by P. J. Night
I want my mother.
Papa, I am sorry. Please forgive me.
I can be a Monster, I can cut. I am the poison in the wound.
I bleed. I never stop bleeding. What can soak up so much blood?
It draws me forth.
It is time.
Tonight.
It is better not to say good-bye.
I am choked with sobs and such bitter terror, yet already I feel freer knowing that the end is near.
It will all be over soon.
And that was all. Imogen hadn’t written another word.
Jenna’s hands were shaking as she closed the diary and put it on her bedside table. Then she changed her mind and carried it over to the bottom drawer of her dresser. She hid it there, where she usually stashed top secret notes from her friends, right next to the claw she’d found in the woods.
She crawled back into bed but knew it would be a long time before she’d fall asleep. She had so many questions. Why had the diary been hidden and locked away in the desk? What had happened to Imogen? Did the Marked Monster really mark her? Was her wound filled with a poison that made her go insane?
And the biggest question of all—what had really happened to Imogen Lewis on the night she disappeared? Did the monster come for her, ripping the door off its hinges?
Or had Imogen, of her own free will, gone to it, and sacrificed herself to the monster’s appetite?
Or had Imogen just gone crazy?
Jenna wasn’t sure which was worse—asking those questions or knowing that they could never be answered. Yet as scared as she was, at some point she fell into a fitful sleep, filled with the kind of dreams that evaporate the moment you wake up.
She blinked in the darkness. Why was she awake?
Of course. Her arm. She must have rolled over onto it while she slept, and now it was throbbing painfully.
Jenna stumbled into the bathroom and rolled up her sleeve. She made a face of disgust when she saw the cut.
It was much worse, with a thin sheen of pus glistening over it. Seriously, seriously, seriously gross, Jenna thought as she rummaged through the medicine cabinet. When she poured hydrogen peroxide over the cut, it frothed and foamed. She grimaced in pain as she dabbed at it with a wad of toilet paper. Then she squirted half a tube of antibiotic ointment over the wound and covered it with a sterile bandage. That ought to take care of it, Jenna tried to reassure herself. The last thing she wanted to do was worry her parents. She was sure the cut would go away on its own, and her mother, the doctor was known to overreact.
But secretly, she wasn’t so sure. Hadn’t Imogen’s diary chronicled the same thing—a wound from the Marked Monster that had not healed?
Well, Jenna told herself grimly, I’ll just have to wait and see. I’m sure it will get better with all that cream and stuff I put on it. I mean, it’s got to be better than that frontier medicine Imogen had. Garlic in a cut? That’s crazy.
She went back into her bedroom, completely unprepared for what she saw in her bed.
The tip of a claw, peeking out from under her pillow.
In the weak light coming from the hallway, the talon glinted ominously; winked, almost. Jenna immediately shut the door and turned on all the lights in her room. She had to be absolutely certain that she wasn’t still asleep.
Wasn’t still dreaming.
With a trembling hand, she reached out and forced herself to touch the claw. It was all too real, heavy and cold in her hand. She squeezed it, hard, trying to calm herself down.
There is a reasonable explanation for this, Jenna told herself, only a little surprised by how still she could sit when every muscle of her body was rigid with tension. There is a reasonable explanation for why this claw is in my bed.
Now all she had to do was figure out what it was.
Obviously the Marked Monster is not in my house, Jenna thought, starting with a statement of such undeniable fact that she was sure it would help her feel calmer. Obviously that would be impossible. Obviously my entire family would wake up if there was a ten-foot monster stomping through my house, leaving its claw under my pillow.
Still, just to make sure, she checked the bottom drawer of her dresser, and was immensely relieved to find Imogen’s diary still there, but no claw. So the one in her hands was the same one she had found in the woods.
Jason, Jenna thought suddenly. Maybe he—while I was in the bathroom—
As swift and silent as a cat, she crept back into the hallway and paused right outside the door to her brother’s bedroom. She held her breath as she creaked it open, half expecting Jason to jump out at her and scare her half to death. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Her heart sank when she saw Jason sleeping peacefully in his bed. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell, keeping time with his deep, even breathing.
So it wasn’t Jason, Jenna was forced to admit. Jason isn’t pranking me.
That left one option.
I was sleepwalking, she thought. Just sleepwalking, and whatever I was dreaming—or maybe from reading Imogen’s diary—I got out of bed and got the claw. That’s all.
But the simplest, most practical explanation didn’t make her feel any better. If anything, it made her feel worse. What’s wrong with me? she wondered as she returned to her bedroom. What’s wrong with me? Why would I get up in the middle of the night and bring the claw into my bed?
Jenna wrapped herself up in a quilt and curled up in the overstuffed armchair in the corner of her room. She couldn’t answer any of those questions.
And she couldn’t bear to sleep in her own bed, knowing that the claw had been cradled under her pillow, tainting the sheets.
On Tuesday, Jenna could think of just one thing: returning Imogen’s diary to the library. Before school, she wrapped it in a towel and tucked it in the secret inner pocket of her backpack. All day long, in every class, she was distracted, thinking of the moment when the final bell would ring—and she could return the diary to the library, where it belonged. She didn’t want to spend another minute with the thing.
At last the school day came to an end and Jenna bolted out the door and headed for the library.
Now all I have to do is get back into the archives room without Mr. Carson noticing me, and slip the diary back into the desk, she thought. And then I can pretend like I never even found it.
But despite the fact that school was out, the library was deserted; as Jenna walked inside, Mr. Carson looked up from the reference desk and waved at her. Maybe I hurried here a little too quickly, she thought ruefully.
“Hi, Mr. Carson,” Jenna said as she approached the desk.
“Jenna! I’m glad to see you,” Mr. Carson replied. “I found something that I think might be of great interest for your report.”
“Really?” Jenna asked as she snuck a glance toward the archives room.
Mr. Carson must’ve noticed, though, because he started to chuckle. “Yes, yes! It’s in the archives room. Come right this way,” he said, and shuffled off.
Jenna followed him, hoping that she’d find an opportunity to slip the diary back into the desk. But Mr. Carson sat down and placed a piece of paper on the table.
“What’s that?” Jenna asked with a mixture of curiosity and dread.
Mr. Carson didn’t answer as he slid the paper over to her.
The long peace will end when you are least prepared,
When you have forsaken the Great Mother and the ancient teachings.
You will not recognize the quiet;
The sign in the tree that slows the sap.
You will not understand that the sun-warmth reaches the darkest places,
And as it warms the seeds, and coaxes forth the shoots,
So, too, it wakes that which must not be woken.
Children of the Earth, mark these words.
Call forth the old memories, the ones most deeply buried,
For that which is forgotten leads to the end of all.
Jenna read the poem twic
e before she looked up at the archivist. “What—what is this?”
“This is an old Q’ippicut poem,” Mr. Carson explained. “I remembered it after we spoke yesterday and thought it might be useful for your project.”
“But what does it mean?” Jenna asked.
“In the mid-1850s,” Mr. Carson began, “long after Manfred Lewis and Chief Onongahkan had passed away, the residents of Lewisville began to talk about expanding the town’s borders. One newcomer in particular had his eye on a tract of land that included the Sacred Square.
“The town council seemed poised to approve the expansion. But the new chief of the Q’ippicut interrupted their meeting and demanded that they honor the old promise. A heated argument broke out, and within two days’ time, the Q’ippicut packed their belongings and set off for the Pacific Northwest. This poem is all that they left behind.”
“They left?” Jenna asked. “Forever?”
Mr. Carson nodded. “And they never returned.”
“Did the—did the settler build on the Sacred Square?”
“After all the fuss, no,” Mr. Carson replied. “I suspect he was a little spooked by the legend and all the arguing. His property shared a border with the square, but it didn’t encroach on it.”
“So the fight was all for nothing,” Jenna said. “The Q’ippicut left their home over nothing.”
“Perhaps,” Mr. Carson replied. “Or perhaps they were ready to leave. For many generations, the tribe had carried the responsibility of maintaining peace with the Marked Monster. I imagine that that was increasingly difficult as more European settlers arrived in the area.”
“This poem doesn’t say anything about the Marked Monster, though,” Jenna pointed out.
“Yes, it does,” Mr. Carson corrected her, pointing at the page. “This line here—‘the sign in the tree that slows the sap.’”
“I don’t understand.”
“Didn’t I mention that the other day? According to legend, the Keuhkkituh had long periods of hibernation. When it reemerged, it made its presence known by leaving one of its claws in a tree. The tree, of course, died after being pierced by the Keuhkkituh’s claw. I suppose that whatever venom was in the claw would’ve poisoned the tree … Jenna? Jenna, are you all right?”
“What? Yes,” she said quickly. “Why?”
“You look very pale,” Mr. Carson replied. “Don’t be afraid of these old legends and tales, my dear. I’ve lived in Lewisville for seventy-nine years and I’ve never seen the Keuhkkituh or its claw!”
Jenna didn’t answer. As she read the poem again, Mr. Carson stood up. “The after-school rush will be here any minute,” he said. “You can keep that copy of the poem, Jenna. I made it for you.”
“Thanks,” she said softly as Mr. Carson shuffled toward the door. Then she reached for her backpack.
“Jenna,” Mr. Carson said in a voice so sharp it made her jump.
“What?” she asked anxiously.
Mr. Carson’s eyes twinkled as he shook a finger. “Don’t forget to wear gloves if you touch anything in here!”
“Of course,” Jenna replied. “Thanks again.”
As soon as he was gone, she unzipped her backpack; in a matter of seconds, she’d returned the diary to the dark recesses of Manfred Lewis’s desk. Back where it belongs, she thought. Then she shoved the poem into her backpack and hurried out of the library, lost in thought.
Mr. Carson might not have seen the Keuhkkituh’s claw before.
But Jenna had … stuck in a tree behind her house. She was certain of that now.
After school on Wednesday, Maggie came over to Jenna’s house so they could work on their posters for the big history project. Jenna was completely exhausted from staying up late the night before, writing the first draft of her paper. It didn’t help that she wasn’t sleeping well, either; her arm was still too sore for her to sleep on her left side, like she was used to. And every small sound in the night seemed to wake her; more than once Jenna had bolted upright in bed, her heart pounding furiously, all because she thought she heard something scratching at her window.
She never found the courage to check, though. Instead she crouched against the wall, with her blankets pulled up to her chin, watching the window and listening until at last she passed out from pure exhaustion.
“I’m so ready for summer vacation,” Jenna said as she placed her poster board on the dining room table.
“Me too,” replied Maggie. She dumped out a bag of construction paper, scissors, glue sticks, and double-sided tape. “Look at this. I think my mom bought out the art-supply store.”
“This poster thing is so stupid,” Jenna said, shaking her head. “Hello, we’re in middle school! This is kindergarten stuff.”
“No kidding,” Maggie said. “I’m so bad at crafts. I can hardly draw a straight line.”
“Looks like your mom thought of that,” Jenna joked as she grabbed a ruler. Then she carefully started arranging her visual aids on the poster board: drawings of Manfred and Imogen Lewis; Manfred Lewis’s sketch of the Marked Monster; the original map of Lewisville that Mr. Carson had showed her, with the Sacred Square marked in red; the Q’ippicut poem. And, of course, a bunch of captions she’d typed up on the computer the night before. Now they all had to be trimmed and matted on brightly colored pieces of card stock, then glued to the poster board. It was the kind of project that was going to take hours to complete, if Jenna wanted it to look good. The girls chatted quietly while they worked, occasionally helping each other with their posters.
After about an hour, they heard a key turn in the lock, and then the front door opened.
“Hi, Jenna, we’re home!”
“Hi, Moron, we’re home!”
“Jason, do not call your sister a moron,” Mr. Walker said firmly.
“Hey, guys,” Jenna said as her dad and brother walked in.
“Wow, what’s going on here?” Mr. Walker asked as he walked over to the dining room and peered over Jenna’s shoulder. “Working on the history project?”
“Yup,” Jenna replied.
“Honey, that map is upside down,” Mr. Walker pointed to the map Jenna had just glued down.
“Are you sure?” she asked with a frown.
“Definitely,” Mr. Walker said.
“Argh!” Jenna groaned as she tried to peel the map off the poster board. Luckily, the glue was still damp, so she was able to remove the map without ripping it.
“What’s this area marked in red?” Mr. Walker asked. “Are you showing where you live?”
“No, that’s the Sacred Square,” Jenna replied. “It’s where the chief of the Q’ippicut tribe attacked the Marked Monster in 1767.”
“Huh,” Mr. Walker said, nodding thoughtfully. “You know that’s the clearing right behind our house, right? Jason, please go get the GPS out of my car.”
“Make Jenna get it. It’s her project.”
“Jason.”
As Jason sighed loudly and dragged himself out to the car, Jenna squinted at her photocopy of the first map of Lewisville, which had been drawn by Manfred Lewis himself. It wasn’t much of a map. Jenna could hardly recognize the area as the town where she’d lived for her entire life.
But when Jason brought back the GPS and her dad pulled up a map of modern-day Lewisville, Jenna realized that her father was right.
“See, it looks like this path became Briarcliff Road, and this one is definitely Arlington Avenue,” Mr. Walker explained, tracing his finger along the map. “Our house was later built right around here—and our property borders the … what did you call it? The Sacred Square?”
Jenna nodded silently. She didn’t trust herself to speak without everyone hearing the fear in her voice. There was no denying it now: The Sacred Square, where Manfred Lewis and Chief Onongahkan had attacked the Keuhkkituh, where Imogen Lewis had probably bled to death, was right behind the Walkers’ backyard.
“Spooky!” Maggie said gleefully. “So the Sacred Square is where we’re hav
ing our campout on Friday?”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Mr. Walker asked. “I’ll go get the tent out of the basement and air it out. You don’t want it smelling all musty for the first campout of the season.”
As Mr. Walker went down the stairs to the basement, Jenna turned to Maggie. “Actually,” she said slowly, “I’ve been thinking that we probably won’t camp out. We can just have a sleepover in the house.”
“What? No way!” Maggie exclaimed. “Why?”
Jenna shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s still kind of chilly at night,” she said lamely.
“Don’t be crazy. We all have warm sleeping bags,” Maggie argued. “And everybody is so excited already. I know for a fact that Brittany already bought the stuff to make s’mores. She actually went a little overboard yesterday at—”
“I don’t think Jenna’s worried about the cold,” Jason spoke up. “Look at her. She looks scared.”
“I’m not scared,” Jenna said hotly.
Jason knew right away that he’d hit a nerve. “Oh, you’re not?” he cooed in a baby voice. “Itty bitty baby Jenna’s not scared? Itty bitty baby Jenna’s a big girl!”
“Come on, Jason,” Maggie said. “Of course she’s not scared. The campout was her idea. We’re going to look for proof that the Marked Monster exists.”
Maggie, stop talking. Maggie, stop talking, Jenna tried to psychically tell her friend. How could Maggie not know that she was giving Jason ammunition for his teasing?
“So that’s it!” Jason exclaimed. “Baby Jenna’s gotten all spooked about the Marked Monster since she started doing her research! Don’t be scared, Jenna! I’m sure your little friends will protect you from the Big Bad Monster!”
“Shut up, Jason! You’re such a jerk!” Jenna yelled at last—just as her dad came up from the basement, lugging the tent, tarp, and other camping supplies.
“Hey, watch it,” he said with a frown. “You keep talking to your brother like that and you won’t be having any sleepovers this weekend.”