The Hag

by Erik Henry Vick

  Mary spun about to pace in the other direction. When she reached the window, she peered out once more, expecting further disappointment.

  Instead, the figure outside terrified her, and she screamed. Elizabet bolted to her feet, her hands covering her open mouth.

  And then Mary laughed. “I’m sorry, Elizabet. For a moment, I thought…” Mary looked out the window again. “There’s a man out there.”

  “One of the policemen‍—‍”

  “No. Maybe he’s a neighbor, but he looks to be about Joe’s age. He looks too skeezy to be a cop.”

  “Oh?” Elizabet came to stand at her side and followed Mary’s gaze, then shook her head.

  “Do you recognize him?”

  “Never seen him before in my life.”

  Ice descended Mary's spine. “Elizabet,” she said in a placid tone. “Did you remember to lock the door after you spoke with the police chief?”

  Elizabet turned to face her, her expression one of confusion tinged with fear. “Why, I…” She glanced toward the kitchen. “Why, I don’t recall.”

  Mary didn’t want to turn away from the man standing in the middle of the gravel lane, as if her gaze alone held him frozen. “Please go check.”

  Elizabet glanced out the window. “You don’t think‍—‍”

  “It’s best to be on the safe side, isn’t it?” She patted Elizabet on the shoulder. “Please go check any doors that may be unlocked.”

  Elizabet turned and nodded once as her husband was wont to do. “Of course, dear. I’ll see to it.”

  As the older woman left her side, the old man turned his face to glare at Mary. There was something about him…something about his eyes that filled her with a nauseating fear. As emaciated as any anorexic, white hair floated around the man’s head like a man’s hat on a boy’s head. He wore an old work shirt, with dark splotches down its front, as if he had stained it with both his lunch and his dinner. An old pair of chinos and a scuffed pair of black work boots completed his ensemble. He flashed a half-grin at Mary, but his eyes were cold, hard pebbles that seemed to bore into her. He wrinkled his nose as if they were sharing a pleasant moment while jerking his chin to the left, and at the same time, Mary heard a clicking noise—a noise a bird might make.

  For a moment, Mary glimpsed what she had seen when she’d screamed moments before—a tall man, with black, shriveled skin like that of an undead thing in a horror movie. His skin hung from his frame as clothing three sizes too big would; his clawed hands rested on his hips. She opened her mouth to scream once more, but the man lifted a hand and shook his index finger at her as a schoolteacher might at an errant child, and the scream caught in her throat. Then, he flashed a broad smile, showing all his age-yellowed teeth, and the sight of it made Mary wish for blindness.

  “Well, I’m glad you suggested I check. Someone left the kitchen door unlocked,” said Elizabet from the other room. “I’ve locked it, so that old man can just move on down the road.”

  Mary’s mouth hung open; her lips stretched in a silent scream. He brought his finger to his lips, shushing her. Once more, the man showed her his teeth in a ghastly smile and then winked, and then he was just an old man again. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the man to disappear.

  When she next opened her eyes, he had, and Mary breathed a sigh of relief. Her heart raced, and her stomach knotted.

  “Why, Mary, dear,” said Elizabet as she walked through the room toward the porch that hung on the back of the lake house, “you look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”

  Mary twisted her head from side to side but kept her gaze centered on the window. “I’m…I’m not sure what I saw.”

  “Well, what’s our chary man doing now?” Elizabet called.

  “He’s… he disappeared.”

  “Oh, he’s gone. Which direction did he go? The Andersons down at the end of the lane might have their parents in to visit.”

  Mary shook her head. “No, I don’t think that man has any business here.”

  “Well, what makes you say that, dear?”

  Mary opened her mouth, but the sound of glass shattering and wood splintering preempted her. A moment later, Elizabet’s scream reverberated through the house.

  4

  Red Bortha stood behind a thick tree trunk in the small yard between the Canton’s lake house and the shore of Lake Genosgwa. The new arrival, the one calling himself Chaz Welsh, crouched in the flowerbeds next to the porch door, and the boy Brigitta had sent to “guide” them crouched near the side of the house, looking glum. If things were going according to plan, Herlequin had begun creating a stir on the other side of the house.

  To Red, it seemed like a lot of effort for a meal, especially since food was there for the taking in any inner-city—no muss, no fuss. Then again, Herlequin had refined tastes, and perhaps that made it worthwhile. In any case, Herlequin was the strongest of them, and that gave him the right to dictate how things would go.

  He tilted his head to peer around the tree trunk at the new arrival. I never knew him on the other side. Never even heard of him, Red thought. The demon didn’t act as the youngsters did, but other than that, Red couldn’t guess his age, his power. That Herlequin had selected him for the evening’s festivities lent weight to his credibility.

  Welsh had scaled skin and clawed digits, but no wings—not that any wings known to demonkind could have lifted his bulk into the air. His size rivaled the biggest of their kind—thick muscles, heavy bone structure, long limbs, and big hands and feet. It would be interesting to fight him, Red thought. Perhaps I can imagine a…slight, an insult.

  As if he could read Red’s mind, Welsh turned his eyes away from the door and sought Red’s gaze. A smirk rested on his lips with the ease of an expression he wore often. Red narrowed his eyes and gave the other demon a slight nod of approval.

  “Well, what makes you say that, dear?” The words came from just inside the door between the porch and the house and the smirk on Chaz’s face stretched to become an evil grin. The big demon bounded up the steps, ripped the screen door from its hinges, and then charged the door into the house like a linebacker plugging a hole on Sunday afternoon.

  Well, that settles that. Herlequin had commanded that only one of them deal with the two women inside the house. He wanted the other one in the woods across the street, as there were interlopers to deal with.

  That was okay with Red. Women screamed too much, and the sound of it grated on his nerves. Good riddance, he thought and turned to shuffle through the side yard toward the gravel road, taking the boy by the arm as he passed him.

  5

  Greg skidded around the tree, keeping himself upright by pure luck, arms splayed apart, one hand fighting for purchase on the tree’s bark, the other waving about as the bronco riders on television did. His gaze danced across the small glade, searching for any dog-things that might lurk behind the trunks on the opposite side. His breath ripped in and out of his chest, and each time he gasped for air, his throat made a coughing sound like the one Gollum made in The Lord of the Rings.

  They weren’t barking or howling, at least, and in the absence of the constant din, Greg could think. Where do I go? How do I fix it?

  His invisible friend’s harsh cackle filled his mind. Oh, boyo, you do amuse me at times.

  “What?” gasped Greg.

  Wasn’t I clear before we started? Didn’t I say that if you didn’t lead her away, horrible things would happen? Did you listen?

  Yes! I did everything you said! Why won’t you help me? In the distance, his grandfather shouted his name.

  His invisible friend’s irritation scoured his mind as if someone were rooting around inside his skull with a Brillo pad. Perhaps that is why.

  What? I told him to go home, I can’t control him! It’s not my fault!

  Ah, sport. Does it matter if it is your fault or not? He’s still here, and I warned you what would result. No, your cause is beyond my help, now.

  “No!” shouted Greg, lo
ud enough to hurt his throat. “No, I won’t let you!”

  In answer, the creepy dog-things howled from the dark forest around him.

  “You make her stop!”

  Well, kiddo, I’ll tell you, I don’t think you’re in any position to give me commands. And what makes you think I control this situation, anyway?

  It was a good question, and one that Greg didn’t have a decent answer for, but he knew it was true, nonetheless. His so-called “invisible friend” was not the same thing as it had been in Florida. There were too many differences, too much bad advice, and too many suggestions that Greg, himself, would never consider, let alone do.

  Ah, are we no longer friends, Greg? Have you turned against me?

  No, I—

  I can sometimes hear your thoughts, boyo. There’s no sense lying.

  I’m not lying! I haven’t turned against you!

  Then why do I get the sense that you are…plotting something? Why do you hide your thoughts from me?

  I… I didn’t even know I could do that. You are part of my imagination, aren’t you?

  Not for the first time when asked a question he didn’t want to answer, Greg’s invisible friend went silent.

  Behind Greg, the pitter-patter of not-so-little feet sounded.

  6

  To Gary, it seemed the night would never end, that they would never make their way out of the woods, that Stephen would never stop grumbling behind him. He’d taken the lead, not out of any sense of bravery or entitlement to command, but because Stephen was so reluctant to leave without his son and father that he had plodded along at the speed of a snail. At least leading, Gary could set the pace.

  These woods aren’t that big. We should’ve been able to walk out of here in under ten minutes. Gary shook his head, glancing both to the left and to the right, searching for something—anything—familiar. He hated to admit that he’d gotten lost in a chunk of woods that wasn’t bigger than three acres. A fella can walk edge to edge in these woods in ten minutes.

  “Hey! Over here!”

  The owner of that voice was not Greg Canton—at least it didn’t sound that way—but it was a boy. Gary stole a glance at Stephen over his shoulder, arching his eyebrows. Stephen lifted his shoulders and let them drop, shaking his head. The unfamiliar voice bothered Gary, but he couldn’t put his finger on why.

  “This way, you two idiots! You’re walking in circles, you know that?”

  “Who’s there?” Gary called.

  “Just follow the sound of my voice!” The voice had become that of an adult male.

  Stephen stepped up beside him. “Tom Walton?”

  Gary cast a scathing glance at the younger man. “Think I wouldn’t recognize Tom’s voice?”

  Stephen’s only answer was to hitch his shoulders up and let them fall.

  “Are you coming? I’m not going to stand here all night.”

  “Whoever he is, we don’t need to worry about him,” said Gary, tapping the stock of Stephen’s shotgun.

  Stephen shrugged again and held the shotgun out to Gary. “You’re the cop.”

  With a gruff nod of his head, Gary accepted the weapon, checked to make sure a shell was chambered and put his thumb on the safety. “Right. Stay behind me, Stephen.”

  Stephen’s shoulders went up and down once more.

  It irritated Gary, though it shouldn’t have. The man was having one hell of an evening, and if Gary hadn’t been so worried about his health and everything else on top of it, he would’ve handled that better. “Don’t worry, Stephen. We’re almost out. We’ll get the rest of the police force out here in two shakes, and we’ll scour these woods.”

  Stephen lifted his chin and looked Gary in the eye. “We better get to it.”

  “Right.” Without another word, Gary turned on his heel and walked in the voice's direction. “Hey! Keep talking!”

  “Finally! I thought I would have to leave you two!”

  “This is Gary Dennis, GPD. Who’s there?”

  “Well, hi, Gary. Hurry, will you? You’re almost here.”

  “Squirrely, ain’t he?” muttered Gary to himself. Behind him, he heard the now-familiar rustle of Stephen’s clothes as he shrugged.

  7

  After getting the two idiots on a path out of the woods, Red skimmed through the trees in eerie silence, hanging in the air like a wraith, enjoying the low-hanging mist, the darkness. The boy Brigitta had sent to help him lagged in his wake, smashing through the underbrush with as much noise as a bull would’ve created. Brigitta was up ahead, terrifying the child and dealing with the old man. Herlequin’s other daughters split their time between driving the child away from everyone else and harrying the ailing cop and the child’s father.

  That was fine with Red. His skills went another direction, anyway. Besides, playing with a group of grown men was more his style. He would gain far more sustenance from the seven men tromping around in confusion than he would from a single boy and his grandfather—and truth be told, Red got the feeling the old man didn’t fear much.

  Red’s specialized senses told him the position of every human in the woods. He grinned with all three of his mouths and circled wide around Brigitta’s playground, leading Mason Harper to where Brigitta wanted him to be.

  8

  Tom Walton stepped back under the ceiling of mist, feeling as lost as he had ever felt in his life. None of it made any sense, not unless the rap he’d taken to his noggin had done more damage than he had imagined. He stepped up next to Michael Arnold. “What do you think?”

  Arnold looked at him sidelong and drew a deep breath before shaking his head. “It’s the damnedest thing, Tom. These tracks make no fucking sense.”

  Tom let his head droop forward until his chin almost rested against his chest. “And where has our trail gone? We just came through this section of woods not twenty minutes ago.”

  Michael removed his wide-brimmed hat and ran a hand over his bald head. “I’m glad you mentioned that, Tom. I was beginning to think…”

  “Ayup. You didn’t even smash your head into anything earlier tonight.”

  Arnold examined the strange mist hovering over their heads. “And what is that happy horseshit? You ever seen mist act that-a way?”

  “Never in my life.” Tom shook his head. “I’m of a mind that this trip into the woods was a terrible idea.”

  Shrill laughter rang through the surrounding woods, high-pitched and awful.

  “What in the hell was that?” asked Pete Martin in a breathless voice.

  “Hold it together, Officer!” snapped Arnold.

  Tom’s skin crawled as the trees absorbed the echoes of the eerie laughter. He couldn’t decide which was worse, that nerve-grating yuk-yuk-yuk, or the absolute silence that followed. Don’t care for this one bit, he thought. He looked at his men, and they all returned his gaze, waiting for him to decide what they should do. “Listen up, whoever is out there, I’m Tom Walton, chief of Genosgwa’s Police Department. I’m out here on official business, and we are armed. This is not the time to play jokes. Come out!”

  No one answered him, and the utter silence of the woods around them put Tom’s nerves even further on edge. He had that hinky feeling in his guts again as if eyes tracked his every move. Eyes of men with evil intent.

  “Where is the boy?” he called.

  As before, there was no answer, but far away, Tom imagined he could hear dogs howling and barking. He glanced at Michael Arnold and lifted an eyebrow.

  “Ayup,” the man whispered.

  From behind them, something roared, sending ice down Tom’s spine like an express elevator. It sounded the same as the African lion in the Rochester zoo. “Circle!” Tom snapped. His men gathered in a circle, their backs to one another, each man facing out. “Safeties off.” As he thumbed his own safety off, six clicks sounded around him.

  9

  As the dog-things came up behind him, Greg sprinted across the glade. There was no moonlight, of course. The mist obscured
all that. As he re-entered the woods on the other side of the clearing, a hand reached out and grabbed him, jerking him to the side and almost off his feet. A little yelp of fear escaped Greg’s lips.

  Joe Canton turned his grandson to face him and put one finger to his lips. Using the same finger, he pointed at the surrounding darkness. In his other hand, he held the scary-looking rifle, its butt resting on his hip, its barrel pointing up at the mist. “Now, don’t you worry about that,” whispered Joe. He lifted his gaze from his grandson and scanned the darkness surrounding them but saw nothing. He pulled the boy close and gave him a hard hug. “Ayup. I don’t understand what you were thinking, Greggy, but I’m here now. Whatever is happening, I’ll sort it out.” The boy burst into tears, surprising Joe into silence. “Now, now, Greggy. What’s wrong?”

  Greg sobbed louder. “Oh, Grandpa! Now, it’s all screwed up! I can’t stop her! She’s going to‍—‍”

  “Hey, now. It’s okay, Greg. I’ve got you, and if anyone thinks they will get to you without one hell of a fight, well, they ain’t got the sense God gave a grasshopper.” He patted the boy on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry.” Canton swiveled his head from side to side, scanning the darkness for threats.

  “Grandpa! You have to listen. You have to!”

  “We don’t have much time, Greg. Whoever that woman is‍—‍”

  “The Lady in the Lake!”

  “What, now? The Lady in the Lake? Greg, put that out of your mind. That fat cow should’ve never mentioned it to you.”

  “No, Grandpa. I already knew. I already knew all about her. She was the one who grabbed the kayak!”

  “Greggy, it’s just a story. A bit of fun, nothing more.”

  Greg rocked his head back and forth. “No! Grandpa, she’s real. She’s…she’s a zombie or something, and she lives at the bottom of the lake. She’s after me! She’s…she’s mad because I‍—‍”

  “Greg, don’t carry on so!”

  “—hit her with the kayak paddle. My invisible friend says she‍—‍”

  In the distance, someone moved through the underbrush. He gripped Greg's shoulder and squeezed it twice. “Later,” he muttered. His grandson shook his head, but Joe squeezed his shoulder again. “Listen, Greg. This is important. Chances are, I’ll have to shoot this noisemaker here, and I can’t do that unless you’re safe. That means you’ve got to follow a couple of rules. You listening?”