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Archive name: house.txt (MF, rom, v, horror)
Authors name: Marcia Hooper (marciar26@aol.com)
Story title : House in the Woods
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Copyright 2002: As the author, I claim all rights under
international copyright laws. This work is not intended
for sale, but please feel free to post this story to
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The House in the Woods (MF, rom, v, horror)
by Marcia Hooper (marciar26@aol.com)
***
Ever wonder what really happened to Heather, Michael and
Josh? And the Blair Witch herself? Well, this is an
alternate ending to that very scary movie and one I like
better. It picks up the morning after, with Heather and
Michael still in the cellar. Joshua is present too. He's
not alive. Heather and Michael are. Can they extract
their revenge?
***
This is a work of fiction and is not meant to portray any
person living or dead, nor any known situation. This
story is meant for adults only and is not to be read by
person's under the age of 18, or the legal age in the
county/state/country in which the reader resides.
If you would like a Microsoft Word or Wordperfect version
of this story (a much easier read), please contact me at
MarciaR26@aol.com
Note: I originally wrote this story back in October of
1999, as an assignment for a creative writing class. I
hated the ending of the movie so much I wrote this up.
Some of what occurs is based upon information provided
in: The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier, by D.A.Stern.
Unless you have read it, some of what happens may not
make sense. I apologize for that. I also apologize for
the lack of hard sex, but I make up for that in other
stories.
Marci
The House in The Woods
An Alternate Ending to
The Blair Witch Project
by Marcia Hooper
(MarciaR26@aol.com)
Somewhere in the Blacks Hills Forest
Near Burkittsville, Maryland
Heather awoke into dreary half-light, head thumping, with
a terrible ache down her right side. She lay still for a
time, trying to understand where she was, then rolled
onto her back. She promptly screamed.
"Easy!" Michael hissed. "Take it easy!"
Before realizing whom it was, Heather screamed again and
scuttled away. Then she threw her arms around Michael's
neck and sobbed.
"Is it?" she croaked.
"Afraid so," Michael said.
A makeshift noose, fashioned from the canvas strap of her
knapsack, was secured to a rough-hewn joist. The other
end was around Joshua Leonard's neck. It had carved a
deep trench into his skin.
"This can't be happening," Heather moaned. "This can't be
happening at all."
But, it was happening, as the body of Joshua Leonard
attested.
Moving Heather away, Michael said: "We have to stay calm.
Our lives depend on it."
Breath billowing from her mouth, eyes locked to the
spectacle above, Heather whispered, "Why are we still
alive?"
"I don't know," Michael admitted. "But I do know I want
out of this cellar and to find some help."
Her tears cut furrows through the grime on Heather's
cheeks. Unconsciously, she wiped them away. "What about
Josh?"
Michael shook his head. "We can't help him now. No one
can. We've got to get out of this place." His voice was
angry, where before there was just fear. "This is way
past redneck games! No fucking rednecks did this. And
neither did any Blair Witch!" Grabbing Heather's hand, he
said: "Now let's go!"
Skirting the dead body, Michael guided Heather to the
stairs. While he checked the way up, she looked around
for their missing equipment. It was nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly, she clutched her chest, then thumped all of her
pockets.
"Michael! The compass! The compass is gone!"
Michael grabbed her arms. "So what!" he hissed. "Was it
any help before? Now come on!" He dragged her up the
narrow stairs.
At the mid-floor landing, the steps turned back on
themselves and Michael stopped to listen. One sharp
protrusion sported a smear of blood and a clump of blonde
hair--Joshua's color--and Heather's eyes clamped shut.
She stumbled the rest of the way to the top.
Proceeding cautiously through the kitchen, Michael
entered a large room where holes were punched in the
plaster walls. Hand prints (where they from children?)
were imprinted in what looked like blood or dried feces.
The place stank of the latter.
"Do you know where we are?" Heather asked, struck with a
terrible fear.
"An old farmhouse," Michael replied. He hurried across
the room to the doorway, which he looked carefully
through.
Heather didn't remember being in the house. She
remembered children's voices (had they been singing?) and
tall grass reflecting their lights. She remembered a long
climb up the hill, stumbling and falling back. Twice she
had lost her camera. She remembered Joshua's voice
calling in the distance, a taunting sound, yet
frighteningly desperate. Then the house.
Jumping to the ground, Heather looked around. The area
was overgrown with bushes and weeds, with not a sign of a
driveway. Thirty feet distant was a pair of out-
buildings: one a collapsed barn, the other a dilapidated
shed. They were beneath a uniformly gray sky; it smelled
like rain.
"Which way?" Michael asked.
Heather lead him around the rear of the building. A house
this big should have a discernible driveway, she thought,
no matter how overgrown. Once they set foot in the
direction of town, they would be safe. Or so she prayed.
Only there was no driveway, nor anything else to indicate
a way out.
"Come on!" Michael said. "It has to be here."
Heather peered hard into the undergrowth. "There," she
said, indicating where the trees seemed less dense.
"Maybe that's it?"
Michael said, "Maybe. Let's find out."
Heather didn't move. She listened to the woods.
"What?" Michael said. He looked around, anxiously, as
though standing there invited disaster.
"Don't you here it?"
Michael looked around again. "Hear what?"
Heather canted her head. "That whispering sound."
Since Sunday morning, maybe even before, they'd been
stalked by that sound; a sound like water running. Only
there was no water close by. After a time, the sound had
blended in with all the others sounds, but now it was
back. And louder.
"I don't hear anything," Michael said. "Come on."
Heather followed, hands jammed deep in her coat. She
tried to ignore the sound; aware it came from everywhere.
Like the voices, she thought, and the three o'clock
sounds.
Whatever had stalked them, it was stalking them still
* * *
Two hours had passed. It was 10:40 a.m.
"There's something I haven't told you," she said. "About
that house."
Michael looked over, his expression tense. They walked
side by side along the trail, which had twin, overgrown
ruts. The remains of a barbed wire fence ran along their
right. "What?" he said.
She hesitated. She thought of being safe at home, bathed
and freshly dressed. She thought of wolfing down food,
sleeping without fear, not shaking at the mere thought of
the future. She even entertained the thought, however
momentarily, that Michael was as attracted to her as she
was to him. At this, she almost smiled. Then she said:
"That house belonged to Rustin Parr."
His face registered doubt. He looked in the direction
from which they came. "No way," he said. "It can't be."
Heather was adamant. "I've studied this for years,
Michael! I know what I saw. The man from the historical
society, Bill Barnes, gave me books and showed me
pictures. I'm telling you, that house is Rustin Parr's!"
Michael shook his head. "It burned down in 1941."
"I know it did."
"Then it can't be the house."
"But it is!"
For a moment, neither said a thing. Then, kicking a loose
stone, Michael said, "This isn't some legendary haunt
were talking about, Heather. It's a person. Or persons.
Someone who knows these woods like the back of their
hand. Knows that wherever we go, that they can be there
first. They could be waiting there now." He paused. "We
already know they're capable of murder."
Heather removed her cap and ran her fingers through her
hair. Michael wasn't listening.
"Know what I think, Michael? I think it is the witch! I
think she knew what we were doing when we got here, and
got really pissed off. Pissed that we invaded her
territory only to belittle her, to pretend she doesn't
exist. Only she does exist, and now she's making us pay!"
"Witches don't hang your friends from the beams of a
building or rip out their fucking teeth!" Michael said.
"They don't skip around in the middle of the night making
fucking noise! Now, let's move before someone decides to
finish the job!"
Frustrated, Heather headed up the path. She looked
constantly back. After a stretch of silence, she said:
"Mr. Barnes? The Burkittsville historian? He suggested I
research the old records for the property."
"And?"
"The oldest record I found was dated 1824. It deeded the
land to a woman named Eliza Richardson. She died in 1845
and the property went back to the state for unpaid taxes.
It ended up in the hands of Eldon Sykes, Rustin Parr's
great uncle. That was in 1858. Before that, before 1824,
the land was part of a parcel owned by Raymond Rakone."
She looked at Michael, who was staring at the ground.
"Elly Kedward was Rakone's half sister, Michael. She
lived on his land. After her husband died in 1768, from
smallpox, Rakone deeded her a small tract. Four acres, I
think. They banished her from the township in 1823 for
being a witch. Only, instead of burning her at the stake-
-her family was still a major landholder then--they
simply put her out. Into the cold of winter, where she
died of starvation."
"So?"
"So that makes it Elly Kedward's land. She died owning
it. Anyone unfortunate to live there since, including
Rustin Parr, comes under her spell." She paused, looking
morose. "And, since most of the land west of
Burkittsville was once part of the big parcel..." She
encompassed the forest with a sweep of her hand. "Welcome
to Elly Kedward's back yard."
Michael stopped walking. "So let me get this straight.
You're saying that no matter where we go, we're still on
her property?"
"Yes."
"And she can follow us anywhere she likes?"
"Yes."
"Now I know you're nuts."
A branch crashed down from the trees above, landing at
their feet. Both jumped back, yelping. Heather fell on
her rear end, on a protruding tip of rock and yelped
again. She staggered back to her feet, holding her right
buttock. She heard a sound suspiciously like laughter.
"Jesus," Michael muttered, brushing himself off. "I need
a break."
Heather looked at him with a hopeless expression.
* * *
A wind had kicked up some minutes before, drowning out
the noise. Now the wind rose to a roar, bowing the trees
and ripping away leaves. Another branch fell from above
and landed just to their right. Lightning made the air
sizzle. There was a deafening boom.
Michael exclaimed: "Jesus Christ!" and ducked, comically.
Heather yelled over the wind: "It's going to pour!"
Michael yelled: "No shit!"
Then the rain came, pounding onto the canopy of leaves.
Heather donned her cap, then raised her collar against
the cold. She button her coat all the way up. Michael did
the same.
"I suppose this is the witch's doing?" Michael yelled.
Heather yelled back: "Don't be smug!"
"I hate fucking rain!"
"It hates you too!"
Michael gave her the finger, which Heather returned. Then
lightning struck the ground almost at their feet, and
they both took off running.
"Jesus Christ!" Michael yelled, again.
Let's hope we don't meet him! Heather thought.
All around them, water poured down in a torrent, turning
the path into halfway-seen tunnel. Thunder continued to
boom. Then Heather tripped and fell bone-jarringly to the
ground, smashing her nose. She shrieked first in surprise
and then in pain. Michael dragged her to her feet.
"You all right?" he asked.
Haether checked her front teeth and her lips, then her
chin. She spit out blood. "I fell!" she exclaimed.
Michael just had to laugh. "I'll say you did!"
She slapped his arm and called him names, then wiped her
face with her hand. It came away bloody.
"Is it bleeding?" she asked.
Michael continued to laugh and Heather wiped blood on his
coat.
"Cut that out!" he said.
"Then stop your laughing!"
"Stop asking stupid questions, then!" he retorted.
Lightning struck again.
* * *
It was eleven forty-five.
Michael had his arm around Heather's shoulders; her hands
were stuffed into her coat. Both were drenched, and both
shook. Somehow, she had lost her cap.
"I think I broke my node," she said.
"It's just bruised."
"It feels broken," she said.
"Leave it alone."
Finding several bushes with clumps of red berries,
Heather ventured a taste. They were very bitter. She spit
them back out.
"Quit it," Michael said. "They're probably poison,
anyway. The birds won't eat them."
Heather ripped loose a handful of the berries and
scattered them on the trail. She stomped them flat. Then
she kicked at the bush, nearly losing her balance. "I
could eat a horse!" she cried. "I could eat two! I could
even eat their dung!"
Michael laughed. "You know," he said, brushing his hands.
"I read a book once, about a group of hikers from Maine.
They were on the Appalachian Trail, hiking down to
Georgia. They took a wrong turn somewhere above Maryland
and got lost."
Heather looked at him, frowning.
"They had maps and compasses and all the right stuff.
They wandered the woods for eight days, lost as hell.
Eventually, they ran out of food." He brushed his hands
on his jeans, further smearing the mud. They had mud
everywhere from the run. "They started to experiment with
edible plants, mushrooms, stuff like that. Even with
their books, half of them almost died. They would have
too, if a group of back-country hikers hadn't stumbled
across them."
Heather gave him a disdainful look. "And the moral of
this story is?"
"Don't make things worse."
Heather started down the trail. "Thanks for your
uplifting little speech, Michael. I'll remember it when
I'm eating my fingers."
Michael caught up. "I mean it, Heather. No foraging,
okay? We're not squirrels."
"Squirrel doesn't sound so bad right now," she said, her
stomach growling loudly. "In fact, we might try trapping
one of the little varmints. What do you say?"
Michael grunted.
For a time, there were silent. Then Heather asked: "You
remember last night? How we got there?"
Michael shrugged. "I was following you."
She said, "I don't remember leaving the tent. One minute
I was writing in my journal; the next I was carrying my
camera and plowing through the underbrush. I think I was
sleep-walking."
Michael looked thoughtful. "I think I was too. I woke up
on the hill."
"Only--"
"Only there was no hill," Michael said. "The house was
atop a low rise this morning. Just enough to give it
drainage. It was nothing like what we climbed last
night."
"We hallucinated it then?" Heather asked, looking at her
pants. She distinctly remembered falling and ripping out
the knee. Through the torn material, her knee cap was
covered with scaly, dried blood. It ached.
"Never mind," she said. "We need to go. Daylight won't
last more than another six hours. I don't want to waste
it."
Michael said: "We don't even have a tent."
Neither elaborated on that idea.
* * *
It was forty minutes later, and the rain had stopped.
Fog, having set in with the falling temperature, hung
ghost-like in the woods. It was no more than forty
degrees out; both of them shivered.
"Why mess with us at all?" Michael asked. "Not that I
believe you, but if she were real, and she guards her
turf so zealously, she must know that three missing kids
would bring a search. That's a lousy way to keep people
off your turf."
Heather looked steadily at the ground.
"What?" Michael asked.
Heather took a deep breath and laid it all out. "Last
Saturday night," she said. "I was writing in my journal,
bragging about how well I had done. I said how really
neat it would be to meet Elly Kedward."
Michael blinked. He seemed not to understand.
"I invited her to come, Michael."
Michael stopped dead in his tracks. "You what?"
"It wasn't intentional!" she cried. "I wrote it
facetiously! I never expected it to happen!"
Michael remained still for a moment, then rubbed his
beard-darkened jaws. His fingers trembled slightly. He
had the look of someone unsure whether to laugh or cry.
"Forget it," he said, abruptly walking on. "I don't
believe, remember? You might as well have invited the
Pope."
Heather rushed to catch up. "Don't you understand?" she
protested. "If I can find the journal, maybe I can un-
invite her again!"
"Un-invite her how?" Michael asked. He sidestepped a
puddle; Heather, unmindful of it, ploughed right through.
"One of the books said that a spirit invoked in innocence
can be sent away again."
"Even though you invited her on purpose?"
"I didn't invite her on purpose!" she protested. "I told
you--it was in jest! I got caught up in the moment! You
think I would have done something like that if I thought
it was true?"
Michael's anger dissipated. "No," he said, staring at the
ground. "I don't guess you would." He sighed, deeply.
"Your journal back in camp?"
"I think so. I don't know where else it could be."
"Couldn't you just denounce her, like? Tell her to go
away?"
Heather shook her head. "The revocation has to be offered
in the same manner it was given. In writing; in the
journal."
Michael shook his head. "Still doesn't answer my
question. Why make us disappear?"
Heather smiled, grimly. "Our friend's been floating
around this forest so long, she's practically
invulnerable." She paused. "Remember that story about the
scorpion and the frog?"
"Because it's my nature?" he quoted.
"Exactly. Well, Kedward's nature is to kill and to maim,
whatever the cost. She doesn't care if a posse comes
looking for her; she just disappears. She can go anywhere
she wants. And you need to find a ghost, to exorcise it."
"Admitted, but a ghost doesn't kill you. Scare you to
death, maybe, make your life miserable, but a person has
to do her killing."
Heather said, "Someone like Rustin Parr."
"I was thinking about Josh."
Heather winced. She still could not believe Josh was
dead.
Michael said: "I want to know why she killed him."
"Maybe she didn't."
Michael was caught off guard. "What?"
"Maybe Josh killed himself."
Michael rubbed his forehead, his habit when concentrating
hard.
She said: "If he weren't as weak as she thought...if in
the end he refused?"
"She'd become enraged."
"Furious. She'd want to teach him a lesson," Heather
said.
"And the only way to stop her..."
"Was to take his own life."
For a time, nothing was said. Then Heather stated: "I
want to go back."
Michael laughed, then continued down the trail. "I'll
pretend you didn't say that," he said. He looked at his
watch. Then he exploded: "Where the hell are we, anyway?
Lost again? Three goddamn hours and we haven't seen a
thing! The road should have been here by now!"
Heather tried to recall the road on her map. They should
have crossed it by now. A nasty little animal,
temporarily banished from her stomach, returned. With
sharpened claws.
"Black Rock Road's the only way in and the only way out,"
she said. "We miss it, we might as well be lost."
Michael said, "This is a logging trail. The map showed
them crisscrossing the woods like a tic-tac-toe game.
That's what we're on."
Heather looked back along the trail. It turned constantly
to the left, back into the forest. "We're going in
circles," she said. "Like before."
Michael grit his teeth. "We don't get out of here,
Heather, we're finished. One more night and we're dead.
I'm sure of that."
"No," she said.
Michael stared at her. "What do you mean? No?"
"I mean, we are not going to die. And we are not leaving
these woods."
Michael grew alarmed. "Don't you even consider it!" he
warned.
"I'm tired of this!" she exploded. "Tired of being
afraid! Tired of being stalked! I want to fight back!"
Michael shook his head.
"She has us chained to this place like convicts, Michael!
We can't get loose--we'll just wander until we die. I say
we go back and fight the bitch! It's our only chance!"
Michael said: "You are nuts!"
From an inside pocket Heather removed a plastic zip-lock
bag. It contained a yellow Bic lighter and a box of
matches. She muttered under her breath.
"What?" Michael asked.
"Fire," Heather whispered. "Fire, I said."
* * *
It was two o'clock. They were backtracking to the house.
Michael said: "Absolutely fucking nuts."
Heather ignored him. "I used to sit up with my
grandfather," she said, "listening to his stories. Some
were scary, some were dumb, and some were just bullshit.
I sat on the couch with my legs tucked beneath me, afraid
to let them touch the floor."
She scanned the trees on either side, waiting for
something to move. She prayed nothing would. She couldn't
believe they were heading back.
"Grandpa encountered the witch when he was twelve years
old. No one believed him. He was on his way up to a
swimming hole, alone, something you never did in those
days--or these days for that matter. He was pretty far up
the trail when he said he heard voices. Which was
strange, considering he was more than a hundred yards
away. But, Grandpa was too scared to turn back. His
friends would call him a sissy. So he kept on.
"Anyway, the trees were so close together that
Grandfather had to push aside the limbs. In one place,
they pushed back so hard he couldn't get through. Only it
wasn't the limbs pushing back, it was her. Grandpa was so
shocked he forgot to be afraid. Then she said his name
and told him to come forward, and Grandpa bolted. He ran
all the way home."
Michael laughed. "Guess I would too. What happened?"
Heather said, "He hid under the bed and refused to come
out."
Michael laughed again, then fell into silence.
Twisting a corner of her shirt, Heather scrubbed her
front teeth. "Gross," she said, giving a shudder. "I
can't remember the last time I brushed them. Or my hair."
She had last washed it when? Sunday morning in the creek?
She wasn't even sure what day it was today.
She continued: "Grandpa described her the same way as
Mary Brown: Dressed in black, with long black hair
covering her forearms and face. She had mean, evil eyes.
It was the eyes that scared him the most, Grandpa said.
Demon eyes. Yellow and vertically slit, like a goat's."
Michael look doubtful. "Sounds like storytelling to me. A
tale he made up as a kid, then came to believe over the
years. My dad's that way. Can't believe half the shit he
says, because he embellishes it so much. "
Heather shook her head. " You only had to see his face to
believe it. And it wasn't something he offered willingly.
I had to drag it out of him. "
They walked on in silence, Michael digesting her tale.
Then he said: "So what's our plan?"
Again, Heather smiled grimly. "Let's pull some teeth of
our own."
* * *
An hour later, they were back to where the trail
diverged. To their right, a smaller track lead back to
the house; ahead, the trail gave back half it's width to
the forest. There was no doubt. It was an abandoned
logging trail.
"We go back there," Michael said, indicating the track to
the house. "We get what we deserve."
"Buck up," Heather said, thumping his arm. "Think how
glad she'll be to see us. Home in time for dinner."
Michael said: "Yeah. Like Hansel and Gretel."
"Come on," Heather said. "We're running out of light."
They moved onto the track.
With the sun past aphelion and westering quickly, the air
had a deeper, thicker quality. It seemed almost purple.
They had entered a particularly bad stretch of ground,
where, on the way out, Heather had nearly sprained an
ankle. She was more careful now.
"The experts say magnetic and electrical phenomenon are
closely related to the supernatural. Spirits take their
energy from the physical world. That's why the
temperature drops whenever one's around. We've felt it
before. Maybe even now," she said, shivering.
Michael said, "I've dealt with this shit for a week and I
know less now than when I began. Every belief I had went
straight out the window. So excuse me for being skeptical
about the so-called experts."
"Don't worry," she said, stepping around a fallen tree.
"The bitch is practically powerless in the daytime; at
least for causing us harm. If she could, we'd be dead
already."
Michael smiled, grimly. "Powerless, she says. Like
fucking with our compass every day? Making us invisible
to search parties?" He laughed. "That's a bit high on the
power meter, if you ask me."
Shadows turned the foliage into murk, a mere twenty yards
along the track. Things skipped in and out of her
peripheral vision. "Think it's coincidence that camp got
really cold at night?" she asked. "Whenever the noises
started? I don't. It was her."
There was a rattle in the leaves off to their right and
Heather and Michael both jumped. It was a pair of
squirrels, chasing one another around a tree.
"You know," she said, not quite believing what she
intended to say. "If we ever get out of this alive, I
might want to fuck you."
Michael looked around, surprised. "I have a girlfriend,"
he said.
"I have a boyfriend."
They were quiet a time, and then Michael took her hand.
He leaned forward and kissed her, then leaned back. "Let
it go," he said. "I want to concentrate on our witch.
Nothing else should cloud our minds, until."
Grinning sadly, Heather looked away. "You're right." she
said. "One thing at a time." Still, she wondered, what
he'd make of her pounding heart.
* * *
Heather debated telling Michael her theory. "Remember how
the house burned down in 1941?"
Michael narrowed his eyes. "Don't even suggest it," he
said.
"I know it sounds stupid, but listen--"
"I don't want to listen!" he interrupted. "It's
ridiculous!"
"That's what you said about witches," she pointed out.
"I can believe in witches, a hell of a lot easier than I
can believe in time travel, Donahue."
"You believe in God, don't you?"
"I do now."
"Then why not some entity that can affect time?"
Michael was stymied. "Please tell me you're not serious
about this! Time travel?"
"I' serious about anything that explains where we are."
They had arrived at a small crossing. On their way out,
the spring was little more than a trickle. Now it plunged
along the stream bed, three feet wide. Using Michael's
hand for support, Heather carefully went rock to rock
across the water. Then she helped Michael across.
"In 1941, the house was still there," she said. "In
1994, it wasn't."
"I don't want to hear this."
"In 1941, there were no search parties, no helicopters,
no missing hikers. Just you, me, Josh and the witch."
Michael groaned and shook his head. "No," he said. "No."
"No road, either," she maintained. "When Rustin Parr
confessed, it took Sheriff Bowers two days to find his
house. There was only a dirt track back then, and the
logger's trail. No county road came closer than four
miles. Black Rock wasn't paved until the fifties." She
paused. "Once they knew where it was, though, the town's
people vandalized the house. They burned it down a month
before Parr was hanged. October of `41. They never
discovered who did it, and they didn't really ask."
Michael only shook his head.
* * *
They reached the farmhouse at four o'clock. Sitting among
the trees and encroaching weeds, it looked like a
diseased, white wart. Heather could barely make herself
look.
"We have to split up," she said. "I'll find the-"
"Split up!" Michael exclaimed. "Are you nuts?"
Heather said: "We don't have time to find the camp and to
make preparations here too. We don't even know if the
revocation will work. You need to gather firewood while I
go for the journal."
Michael looked at the derelict house, then back to
Heather. "You're nuts," he repeated.
"I wouldn't be here if I were sane."
Pointing toward the woods, she instructed: "Find as much
wood as you can. Kindling, small branches, leaves,
anything that will burn fast and hard. Nothing green.
Nothing too wet." She pointed at the two out-buildings.
"Try them first," she said. "The shed might contain
something useful."
"Why not just set fire to the structure?" Michael
protested. "The floors are wood."
"We need a good strong blaze to get this going. I don't
want to go back inside once the blaze is set. Do you?"
"Well, no."
"Then start gathering."
Heading off, Heather gave the farmhouse a wide berth. She
stopped before turning the corner. "Stay out of the
basement, Michael," she said. She knew he'd think of
Josh, of the body hanging from the rafters. "If nothing
else, it'll let him rest in peace."
She turned and continued on.
Finding herself atop the small incline, Heather gazed out
over the grass and scattered small shrubs. She searched
for the camp. The sun was strong in her eyes, making her
cup a hand to her brow. Along the field's southern
perimeter, above the grass, was something glossy and
green. The top of the tent. Starting down the slope, she
turned and shouted to Michael that she was on her way.
Michael returned her call.
* * *
The barn yielded nothing but waist high prickly-thorns
and wild grass. Michael moved on the shed. Here the door
was intact and three panes of the four-pane window
remained unbroken. He stepped up to the window and peered
in, ready to duck. He'd be the first to admit it--he was
scared to death. But, there was no movement inside, and
no sound, and once his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom,
Michael began to inspect.
In the center of the room was an old galvanized washtub,
supported on sawhorses. Leaning against it was a
corrugated wash board, something Michael had not seen in
years. Against the far wall leaned a slat-board shelf,
holding rusted tools, paint cans, and assorted other
items. In the rafters above it were a pair of wooden
ladders. They looked too rickety to support a child, much
less an adult. Resting on a tube steel rack at the rear
of the shed were two steel drums, both ancient and
rusting. A spigot protruded from the bottom of each.
Carefully removing the bent nail securing the door's
hasp, Michael dropped it to the ground, then pulled open
the door. It moved with a nerve-grinding screech. Looking
around in alarm, he went into the shed's interior.
Newsprint filled the old washtub. Mixed with oil or
gasoline, Michael thought, it would make an excellent
fire-bed. But, Michael was surprised to find the familiar
Washington Post logo printed across the top edition's
crest, and below it, the headline: Poland Invaded!
England Declares War!
The date was November 1, 1939.
These, he thought, should be dust. It's been fifty-five
years.
Then he remembered Heather's assertion of what year it
really was, and Michael shivered.
Lifting the stack clear, he carried the newsprint into
the house, dumping it in the center of the room. He
shredded the top edition, wadding the yellowed pages into
balls and tossing them across the floor. He worked
quickly, looking constantly about, sure something lurked
behind the nearest wall. Done, he scattered the paper
equally across the floor with his foot, then went outside
to shed.
"Gasoline," he whispered. "Something to light."
Looking at the barrels, he wondered: Gasoline? Heating
oil?
Going to the shelf, Michael found a battered old can
containing nails, screws, washers and other junk. He
dumped the contents onto the ground and went to the steel
rack, placing the can beneath the left-hand spigot. He
twisted the lever and oil, black and malodorous, ran out
in a gush. It filled the can to within an inch of the top
before he shut off the spigot. Holding it away from his
body--the can leaked like a sieve---Michael hurried it
back to the house. Oil sloshed over both hands.
"Come on, Michael!" he cautioned. "Slow down."
Forcing a measure of control, he climbed through the
doorway and went into the room. He sloshed the oil about,
but was distressed to find it wet only half of the paper.
He needed more. Maybe twice as much more. Cursing under
his breath, he raced back out to the shed.
* * *
Crossing the field, Heather followed the path cut the
previous night by her own boots. It felt like a waking
dream, only run in reverse. She recalled the halo of
light, how it played across the tall grass; she
remembered the chorus of voices. Children's voices. Then
she stumbled and realized she was walking with her eyes
closed.
"What are you doing!" she cried, angrily. Then she turned
to face the house.
Was Michael okay? She had heard nothing since coming down
the hill. She considered calling out, then decided that
would only cause him alarm. She turned away again,
disquieted by how fast it was growing dark.
Making camp, she discovered their belongings strewn
about, much of it ripped to shreds. Most was covered in
slime. Their backpacks were yards away in the grass, the
aluminum frames bent and fractured; the canvas was
shredded. The tent appeared to have been clawed by a
bear. Heather looked around, her heart tripping madly.
"Easy girl," she whispered. "It's not here any more."
She hoped it wasn't.
By her foot was a plastic tent-peg, torn loose during the
attack, but still attached to the nylon chord. Not taking
her eyes from the flap, Heather bent and picked the peg
up, then worked the knot loose. She gripped it in her
right hand and made stabbing motions. Reaching out her
left hand, and taking a deep breath, she grabbed the flap
and flung it aside.
Nothing was inside but their sleeping bags and scattered
belongings.
"Son of a bitch," she whispered.
Her first concern, of course, was her journal, but she
found it nowhere. The bag in which she kept her
valuables: her wallet, her keys, the map and the journal
was ripped seam to seam. It lay mangled on her sleeping
bag. Putting the peg in her pocket, Heather pulled the
sleeping bag aside and beneath it she found her wallet.
It appeared intact.
Unsnapping the latch, she opened the cover and looked
inside. There was the photo of herself and her boyfriend,
Gregg, posing on their first date. It seemed a century
ago. Then she realized that Gregg was no more to her now
than a place-holder in her life, a place she could point
when remembering an important event. She felt for him
what she did for the bicycle leaning against her
apartment wall. Closing the wallet, she put it away.
"Get your mind on business," she muttered. She had to
find that journal.
Backing through the opening, Heather removed both
sleeping bags and turned them inside out. She found
nothing. Stripping back the ground sheet, she felt along
its perimeter, then sat back with a curse. The journal
was not there.
"Where is it?" she demanded.
Still on her knees, she went completely around the tent,
poking through the grass. She pawed through the scattered
clothes, and then went through the backpacks. In
desperation, she even slapped her own pockets. It was not
there.
"Godammit!" she yelled.
Kicking a pair of Michael's jeans, she lofted them across
camp like a flailing dog. Again she screamed her
frustration. Then she realized what else was missing, and
her heart nearly seized.
"The knapsack! The knapsack! Where is it?"
All their film, the video cassettes, the camera she had
guarded so zealously during the past week: all were gone.
Their ordeal was meaningless without it, no more than a
Jerry Springer show. They might as well dance nude in
Times Square. Not even their parents would believe them.
Then, in a hellish flash of recollection, Heather
remembered the strap around Joshua's neck.
The knapsack's strap.
She fell to her knees and began to sob.
* * *
Michael placed the can beneath the spigot and twisted the
lever. Only a trickle emerged.
"Come on!" he growled, banging the drum. "There's no time
for this!"
Going to his knees, he forced his little finger into the
tap. He encountered something smooth and hard.
"Feels like glass," he muttered.
Suddenly, the obstruction dislodged and oil poured into
Michael's palm. He jerked it away, grabbing the can.
While it filled, he picked up the small object laying
next to his knee and rubbed it between his fingers. It
was a button.
"A button?"
He looked at the ancient drum, then at the button, then
back to the drum.
What was a button, a button like that on his shirt, doing
in the drum?
Gulping hard, he heard a dry click. The coffee can was
forgotten. So was the house. He rubbed both sides of his
face, trying to remember.
Heather had said what? Seven Burkittsville children
missing, all killed by Rustin Parr? Three more missing
from a nearby town, and never found?
Michael's intestines roiled. Hit by a terrible cramp, he
pressed both hands against his gut, whispering, "Please
God! Not that! Don't let it be that!" as his stomach
churned.
Grabbing the top of the drum, he said, "This is not
something you want to do, Michael. Not something you want
to do at all." He shook the barrel hard. Something inside
thumped.
"Noooooo!"
Stumbling back, Michael bent low and started to heave.
Nothing emerged but a thin yellow gruel, landing between
his feet. He coughed terribly, choking on his spit.
"No!" he moaned, again. "No! No! No!"
Grabbing the can--it had overflowed onto the floor in a
wide, black pool--Michael dashed out of the shed. He
reentered the house and threw oil across the floor, not
caring where it went, not caring that it was not nearly
enough. He pitched the can into a corner and ran back
outside. He was not returning for more.
* * *
Heather could do nothing about the journal and knapsack
now, but damned if she'd go back empty-handed.
Two Mag-lights lay in the grass outside the tent; she
picked them up and checked them for operation. The one
that worked went into her pocket; the one that didn't she
threw on the ground. She understood now, how the
Christians felt, facing the lions.
I need a weapon, she thought.
The tent was supported by two aluminum poles, connected
at the top by a bowed metal rod. The poles, she realized,
were hollow. Filled with dirt, they'd make excellent
clubs.
Pulling loose the remaining ground-pegs, Heather
disassembled the tent. She twisted off the protective
boot from the bottom of one pole, then the other, then
looked around for something to fill the tubes. The ground
here was soft, but covered with grass. She needed loose
earth. Then she heard the creek. Somewhere off to her
right, it gurgled softly.
Following the sound, Heather dropped to one knee beside
the water and used the pole to dig a trench. She scooped
up handfuls of dirt, sacrificing her remaining nails.
Once full, she banged the pole's end on a wide flat
stone, then filled the void with dirt. She screwed the
boot back into place. She thumped the pole into her hand.
It felt good. It felt very, very good.
Repeating the process with the second pole, Heather then
went back to camp and made one last forage for the
knapsack. Searching through the grass on her hands and
knees, she finally mouthed a string of curses and started
to get up. Then she heard his scream.
* * *
Michael looked at his watch. It was five o'clock. It was
growing dark.
Leaning against the house, he felt lightheaded and weak-
knee'd. Perspiration stood out on his brow. If he
continued like this, the stars before his eyes would grow
to the size of a super nova and explode. He didn't want
to pass out.
Leaves, Heather had said. Small branches, nothing too
thick, nothing green.
Leaves were good. Leaves were everywhere.
Racing to the periphery of the woods, Michael stooped and
began gathering leaves into his arms--a hopeless
proposition. Stripping off his coat, he laid it on the
ground and piled leaves atop it. When they were stacked
two feet high, he gathered the coat in his arms and ran
back to the house. He dumped his cache in the middle of
the floor.
"Good boy! Good boy! Go get some more!"
He repeated the process, until finally the floor was
calf-deep in leaves.
It was now five-fifty. The sun was down. The light was
fading fast.
Gathering sticks and fallen branches, anything old enough
and dry enough to burn, Michael filled his coat again,
then raced back into the house. He distributed his find.
Then he went back outside for more.
Where the hell was Heather? How long did it take to find
a goddamned book?
Going to the top of the hill, Michael searched out the
camp. "Come on," he muttered. "Where are you?" He was
about to call out when Heather appeared, waist deep in
grass, and entered the camp. Two objects were in her left
hand; long, slender, and silver. Michael recognized them
as tent poles.
What the hell's she doing with those? he wondered. Clubs?
Who, exactly are we supposed to club? Ghosts?
Michael shook his head.
Returning to the tent, Heather got down on her hands and
knees. Michael understood that the journal was missing.
Probably the film as well.
"Shit-fuck-a-duck," he said. "That's just great."
With no film and no video, no one would believe them.
Even if they got out of this alive. Worse, they'd be
suspected in Joshua's death--especially if they burned
down the house. Suddenly, this looked like not such a
great idea.
Raising his hands, Michael was about to yell out when a
hand clapped down on his shoulder. He released a scream,
blood-curdling enough to freeze his own heart. In the
field below, Heather snapped upright.
* * *
"Michael!"
Plainly visible atop the hill, Michael gestured with both
hands. Whoever he faced was hidden behind his bulk, but
Heather knew who it was.
It was Joshua. It was the witch.
Clutching the poles in her right hand, Heather took off
at a run. She dodged the occasional bush, praying nothing
lay ahead in the grass.
Why had she waited so long!
Screaming again, she told Michael to run. He did not; he
only gestured more wildly. Then he began to struggle and
Heather ran harder.
"Michael! Run!"
Dodging beneath a gnarled white pine, she temporarily
lost sight of the hill. When she emerged again, both
Michael and Joshua were gone. Screaming in frustration,
she hit the bottom of the slope and began to climb. She
grabbed sawgrass and anything else that offered purchase.
Even as she climbed, however, the crest seemed to recede.
It was like some effect in the movies. Or had the slope
actually grown?
Finally making it to the top, Heather found herself
alone. She bent low at the waist, panting. Her sides
ached, and her ears rang loudly. Looking back, she was
stunned to see how high she was above the field. Ten feet
had metamorphosized into one hundred. If night brought
this much power to the witch, what chance did they have?
What chance did anyone have?
Sticking one of the poles beneath her belt, Heather
walked carefully toward the house. She brandished the
other pole in both hands. She gave thanks for her
foresight in understanding their need.
Rounding the side of the building, she came to the hole
in the wall, and peeked through. There was nothing but
shadows. What scant light remained barely showed the way.
Groping in her pocket, she removed the flashlight and
held it in her left hand. She called out Michael's name.
There was no answer. She stepped up into the opening, and
recited the Lord's Prayer.
"Our Father, who art in Heaven..."
Playing the beam over every inch of floor, Heather
crossed the room. She walked on her tip-toes. She was
terrified that someone--something--waited just beyond the
door.
"....hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be
done, on Earth as it is in Heaven."
Reaching the door, she pointed the flashlight through,
praying not to panic. She pushed against the adjoining
wall. No one was there.
Too frightened to feel relief, she swung the light around
the big room and saw Michael's work. The floor was knee-
deep in paper, leaves and sticks. There was the
unmistakable tang of oil. She contemplated setting fire
to the house right then, but that thought went mercifully
away. She was not that far gone, not yet. Even the tiny
hope she had in Michael's safety would not allow it.
"Give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our
trespasses..."
Stepping forward, she moved along the wall, skirting the
bed of kindling. There was only one place Michael could
be: in the basement. The mere thought of descending those
stairs made Heather quail. She caught herself on the edge
of hysteria, then forced her lungs to slow. She crept
forward.
"...as we forgive those, who trespass against us..."
She halted in her tracks. "Fuck those who trespass
against us!" she hissed. "I've forgiven enough already!
That bitch is going to die!"
Patting her pocket to ensure she still had the lighter
and matches, Heather passed into the next room, what had
once had been the kitchen. A large dark stain gripped the
floor, and scattered about were the remains of some dead
animal, possibly a deer. She caught sight of a partially
denuded leg bone and looked away.
On the far side of the room, against the outside wall,
were the basement stairs. She found herself beginning to
keen. A tidal wave of panic bore down and she clamped her
eyes and her mouth shut. She could not move.
"Please, God," she whispered. "Please let me do this.
Please give me the strength."
For a time she remained frozen. Her mind ran in circles
like a caged animal. She tried to swallow, but her throat
wouldn't close. She had no spit. In her hands, both the
flashlight and the club uncontrollably shook. If it were
possible for a human being to be more scared, Heather
didn't understand how.
Making her right foot move, then her left--the soles of
her boots gripped the floor like eagle claws--Heather
crossed the room.
Please, God! she begged. I've been a terrible Christian
all my life, but if you let me live--let us live--I'll
devote my life to your cause. I Promise!
She repeated the Lord's Prayer.
The stairs to the mid-floor landing held no surprises.
Heather pressed against the wall and began to descend.
She heard the rush of blood in her ears. She wondered if
that blood would soon be spilled.
Reaching the landing, she pointed the light down the
remaining steps. She tried to remember the cellar's
layout. There was no other entrance, of that she was
sure--just two small windows set high up in the walls.
Here is where the conflict would end. Then she heard
sounds: a startled grunt, the creak of wood and the sound
of boots dragging the dirt and that was all Heather
needed. Flying down the remaining steps, she entered the
cellar screaming.
His eyes bulging, hands bound behind his back, Michael
stood tip-toed in the middle of the room, looking at
Heather in panic. Behind him, holding the rope around
Michael's neck and grinning gap-toothed at her, was
Joshua Leonard.
"Wecome home," he taunted. He played the tip of his
tongue between his toothless gums.
"Let him go!" Heather yelled.
Grinning even more widely, as though torturing Michael
were the most natural thing in the world, Joshua shook
his head. Only it wasn't Joshua she was facing. The
witch's ancient visage was visible beneath his skin,
sharp edges of bone pressing against thin flesh. A fine
covering of hair coated both his face and hands, and
surrounding his head, like an ethereal halo, was a mass
of stringy black. When he moved, the halo moved also.
Somehow, this was the most terrifying thing of all.
"Let him go!" Heather threatened again. She stepped
forward, brandishing the pole.
Joshua laughed and drew the rope tighter, causing Michael
to swing in a half-circle. When he canted his head to
look at Michael's face, Heather saw the livid burn mark
traversing Joshua's throat. It still cut deeply into the
flesh. Only a short time had passed since the noose was
removed.
Since sundown, Heather thought. Only since sundown.
"I'm taking Michael with me," she said, moving forward
again. "Try and stop me and I'll kill your fucking ass!"
Joshua laughed again. He touched the mark on his neck. He
pulled the rope tighter. "I'm dead alwedy. Try somsing
else."
Heather circled to her right, getting Michael out of her
line of attack. Her breathing was ragged and each breath
exploded in a gust of steam. The temperature had dropped
precipitously in the cellar; Heather knew it wasn't from
the fall of night. Casting a glance toward one of the
tiny, high set windows, she saw no light in the night sky
at all. It was now fully dark.
Elly's time.
"I rescind my invitation!" she suddenly yelled. "Michael
and I want nothing more to do with you!"
Joshua laughed, uproariously. "Is sat what you sink? I
can be bought off wissout so much as a kiss?" He puckered
his lips, obscenely. "Maybe sis is a good time to see
what a good little cock sucker you are." He pointed at
Heather, then at his crotch, then to the floor before his
feet. "I put up wis your bullshit for two years, and sor
what? Sor you to get me lost in sa woods and killed? I
nesser easen get a piece us ass out us you. Bullshit!"
Heather found herself shaking uncontrollably. The halo
swung to the floor on one particularly violent shake, and
Heather caught sight of something behind Joshua's right
boot.
It was missing canvas knapsack.
Joshua went on: "Sis is my property, bitch! And
whatesser's on my property belongs to me! You belong to
me!"
Watching the knapsack, Heather said: "Rustin Parr owns
this property, at least for the next few weeks. Until
they hang his ass. Think maybe you can pick the property
up at auction?"
Joshua's face was still for a moment, then twisted in
anger. Thrusting out his finger, he yelled: "Sis property
belongs to me! I was here before that bitch set foot on
it in `twenty-five, and I'll be here after you're dead!
Long after!"
Quite unknowingly, Joshua had lifted Michael off the
floor. Spinning and kicking wildly, Michael landed a blow
to the back of the Joshua's legs, momentarily throwing
him off balance. This was all the opportunity Heather
needed. Raising the pole above her head, she charged
forward and hit Joshua with all her might. He was sent
reeling. Continuing to scream, Heather swung again,
catching him on the side the neck, driving Joshua to his
knees. Then catastrophe struck.
Loosing hold of the flashlight, she watched in horror as
it skittered across the floor. She scuttled across the
floor after it, knowing that should the light fail,
everything was lost. This time, however, fortune was with
her. Jarring to a halt against the wall--hard enough to
shatter the lens plate--the flashlight continued to
shine. Snatching it up, she spun around to find Joshua
out of range.
"Come back here you bastard!"
Charging him again, Heather raised the pole and began to
swing. Michael chose just that moment to fall over
Joshua's back and Heather barely checked herself in
time.Joshua got away. Coming up hard against the rear
wall, grinning maliciously, he had the knapsack in his
hand.
Heather screamed in fury: "Give me that bag!"
Joshua looked at the knapsack in mock surprise, as though
unsure how or why it had appeared in his hand. He raised
it in offerance. "Sis?" he asked.
"That!" Heather yelled, extending her left hand. "Give it
to me!"
Joshua laughed and stood up. Straight-arm, he moved the
knapsack in an arc away from Heather until it touched the
stone wall. Heather placed the flashlight carefully
beside her foot and gripped the pole in both hands. To
her right, Michael was on his knees, desperately working
his hands against the bindings. "Be careful!" he warned.
"That son-of-a-bitch is fast! Strong too. I didn't even
know what hit me."
Heather was being careful. Although within grabbing
distance of the knapsack, she dared not look away from
Joshua's face--not even for an instant. One instant was
all it would take.
Joshua said: "Somesing in here you want? Sa film maybe?"
He shook the knapsack, banging together the canisters of
film and the cassette cases. Beneath one corner of the
flap jutted the lens of the 16 mm camera. "It's a bit
late to worry about sa film, Hesser. By sa time say find
sis, you'll be nossing but bones."
Heather advanced, the pole over her head. Joshua's grin
widened, until every remaining tooth appeared. Heather
thought his head would split in two. Then she saw what
generated that grin and her heart seized again. The
knapsack, pressed hard against the stone wall, seemed to
be joining the stone. The green material became a rocky
slate-gray, becoming an outgrowth of the rock itself.
Then the knapsack was gone.
Screaming in rage, Heather lunged forward and struck
Joshua with the pole. It connected just below the
shoulder, driving him sideways. He recovered quickly,
however, delivering a savage blow to the solar plexus
that launched Heather through the air. She slammed to the
floor on the opposite side of the cellar. She barely
heard the pole clattering across the floor. Through
barely functioning eyes, she watched Joshua approach.
Michael, ignored thus far, had almost worked loose his
bonds. As Joshua passed, he dived forward, impacting
Joshua at the ankles. The impact freed him completely; he
began to punch anywhere he could do damage. But the
struggle was a short one.
Grabbing his wrists, Joshua dragged Michael to his feet
and, grinning maliciously, head-butted him. Even across
the room, Heather felt the impact. Michael collapsed at
Joshua's feet.
Struggling to her feet, Heather leaned against the wall.
Her ribs ached and so did her head. There was a pulsating
darkness around her field of vision and warmth spread
over her temple and down the side of her face. She feared
that Michael, not moving at all, was dead. His eyes
stared up at the ceiling.
Sidling along the wall, she made for the stairs. She
would not make it, of course, but fear drove her along.
Joshua cut off her retreat.
"Going somewhere?" he asked.
Heather's face crumpled. "Please!" she sobbed.
Joshua laughed again. "Boss lady's not so brave wissout a
club?" He indicated the front of his trousers. "I have a
club. Wanna beat me wis sis?"
Something hard and sharp dug into her left thigh, and
Heather remembered the second pole. It was still in her
belt, although all the way down to the rubber boot. If
she could get it loose...
She moved away into the darkness.
"Did I esser tell you what a nice mouse you haf, Hesser?"
Joshua taunted. His zipper was down and he had his hand
inside, massaging his cock. "Notice I used sa pass
tense," he said.
Slipping a hand under the waist of her coat, Heather
grasped the pole. Praying Joshua could not see in the
darkness, she began to work it loose.
"Don't haf too much to say, huh? Are we struck wis awe?"
She discerned a light area against the front of his jeans
and knew Joshua had himself free. She trembled violently.
The thought of having a dead man's cock in her body was
worse than the thought of death itself.
"The only thing that awes me is your stupidity," Heather
said.
Joshua stopped.
Heather continued: "I carried you for those for two
fucking years, you pitiful piece of shit. Even Lisa gave
up on you." The pole was halfway loose, but now caught on
the knurled twist. She jerked it free. She prayed for
forgiveness for what she had said. "Don't you wonder why
she didn't get jealous when you went off for the weekend?
With another girl? In the woods with no chaperones?"
Joshua ran his tongue over his lower lip. "Keep talking,"
he said. This time no slurring of his speech occurred. It
was the voice of the witch, and the witch had all of her
teeth.
Heather stood her ground. The pole was free. She
concealed it behind her right leg, hoping for a chance.
(The thought of what she might do then, outside in the
woods, in the dark, with no flashlight and no sense of
direction had yet to occur.) She held her breath and
waited.
Moving incredibly fast, just as Michael had warned,
Joshua leapt forward. Heather was flung to the ground.
The pole flew from her hand and went skittering across
the floor. This time she was finished.
Howling, Joshua fell upon her and grabbed her by the
throat. He struck her once on the jaw, then again, then
batted her head into the ground. Drool splattered from
his graveyard of splintered teeth; his breath was
subteranian.
"I died here!" he screamed. "They banished me from my own
house to wander in the fucking woods! No food and no
water! For four days I stayed alive! Then I found my way
back to this house and leaned against the wall outside,
right over this spot and covered myself in snow. To stay
warm!" he screamed, punching Heather again. "I was too
weak to climb the stairs! Too weak to open the door! The
following spring, when the thaw came, I was still here!
And I've been here ever since!"
Even in her extremity of terror, Heather could not shut
her eyes. "The people who hurt you are all dead,
Kedward!" she cried. "They can't hurt you any more! No
one here did anything to you! We're all innocent here!"
"No one is innocent!" Kedward screamed.
Opening her mouth, opening it farther than any human
mouth could open, the witch positioned it above Heather's
face. Teeth ringed it like those of a Great White Shark.
Heather placed her hands on the ground, palms down,
waiting to die. Her right hand touched something, and it
slid away. Mindlessly, she groped after it, located the
object again and gripped it in her fist.
It was the plastic tent-peg.
With no consideration and no hope at all, she raised her
arm and plunged the peg into Joshua's throat. Screaming,
he twisted sideways, but Heather hung on, ripping the peg
out herself. She stabbed him again, puncturing the
carotid artery. She was sprayed by cold blood, pumped by
a dead heart.
Releasing her throat, Joshua punched Heather hard in the
face; she heard, rather than felt, her nose break. Her
vision exploded. Then Joshua hit her again, and Heather
covered her face with her forearms, somehow holding onto
the peg. Then he was tearing at her shirt, ripping open
her brassiere, as though raping her were the solution.
This brought Heather back from the edge.
Rising up with a scream, she stabbed Joshua in the face,
not caring whether she lived or died, only wanting the
creature off her. The point caught him on the right
cheek, ripping a furrow to his eye. Then she stabbed
again and the peg went into Joshua's right eye, lodging
deep within his brain.
There was a moment's silence. Joshua sat rigid, head
back, left eye straining to see the right eye. Then he
reared back and emitted a scream heard all the way to
hell itself. He tumbled off her onto floor and rolled
violently away, while Heather clawed herself erect. Then
she screamed, "You fucker!" and kicked the witch with
all her might. She howled again and kept kicking.
"Fucker! You Fucker! You die right here!"
Totally maddened, she ran to the closest pole and grabbed
it up, then ran back to the witch. She smashed the club
down, fracturing bone. Joshua's scalp was laid open,
blood spraying everywhere. Screaming like a banshee,
Heather pummeling the witch until her arms refused to
function, until the pole refused to rise. Then she
staggered away, remaining somehow erect, as the pole
slipped from her grasp. Then she sat down.
* * *
The sound of movement came from her right. Expecting
another horrific resurrection, Heather raised her head
and looked around. Michael was sitting up.
"You're alive!" she cried, flinging herself into his
arms. She tried to choke him.
"Easy!" Michael croaked. "Let go!"
Heather let him go. She held him at arms length. Then she
kissed him violently.
Michael blinked, dazed but happy. "I did something to
deserved that?"
Heather laughed. "You lived!"
"I don't suppose--" he started, then looked around. "What
did you do to him?"
Heather took his arm. "Can you stand?"
"If it means getting out of here," he said. "I'll crawl."
Heather helped him to his feet.
"I thought I was a goner," he said. "Thank you."
Heather kissed him again. "Let's get out of here," she
said, indicating the huddled shape. "I'm not sure it's
dead. Not sure at all."
Retrieving the flashlight, she helped Michael to the
stairs and they began to climb. Halfway to the landing,
she heard a sound from below, a stirring, then a groan.
"Go!" she screamed, as a snarl arose and then the sound
of hooves. Whatever was moving down there was no longer
human.
Clearing the kitchen door, they ran headlong across the
branches and leaves. Heather struggled to retrieve her
lighter and the matches. They stopped at the far side.
"The lighter! The lighter!" she cried.
Then a terrifying wail arose from the basement and
whatever made it started up the stairs, hooves clambering
on the rock steps. Ripping open the bag, Heather lost the
box of matches, but managed to keep the lighter. Dropping
to one knee, she held the lighter against a wad of paper
and flicked the wheel. Nothing happened.
"Come on!" she yelled, spinning the wheel again. The
butane still wouldn't light. Holding the lighter aloft,
she put it against the lens of the lamp. It lighter was
empty. Screaming, she flung it across the room and
frantically searched for the matches.
"Help me!" she yelled.
Twenty feet away, the creature was out of the stairwell
and into the kitchen. Hooves clattered on the wooden
floor. It emitted another wail, making Heather and
Michael both scream. Then her hand fell upon the box of
matches, and she grabbed it up and tore it apart. Matches
flew everywhere. Grabbing one frantically, she struck it
on the side of the box, and flung it into the leaves. The
head flared briefly, then went out. Screaming again, she
flung out another and this one caught. Then they
alternated striking, and throwing matches onto the pile
until soon the floor was ablaze.
"Yes!" Michael yelled, standing up. He fell back to his
knees when a bellow erupted from across the room."What
in the hell is that!"
The creature, right out of their nightmares, glared at
the spreading flames. It was half-boar, half-lion and all
evil. Its massive yellow head swung back and forth; its
eyes glowed yellow. Powerful claws splintered the plank
flooring, audible even over the flame. The creature
bellowed in rage.
Heather continued striking matches and pitching them
where flame didn't blaze. The creature, realizing it was
trapped, bellowed again and raised up on its hind legs.
It looked like an attacking bear. But, flames now licked
the ceiling and had begun to consume the walls, and the
heat drove the creature back. Supernatural manifestation
or not, it held fire in fear.
"Let's go!" Heather yelled over the roar. The heat was
stupendous. Backing away on her hands and knees, she lead
the way out and Michael followed. They reached the
exterior wall.
Jumping down first, Michael held out his hands.
"Thank you!" she yelled. Then she took his hand and ran
with Michael to the top of the embankment. They watched
the house burn.
"Do you think it worked?" Michael yelled.
"We'll soon find out!"
Flames skyrocketed into the night sky, raising steam off
the trees and vegetation. They no longer heard the beast,
and although she knew this not to be the case, Heather
wished it a speedy return to hell. Then a portion of the
roof collapsed, then one of the walls, and a fountain of
sparks soared into the air. Much of the surrounding
greenery was ablaze, with fire spreading to the out-
buildings. It was time to leave.
Halfway across the field, Heather was buffeted by a
tremendous explosion. Looking back, she watched as two
oil drums rocketed into the sky, then fell back as
flaming wreckage. Michael watched tight-faced, but said
nothing.
When they reached camp, most of the upper structure was
gone; what remained burned furiously. The hill had
returned to its previous height.
Picking up their sleeping bags and turning them outside
in, Heather threw them into the collapsed tent. She
didn't think much of spending the night here, but she was
not going back into the woods. If the witch came, she
came. What could she possibly do that was worse?"
"Time for you to fuck me now, Michael," Heather said.
And Michael did.
Epilogue
The morning had broken clear, blue and cold, with a stiff
wind blowing out of the northwest. Michael awoke first,
and for a time lay still, looking at the sagging tent. He
listened to the sounds of the forest around them: the
trickle of water from behind the tent, the buzz of
insects, the calling of birds. He enjoyed the warmth of
his bed mate.
Although he knew it was time to get up, Michael let
Heather sleep. Her face was peaceful for the first time
in a week; he sensed no dreams troubling her sleep. And
despite her swollen nose and bruised face, the ground in
dirt and dried blood, the disheveled mass of hair, she
was quite beautiful. Extraordinarily so, Michael thought.
Their lovemaking had begun the instant Michael zipped
together the bags. Heather slipped into his arms and
clung to him with an intensity both desperate and
impassioned. Neither could contain their energy--nor
their noise. Heather's climax brought a temporary
cessation to all sound in the area.
Sometime around 3:00 a.m., while in the middle of a
sentence, Heather fell asleep. Michael took a moment
realizing she was gone, then drifted off to sleep
himself. Neither stirred until first light. That was
three hours before. It was now 10:00 a.m.
Stopping in a clearing, Heather consulted the sun. If she
were right, Tappy creek, out of sight but now within
earshot, was off to their right. The undergrowth was
extremely dense, a good sign. Suddenly, there was a sharp
burp of sound.
"What was that?" Michael asked. He stood with his right
foot half-raised.
Heather said, "A backfire?"
They hurried along, trampling the underbrush rather than
skirting it. They erupted onto a dirt road. Dust hung in
the air from the vehicle's passing, and although no
longer visible, they heard the crunch of its tires.
"Damn!" Michael said. "Thirty seconds too late."
Heather grinned. "How do you know it wasn't one of our
redneck friends?"
Michael returned her grin. "Right now I'd kiss a redneck,
just like he was my mother."
"You might get your chance," Heather replied.
There was the sound of another vehicle, this one
approaching, and they stepped back to wait. It came
around a bend, a hundred yards distant, an old jalopy
trailing dust. Vintage thirties or forties, Heather
thought, a Ford, and surprisingly well kept. Only she
knew better than that.
The car pulled up beside them and the driver, a young man
with wire-framed glasses and slicked back hair, asked:
"You folks need a lift?" Tinny ragtime emanated from the
dashboard.
Heather attempted a grin. "We're headed into town," she
said. Screaming had left her nearly hoarse.
The driver indicated the opposite door.
Going around the front end, Michael opened the door and
Heather slid in. Michael climbed in behind her and closed
the door.
"So where you all from?" the driver asked. He dropped the
transmission into low gear, and the car jerked forward.
Heather answered: "Just outside DC."
"Planning to stay?"
Heather and Michael exchanged looks. "Looks that way,"
Heather said.
The driver stuck out his hand. "Randy Donahue. Pleased to
meet you."
Heather took the driver's hand and pumped it hard. Her
grandfather had a very strong grip.
"Janet Barnes," she said. "And this is my husband, Bill.
We're pleased to meet you, also."
Continuing along the dirt road, the Ford eventually
disappeared around a turn. Dust settled, and the sound of
tires faded. A lark sang somewhere off in the woods.
Appearing at the side of the road and sensing no danger,
a squirrel scampered across. Time passed.
Traveling through the undergrowth without disturbing it
in any way, a shape appeared at the road. It moved to the
road's center. It stood for a very long time.
The shape of an old woman first, with sharp, haggard
features, it then became a young man with a beard and
mustache. Then it was something best left to nightmares.
Then it became an old woman again.
Slowly, as though willing to wait the necessary years,
but having other things to attend, the creature moved
back into the woods. No branch moved, and no leaf was
disturbed. It left behind a rhime of frost. Eventually,
the woods became active again. Soon it would snow.
The End
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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 20