. The walls of the tunnel were oily as well, making it difficult to grasp. At one point Mr. Boyd slipped, dropping the shotgun. Luckily, Lewis had a free hand to save it from sliding back down the shaft; he didn't want to run into any of those creatures with just the snub-nose.
After a thankfully short climb, the slanting shaft terminated at a junction with a larger intersecting pipe, leading off in opposite directions. They stood to nearly their full height, their eyes following the light's glare to the left, then to the right. Identical paths stared back at them.
“Which way?” asked Lewis, instantly breathing better in the larger space. He was amazed there was this unexplored world below his neighborhood this whole time. He wished he could share it with Clinton. The thought of his friend deflated his brief excitement.
Mr. Boyd paused, gathering his bearings. “If we go right I think that'll take us toward our street. That's where you last saw the boy, so that's the way we'll go. And if he's down here, it makes sense he would be that way too.”
“You really think they're hiding out down here, Mr. Boyd?”
“Sure as Shinola, son. That handprint back there proves it. It's perfect if you think about it. They can come and go unseen. And that sounded like a manhole cover moving, so somebody’s down here.
“And call me Clyde, dammit,” he added.
Clyde headed off to the right with Lewis close on his heels, their soaked shoes splashing in a thin layer of murky water. Fat cockroaches scurried from the light, making Lewis's skin crawl with imaginary bugs.
Despite their attempt at stealth, their movements and whispers reverberated throughout the tunnels.
They did not go unheard.
41
Mike Simmons—Clinton and Justin's next-door neighbor—hung the phone back on its cradle and stared at the corpse on his kitchen floor: his roommate he had just moments earlier bludgeoned to death with a marble rolling pin. He’d never used the pin before and wondered why he even still had it.
Guess I finally found a use for it, he thought, and squeezed the dishtowel harder to the bite wound on his forearm—one of many bites, but definitely the worst. He shuffled backward as the widening pool of blood on the kitchen floor reached his toes.
The emergency dispatcher had asked him several times if he'd been drinking, or doing drugs. He didn't blame the woman for asking, his story sounded crazy, even though he could still hear screams from outside, and the occasional report of gunfire, reassuring him he was sane. Maybe the only sane person left.
Mike had awakened to the ruckus just a few moments earlier. When he had realized the shouts and gunshots were real and not a part of his dream, he had risen from bed to investigate. He’d then knocked on his roommate's bedroom door. “Tim? You home? Some weird shit's going down outside, man.”
There was no answer so Mike opened the door, to an empty room. Not really a shock; Tim slept at his girlfriend's house more than he slept here.
Mike then went to the living room and looked out the front window. Tim's car was parked at the curb—again not very odd, since he could easily walk to his girl's house. What was odd, especially for this late hour, were the people outside on his street, casually walking around as if nothing was wrong, all of them wearing a peculiar grin. Then, while surveying the strange nightwalkers, Mike spied his next-door neighbor, Justin, barefoot and in pajamas, chasing his shaggy dog across the front lawn. No, not chasing, Mike realized, but following, running from something. The kid dodged the outstretched hands of a man at the edge of Mike's yard and kept going full tilt down the street.
Mike recognized the man. Tim? Why the hell did Tim try to grab Justin? What the fuck is going on?
Mike, anger now taking over his confusion, swung the front door open, stood on the threshold, and repeated his thoughts out loud. “Tim? What the fuck is going on?”
Tim looked up, and Mike knew right away that situation-normal had left the building. Tim's eyes shined in the darkness and his face glistened with blood. The most disturbing thing, however, was Tim's smile. The hungry smile of a starving man in front of a juicy steak.
Tim lurched toward Mike, who in his shock, backed away from the door without closing it.
“Tim, what's wrong, man? It's me, your bro,” he pleaded as Tim entered the house, the smile stretching wider.
The attack was ferocious. Tim scratched and bit the larger man several times before Mike could free himself and run toward the kitchen. The image of the marble rolling pin flashed in his mind, a gift from his parents when he'd moved away from home. It had belonged to his grandmother who apparently had been quite the baker; Mike always thought it was an odd parting gift, but never said so to his parents. The pin had never strayed from its spot on the kitchen counter since he first moved into the rental; he had a sinking feeling it wouldn't be there.
Thankfully, the pin waited exactly where it should be. Mike grabbed it by one handle and whirled around, already swinging the heavy utensil. It struck Tim in the forehead with a loud cracking smack. The blood-soaked m
an backed away two steps, paused, and charged again, roaring like an angry bull. Mike swung the pin again, this time connecting with the side of his friend's skull with a dull crunch. Blood splattered Mike’s face, and Tim crumpled to the linoleum at his feet.
Panting, adrenaline causing his muscles to quiver, Mike white-knuckled the rolling pin and watched in disbelief as Tim started to rise. He stopped his friend's ascent with three powerful swings of the unforgiving marble pin, opening the man's skull. He dropped the weapon to the floor, his shoulder throbbing from swinging the hefty object.
That's when Mike Simmons—after locking the front door and waiting a minute to regain speech—called the operator with his incredible story. She informed him the police were on their way.
It was the first of many strange calls she would receive that night.
42
Lewis followed Mr. Boyd along the pipe for some distance, the feeling they were lost worming its way into his brain. His sneakers and socks were soaked from the tepid water standing in the pipe, not helping his dour mood. He needed to talk, to say anything to keep his mind off the tight space and scurrying roaches.
“Mr. Boyd? Clyde, I mean. You said something yesterday that I've been thinking about.”
“What's that, son?”
Lewis flicked a roach off his forearm, the disgusting touch of the bug’s sticky legs lingering like tiny phantom limbs. “You mentioned something about a Viking folk tale or something. What did you mean?”
Mr. Boyd continued inching forward along the pipe, took a deep breath and said, “Well, I found a couple stories of an old legend, from a couple different books. I pieced them together best I could. Story goes that a widow and her daughter—the stories differ, but suggest the daughter was in her early to mid-teens—story goes they were both powerful healers that lived in a small fishing village. They cured the villagers’ ailments with herbs and spells and stuff like that, in exchange for goods. Some of my books refer to healers like them as Hedge Witches. And let me tell ya, them witches can use nature in ways you wouldn't believe.”
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