The Horror of Devil's Root Lake

by Amy Cross

  “You probably think we're crazy!”

  I shake my head. “No, honestly, I don't think that at all.”

  Well, maybe just a little. In Marie's case, at least. Clearly her experiences have left her somewhat damaged.

  “We're not crazy,” she continues, with a hint of desperation in her voice. “We just want to make sure he never finds us again.” She pauses. “Then again, he could probably track us down if that's what he really wanted, especially since we all ended up in this dumb little town.”

  “It does seem odd that there are six of you here,” I point out. “Has there been a cluster of cases in this area over the years?”

  She shakes her head. “At first, most of us lived far away. Over time, we just gravitated closer to one another. I guess it feels safer this way. But you're not like us, you're an outsider.”

  “I'm trying to research what's really going on here,” I tell her. “My son -”

  “I don't care about that,” she stammers, suddenly getting to her feet. “If he'd survived, then he'd be welcome. But he didn't, and we can't go opening the group up to the relatives of survivors, or we'll end up with too many people. You need to get out of Redfield before it's too late, and I'm going to put it to a vote with the others. I'm going to persuade them that we shouldn't let you in.”

  “Why would it be -”

  “The next meeting's on Sunday,” she adds, stepping back. “Please, for the love of God, be gone by then. We can't risk anything that might lead him to us, or that might remind him that we exist. We just want to be left alone!”

  Before I can reply, she turns and hurries out, almost colliding with one of the waitresses in the process. Clearly ragged and completely out of her mind, she stumbles through the door and out to the parking lot, and then I watch as she half runs, half staggers around the corner. Finally she's gone, and I can't help but feel a faint sigh of relief. While she might seem harmless, Marie is also quite clearly not right in the head.

  Checking my watch, I see that it's almost 10am, which means I need to get going. Luke told me last night that he had something to show me, and while he was a little vague about the details, he insisted that it might change my mind about the legend of Chanciechaunie. I guess he still wants to make me believe in monsters.

  ***

  “This is for you,” Alice explains as she hands me a bunch of mangled daisies, which she just spent a few minutes carefully picking from the lawn. “I thought you could wear them in your hair!”

  “You did, did you?” I reply, smiling as I look at the daisies. They're mostly crushed, although I manage to pick out a few and slip them behind my ear. “That's really sweet of you. I don't suppose you saw any purple thistles, did you?”

  She frowns. “I don't think so.”

  “Oh, I think there are some,” I tell her, pointing toward a flower bed near the side of the building. “In fact, I think I see a few right there.”

  “Are you here to get rid of Daddy's nightmares?”

  I pause, surprised by the question.

  “I'm sorry?” I reply cautiously. “What did you just -”

  “Daddy has nightmares,” she continues, interrupting me, and now there's a hint of sadness in her eyes. “I always hope someone might come one day and take them away for him. I don't know if that's the reason you came to visit us, but even if it isn't... Do you know how to do it?”

  “What kind of nightmares does he have?”

  She pauses again, and then she shrugs.

  “Does he cry out?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “Does he say things?”

  She hesitates, before nodding again.

  “Do you hear what he says?”

  This time, she sniffs a couple of times, and I'm starting to think that she might be a little scared.

  “Bad things,” she says finally. “He's scared a lot.”

  “Well, you know dreams can't hurt anyone, don't you? Even nightmares.”

  “I know that,” she replies, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. “It's just... I hear him crying out so much, and I think even the neighbors sometimes hear him too. I know what dreams are, I know they're not dangerous, but I'm scared that his are so scary, they might...”

  Her voice trails off.

  “It's probably okay,” she adds. “I hope I don't ever have nightmares like that.”

  “Do you ever have nightmares?”

  She nods.

  “And what are they about?”

  “Sometimes I dream that I'm alone somewhere,” she explains, “and I can't think. And then I hear someone calling me. I think that's like Daddy's nightmares, though. Maybe I just heard his, and copied them. Maybe his nightmares are so big, they're like a cloud that leaks from his head and comes into my room.”

  I open my mouth to tell her that's not quite how dreams work, but at the last moment I decide to hold back. She seems to be dealing with her father's nightmares fairly well, although I can't help feeling that she's very young to be hearing her father crying out every night.

  “Sometimes I dream about the stupid stories he tells me at bedtime,” she adds. “That's why I told him to stop reading fairy-tales. They scare me.”

  “Dreams can't hurt you,” I tell her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I promise. Dreams are just dreams.”

  She nods. “I know.”

  “And fairy-tales are just -”

  “I know those aren't true,” she adds matter-of-factly. “I'm ten! I'm not a baby anymore.”

  “Sure you're not,” I reply, impressed by her confidence. “Now how about you go find me a thistle, huh? One that's a really pretty purple.”

  “I'll go look!” she says excitedly, turning and running across the grass. Now she looks like a normal little girl again, carefree and exploring the world.

  “You're good with children,” Luke says, carrying a tray of drinks and snacks out from the building.

  Turning to him, I feel a shudder pass through my chest. Reaching up, I take the flowers from my hair.

  “Not really,” I mutter.

  “You are. I can see it.”

  I shake my head. “No. Not anymore.”

  “Why -”

  “Just leave it,” I continue, interrupting him. Alice is picking a thistle for me, but as I get to my feet I can't shake a sudden feeling that I have to get out of here. “I should go,” I mumble, grabbing my bag. “I'm sorry, this was a bad idea.”

  “Emily, wait -”

  “I don't think we can help each other,” I add. “It was worth at try, but -”

  “Emily!”

  Hearing Alice's voice, I turn just as she runs up to me with a thistle proudly clutched in her right hand. She holds it out for me, and I can see that she's very pleased with herself.

  “You're not leaving, are you?” she asks.

  “I...” I take a deep breath. “No. Not right now.”

  “Good!” She puts her arms around my waist and hugs me tight. “You can't go yet,” she whispers. “You have to make his nightmares go away first.”

  ***

  “Come with me,” the little boy says cautiously, staring past the video camera toward someone who's just out of the shot. “That's all. Come with me.”

  “And how far away was he when he said that to you?” the psychiatrist asks.

  “He was down by the end of the road.”

  “That's a long way, Luke,” the psychiatrist continues. “It must be at least two hundred meters. Are you sure you heard the man say those specific words, even though he was all the way down at the end of the road?”

  The little boy nods.

  “So was he shouting?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Then how did you hear him?”

  “I just did,” he continues. “He was whispering, but I heard him. It sounded like he was real close.” He pauses. “There was -”

  Suddenly the video starts to fast-forward, and I turn to see that Luke is holding the remote control.
<
br />   “There's a lot of waffle in the interview,” he explains. “It's not very focused, but there's another part that's relevant. Unfortunately, the psychiatrist who talked to me didn't take the Chanciechaunie part of the story seriously, and he tended to dismiss the idea that there'd been some kind of creature. I think he'd already spoken to the police, and they'd made their minds up that this was a conventional child abduction attempt. I guess I can't blame them.”

  “You haven't shown this to Alice, have you?” I ask.

  “Alice?” He seems shocked by the suggestion. “Of course not. I try to keep all of this from her.”

  “She hears your nightmares.”

  “I don't have nightmares.”

  “She told me she hears you crying out sometimes.”

  He doesn't reply immediately. Instead, he watches the fast-forwarding screen for a few more seconds, and it's clear that he's feeling uncomfortable.

  “She's just a kid,” he says finally. “You shouldn't put too much weight on what she says.”

  Watching the screen, I can't help noticing that the little boy looks very scared. It's still recognizably Luke, just about, but there's fear in his eyes and so far he's seemed reluctant to answer the psychiatrist's questions with more than a few words at a time. And now, as the present-day Luke leans forward and watches the time-code on the screen, I can't help wondering whether he's spent the past twenty-plus years obsessing over what happened to him and fearing that the strange man might come back.

  “Here!” he says suddenly, playing the video again.

  “Just try to describe him,” the psychiatrist continues. “Take your time, Luke, and use your own words. Tell me what his face was like.”

  The little boy doesn't reply. Instead, he seems to simply stare up at the psychiatrist for a moment, before turning to look at someone else.

  “It's okay,” a woman's voice says. “Answer the nice man's question, honey.”

  “My mother,” Luke mutters next to me. “She always blamed herself. She died of cancer when I was fifteen, but I know she never got over the fact that I'd almost died three times. I guess people started questioning whether she was looking after me properly.”

  “I don't remember his face,” the little boy in the video says cautiously. “I don't think he had any hair.”

  “He was bald?” the psychiatrist asks.

  “I think so.”

  “And what about his body? Was he tall? Short? Thin? Fat?”

  “Like this.” The boy leans forward, hunching his shoulders.

  “Remember the drawing?” Luke asks, turning to me.

  “Sure,” I reply, still watching the screen, “but that could just be a coincidence. Or maybe when you were a kid, somebody told you the Chanciechaunie story and it got stuck in your head.”

  “You really don't want to consider the possibility, do you?”

  “Let's just say that I'm focused on trying to find a rational explanation,” I continue, turning to him.

  “I'm not taking the easy way out,” he replies. “I'm not just trying to conjure up a monster to explain what happened to me, or what's been happening to other people. I resisted the Chanciechaunie version for a long time, but finally I realized it was the only explanation that even came close to explaining everything.” He pauses, with fear in his eyes. The same fear I saw a moment ago in the video, in the eyes of his younger self. “If there's even -”

  Suddenly I hear an anguished cry from the video, and I turn just in time to see the little boy bursting into tears. A woman rushes into the shot and starts hugging him, and anxious voices whisper to one another off-camera for a few seconds before the image abruptly vanishes.

  “That happened several times,” Luke tells me. “Whenever I was asked to describe the man I'd seen, I got upset. The others were the same, too. Ask Amanda or Marie or Carl or anyone at the next group meeting. It's as if somehow there's a block in our minds, something that keeps us from remembering the face of this creature. We're just left with a vague impression.”

  “But they don't all believe the Chanciechaunie explanation, do they?” I ask.

  He pauses, before shaking his head. “I'm mostly alone on that one.”

  “Maybe someone out there was inspired by him,” I suggest, trying not to dismiss his theory out of hand. “If somebody else, somebody who wasn't quite right in the head, read the same book that you read... I mean, they might have decided that this was good cover for whatever they were doing. A way to muddy the water and...”

  He shakes his head.

  “So what's the alternative explanation?” I continue. “That some centuries-old creature from a fairy-tale is criss-crossing the country, luring kids to their deaths and occasionally messing up?”

  “There's a little more to the -”

  “My son drowned!” I remind him, feeling a sudden rush of anger at the idea that he's somehow trivializing the situation. “That wasn't part of a fairy-tale! That's something that really happened! He drowned in a lake, because I trusted someone else to look after him for a few minutes. And now he's never coming back!”

  “Emily -”

  “So don't tell me that some stupid goblin from a kids' book is responsible!” Getting to my feet, I suddenly feel as if I have to get out of here. Luke's apartment feels airless, and I swear I'm going to suffocate if I don't leave soon. I know this is just another panic attack, but it's only going to get worse if I stay. “I'm sorry,” I continue, grabbing my bag and heading to the door, “but this was a mistake. Thank you for trying to help, but I'm going to get on with my own plans.”

  “Are you leaving town?” he asks, hurrying after me.

  Pulling the door open and stepping out into the hallway, I take a deep breath. The air feels a little fuller here, but still not enough.

  “I'm sorry if I offended you,” he continues.

  “It's not that,” I mutter, making my way toward the elevator before changing my mind and heading toward the stairs instead. “I just can't waste time on some wild goose chase.”

  “What if it's not a waste?”

  “Have you actually found anything?” I ask, pushing open the door to the stairwell before turning back to him. “Have you found one shred of actual, physical evidence that you can show me? Something that connects this mess to some mystical pixie living under a tree?”

  “I...” He pauses. “No. I mean, if you're talking about actual proof, then -”

  Another pause.

  “I'm the only one who saw Chanciechaunie here in Redfield,” he adds finally. “The third time I saw him, it was after my mother had moved us here. I stepped off the bridge at the edge of town and into the Racover rapids. Chanciechaunie was down by the side of the water, looking up at me. Waiting. I remember at the very, very last second I realized what I was doing and I tried to stop myself. I tried to grab hold of the bridge's side. All these years later, I don't think they've painted the bridge again. You can still see the marks where I tried to hold on. I lost five fingernails that day.”

  “None of which proves that a monster tried to take you,” I point out, even though I know I sound harsh. “Your psychiatrist is probably right. You were just very impressionable at that age.”

  “What would it take to convince you?” he asks.

  “Good luck, Luke,” I continue, taking a step back. “I mean that, I wish you all the luck in the world, but I have to stay focused on my own search, okay? You have my phone number, we can keep in touch if you ever come up with anything a little more concrete, but there's no point in me staying in Redfield. I'm sorry. Say goodbye to Alice for me.”

  With that, I turn and hurry down the stairs.

  Once I get outside, I finally take a deep breath. The building was starting to feel airtight, but at least now I can take a moment to regather my composure. I feel desperately bad for Luke, but he's clearly lost in his own fantasy world and I can't afford to get bogged down in trivial distractions.

  Checking my watch, I see that it's late now. Almost
7pm. I just have time to get something to eat, and then I can hit the road. My next stop is going to be Arlingstone, New Mexico, and I think the less time I waste here in Redfield, the better.

  There's no such thing as monsters, at least not of the supernatural variety. Whoever killed my son and all those other children, it's someone very human.

  ***

  Before I get dinner, I take a short detour past the restaurant and find the bridge that Luke told me about earlier. When I reach the middle, I look down at the rapids far below, and it's hard to believe that anyone – let alone a little boy – could survive falling from up here.

  Still, when I lean over the railing, I spot a section on the bridge where the gray paint looks to have been scratched away. I guess that's the spot where little Luke tried to catch himself all those years ago, before he tumbled down into the water.

  I don't know who lured him over the edge, but I know one thing. It wasn't some ogre or goblin from a fairy-tale book.

  Chapter Nine

  “All the trimmings,” the woman in the diner says as she sets the plate in front of me. “Bacon, eggs sunny-side up, grilled tomato, two -”

  “Thank you,” I reply, already taking the knife and fork. I'm starving, and lately I've been treating dinner as the one big essential meal where I get most of my calories. Especially when I'm planning to drive through the night. “And -”

  “You're lucky our all-day breakfast offer really means all-day,” she adds. “I don't think anyone's ever ordered breakfast this late.”

  “Habit,” I mutter, already buttering some toast.

  “Huh. Is that right?”

  “I've got a long drive ahead.”

  “Just you?”

  I nod.

  “No husband or anything?”

  “Not tonight,” I reply. “I mean... I'm traveling alone right now.”

  I wait for her to leave, but she's staring at my hands. Looking down, I see that I'm still wearing my wedding ring.

  “It's complicated,” I tell her.

  “None of my business,” she replies airily. “I just hate to see a woman out alone like this, in the middle of the night. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I reckon that husband of yours oughta be with you.”