The Hag

by Erik Henry Vick

  Joe stood outside the window, his M1 carbine held at high port. He peered inside, but the room was dark compared to the moon-bathed side yard. He stood for a moment, staring at dark spots in the room, straining his ears to hear movement or breath sounds.

  Nothing.

  Joe turned, and still holding the M1 at high port, scanned the side yard again. A column of muddy footprints led from the lake to where he stood. With a quiet curse, Joe stepped out of the flower bed, and peered down, hoping he hadn’t disturbed any evidence. He looked for footprints leading away from the house, but there were none.

  His pulse rate tripled as he sprinted around the house, eschewing silence in favor of raw speed. He banged in through the kitchen door, barely slowing, and raced to Greg’s bedroom door. In his hyper-aware state, Joe took in everything and everyone in the living room in one glance. Stephen had things under control, though Mary made a strange sound in the back of her throat. To her credit, she kept still.

  Joe set up on his grandson’s bedroom door, standing to the side of the hinges so that as the door arced open, he could follow it with the barrel of his carbine, ready to shoot any targets that presented themselves. With the M1 in one hand, he opened the door with his left hand and pushed it inward.

  The room was empty.

  Joe searched every square inch anyway.

  13

  Tom was still outside the Stensgaard house when the radio call came in. His dispatcher relayed the information from Joe Canton, and with a glance toward Gary, Tom sprinted toward his car. As he slammed the driver’s side door of his cruiser, Gary Dennis slid into the passenger seat.

  Gary saw Tom watching him and held his hand up, palm angled up at a forty-five-degree angle, extended toward the road in front of them. “You’ll need backup, Chief, and Joe is my friend. Haul ass.”

  Walton grunted and put his right foot to the floor, sending gravel spinning through the night air for hundreds of yards behind the fishtailing police cruiser. He drove fast with the lights and siren doing their things, but he stuck to his training and didn’t take risks. Joe was competent enough—hell, more than competent enough—to protect his family.

  Tom circled the lake on the aptly named asphalt road—Lake Circle. He braked hard as Thomas Hill Road appeared on his left. The cruiser slewed around the corner drunkenly, but Tom kept it on the gravel by miracle alone. He slowed to a stop behind the Canton’s lake house, flung the door open, slammed the cruiser into park, and sprinted toward the door bathed in the red and blue lights spinning from atop his car. Dennis was half a step behind him, his service weapon drawn, his gaze ping-ponging from shadow to shadow.

  “Gary, stand post,” snapped Tom. Gary grunted and took a position catty-corner to the corner of the house where he had a good view of both the side yard and the back of the house. Tom rapped on the door that led into the Canton’s kitchen but opened it and stepped inside without waiting for an answer. His hand rested on the butt of his pistol. He’d unsnapped it, but he didn’t draw it. “Joe? Elizabet?”

  “Living room,” called Joe in a gruff voice. A boy sobbed from deeper in the house.

  Tom strode through the kitchen, glancing into the open pantry, and nodding to himself when he saw the hidden door was open. He knew all about the secret gun safe—he had recommended the contractor when Joe had asked.

  Joe stood near the hall that led toward the back of the house, his M1 carbine held at high port. He nodded once and set the rifle in the closet, closed the door, and stepped away from it.

  “Appreciate it. See anything?” Tom asked Joe. “I’ve got Gary on post outside.”

  Joe nodded, but his expression was grim. He motioned with his head toward the kitchen, and Tom nodded. Together they stepped to the kitchen and out the back door.

  Once outside, Joe leaned toward the chief and whispered, “I found footprints between the house and the lake. Greg’s bedroom window has a cracked pane, with something on it—maybe blood, maybe mud—and the opposite window’s frame is bent. I…”

  “Go on, Joe,” said the chief.

  Joe nodded once, then looked at the ground. “It’s the damnedest thing, Tom.”

  Walton nodded but said nothing.

  “I found footprints from the lake to the boy’s window. Muddy prints, mind.”

  “You said.”

  Joe shook his head. “Nothing else.”

  Tom shook his head. “I’m not following you, Joe.”

  “I didn’t find any other footprints. Nothing.”

  “So there was only one of them?”

  “No, Tom. I only found footprints leading to the window. I didn’t find any leading away. I assumed the bastard had gotten in through the window, despite how small the opening is.”

  “But you searched.” Tom held his face still as he said the words, his tone flat.

  “I did. No one inside.” Joe peered at Tom in the darkness. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was all a dream.”

  “Damn. To tell the truth, I was hoping it was a nightmare.”

  “It is,” said Joe in funereal tones. “It is.”

  14

  As the sun’s rays crept through the leaves of the forest surrounding Lake Genosgwa, Tom and Gary sat in the front seat of his cruiser, drinking acidic gas station coffee and grimacing with each swallow. They watched as Leland Chambers pulled dog after dog out of the back of his modified pickup and clipped them to a long lead. Leland had the best bloodhounds in Kanowa County and was often used by law enforcement. He didn’t come cheap, but Tom had insisted they use him over the new K-9 unit Dave Wallace had established at the Sheriff’s Department. It hadn’t won him any points with Wallace, but Tom didn’t much care.

  “Old Leland,” mused Gary Dennis. “Old” wasn’t only a sign of affection—Leland was at least seventy-five years old but still spry and strong. He handled his dogs as if born to it.

  “You can say that again. I hope…”

  “Yeah,” said Gary. “Hope it twice, once for me.”

  Leland clipped his last dog to the lead and glanced Tom’s way.

  “That’s our signal,” said Tom, and both men exited the vehicle. He held Stellan’s favorite teddy bear in one hand and a single dirty sock in the other. He approached the pack of yapping hounds and nodded to Leland. “Morning.”

  “Ayup, that she is. No offense, Tom, but I wish I wasn’t seeing you this morning.”

  The chief nodded. “No offense taken, Leland. I’d much rather wait until Saturday night and have a beer.” Tom shrugged. “Duty calls.”

  Leland shook his head, a bleak look in his eyes. “I don’t much enjoy these kinds of cases, Tom. Tracking fugitives, sure, I’m there with bells on. But I don’t want to be the one to find a dead child.”

  “I can’t blame you. But this boy may not be dead. There’s nothing to indicate that. He may only be lost.”

  Leland nodded but averted his gaze, as if to say, “sure, sure.” He held out his hand. “Let’s start with that sock. Probably has more of the boy’s scent.”

  Tom nodded and passed it over. Leland took the grimy sock and held it out for all his dogs to sniff. “Ayup,” said Leland after a moment and handed the sock back. “Down to the lake, you said?”

  Tom glanced down toward the Stensgaard house and motioned for Martha and Hedy to go back inside. Then he held out his hand as if inviting Leland to go on down.

  The dogs created quite a ruckus going down the steep steps. Tom and Gary followed a suitable distance behind, watching the dogs.

  The dogs dropped their noses to the ground, each seeming to want to go in a different direction, but Leland called them to heel, and from then on, they functioned as a pack.

  The dogs raced back and forth along the shore, pulling Leland to a jog. They circled what seemed like thousands of times in the Stensgaards’ backyard, charging up toward the back door, down toward the dock, toward both edges of the yard, and back up to the door. After a short time, the dogs pulled Leland up toward the head o
f the lake, following the boy’s scent at the edge of the shore. The trail veered through the yard of the last house, across the road, and headed into the woods.

  At the edge of the road, Leland stopped and pointed to a jumble of tracks. “Did you have the Sheriff’s Department out here before me?”

  Tom shook his head. “Why?”

  “Mess of dog tracks here. Strange.” Leland shook his head and let the dogs run, his head down scanning the ground.

  As he followed the dogs into the forest, Tom’s heart sank. He still may be lost. Not every kid that goes into the forest ends up dead. Tom tried to dispel his anxiety by sheer force of will but failed. Yeah, some of them just disappear forever, said a grim, disgruntled voice in the back of his mind. He glanced at Gary’s sour expression and assumed the man suffered similar thoughts.

  They hadn’t found so much as a hair at the Canton residence, though the Sheriff’s crime scene team was still there. The footprints had turned out to be mud, but with no discernible tread marks—and none leading away from the house. The spot Joe had seen on the window had also been mud.

  Tom shook his head and spat into the forest.

  The dogs led them deep into the woods, leaping across small gorges, sniffing at every tree, every bush. After an hour of trotting around with their noses down, the dogs seemed to become confused.

  “Leland?” Tom asked.

  “Damnedest thing, Chief,” said Leland watching his dogs circle and yap at one another. “The way they act, I’d bet my bottom dollar that the boy walked to this point and disappeared into thin air.” The handler glanced at Tom and Gary in turn before looking at his feet. “That’s not all, either.”

  “More dog tracks?”

  “Ayup. Pretty easy trail. But that’s not the weirdest part.”

  “What is?” asked Gary.

  “The woman’s footprints.”

  “What woman?” asked Tom.

  Leland shook his head slowly. “Weird shit, here, Tom. Every now and again, there are tracks of a barefoot woman mixed in with the dog tracks. After a bit, they’re gone—just like the boy’s tracks disappear right here.”

  “A woman’s tracks?”

  Leland nodded but wouldn’t meet his or Gary’s gaze. “I know it sounds crazy, Tom,” he said in a quiet voice.

  Tom released a sigh. “I’ve heard it before, Leland, so don’t worry. Just last night, in fact. Joe Canton had an intruder or a peeper. Tracks led up from the lake to Joe’s grandson’s window, but no tracks led away.” Tom shook his head. Not again! I don’t want to do this again!

  His thoughts must’ve shown on his face because Leland treated him to a sharp nod. “I’ll spiral them out. Someone might’ve picked the boy up to fool with his trail.”

  Tom nodded and gestured for the tracker to proceed.

  Gary stood beside him, breathing a little too hard, a little too fast, grim lines distorting his face.

  Tom glanced at him, not much liking the color high in his cheeks. “You feeling okay, Gary?” he asked.

  “Hell, no! This…” His shoulders slumped. “Tom, tell me this ain’t going to be another…”

  Tom nodded, his face donning an expression to match Gary’s. “I’ve been thinking the same thing, trust me. But so far, it’s only one boy.”

  The sigh exploded from Gary. “Yeah, but someone was messing around out at the Canton’s house. Someone was trying to get in that window at that little boy.”

  “Yeah.” Without another word, Tom started after the braying dogs, and Gary fell in step.

  15

  Greg had refused to sleep in the bedroom set aside for him on their visits to the lake. Instead, he and his father had slept on couches in the living room, and Greg awoke as the sun painted beautiful colors on the surface of the lake.

  He lay still for a moment, taking in the morning's beauty and enjoying the crisp air on his cheeks. What had happened the night before was already taking on the dressings of a nightmare. What did I see last night? he asked himself. Was it a person? A bad person?

  He stared at the oranges and pinks dancing on the waves near the end of the dock. He loved coming to the lake house. It had always created such a deep sense of relaxation, such a feeling of…belonging, love, warmth. But now…

  But now you’re having second thoughts? What kind of grandson are you, boyo?

  Greg tried to suppress it, but a considerable sigh whistled through his lips. Leave me alone.

  Aw, what kind of greeting is that? Aren’t we friends anymore, sport?

  Were you ever my friend?

  Now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings. Mayhap I’ll go pout. Mayhap I’ll go hide under a rock at the bottom of the lake. Mayhap I’ll go tell the Lady in the Lake how to get at you.

  The words seemed to scald the inside of Greg’s mind as if someone had cracked his skull and dumped in a quart of Mr. Clean. You wouldn’t do that.

  Well, I certainly wouldn’t do that to one of my friends. But you haven’t been treating me as a friend should, have you, sport?

  Why are you calling me those things?

  What things?

  Kiddo. Boyo. Sport. Those things.

  Oh, that’s nothing. It’s only the way I talk, nothing to be offended by.

  A thoughtful expression stole over Greg’s face. You never talked that way back in Florida.

  Didn’t I? I’m sure I did. Maybe you never noticed. Could be you were too busy taking advantage of my good graces.

  The voice inside his head sounded enraged, the way a thwarted bully would. Greg was growing to dislike his invisible friend—maybe even to hate him a little. His mother had told him he could get rid of this invisible friend when he was ready. Of course, she hadn’t said how.

  You’re thinking of getting rid of me, aren’t you? Is that a thing friends do? What’s to stop me thinking of ways of getting rid of you, champ? Like talking to that dead lady in the lake.

  Well, is threatening to tell the Lady in the Lake how to attack me something friends do?

  There was no answer. Nothing except an acidic burp that brought a foul taste into Greg’s mouth. He swung his legs off the couch, wrapping the blanket around him and pulling it over his head like a hood. He shuffled to the porch door and stepped through it as quiet as a church mouse. Greg left it ajar to avoid waking anyone in the house.

  He stood there, breathing the sweet, cold air that wafted across the lake, admiring the continually changing painting the sun and the waves created on the water.

  “It’s a beaut, ain’t it?” said Joe.

  Greg jumped with a little cry that squeaked out between his lips. He whirled, ends of the blanket flapping.

  Joe sat in his accustomed chair, his pipe smoking in the ashtray next to him, and the neat rifle that Greg hadn’t known he owned leaning in the corner. “Sorry, Greggy. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “Grandpa!” Greg laughed, half relief, half pent-up anxiety. “I thought I was the first one up.”

  Joe smiled at his grandson with fondness. “I never got to bed, so you are the first one up.” He ruffled Greg’s hair.

  Greg gave his grandfather a hug and stepped back, his gaze glued to the wood and metal death machine leaning in the corner.

  Joe followed his gaze and clucked his tongue. “That’s not something for you to think about, Greg. Not yet. Not until you’re older, and not before your parents approve.”

  Greg nodded and switched his gaze to his grandfather’s craggy features, but he couldn’t stop himself from darting glances at the thing. “You didn’t go to bed?”

  “No, I didn’t. With everything that happened last night, I thought it might be best to sit up and take in the dregs of the night.”

  “Did…did you…” Greg raised his arms and let them drop in a frustrated shrug.

  Joe licked his lips. “Those county boys rolled out of here around four thirty this morning. After that, everything was quiet—only me and the lake were awake.” Joe leaned forward and rested his elbows
on his knees, peering into his grandson’s face. “I’d never let anything happen to you, Greggy. Not if I was close by, and not if I could do anything to stop it. You know that, right?”

  Strong emotion swirled inside of Greg—love for his grandfather, comfort at his grandfather’s words, fear that his grandfather felt compelled to say them. “I know, Grandpa.”

  Joe nodded gravely, not breaking eye contact. “Anytime you’re scared here, Greg, you just sing out. I’ll come running, and whoever’s scaring you had better damn-well be scared himself.”

  Rather than taking comfort from the assurance, the words aroused fear in Greg. Fear for his grandfather.

  16

  Stellan Stensgaard ran. He didn’t understand what was behind him, or who, but that didn’t matter, because he understood all too well what would happen if he stopped running. In the distance, he thought he could hear dogs, but then again, he thought dogs were chasing him.

  Dogs, or something like dogs. Even while he ran, he shuddered at the thought of the four-legged things with eyeless faces and weird, human-like paws.

  His chest burned, and his breath grated through his throat. He had no idea how long he’d been running, but he thought it had been through the whole of the night. He was lost and getting more lost with each random turn he made.

  Where are you going, sport? Are you having fun? Didn’t I say this game would be fun?

  “It’s not fun!” Stellan screamed.

  Now, what did I say about that attitude?

  Behind him, Stellan heard one of the dog-things sprinting toward him. The thing slammed into him from behind, knocking one of his legs out from under him. His arms pinwheeled through the air as he fought for a dancing, hopping, one-footed balance.

  It wasn’t until he was sure he would not fall that Stellan realized blood was pouring down the back of his right leg. There was no pain—not yet—but the sight of the blood pouring down into his shoe was enough to make him want to vomit.

  Not for the first time since the Lady in the Lake had chased him from the shore into the seeming safety of the woods, Stellan burst into tears.