Crooked Hills (17 page)

“It stinks worse now,” Marty said, “than it did last night.”

With his nose pinched shut, his voice sounded nasal and robotic. I couldn’t help but laugh. Pretty soon, we were all laughing. But when a cracking sound came from the darkness—from somewhere behind us—we fell silent. I released my nose. The stench was the least of my problems.

“Do you think it’s the dog?” I whispered.

“Quiet,” Lisa said.

Another noise resounded through the gloom. This time, it came from somewhere in front of us. Something approached from both directions. The fetch and the goblin? I wondered. I should have asked Mr. Goodwin about the witch’s servants. I took turns watching the Bleeding Rock and glancing over my shoulder.

The fetch appeared in front of us, slinking through the brush on the other side of the Bleeding Rock. The dog circled the chalk gray stone a couple of times, sniffing around the bare ground, like a bloodhound trying to pick up a scent.

But if the fetch is over there, I thought, looking over my shoulder, what’s that behind us?

In the distance, the train rattled, the horn blaring, and the dog threw its head back and howled right along with it.

I kept looking behind me. I couldn’t shake the idea that something was sneaking up on us.

“It’s moving,” Lisa said.

I looked up just in time to see the fetch dart into the trees.

“Let’s go,” Marty said.

He was anxious to catch up with the dog, but he let Lisa lead the way. I would have rather stuck around to find out what was following us, but I wasn’t about to let my friends ditch me. I tried to forget about the goblin... if there was such a thing.

We kept the flashlight off, negotiating the forest by the light of the moon. I wished I hadn’t lost the other light. Marty promised we’d go looking for it sometime soon, before his parents realized it was missing. Of course, that didn’t help me feel any better now, with the shadows pressing in on me.

We tracked the dog quite a ways into the hills. At times, we had to scurry up sheer walls of dirt and rock and mud, using the roots of trees as hand holds. Lisa moved fast, ducking branches, climbing hills, jumping creeks, and Marty chased only a few steps behind her. I did my best to keep up. Occasionally we caught glimpses of the fetch—a dark shadow flitting through the trees— but we kept our distance. We didn’t want the dog to see us—or smell us. Luckily, we had Lisa with us to pick up the trail again whenever we lost sight of the dog.

It took us fifteen minutes to find the fetch again. When we did, we perched on top of a wide hill, looking down as the dog burrowed between the roots of a large, dark tree.

“It’s found something,” Marty said.

The fetch tossed clumps of dirt out from between its hind legs as it dug. Finally, it stopped digging and stuck its nose into the hole. It snorted around a bit, then shoved its snout into the earth and came back up holding something round and caked in dirt.

“Do you see that?” Marty asked.

“What is it?” Lisa asked.

I didn’t answer, but I saw it plain as day.

A human skull.

THE SKULL.

Its empty eye sockets stared at me. Wormy dirt trickled from the yellowed bone. The jaw lolled open in an unheard scream. Patches of long stringy hair trailed down from the decaying flesh. Mud filled the nose cavity.

Clutching the skull in its jaws, the fetch loped along the hill.

We ducked down the other side, hoping the dog didn’t see or hear us.

The dog let out a low growl, then tore off through the brush.

“Let’s go,” Marty whispered, “before we lose him again.”

“I’m not so sure we should follow him any more,” I said. “It just dug up a human skull!”

“I know it was a skull,” Marty said. “All the more reason to find out what’s going on.”

“You realize what’s going on, don’t you?”

Marty’s blank expression told me he didn’t.

The explanation blurted out of my mouth. “The dog’s going out into the woods and digging up all of Maddie Someday’s body parts.”

Marty’s brow wrinkled.

“Why would it be doing that?” Lisa asked.

“I don’t know. Could be Maddie’s ghost is trying to collect all her pieces in one place. Maybe she’s trying to bring herself back to life.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Lisa laughed nervously. “You don’t really think that, do you?”

I nodded.

“Why was it digging near my house?” Marty asked. “Do you think one of Maddie’s parts was buried right outside my front yard?”

“Unless I’m wrong,” I said. “I’m betting one of Maddie Someday’s body parts was buried near Marty’s house, but the dog’s already found it.”

Instead of being frightened, though, Marty grinned. “This I’ve got to see for myself!” He set off through the trees again.

Lisa looked at me like I’d lost my mind. She took off after my cousin.

Smart, I thought. Real smart.

We followed the fetch deep into the woods. Eventually, we came upon a large clearing. A dilapidated cabin squatted in the center of the patch of bare land. The walls were unpainted, brown and cracked, and creeping vines—no longer green but brittle husks—crawled up the rotting timber. The vines might have been the only thing holding the house together. Candlelight glowed through the windows. Along the side of the building was a set of heavy bulkhead doors leading down into a root cellar.

Trees were bent and crooked, leafless but covered in thick patches of moss hanging from the skeletal branches. The wind rushed though the hills, whooshing eerily and rattling the tree limbs. The moon shown through the clouds, a great milky witching eye staring at us. The clouds themselves looked like a blanket of thick fog waiting to settle down on top of us.

Tangles of rusty barbed wire clung to rotting fence posts around the yard. The ground was bare. No grass grew in a wide circle around the shack.

“Who’s house is this?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Marty said. “Never been out this way.”

“I think I know who’s house this is,” Lisa said. “I think it’s the witch house.”

“No way,” Marty said. “I thought it was torn down.”

“That’s what I always heard, too.” Lisa shivered. “But it sure looks like the witch house straight out of all the stories.”

“The witch house?” I asked.

“It’s Maddie’s house,” Marty said. “This is where she lived.”

A gusting wind swept past.

Clenching the skull in its jaws, the fetch approached the cabin’s front porch. It dropped the bones on the ground at the foot of the steps. It barked a couple of times.

After a few minutes, the screen door snapped open and shut, and an old woman hobbled out, using her cane to support the weight her bad leg would not. I recognized her right away.

Dottie Brewster.

Old Brewsterstein herself.

The dog didn’t wag its tail or jump excitedly as the woman approached. It only stared up at her as she descended the half-rotted wood and cinderblock steps.

Mrs. Brewster winced painfully as she knelt and picked up the skull. She hooked her fingers through the eye sockets like she was picking up a bowling ball. She straightened up and cradled the skull in her arms, the way a mother cradles a baby—like she feared dropping and breaking it. As she hobbled toward the root cellar, we ducked down so she couldn’t see us spying. She hobbled down the steps and into darkness.

The dog waited at the edge of the steps for the woman to return.

I felt a tickling in my gut, as if a butterfly was loose and fluttering in my stomach.

“What do you think she’s doing down there?” I asked. “What’s she want with Maddie’s old bones?”

“I don’t know,” Marty said. “But it can’t be good.”

Lisa shushed us.

Seconds later, Mrs. Brewster climbed out of the root cellar, empty-handed save for her cane. She ran a withered hand over the dog’s head to acknowledge a job well done. The dog rose and trotted back into the woods on the opposite side of the clearing.

“I want to see what’s down in the cellar,” Marty said.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He wanted to sneak down into the darkness of the cellar to get a look-see at whatever old bones the woman had been storing below.

“No way! You’re as crazy as that old woman is! It’s too dangerous. You’ll get caught.”

“Don’t you want to know what she’s doing with those old bones?” he asked.

“I’m curious, sure. But I’m not foolish enough to try to sneak over there. We should wait until daylight... until Mrs. Brewster’s away from the house, don’t you think?”

“Both of you,” Lisa hissed, “be quiet!”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Listen!”

“I don’t hear anything,” Marty said.

Lisa gave him a dirty look. “That’s because you’re still talking!”

A hush fell over our little group. For a few minutes, I didn’t hear anything other than the shrill cry of insects and the distant hooting of an owl...

Then, a cry for help.

I gasped.

It was definitely a person yelling for help. I couldn’t tell exactly where the sound was coming from—it was too soft to pinpoint—but I could guess.

The cellar.

Mrs. Brewster had someone held prisoner down in the root cellar! There was no telling what the hideous old hag had planned for her prisoner, but it couldn’t be good. I hated to consider the possibilities. She might be subjecting her prisoner to one of her terrible experiments. For all I knew, she might have been planning to chop her hostage into bits to be fed to the fetch!

I felt like I might throw up.

“We have to tell someone,” I said, “our parents or the police... anybody!”

“We can’t just leave!” Marty said. “We’ve got to help!”

“What can we do?” I asked. “We’re just a bunch of kids!”

Hoping for a little support, I looked at Lisa. She just shrugged, as if she was unsure of the right course of action.

“We need to go and get help,” I said.

“What if there isn’t time?” Marty asked. “What if old Brewsterstein is inside sharpening her meat cleaver right this very second?”

“If she is,” I said, “I don’t think we want to get caught once she comes outside.”

I’ll admit, at that moment, I just wanted to hurry home, tell an adult about the prisoner trapped in the root cellar, and forget all about the dog, Dottie Brewster, and Maddie Someday. I would have been a lot happier if I’d have been able to do just that. I might have been curious about whatever she was doing... I might’ve been worried about what she had planned for her prisoner... but it would be smarter just to keep my distance.

But just then, the cries for help grew louder, as if the night air had shifted, carrying them to our ears.

I recognized the voice.

Alex.

My brother was trapped in Mrs. Brewster’s cellar!

AS MUCH AS I WANTED to head for safety, I couldn’t just leave my little brother behind.

“What are we going to do?” I asked, my voice cracking.

“We’re going to have to rescue him!” Marty said.

“I know that. But how? What about Mrs. Brewster? What about the fetch?”

“It’s just a dog and an old woman.”

“A witch,” I said.

“All right.” Marty shrugged. “A witch. Nothing we can’t handle. This is Alex we’re talking about. My cousin. Your brother. I’m not letting some old hag take him away from us.”

He was right, of course.

“It’s going to be all right.” Lisa grabbed my hand and squeezed. “We’re going to get him out of there.”

I was surprised Marty didn’t make fun of me right then, batting his eyelashes and making kissing noises. I guessed it was so serious, though, he didn’t feel like poking fun.

The witch house was dead quiet.

We didn’t have time for much of a plan. We had to do something—fast—before Mrs. Brewster came back outside... or the dog came back.

“Lisa,” I said, “you stay here and keep a lookout. Keep your slingshot handy, and if you see anything, yell.”

“Will do.”

Marty and I stuck close together as we prowled around the house. We didn’t see any sign of Dottie Brewster, but for all we knew she was watching us from behind one of the filthy windows overlooking the yard. We kept the flashlight extinguished for the time being, and we relied only on the light of the moon.

As we neared the cellar door, I heard a sad moaning from below.

I leaned down and carefully slid the plank aside. The door was heavy, and I needed Marty’s help to lug it open and set it aside. We struggled to keep it from crashing to the earth.

It was pitch black inside the cellar.

Marty handed me the flashlight. I turned it on and shined the beam into the cellar. I hoped no one could see the light from the house. A rickety set of steps led down into blackness. The staircase looked impossibly deep, each step crooked and bent, tilted at an odd angle. The dirt floor at the bottom looked damp. The air wafting up from below smelled of freshly turned earth.

“Alex!” I called into the darkness. “Alex!”

His voice came from below, small and weak.

“Is that you, Charlie?”

“Come on, Alex!” I called. “We’ve got to get out of here before Mrs. Brewster finds us.”

“I can’t.” He sounded like he was about to cry. “I’m all tied up.”

“We’re going to have to go get him,” I told Marty.

He nodded and set his chin in a look of determination.

I peered back toward the woods. I couldn’t see Lisa in the darkness, but I knew she was there, watching. She’d warn us if anyone or anything came our way. I just hoped nothing waited for us down below.

I had the nightmare image of Dottie Brewster lurking in the darkness, calling to us with Alex’s voice, waiting to lure us down into her clutches.

I started down the stairs. Marty was just a step or two behind.

The steps felt slippery, the wood water-logged and covered in slime, and they sagged and creaked as we descended. I’m surprised they supported my weight. I held the railing—actually a long knotted tree limb set into the wall—for dear life. A spill down the steps would put a quick end to our rescue mission. Large wooden beams supported the earthen walls, and tangled, grasping roots dangled from the ceiling like hideous party streamers. The chamber looked impossibly big, and while some of the walls had been carved out of the earth by hand, other portions of the room looked like a natural cave system.