The Horror of Devil's Root Lake

by Amy Cross

  “I'm still here!” I shout, hurrying after them. “Alice, tell him! Tell him I'm here!”

  “Daddy, she's right behind us!” Alice whimpers, trying again to get free from his arms. “Daddy, stop! She wants to talk to you! She sounds scared! She looks scared in her eyes!”

  “It'll be okay,” he replies, not looking back at me. “We'll fix this, Alice. We'll go somewhere far away. I'll figure out how to block the voice from my mind. I don't know how yet, but if Emily managed it, there has to be a way! Even if I have to put myself through E.C.T. to make it work, I won't stop until I know you're safe!”

  “But she's right there!” Alice sobs, watching me through tear-filled eyes. “I can see her!”

  Reaching the parking lot, he carries her toward the hotel.

  “I'm not dead,” I whisper, filled with a sense of shock as I look down at my hands. “I can't be. It's some kind of trick.”

  Suddenly I remember the moment on the tracks again. I freeze, thinking back to the sensation of the ground rumbling beneath my feet, and the rush of the air as it was pushed out of the way by the oncoming train. I remember I started to turn, at the very last moment, just as the train crashed straight into me. And then I woke up at the side of the tracks, dazed and confused.

  “Daddy!” Alice yells in the distance. “Stop! Wait for Emily!”

  Turning, I see that they've reached his car. Luke forces Emily into the back-seat and then hurries around to the other side.

  “Wait!” I shout, hurrying after them. “Luke, it's me! I'm right here! Luke, you have to listen to me!”

  Before I get to them, he starts the engine and reverses the car from its parking spot. The tires squeal as he turns the car around, and I watch as he drives away. I start running after them, shouting for them to stop, but finally I stop as I reach the edge of the lot. The last thing I see, before the car turns right and disappears from view, is Alice's sobbing face staring back at me through the rear window.

  And then they're gone.

  “I'm still here,” I stammer. “I'm still...”

  Hearing voices laughing nearby, I spot a group of guys making their way across the lot. They're joking about something, and it sounds as if they're a little drunk.

  “Hey!” I call out, hurrying over to them. “Wait! I need to ask you something!”

  I stand right in their way and holds my hands up, but they walk straight through me. Feeling dizzy for a moment, I turn and see that they're already wandering off toward the street, and it's clear they had no idea that I'm here. It was as if, to them, I'm nothing more than a ghost.

  “I'm still here!” I shout, filled with panic. “I'm right here!”

  I run after them and stop in their path again, and again they walk straight through me. This time I turn and watch them walking away, and then I spot a police car driving slowly past.

  “Did you hear?” a woman says nearby. “Some poor soul was hit by a train.”

  I turn and see that she's talking to a friend. They wander past, clearly not aware of me at all, just as two more police cars race along the street with a news crew right behind.

  “I'm not dead,” I stammer, feeling tears starting to fill my eyes. “This can't be happening. It's some kind of prank or...”

  Convinced that Chanciechaunie must be in my head, or that maybe he's in everybody else's heads and he's making them blind to my presence, I hurry across the street. The sounds of the city seem louder than ever, and somehow the electric lights are much brighter than I remember. I'm starting to feel dizzy again, and a moment later I feel as if something is trying to lift me off the sidewalk. Dropping to my knees, I grab hold of the curb and hold tight until the sensation has passed, but then I look around and see that nobody seems to have noticed me at all.

  “I want to go home,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes tight shut. “I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go -”

  For a moment, there's nothing. Absolute, unrelenting nothing. Or maybe not. There must be something, because something pulls me back from the brink of oblivion. Something helps toss me back out from the maw of nothing.

  ***

  The porch light is off. Craig and I always used to argue about that. Craig thought it was a waste to leave it on all night, whereas I wanted to make sure burglars were warned away. I guess tonight he got his way.

  How did I get here?

  I was on the sidewalk in Huntingdon, and then suddenly I opened my eyes and I was back here at the house.

  It's late, and I'm by the pool on the terrace. Snow is falling all around me. I can see the patio doors that lead into the kitchen, and it's very clear that I'm missing from the reflection. I no longer feel dizzy at all, and the nausea is passing.

  Is this home?

  ***

  Craig's snoring. Of course he's snoring. He's snored for as long as I can remember.

  And I remember everything now, as I make my way into the dark bedroom. The weather in my mind has cleared, and I remember every moment of my life, in greater detail than I ever thought possible. As I make my way around the side of the bed, I think back to the night when I was just eighteen years old, and I first saw Craig in a bar. We didn't talk that night, but we made eye contact a few times and I recognized him a few weeks later when I met him at a friend's house.

  And the rest, I guess, is history.

  I remember our first kiss, by the lake just outside of town. I remember knowing at that exact moment that I'd never want to be with anyone else again. It's hard to believe that we went from a state of such absolute happiness to a scrappy, torrid life following Charlie's death, but I guess the loss of a child can do that to people. Still, despite what anyone else might think, I know deep down that I still love him, and that he still loves me.

  Suddenly his phone starts ringing, flashing in the darkness.

  I step back as he stirs. It takes a moment before he seems to realize what's happening, but then he lunges for the phone and answers quickly.

  “Craig Carter,” he stammers, “is that -”

  He sits up, and I can hear a voice on the other end of the line.

  “Craig,” I whisper, even though I doubt he can hear me, “please, I'm right here.”

  “Slow down,” he continues, taking his glasses from the nightstand. “Harrington, where are you?”

  He listens for a moment.

  “Okay, and -”

  He falls silent, and now the voice seems to be explaining something to him. I watch Craig's face, looking for any hint of understanding, and slowly I see a sense of sorrow spreading across his features. After a moment he starts shaking his head, and tears glisten in his eyes.

  “No,” he stammers, “you can't be serious. There's been a mistake.”

  “I'm so sorry,” I tell him, as tears run down my face. “Craig, it was an accident. I had to save Alice, and then I wasn't quick enough to get off the tracks!”

  “Wait!” he stammers, getting to his feet and rushing straight through me.

  I gasp as I turn and watch him heading to the far side of the room. He picks up the remote and switches the television on, and then he flicks through the channels until he stops at footage of emergency crews working near a train-line.

  Stepping closer, I immediately recognize the location.

  “Sources indicate that there is one fatality,” the reporter explains as Craig turns the volume up, “and police are currently looking for a man and a young girl who were seen in the area immediately after the incident occurred.”

  “This isn't Emily,” Craig whispers, still holding the phone to the side of his face. “She wouldn't... I mean, she'd never...”

  His voice trails off as the television screen shows an ambulance driving slowly away from the scene.

  Suddenly Craig drops the phone, while still staring at the news report. A journalist is explaining more about the accident, but I can't focus on her words. Instead, I step closer to Craig and try to place my hands on his shoulders, although I quickly find that someho
w I can't quite feel him. I try again, but it's as if some kind of force is holding me back.

  “Craig, I'm here!” I tell him. “I know you can hear me if you just listen carefully! It's me, it's Emily! I'm -”

  Suddenly he steps back and sits on the edge of the bed, still staring at the television screen. He seems too shocked to move, too numb to say anything.

  “Please don't hate me,” I continue, crouching in front of him and looking up into his eyes. I reach out to touch his face, but again I can't quite manage to feel him. “I'm right here,” I say firmly. “Craig, I had no choice! I had to go with them, but I always planned to come back! And now I have to go and find this monster and stop him. I don't even know if I can, but I think I at least have a chance, so I have to try. Please tell me you understand. Craig, I'm right here. Talk to me!”

  I wait, but it's clear that he doesn't know I'm here.

  Suddenly he leans forward and starts sobbing uncontrollably. His whole body is shaking, as if he's falling apart.

  “I'm right here,” I stammer, trying to think of a way to make him understand. “Craig, try to hear my voice. I'm right with you, and I'm going to go away but then I'll try to come back again. Please, just try to hear me.”

  I wait, but he's still sobbing.

  Finally, I lean closer and gently kiss the top of his head. I let my lips linger for a moment, and when I pull back I realize that he seems to be shaking a little less.

  “I'm so sorry,” he whispers. “Please, Emily, you have to believe me... I thought I was doing the right thing for you. I know I made everything worse, I know I let it turn me into this awful person, but I loved you so much.”

  “I love you too,” I tell him. “I know it wasn't easy.”

  “I should never have let you go to that hospital,” he continues, with his head still bowed. “I should have found another way.”

  “Maybe there wasn't another way.”

  “I should have tried.”

  “You don't have to apologize for anything,” I whisper. “Craig, you can't let this destroy you. You have to stay strong.”

  He pauses for a moment.

  “I know you can't hear me,” he says finally, “but I'm going to find a way to make this right. I don't know how, but I'm going to make sure your memory is honored.”

  Suddenly he gets to his feet and grabs his phone, before heading to the door.

  “I'm on my way,” he stammers after a moment, and I follow him through to the next room.

  For the next few minutes, I try desperately to make him hear me, but finally he heads out the front door and I watch as he drives away. I guess he's going to Huntingdon, to the scene where it all happened, but I have to go the other way, to Malmarbor.

  “I'm still here,” I whisper, as his car speeds away along the street. “I'm not dead. I can't be dead.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The journey back to Malmarbor takes a long time, although time itself seems to mean nothing to me anymore. I walk and walk, through night and day and back to night again, until finally I find myself once again at the edge of that quaint little town square. The sun has set and only a few people are still on the streets, but they all seem to pass by without even noticing me.

  Except one little girl, who seems for a moment to glance my way before quickly looking in the other direction.

  I tried to get here faster, by closing my eyes and imagining the place, but that didn't work. I guess it's one thing to make myself go home in the blink of an eye, but it's another to travel somewhere else.

  By the time I reach the edge of the forest, darkness has fallen once again and I can't help noticing that all the trees look dead. I make my way through the undergrowth, barely slowed this time by thick bracken that twists and curls between the trunks, and finally I spot the cottage up ahead, bathed in moonlight that fills the clearing.

  I slow my pace, worried that I might immediately spot Chanciechaunie, but as I get closer I start to realize that the place appears deserted. A few old leaflets have been left scattered on the ground, probably dropped by departing tourists, and by the time I approach the cottage's front door I can't help thinking that somehow the creature is going to keep itself hidden. Ever since the night with the train, I haven't once felt Chanciechaunie at the edge of my consciousness, and it's almost as if he's decided to leave me alone.

  He still exists, though. I'm sure of that.

  Suddenly the cottage's front door opens and two men emerge, buttoning their coats against the cold winter air.

  “I'll try the new sign anyway,” the first man mutters, stopping next to me and lighting a cigarette. He seems completely unaware of my presence. “There's gotta be some people who'll drive past and decide to stop.”

  He turns and looks at the cottage.

  “What's wrong with the miserable assholes, anyway? Don't they wanna come and see the true, original home of Chanciechaunie? This is a literal slice of history, right here!”

  “Maybe he just isn't famous enough,” the other man suggests. “I mean, he's not exactly a household name.”

  “Then we need to see about changing that,” the first man says with a sigh. “You know what always seems to work for other people? A scandal, or some kind of news story. Then we'd have tourists flocking to the place. We could even jack the prices up!”

  “Nice idea,” the second man replies as they start making their way toward the path that leads to town, “but no-one really gives a damn about some dumb story from out here in the middle of nowhere. It'd take a miracle for that to change.”

  They keep talking as they wander off, and finally I'm left alone in front of the cottage. The only sound now comes from the faint creaking of dead, leafless trees at the edges of the clearing, but I can't help noticing that the cottage seems equally dead. If Chanciechaunie is here, he certainly seems to be very good at concealing his presence.

  Once I'm inside, I find that the place hasn't changed much since my previous visit. There's dusty furniture in both the main rooms, although the local entrepreneurs have installed a tatty-looking life-size model of their Chanciechaunie monster, hanging in one of the corners. If anything, they've turned the cottage into even more of a tourist trap, and there's nothing remotely scary about the place at all. Even a five-year-old would laugh.

  Making my way through to the other room, I can't shake the feeling that the real Chanciechaunie hasn't been here for a long time, and that perhaps my journey has been a waste of time. I spot the old book on a table, so I guess it was retrieved at some point and put back here. When I head over, however, I find that the drawings aren't nearly as detailed as I remember, and I'm starting to think that the book might just be another prop. I flick through the pages, searching for the picture of Charlie. This time, however, the illustration doesn't look much like him at all.

  “This isn't real,” I mutter, setting the book down and taking one final glance around the room before heading to the door. “I'm just -”

  Stopping suddenly, I look toward the window and see that there's something new behind the cottage, something that I swear I would have noticed if it had been here during my last visit. I head to the window and look out, and sure enough I find myself staring up at a huge, leafless tree with a vast, twisted split trunk. The light of the moon seems to be catching the branches, making the tree stand out against the rest of the forest.

  “You who are not like him,” I whisper, remembering one of the stories in Luke's folders, “shall never see his true home.”

  My heart is pounding as I head back to the front door, and then I head around the rear of the cottage until I'm right in front of the twisted tree. It's huge, rising high into the night sky, and its trunk is massively thick. Stepping closer, I feel the air starting to chill all around me, and a moment later my feet sink slightly into the muddy ground.

  The smudge.

  Last time I was here, I remember seeing a faint smudge in the air. It's almost as if the tree was hiding its presence from me during my
last visit.

  Now that I'm able to get a better look, I see that small, misshapen black orbs are hanging from many of the branches. Each barely the size of a tennis ball, they look rotten and damaged, as if they've begun to shrink. Several are low enough for me to reach, so I step toward them and hold out my hand. To my surprise, not only am I able to feel the orbs' dry, brittle surfaces, but I also find that they're very cold to the touch. There's a faint hint of red on their cracked surfaces, and after a moment I spot what looks like a ripple of light in the core of the orb in my hand.

  “What are you?” I whisper, looking up toward the other branches and seeing that there are hundreds of these orbs hanging high above me.

  I carefully slip one orb away from its branch, holding it in my hands for a moment. After just a couple of seconds, however, it starts to disintegrate. I reach up to re-attach it, but the flakes fall between my fingers and drift to the floor, leaving me holding nothing more than a few rotten scraps. These things are clearly so fragile, they can barely withstand being touched.

  Making my way closer to the trunk of the tree, I see that it appears to have been cracked down the middle, with the two halves having then somehow begun to warp around one another to form a much thicker, knotted core. The ground feels increasingly boggy beneath my feet, but I head closer until finally I'm able to reach out and touch the ice-cold bark. This tree seems very unlike all the others in the forest, although after a moment I look down and see that my feet are starting to slowly sink into the mulchy ground. I step aside and onto an exposed section of root, although now there appears to be something thick and red stained on the side of my shoes.

  “Are you in here?” I whisper, staring at the twisted trunk. I remember that one of the stories about Chanciechaunie mentioned a tree, and that he lived inside its damaged trunk. I'd dismissed most of those claims as nothing more than cheap fairy-tales, but now I'm starting to wonder if they might have carried a little more truth. Just a grain, here and there.