CHAPTER 7
n an ordinary afternoon, he would have loved exploring the
wooded riverbank with his satchel of art supplies, looking for
gnarled trees or odd rock formations and drawing nature studies in
his sketchbook.
On an ordinary day, he wouldn’t have felt the need to flummox his parents with half-truths so they would let him out of the house for few minutes. But this day wasn’t ordinary, and the subject matter he planned to study was far from natural.
Casey didn’t like deceiving anyone, and his conscience was tormenting him. Technically he hadn’t said anything so far that wasn’t true. However, he had managed to imply that he had to see Bobby Bamberger about an important geology project.
Early that morning, he had been on the phone with Bobby, updating him on the unfolding mystery without mentioning the creatures in Pearl’s room. He did have a geology project—a project involving a mysterious stone spiral. He had never actually said it was a school project even if he had purposely created that impression. He had pointed out that all of the disappearances were happening right inside people’s homes. Dot Clydesdale had disappeared from under their very own roof. He might be safer walking Penny than hanging around at the scene of the most recent crime. No teenagers with enormous dogs had been snatched off of Whistlebrass sidewalks in broad daylight.
“I’ll only be a little while, and I’m not going very far,” he had insisted. “I just want to make a few notes. Then I’ll turn around and be home before you know it. I really want to get out of the house for a while and someone has to walk Penny.”
At least that part had been completely true. Finally, his parents had agreed to let him go, as long as he didn’t take any unnecessary chances, and kept Penny with him at all times.
Casey knelt to fasten a braided leather leash onto Penny’s collar. The Saint had a luxuriantly thick coat of golden brown fur. Her chest was white, as was her muzzle and the tip of her tail. A mask of black fur surrounded intelligent liquid brown eyes. She bumped Casey with a cold black nose as big as a plum and delicately offered him a mammoth paw. In spite of her elephantine bulk, the dog was incredibly gentle.
The house had been full of police officers all morning, stomping around, making notes, taking photographs, and asking questions. Casey been collared and interrogated by Officer Waldo Holstein, a red faced lug with a walrus moustache. Holstein seemed convinced that the boy was holding something back, but Casey wondered what he could say that anyone would believe.
Shortly after the handprint in the guestroom closet had been exposed to daylight, it had faded away. Nobody else had even seen it, and Casey was sure the police wouldn’t believe a story about supernatural intruders. After a while, he decided to test the waters and see what kind of response he got.
“No, I haven’t seen any strange people lurking around, but it’s an old house and it’s full of shadows,” Casey offered hesitantly. “Moving shadows.”
“Moving shadows? Like ghosts, you mean?”
“Not ghosts exactly,” mumbled Casey, looking down at his feet. “Shadows. Shimmering shadows that move on their own. “
“Yeah. Well, okay.” Officer Holstein spoke in a slow measured voice. “Get some rest, kid. Be cautious, but don’t wind up being afraid of your own shadow.”
The big cop strode off. Casey watched until he was out of earshot.
“He probably thinks I’m just a fidgety kid with a screw loose,” he muttered. “My shadow isn’t the one I’m worried about.”
Now, scooting hurriedly along the path, towed partially by the speed and strength of the big dog, Casey began to feel apprehensive about his plan. Not only had he been deceitful, he was far from the main road and away from any possible help in case of an emergency. If anything did go wrong, no one would even know where to find him.
The rocky path wound further into the woodland which grew thicker near the water. The weather had grown more threatening all morning. Overcast skies turned the icy water of the river to steel gray soup. The air was cold, heavy, and still.
Curious black crows and mottled magpies noted his approach from the tangled branches. Casey tied the leash to a slender aspen sapling growing next to the path. It wouldn’t do to let the dog disturb the stones or wind up covered in mud. The cascade of wrinkles on Penny’s wide forehead gave her a wise and slightly worried expression.
“Don’t look at me that way, Penny. You can’t come home smelling like a wet rug, and muddy paw prints would be a pretty big clue that I didn’t actually go to Bobby’s house.”
He patted the Saint’s head, and then turned to navigate carefully through the winterberry bushes. He tried to step carefully onto clumps of weeds to avoid covering his sneakers with mud as he made his way closer to the riverbank.
Everything along the riverbank from the bleached out grass and leafless bushes to the murky water seemed dead. Although it was surrounded by scrubby weeds and fallen leaves, the mosaic of stones was still pristine. No stray twig or fallen leaf marred its surface.
Casey kneeled down next to the circle. He pulled the howlite from his pocket, and, after a moment’s hesitation, returned it to the spot it had originally occupied. He jumped back quickly as though he had just lit the fuse on a stick of dynamite. Holding his breath and trembling with excitement, he stood and waited.
No shadowy figures materialized.
Nothing happened at all.
To Casey, this was both a relief and a disappointment. He pulled a little digital camera out of his satchel and began clicking away, cautiously circling the pattern, mindful not to kick any of the stones out of place. As he tried to focus his camera for a close-up, he again felt the stone spiral ripple and revolve, slowly and deliberately.
“Impossible!”
He closed his eyes to quell a sudden wave of dizziness. A raindrop hit his face and he heard a rustling through the reeds as an icy breeze kicked up. He blinked and looked up toward the path where Penny now stood, straining against the taut leash, alert and watchful.
“It’s okay, girl,” called Casey. “It’s time to go home and stay out of the rain. It’s a good morning for cocoa. I can give you a cookie, and make myself a—”
Penny gave a booming woof. Her attention was riveted on something beyond the tangle of thick bushes, brambles, and bare trees that crowded along the far curve of the path. The massive self-assured dog didn’t bark or growl without a reason.
“This is definitely not good.”
Casey stood motionless. Behind him was the river. In front of him was the stone spiral, and beyond that was the path leading toward Penny and the relative safety of the street. The Saint Bernard, head cocked and ears pricked up, stared intently into the thicket.
“Don’t panic,” Casey told himself. “Probably just some stupid squirrel.”
It was a toss-up as to which route back to the path was less treacherous. There were little weed patches to serve as stepping stones through the mud on both sides of the spiral. The weedy islands on the left were larger, but there were more of them on the right. Casey had just stepped hesitantly toward the left, when he heard the sharp crack of a branch snapping nearby. The Saint lunged forward and a flurry of leaves rained down as the leather leash pulled loose from the slender aspen tree.
“Definitely not a squirrel.”
Deciding that the shortest distance between two points was a straight line, Casey bent his knees, and tensed to jump over the spiral toward safety. His sneakers slipped on the soft mud. He skidded across the edge of the spiral, and plopped, sprawling onto his hands and knees. Small stones went flying into the weeds. Penny bounded up and offered a slobbery kiss as she decimated another section of the spiral with her huge and thoroughly muddy paws. Then she loped off to ferret out whatever was crunching toward them.
Casey stood up and moved quickly to the dry path, being careful not to slip again, and trying to pretend he wasn’t terrified. He tilted his head and listened carefully, torn between racing home to safety and forging into the woods to find Penny. Branches crackled again as the dog danced out onto the path, and then turned back toward the woods with her tail wagging ecstatically.
“Wow! You did it. You found Mrs. Clydesdale.”
Casey’s happy smile vanished instantly as someone stepped out on the path—somebody who was definitely not Dot Clydesdale.
A lanky fifteen year old in a battered leather bomber jacket pushed his way through the bushes. He quietly stroked Penny’s fur and glanced at Casey with mocking eyes, frosty blue under dark lashes. He raised an eyebrow.
“Fall down, kid?”
Casey looked down and realized how filthy he was.
“Jeez! I am covered in this crap.”
He brushed some sticky leaves from his sweatshirt. The knees of his jeans were black with dirt, and his hands were streaked with mud. Flushed with anger, he pointed at the halfway obliterated spiral. Stones lay scattered across the path and around the clearing. “And look what you made me do!”
“I just got here. How could I have made you do anything at all?”
“Well, you did! You scared me, and made me kick the stones all over the place.”
The dark haired boy crossed his arms and fixed Casey with a direct stare. “Hey, I know who you are. You’re that professor’s kid. I saw you over at the college. My old man’s a security guard over there.”
“Mr. Pike’s your dad? I’m Casey Wilde. What’s your name?”
“Pike’s enough.” He walked over and inspected the spoiled spiral. “Listen, Red. I didn’t make you mess anything up. Why are you so interested in a bunch of rocks anyway?”
“Because there’s something strange about this design that ties into…well, into a lot of weird stuff going on lately. And don’t call me Red.”
Pike’s brow furrowed. He crouched down and placed his hand flat on the ground in the middle of a spray of small stones.
“Crap. This really is weird. Take a look, Red. They’re moving.”
“What’s moving?” Casey made sure he was on solid footing and leaned closer to see what Pike was talking about. “And stop calling me… Wait! They can’t do that!”
“See for yourself. They’re bumping against my hand,” said Pike. “It’s like they’re on a drum that’s vibrating and making them bounce around, but the ground isn’t moving… just the stones.”
“But they can’t do that.”
“You told me.” Pike stood up and brushed his hands together. “Maybe you better tell them.”
Like little turtles tumbling over each other, the stones progressed gradually and with apparent purpose. A few of the larger rocks had started to twitch and slide through the mud.
“They’re fixing it,” gasped Casey. “They’re putting the pattern back together.”
“Whoa,” Pike whispered under his breath.
The stones skimmed over each other, sliding back into place with precision until the spiral was once again complete. Pike slid the toe of his boot forward, and nudged a speckled orange stone out of alignment. The stone lay still for a heartbeat, twitched a couple of times, and then slid neatly back into place.
The rain began to fall steadily. Above the sound of the storm came a high pitched wail, mournful and nearly musical. Penny began to grumble and the fur on her back stood up. There was a crash in the woods as a massive branch fell. Casey wrapped the leash around his hand to keep the dog close. There was a loud low roar followed by a second crash, closer this time as something inhuman moved steadily closer.
“I don’t know what that is, Red, but I don’t plan to stick around and find out.”
Casey dropped quickly to his knees and grabbed up the wedge of howlite. Pike roughly grabbed his arm, yanking him to his feet. “Come on, kid. We’ve got to get out of here!”
They raced along, ducking under low hanging branches and trying not to slip on the muddy path. The singsong wail rose and fell close behind, echoing through the woods. Casey clutched the precious white stone and ran, too terrified to look back. Pike stopped suddenly at the banked edge of a concrete culvert slick with rain soaked fallen leaves.
“Sit down and slide.”
He grabbed Casey’s sleeve with one hand and clamped onto Penny’s collar with the other. The trio skidded down the embankment, landing safely at the bottom, covered with slimy leaves that stuck to them like red and gold leeches.
The culvert was a long concrete shaft that led toward a dark storm sewer. Pike let go of Penny’s collar and the Saint, now in the lead, bounded toward the sewer, the leash whipping out behind her like a dark, thin snake.
Casey tried to pull back. “Not in there! No. We’ll be trapped.”
“I know this place. Trust me.”
Although Pike seemed to know where he was going, Casey didn’t like the thought of crawling into a tunnel. A really dark tunnel. He could already feel it closing in on him. He hesitated momentarily until the thud of another falling tree limb made up his mind. At the entrance, the pipe was about five feet in diameter, so both Pike and Casey had to hunch slightly after climbing in.
“This way,” muttered Pike, pushing ahead.
It quickly became too dark to run without risking an accident, so they walked briskly, trailing their fingers along the tunnel’s curved concrete sides. Casey tried to keep the darkness at bay by concentrating on the sound of Pike’s boots scuffling along, accompanied by the reassuring panting of the Saint Bernard and the click of her nails against the concrete.
The wail echoed through the storm sewer. There was a heavy thump and the sound of deep raspy breathing. Whatever was behind them had managed to squeeze into the tunnel.
The storm sewer was essentially a maze of concrete pipes. Casey and Pike had reached a point where it forked off under the hillside in three directions. Dim light was filtering in from somewhere and Casey began to breathe a little easier.
“Right turn,” whispered Pike giving Penny’s leash a tug. “The pipe gets a lot bigger here. Don’t worry about hitting your head.”
Squinting in the gloom, Casey could see that the ceiling height had risen to at least seven feet. Ahead of them was a flat concrete wall.
“It’s a dead end,” squeaked Casey. “Where do we go now?”
“Up.” Pike pointed to a short cast iron ladder embedded into the concrete wall. “You first.”
Casey grabbed onto the ladder and climbed up through a narrow trapdoor in the ceiling into a cramped subterranean room. Murky light entered through two filthy narrow windows set high up in the walls and protected by rusted iron bars. He looked down through the trapdoor at Pike attempting to gather the Saint Bernard into his arms.
“Come on, Penny,” called Casey. He dropped to his knees and reached out to the dog. “Up here, girl.”
The Saint stood up on her hind legs. Paws pushed against the rungs of the ladder as Pike shoved from beneath until the dog had clambered through. Pike scrambled up behind her and slammed down a steel trapdoor. He wiped his forehead and paused to catch his breath.
“Jeez, Red. Is that dog big enough?” he asked, panting. “At least you didn’t bring a cow.”
“Maybe next time,” said Casey. “Right at the moment, we have a new problem. We need to brace this door.”
A hasp had clicked shut on the trapdoor, but there was no padlock to secure it. Casey scanned the room for anything that looked heavy. A mountain of cardboard boxes was stacked against one wall, but it would take too long to move them. Penny sniffed around a wooden crate filled with rusty bolts, cracked ceramic pipes, and some thin iron rods. She looked back at Pike who was standing on the trapdoor just as something struck from below.
The door bucked upwards, nearly sending him flying. Casey looked around desperately for a moment, and then grabbed one of the iron rods.
“This just might fit,” he said. He slid the rod into the padlock hasp just as another blow rattled the trapdoor. Casey jumped onto the door and then reached out and grabbed Penny’s collar. He guided the Saint Bernard in closer, adding the big dog’s weight to theirs. For a moment, nothing happened.
The pounding began.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Something evil battered the trapdoor and scratched on the concrete.
Then, silence.