by Ron Ripley
“Get into a hole,” the old man said.
“No way,” Dan said, turning around.
One of the barrels of the shotgun seemed to explode, the muzzle flash lighting up the gathering trees.
Dan let out a scream, his right leg a bloody mess from the knee down as he fell to the grass. Keeping the shotgun trained on Peter the old man walked over to Dan and kicked him into the nearest hole, where he landed with a wheezing sob and a crash.
The old man turned his attention fully to Peter.
“In,” he said.
Peter jumped into the nearest hole, which was almost six feet deep. The old man came to the edge and looked down. Dan’s sobs were suddenly muffled, then silenced altogether. As Peter stood in the hole, he smelled the old man’s pipe tobacco and apples. Peter wanted to ask what the hell was going on, but the old man’s grim look and the dull sheen of the shotgun’s barrels in the starlight kept him quiet.
Something rustled behind him, and Peter turned to see tree roots snaking out of the hole’s earthen walls. Dirt started cascading down from the sides, quickly burying Peter up to his thighs as thicker, and longer roots appeared. Within a matter of moments, Peter could see one of the young apple trees as it pulled itself into the hole, earth and roots crashing onto him.
The weight was unbearable, blackness plummeting down around him. Peter struggled against it but found that he was trapped. While the dirt continued falling between the roots, Peter heard the old man.
“This is the best way to feed them, you know,” the old man said. “The reason why Hollis’ macs taste the best.”
Peter heard the old man chuckle once before the dirt filled his ears, packing his mouth as he tried to scream.
Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Kayaking in Hassell Brook, 2010
“How far into New Hampshire do you think we are?” Ken asked, slowing his kayak down to glide beside Tim.
“A few miles at least. Maybe even five,” Tim answered. The two of them kept a steady, leisurely pace, moving along with the current of the Nashua River. The banks were higher than usual, the water level low after such a dry summer. Fall wasn’t looking to be any wetter. Birds and squirrels called out from the banks as Ken and Tim kept to the river’s center, wary of trees and snags.
“Do you want to pull up soon?” Tim asked. “Figure out how far we are from Hassell Brook?”
“That sounds good,” Ken said, scanning the banks for a good spot. “What time are we supposed to meet your cousin again?”
“Eleven o’clock,” Tim answered. “She said to just give her a call, and she’d pick us up.”
“Cool.” Ken smiled at the scenery slipping past. The current was fast but not unmanageable. He and Tim had navigated worse. He kept his eyes open for a grassy spot to pull up. Everything was choked with swamp grasses and deadfall, though, and he didn’t want a rough landing if he could help it.
“River’s pretty quiet for a Saturday,” Tim said.
“Well, it is a little cold today.”
“Not that bad,” Tim laughed. “You’re out here.”
“True,” Ken grinned. “But soccer season’s started, too.”
“I keep forgetting,” Tim said. “Both girls playing this year?”
“Yup,” Ken nodded. “Brenda moved up to U-14, but Sam’s still in U-12.”
“Do they have games today?”
“Yeah,” Ken said. “The ex is there this weekend. We split the games.”
“Still tough?”
Ken nodded. “How are you and Melissa?”
Tim shrugged. “I think it’s almost done. She’s getting a little psychotic.”
“How so?”
“Little things,” Tim said. “I’ll tell you more later. I think I found our spot,” he said, pointing.
Ken looked and saw a narrow path through the swamp grass. The path of still water ran along to the bank where it widened into Hassell Brook, curled around a turn and vanished into the tree line.
“Does it look good?” Tim asked.
“That it does,” Ken grinned. Dipping his oar into the water Ken guided the kayak into the path. Tim dropped into place behind him, the two of them moving cautiously forward. As they neared the mouth of the brook, Ken felt a slight current, and he smiled, pushing the oar a little deeper into the water.
The brook wound its way lazily into a forest, young trees growing on the banks, branches stiffening with the steady push of fall in the air. The leaves had already begun to change their colors, and as the wind blew a few of them drifted down to rest upon the surface of the water. The leaves drifted past Ken and Tim as they continued on, some of the leaves caught along the banks or made their way steadily towards the river.
Ken steered the kayak around a large branch and hooked to the left, where the young trees sharply and suddenly gave way to ancient oaks and elms. Giant weeping willows clung to the banks, the long branches moving gently with the breeze and rasping against the chain-link fence which crossed from bank to bank and disappeared into either side of the forest. A large ‘No Trespassing’ sign hung directly above the stream on the fence, and there was barely enough clearance for Ken to get under the fence without rolling the kayak.
He came to a stop, and Tim came up beside him.
“What do you think?” Ken asked.
“Hold on,” Tim answered. He set his oar across his kayak, unzipped a pocket on his jacket and took a plastic bag with his phone in it out. Within a moment, he had the phone free of the bag, and he was pulling up his GPS. “Well,” he said, “if we go about two hundred meters in it’s only a quarter mile to Blackfoot Road in Thorne. I’m pretty sure that Anne can pick us up there.”
“Sounds good to me,” Ken said.
“Okay,” Tim said. He secured his phone and put it away before taking up his oar again. “Lead the way, my friend.”
Ken nodded and headed towards the fence. He kept to the left bank, where the fence was a little higher, and he bent low over the kayak, pulling himself ahead with careful strokes. Once he was clear, he paddled ahead to give Tim room to come through.
Around them, the forest sounded and felt different, as though it was older than they could know.
“This place is great,” Tim said softly after a minute.
Ken could only nod his agreement. Taking a deep breath he sighed and said, “So, two hundred meters?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Okay,” Ken said. “Let’s go.”
The brook remained wide enough for them to paddle side by side. Just before they hit the two hundred meter mark, the brook took a sharp turn to the right, opening into a large pool dominated by a weeping willow. Shadows covered most of the pool, the sounds of fish hunting water bugs on the surface were loud in the stillness. Somewhere a turtle dropped noisily into the water as Ken and Tim steered the kayaks to a sandy patch of banking just beyond the weeping willow.
“Wow,” Tim said as they climbed out of the kayaks, hauling them up onto the sand.
“I know,” Ken said, looking around. “We need to remember this place,” he said, looking over at Tim. “This would be a great place to camp.”
Tim nodded.
“Want to—” a whimper cut Ken off.
Ken looked at Tim, who shook his head.
The whimper came again, followed by a splash.
Ken turned, trying to pinpoint the sound.
More splashing and a deep, sorrowful moan.
“I think it came from the tree,” Tim said.
Ken nodded, cautiously walking along the banking towards the willow. The splashing took on an odd rhythm while the voice settled into a steady, plaintive cry. When he reached the willow, Ken pushed through the curtain of leaves and whip-like branches. The pool opened up even more around a cluster of water-worn boulders, and Ken’s breath caught in his throat as Tim came through the willow’s veil behind him.
Standing waist deep in the water was a pale woman. Her back was too thin, and she wore a faded gray dress, shapeless, torn and ragged. Thin, wispy hair
hung in wet clumps to her back while stick-thin arms slammed something wet and limp against one of the boulders. The steady cry came from her, the sound pushing itself deep within Ken’s chest.
Tim let out a low curse, and the woman heard him.
She turned slowly to face them. Her face was sunken, her eyes a pale white and her teeth a milky green. Her mouth hung slightly open, the cry steadily slipping out. She held her arms out in front of her, a soaking wet jacket clutched in each narrow hand.
“Jesus Christ,” Tim said softly, “are those ours?”
Ken looked hard at the blue jacket in the woman’s left hand and saw a tear. A small, inch-long tear he’d put in the jacket when they’d taken the kayaks off of the BMW earlier in the morning. Ken glanced down and saw that he was still wearing the jacket, the tear plain to see on the left arm.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Ken whispered. His stomach twisted itself into a nasty little knot and bile rose to the back of his throat. “Tim,” he said, not taking his eyes off of the woman, “we should probably get out of here.”
Tim nodded, and the two of them started backing away. The woman turned back to the rocks, her cries becoming louder as she began slapping the jackets against the boulders once more. Passing through the branches Ken and Tim quickly turned back, walking hurriedly to the kayaks. The horrific noises of the woman convinced Ken that he hadn’t imagined it. That and the pale, frightened expression on Tim’s face.
“We need to get out of here,” Ken said.
Tim only nodded his agreement.
Wordlessly the two of them climbed into their kayaks, quickly pushing off and moving with the current back towards the river. As they rounded the sharp turn which had opened to the pool, there was a loud crack, and Ken snapped his head up in time to see a great oak crashing towards them.
The tree smashed into both kayaks simultaneously, driving them under water and into the soft, sandy bed of the brook. Ken found himself trapped in the kayak, holding his breath as he tried to work his legs free. His face was just inches below the surface, and he could reach his wet hands into the crisp fall air to claw at the bark of the tree.
Growing frantic he looked around for Tim.
Tim sat limply in his kayak, head and hair moving gracefully with the current. Blackness edged Ken’s vision, and his lungs screamed for air. He looked to the left for—
Ken screamed the last of his air into the cold water as the woman from the pool settled down on the brook’s bed beside him. With an expression of great sympathy, she watched him take in great gulps of water, her long hands gently brushing the hair out of his eyes as she waited for him to drown.
Bonus Scene Chapter 3: Meeting the Baker, 2014
Joel put his truck into park and killed the lights before turning off the ignition. He stifled a yawn and stretched in the confines of the cab, looking at the horizon as dawn started to break. Unbuckling the seat-belt he opened the door and stepped out into the chill morning air, breathing in the deep scent of fall. The noises of the Chevy’s engine cooling sounded loud in the morning’s stillness.
Smiling, Joel took the keys to the back of the truck, tucking them into a small niche he’d made just for that purpose. From the bed of the truck, he picked up his hiking pack and pulled it on. He adjusted the straps, clipping them into place before he put on his knit cap and leather gloves. Flexing his fingers to loosen the leather he walked over to his toolbox and took out a pair of heavy-duty wirecutters.
With the tool in hand, he left the side of his truck and walked to the chain-link fence which ran the length of woods that he’d heard about from friends down in Massachusetts. The fence, which was surprisingly well kept, surrounded the hundreds of acres of old-growth forest in New Hampshire. Joel had heard that the land belonged to a family, although he didn’t know them and didn’t care to either.
As far as he was concerned, Joel thought as he stepped up to the fence, no state, and definitely no single family, should be allowed to keep that much of the environment locked away for themselves. It was disgusting, and a prime example as to how the rich had come so far from understanding anyone other than themselves.
Locking the old growth forest away was a crime against the people. And not only should it be illegal, but the people who did such things should be prosecuted for locking away the beauty of Mother Nature the way that they did.
Shaking his head and sighing Joel ignored the ‘Warning’ and ‘No Trespassing’ signs bolted to the fence. Whistling he started cutting the fencing along one of the posts, starting at the bottom. In a few minutes, he had the fence cut three-quarters of the way up, and he rolled it back before putting the cutters back in the truck. With a spring in his step Joel walked back to the fence, slipped through without the pack catching, and soon was standing up, rolling the fencing back into place.
Just to be on the safe side Joel took a couple of black zipties out of his back pocket and secured the fencing back to the post in a couple of places. He’d be able to cut through them easily when he was done with his weekend.
Taking a deep breath Joel double checked the straps on his pack, making sure that they were just right. Satisfied he glanced at the trees and saw a small game trail between a pair of elms. Nodding to himself Joel headed out along the trail.
His long legs moved him quickly along the path, which became wider the deeper he moved into the forest. The undergrowth fell away, the forest dark and barely touched by the rising sun. Boulders appeared, and birdsong filled the air. Acorns occasionally settled down, thrown by squirrels from massive oaks. The feeling of serenity and the soft sounds of nature settled over Joel, and he felt great as he moved, the burdens and worries of life falling away as he walked.
Soon Joel passed through a small clearing, the tree’s branches forming a thick canopy above. Joel didn’t stop, though. He wanted to be further in before setting up camp for the night.
Joel hiked for several more hours before finding the perfect site.
The forest fell away from a small brook, the water whispering around a trio of boulders nearly as tall as the trees. The earth around the near side of the brook was beaten down, and the remains of a tremendous bonfire occupied the center. Amongst the ashes were the charred and broken bits of deer bones.
The site was old and looked as though it hadn’t been used in months. Safe enough for a single night.
Joel shucked his pack and gloves, rubbing his shoulders. The sun shined brightly above him, moving steadily towards noon. Leaving his gear near the ashes, Joel started wandering around the brook and boulders. He picked up deadfall and branches, carrying several loads to his gear and stacking them neatly. Within a short time, he had a good supply stocked. Turning his attention to his pack, Joel took out his one-man tent.
He put the tent up and sat down beside it. Pulling his pack close, Joel took out his food, some water and his copy of The Woman in Black. Joel tore open an energy bar and ate it slowly, washing every few bites down with some water. When he finished the bar he tucked the wrapper into his pack before stretching out on the ground. He read slowly, eventually taking off his cap and sweatshirt, balling them together to serve as a pillow while the day continued to warm up.
By the time, four o’clock rolled around a definite chill had settled into the air. Putting the book down, and the sweatshirt and cap back on, Joel started preparing the wood for the fire. Disgusted he pushed the deer bones to the edges of the pit, shaking his head at the deep gouge marks in the bone.
Savages, he thought. Whoever the hell did this, that’s all they are. Just savages. And evidently he wasn’t the only one who had ignored the fence. Joel just wished that it hadn’t been hunters. The deer had enough problems with the coyotes coming down from Canada and the mountain lions creeping back up through the Berkshires.
Joel pushed those thoughts out of his mind and kindled the fire. He smiled as the flames grew, creeping up around the pyramid of wood. Heat slipped around him as evening came on steadily. Joel took out hi
s dinner, a prepackaged vegetarian meal, and added wood to the fire, building it up. It wasn’t nearly as large as the remains of the old fire, but it was bigger than most he’d built. He was deep in the forest, far from the road he’d parked his truck off of.
By the time the sun set, Joel had finished both his meal and the book. He rolled a joint, lit it off of a branch from the fire, and lay back, watching as the stars started populating the sky. His eyes grew tired from the heat of the fire and the grass. With one last pull, he flicked the roach into the flames and let the smoke out slowly.
Too bad Karen couldn’t make this one, he thought with a sigh, closing his eyes.
The earth trembled slightly beneath him, and Joel’s eyes opened.
The earth trembled again.
An earthquake? he thought, sitting up. He glanced nervously at the giant trees and stones bathed in flickering light.
Again the tremble, and something in the forest fell.
Joel tried to shake away his self-induced haze, forcing himself to think as another tremble rippled through.
That’s no earthquake, he thought. That’s got a rhythm.
He climbed to his feet. What the hell is that?
And his answer stepped out of the forest by the brook and came to a stop.
A giant stood opposite him, a man probably a dozen feet tall standing naked in the firelight. He carried a massive wooden cudgel, and coarse, dark hair covered his body. Black hair hung in dreadlocks to his chest and a braided beard reached nearly to his waist. His face was broad, the features thick and he broke into a smile when he saw Joel, his nostrils flaring.
The giant took a step forward, a tremor rippling through the ground.
Joel took a nervous step back, glancing left to right.
The giant chuckled.
“There is nowhere to run, little one,” the giant said, his voice deep. “This is Jack’s parcel of Blood’s Forest, and none knows it better than Jack.”
Jack advanced another step, and Joel retreated one as well. Jack swung his cudgel casually. “Which way shall you run, hmm, little one?” he asked. “Back the way you came? Or shall you run right, to the Goblins’ Keep?”