“So they were good witches?” Lewis asked.
“Yeah … so it would seem. But when a plague fell on the village, the mother and her daughter did everything in their power to cure the infected folk, but a bunch of 'em died anyways, most of them little kids. It sounded to me like some sort of influenza. Anyways, the parents of these dead kids blamed the witches for them dying.”
“Why?”
Mr. Boyd paused and turned, the flashlight illuminating his sad face. Shrugging, he said, “I don't know, Lewis. Sometimes people just do that. Usually out of fear. Sometimes they just have to have something or someone to blame. Especially if it's something they don't understand. Somethin' different. Someone different.”
Mr. Boyd turned and continued along the pipe. “Anyways, the villagers came for the woman and the girl. They showed up at their house with revenge on their minds. Luckily, the girl was out collecting herbs and berries and whatever else a Hedge Witch uses in her spells. The mom weren't so lucky. The girl came home to a burned down house and her dead mother, tied to a stake, charred extra crispy.”
“Jeez,” Lewis whispered.
“Yeah. Not a nice thing to come home to. Well as you can imagine, the girl was none too happy with the villagers. The very people that her and her mother had tried to help.”
“What did she do?”
Once again Mr. Boyd turned to face Lewis, this time with a slight smile. “She got revenge on them, that's what she did. She cursed the whole village. Crops withered. Livestock croaked. People came down with every sickness you could think of. And from the descriptions it weren't too pretty. Well, the few men in the village that were still able to do so, hunted her down. And eventually caught her.”
“And?”
“And—this is where the stories agree—the men tied her to a tree, a special tree used in pagan ceremonies that stood all by itself on a small rocky island, in the middle of a big lake near the village. They tied her up and burned her just like her mother.”
“Man. That sucks.”
“Yeah, it does. But, here's where it gets really weird. You see, they were afraid her spirit would haunt the village, so before they set flame to her, they carved a symbol into the bark, something to keep her spirit trapped in that tree, forever, out there on its tiny little island in the middle of the lake, away from the village. One of my books even had a drawing of the symbol.”
Mr. Boyd shined the light to the tunnel wall and used his finger to draw the symbol in the muck coating the cement. He stepped back, admiring his work. “That's it. Simple, huh?”
Lewis stared at the circular symbol. “Yeah. It looks like a maze. An easy maze. What's it mean?”
“I dunno what it means, it’s just supposed to keep her spirit trapped. In fact, that’s what it’s called—a spirit trap. But it didn’t do ‘em any good. Because not too long after they burnt her up, guess what happened when folks ate fish from that lake, or drank the water.”
Lewis shrugged and took a guess. “They got sick?”
“Yeah, they got sick. Got sick and died.” A sinister grin split his wrinkled face. “Then they came back to life, started attacking everybody.”
“Holy crap,” Lewis said. “That sounds like your story of Chitto and Titus. Like what our tree does.”
“Yeah. It sure does. My guess is that the tree poisons anything its roots touch, just like the sand from the poor old shaman's sacred burial ground, letting her spirit possess the living … or in this case, the dead. But there's just one problem. That tree in the lake was on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, somewhere in Scandinavia I think, thousands of miles away. And I checked the tree here in our woods. No symbols are carved in the bark.”
“Well, does your book say what happened to the tree in the lake?” Lewis asked. “What happened to the village?”
“Yeah … sort of. After a long battle, the last of the infected villagers were put down. The killing finally stopped. The lake was off limits, guarded to keep folks away, kind of like what I’ve been doing here with our tree. Then, out of nowhere, some strange men showed up in the village. From the descriptions of their white robes it sounds to me like they were Druids. Actually, I’m positive that’s who they were. Don’t know why, but the villagers allowed these men—whom, according to my book, never spoke a word to any of the townsfolk—to row out to the tiny island. Later, after it was dark, chanting could be heard, and a bright flash of light came from the direction of the tree, as bright as a hundred bolts of lightning, followed by a clap of earthshaking thunder. In the morning the villagers awoke to find the Druids gone, along with the tree. Even the small rocky island it grew from was gone. Everything had vanished.” Mr. Boyd paused, shaking his head, his eyes staring through Lewis. “Anyways, it's just a legend, Lewis. I seriously doubt it's the same tree. I mean, not unless it traveled back in time, here, to our woods.”
“Traveled back in time?” Lewis asked.
“Yep. That’s what I said. Back in time. Sounds nuts, huh?”
Mr. Boyd chuckled at his last remark, but Lewis sensed a hint of unease in the old man's laugh, like he was trying too hard to convince himself of the ridiculousness of the statement. When he stopped laughing, he sighed, shaking his head again. Then, when he continued talking, his voice was lower. “I didn't want to believe something so crazy, Lewis. But a couple weeks ago I read an article on those Windover Bog People. You remember, the ancient remains we talked about, the ones that backhoe operator uncovered, the ones that were dated back seven or eight thousand years?”
Lewis nodded.
“Well, some egghead scientists claim some of the skulls appear to be European in shape. I assume they can tell that sort of thing, I don't know.”
After shaking his head again for several seconds, Mr. Boyd continued. “Now, I'm no historian, but I'm pretty damn sure no Europeans discovered this land seven to eight thousand years ago.” Mr. Boyd pointed toward his feet as he said this land.
Lewis absorbed the man's information for a few seconds, and then realized what he was hinting at. “So you do think it's the same tree, and that some of those Windover bones are the Druids that disappeared with it?”
Mr. Boyd waved his hands, attempting to quell Lewis's excitement, the flashlight dancing along the damp tunnel. “I don't know … I honestly don't know. I’ve been reading everything I can find on Druids, and supposedly there were these high-level ones, called Ovates, that could travel through time. I’ve been thinking that maybe, and it’s a big maybe, that they sent the tree—along with themselves to safeguard it—as far back as they could to be rid of the damn thing. I even think I might’ve figured out their incantation. But, even if such a thing were possible—which I’m not saying it is, mind you—it just don't make no damn sense. If it is the same tree, and if it was sent back in time, then how did the girl ever get burned to it in the first place?”
Lewis mulled over this question for a few seconds before asking, “But if it is the same witch, the Hedge Witch, why do you think she's so evil now? I mean, I can see why she hated the villagers, but why would she want to kill us?”
The old man shrugged again. “Most likely it’s because she's been a vengeful ghost for so long she can't control her blood lust. She's literally gone insane with vengeance. That’s what happens when a spirit stays in this realm too long, looking to get back at those that wronged them. And eight thousand years is a long time to be pissed off.”
“How do you know all this stuff, Mr. Boyd?”
“Oh, I’ve seen things that’ll make your toenails curl, son. And I’m sure you noticed, I read quite a bit. But those are stories for another time. We know what we gotta do right now. We gotta kill her vessel. We’ll worry about the tree after that. Come on, son, enough jabber-jawing, we need to move. All this talk is making my head hurt.”
At that, Mr. Boyd turned and followed the beam of his flashlight down the tunnel, done with his story. Lewis glanced at the strange spiral symbol before the darkness swallowed it, then f
ollowed him in silence, pondering the tale. It might have been just a silly legend, but the similarities had his mind buzzing with questions: if it was the same tree why had it ended up here? How could you stop her for good? Did the symbol have something to do with it? Could they actually send the tree back in time like the Druids had supposedly done?
Lewis was toiling over these and other questions when Mr. Boyd halted. Lewis looked past the old man and saw an opening up ahead on their left where a faint glow seeped through into the tunnel. Mr. Boyd motioned for Lewis to hang back, but he refused to listen, never letting his shaking hand leave the old man's back, actually pushing him forward toward the faint light, eager to be out of the damp, bug-ridden tunnel, regardless of what awaited them above.
They reached the source of light and faced an arched opening, the flashlight revealing a small brick chamber beyond. The sodden bricks inside the chamber were coated with hanging green algae that reminded Lewis of seaweed from an old B-movie. Rusted metal rungs protruded from the bricks straight ahead, leading up to a circular manhole cover and a storm drain. Light from a streetlamp shone in through the wide slot of the drain, casting a pale blue glow into the small room.
“I wonder where we are?” Mr. Boyd asked, his voice echoing as he swept the light around the green bricks and then to the small puddle of dark water at the bottom of the room.
Lewis's eyes followed the circle of light as it flashed over a dark object floating in the still water.
A football! He'll drag you down into his watery tomb!
Lewis wrenched the light from Clyde's grasp and illuminated the object, the beam vibrating. The innocent chunk of wood stared back.
“You okay, Lewis?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I'm fine. Thought I saw something is all,” Lewis said, embarrassed, handing the flashlight back.
“Hey. Can you look through the drain and see where we are?” asked Mr. Boyd.
“No problem.” Lewis secured the pistol in the waistband at the small of his back, waded through the shallow puddle, and crawled up the short ladder, the metal of the rungs slimy in his grip. He reached the top and peeked through the drain. A street sign was visible in the shadows of the world above.
Lewis turned. “I see a street sign but it's too dark, I can't read it.”
Mr. Boyd sloshed his way to the base of the ladder and held the light up to Lewis. “Here, use this, but do it fast. I don't want anyone to know we're down here.”
Lewis reached down, grabbed the light, and turned it off. Mr. Boyd disappeared into the shadows below. He pointed the bulb through the drain, toward the dark street sign, and thumbed the switch on and off as if taking a photo.
Lewis smiled at the familiar street names that appeared in the flash and whispered, “Hey, we're only three streets over from ours.”
He hooked his arm through a rung, clicked the light back on, and turned. “Here's the—”
Gasping in surprise, Lewis almost fell as the light’s beam splashed over the old man at the base of the ladder.
Jerry stood behind Mr. Boyd, a large kitchen knife raised in both hands, a look of demonic glee spread across his filthy face.
“LOOK OUT!” Lewis yelled, and watched helpless as Jerry plunged the giant knife between the old man's shoulder blades. Mr. Boyd's shocked face let loose a strangled cry. The shotgun fell from his grasp, landing upright against the brick wall as he pitched forward into the filthy puddle, the knife jutting from his back. Jerry placed his small foot on the old man’s back and yanked the blade free. A garbled scream in an unknown language swelled within the chamber. Lewis clamped his mouth shut, stunned the horrible voice was his own.
Lewis switched the light to his left hand, slid the revolver free with his right, and fired two quick shots, the blasts deafening in the small space. One bullet sparked off the bricks, the other tore into the flesh of Jerry's shoulder as he turned and fled through the opening and down the pipe.
Lewis released the rung and splashed to the floor to help his injured friend. Through the ringing in his ears, he could hear scuffling and splashing diminishing down the tunnel—Jerry running away.
He hefted the wounded man to his side. “Mr. Boyd? Clyde?”
“Go, Lewis. Get out of here,” he croaked, his face pale in the bright light.
“I can't leave you,” Lewis said, his voice trembled as tears filled his vision.
Sounds from both directions floated down the pipe: rasping animal grunts, and splashing, echoing through the tunnel.
“Go,” Clyde repeated. “I can't feel my damn legs. Go, climb out the drain.”
When Lewis didn't move, the old man shoved him, harder than Lewis would have thought possible. “GO,” he shouted this time, red spittle spraying from his lips.
The grunts and growls in the tunnel were much louder now. Lewis tucked the gun back into his shorts, rose on shaking legs, and scaled the ladder. He reached the top rung and turned to look at his friend one last time in the glare of the flashlight.
Propped up on one hand, his useless legs submerged in the dark puddle, Mr. Boyd was using a small rock to scratch the circular maze symbol into the algae-covered brick wall. He finished, tossed the rock aside and reached out, retrieving the shotgun. He looked into the light and showed Lewis a weak smile.
“What're you doing?” Lewis asked.
Go, Mr. Boyd mouthed. He turned the gun and his still smiling face to the arched entrance, the big barrels of the shotgun waiting for something to peek into the room.
Lewis turned, tossed the light through the opening onto the dark street, grabbed the edges of the drain and pushed off with his feet. His sneaker squeaked as it slipped off the metal rung, and Lewis kicked the air trying to find the ladder again, holding on with his fingertips. Finally, he found his footing and pushed, squeezing his head and shoulders out into the fresh air like a newborn child.
Lewis felt the pistol in his waistband scrape and snag on the underside of the drain's lip, pressing into the base of his spine, then the pressure subsided as the gun came free. He heard the metal clang and wet plop as the .38 bounced off the ladder and hit the pool at the bottom of the drain.
Before Lewis could mourn the loss of the weapon, the shotgun thundered with a blaze of fire from below, lighting the chamber with a quick flash of hot white light. Lewis pulled his feet from the drain, dragging himself out on his belly. A crescendo bellow followed the blast: a fierce war cry. Splashes, shouts, and growls echoed up to Lewis, culminating with a scream of tortured agony. Then a second flash lit the drain as the shotgun roared again, amplified by the brick walls, drowning out all sounds of struggle.
Lewis grabbed the flashlight and spun on his belly, the macadam rubbing his flesh raw through his shirt. He stabbed the beam into the black maw of the storm drain.
“Mr. Boyd?” he called out, his voice bouncing around the now silent chamber.
Strong hands shot out of the darkness, clamping onto Lewis's wrist, causing the flashlight to follow the gun down the drain. Lewis sat up, braced his feet on the concrete edge above the drain, and pulled with all his might. The crazed, jaundiced eyes of Chief Richards appeared between his planted feet, glinting a pestilent yellow in the light cast from the streetlamp, like twin egg yolks floating in pools of blood. Lewis pulled free, his wrist sliding from the slippery grip. The blood-slicked hands and deranged eyes disappeared down the drain, followed by a splash.
Lewis pushed away from the opening, putting himself out of reach as the manhole cover flew into the air and crashed down next to the hole with a deep gong. The leering face of the deputy appeared through the aperture, sporting matching grins on face and throat.
Lewis stood, took two long strides, and like an NFL place-kicker, kicked the cop square in the face. The head dropped back through the opening and another splash floated up to the street followed by howls of anger.
What now? Where do I go? Lewis asked himself as he backed away from the hole, gasping for air.
He had no weapon, no light, an
d he was alone once again. He could hear distant screams and gunfire floating on the cool breeze—his neighborhood under siege, just like Mr. Boyd had warned.
The image of the gas can popped into his head again, this time sitting on the trail next to the corpse of Andy Reed instead of by the lawnmower. I can still try my Yosemite Sam plan.
What other choice do I have?
Lewis knew what he had to do. He would have to go into those god-forsaken woods yet again and try to destroy the tree.
He tapped his pocket and felt the hard lump of the Zippo. “Screw it,” he said as the deputy’s head reappeared from the manhole, dripping foul water and blood, the slash along his neck wider now, like the red mouth of a sock-puppet. A lunatic’s sock-puppet.
Once again, Lewis ran.
Into the woods.
43
Lewis.
The name had filled the memories of the twins with such contempt. Now, fingering the bullet hole in her vessel's shoulder, she too experienced the hatred the boys must have felt while still alive. The child was like an annoying bug you couldn't kill—a gnat or mosquito buzzing in your ear, and just when you thought you had him, he slipped from your grasp. At least the gnat's old friend had been dealt with.
She blocked the image of the troublesome youth and concentrated on more important matters. She spread her thoughts to all of her undead slaves, her mind-link programming their simple carnal instincts to take over, like an autopilot. Her instructions were simple—kill everybody. Kill every living being, feed on some to keep her vessel healthy, but leave most of them to be turned later. She had minions already returning from the clearing with a supply of sand.
She would handle the boy herself. She knew exactly where he was going. Through the deputy's eyes she could see the child run through a yard and scale a wall, entering the woods.
Song of a Lost Child: A Horror Novel (Invasive Species Book 1) Page 19