The Horror of Devil's Root Lake

by Amy Cross

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Easy,” the woman says, placing a hand on my shoulder as I sit up “Easy, calm down. You're safe. I just had to remove the final piece, that's all.”

  Gasping and soaked in sweat, I stare at the dark-haired woman. I have no idea who she is, nor where I am, although when I look around I realize that I appear to be in some kind of cottage. A moment later I feel briefly dizzy, and I have to grab the side of the bed in order to keep myself steady.

  “See?”

  I turn back to her and see that she is holding a twisted scrap of metal in her bloodied hands.

  “It was buried deep,” she explains, “and I was not able to get it before. Then the swelling arrived, which displaced the metal a little, and I decided to wait. Finally I became worried about a greater infection, so I decided to extract the piece regardless. I knew it would cause pain, and that you...”

  She pauses, staring at me for a moment.

  “Well, I'm sorry,” she continues, turning and dropping the shard into a bowl with other metal pieces. Evidently she has excavated a great deal of metal from my wounds. “It's not always possible to do what needs doing, without causing pain. But if one avoids pain, one never makes any progress at all.”

  Still struggling a little to catch my breath, I pull back and lean against the wall, while looking around the room again. Perhaps my earlier judgment was a little harsh, perhaps this is actually a house rather than a shack, yet still it is clear that I am in some rundown private home or cottage. The wooden walls are bare and in some places rotten, and the bed beneath me creaks a little with every move I make.

  “You should try not to move too much,” the woman tells me. “I need to sew the rest of your wound shut, but that can wait a few hours. The flesh is still very tender and I would like to check on the swelling first. It might be better to leave the wound open for a day or two. Believe it or not, sometimes fresh air can work wonders, provided one can keep everything clean and prevent an infestation of maggots. Of course, if maggots do find their way into the flesh, then the point of no return has been passed and you will surely -”

  She stops suddenly.

  “Well,” she adds, with a faint smile, “it would be as well not to dwell on such things. I shall do my best. Now I should wash you.”

  She gets to her feet, but I instinctively reach out and grab her wrist.

  “Where am I?” I ask.

  “My home, a little way outside of a town called Malmarbor.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “I found you in the forest.”

  “But -”

  “Before that, I do not know. How could I?”

  “Where are my fellow soldiers?”

  She shrugs.

  “I was in a battle!”

  “I heard no battle.”

  “I was fevered,” I continue. “I might have wandered many miles, but...” I feel a sudden sense of panic brewing in my chest. “I am no coward! I swear to you!”

  “I am sure you are not.”

  She pauses, before slipping her wrist away from me and heading over to a bowl of water on a nearby table. For a moment, she stops and looks out the window, and then she turns her attention to the rags in the bowl.

  “Truth be told,” she continues, “I think I did hear the noise of a skirmish some days ago. Shouting, crying out, guns being fired, some voices in the distance. It all sounded rather silly from a distance. I suppose that was your battle.”

  “I am not a weak man,” I reply, trying to sit up before feeling an immense pain in my chest. Slumping back down, I struggle once again to catch my breath. “I was unlucky. Fate chose to strike me down, otherwise I would still be with my unit.”

  “I'm sure.”

  “I'm neither a coward nor a deserter!”

  “Of course not. You certainly appear brave and courageous to me.”

  Pausing for a moment, I cannot tell whether this woman is mocking me. She seems strangely calm and composed, as if my arrival has barely unsettled her at all.

  “How long before I can return to the road and find my fellow soldiers?” I ask.

  “I cannot say.”

  “I shall not rest here a minute longer than is strictly necessary.”

  “Of course not.”

  I try again to sit up, but the pain is unbearable. Still, this time I do not immediately surrender to my weakness, and instead I spend almost a full minute attempting to shift from the bed, before finally rolling onto my side and desperately trying to get my breath back.

  “I told you,” the woman says after a moment. “You should rest.”

  “Who are you?” I gasp.

  “Just someone who happened to find an injured soldier in the forest,” she explains. “You looked so badly hurt, at first I thought you were dead. It was only upon closer inspection that I noticed your chest still rose and fell, and I realized I could not possibly leave you where you had fallen.” She looks out the window again, and for a moment the shadows of tree branches play across her face. “Not in this forest. You're lucky I found you at all.”

  She wrings water from the rag, before heading to the door.

  “Malmarbor,” I stammer. “You said we are near a town named Malmarbor. I have never heard of the place before. Where is the nearest city?”

  “Far.”

  “I need to know how to rejoin my comrades,” I tell her, turning as she passes behind me. “I must -”

  Suddenly I freeze as I see a large glass jar on a shelf, stuffed to the brim with human hands in some form of pale yellow liquid. Next to this jar is another, and to my horror I see that it is full of ears. Looking around, I see more jars, each seemingly dedicated to the collection of other body parts. In one, extracted tongues are squeezed together in solution, their thick roots pressed against the glass; in another, I see hearts. Trying not to panic, I turn and look back over toward the other side of the room, where yet more jars stand filled with feet, organs and – in several cases – what look like chunks of meaty bone.

  “You are not the first soldier I have ever found out there,” the woman says after a moment.

  I turn to her, filled with the sense that she must be out of her mind.

  “I brought them all here,” she continues. “Regardless of the state they were in, I brought every scrap of them back to the cottage. Better that, than to leave them for the forest. Sometimes I had to fight the roots, and sometimes I didn't get everything, but at least I tried. I think God looked away from this place a long time ago, but if he ever looks back, he will see that I did my best.” She pauses, eyeing me with a hint of concern. “You are the first who was still alive, and I have done my best to heal you. I hope you will live, but if you do not...”

  She pauses, before glancing at the jars.

  “It's a foolish fancy, perhaps,” she continues, “but I hope to some day do something useful with them. The men whose bodies I found were no longer using these parts. What else was I supposed to do? I cannot bury them. Not in this forest.”

  I look around at more jars, seeing stripped faces and chunks of flesh, and then finally I turn back to see that the woman is watching me from the doorway.

  “I have chores to complete,” she tells me, “and I must go to town, but I shall be back in a few hours' time. Please, take the opportunity to rest. The less pressure you put on your wounds, the more likely they are to heal. Remember to watch out for flies, though. If they lay their little eggs in your meat, you'll most certainly be dead within the week. That, I believe, is the biggest danger you face right now.”

  With that, she heads out of the room, and a moment later I hear a door creaking open. Left alone, I turn and look around at more of the hideous jars. One of them is filled with bloodied eyeballs, some of which stare out at me as if they recognize my predicament. In another jar, scores of torn mouths have sunk to the bottom of the preserving liquid, yet still they seem to smile.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Reaching out, I grab the door-f
rame and take hold before pulling myself out of the cottage. Finally I feel fresh afternoon air on my face, and to my relief there is still no sign of the mad-woman. When she told me she would be gone for a few hours, evidently she was telling the truth.

  Turning, I look back inside and see that I have left a trail of smeared blood across the floor. My chest is throbbing and I have no doubt that I must have re-opened the wound, yet still I know I cannot possibly stay in this wretched place. The woman is out of her mind, and she surely intends to tear me apart and add me to her jars, so I must find the strength to haul myself away. Perhaps I shall die in the process, but I cannot simply sit around here and wait for that witch to pick my body clean.

  Yet every breath brings pain, and I fear I shall lose consciousness before I even reach the edge of the clearing.

  “I am no coward,” I whisper through gritted teeth, hoping to find some hidden reserve of courage deep in my heart. “My name is Stephen Fleming, and no matter what others might think of me, I am not a coward!”

  I reach forward and dig my fingers into the dirt, and then I haul myself forward once again. My injured chest drags against the dirt, but I try to focus on the pain and use it as a source of strength. I keep this up for several seconds, before reaching out again and dragging myself even further, while letting out a series of agonized grunts until finally I am force to slump down again and try to get my breath back.

  I might have only managed to drag myself a few more feet, but if I can keep going like this, I might at least make it as far as the trees.

  “Dear Lord,” I stammer, “please give me the strength I need in order to escape this wicked place. Give me the chance to find my way back to my regiment, so that I might serve as I know you intended. Get me...”

  I wince as the pain crackles through my chest, reaching as far as my neck.

  “Get me out of here,” I gasp finally. “Please, I don't want to...”

  Turning, I look back into the house, and I can just about make out some more of the woman's obscene jars resting on their shelves. It is as if she has stripped every part of her victims and stored them in some kind of solution, and the worst part is that she seems entirely calm about her actions, as if she feels she was doing nothing wrong. In one jar, I even saw detached faces presses against one another, with gaping holes at their eyes and mouths, as if they were trying to scream. Now, as I continue to stare back into the darkness of this little cottage, I feel a knot of nausea in my belly, and I realize I cannot waste one more second.

  Reaching forward, I start dragging myself across the ground, although once again the pain is intense. I force my tired arms to keep working, however, until I am fully halfway toward the tree-line, at which point I have to stop once again and draw breath.

  And then I see it.

  I don't know how I missed it before, but now I look up and see that there is a large tree ahead of me, its trunk much thicker and more twisted than all the others. A moment ago, it appeared as merely a smudge in the air, but now the tree is clear and tall. Whatever happened to this tree, it looks to have been horrifically damaged, but there are several gaps in its side and I am starting to think that perhaps the Lord has answered my prayers. If I cannot escape this place just yet, I can instead give myself a chance to heal.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  There is not much space, and my injuries have rendered me barely mobile, yet finally I am able to drag myself into one of the tree's gaps. I force my shoulder between the edges of dry wood, and then I squeeze my body further inside until I am sure I must be hidden from both the witch and the world.

  Turning, I look out at the clearing, and I find that I have a good view of the woman's cottage. I might not be able to stay tucked in the embrace of this tree forever, but it is better to be here than to struggle through the forest. With luck, I shall regain a little strength during the evening and the night, and then tomorrow I can walk away from this wretched place.

  Looking up, I see the tree's twisted branches rising high into the darkening sky. After a moment, I realize I can feel my own warm blood soaking through the front of my shirt, and I think I even hear it dripping down onto the tree's bark. Still, I do not possess the strength to shift myself, so I merely lean back in the tree's cradle and put my trust in the Lord, that he will deliver to me the strength that I need.

  If he does not, I shall surely die here. But at least I shall not end up in those jars.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Stephen?” she calls out, once she has finished searching the cottage and has emerged once more into the clearing. “Stephen, do you hear me? Stephen, place answer!”

  Barely conscious, I watch her from my hiding place up here in the tree. I am so well hidden, I doubt she will ever spot me, and I cannot help but feel a sense of satisfaction as I watch her hurrying all the way around the cottage. She seems disturbed by my absence, and by the time she returns to the front of her little home it is clear that she is almost frantic. Perhaps I am the first man who has ever escaped from her clutches, but one thing is certain.

  If the Lord delivers me to safety, and if I am blessed to survive the war, I shall surely come back here with other men and burn this witch's cottage to the ground. And then I shall seek the Lord's guidance, and he will surely tell me what to do with the woman herself.

  Suddenly she comes closer, marching across the clearing until she stops at the base of the tree.

  I pull back, worried that she has somehow spotted me, but after a moment I realize that she is simply looking at the tree with wild, mad eyes.

  “Is this your doing?” she asks finally.

  I wait, holding my breath.

  “Did you take him?” she continues, as she starts making her way around the tree. “I was only gone a few hours. He was not abandoned. You must have known that I was coming back, he was not yours to claim!”

  She walks slowly and carefully until she stops once again, still staring up but thankfully not looking directly toward the hole in which I remain ensconced.

  For the next few minutes, she says nothing. Indeed, she seems lost in thought, and it is evident that she must have completely lost her mind.

  “No,” she says finally. “No, you would not do that. I am sorry, I should never have...”

  Her voice trails off.

  “Why?” she asks suddenly.

  Silence for a moment.

  “No,” she adds. “I don't think so. But did you not see which way he went?”

  Again she falls silent, almost as if she hears answers in her head.

  “He was not dead,” she continues, now with a hint of desperation. “I always promised that if I found one who was still alive, I would do all in my power to heal him, to help him on his way. I was going to keep him alive and then send him back to the war. Perhaps it would have been for naught, perhaps he would have died swiftly on the battlefield, but at least I would have known that I'd done the right thing!”

  Now it sounds as if she is close to tears, and her voice is filled with frustration.

  “What should I do?” she asks. “Should I go after him? Should I comb the forest, searching for any trace, or should I just let him be? Why won't you help me?”

  I wait for her to continue.

  All I hear is silence.

  “Yes,” she adds suddenly, “I understand. You're quite right, but I feel so awful for him. I did not gain a great understanding of his character, nor of his temperament, yet he seemed a strong and noble man. Perhaps I was wrong, but I thought I sensed honor in his eyes. Real honor, not the kind that men wear with pride. I should have liked the chance to bring him back to full health and send him on his way.”

  For a moment, as she falls silent again, it occurs to me that she might be teasing me. Perhaps she has spotted my hiding place, and now she is merely trying to lull me into a sense of security. Alternatively, perhaps she is entirely insane and speaks to the tree as a matter of routine? As I wait for her to walk away, however, I start to become awar
e of the sound of her muttering something under her breath, almost as if she is talking to herself.

  “I know, I know,” she whispers suddenly. “I just wanted to do the right thing by him. Is that so bad? You must have seen which way he went. Please, can you not tell me?”

  I take a slow, shallow breath, while making sure that I do not make any noise.

  “I know you know,” she continues. “Have I not done so much for you already? Have I not given you what you wanted? Please, just tell me where I might find him. If he is still alive, I want the chance to nurse him back to full health. And if he is dead... I do not think he should be taken by you.”

  Dipping my head down, just in case she should somehow spot me, I remain entirely silent. I hope to hear her walking away at any moment, but instead I wait several minutes and hear nothing at all. I assume she is still out there, but I do not dare lean around the edge of the trunk's opening and look down, for fear that she might see me.

  And then, finally, I hear a faint scratching sound.

  I freeze, but the sound persists, and it seems to be slowly rising through the tree. I tell myself that it must be some woodland animal, perhaps a squirrel, although this notion in turn makes me realize that I have seen no sign of life in the forest ever since I arrived at the woman's home. No birds, no mice, not even any insects.

  Still, the scratching sound is surely caused by a squirrel.

  It must be.

  Although I tell myself not to worry, I cannot ignore the fact that the scratching is coming closer and closer. I force myself to wait, in part because I know I have no choice but in part because whatever is causing the sound, it seems larger than any squirrel. The woman has probably walked away by now, and I am perhaps merely imagining the sound, although this is of little comfort.

  And then finally, after several more minutes have passed, the scratching comes to an abrupt halt.