The Hag

by Erik Henry Vick

  “Rifle,” she whispered.

  Stephen looked down at her and smiled. “I can’t get both. You’re more important.” He took two steps toward the kitchen. “Besides, if the shotgun and a .357 Magnum can’t bring him down, Dad’s little .243 deer rifle won’t do a thing.”

  He had to turn her to the side to carry her out of the pantry door, but luckily it was wider after the demon had plowed through it. Stephen didn’t even glance at the living room, instead went straight to the side door. “I’ve got to put your feet down, Mary. Try to stand.” He matched actions to his words, and she gasped as her legs took her weight. He unlocked the door and threw it open. “Can you help me? Can you walk to the car?” He pressed the keys to their rental car into her hand.

  Mary nodded but didn’t believe she could walk, not even a step. Behind them, the demon roared, and Gary emitted a long, grating screech that wound down to the rattle of the dead and gone.

  “Gotta move, now, Mare,” said Stephen with a sad smile. With gentle firmness, Stephen pushed her out the door and closed it in her face. The lock snicked closed as he bolted it from the inside.

  “No! Stephen, no!” she shouted.

  Something slammed into the door, rattling the entire wall of the house and cracking the windows over the kitchen sink. Through the door, Stephen groaned.

  9

  Joe Canton had always felt at home in the woods. He’d never gotten lost, and no animal had ever threatened him.

  But that was before.

  He slipped through the woods without making a sound, avoiding the underbrush, avoiding dry twigs, with Greg hanging onto his belt all the while. He held his M1 carbine at high port, ready to bring it to bear at a moment’s notice.

  Joe hadn’t seen the woman in the black outfit since he’d shot at her the last time, but things were moving in the woods. At one point, the sound of a lion roaring whispered at him on the wind—and if that wasn’t proof dementia was setting in, Joe didn’t know what was.

  Greg tugged on his belt, and Joe stopped. He turned toward his grandson. “What is it, Greg?” he asked, his gaze bouncing back and forth between the trees behind them. “Did you hear something?”

  “She will kill them,” said Greg in a listless, spiritless voice.

  “Who, Greg?”

  “The Lady in the Lake, Grandpa. I ran away because she was going to kill one of you to keep us from leaving. I didn’t stop, didn’t listen to you, because he told me it would be too late if you caught up to me. He’s…he’s so different up here… I…I don’t want to be his friend anymore.”

  Joe eyed his grandson with concern. What the boy had been through in the past week was enough to cause anyone to go a little off-kilter, let alone a sensitive eleven-year-old. “Don’t worry, Greg. No one’s going to hurt anyone, not tonight. Who is it that you don’t like anymore?” Joe’s mind ran in circles, suggesting each child who came to visit on the same shore as his lake house and then rejecting them. His mind settled on Mason Harper, and though he couldn’t explain the feeling, he believed that was who Greg meant.

  “My…my invisible friend! In Florida, he was funny, he told me jokes. But up here…up here he’s been nasty, mean. He’s the one who said the Lady in the Lake would kill one of you unless I left, unless I ran away into the woods. He’s the one that tried to…” Greg looked at the M1, and his cheeks burned with shame. “He said I had to make you go away, or it would be too late to save anyone at the house.”

  Joe squatted, awkwardly holding the rifle away from them both. He looked up into his grandson’s scared eyes. “Greg, I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to give me an honest answer. No beating around the bush, okay?”

  Greg nodded.

  “This invisible friend… How does he… How do you talk to him?”

  Greg lifted a hand and tapped his temple with it. “Inside my head. Sometimes I talk to him out loud, but he always talks to me inside my head.”

  Joe took a deep breath, dread piling up inside him. “And does he tell you to do things often? Things you don’t want to do?”

  Greg’s face scrunched up into an expression of annoyance. “That’s just it. In Florida, he never told me to do anything. He never did much of anything back home, he just said funny things. But up here…”

  “Up here it’s different. He’s different.”

  “Yes. He tells me to do things all the time, and if I don’t want to do them, he calls me names or says I'm a brat or something like that.”

  Joe rested his hand on his grandson’s shoulder. “Now, this part is important, Greg. Do you still only hear him inside your head? Even up here, when he’s telling you to do things.”

  Greg bobbed his head, looking miserable and exhausted.

  Joe didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know much about mental health or psychiatry or any of that nonsense, but it sounded as if his grandson might’ve developed a problem that was beyond him. “Can you tell him to go away?”

  Greg looked down as if he could sense his grandfather’s unease and shrugged.

  “Well, you think on it while I get us back home.”

  The boy raised his head, his expression grave, his eyes haunted. “When we get back…I think they’ll‍—‍” Greg burst into tears.

  10

  Mary grabbed the doorknob and rattled it with all her strength. “Stephen!”

  “Run, Mary!” On the other side of the door, her husband screamed.

  “Oh, yes! Please run, Mary!” bellowed the demon. “I’ll be out in two shakes, dearie.”

  Through the door, Mary heard a sickening crunch, followed by a ripping sound. The window above the sink exploded outward as if someone had thrown something through it, and Mary’s gaze tracked that direction.

  The narrow concrete path that led from the kitchen door circled around toward the porch and connected with the wider cement walk that led down to the dock. Lying in the center of that narrow path, was a head.

  Mary didn’t want to go look, she didn’t want to see who it was, but she needed to. She stepped closer to the gruesome thing, resting her hand against the side of the house for support.

  Inside the house, the scaled beast shrieked laughter through the open window. “Are you sure you should do that, Mary?” he asked. “Are you sure you want to know who that head belonged to?”

  She glanced through the broken window. The demon stood on the other side of the breakfast bar, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the countertop. Human blood coated his claws, his hands, but his own wounds had closed over as if they’d never happened.

  She turned her attention back to the gruesome thing lying at her feet. The head rested face down, and she had to nudge the bloody thing with her foot. Her breath gusted out of her, and she felt a pang of insane guilt at the level of relief that coursed through her.

  It wasn’t Stephen. The head belonged to the cop…to Gary Dennis.

  11

  Stephen slumped against the door, pain throbbing in his limbs. A goose egg grew to epic proportions on the back of his head, and the muscles in his neck were alive with burning, electric pain.

  The demon leaned against the breakfast bar, resting his elbows on it. His face twisted with a huge grin, and his solid-red eyes glinted with amusement.

  He glanced into the living room, a sick dread filling him. The furniture lay upended, and Gary’s legs extended from beneath the couch. Blood coated everything and pooled beneath Gary’s body.

  Too much blood, he thought. Sorry, Gary.

  Gritting his teeth, Stephen levered his legs underneath him and pushed himself up against the kitchen door. The demon stared at him for a moment but then turned his attention back to the kitchen window as if Stephen offered no threat. He swept the area with his gaze, looking for a weapon, something that might hurt the hulking demon.

  Or at least keep his attention.

  I’ve got to buy enough time for Mary to get away. She should be at the car by now.

  12

 
Mary’s gaze bounced from the severed head at her feet through the kitchen window at the demon watching her. “What are you?” she asked in a tone that demanded an answer.

  The huge mother-of-pearl beast lifted his massive shoulders and let them drop, a smile stretching on its lips. He glanced to the right, toward the kitchen door, and then turned back to her. “What do I look like?”

  “A horror movie,” Mary hissed.

  The demon tilted his head back and laughed. “I enjoy your movies. Have you seen The Exorcist? It was hilarious.”

  She shook her head. “Is my husband dead?” Her voice sounded lifeless, flat, even to her.

  The demon’s scaled lips stretched wide, exposing multiple rows of fangs the color of rotten teeth. “That pansy? You deserve better, Mare. But, to answer your question, no.” The beast turned his gaze to the right again. “In fact, he’s regained his feet and seems to be looking for a weapon. He’s a little slow on the uptake, isn’t he?”

  “If you let him live, I won’t run away.” The words hurt her to say, but she meant each and every one of them.

  “Mary! No! Get away! Think of Greg!”

  The demon inclined his head. “Yeah, Mary. Listen to your husband. Go ahead. Run.” He winked at her lasciviously. “Have I mentioned I adore foreplay?”

  As Mary looked on, Stephen charged the immense creature, swinging a broom as he came.

  13

  The broomstick cracked across the demon’s head and splintered into three fragments. Stephen’s arms vibrated to the point of pain.

  The thing turned its head and looked Stephen in the eye. “Wouldn’t you rather be sitting against the door minding your own business? I’m trying to pick up your wife.”

  The piece of the broom Stephen still held was about twenty inches long and ended in a ragged point. Stephen reversed his grip on it, holding the thing point-down like a long dagger. He stepped close to the big demon, raised his arm, and plunged the broken broom handle downward with all his strength.

  The demon did nothing, and the point of the handle skittered across the scales that lined his back. The scaled beast sighed as if Stephen was the stupidest, most irritating asshole he’d ever met.

  “Guns don’t seem to slow me down, so you thought you’d try a broomstick?” The demon rolled his eyes. “You are about four shades of stupid, aren’t you?”

  Stephen brought his hand up as fast as he could and plunged the broken broomstick into the demon’s eye. Thick yellow goop burst from his eye socket, and when it touched the wooden weapon, sent tendrils of black smoke curling toward the ceiling. The viscous liquid glopped down the handle toward his hand, and Stephen jerked away, leaving the broom handle quivering in the demon’s face.

  “Do you know what? You’ve just crossed the line from being a minor amusement to a big pain in the ass. Do you have any idea how long it takes for an eye to regrow?” He reached up and took the broom handle between two fingers in a curiously tender way, as if he might crush it to dust by accident, and pulled it out. He slung the thing away, and with the same motion slapped Stephen with the force of an out-of-control tractor-trailer.

  Stephen’s feet left the ground, and he flew across the room to slam into the refrigerator. It dazed him, and he slid to the ground, woozy and fighting a losing battle to remain conscious. The last thing he thought was that he hoped Mary had started running at last.

  14

  “What the hell?” hissed Pete Martin.

  Tom Walton snapped his hand up for silence. A small, shadow-shrouded figure stepped out of the gloom and moved toward them, staggering as if exhausted. “Who’s that? Greg Canton, is that you?”

  “Nuh-no, I’m Mason Harper. My grandma lives next door to the Cantons.” The boy shuffled forward, darting a glance over his shoulder. “You have to help me! Get me out of here!”

  “And why’s that, son?” asked Arnold, shining his flashlight on the kid.

  For a moment, the boy’s expression seemed crafty to Tom, but sweat covered his dirty face—add that to the unreliable lighting, and he might have only been fearful. The boy had skinned his knees on a tree root somewhere in the darkness, and a torn T-shirt hung from his shoulder. “What are you doing out here, Mason?”

  A wailing, squalling noise screeched from the darkness and sent shivers down Tom’s spine. As the sound faded into an eerie silence, he leaned close to Michael Arnold. “What is that? Sound effects?” he whispered.

  The effect on the boy was pronounced. He shuddered and took three running steps to the group of cops, his face crumpling in abject terror. “Get me out! Get me out of here!” he whispered again and again.

  “I wish to God I knew, Chief.” Arnold shuddered. “I don’t mind telling you that I’m not sure if the silence or the noises bug me more.”

  Tom wagged his head. Their flashlights seemed worse than worthless, unable to penetrate the gloom. Anger and frustration bubbled in his blood. We’re worthless out here… Can’t do a goddamn thing! He stepped away from the others, ignoring Arnold’s warning hand on his shoulder. Something rumbled deep in the woods, like a giant dog issuing a warning growl. “You can take your bullshit sound effects and go choke on them,” Tom muttered. He turned back to his officers, his face set into grim lines. “We aren’t doing much good out here, men. We can’t track anything in this darkness. Hell, we can’t even track ourselves.” He dropped a hand to rest on Mason’s shoulders. “We haven’t found the boy we’re looking for, but we have found a boy in trouble. We’re getting out of here. Now.”

  “But what about the‍—‍”

  Tom made a chopping gesture through the air. “We’re not helping the Cantons, are we? Running around like a pack of fools while a psychotic asshole gets his jollies trying to freak us out. I can’t make heads or tails of these woods tonight, and I don’t think any of you can either. If anyone has any other ideas, now would be the time to bring them up.” He looked at each man in the face, pausing a moment to give the man a chance to speak.

  No one did.

  “All right then. We’re getting out of here. Follow me.” Tom turned in the direction he thought would take them back to the Canton’s lake house and set off at a brisk pace.

  After he’d taken twenty steps, and his officers had fallen in behind him, an eerie male voice rang out in the woods. “Wrong way, dumbass,” the voice said.

  “Why don’t you come out here and show me, then?” Tom shouted. “I won’t arrest you; I promise.”

  In answer, the man stalking them laughed.

  Tom didn’t turn away from his chosen direction. He used every trick of woodcraft that he knew to keep himself from walking circles. It was hard without using the sky as a guide. After a few minutes, he slowed to a stop, peering into the darkness on all four sides.

  “Mister, we’re going the wrong way,” said Mason. “We have to go that way.” The boy gestured over his shoulder.

  Tom squinted at him and cocked his head to the side. “You’re Maven Harper’s grandson, right? You said you live next door to the Cantons?”

  “In the summer.”

  Tom darted a glance in the direction he’d been leading them and frowned.

  “It’s this way, Officer,” said Mason, pointing behind them.

  “How can you tell?”

  Mason shrugged. “It seems…right.”

  Tom shook his head, then lifted a hand and let it drop. “Well, I’m all turned around in this soup. Can you lead us out?”

  Mason hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “This way.” He turned and walked away, pausing after a moment to beckon the group of officers.

  With a shrug, Tom followed him.

  After they’d walked for ten minutes, the mist began to dissipate in the boughs of the trees, and starlight peeked through. Another few minutes’ walk brought them out from under the fog. Tom called a halt and turned, staring into the murk behind them.

  “It seems…darker…maybe more menacing,” said Arnold.

  Tom looked at him askance b
efore shaking his head. Arnold was not a man given to flights of fancy, nor was he easily frightened, but fright lingered in the man’s expression. “I can’t explain it, Michael.”

  Arnold hitched his shoulders and offered a timid smile. “Who said you gotta know all the answers?”

  Tom grunted, then turned and led them out of the woods. Moonlight reflected off the black asphalt surface of Lake Circle. As he stepped from the woods, Walton threw a wary glance over his shoulder. He couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever it was back there in the woods, it had led them—herded them—out of the woods. Tom rested the butt of his AR-15 on his hip and used his other hand to rub his eyes. At least he was beginning to understand how things may have happened in Oneka Falls seven years before.

  “What do we do now, Chief?” asked Arnold.

  “Hell if I know,” Tom muttered.

  “Can you…” began Mason. “Can you walk me home?” He peered at the dark woods on the side of the road. “I’m…” He lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “I’m scared.”

  “Me too, son,” said Tom. “Me, too.”

  Chapter 6

  2007

  1

  Sally McBride sat behind the reception desk in the Oneka Falls Town Hall and fumed. The new one, that Nicole Conrau, came through giving orders like she owned the place. Who does she think she is? Sally thought. She’s a youngster, and she has only just arrived to boot. She grimaced and scratched at the underside of the desk—over the years, she’d cut a groove in the wood during times of stress. Someone should teach her a lesson.

  Sally slid her keyboard in front of her and began the Internet search Nicole had demanded. But everyone knows how she’s “earning” her position, everyone knows Chaz gave it to her because he wanted to fuck her… I can’t blame the youngster, but Chaz…he should know better.

  She seethed in silence, completing the tasks Nicole wanted in the order she’d asked for. Asked for? Commanded! I should rip her ears off! And why does she want this stupid shit, anyway? This information is a thing for accountants! How the hell am I supposed to make heads or tails of this bullshit?