The Dead Boys
by Jonathan Curwen
Copyright 2011 Jonathan Curwen
Smashwords Edition
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One
As his wife slept, Bill watched the devil's face.
It was painted on a birch tree. Red and orange. Mouth open. White slashes for teeth.
Its eyes were red blobs which seemed to stare through him, through the Jeep, and into the forest.
“Huh,” he grunted.
Bill shook his head and turned back to his task. He had to let some of the air out of the Jeep’s tires, now that they were officially off-road. The Jeep had performed like a champ, its four-wheel drive easily traveling the rough path through the woods. The thing had been a wedding present from his dad―he and Constance had been shocked―and he was glad to have it here.
The hissing of the air out of the tires was like a huge snake trapped in the Jeep’s chassis. In the quiet woods the sound was loud, irritating. The stillness around them had been so profound that it was almost prayerful.
Bill shivered, feeling the devil’s eyes in his back.
“Stupid hippie artwork crap,” he said.
He screwed back on the tire’s valve cap, and moved onto the next one, the right rear. Again, the hiss sounded way too loud, and he felt the disapproving eyes of the devil on him.
He hated the feeling of being watched. You could always tell when someone was staring at you, even if that someone was just a piece of stupid artwork. The feeling was like an itch between your back shoulder blades. In places like the woods, this feeling got magnified....
“Stupid shit,” he told himself.
“What are you doing?” asked Constance.
Her voice startled him. He gasped but immediately calmed himself. No good to be jumpy out here in the woods, where Constance would be nervous enough for both of them.
But she was rubbing her eyes and yawning. Probably had not seen his reaction. Bill swallowed his heart, and forced any tremor out of his voice.
“Bleeding the tires,” he said. “Better traction that way.”
Constance leaned out of the driver’s side window, her white-blonde hair hanging down the door. “Thought we were running over a nest of snakes, or something,” she said.
“No,” said Bill. “No snakes out here.” For a moment, he was tempted to add: No snakes, but there are devils, but he restrained himself. Constance definitely would not appreciate the joke. Would probably give him the silent treatment for the rest of the ride, which would piss him off. The last thing he needed on his honeymoon was a pissed-off bride. And he hoped she wouldn’t see the devil face, because that would mean she would get freaked-out in addition to being pissed off. He wondered if these were things a husband had to worry about all the time.
“Good.” Constance gave him a weak smile. “We almost there?”
“Half-mile, maybe. The trail’s rough. Surprised you slept.”
“Yes,” she said. “Dozing.”
Bill smiled. The sun caught the diamond on her left hand, and the white-gold of her wedding ring. The diamond broke the light into rainbow-colored flecks which skittered across her face. Her skin, snow-white, glowed against the backdrop of leaves and trees.
“Hurry back inside,” said Constance. She brushed her hair from her narrow face. In the early September sunlight her eyes were sparkling green.
“All right.” Bill smiled at her, and his eyes flicked to the devil’s face. It looked like it was scowling at his wife, rearing up like it would bite her. Unsettling, to say the least.
“What are you staring at?” she asked.
“Nothing,” said Bill, moving his eyes back to her quickly. “Just the woods. Nice, right?.”
“Yes,” said Constance, and then, before he could do anything at all, her eyes landed on the devil face.
All trace of humor leaked out of her. She squeezed the door. Bill heard her ring scraping the metal.
“Aw, shit,” murmured Bill.
“Bill,” she said quietly, “what is that?”
He sighed. “Artwork, I suppose,” he said. “This trail, I suppose hippies or artists or something. Nature pictures. Stupid, right?” Bill laughed, hoping she’d take the cue and relax.
But she continued to stare, and squeeze the door with her small hands.
“Don’t like it,” she said. “Scary.”
“Really, it’s nothing.”
Her green eyes were a little wider, and she started to get an expression that told him she was probably going to start overreacting about something. When you got married, he wondered, did you get more sensitive to these things? Like when your spouse was going to freak out? He had lots to learn about shit like that.
“Creepy,” she said.
Bill sighed and stood up. He supposed it was his husbandly duty to make sure his wife wasn’t freaking out. His father had told him something like that once–that women needed a lot more tending than men. That women were like delicate brook trout, who could only thrive when conditions were just right; while men were like largemouth bass who could be happy even if the water was brown with algae and there was only worm-parts to eat. Leave it to dad to compare people to fish.
Of course, his mom had said the opposite–never to his face, but muttered under her breath often enough for Bill to overhear. In her opinion, men were infants in constant need of ass-wiping and bottle-feeding. They couldn’t survive without the steadfast attentions of women, who she called “the mighty sex.”
Bill sighed again.
At this point, he knew which parent he agreed with.
He stepped over to his wife and took her hand. “You know,” he said, “there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Look at that thing! It’s scary.”
“A doodle.” He patted her wife’s hand and tried to be nonchalant. But he still had the uneasy feeling that the thing’s eyes were boring into him like drill bits.
“Is this a good idea, Bill?” she asked. “I mean, we could always wait...”
“No,” he said. “We’re not waiting.” That was another thing his father had told him: men take charge. Women want their men to take charge, even if they deny it.
“All right,” said Constance. She took her hand away, wiped her eyes with it. “But you’re going to be my protector, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Any Satanists in the forest, you’re going to kill them with your bare hands? You’re not going to let them take me and use me for weird sex rituals?”
“God, no. Constance. Come on. You really, really need to stop watching all of that shit. No more horror stuff, no more vampire movies or zombie movies or whatever.”
She crossed her arms and said nothing. But she smiled at him.
Despite himself, he smiled back.
And for a second he was completely happy.
They'd only been married for what? Less than twenty-four hours? Yesterday at the ceremony, in her white dress, she had nearly made him cry. She looked like an angel, literally, being led down the aisle by her fat-ass dad, who was now his fat-ass father-in-law. Bill had to stick his hand in his pocket and pinch himself in order to keep the tears from coming. Wouldn’t do to be bawling in front of her parents or his father or anyone.
And so much had happened in the last year. Both of them had graduated from Short Valley High–both of them ranking numbers 192 and 193 out of a class of 300. Bill had proposed at her graduation party, in his parent’s basement, beside the bowls of punch and plates of sugar cookies. To nobody’s surprise, she had said yes.
Then four short months, and now this.
Their honeymoon, for what it was worth.
Constance pulled herself back inside the Jeep, while he busied himself with the rest of the tires. He was glad to go to the side opposite the tree, where he could hide from the devil’s gaze.
The last tire done, he stepped around the the driver’s side.
“My mom’s tuna salad,” said Constance, holding out a half-sandwich.
“Wait,” said Bill, even though his stomach growled at the mention of tuna salad. Constance's mom, Phoebe, must have crushed up Ecstasy tablets and dumped it into the stuff to make it so good.
He ran over to the birch tree.
The devil face leered at him. Up close the brushstrokes were visible on the bark, and the paint looked like poster paint: thick and crusty, and brittle like eggshell. He’d used the same paint himself in grade school art class. He even smelled its distinct odor over the general stink of the forest.
Bill reached into his pocket, pulled out his battered Swiss Army knife.
He flicked out the blade and turned to his bride, who gave him a weird look.
“If there are any devils in the woods,” he said, already congratulating himself for his brilliant idea, “and they try to take you away for sex experiments or something, this is what I will do to them.
As she watched, he hacked at the face with his knife.
He didn’t need to push hard to damage it–the paint flaked right off like a dry scab, and tumbled to the leaves below.
“I’ll scrape them right off the face of the earth,” he said. In a couple of more swipes, he’d erased most of the face from the tree.
It was satisfying to take out the stupid thing, which had made him more uneasy than he’d care to admit. And it was a nice show for Constance, too. It earned him a few points without really having to do much.
“Bill...” she said, but trailed off.
Bill kicked the paint-scrapings, and they mixed into the general undergrowth.
“See?” he said, snapping shut the knife and putting it back into his pocket. “Devils don’t stand a chance.”
Before she could say anything, he leaned in to give her a kiss. She was going to keep on talking but his lips mashed against hers, effectively stifling the conversation. He thought about giving her some tongue, but decided to wait until later.
And then he saw the guy.
On the passenger’s side of the Jeep, a gentle hill rose up about thirty feet. Its face was covered in birch trees, and a few tall blue-green pines. Bill saw the guy standing next to a copse of birches at the top of the hill, staring at them.
Bill pulled away from Constance. He knew he had a couple of seconds before she opened her eyes–for some reason she always kept them closed after he kissed her. He used the time to check the guy out, as he felt all of the skin on the back of his neck turn into a mass of gooseflesh.
They guy was wearing old-school Army camo. It was the type they wore in ‘Nam and WWII–not the modern stuff that looked like it was printed by a computer. He was bald, and the flesh of his head was as white as the tree bark next to him. And he was tall. Even at such a distance, Bill could see that.
And the man was staring at him.
Bill met his gaze. All of the little hairs on his body joined the hairs on the back of his neck and stood up. If the fake eyes of the devil gave him a small case of the heebie-jeebies, then this was like a full-out panic attack.
“Bill?” asked Constance.
He looked to her. She was smiling up at him.
“Bill?” she said again. “What?”
“Nothin’,” he said, and forced a smile.
For a second, he flicked his eyes back to the guy. Still standing there by the birch trees in the same position.
Staring.
Not moving.
Bill looked back to Constance. He swallowed his heart.
“Come on,” he said. “Tires are fine.”
“I know you’d kill all of the devils,” she said. “Even if you just had your little pocketknife. You’d shave off all of their faces.”
“Yep yep,” he said, as he opened the door and shooed her over to the passenger’s seat. He kept his eyes forward, on the trail, but he could still feel the man’s eyes boring into his head, penetrating even the Jeep’s hard top.
He decided right there that he wasn’t going to tell Constance. If she was freaked out by a drawing, then God only knew how nervous she’d get about a guy stalking around in the woods. Besides, the guy was probably just a hunter. Even though the woods were big in this part of Connecticut, that didn’t preclude the chance of running into someone.
But if he was a hunter, where was his gun?
He turned on the ignition. A part of him was relieved to hear the engine start, even though there were less than a hundred miles on it, and there would be no reason for it to punk out. He fought the adrenaline that made him want to stamp down on the accelerator and peel off down the trail. Had to keep up the manliness for the wife. For himself, too. No reason to worry, despite the churning in his gut.
He popped it into first and lurched forward.
“Easy there, killer,” said his wife. “Gonna spill all of tuna everywhere.”
As they bumped away over the trail, he risked a look in the passenger’s side rearview. He saw a trembling reflection of the man, his white bald head like the a light bulb above his dark camo. Bill swore he could still feel that itching sensation between his shoulder blades, but magnified, as if the eyes of both the eradicated devil-drawing and the tall guy were on him.
Soon the guy was out of sight. All the mirror showed was the forest behind them.
“Bill?” his wife said.
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“Yup,” he said, as he shifted into second, and wished the rough trail was a paved highway, where they could cruise out of there and go to a motel or something, where at least you had a door to shut out the strangers.
Two
“I like it,” said Constance. “Look at the rough...wow, they didn’t even strip the bark off the logs before they put them together. Doesn’t that mean we’ll get bugs?”
“No,” said Bill. “Of course not.”
“I bet there are.”
“No bugs,” said Bill.
They stood in front of the cabin. Constance had spread a picnic on the hood of the Jeep–a couple of Cokes and her mother’s sandwiches. Bill had the bottle of champagne that his father gave him for their wedding, even though both of them were underage. (“Married man should be able to have a drink,” was his father’s opinion. “You’ll need it.”) He wanted to break it out, but remembered that you have to serve it chilled. Would have to go into the ice chest, underneath the freezer-packs for a couple of hours. Constance would be impressed with his foresight.
“Does it have electricity?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Do you see any wires?”
“They could be underground.”
“All the way out here?”
“So we have no electricity for the weekend?”
“Told you that before, honey.”
“Oh.”
They ate the rest of their sandwiches in silence, which Bill kind of enjoyed. He looked through the woods, half-searching for the white-headed camo-clothed guy. But there was nothing around them but trees, trees, and more trees. The leaves were just starting to change color. Some of the trees around the cabin had bright-red ones, almost the color of blood.
Constance finished her sandwich and brushed her hands together, making a loud swishing-clapping noise. She performed this little ritual after every meal and it irritated Bill to no end.
“Well,” said Constance. “Unpack, huh? Brought a lot of flashlights, right?”
“Two Maglites. One big, one bigger.”
“Lantern?”
“Yes. The fluorescent one.”
“Good. We can have this place lit up like a Christmas tree if I get scared, right?”
“Right.”
Constance gave him a smile. Then she balled up her napkin and tossed it on the Jeep’s hood. She pointed at the cabin.
“There are beds in there, right?”
“Right.”
“Then let’s get the sleeping bags out. Okay?” She smiled at him and winked. Constance couldn’t really wink, as hard as she tried; she could really only close one eye and squint the other one three-quarters of the way shut.
“Okay,” he said.
Constance walked around the Jeep, her five-foot-nothing frame disappearing behind it. She would try, as she always tried, to bundle herself up with a lot more gear than she could carry, and end up dropping the majority of her burden. Although she’d protest his offers, he knew he needed to lend a hand.
“I think we should break out the champagne, too,” he said, walking around to join her. “Even though it’s not cold. Maybe–”
He got to the back of the Jeep, and the first thing he saw was Constance standing stock-still.
Her small body was completely tensed; and in her pink hooded sweatshirt and rolled-up white jeans she looked as small and weak as a child.
“Constance,” he said. “Are you–”
“God,” she said.
The bottom of Bill’s stomach fell out. Before he could even turn to look into the woods, he knew who was standing there. He could feel the eyes boring into the side of his head, like they were taking a scan of his brain. The feeling was no longer an itch in between his shoulder blades; it had turned into a burning on the side of his face, like he had taken a face-plant onto a hot stove.
Bill turned toward the forest.
The man stood there, at the head of the trail leading away from the cabin. He was no more than twenty feet away from them.
And he was smiling.
At first, Bill could only see his height. When he had first seen the man, Bill knew he was tall, but not like this. The guy cleared seven feet, easily.
Bill took a couple of unconscious steps sideways, trying to insinuate himself between the man and Constance.
The camouflage the man wore looked stiff, as if it had been starched and ironed. His massive brown boots were immaculate. His shirt was buttoned to the birch-bark-white neck.
His white face had delicate features, with a long narrow nose and wide brown eyes. The only thing breaking up the smooth white surface of his face was a scar on his right cheek, in the shape of an X.
“Hi,” said the man.
His voice was high, light, feminine.
He folded his hands in front of him. They were massive, like whale flippers that had sprouted fingers.
“My name is Septimus Smith,” he said.
Bill stepped in front of Constance. He kept his eyes on the man, but in his peripheral vision saw Constance huddled up against the Jeep.
“Yes,” said Bill, keeping his voice level.
“And what is your name?” asked Septimus Smith. “Manners are essential, even when strangers meet in the woods.” His smile broadened.
“Bill. My wife, Constance.”
“Well,” said the man. “Charmed.” He kept on smiling. For a moment Bill thought the man would step forward, maybe want to shake hands. But he stayed where he was, hands clasped in front of his groin. And still smiling.
Then came an awkward silence, with the only sound the wind through the trees. Septimus Smith kept on staring. His eyes were the dark brown of rotting wood.
“You don’t like my art,” said Septimus. “Do you?”
“Excuse me?” said Bill.
“You hacked it off of the tree.”
“Oh,” said Bill.
“Yes. A painting.”
“Was it yours? Um...”
Septimus Smith’s smile spread. He waved his hands in front of him in a dismissive gesture.
“No no no,” he said. “Do not apologize. I am not offended.”
“Oh,” said Bill.
Then, to his surprise, Constance spoke.
“Are you hunting?” she asked.
Bill turned around. His wife was clutching the fender of the Jeep, her knuckles white.
He felt kind of proud. She should have been hiding in the trunk, cringing away from this weird guy who was about a million feet taller than her. Instead of that, she'd addressed him directly.
“Hunting?” Septimus laughed. “No, no. Not with guns, if that’s what you mean.”
“Oh,” said Constance. “Then...what are doing here?”
“I don’t mind that you destroyed my artwork,” said Septimus Smith, looking at Bill. “I can make another. It was not charged before you ruined it. It did not stop you from coming in.”
For some reason, all of the hair on the back of his neck had stood on end. His forearms, too.
“It’s a warding symbol,” said Septimus. He scratched the X on his cheek. “Have you seen any more of them?”
“No,” said Bill. He looked to Constance, and saw her face neutral. He knew what she was thinking, though, and he echoed the sentiment: end this conversation as soon as possible. This guy had obvious malfunctions. If he was on the streets of Hartford and not in the woods, he would have been shouting Bible verses on a street corner, or maybe begging for spare change. If not completely crazy, he was at least severely off-balance.
Septimus Smith took a step closer to them. His boots made no sound on the dry leaves.
“You haven’t. Good. I think...you shall stay inside. The wards were against any company we might get. But...I find myself glad that you’ve come. Tell me, have you given your souls to Christ?”
Shit. There it was.
Bill felt a surge of anger. They hadn’t come to the woods to be preached to by a freakish giant.
But Constance surprised him again when she said, “Why do you ask?”
Septimus smiled at her. Coming from another man, with another body, the smile would have been almost charming.
“Little sister,” he said. “I want you to believe that heaven awaits. Believe, even if it’s not true. Because in the next three days you’re both going to die.”
Three
For a second, Bill thought he’d misheard.
“So pray,” said Septimus Smith. “And if you see Terris, stay away.”
Bill stared at the man. He reached back to touch Constance, as if reassuring himself she was still there. She was, and she grabbed his hand.
“Bill....” she groaned.
Adrenaline surged into Bill’s bloodstream. His muscled tensed, and his heartbeat turned into an elephant stampede.
He’d been in fights before, especially in junior high, but this was nothing like them. There had been name-calling and shoving and all the typical shit.
But never death threats.
“I will be seeing you later,” said the man. “Settle in and say your prayers. I will come to you after nightfall to get you ready. All right?”
Septimus Smith moved, which made Bill’s muscles jerk out of their rigor.
“Don’t even fucking–” he started, but interrupted himself.
Septimus Smith was gone.
Bill blinked. He clutched Constance’s hand.
Both of them stared at the spot where he’d been.
“Wha?” he heard his wife say.
In a panic Bill scanned the forest, even looking at the tops of the trees. But he saw nothing.
Septimus hadn’t run away. He was just not there.
“Constance?” he said. “Are you all right?”
Her pale skin had turned a paper-white. Her eyes remained fixed to the spot where Septimus Smith had stood. She wasn’t trembling–she was still as a stone, which seemed much worse to Bill. His own heart felt like it was about to punch through his chest and flop onto the forest floor.
“Sweetheart?” he said.
“That man,” she said. “Didn’t see him go?”
“No,” said Bill. “No, I didn’t.”
“He was right there.” She pointed at the spot, where even now the leaves were starting to blow over all traces of his footprints. “Right there. Standing there.”
“I saw it, too,” said Bill. But had he? Had to have. The man wasn’t a nightmare, or hallucination.
“He said I was going to die,” said Constance. “Three days.”
“No,” said Bill. “No. Fuck no.”
And then, when he looked at his bride’s panicked face, he felt rage all over again. He wanted to hunt this tall ghostly fuck down, no matter who or what he was, and give him a couple dozen kicks in the nuts.
“Bill,” said Constance. “Do you think he’s going to...”
“No.:
He would defend his wife to the death, if necessary, but sometimes discretion was the better part of valor. Part of him wanted to stay in the woods, to say fuck that guy, and brass it out. Septimus represented a challenge to his manhood, one that his testosterone wanted to jump out and meet.
But now...no way. Just no way they could stay. Even if the guy didn’t ever come back, they would spend the rest of the time in the woods watching over their shoulders, looking out for him or this Terris guy he was talking about. Forget about having a good time. Forget about sex or drunkenness or anything like that. Their honeymoon would turn into an ordeal, whether or not anything else out of the ordinary happened.
Without another word, Bill guided her from the Jeep’s bumper, and back to the passenger’s side door. He shook with anger.
The fucking nerve of that shithead to interrupt his honeymoon. This was their time, the first together as man and wife. He wanted it to be perfect, but instead it had turned into something potentially horrible.
“It’s all right,” he said as he tucked her into the Jeep. “Going to be fine.”
He shut the door and jogged around to the passenger’s side. Part of him expected the man to jump out at any time from behind a tree or behind the cabin, or even to fall from the sky.
Bill opened the driver’s side door, slid himself into the seat. He took a quick last look at the cabin–the place where they would have spent one of their first nights alone as man and wife. Out in nature, where nobody could see them but the animals.
“There are still Coke cans on the hood,” said Constance. She pointed and he saw them, both upright. Against the dark green of the Jeep’s paint the red cans looked garish They reminded Bill of a pair of horns.
He stabbed the keys into the ignition and twisted in the same gesture. He rammed the clutch down and jerked the shifter into reverse. As he drove backward the tires spit leaves and gravel, and the Coke cans tumbled off the hood.
“Whoah,” said Constance.
“Getting out of here,” said Bill, and brought the Jeep around to the trailhead.
Four
“Sorry, sorry,” Bill said, as they bumped along the trail. “Should have put up the money for the hotel.”
Constance just stared out of the windshield. He wondered if she actually saw the forest that was passing them by, or if she’d locked herself up inside of her brain. Sometimes when she got like that, he thought he’d need dynamite to blast her awake again. But this time, he couldn’t blame her for retreating into herself.
“It’s all right,” she said, her voice mixing with the sound of the engine.
Bill shifted into second. The trail was starting to smooth out again. It wouldn’t be long before they were at the top of Champion Hill Road, and they’d be able to see houses and civilization again. He’d have to re-inflate Jeep’s tires at a gas station again, but that was all right. He’d get them a hotel room–someplace nice, in Hartford maybe–where they could spend a proper time together. Inside. He had enough money for the time being, and he could always beg a little more off of dad if he explained the situation. Wouldn’t mention Septimus Smith, though. A white lie about Constance freaking out and getting scared of a night in the woods would do the trick.
He felt like a little of his world, his security, had been violated. A day after his wedding he should be–
A horrid noise interrupted his reverie.
“What the fuck?” he swore.
He popped it into neutral, but the squealing and grinding continued. It got louder and louder, like someone was cranking the volume on a stereo after bashing in the speakers with a sledgehammer.
“Bill?” said Constance. “What is it?”
Bill stomped on the brakes. The Jeep was already slowing down in the middle of the trail. The noise in the engine abated suddenly, and he heard only the sound of the tires mashing through the rocks and the leaves.
“Shit,” he said. “Brand new piece of shit.”
The Jeep came to a stop.
Bill clutched the steering wheel to prevent himself from pounding on the dashboard. Fucking thing was less than a week old, just rolled off of the line.
“Bill?” said Constance again. “Bill, what’s wrong?”
“Engine, duh,” he snapped, and immediately regretted the panicky note in his voice. Constance was staring at the dashboard and clutching it with her delicate hands, as if she were a faith healer trying to resuscitate the engine. Bill put on the brakes, and twisted the ignition key.
Nothing.
“Dammit,” he said. “Wait in here.”
He popped the door and swung out his legs. Once he was out of the cab, he once again felt the itch between his shoulder blades. He resisted the urge to spin around and scream at whatever was staring at him to fucking stop it already.
Bill turned back to the Jeep, and tore open the latches on the hood. He knew–and Constance knew, to his embarrassment–that he knew next to nothing about engines. But maybe it would be something readily noticeable, a wire or a gasket or hose or something, that could just be reattached or tightened and that would be that.
He opened the hood, expecting the worst. “Fucker,” he swore to himself, hoping at least that the thing wouldn’t explode in his face.
He peered over the engine, with all of its parts that he couldn’t name. But everything was in its place. The engine was as clean and complete as the day it rolled off the lot. A solitary dry leaf sat on top of the engine block, the only sign of pollution in the entire system.
There was nothing wrong with it.
“Shit,” he said.
He closed the hood. Constance stared at him expectantly, gnawing at her fingers.
“Nothing wrong,” he said, wanting to pound the hood until it was dented into the shape of his fists. “Not a goddamn thing wrong.”
“Bill,” said Constance. “Oh, God. Bill, look behind you.”
He turned around, expecting to see Septimus Smith lurking there, his white clown’s head shining in the late-morning sunlight.
But there was nothing but trees and trail.
“What?” he called over his shoulder to Constance.
“The tree,” said Constance. “To the left. In front of you. Look.”
Bill looked.
When he saw what she was whining about, he muttered, “Fucker.”
There was a pine tree on the side of the road, one that he had remembered seeing on the way in, notable because of its size and profusion of branches that spilled into the trail. It sat a few feet in front of the Jeep, off now to their left.
In the past few hours, every branch on the lower trunk had been sawn off. The holes wept sap, which dripped down the trunk in white streams.
And, of course, there was a devil face.
It was about three feet tall, and smeared over the substantial width of the trunk. Its enormous eyes–these a lurid purple–stared directly at him. The mouth was full of jagged teeth, and it appeared to be smiling. And of course it had horns, two upside-down V’s that stretched far up the trunk. The whole face was a bright white, the paint still shining and wet.
“Bill? That wasn’t there before,” Constance said.
Bill gritted his teeth and stared down the piece of stupid artwork.
“Nothing to worry about,” he said, swallowing hard.
“Bill?”
He reached into his pocket, again pulled out his Swiss Army knife.
The knife gave him something to do. Even if he couldn’t protect Constance from psychotic tall guys, or fix an engine that didn’t appear to be broken, he could hack this thing up. An outlet for his frustrations, at very least. There was no doubt that fucking Septimus Smith had doodled this fucking masterpiece, and to destroy anything the asshole had made would make Bill feel good.
As he stomped to the tree, he flicked out the blade and ran his finger along the edge.
“Okay, fucker,” he said. “Okay. Play this little game with us? I’m gonna fucking...”
Then he stopped, frowned.
“What the fuck?” he said.
His leg muscles, while holding enough tension to keep him upright, would not move.
“Bill?” called Constance.
Bill swore again and tried to pull up his back right leg. There was no pain, but it was as if it had been strapped to the ground.
Then he looked to the face on the tree. Somehow, he knew that it was somehow to blame for all of this. Some force coming from it, as strong as a wind, but motionless. Weird.
Then the face on the trunk moved.
A wave went through the thick white paint, as if the image were floating on oil. Then the movement localized in the mouth of the face, and the jaw opened, as smoothly animated as any computer-generated graphics Bill had ever seen.
Its eyes focused on him. Black pupils formed in the purple irises.
And it said, “No.”
Then Bill felt himself turn around, as if he were being remote-controlled.
“What the shit?” said Bill, as he walked back toward the Jeep. His feet were soundless as he walked back across the dead leaves, back to the front of the Jeep.
Then, just as suddenly as it had began, the tension in his legs ceased, and once again he was the master of his own body. The transition was startling, and he nearly fell.
“What the fuck,” he said.
He blinked and looked up to the Jeep, to see if Constance had watched the whole thing go down.
She stared at him through the windshield, her expression puzzled.
“What the hell,” said Bill.
Constance stuck her head out of the window. “Something the matter?” she asked.
“Yes, something’s the fucking matter,” snapped Bill. “Did you see that?”
“What?”
“You didn’t see that thing move? See that thing talk?”
Constance’s thin eyebrows beetled. “Talk?”
“Yes, talk. It fucking told me no,” Bill’s hands shook as he got a better grip on the Swiss Army knife.
Anger made him act next. If he had been rational, as he knew at that moment, he would have spared Constance the sight. She would probably freak the hell out, and there would not only be demon faces and dead Jeeps and psychotic camo-clowns, but weeping and wailing wives to deal with.
But he found himself turning around, grinding his teeth, staring down the stupid devil’s face.
“You look like a third-grader painted you,” he said. “Stupid fucker.”
Again, he strode toward the face.
Within five feet of the thing, he saw the ripple go through the paint. The outsize teeth moved, and he swore he could see the muscles in the jaw flexing, as if the thing were chewing on bark.
Then, came the voice. It was a mellow tenor, with an uncanny resemblance to Septimus Smith’s.
“No,” it said again.
And once again Bill felt the pulling in his legs, as something else took control of his muscles. He said, “No.” Then he turned and walked to the Jeep, this time getting as far as the driver’s side door before the strong force released him. “Goddamn!” he shouted.
Constance was staring out of the window. Bill’s heart sank as he saw her wide eyes, and her hands held to her face.
He tore open the driver’s side door, threw himself into the Jeep.
“You did see that?” he demanded. “You did, didn’t you?”
“It said something,” said Constance. “That face said something.”
“It did.”
“Oh my God,” said Constance. Her voice got that unpleasant snot-choking quality that meant she was going to start bawling at any second.
Bill took a deep breath. He clenched his fists, gritted his teeth.
“All right,” he said.
The tears slid and broke down her face, and there was nothing he could do. He thought he should probably give her a hug, hold her close or some shit, but there were other things that needed attending to, like getting them the hell out of there.
He took another deep breath. Constance would have to settle for a reassuring pat on the knee, which is what he gave to her.
“All right,” he said. “All right. There must be a way.”
The Jeep. The thing couldn’t have control over the Jeep’s engine as well, could it? Bill twisted the keys again.
Nothing.
Not even a choking sputter, or even a click. It was as if they were sitting in a car without an engine.
“Okay, okay,” said Bill, over the sound of Constance’s blubbering. “Okay, that didn’t work. Just onto the next thing.”
He looked over to his wife, and at the moment didn’t know whether he should be feeling sympathy or frustration. She had her face buried in her hands, and was rocking back and forth in her seat, stretching the seatbelt around her skinny shoulders. Once again, she reminded Bill of a little kid, too small to be in a situation like this.
“Hey,” he said. “Hey, come on.”
“Bill!” she wailed. “We’re going to die in three days! That thing is going to come back and kill us! This is some kind of magic....” She trailed off into a snot-choked burbling.
“Hey,” Bill said, and at the same time pulled one of her hands away from her face. “Don’t worry, don’t worry.” Like his dad had told him: just say some soothing shit to your wife again and again. Didn’t matter what the words were, as long as your tone of voice was calm. Like dealing with a crazy dog.
“That thing,” she said. “It killed the Jeep! It’s not going to let us out....”
“Bullshit it’s not going to let us out,” said Bill. “Maybe we could go around it.”
“Want to go home.” She looked at him. The delicate tissues around her eyes were swollen, like someone had punched her.
“I know,” he said. “We’re going to get out of here. Promise.”
“Where are we going?”
Bill popped open the door and jumped back onto the trail. He ignored the glare of the stupid devil face as he trotted to the passenger door, opened it, and offered his hand to his bride.
“Come on,” he said. “We’re going to walk around.”
She looked down at him, her mouth open, and incredulous expression on her face.
Bill reached around her lap and snapped open the seatbelt, dragging it off her torso.
“I don’t want to go,” she said.
“I’m not leaving you here,” said Bill. “Nothing you can do about it.”
He lifted her up from the passenger’s seat. She felt little heavier than an empty duffel bag. She offered no resistance. When he put her on the ground she leaned against the Jeep, as if it was the only thing that could support her.
Bill took her hand. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going to find a way around.”
She made her body limp. Bill managed to drag part of her torso off the Jeep, but her head stayed leaning against it, her white hair sticking to the metal like dandelion fluff.
“Scared,” she whispered.
Bill choked back his impatience. He wanted to shake her, tell her to grow up. “I know,” he said. “But I don’t want to leave you. What if that asshole comes back?”
That did it. She peeled herself off the side of the Jeep.
“Don’t leave me, don’t leave me,” she babbled.
“Jesus,” said Bill. “I’m not leaving you anywhere.”
But he still had to pull her off the trail, into the forest behind the ruined evergreen tree. The face watched them leave, its eyes motionless but somehow active. Constance hid behind him as they walked by, whimpering like a dog.
Five
Only minutes later, Bill saw the next face.
It appeared on a rock, not a tree. These woods, like many in Connecticut, had boulders scattered everywhere. Some were natural formations; some were leftovers from stone walls that had been built by Puritans or Revolutionary War-era farmers or who-the-fuck-ever.
The stone with the face was about four feet tall and as wide across, covered in off-white fungus and assorted forest debris.
When Constance saw it, she moaned. “Oh, no....”
Bill squeezed her hand. “Keep it together, okay? Just please try to keep it together.”
But he knew his words fell on deaf ears.
This devil-face was painted in broad strokes, as if the artist had been in a particular hurry. The eyes were pale spirals, and its horns little more than curved scribbles. Despite its crudity, Bill once again had an uncanny feeling of being observed.
“Okay,” he said to Constance, breaking their stride. “Stand right there. Wait.”
He strode toward the rock. So much adrenaline had made him nauseated, and he tasted the chicken sandwich in the back of his throat. But had to keep it up. Had to keep trying to get out of there, even if–
“No,” said the face.
Once again Bill felt himself frozen, turned around, and marched back to where he had started.
Constance looked at him as if he'd struck her. Then her face crumpled and she wept.
“Oh, no. Hell no,” said Bill.
He snatched her hand and pulled her away from the rock. He marched her farther into the woods.
The next face was only twenty feet from the rock, painted on a sapling birch. It looked more like a smudge of sap than a painting, but Bill could see it all too clearly.
Again, Bill tried to leave.
“No,” said the face.
Again he froze, turned, marched back to his wife.
And Constance continued wailing.
“Shit,” said Bill. “Shit shit shit.”
Her tears made him want to start crying, too. He felt a hitch of panic in the back of his.
“No,” Bill told himself, and gave himself a vicious pinch on the skin just above his belt. The pain cut through his panic, and at least for the moment refocused him.
“Come on,” he urged his wife. “Come on. We need to get out of this. Stop it, please. You’re not making it easier.”
“I don’t wanna die!” she said.
“We’re not going to die. Come on.”
Bill took her hand again, after wiping his own eyes. “Come on,” he said.
The next devil face glared at them from a tree stump, only a few paces away from the one on the skinny pine.
Bill didn’t need to walk to the next one. He saw it staring at him from a fallen log.
He didn't bother to try and walk by either one.
“Okay,” he said.
He turned to his wife, and held her shoulders. She wiped her nose and looked up at him. The tissues around her delicate green eyes were red and black, bruised underneath her translucent skin. She looked more like a kid than ever. But Bill remembered that she was just as old as him. And a married adult. His wife.
“Constance,” he said, using her full name, which usually got her attention. “Need to think.” Bill pointed to the devil face on the stump. “I think these things are like a fence. Or a wall.”
“A wall?”
“Yes.”
Constance sniffed and wiped her nose. She took a shuddering breath. Bill thought she was going to dissolve into tears again, but she continued breathing normally. He waited for a second before continuing to speak, until he was sure she sure she was going to keep it together. She pressed her lips together until they turned white, and Bill took that as a positive sign.
“Okay,” he said. “I don’t think we’re getting out of here.” He pointed into the forest. “I’m sure that we’re going to run into even more of these things.”
Constance wiped her nose. “Can't be sure,” she said.
“Yes, you can,” said the devil face.
Six
“I’m absent,” said the face. “I'm elsewhere. I noticed you trying to leave.”
Bill stared at the face. Once again his heart galloped, but a part of him wasn’t really surprised. This fit in neatly with the rest of the morning’s shocks. What was another little terror? It was like a single jab in an ten-round boxing match.
Even Constance made no noise, save for a sharp indrawn breath. And then, once again, she shocked him.
Constance stepped out from around him and walked straight toward the log, staring down at the white face. Bill reached out for her, intending to pull her back, but missed. She halted a couple of paces from the stump.
For a tense moment, he watched his pale wife regard the pale devil. She wiped her face again, but was otherwise intent on the crude artwork.
“What are you?” she asked.
“Never mind,” said the face. It either smiled or grimaced. “But your husband is right. Terris Smith and I have cordoned off a circle here, with these wards. One mile in diameter, exactly. You will not be able to leave. I suggest that you go back to the cabin and get yourselves right with God.”
Bill glared down at the stump, swallowing the stomach acid he felt surging at the back of his throat.
“Bill,” the face said. Its teeth had become soft, and wriggled like a mouthful of worms. “Bring her back to the cabin. I will be with you before dark, as I told you before. I did not want company, but I believe...Bill, please put that away.”
As the thing had spoken, Bill had felt his hand move into his pocket, as if moving independently of his will. Though he was conscious of the action, he did nothing to stop it. He opened the Swiss Army knife with one hand, until the small blade protruded from his fist.
“Bill,” said Constance. “No.”
He felt himself lunging for the face. Rage burned through his body. He felt nothing and thought nothing. The only imperative was to lash back at this...thing, whatever it was.
Bill felt the knife connect with the wood, biting into the soft stump. He laughed in joyless elation.
“Get back,” said the face.
Bill felt the knife snatched from his hands. Pain seared his hand like fire, and he gasped and fell on his ass. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Constance grip her face and stumble backwards before falling on her butt.
And then Bill himself collapsed, holding his throbbing hand. He felt the blood before he saw it, running in a sticky stream from palm to elbow.
“Oh, God,” he said.
Instinctively he flipped his hand around to see his injuries. The gash ran down the middle of his palm, from the base of his pointer finger to the first wrinkle of his wrist.
“Bill,” moaned Constance.
“I have no hostility toward you,” said Septimus Smith. “This is not the worst that I could do, believe me.”
Then Bill saw a red blur in the air, like an angry insect flying right at him.
He threw up his hand in self-defense. Another searing pain went through his already-injured hand. Blood dribbled into his eyes, stinging like hell.
Before he could pull his hand away, he saw that this wound crossed the other one, making an X on his palm. Then more blood obscured it and despite himself he found himself on his feet, running to his wife.
“Constance!” he shouted.
He kneeled down next to her, holding his hand in a fist against his thigh. His wife lay on her back, her hands across her face. Blood stained her white hands, oozing out through her fingers.
Oh, Jesus, he thought in a panic. Her eyes.
But he pulled her hands away from her face with his good hand–his right, thankfully–and saw that her eyes were untouched, both of them whole and wide open, rolling in crazy circles. The only wound had been to her right cheek, which was now covered in blood.
“Oh, Jesus,” he said, and dragged her to her feet. With strength from his adrenaline, she weighed nothing in his arms. He could have thrown a boulder ten yards.
“What happened?” Constance whimpered, touching her cheek.
“You're fine, fine,” said Bill, grasping her wrist and pulling her arm to him. “Don't touch it, you're okay.”
“Not the worst I could do,” said the voice from behind them.
Bill turned, still clutching Constance's arm. “What are you doing?” he screamed. “What the–”
“Already healed you,” said the voice. “Here's your knife back.”
Bill saw a motion above the stump, and realized it was his Swiss Army knife. It hovered in the air as if in the grip of an invisible assailant.
Bill flinched as the knife came toward him again. But it only arced gently through the air, as if the wielder had given it a casual toss. It tumbled through the leaves and came to rest near his feet.
“Now go,” said Septimus Smith's voice. “Take the Jeep. It works now. Go to the cabin. Pray that Terris doesn't see you. I will be with you shortly after dark.”
Seven
Bill was numb. But his body moved, and he watched its motion as if he were a scientific observer, locked away in a safe room, studying the actions of a particularly interesting subject.
He took Constance's hand, and led her back through the woods. She seemed to have forgotten about her face, and just stared into the middle distance, her mouth working. Her upper lip was stained with blood. Bill wondered how much she'd swallowed.
They arrived back at the Jeep. Bill escorted his wife into the passenger's seat, making sure she was buckled up.
So this is what shock is like, came his only lucid thought.
He patted his wife's shoulder, feeling the pathetically delicate bones beneath her skin. They were like a bird’s bones; brittle enough to be snapped with the slightest pressure. He hoped that he hadn't broken her wrist in hauling her back to the car.
He shut the door and wandered over to the other side of the Jeep. Idly, he looked at the palm of his hand. Of course it was covered in blood. He'd never been so badly cut; the worst that had happened were the typical scrapes and cuts of childhood, and one time he'd gotten a fishhook through his thumb when fly-casting out with his dad in Massachusetts. He'd never even seen this quantity of blood anywhere, outside of a horror movie.
Bill stopped for a moment in front of the Jeep, leaning against the bumper. Suddenly he felt exhausted, as if he’d been awake for three days.
Bill found himself playing with his wounded left hand. He traced his right index finger across the wounds, expecting to feel the wet ragged edges of skin, and also expecting excruciating pain to cripple him on his feet.
He felt nothing but normal pressure when he prodded the wound. No pain at all.
He wiped his hand against his side, not worried about his shirt, which was another gift from his father. A nice rust-colored Columbia button-down that cost at least seventy bucks. Oh, well.
He looked at his hand again.
The wounds were healed. The only thing that remained were scars, raised and jagged and a dull pink.
“Wow,” Bill said. “Healed.”
He gave his hand another wipe, getting most of the blood off of it. He wondered if Constance’s cheek had healed just as fast.
“Constance,” he said. “Aw, man.”
He climbed into the Jeep. His wife was leaning against the window, staring out into the forest.
“My hand is healed,” he said. “It’s fine.”
Constance said nothing.
The keys were in the ignition. Bill twisted them and the Jeep started without a problem. Bill put it in neutral and revved the engine a couple of times, everything sounded normal.
And the face still stared at him from the pine tree.
“Thanks, I guess,” he said, and put it in reverse, making a three-point turn before rolling down the trail back toward the cabin.
Eight
As Bill carried her through the door, she started to talk.
“My cheek doesn’t hurt,” she said. “There’s blood, but it doesn’t hurt.”
Bill brought her into the kitchen, which contained a cheap white plastic patio set. He eased her into a chair. Constance's face, despite the blood, was as white as the plastic.
He turned to the small sink, where there was a manual water pump. Some of the numbness in his limbs had worn off, and he felt aches in his forearms and fingers. The water was ice-cold, but he forced himself to scrub. As the dry blood dissolved, he could barely see the scars.
“Just relax,” he told his wife. “Gonna get you cleaned up.”
Bill rooted around in the backpack he’d brought in from the Jeep, and brought out a blue microfiber towel. It was another one of his father's expensive presents which would be ruined before the day was out. Great.
He wet the towel, wishing the water could be warmer. Over the sink he noticed a window, small and dirty, but big enough to let in a view of the forest. Bill took one look at the trees, and drew the dusty, colorless curtain across the glass.
He turned to his wife, kneeled down beside her.
She didn’t react as he wiped away the blood.
“You’re right,” he said. “The cuts are gone.”
“Scars,” said Constance.
And then, she turned to him and smiled. It was genuine; there didn’t seem to be any madness or stress in her face. Bill was shocked; he’d expected her to curl into fetal position and weep until he could get her out of the woods.
But then relief replaced shock. Maybe she would rise to the occasion. He hoped she would continue showing this resilience. It would make life easier for both of them.
“Guess we have a matching set,” Constance said, pointing to his hand and then to her cheek. “Does it hurt?”
“No,” he said, wiping the blood from her cheek. Another surge of rage went through him when he thought of the utter balls of the man, or magician, or whatever the fuck he was–trapping them and then marking them like they were cattle.
Constance smiled at him. Half-hearted, but better than nothing.
Some less-than-cheery plans raced through Bill's mind. He promised himself that he would kill the man as soon as he could. Cold-bloodedly, mercilessly. Put the knife through his white clown’s neck, let him bleed; then maybe flay him when he was still alive.
“There,” he said, having swabbed most of the blood off of her cheeks. “Would you like to change out of that sweatshirt? Blood all over it.”
Constance yawned. “No,” she said, and rubbed her eyes. “Tired. Sweetheart, I want to take a nap.”
“What?”
Her eyelids fluttered. “I am very, very...will you let me? Will you watch while I take a nap?”
“You’re going to sleep?”
“I’m sorry, honey...so sorry...” Again her eyelids fluttered, and she leaned forward, scraping the chair’s legs against the floorboards. “Please. There’s a bed in here, right?”
Bill frowned. But he had to admit to feeling tired himself. The thought of a few hours shut-eye, regardless of their situation, was strangely seductive.
He said, “All right.”
He put his arm around his wife, careful not to squeeze her too hard. She leaned against him as he guided her out of the chair, and brought her to the small curtained alcove that held the bed.
He lay her down on the old diamond-patterned quit, adjusted her legs. There were two sleeping bags in the car, and he thought he should probably get them. They'd be much cleaner than the blanket on the bed.
But Constance had already gone to sleep. Her mouth hung open, and through it came her characteristic huge, hissing breaths.
“Ah, shit,” said Bill, rubbing his face.
He watched her for a minute, fighting the urge to lie down next to her. That would be the worst thing he could do–fall asleep on guard duty. Needed to stand sentinel like he’d promised.
Soon she started to snore.
Bill drew the curtain around the bed alcove, and staggered back into the kitchen. His limbs ached. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he was left feeling hollowed-out, as if someone had scraped his insides clean with a dull knife.
He pulled a can of warm Coke out of his backpack. He didn’t taste a thing as he poured half of the can down his gullet, feeling his body grab at the caffeine and sugar greedily. There was food in the Jeep, and he knew he’d be ravenous later, but for now all the provisions had to stay outside..
Bill stared at the curtained window, and despite the infusion of Coke, he felt his eyelids drooping, too.
“No,” he said.
But he sat at the old table, his limbs heavy. Within a minute, he had leaned his head against his hand and fallen fast asleep.
Nine
He dreamed of another devil face. Its teeth shone bright red, as if it had been drinking blood.
Bill woke with a start.
“Wha? he said, groping around in the darkness. It took a few seconds for him to remember where he was. As he flailed his arms he nearly overbalanced in the chair. He gripped the sides of the table and righted himself.
After a moment of stillness, the kitchen resolved around him, its features dim, and the reality of the situation crashed back into his consciousness.
“Shit,” he said.
Bill stumbled over to the sink. After a second, he opened the curtain on the small window.
Outside, a purple twilight blurred the trunks of the trees.
He let the curtain fall, and pumped some water onto his hands, scrubbing them in the freezing water. He splashed his face, and wiped it dry with the collar of his shirt.
“Oh, man” he said, as his sluggish brain reactivated, supplying him with an image of his wife’s bloody face.
He whipped around from the sink, spilling water onto the cabin’s floor, and ran to the bed alcove.
“Whew,” he said out loud, after he ripped the curtain aside and saw his wife’s sleeping form. She was turned against the wall, her white hair spilling out onto the dirty blankets. The pink sweatshirt moved up and down in the darkness, in time with the rhythm of her snoring.
Music to his ears.
“Sorry,” he whispered, reaching out to pat her shoulder. “Glad nothing happened.”
Then he saw a boxy black form in her sweatshirt pocket. For a second he was confused, then realized what it was–her new BlackBerry, which he himself had given to her for her birthday.
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