WHERE DEVILS DWELL
by
Derek Rush
Copyright © 2011 by Derek Rush
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PROLOGUE
SAM KNOWS HE shouldn’t have gone this far—he knows it with a certainty that fills his soul with dread. The buck he’d shot hours before is almost surely dead by now, and it becomes obvious that he’s lost its trail.
With the setting sun to his back, his shadow stretching out long and forever on the gravely path before him, he also knows that eyes are upon him. But they are not the eyes he is used to, the eyes of the animals that call the Great North Woods their home; the raccoons and fishers, foxes, coyotes, and even the occasional black bear are all critters Sam has become well acquainted with over his many years outdoors. He knows their calls well, can easily identify their tracks in the mud and tell with astounding accuracy how long ago they had passed by. He marvels at the sights and sounds of nature. In fact, some of his fondest memories have come from the front porch of his father’s cabin where, with a warm cup o’ Joe in his grip, he could sit in quiet awe as moose would emerge from the understory of enveloping woods and morning mist, stealing along the same path shared by beavers, bobcats and even once an endangered lynx. The song of coyotes howling on a moonlit night is almost magical.
But in recent months those sounds, especially, have taken on a more frightening quality. It was usually around dusk, as the light begins to fade from the sky and the long shadows of evening darken the wilderness, that he would often hear them, strange and distant calls that would always seem to draw closer as the night wore on. Sometimes, when returning from a day hike or fishing by the pond out back, he felt he was being followed, stalked by something more cunning then the game he hunts. A snap of a twig in the nearby woods. The rustle of bushes. A low and furtive growl from somewhere in the shadows.
He had told himself over and over again that the eerie sounds were merely the coydogs acting up … the sensation of being watched all in his head. Yet each time he sensed something approach the cabin at night, he pulled himself up from his battered recliner and stepped out onto the porch to have a look. And each time he saw nothing but the dark closing in around him. “Life in the city finally wearin’ on ya, boy,” he’d warily chuckle. “All that steel and concrete and you forgot there are still critters out there that need to hunt for their scraps.” For the first time since he’d been coming up to the cabin, he wasn’t able to determine from which of those woodland critters such an eerie crescendo might be uttered.
And it bugged the hell out of him.
Up until a moment ago, however, he had forgotten all about those sounds in the night. Then a terrible screech rents the onset of dusk … a noise of squealing protest, of outrage, and desperation beyond any emotion he’d expect of just some animal—and it all came crashing back.
The hypnotic drone of insects suddenly ceases. Sam tightens his grip on the stock of his Remington rifle and tries to swallow down the lump that had risen so high in his throat. His pulse is suddenly racing. He recalls scoffing at Roger Wiley’s ludicrous talk when he stopped by the corner store to gather a few supplies for the weekend: apparently, some camper claimed to have spotted a catamount in the area a few weeks back. “Fella chased ‘er off with a stick,” the old store clerk explained, “hootin’ and hollerin’ while his two boys threw rocks.” Sam’s casual take had been that most nitwits these days couldn’t tell a goat from a donkey. He suggested, “Probably nothing more than a big housecat.”
But damn it … just what if?
Could it be the injured white-tail?
The scent of wounded prey is like a signal flare for everything with an appetite.
A flicker of movement catches his eye. He peers out across the black and perfectly still waters of Millar Lake on his left, straining to see through the waning light and play of lengthening shadows along the far shoreline. There is no doubt that something is there, prowling in the deep shadows of the trees that overhang the water’s edge. The sound had startled a pair of swans that had been nesting in the reeds, and in way of caution were already moving away from land, toward the center of the lake where they would be safe. Sam follows their wary gaze, his eyes staring into the tangled growth were imagination screams that some unspeakable terror lurks. He sees nothing. Just as was always the case when investigating that feeling back at dad’s cabin. But cabins have doors he can lock, walls to hide behind, a phone with which to call for help. Out here he has only his legs to carry him to safety, and a rifle that will prove increasingly difficult to aim in the gathering gloom.
His mind is tearing along at a thousand miles an hour, a dizzying spiral of unspecified fear.
Is it a mountain lion?
Some weirdo with a strange animal call trying to scare me off ?
Imagination …?
All he knows for certain is that it will soon be dark. The warming globe that paints the sky a somber shade of pink is poised on the western horizon, and will soon fall for the evening behind the lower foothills of Mt. Warren. And whether or not a mountain lion is on the loose, he knows it will be a long night if he can’t make it back to his truck by dark.
He works the long action of his Remington, loading a round into the chamber.
The metallic sound seems to echo across the lake, alerting the thing of concern, letting it know that he knows.
Amidst a decidedly more ominous air, an expectant stillness that has settled over the area, Sam Gordon strikes off down the path, in the direction he figures to have parked his truck so long ago.
SAM ISN’T SURE for how long he’s been walking. His agitation over becoming lost far outweighs his tired muscles. The path he follows, however, shows signs of dirt bikes; tracks in the soil now degraded by the previous day’s wind and rain, though clear enough to signify civilization of some sort can not be far off. It can’t be close enough for Sam.
For the past several minutes, he’s been unable escape the sensation that he is being followed.
As with many times before, there is no specific sound that triggered any alarms. Only a gentle wind blows, shaking down a rain of autumn leaves around him. It is just that feeling. Night has settled over the woods, and it is all he can do to navigate by the silvery glow of the rising moon. Even though he moves with his rifle shouldered, ready to fire on any perceived threat, he dares not look left or right, afraid of what he might find there. For even the woods ahead seem less tame than he remembers, now foreign, full of boundless waste occupied by Satan and his works; in his mind the branches of the surrounding trees resemble boney fingers reaching out to him, the knotholes of trunks like staring eyes. Fear scatters his reason.
For the first time in recent months, Sam finds himself abstractly wondering if perhaps there is something more involved than strange calls and ominous vibes. While there’s never been any denying his want and desire to retreat from the daily grind, it has grown into something of an unbidden yen for him to return not only to the cabin, but to the woods themselves far more frequently than time allots.
He often shirks other responsibilities to do so. Fitful dreams occupy his sleep. Many times during the day, he finds himself easily distracted by inane thoughts of taking even more time off, or throwing in the towel … for good. No more backhoes and digging trenches; no more boss man and shouting orders; no more traffic and honking horns, blaring sirens, crowded lines just to buy a pack of stinkin’ gum … just him, his tackle box, and the fish. All the fish he wants. But these are not his thoughts. They seem in some strange way subliminal, infused upon his mind by an outside source. He has more sense than this. The more he turns the matter over in his mind the more confused it becomes.
Having since lost the path he was on, Sam moves guardedly into the wilderness, pushing deeper through the underbrush, following the line of least resistance. Every so often he pauses to gaze around, searching for anything that might yield a clue as to where he is. But there is nothing. Shadowy stanchions of tree trunks all but lost in a soupy darkness …
That is all.
“I’ll be alright,” he tells himself. “I’ll just keep moving, and eventually I’ll find my way out.”
But even as he utters the words, he isn’t so sure that he believes them.
Deep down, he isn’t so sure he’ll make it out at all.
Up until tonight the evening has always been Sam Gordon’s favorite time while up at the cabin. It was a time when he could sit out on the porch and listen to the sounds of the wilderness around him, unbothered by concerns for work and life in general. Up here there is no one to answer to. Not a care in the world.
That is about to change.
When a feeling of hopelessness comes over him, Sam’s pace eventually slows. Soon he stops walking altogether. He is frightened, angry, and confused, unsure if he should keep to his current course.
Ahead of him a stream crosses his path.
Being too wide to leap across, even with a running start, he stares numbly at the gently flowing water a moment, trying to determine how deep it might be, and how wet he is willing to get—being lost is one thing. Being lost, wet and cold is another.
The embankment on the other side seems manageable enough, though a tangle of thickets beyond grow on the incline, and may prove troublesome should he choose to negotiate that upward path through the mess. Downstream, to his left, appears totally clogged with shrubs and fallen timber. His only option will be to make his way upstream, to the right. If memory serves, this is a tributary of a larger river that runs through the area. With any luck, he’ll encounter the small footbridge he’d crossed earlier in the day, and ultimately the path leading back to a fire road and his awaiting truck.
Then a stick snaps in the woods behind him, followed by the furtive rustling of something moving to get into a more advantageous position.
For a breath or two he tries to shut it out of his mind, refusing to recognize what is happening. Then he sees the face. It appears briefly out of the dark and is gone as quickly as it appeared.
Had it been a man?
There’s no way to say for sure.
He doesn’t know what to do. His heart is thrumming now madly in his chest, and he knows that if he gets up to run, whoever is out there will know right where he is. So he stays put a moment longer, using the dark to his advantage, trying to sort out one indiscreet sound from another.
“What the in God’s name have I gotten myself into?” he asks impatiently of himself.
The night closes quickly around him.
His eyes remain fastened on the spot where the face had been. Though he sees nothing, his skin begins to crawl with the very thought of someone out there staring back. He’s been in the woods now for hours, and it is entirely plausible that many more could easily pass without anyone batting and eye of curiosity over his whereabouts. Up at the cabin, last I heard—his home away from home. We haven’t seen him for weeks. Boy doesn’t call much—likes the solitude.
Now, he comes to understand the concept of “isolation”, and sitting alone in the dark is no longer as appealing for him as it once had been.
The first icy fingers of true panic reach out to him.
Then, without warning, a shadowy form appears out of the dark no more than twenty yards away, crosses through a patch of moonlight, and disappears back into the night.
Sam instinctively raises his rifle and fires a shot in its direction.
The report is deafening.
Most unusual, however, is that there is no response—nothing moves. Ordinarily the crack of a rifle will scatter everything within earshot. It is this steely composure which unsettles Sam even further. Whoever … whatever … it might be, is more cunning than he wants to consider.
He isn’t about to stick around to find out if his round had struck home.
Instead he turns to run.
Sam is correct in his assumption about the bridge, the path, the fire road. Fifteen minutes later, after dodging countless shadows and stealing what ground he could, he blunders out of the woods and onto the road he never thought he’d see again. He arrives at his Chevy Blazer, shortly thereafter, rubber-legged and winded.
From somewhere behind him, way past the forest’s edge, some furious animal voices its displeasure in losing its prey by sending a long wavering howl rising into the night air.
But distance robs its frightful pith, and after a moment the inhuman falsetto fades back into the uneasy gloom.
Sam Gordon, realizing he’s in the clear, smiles and doubles over from the ache of exhaustion, taking a knee, trying to catch his runaway breath. He slumps back against the side of the truck he affectionately calls his “little red rust bucket” and begins to laugh, still cradling the rifle in his lap. “I guess I’m just too damn fast ya, huh, old boy?”
He couldn’t be more wrong.
At the back corner of the truck an animal squats, crouching like a sprinter waiting for the crack of the pistol. The silvery light of the moon glistens off wet, mangy hair, hair as black as the grim night around it. Somehow this thing had managed to sneak around the back of the truck on him, unnoticed, affording Sam his first good look at the cause of so many bad dreams …
And it’s no mountain lion.
Nor, as he turns he head slowly toward it, is he quite sure if it’s a bear, either.
Sam knows the danger he’s in; he feels it wrap like a smothering blanket around him.
The animal utters a low, rumbling growl in response to Sam’s changing grip on his gun.
Before Sam can regain his footing or even bring the rifle up to deliver a dose of certain death, the animal lunges forward, hurling itself atop the former Army Ranger … its long dark talons slashing and hacking at him mercilessly, shredding his clothing, rending his flesh.
Sam howls in pain and twists away, momentarily out of the animal’s grasp, kicking his feet, shoving the heavy beast off of him. From his back, he uses the butt of his rifle like a club, striking the damn thing repeatedly until it releases its grip of his legs.
Once free, he scrambles backward, dropping the weapon, crab-walking on ass and palms along the flank of his truck. He quickly clambers to his feet. Sharp claws snag a pant leg but find no grip. He’s off and running.
But he doesn’t get far.
There’s the sound of claws tearing at the pavement behind him …
And heavy guttural breaths of a beast in hot pursuit.
A terrible trumpet roar, and within an instant, Sam is tackled to the ground before he can round the front of the Blazer. Momentum carries both predator and prey into the wooden guardrail beyond the truck.
There is a blinding flash of pain, a muffled crack. But even with a shattered right arm Sam tries to push himself up to a shaky knee, valiantly attempting—striving—to get back to his feet. But it is the punishing blow, a pile-driving strike to his upper back that negates his efforts, slamming him back into the dirt yet again. The viciousness of the blow knocks the wind from his lungs (another crack, a pop, a dull pain signifies a dislocated shoulder).
The beast cries out, sounding a mix of blaring pipes and a trumpet.
He rolls over in time to see the teeth come in at him—a gaping mouth full of them—sinking deep into his right shoulder, clamping down like an unconscionable mechanical vice. He feels the hot breath on his cheek and neck, hears the wet slurping sounds of a roving sandpaper tongue lapping at the ragged flesh. The warmth of his blood engulfs his shoulder, his neck, his face.
Repeated strikes are being delivered to the attacker’s head with as much force as can be mustered, broken arm and all; Sam just pounds away, shrieks, pounds, yells out as the animal tightens its constricting jaws upon him, numbing the entire arm now, feeling crushed bones tweak under the pressure, hearing them crack, pop.
He uses his hands, neither to any great advantage, in a bench pressing motion in a vain attempt to push the animal from him, finding fistfuls of coarse, wiry hair, muscles of rock, the heat of a powerful body, and the rapid pounding of a monster’s heart.
He claws at a damp snout, a wet nose, rips at snarled lips, grazing the teeth slick with his own blood (and feeling his own mangled flesh). Christ! Soon he finds the eyes of this attacker and buries his thumbs deep, deep, as deep as he can—pressing for the brain, the back of this bastard’s skull.
The animal howls. It utters a startling, high-pitched wail, and releases its clenched teeth to roll back, off and away from Sam. Oddly, its whine imitates a wounded puppy in retreat.
A bear? No fucking way!
Groaning in severe pain, Sam staggers to his feet, falls down again, ends up crawling, crawling to the other side of the road, away from the injured animal.
Once again he is back on his feet, running down a slopped embankment and into the woods, seeing this as his final chance to flee.
He swaggers and sways from loss of blood, plowing through the unyielding vegetation that slaps and beats him silly, negotiating his way like a blind man thorough the maze of trees, damning his eyes for not adjusting to this complete blackness. He stumbles often over rocks and roots and the constant uneven earth.
Already on the verge of exhaustion, his broken body wracked with pain, Sam buckles as a wave of dizziness overwhelms him. He’s in terrible shape; the loss of blood starts to affect him. Bones are broken, his torso is shredded, his shoulder numb and throbbing.
He can just barely make out the tattoo on the underside of his left forearm as he extends it out to drag himself forward: Amidst a fog covered, runic field of shattered bones and headstones sits the hooded Grim Reaper, perched atop a mound of human skulls, his right hand wrapped around the warped handle of the infamous sickle. The wickedly sadistic curvature of its gleaming blade droops behind the left shoulder of an arm extended down, clutching the skull of some fanged, half human fiend, his fingers sinking deep into the empty cavities of the eye sockets. Written above, in a tumultuous, cloud-filled sky reads, “Death awaits us all.”
Lifting his head from the ground, Sam reaches outward, grabs hold of … something.
… boots.
He looks up, straining to see the man standing over him.
Yes! There must be a house nearby. Someone had heard his screams and rushed out to investigate.
“Thank God!” he moans, barely audible now, weak, cold, fading. He swallows back blood he keeps coughing up. “Please … help me.”
“Easy boy,” says the gruff voice with an definable southern drawl. “Easy now.”
“No … you don’t under … understand … A b-bear … s-something is … something is back there! It’s after me! We have to keep moving. Please. Time …There’s no time.”
As Sam speaks, the rushing sound of something large comes crashing through the darkness towards him. “It’s coming!” he tries to warn the stranger “My God, it’s coming!”
The dense darkness of the forest closes in around him. Trace images of friends and family flash in his minds eye; there are things he still has to do, places he wants to go, and see…
He forgets about the man whose boot is still in his feeble grasp.
He forgets about the numbing pain and the cold that seeps into his bones.
He forgets it all.
For a moment he listens to his ragged breathing, the sounds of the wind through the trees. Then the darkness, the deep, impenetrable darkness of the night closes in around him as his consciousness begins to fade.
A scream tries to rise out of his throat, though only a low and horrible gurgling sound as the blood bubbled from his lips is uttered.
It is the last sound the man known as Sam Gordon will ever make.
Chapter 1
Ten Years Later
SIXTEEN YEAR OLD Max Lambert dozes while gazing out the window in the passenger seat of the Dodge Durango. Partly cracked, a cool, jagged breeze blows in over his face, displacing a lock of his dark and shaggy hair. It sweeps across his brow to tickle the lashes of cocoa brown eyes with a blend of green that wane in a loosing battle to remain open.
Tired, fading in and out, he watches the world rush by at a speed slightly above the posted limit. His chin is propped on his fist in the thinker’s pose, his right arm locked in place by the weight of his languid body pressed against the door. Pins and needles prick from underarm to rigid wrist. And it is in his half sleep that the wispy filaments of early morning mist, traipsing lazily above the dew covered grass along side Interstate 93, south of Boston, appear to dance like cobras to the whim of a snake charmer in the guise of highway traffic, fluting the soulful tune of radials on asphalt. Splashes of bright sunshine and contrasting shadows flicker hypnotically like an uneven strobe through the trees.
His mother, Emily, awkwardly fumbles with the plastic lid of her steaming cup of coffee wedged in the holder of the center console. Doing two things at once has never been her strongest suit, and she curses under her breath even though she skillfully keeps the spill to a minimum while forcing the tab from the Big Mouth lid of the Styrofoam cup and maintaining focus on the traffic ahead of her. She turns to her son. “Hey … wake up, sleepy head,” she says softly. “I could use a good navigator here.”
“Huh?” He turns his head groggily. His reply is hardly more than a murmur, working the pasty morning film with his tongue. “You say something, mom?”
“I said I could use a good navigator. You know as well as I do that it’s a long drive in total silence. I’m getting bored as heck here, the radio’s all jibber-jabber, and I could use someone besides myself to talk to.”
“Sorry,” he says, rubbing at his face in hopes the grogginess can be peeled off like a mask. He finds that it can’t. “It’s kind of hard to keep my eyes open this morning.”
Emily laughs, “Rough night on the floor?”
“To say the least. Not enough padding in that old beat up sleeping bag. Spent most of the night tossing and turning.” He lets go a noisy, drawing yawn, stretches his arms out in front of him, hunching his back. “Too much thinking and not enough sleeping, I guess.”
“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean, punk. Piled up sheets on the old throw rug worked okay for me—back’s a little soar—but heck, we couldn’t have had the movers leave behind a couple mattresses just so we could get a comfortable night’s sleep, now, could we?”
Max agrees with an incurious shrug. “Guess not.”
“I’ve told you before, I’ll tell you again…Tired or not, kid, a good cup of coffee works wonders at the crack of dawn. You don’t know what you’re missing.” Cheers to the air, a bump, another spill. “Oh, for cryin’ out loud!”
Max cracks a thin smile. “Yeah…bottoms up, there, mom.”
Frequently and affectionately referred to as the handsome guy with the big grin, by his granddad, Max wears a plain black t-shirt over a faded gray thermal, loose fitting olive drab cargo pants, and no belt. When he stands, they have a tendency to droop around his thin waist. But he can’t be bothered. The running shoes have lost some tread from wear but they fit like a glove. He dresses consistent with his personality: modest, unobtrusive, not a standout, not lost, but well blended with the common teenage herd.
He’s shy around girls, smiles a lot when nervous. He is gregarious only to the point of acquaintance; typically avoiding the larger crowds, he enjoys more the company of a few close friends. Sometimes he’s overly critical of himself, mentioning jocosely how he thinks he’s not the brightest bulb in the bunch (seeing as he passes Math each term by the skin of his teeth), but fails to gloat that he earns high honors in History and has come close a few times in Science. And you’ll never hear him crowing over how he can run like the wind—a natural athlete—because mostly he feels he’s running against it—like Seger sang.
Growing up in the town of Lakeview, Massachusetts—a once quiet community now hampered by the blight of creeping development, where one too many fast food joints and crowded byways no longer afford the salubrity of old—Max isn’t entirely dejected about the move to granddad’s home in New Hampshire. With his love for the outdoors, swatting the bugs, and getting dirty exploring the wilds of New Hampshire’s North Country will be a pleasant change of atmosphere. After all, he spent the first two years of his life there, learning to talk, to walk, to eat without dribbling, and where his venturesome spirit to rove beyond the borders of a playpen were spawned. It was actually he who had brought up the subject of moving to begin with.
Being the only child of a single mother, Max and Emily have traveled to granddad’s place on countless occasions over the years since. The two have bonded best on those long rides up and back, just the two of them talking up a storm the entire way, laughing and goofing like the best of friends without so much as a break in the conversation. Movies were discussed like opposing critics (romantic comedies for her—feel-good flicks with an air of gaiety and the pursuit of romance, a careful play of wit and humor; action thrillers for him—the wild shoot-em-ups, with intrigue and tricky plots, guns and blood). They agreed only to disagree about music, fighting often for control of the radio that flipped from soft rock to metal to country only conclude in a shaky truce…meaning, in short, with a tap of the power button.
Once there, Granddad often led them out on day hikes, exploring the plethora of area trails, and when the weather was especially nice, into the White Mountains a short drive away. Huffing and puffing, though strikingly vibrant for his age, old George Lambert would always keep pace with Max’s youthful vigor and explorer demure, poking him from behind with his trekking poles as if to brag: you may be half a century younger, but you can’t out run me, hotshot. Emily habitually trudged in boots too heavy for her slender legs, thinking of comfort before practicality, and frequently called for brakes to rest, chugging down her supply of water faster than a jet engine consumes fuel. But she always had fun. They all did. Swimming at the lake down the road was great, row-boating a kick, fishing a challenge, jet-skiing a hoot, and at night, sometimes, they’d all camp out on the shore, cooking hotdogs on sticks and putting together some S’mores before the campfire tales began. Even though the ‘skeeters could be a real pain, Granddad’s has been a second home to each of them. When it was time to go, they left only after plans for the next trip up have been confirmed.
That all changed with the death of George Lambert.
At the age of seventy-six, Uncle Jack said that he died in his sleep. The news was crushing for both Max and his mom, as unexpected as a crippling blizzard in the Bahamas, or Acapulco, or Fiji. “He was so healthy,” Emily had said through a heavy sigh, at the wake, “always bragging about how it’d been years since he had even the sniffles much less a cold.” Uncle Jack agreed, “He had more spring in his step than a man half his age.”
Max had been out in the garage that morning fiddling around with his new Yamaha Quad (off-roader’s slang for a four-wheeled ATV), trying to better acquaint himself with the powerful beast. He was just standing there, rubbing his greasy hands with an old rag, effervescing over his new toy with that trade mark grin punctuated on either end of his handsome broad face with those pitting dimples, and pondering the riding he was set to do once the weather cleared. To this day he can’t recall hearing the telephone ring that Sunday morning; it was hard to hear much of anything over the big fat rain drops pelting the driveway outside the open garage door. But his ears perked faster than does an alert guard dog who hears the jiggle of a door handle three rooms away when he took note of his mother’s sobs.
His smile faded with a rumble of what could have been thunder, about as quickly as that flash of lighting he imagined. The tickle in his gut, the one that lets most of us know something’s not quite copacetic, started to roll like a mean little gremlin inside was trying to work its way out. That gave on to a nauseous feeling that made him want to vomit. He almost did. Without yet knowing a thing, never hearing the spoken word of confirmation, he somehow knew just the same—granddad was gone. And sadly, things would never be the same again.
Later, there was talk of selling the home they loved so much. God knew that even a modest offer on the place would fetch a pretty penny. While Uncle Jack and Aunt Karen debated on whether they should take the house to keep it in the family (though ultimately deciding they’d put too much into their life in Vermont to start anew in a smaller place), Emily, on the other hand, was undecided, prudent. She and Max discussed the option of moving there themselves, selling the house in Lakeview and relocating permanently to New Hampshire. It was just casual talk, suggestive chitchat brought up by Max over dinner one night which concluded with her usual wouldn’t it be nice ho-hums but no immediate rush to move in one direction or the other.
Before long, Max found himself listening in on his mother’s conversations when she’d been on the phone with her brother, Jack. He would often linger with mock interest in some trivial task, pretending not to hear, or leaving the room to stand on the other side of the door with hopes of hearing in which direction the two where leaning in regards to the property. At one point there was an ever-so-brief mention of using the place as a vacation home. The idea had Max wagging his proverbial tail yes, yes, yes like a little puppy with treats to be had.
Yet the dragging of feet went on. Emily would never give her son the answer he sought, prodded for—to pack up and go—yet would never claim to be opposed to the idea, either. Her ambiguity was festering for an antsy Max who was nervous of having the place fall into someone else’s hands. There was little doubt the smaller place would be better suited for the two of them; its design (drawn up by George Lambert himself, who’d earned a good living as an architect) would afford them a cozier home of less upkeep and improved atmosphere, fresh mountain air.
Neither Max or Emily would shed a tear with parting ways with the old two-story they liked to joke was starting to show every moment of its hundred and fifteen years. Who needed that? Let someone else deal with the creaking floorboards and leaks in the roof, the mold in the basement, an attic occupied by rowdy resident squirrels, and a furnace that would always wait until the coldest days of winter to conk out. It’d make a nice fixer-upper for someone who didn’t mind the sweat of a little TLC.
So Max milled about patiently for a few weeks. He grew quietly concerned with his mother’s seemingly stubborn complacency with their life in Lakeview, ambling about her daily activities with shrugging content. He’d listen to her complain as frequently as he did about a town growing to big for its britches, then go on immediately thereafter as to how much she adores the life up north; the wildlife that’s no longer seen “down here,” the fresh air, and plenty of room to roam at will.
Usually she’d follow it up with an almost teasing hmm; a note of consideration that inadvertently left the door wide open for that pesky sixteen-year-old salesmen milling about with a multitude of persuasive tricks left up his sleeve. His craftily planned tactics of reminiscing, conjuring one fond memory after the next of the fun they had up there would, he hoped, help to shed a little light along the path he was nearly certain she was about ready to inch down. Remember this … nudge! Remember that … nudge! And what about the time when we … shove!
And it worked. It took some time, a changing of bait, but in the end she caved to the pitch man with the nice smile who reeled her in hook, line, and sinker.
For her, even more so than Max, it will be a coming home.
Though born and raised in the quaint New Hampshire home, it seems to her a little strange moving back after all these years. Seeing as she so adamantly set out on her own shortly after Max was born, and fought so hard for what she’d gained on her own, she fought the urge to look at it as a retreat from the front lines, not being able to cut it in the real world. She agreed to it only with a frowning hesitancy, a refrained ambivalence, all the while knowing it will be better for the both of them in the long run.
As independent as any single mother could hope to be, the train of timely opportunities was boarded after a well paying job in publishing led her a state south. The home in Lakeview had been in their family for years, leased out to tenants who’d decided their retirement would be better off spent at a condo in Florida, resting poolside in the humid air amongst friends. Once they left, the old house of casual country living, set smack dab in the ‘burbs was all hers—thanks in part to her father’s generosity (letting the rent slide until she was on her feet, eventually forgetting about it entirely). Not yet old enough to legally buy a drink at a bar down the block, the sudden responsibility of a home with three bedrooms, two baths, living and dining rooms, and a wide open kitchen complete with breakfast nook, almost proved more than she could handle. But she repeatedly turned her nose up to doubters; she stubbornly battled the odds stacked against her, winning most of them, settled for a few draws and, in time, came her first book deal, then the second, followed shortly soon after by a third.
Emily Lambert has been writing children’s books for nearly eight years now, and though she’ll be the first to admit that it hasn’t been a cake walk, she’s done alright for herself and earns a decent living at it. She finds her writing a fantastic way to help relax in stressful times. Sitting back in her chair, sometimes putting her feet up on a stoop under the desk and rocking, sometimes using her feet on the legs to spin, she’ll enjoy the soft sounds of light music decorating the background, and turn nonsensical daydreams into a living. With each new book that reaches the market, her fan base grows, and as a result, so do the pay checks and further demand for future works. She’s far from famous, but her son encourages that she’s well on her way.
As a single mother, she’s always worked hard and does a damn fine job providing for Max who’s proven anything but a handful; always willing to lend a helping hand, he’s been a blessing that made her push that much harder when faced with life’s constantly emerging challenges. The two of them have always been very close. They rely on each other. They listen to each other.
This morning there is no battle for control of the radio. It remains off. There is only the rush of wind through partly open windows and the outside roar traffic—the drone of tires, squealing brakes, and tooting horns.
Emily says, “Call it a mother’s intuition or whatever, but I’ve always known you, Mr. Crack of Dawn, to be more energetic this time of the day. Now I know you missed your run this morning,” she playfully scowls, with both hands on the wheel, “but that’s not your reason for gloating. You look a thousand miles away. You’re not having second thoughts about all this, now, are you?”
Gazing out his window at the 18-wheeler grumbling along beside them, Max is now wishing he was the one who’d been prudent with this mad dash of relocation. In answering, he lies, “No. I’m fine. Just tired.” In truth, the heavy weight of reality has dropped down upon him like a ton of bricks. When the decision to head north was made, it almost took him by surprise. He pressed her for it, he pestered, he snooped, he tossed her plenty of bones…but he wasn’t expecting things to move so damn fast. Sometimes when you want a thing bad enough, you get so used to the prosaic rigmarole of conceiving plans to obtain it, that once you finally have what you’ve sought, you’re left unprepared.
Bidding farewell to Dave and Pete, his two closets friends since kindergarten, was hard—he expected it would be. Emily called them “The Three Musketeers.” They’ve done just about everything together; finding themselves in and then working back out of the trouble of youthful mischief, from air rifle mishaps and windows that got in the way of baseballs, to games of ding dong ditch and packing snow in the tail pipe of the Gym teacher’s Pontiac.
Yet even worse was locking the front door to that house for last time and parting ways with everything he’s grown so accustomed to, leaving a home where almost sixteen years worth of memories are still so firmly imbedded in every corner: the maple in the backyard he used to climb daily still bares remnants of the old tree fort with a rickety ladder leading up to rotting floor beams; the back corner of the yard where he tearfully laid to rest his pet hamster, Einstein; the fence he helped put up still stands as sturdy as ever; his name carved into the front porch with an old pocket knife; the grape juice stain on the floor of his room from the glass that split while attempting his first handstand; the now dormant bee’s nest in the attic and the remembrance of the nighttime assault in his bundled up coveralls, ski mask and duct taped gloves, along with three cans of Raid and a fire extinguisher. Even the patch in the lawn that never wanted to grow, regardless of his mother’s fertilizing efforts, strung a sentimental cord inside with the though of it becoming someone else’s problem. He’d gotten so caught up with trying to save one home from the fangs of some wicked realtor, that he overlooked the other place where he’d spent most of his life.
Having not even considered the want of saying goodbye to a house in the way he did with pals, he’s now left with the empty feel of turning his back on a chained puppy, walking away from sad eyes that speak the heartbreaking words of Why are you leaving me without so much as a whimper. It has him feeling a little bummed.
Watching the chrome lugs of the pacing big rig blur, he says again, “I’m fine,” in a way of reassuring himself as such.
Emily says, “It sure was brave of you. I’ll give you that much.”
“What was,” he asks, turning to her now.
She shrugs and says, “Making this dramatic change in your life. Bringing it up to begin with took a lot of courage. Leaving your friends—I know how close you three are. It had to have been tough. I know it’s been for me.”
“Yeah, well…”
“You know, Max, we’ve talked ourselves senseless about this move. We’ve weighed over all the pros and cons, the benefits and the consequences before finally deciding to go through with it. You know that. The good does outweigh the bad under the circumstances.”
“I was the one who brought it up, remember?”
“I do. But … I just want to be absolutely one hundred percent certain that you’re really, honestly okay with all of this. ’Cause if you’re not,” she flashed him a teasing grin, “I’ll turn this truck around right now and—”
“At seventy miles an hour, on a major highway … That’d go over real big.”
“Don’t laugh, punk. I’m serious.”
“I know you are,” he says. “That’s what worries me.” He chuckles lightly, shifting in his seat to face her. He summons as convincing a smile as he can muster, “Everything’s hunky-dory. Trust me. If it wasn’t, if I was overly bummed, I’d have said something by now, you know that.”
Emily purses her lips, hardly convinced. She says, “You mean to tell me you don’t have any regrets about leaving?”
“Regrets? No. I’ll miss my friends and all—no doubt about that—but there was no way I could live with myself if I let you and Uncle Jack go through with selling granddad’s place. I couldn’t just sit back and pretend to not give a hoot. Christ,” he brings a hand up to comb back through his hair, “another wallop like that, after granddad died, is a bit much for anybody.”
“I’ll have to agree with you, there.”
He says, “Lakeview’s an alright town, but I’m sure you’ll agree when I say that the neighborhood was beginning to get that closed-in feel to it—Claustrophobia Central, you know? When you’re that close to the people next door, or those across the street, you better hope you all get along or you’ll wind up driving each other bonkers. Like with Mattie leaving the bass boom, boom, booming in his idling truck each morning while he goes back in finishing off his bowl of Cheerios. It was starting to get on my nerves, and I actually like that sort of music.”
Listening, Emily wiggles free the Styrofoam cup from the holder to take another sip.
“And then there was the daily 6:50am motorcycle drive-by, and the winding out of those Glaspack exhaust pipes from that jerkoff, Mahoney, down the street. I mean what a dick!”
A nod. A dainty shrug. Another sip. “It was getting to be a bit much.”
“It’s the little things that begin to grow on you—like a bad fungus growing where you don’t want it to—”
“Gross!”
“—and before you know it, those little things aren’t so little anymore; the barking dogs, the gossiping neighbors … The Porter’s … a family who’s surely never heard of the existence of a wondrous machine that trims the lawn … It’s called a lawnmower for crissakes. I’ve seen them gaze in wonder and amazement at the marvelous alien contraption I was pushing around our own front lawn on countless occasions. Jeeze, I’ve been tempted to sneak over there one night with the hedge cutters and chop down those mosquito infested bushes that have taken over their yard. I honestly didn’t think those bushes were even able to grow to those heights.”
“Call Guinness,” she jokes.
“I’m serious,” he laughs. “These little annoyances start out as a pestering little tickle, then that tickle turns to a pinch, a pinch to a jab, a jab to a punch.”
“Wow! Great analogy, there, punk.”
“But aside from all that, I just enjoy being up there at granddad’s place. It’s hard to describe—just a good feeling, you know? There’s something special about the place. Something, I don’t know, drawing me to it…like a magnet. I’ve had dreams, even.”
“Dreams?”
“Weird dreams.” Max scrunched up his face, thinking and not quite understanding. “And, heck, maybe that’s why I’ve been such a pest these past few weeks, constantly on your case about it, whining like a kid for a buck when the Ice Cream Truck comes down the street.”
“Oh, you weren’t that awful.”
“No?” he says with unbelieving eyes.
“Well…maybe a little.”
“There you go. Doesn’t the truth feel good?”
“The truth of the matter,” she says, “the thing that’s bothered me, is that the most important aspect that makes that house so special, the quintessential spark for the flame, was—”
“Granddad. I know. And I agree. But what better way is there to remember him, to feel closer to him now that he’s gone than to do what we’re doing—moving in. He put his heart and soul into that house, the yard—you said so yourself. Everything about the place echoes his name. It’s full of great memories for both of us.”
“We’ve had some really great times up there.”
“But I know the memories are often the most difficult things to deal with after someone dies. You almost want to push everything from your mind, thinking it’ll help dull the pain you’re in.”
“They say time heals all wounds”
Max scoffs—a little spit of air through his nose. “They didn’t lose granddad.”
Fighting to hold back the tears welling up in her eyes—something she’s been doing poorly over the last few weeks—Emily keeps her eyes glued on the road ahead where a fire red Z28 follows too close to an old VW van a spot up, because if she looks to her son, now, the boy who can exhibit a level of maturity and wisdom far in excess of his years, she will immediately start bawling. She says, “I don’t know what I would do without you, kid” and takes another sip from her coffee.
Max replies, “I don’t know what you’d do without me, either, mom. But I doubt it’d be whatever this guy in the hippie van ahead of us is smoking. Phfeeew!”
Chapter 2
EMILY AND MAX arrive in Ellisburg just before noon. It is a small, bustling community with a population of just over forty-five hundred. The Northland Paper Mill, founded in 1827, has struggled through decline of the logging industry, though remains the principle source of economy as it continues to adapt and evolve to suit modern day ecological concerns. Nowadays it relies primarily on 100% recycled scrap paper in its production line of quality goods. The mill is in production 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, providing residents of the timber rich land and surrounding communities a host of employment opportunities and a good paycheck to boot.
Once you cross over the old railroad tracks at the edge of town and pass through the small intersection where Briarwood, a timeworn cemetery with tilted headstones and other crumbling markers, rests in peace amongst a sea of high grass and shady Oaks, the winding rural route becomes known as Main Street. Where up until now the lay of the land consisted of rolling hills draped in wispy pines and elms and oaks and hemlocks and firs, the abundant chalky white trunks of birches—the state tree of New Hampshire—give on to more and more homes along the road where signs warn of Deer Crossing and of a School Bus Stop Ahead. Radar Patrolled—Slow Down!
Max rolls down his window to let his arm dangle out. The warm wind slips up the loose sleeve of he thermal, sliding it further up his thinly muscular arm. His hand is held out to glide like a plane through the current of air that washes over his face. The fresh scent of the surrounding forest greets him better than any welcome sign possibly can.
Up ahead, a pudgy little beaver skedaddles from their path, wobbling its way across the open asphalt, down a sloped embankment to a stream that runs under the road, presumably to continue work on a dam of sticks and mud. A pair of squirrels applauds its effort from a nearby rock wall before scurrying off into the woods.
They pass the Brook Wood Farm and riding stables on their right, where a rust red barn and old log fencing adds a rustic charm to the land. Two horses with laughing riders canter through an open field toward the shade of a narrow dirt lane flanked by majestic oaks.
Further up, two cars sit in a dirt parking lot out front of a tiny variety store, Aunt May’s Market. Though Aunt May’s passing is going on close to two decades, the market still shares this second intersection they pass through, with Isaac’s: a tiny gas station that sells used cars on the side where weeds creep from cracks on the open macadam. A sheet metal sign near the road informs patrons, Come in. We’re Open.
The homes along the stretching road become more tightly packed with a striking neighborly atmosphere. There are birdbaths, swing sets, chained dogs barking for a petting, gardens alive and green, and the American flag hangs from more than a few covered decks with porch swings and chairs to sit and watch the passing cars zoom by. Closer to town, a few serve as businesses: a dentist; a doctors’ office; a realtor; a kennel; a bed & breakfast; even a psychic with palm and tarot readings upstairs of a karate dojo—Private lessons available. Side streets lead off to small neighborhoods.
Soon they pass Max’s favorite stop, Two Scoops, Ellisburg’s most frequented Ice Cream Parlor. He hates to pass up on a cup of their frozen yogurt—smooth and creamy, topped with freshly crushed walnuts … nothing better.
“Maybe later,” Emily says, seeing her son about ready to ask.
The Durango slows as they come to the town square.
The intersection of Main and South has a flashing yellow traffic light overhanging the road to warn of approaching vehicles.
The Old First Church is on their right—a historical landmark for the town, built in the year of 1831. A tumbled slate walkway, in varied shades of gray and wide enough for a bus, leads up from the corner to part the lushly green lawn groomed to perfection. It is set back at an angle from the intersection it dominates. The steeple and spire, topped with a cockerel weather vane, rises seventy feet above the town. The bell within the imposing clock tower chimes a delightful midday melody.
Passed the church, South Street is lined both sides by enormous Elms and Maples with massive trunks as sturdy and resolute as the town in which they’ve taken root. Bulbous knots and hollowed pits are home to fuzzy tailed critters while overhanging foliage, shaved smooth underneath by passing trailer trucks, turns the street to dusk. Down that way, homes intermingle with small shops before spreading out to smaller dwellings the father you go.
To the east, the street slopes lazily downhill and continues on past the Mill, that sits somewhere in a valley a mile and a half down.
Traveling slowly north up Main, antiquated lamppost benefit the town’s historical past. Here you can find your usual small town businesses like Brady Hardware and Scotty’s Variety, Denny’s Arcade and B & D Books, Computer World and Main Street Deli. The Blackthorn Tavern is tucked snugly between Gloria’s Arts and Crafts and the local Pizza joint, A Slice Above, and competes for patrons with Edgar’s Pub across the way.
Vehicles sit parked along either side against the stone curbing of wide concrete walkways upon which people go about their daily routines, a few gossiping out front of Cup-a-Joe’s and acknowledging passersby with a nod of the head and an occasional tip of the ball cap—after all, politeness counts here in Ellisburg.
A red light stops the Durango at Main’s intersection with Hillside. The Town Hall is situated across from them to the left. Locals call it the White House—a stately three-story building of American Federal design with a fluted Doric style colonnade spanning the length, from portico to stone and brick staircase. A roundabout drive runs behind the charging statue of a civil war soldier frozen in dramatic pose between two canons practically lost amidst a field of purple and pink and white flowers, neat bushes, and trimmed shrubs. The American flag flutters proudly above on a forty-foot aluminum pole topped with a bronze eagle, wings outstretched.
The post office occupies a corner building across and to the right. An elderly gentleman kindly holds open the door for a lady entering the local Bank & Trust on the right. And The Corner Store is on the left where, outside, two kids on BMX bikes gab and chew the gum they just bought inside from Harry, the owner. One tucks a comic book in his back pocket to race after his pal who heads down the road to Northland Lumber—a subsidiary of the Northland Paper Mill. Down that way there’s an ice rink and bowling alley, but mostly it’s residential.
When the light goes from red to green, Emily turns right down Hillside, driving past the Video Store, the Cable Company, and a shop of bleached shingles where bicycles line the front of Spoke n’ Chain. On the left, the town’s Police and Fire Departments, with heavily wooded hills looming to their rear, a seeming backdrop of vertical stanchions, occupy the same two-story building of modern design. Antennas poke from the flat roof, and firefighters mingle just outside of the open squad bay in front of a single Ambulance and two pristine Fire Trucks; Engines one and two.
Further down the road, there is the Hillside Shopping Center on the right, then Hanson Regional School and the large blue water tower behind it. In about a week, the impressive Athletic Field will be the sight of the town’s annual County Fair, complete with Independence Day celebrations on the forth, and an always spectacular Fireworks display. The vast expanse of green beyond the baseball diamond and soccer fields, the tennis and basketball courts, will soon play host to Outdoor Concerts and Performances, Gaming Events, Variety and Talent shows, Animal Attractions, and more…much more. Best of all will be the rides, like the Kamikaze and the Twister, G-Force and the Tilt-a-Whirl, along with old favorites like the Ferris Wheel and Carousel rides; all provided by the traveling Carnival that works its way through town every summer.
Max and Emily make it a point to visit every year. It is something they look forward to, like the annual family trip; some people go to Disney World, Emily and Max head to the County Fairgrounds in New Hampshire. It is a good time. At night the blissful voices and erratic laughter muddle together as a dulled chorus gets carried aloft with the sounds of air-horns and bells and dings on the warm breeze of a summer night’s air through the open windows of the guest room at granddad’s house. Max would sometimes lay awake for hours, when younger, with the smells of the carnival filling that room thinking of the day ahead. This year he’s looking forward to the new Bungee tower, and a new Paintball Combat Course that will be set up in the surrounding woods that’s suppose to take the place of the Laser Tag Maze that had you more concerned with finding your way out of rather than searching for the other players you were trying to shoot.