("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text Archive name: house.txt (MF, rom, v, horror) Authors name: Marcia Hooper (marciar26@aol.com) Story title : House in the Woods -------------------------------------------------------- Copyright 2002: As the author, I claim all rights under international copyright laws. This work is not intended for sale, but please feel free to post this story to other archives or newsgroups, keeping the header and text intact. Any commercial use of this work is expressly forbidden without the written permission of the author. -------------------------------------------------------- The House in the Woods (MF, rom, v, horror) by Marcia Hooper (marciar26@aol.com) *** Ever wonder what really happened to Heather, Michael and Josh? And the Blair Witch herself? Well, this is an alternate ending to that very scary movie and one I like better. It picks up the morning after, with Heather and Michael still in the cellar. Joshua is present too. He's not alive. Heather and Michael are. Can they extract their revenge? *** This is a work of fiction and is not meant to portray any person living or dead, nor any known situation. This story is meant for adults only and is not to be read by person's under the age of 18, or the legal age in the county/state/country in which the reader resides. If you would like a Microsoft Word or Wordperfect version of this story (a much easier read), please contact me at MarciaR26@aol.com Note: I originally wrote this story back in October of 1999, as an assignment for a creative writing class. I hated the ending of the movie so much I wrote this up. Some of what occurs is based upon information provided in: The Blair Witch Project: A Dossier, by D.A.Stern. Unless you have read it, some of what happens may not make sense. I apologize for that. I also apologize for the lack of hard sex, but I make up for that in other stories. Marci The House in The Woods An Alternate Ending to The Blair Witch Project by Marcia Hooper (MarciaR26@aol.com) Somewhere in the Blacks Hills Forest Near Burkittsville, Maryland Heather awoke into dreary half-light, head thumping, with a terrible ache down her right side. She lay still for a time, trying to understand where she was, then rolled onto her back. She promptly screamed. "Easy!" Michael hissed. "Take it easy!" Before realizing whom it was, Heather screamed again and scuttled away. Then she threw her arms around Michael's neck and sobbed. "Is it?" she croaked. "Afraid so," Michael said. A makeshift noose, fashioned from the canvas strap of her knapsack, was secured to a rough-hewn joist. The other end was around Joshua Leonard's neck. It had carved a deep trench into his skin. "This can't be happening," Heather moaned. "This can't be happening at all." But, it was happening, as the body of Joshua Leonard attested. Moving Heather away, Michael said: "We have to stay calm. Our lives depend on it." Breath billowing from her mouth, eyes locked to the spectacle above, Heather whispered, "Why are we still alive?" "I don't know," Michael admitted. "But I do know I want out of this cellar and to find some help." Her tears cut furrows through the grime on Heather's cheeks. Unconsciously, she wiped them away. "What about Josh?" Michael shook his head. "We can't help him now. No one can. We've got to get out of this place." His voice was angry, where before there was just fear. "This is way past redneck games! No fucking rednecks did this. And neither did any Blair Witch!" Grabbing Heather's hand, he said: "Now let's go!" Skirting the dead body, Michael guided Heather to the stairs. While he checked the way up, she looked around for their missing equipment. It was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, she clutched her chest, then thumped all of her pockets. "Michael! The compass! The compass is gone!" Michael grabbed her arms. "So what!" he hissed. "Was it any help before? Now come on!" He dragged her up the narrow stairs. At the mid-floor landing, the steps turned back on themselves and Michael stopped to listen. One sharp protrusion sported a smear of blood and a clump of blonde hair--Joshua's color--and Heather's eyes clamped shut. She stumbled the rest of the way to the top. Proceeding cautiously through the kitchen, Michael entered a large room where holes were punched in the plaster walls. Hand prints (where they from children?) were imprinted in what looked like blood or dried feces. The place stank of the latter. "Do you know where we are?" Heather asked, struck with a terrible fear. "An old farmhouse," Michael replied. He hurried across the room to the doorway, which he looked carefully through. Heather didn't remember being in the house. She remembered children's voices (had they been singing?) and tall grass reflecting their lights. She remembered a long climb up the hill, stumbling and falling back. Twice she had lost her camera. She remembered Joshua's voice calling in the distance, a taunting sound, yet frighteningly desperate. Then the house. Jumping to the ground, Heather looked around. The area was overgrown with bushes and weeds, with not a sign of a driveway. Thirty feet distant was a pair of out- buildings: one a collapsed barn, the other a dilapidated shed. They were beneath a uniformly gray sky; it smelled like rain. "Which way?" Michael asked. Heather lead him around the rear of the building. A house this big should have a discernible driveway, she thought, no matter how overgrown. Once they set foot in the direction of town, they would be safe. Or so she prayed. Only there was no driveway, nor anything else to indicate a way out. "Come on!" Michael said. "It has to be here." Heather peered hard into the undergrowth. "There," she said, indicating where the trees seemed less dense. "Maybe that's it?" Michael said, "Maybe. Let's find out." Heather didn't move. She listened to the woods. "What?" Michael said. He looked around, anxiously, as though standing there invited disaster. "Don't you here it?" Michael looked around again. "Hear what?" Heather canted her head. "That whispering sound." Since Sunday morning, maybe even before, they'd been stalked by that sound; a sound like water running. Only there was no water close by. After a time, the sound had blended in with all the others sounds, but now it was back. And louder. "I don't hear anything," Michael said. "Come on." Heather followed, hands jammed deep in her coat. She tried to ignore the sound; aware it came from everywhere. Like the voices, she thought, and the three o'clock sounds. Whatever had stalked them, it was stalking them still * * * Two hours had passed. It was 10:40 a.m. "There's something I haven't told you," she said. "About that house." Michael looked over, his expression tense. They walked side by side along the trail, which had twin, overgrown ruts. The remains of a barbed wire fence ran along their right. "What?" he said. She hesitated. She thought of being safe at home, bathed and freshly dressed. She thought of wolfing down food, sleeping without fear, not shaking at the mere thought of the future. She even entertained the thought, however momentarily, that Michael was as attracted to her as she was to him. At this, she almost smiled. Then she said: "That house belonged to Rustin Parr." His face registered doubt. He looked in the direction from which they came. "No way," he said. "It can't be." Heather was adamant. "I've studied this for years, Michael! I know what I saw. The man from the historical society, Bill Barnes, gave me books and showed me pictures. I'm telling you, that house is Rustin Parr's!" Michael shook his head. "It burned down in 1941." "I know it did." "Then it can't be the house." "But it is!" For a moment, neither said a thing. Then, kicking a loose stone, Michael said, "This isn't some legendary haunt were talking about, Heather. It's a person. Or persons. Someone who knows these woods like the back of their hand. Knows that wherever we go, that they can be there first. They could be waiting there now." He paused. "We already know they're capable of murder." Heather removed her cap and ran her fingers through her hair. Michael wasn't listening. "Know what I think, Michael? I think it is the witch! I think she knew what we were doing when we got here, and got really pissed off. Pissed that we invaded her territory only to belittle her, to pretend she doesn't exist. Only she does exist, and now she's making us pay!" "Witches don't hang your friends from the beams of a building or rip out their fucking teeth!" Michael said. "They don't skip around in the middle of the night making fucking noise! Now, let's move before someone decides to finish the job!" Frustrated, Heather headed up the path. She looked constantly back. After a stretch of silence, she said: "Mr. Barnes? The Burkittsville historian? He suggested I research the old records for the property." "And?" "The oldest record I found was dated 1824. It deeded the land to a woman named Eliza Richardson. She died in 1845 and the property went back to the state for unpaid taxes. It ended up in the hands of Eldon Sykes, Rustin Parr's great uncle. That was in 1858. Before that, before 1824, the land was part of a parcel owned by Raymond Rakone." She looked at Michael, who was staring at the ground. "Elly Kedward was Rakone's half sister, Michael. She lived on his land. After her husband died in 1768, from smallpox, Rakone deeded her a small tract. Four acres, I think. They banished her from the township in 1823 for being a witch. Only, instead of burning her at the stake- -her family was still a major landholder then--they simply put her out. Into the cold of winter, where she died of starvation." "So?" "So that makes it Elly Kedward's land. She died owning it. Anyone unfortunate to live there since, including Rustin Parr, comes under her spell." She paused, looking morose. "And, since most of the land west of Burkittsville was once part of the big parcel..." She encompassed the forest with a sweep of her hand. "Welcome to Elly Kedward's back yard." Michael stopped walking. "So let me get this straight. You're saying that no matter where we go, we're still on her property?" "Yes." "And she can follow us anywhere she likes?" "Yes." "Now I know you're nuts." A branch crashed down from the trees above, landing at their feet. Both jumped back, yelping. Heather fell on her rear end, on a protruding tip of rock and yelped again. She staggered back to her feet, holding her right buttock. She heard a sound suspiciously like laughter. "Jesus," Michael muttered, brushing himself off. "I need a break." Heather looked at him with a hopeless expression. * * * A wind had kicked up some minutes before, drowning out the noise. Now the wind rose to a roar, bowing the trees and ripping away leaves. Another branch fell from above and landed just to their right. Lightning made the air sizzle. There was a deafening boom. Michael exclaimed: "Jesus Christ!" and ducked, comically. Heather yelled over the wind: "It's going to pour!" Michael yelled: "No shit!" Then the rain came, pounding onto the canopy of leaves. Heather donned her cap, then raised her collar against the cold. She button her coat all the way up. Michael did the same. "I suppose this is the witch's doing?" Michael yelled. Heather yelled back: "Don't be smug!" "I hate fucking rain!" "It hates you too!" Michael gave her the finger, which Heather returned. Then lightning struck the ground almost at their feet, and they both took off running. "Jesus Christ!" Michael yelled, again. Let's hope we don't meet him! Heather thought. All around them, water poured down in a torrent, turning the path into halfway-seen tunnel. Thunder continued to boom. Then Heather tripped and fell bone-jarringly to the ground, smashing her nose. She shrieked first in surprise and then in pain. Michael dragged her to her feet. "You all right?" he asked. Haether checked her front teeth and her lips, then her chin. She spit out blood. "I fell!" she exclaimed. Michael just had to laugh. "I'll say you did!" She slapped his arm and called him names, then wiped her face with her hand. It came away bloody. "Is it bleeding?" she asked. Michael continued to laugh and Heather wiped blood on his coat. "Cut that out!" he said. "Then stop your laughing!" "Stop asking stupid questions, then!" he retorted. Lightning struck again. * * * It was eleven forty-five. Michael had his arm around Heather's shoulders; her hands were stuffed into her coat. Both were drenched, and both shook. Somehow, she had lost her cap. "I think I broke my node," she said. "It's just bruised." "It feels broken," she said. "Leave it alone." Finding several bushes with clumps of red berries, Heather ventured a taste. They were very bitter. She spit them back out. "Quit it," Michael said. "They're probably poison, anyway. The birds won't eat them." Heather ripped loose a handful of the berries and scattered them on the trail. She stomped them flat. Then she kicked at the bush, nearly losing her balance. "I could eat a horse!" she cried. "I could eat two! I could even eat their dung!" Michael laughed. "You know," he said, brushing his hands. "I read a book once, about a group of hikers from Maine. They were on the Appalachian Trail, hiking down to Georgia. They took a wrong turn somewhere above Maryland and got lost." Heather looked at him, frowning. "They had maps and compasses and all the right stuff. They wandered the woods for eight days, lost as hell. Eventually, they ran out of food." He brushed his hands on his jeans, further smearing the mud. They had mud everywhere from the run. "They started to experiment with edible plants, mushrooms, stuff like that. Even with their books, half of them almost died. They would have too, if a group of back-country hikers hadn't stumbled across them." Heather gave him a disdainful look. "And the moral of this story is?" "Don't make things worse." Heather started down the trail. "Thanks for your uplifting little speech, Michael. I'll remember it when I'm eating my fingers." Michael caught up. "I mean it, Heather. No foraging, okay? We're not squirrels." "Squirrel doesn't sound so bad right now," she said, her stomach growling loudly. "In fact, we might try trapping one of the little varmints. What do you say?" Michael grunted. For a time, there were silent. Then Heather asked: "You remember last night? How we got there?" Michael shrugged. "I was following you." She said, "I don't remember leaving the tent. One minute I was writing in my journal; the next I was carrying my camera and plowing through the underbrush. I think I was sleep-walking." Michael looked thoughtful. "I think I was too. I woke up on the hill." "Only--" "Only there was no hill," Michael said. "The house was atop a low rise this morning. Just enough to give it drainage. It was nothing like what we climbed last night." "We hallucinated it then?" Heather asked, looking at her pants. She distinctly remembered falling and ripping out the knee. Through the torn material, her knee cap was covered with scaly, dried blood. It ached. "Never mind," she said. "We need to go. Daylight won't last more than another six hours. I don't want to waste it." Michael said: "We don't even have a tent." Neither elaborated on that idea. * * * It was forty minutes later, and the rain had stopped. Fog, having set in with the falling temperature, hung ghost-like in the woods. It was no more than forty degrees out; both of them shivered. "Why mess with us at all?" Michael asked. "Not that I believe you, but if she were real, and she guards her turf so zealously, she must know that three missing kids would bring a search. That's a lousy way to keep people off your turf." Heather looked steadily at the ground. "What?" Michael asked. Heather took a deep breath and laid it all out. "Last Saturday night," she said. "I was writing in my journal, bragging about how well I had done. I said how really neat it would be to meet Elly Kedward." Michael blinked. He seemed not to understand. "I invited her to come, Michael." Michael stopped dead in his tracks. "You what?" "It wasn't intentional!" she cried. "I wrote it facetiously! I never expected it to happen!" Michael remained still for a moment, then rubbed his beard-darkened jaws. His fingers trembled slightly. He had the look of someone unsure whether to laugh or cry. "Forget it," he said, abruptly walking on. "I don't believe, remember? You might as well have invited the Pope." Heather rushed to catch up. "Don't you understand?" she protested. "If I can find the journal, maybe I can un- invite her again!" "Un-invite her how?" Michael asked. He sidestepped a puddle; Heather, unmindful of it, ploughed right through. "One of the books said that a spirit invoked in innocence can be sent away again." "Even though you invited her on purpose?" "I didn't invite her on purpose!" she protested. "I told you--it was in jest! I got caught up in the moment! You think I would have done something like that if I thought it was true?" Michael's anger dissipated. "No," he said, staring at the ground. "I don't guess you would." He sighed, deeply. "Your journal back in camp?" "I think so. I don't know where else it could be." "Couldn't you just denounce her, like? Tell her to go away?" Heather shook her head. "The revocation has to be offered in the same manner it was given. In writing; in the journal." Michael shook his head. "Still doesn't answer my question. Why make us disappear?" Heather smiled, grimly. "Our friend's been floating around this forest so long, she's practically invulnerable." She paused. "Remember that story about the scorpion and the frog?" "Because it's my nature?" he quoted. "Exactly. Well, Kedward's nature is to kill and to maim, whatever the cost. She doesn't care if a posse comes looking for her; she just disappears. She can go anywhere she wants. And you need to find a ghost, to exorcise it." "Admitted, but a ghost doesn't kill you. Scare you to death, maybe, make your life miserable, but a person has to do her killing." Heather said, "Someone like Rustin Parr." "I was thinking about Josh." Heather winced. She still could not believe Josh was dead. Michael said: "I want to know why she killed him." "Maybe she didn't." Michael was caught off guard. "What?" "Maybe Josh killed himself." Michael rubbed his forehead, his habit when concentrating hard. She said: "If he weren't as weak as she thought...if in the end he refused?" "She'd become enraged." "Furious. She'd want to teach him a lesson," Heather said. "And the only way to stop her..." "Was to take his own life." For a time, nothing was said. Then Heather stated: "I want to go back." Michael laughed, then continued down the trail. "I'll pretend you didn't say that," he said. He looked at his watch. Then he exploded: "Where the hell are we, anyway? Lost again? Three goddamn hours and we haven't seen a thing! The road should have been here by now!" Heather tried to recall the road on her map. They should have crossed it by now. A nasty little animal, temporarily banished from her stomach, returned. With sharpened claws. "Black Rock Road's the only way in and the only way out," she said. "We miss it, we might as well be lost." Michael said, "This is a logging trail. The map showed them crisscrossing the woods like a tic-tac-toe game. That's what we're on." Heather looked back along the trail. It turned constantly to the left, back into the forest. "We're going in circles," she said. "Like before." Michael grit his teeth. "We don't get out of here, Heather, we're finished. One more night and we're dead. I'm sure of that." "No," she said. Michael stared at her. "What do you mean? No?" "I mean, we are not going to die. And we are not leaving these woods." Michael grew alarmed. "Don't you even consider it!" he warned. "I'm tired of this!" she exploded. "Tired of being afraid! Tired of being stalked! I want to fight back!" Michael shook his head. "She has us chained to this place like convicts, Michael! We can't get loose--we'll just wander until we die. I say we go back and fight the bitch! It's our only chance!" Michael said: "You are nuts!" From an inside pocket Heather removed a plastic zip-lock bag. It contained a yellow Bic lighter and a box of matches. She muttered under her breath. "What?" Michael asked. "Fire," Heather whispered. "Fire, I said." * * * It was two o'clock. They were backtracking to the house. Michael said: "Absolutely fucking nuts." Heather ignored him. "I used to sit up with my grandfather," she said, "listening to his stories. Some were scary, some were dumb, and some were just bullshit. I sat on the couch with my legs tucked beneath me, afraid to let them touch the floor." She scanned the trees on either side, waiting for something to move. She prayed nothing would. She couldn't believe they were heading back. "Grandpa encountered the witch when he was twelve years old. No one believed him. He was on his way up to a swimming hole, alone, something you never did in those days--or these days for that matter. He was pretty far up the trail when he said he heard voices. Which was strange, considering he was more than a hundred yards away. But, Grandpa was too scared to turn back. His friends would call him a sissy. So he kept on. "Anyway, the trees were so close together that Grandfather had to push aside the limbs. In one place, they pushed back so hard he couldn't get through. Only it wasn't the limbs pushing back, it was her. Grandpa was so shocked he forgot to be afraid. Then she said his name and told him to come forward, and Grandpa bolted. He ran all the way home." Michael laughed. "Guess I would too. What happened?" Heather said, "He hid under the bed and refused to come out." Michael laughed again, then fell into silence. Twisting a corner of her shirt, Heather scrubbed her front teeth. "Gross," she said, giving a shudder. "I can't remember the last time I brushed them. Or my hair." She had last washed it when? Sunday morning in the creek? She wasn't even sure what day it was today. She continued: "Grandpa described her the same way as Mary Brown: Dressed in black, with long black hair covering her forearms and face. She had mean, evil eyes. It was the eyes that scared him the most, Grandpa said. Demon eyes. Yellow and vertically slit, like a goat's." Michael look doubtful. "Sounds like storytelling to me. A tale he made up as a kid, then came to believe over the years. My dad's that way. Can't believe half the shit he says, because he embellishes it so much. " Heather shook her head. " You only had to see his face to believe it. And it wasn't something he offered willingly. I had to drag it out of him. " They walked on in silence, Michael digesting her tale. Then he said: "So what's our plan?" Again, Heather smiled grimly. "Let's pull some teeth of our own." * * * An hour later, they were back to where the trail diverged. To their right, a smaller track lead back to the house; ahead, the trail gave back half it's width to the forest. There was no doubt. It was an abandoned logging trail. "We go back there," Michael said, indicating the track to the house. "We get what we deserve." "Buck up," Heather said, thumping his arm. "Think how glad she'll be to see us. Home in time for dinner." Michael said: "Yeah. Like Hansel and Gretel." "Come on," Heather said. "We're running out of light." They moved onto the track. With the sun past aphelion and westering quickly, the air had a deeper, thicker quality. It seemed almost purple. They had entered a particularly bad stretch of ground, where, on the way out, Heather had nearly sprained an ankle. She was more careful now. "The experts say magnetic and electrical phenomenon are closely related to the supernatural. Spirits take their energy from the physical world. That's why the temperature drops whenever one's around. We've felt it before. Maybe even now," she said, shivering. Michael said, "I've dealt with this shit for a week and I know less now than when I began. Every belief I had went straight out the window. So excuse me for being skeptical about the so-called experts." "Don't worry," she said, stepping around a fallen tree. "The bitch is practically powerless in the daytime; at least for causing us harm. If she could, we'd be dead already." Michael smiled, grimly. "Powerless, she says. Like fucking with our compass every day? Making us invisible to search parties?" He laughed. "That's a bit high on the power meter, if you ask me." Shadows turned the foliage into murk, a mere twenty yards along the track. Things skipped in and out of her peripheral vision. "Think it's coincidence that camp got really cold at night?" she asked. "Whenever the noises started? I don't. It was her." There was a rattle in the leaves off to their right and Heather and Michael both jumped. It was a pair of squirrels, chasing one another around a tree. "You know," she said, not quite believing what she intended to say. "If we ever get out of this alive, I might want to fuck you." Michael looked around, surprised. "I have a girlfriend," he said. "I have a boyfriend." They were quiet a time, and then Michael took her hand. He leaned forward and kissed her, then leaned back. "Let it go," he said. "I want to concentrate on our witch. Nothing else should cloud our minds, until." Grinning sadly, Heather looked away. "You're right." she said. "One thing at a time." Still, she wondered, what he'd make of her pounding heart. * * * Heather debated telling Michael her theory. "Remember how the house burned down in 1941?" Michael narrowed his eyes. "Don't even suggest it," he said. "I know it sounds stupid, but listen--" "I don't want to listen!" he interrupted. "It's ridiculous!" "That's what you said about witches," she pointed out. "I can believe in witches, a hell of a lot easier than I can believe in time travel, Donahue." "You believe in God, don't you?" "I do now." "Then why not some entity that can affect time?" Michael was stymied. "Please tell me you're not serious about this! Time travel?" "I' serious about anything that explains where we are." They had arrived at a small crossing. On their way out, the spring was little more than a trickle. Now it plunged along the stream bed, three feet wide. Using Michael's hand for support, Heather carefully went rock to rock across the water. Then she helped Michael across. "In 1941, the house was still there," she said. "In 1994, it wasn't." "I don't want to hear this." "In 1941, there were no search parties, no helicopters, no missing hikers. Just you, me, Josh and the witch." Michael groaned and shook his head. "No," he said. "No." "No road, either," she maintained. "When Rustin Parr confessed, it took Sheriff Bowers two days to find his house. There was only a dirt track back then, and the logger's trail. No county road came closer than four miles. Black Rock wasn't paved until the fifties." She paused. "Once they knew where it was, though, the town's people vandalized the house. They burned it down a month before Parr was hanged. October of `41. They never discovered who did it, and they didn't really ask." Michael only shook his head. * * * They reached the farmhouse at four o'clock. Sitting among the trees and encroaching weeds, it looked like a diseased, white wart. Heather could barely make herself look. "We have to split up," she said. "I'll find the-" "Split up!" Michael exclaimed. "Are you nuts?" Heather said: "We don't have time to find the camp and to make preparations here too. We don't even know if the revocation will work. You need to gather firewood while I go for the journal." Michael looked at the derelict house, then back to Heather. "You're nuts," he repeated. "I wouldn't be here if I were sane." Pointing toward the woods, she instructed: "Find as much wood as you can. Kindling, small branches, leaves, anything that will burn fast and hard. Nothing green. Nothing too wet." She pointed at the two out-buildings. "Try them first," she said. "The shed might contain something useful." "Why not just set fire to the structure?" Michael protested. "The floors are wood." "We need a good strong blaze to get this going. I don't want to go back inside once the blaze is set. Do you?" "Well, no." "Then start gathering." Heading off, Heather gave the farmhouse a wide berth. She stopped before turning the corner. "Stay out of the basement, Michael," she said. She knew he'd think of Josh, of the body hanging from the rafters. "If nothing else, it'll let him rest in peace." She turned and continued on. Finding herself atop the small incline, Heather gazed out over the grass and scattered small shrubs. She searched for the camp. The sun was strong in her eyes, making her cup a hand to her brow. Along the field's southern perimeter, above the grass, was something glossy and green. The top of the tent. Starting down the slope, she turned and shouted to Michael that she was on her way. Michael returned her call. * * * The barn yielded nothing but waist high prickly-thorns and wild grass. Michael moved on the shed. Here the door was intact and three panes of the four-pane window remained unbroken. He stepped up to the window and peered in, ready to duck. He'd be the first to admit it--he was scared to death. But, there was no movement inside, and no sound, and once his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Michael began to inspect. In the center of the room was an old galvanized washtub, supported on sawhorses. Leaning against it was a corrugated wash board, something Michael had not seen in years. Against the far wall leaned a slat-board shelf, holding rusted tools, paint cans, and assorted other items. In the rafters above it were a pair of wooden ladders. They looked too rickety to support a child, much less an adult. Resting on a tube steel rack at the rear of the shed were two steel drums, both ancient and rusting. A spigot protruded from the bottom of each. Carefully removing the bent nail securing the door's hasp, Michael dropped it to the ground, then pulled open the door. It moved with a nerve-grinding screech. Looking around in alarm, he went into the shed's interior. Newsprint filled the old washtub. Mixed with oil or gasoline, Michael thought, it would make an excellent fire-bed. But, Michael was surprised to find the familiar Washington Post logo printed across the top edition's crest, and below it, the headline: Poland Invaded! England Declares War! The date was November 1, 1939. These, he thought, should be dust. It's been fifty-five years. Then he remembered Heather's assertion of what year it really was, and Michael shivered. Lifting the stack clear, he carried the newsprint into the house, dumping it in the center of the room. He shredded the top edition, wadding the yellowed pages into balls and tossing them across the floor. He worked quickly, looking constantly about, sure something lurked behind the nearest wall. Done, he scattered the paper equally across the floor with his foot, then went outside to shed. "Gasoline," he whispered. "Something to light." Looking at the barrels, he wondered: Gasoline? Heating oil? Going to the shelf, Michael found a battered old can containing nails, screws, washers and other junk. He dumped the contents onto the ground and went to the steel rack, placing the can beneath the left-hand spigot. He twisted the lever and oil, black and malodorous, ran out in a gush. It filled the can to within an inch of the top before he shut off the spigot. Holding it away from his body--the can leaked like a sieve---Michael hurried it back to the house. Oil sloshed over both hands. "Come on, Michael!" he cautioned. "Slow down." Forcing a measure of control, he climbed through the doorway and went into the room. He sloshed the oil about, but was distressed to find it wet only half of the paper. He needed more. Maybe twice as much more. Cursing under his breath, he raced back out to the shed. * * * Crossing the field, Heather followed the path cut the previous night by her own boots. It felt like a waking dream, only run in reverse. She recalled the halo of light, how it played across the tall grass; she remembered the chorus of voices. Children's voices. Then she stumbled and realized she was walking with her eyes closed. "What are you doing!" she cried, angrily. Then she turned to face the house. Was Michael okay? She had heard nothing since coming down the hill. She considered calling out, then decided that would only cause him alarm. She turned away again, disquieted by how fast it was growing dark. Making camp, she discovered their belongings strewn about, much of it ripped to shreds. Most was covered in slime. Their backpacks were yards away in the grass, the aluminum frames bent and fractured; the canvas was shredded. The tent appeared to have been clawed by a bear. Heather looked around, her heart tripping madly. "Easy girl," she whispered. "It's not here any more." She hoped it wasn't. By her foot was a plastic tent-peg, torn loose during the attack, but still attached to the nylon chord. Not taking her eyes from the flap, Heather bent and picked the peg up, then worked the knot loose. She gripped it in her right hand and made stabbing motions. Reaching out her left hand, and taking a deep breath, she grabbed the flap and flung it aside. Nothing was inside but their sleeping bags and scattered belongings. "Son of a bitch," she whispered. Her first concern, of course, was her journal, but she found it nowhere. The bag in which she kept her valuables: her wallet, her keys, the map and the journal was ripped seam to seam. It lay mangled on her sleeping bag. Putting the peg in her pocket, Heather pulled the sleeping bag aside and beneath it she found her wallet. It appeared intact. Unsnapping the latch, she opened the cover and looked inside. There was the photo of herself and her boyfriend, Gregg, posing on their first date. It seemed a century ago. Then she realized that Gregg was no more to her now than a place-holder in her life, a place she could point when remembering an important event. She felt for him what she did for the bicycle leaning against her apartment wall. Closing the wallet, she put it away. "Get your mind on business," she muttered. She had to find that journal. Backing through the opening, Heather removed both sleeping bags and turned them inside out. She found nothing. Stripping back the ground sheet, she felt along its perimeter, then sat back with a curse. The journal was not there. "Where is it?" she demanded. Still on her knees, she went completely around the tent, poking through the grass. She pawed through the scattered clothes, and then went through the backpacks. In desperation, she even slapped her own pockets. It was not there. "Godammit!" she yelled. Kicking a pair of Michael's jeans, she lofted them across camp like a flailing dog. Again she screamed her frustration. Then she realized what else was missing, and her heart nearly seized. "The knapsack! The knapsack! Where is it?" All their film, the video cassettes, the camera she had guarded so zealously during the past week: all were gone. Their ordeal was meaningless without it, no more than a Jerry Springer show. They might as well dance nude in Times Square. Not even their parents would believe them. Then, in a hellish flash of recollection, Heather remembered the strap around Joshua's neck. The knapsack's strap. She fell to her knees and began to sob. * * * Michael placed the can beneath the spigot and twisted the lever. Only a trickle emerged. "Come on!" he growled, banging the drum. "There's no time for this!" Going to his knees, he forced his little finger into the tap. He encountered something smooth and hard. "Feels like glass," he muttered. Suddenly, the obstruction dislodged and oil poured into Michael's palm. He jerked it away, grabbing the can. While it filled, he picked up the small object laying next to his knee and rubbed it between his fingers. It was a button. "A button?" He looked at the ancient drum, then at the button, then back to the drum. What was a button, a button like that on his shirt, doing in the drum? Gulping hard, he heard a dry click. The coffee can was forgotten. So was the house. He rubbed both sides of his face, trying to remember. Heather had said what? Seven Burkittsville children missing, all killed by Rustin Parr? Three more missing from a nearby town, and never found? Michael's intestines roiled. Hit by a terrible cramp, he pressed both hands against his gut, whispering, "Please God! Not that! Don't let it be that!" as his stomach churned. Grabbing the top of the drum, he said, "This is not something you want to do, Michael. Not something you want to do at all." He shook the barrel hard. Something inside thumped. "Noooooo!" Stumbling back, Michael bent low and started to heave. Nothing emerged but a thin yellow gruel, landing between his feet. He coughed terribly, choking on his spit. "No!" he moaned, again. "No! No! No!" Grabbing the can--it had overflowed onto the floor in a wide, black pool--Michael dashed out of the shed. He reentered the house and threw oil across the floor, not caring where it went, not caring that it was not nearly enough. He pitched the can into a corner and ran back outside. He was not returning for more. * * * Heather could do nothing about the journal and knapsack now, but damned if she'd go back empty-handed. Two Mag-lights lay in the grass outside the tent; she picked them up and checked them for operation. The one that worked went into her pocket; the one that didn't she threw on the ground. She understood now, how the Christians felt, facing the lions. I need a weapon, she thought. The tent was supported by two aluminum poles, connected at the top by a bowed metal rod. The poles, she realized, were hollow. Filled with dirt, they'd make excellent clubs. Pulling loose the remaining ground-pegs, Heather disassembled the tent. She twisted off the protective boot from the bottom of one pole, then the other, then looked around for something to fill the tubes. The ground here was soft, but covered with grass. She needed loose earth. Then she heard the creek. Somewhere off to her right, it gurgled softly. Following the sound, Heather dropped to one knee beside the water and used the pole to dig a trench. She scooped up handfuls of dirt, sacrificing her remaining nails. Once full, she banged the pole's end on a wide flat stone, then filled the void with dirt. She screwed the boot back into place. She thumped the pole into her hand. It felt good. It felt very, very good. Repeating the process with the second pole, Heather then went back to camp and made one last forage for the knapsack. Searching through the grass on her hands and knees, she finally mouthed a string of curses and started to get up. Then she heard his scream. * * * Michael looked at his watch. It was five o'clock. It was growing dark. Leaning against the house, he felt lightheaded and weak- knee'd. Perspiration stood out on his brow. If he continued like this, the stars before his eyes would grow to the size of a super nova and explode. He didn't want to pass out. Leaves, Heather had said. Small branches, nothing too thick, nothing green. Leaves were good. Leaves were everywhere. Racing to the periphery of the woods, Michael stooped and began gathering leaves into his arms--a hopeless proposition. Stripping off his coat, he laid it on the ground and piled leaves atop it. When they were stacked two feet high, he gathered the coat in his arms and ran back to the house. He dumped his cache in the middle of the floor. "Good boy! Good boy! Go get some more!" He repeated the process, until finally the floor was calf-deep in leaves. It was now five-fifty. The sun was down. The light was fading fast. Gathering sticks and fallen branches, anything old enough and dry enough to burn, Michael filled his coat again, then raced back into the house. He distributed his find. Then he went back outside for more. Where the hell was Heather? How long did it take to find a goddamned book? Going to the top of the hill, Michael searched out the camp. "Come on," he muttered. "Where are you?" He was about to call out when Heather appeared, waist deep in grass, and entered the camp. Two objects were in her left hand; long, slender, and silver. Michael recognized them as tent poles. What the hell's she doing with those? he wondered. Clubs? Who, exactly are we supposed to club? Ghosts? Michael shook his head. Returning to the tent, Heather got down on her hands and knees. Michael understood that the journal was missing. Probably the film as well. "Shit-fuck-a-duck," he said. "That's just great." With no film and no video, no one would believe them. Even if they got out of this alive. Worse, they'd be suspected in Joshua's death--especially if they burned down the house. Suddenly, this looked like not such a great idea. Raising his hands, Michael was about to yell out when a hand clapped down on his shoulder. He released a scream, blood-curdling enough to freeze his own heart. In the field below, Heather snapped upright. * * * "Michael!" Plainly visible atop the hill, Michael gestured with both hands. Whoever he faced was hidden behind his bulk, but Heather knew who it was. It was Joshua. It was the witch. Clutching the poles in her right hand, Heather took off at a run. She dodged the occasional bush, praying nothing lay ahead in the grass. Why had she waited so long! Screaming again, she told Michael to run. He did not; he only gestured more wildly. Then he began to struggle and Heather ran harder. "Michael! Run!" Dodging beneath a gnarled white pine, she temporarily lost sight of the hill. When she emerged again, both Michael and Joshua were gone. Screaming in frustration, she hit the bottom of the slope and began to climb. She grabbed sawgrass and anything else that offered purchase. Even as she climbed, however, the crest seemed to recede. It was like some effect in the movies. Or had the slope actually grown? Finally making it to the top, Heather found herself alone. She bent low at the waist, panting. Her sides ached, and her ears rang loudly. Looking back, she was stunned to see how high she was above the field. Ten feet had metamorphosized into one hundred. If night brought this much power to the witch, what chance did they have? What chance did anyone have? Sticking one of the poles beneath her belt, Heather walked carefully toward the house. She brandished the other pole in both hands. She gave thanks for her foresight in understanding their need. Rounding the side of the building, she came to the hole in the wall, and peeked through. There was nothing but shadows. What scant light remained barely showed the way. Groping in her pocket, she removed the flashlight and held it in her left hand. She called out Michael's name. There was no answer. She stepped up into the opening, and recited the Lord's Prayer. "Our Father, who art in Heaven..." Playing the beam over every inch of floor, Heather crossed the room. She walked on her tip-toes. She was terrified that someone--something--waited just beyond the door. "....hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven." Reaching the door, she pointed the flashlight through, praying not to panic. She pushed against the adjoining wall. No one was there. Too frightened to feel relief, she swung the light around the big room and saw Michael's work. The floor was knee- deep in paper, leaves and sticks. There was the unmistakable tang of oil. She contemplated setting fire to the house right then, but that thought went mercifully away. She was not that far gone, not yet. Even the tiny hope she had in Michael's safety would not allow it. "Give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses..." Stepping forward, she moved along the wall, skirting the bed of kindling. There was only one place Michael could be: in the basement. The mere thought of descending those stairs made Heather quail. She caught herself on the edge of hysteria, then forced her lungs to slow. She crept forward. "...as we forgive those, who trespass against us..." She halted in her tracks. "Fuck those who trespass against us!" she hissed. "I've forgiven enough already! That bitch is going to die!" Patting her pocket to ensure she still had the lighter and matches, Heather passed into the next room, what had once had been the kitchen. A large dark stain gripped the floor, and scattered about were the remains of some dead animal, possibly a deer. She caught sight of a partially denuded leg bone and looked away. On the far side of the room, against the outside wall, were the basement stairs. She found herself beginning to keen. A tidal wave of panic bore down and she clamped her eyes and her mouth shut. She could not move. "Please, God," she whispered. "Please let me do this. Please give me the strength." For a time she remained frozen. Her mind ran in circles like a caged animal. She tried to swallow, but her throat wouldn't close. She had no spit. In her hands, both the flashlight and the club uncontrollably shook. If it were possible for a human being to be more scared, Heather didn't understand how. Making her right foot move, then her left--the soles of her boots gripped the floor like eagle claws--Heather crossed the room. Please, God! she begged. I've been a terrible Christian all my life, but if you let me live--let us live--I'll devote my life to your cause. I Promise! She repeated the Lord's Prayer. The stairs to the mid-floor landing held no surprises. Heather pressed against the wall and began to descend. She heard the rush of blood in her ears. She wondered if that blood would soon be spilled. Reaching the landing, she pointed the light down the remaining steps. She tried to remember the cellar's layout. There was no other entrance, of that she was sure--just two small windows set high up in the walls. Here is where the conflict would end. Then she heard sounds: a startled grunt, the creak of wood and the sound of boots dragging the dirt and that was all Heather needed. Flying down the remaining steps, she entered the cellar screaming. His eyes bulging, hands bound behind his back, Michael stood tip-toed in the middle of the room, looking at Heather in panic. Behind him, holding the rope around Michael's neck and grinning gap-toothed at her, was Joshua Leonard. "Wecome home," he taunted. He played the tip of his tongue between his toothless gums. "Let him go!" Heather yelled. Grinning even more widely, as though torturing Michael were the most natural thing in the world, Joshua shook his head. Only it wasn't Joshua she was facing. The witch's ancient visage was visible beneath his skin, sharp edges of bone pressing against thin flesh. A fine covering of hair coated both his face and hands, and surrounding his head, like an ethereal halo, was a mass of stringy black. When he moved, the halo moved also. Somehow, this was the most terrifying thing of all. "Let him go!" Heather threatened again. She stepped forward, brandishing the pole. Joshua laughed and drew the rope tighter, causing Michael to swing in a half-circle. When he canted his head to look at Michael's face, Heather saw the livid burn mark traversing Joshua's throat. It still cut deeply into the flesh. Only a short time had passed since the noose was removed. Since sundown, Heather thought. Only since sundown. "I'm taking Michael with me," she said, moving forward again. "Try and stop me and I'll kill your fucking ass!" Joshua laughed again. He touched the mark on his neck. He pulled the rope tighter. "I'm dead alwedy. Try somsing else." Heather circled to her right, getting Michael out of her line of attack. Her breathing was ragged and each breath exploded in a gust of steam. The temperature had dropped precipitously in the cellar; Heather knew it wasn't from the fall of night. Casting a glance toward one of the tiny, high set windows, she saw no light in the night sky at all. It was now fully dark. Elly's time. "I rescind my invitation!" she suddenly yelled. "Michael and I want nothing more to do with you!" Joshua laughed, uproariously. "Is sat what you sink? I can be bought off wissout so much as a kiss?" He puckered his lips, obscenely. "Maybe sis is a good time to see what a good little cock sucker you are." He pointed at Heather, then at his crotch, then to the floor before his feet. "I put up wis your bullshit for two years, and sor what? Sor you to get me lost in sa woods and killed? I nesser easen get a piece us ass out us you. Bullshit!" Heather found herself shaking uncontrollably. The halo swung to the floor on one particularly violent shake, and Heather caught sight of something behind Joshua's right boot. It was missing canvas knapsack. Joshua went on: "Sis is my property, bitch! And whatesser's on my property belongs to me! You belong to me!" Watching the knapsack, Heather said: "Rustin Parr owns this property, at least for the next few weeks. Until they hang his ass. Think maybe you can pick the property up at auction?" Joshua's face was still for a moment, then twisted in anger. Thrusting out his finger, he yelled: "Sis property belongs to me! I was here before that bitch set foot on it in `twenty-five, and I'll be here after you're dead! Long after!" Quite unknowingly, Joshua had lifted Michael off the floor. Spinning and kicking wildly, Michael landed a blow to the back of the Joshua's legs, momentarily throwing him off balance. This was all the opportunity Heather needed. Raising the pole above her head, she charged forward and hit Joshua with all her might. He was sent reeling. Continuing to scream, Heather swung again, catching him on the side the neck, driving Joshua to his knees. Then catastrophe struck. Loosing hold of the flashlight, she watched in horror as it skittered across the floor. She scuttled across the floor after it, knowing that should the light fail, everything was lost. This time, however, fortune was with her. Jarring to a halt against the wall--hard enough to shatter the lens plate--the flashlight continued to shine. Snatching it up, she spun around to find Joshua out of range. "Come back here you bastard!" Charging him again, Heather raised the pole and began to swing. Michael chose just that moment to fall over Joshua's back and Heather barely checked herself in time.Joshua got away. Coming up hard against the rear wall, grinning maliciously, he had the knapsack in his hand. Heather screamed in fury: "Give me that bag!" Joshua looked at the knapsack in mock surprise, as though unsure how or why it had appeared in his hand. He raised it in offerance. "Sis?" he asked. "That!" Heather yelled, extending her left hand. "Give it to me!" Joshua laughed and stood up. Straight-arm, he moved the knapsack in an arc away from Heather until it touched the stone wall. Heather placed the flashlight carefully beside her foot and gripped the pole in both hands. To her right, Michael was on his knees, desperately working his hands against the bindings. "Be careful!" he warned. "That son-of-a-bitch is fast! Strong too. I didn't even know what hit me." Heather was being careful. Although within grabbing distance of the knapsack, she dared not look away from Joshua's face--not even for an instant. One instant was all it would take. Joshua said: "Somesing in here you want? Sa film maybe?" He shook the knapsack, banging together the canisters of film and the cassette cases. Beneath one corner of the flap jutted the lens of the 16 mm camera. "It's a bit late to worry about sa film, Hesser. By sa time say find sis, you'll be nossing but bones." Heather advanced, the pole over her head. Joshua's grin widened, until every remaining tooth appeared. Heather thought his head would split in two. Then she saw what generated that grin and her heart seized again. The knapsack, pressed hard against the stone wall, seemed to be joining the stone. The green material became a rocky slate-gray, becoming an outgrowth of the rock itself. Then the knapsack was gone. Screaming in rage, Heather lunged forward and struck Joshua with the pole. It connected just below the shoulder, driving him sideways. He recovered quickly, however, delivering a savage blow to the solar plexus that launched Heather through the air. She slammed to the floor on the opposite side of the cellar. She barely heard the pole clattering across the floor. Through barely functioning eyes, she watched Joshua approach. Michael, ignored thus far, had almost worked loose his bonds. As Joshua passed, he dived forward, impacting Joshua at the ankles. The impact freed him completely; he began to punch anywhere he could do damage. But the struggle was a short one. Grabbing his wrists, Joshua dragged Michael to his feet and, grinning maliciously, head-butted him. Even across the room, Heather felt the impact. Michael collapsed at Joshua's feet. Struggling to her feet, Heather leaned against the wall. Her ribs ached and so did her head. There was a pulsating darkness around her field of vision and warmth spread over her temple and down the side of her face. She feared that Michael, not moving at all, was dead. His eyes stared up at the ceiling. Sidling along the wall, she made for the stairs. She would not make it, of course, but fear drove her along. Joshua cut off her retreat. "Going somewhere?" he asked. Heather's face crumpled. "Please!" she sobbed. Joshua laughed again. "Boss lady's not so brave wissout a club?" He indicated the front of his trousers. "I have a club. Wanna beat me wis sis?" Something hard and sharp dug into her left thigh, and Heather remembered the second pole. It was still in her belt, although all the way down to the rubber boot. If she could get it loose... She moved away into the darkness. "Did I esser tell you what a nice mouse you haf, Hesser?" Joshua taunted. His zipper was down and he had his hand inside, massaging his cock. "Notice I used sa pass tense," he said. Slipping a hand under the waist of her coat, Heather grasped the pole. Praying Joshua could not see in the darkness, she began to work it loose. "Don't haf too much to say, huh? Are we struck wis awe?" She discerned a light area against the front of his jeans and knew Joshua had himself free. She trembled violently. The thought of having a dead man's cock in her body was worse than the thought of death itself. "The only thing that awes me is your stupidity," Heather said. Joshua stopped. Heather continued: "I carried you for those for two fucking years, you pitiful piece of shit. Even Lisa gave up on you." The pole was halfway loose, but now caught on the knurled twist. She jerked it free. She prayed for forgiveness for what she had said. "Don't you wonder why she didn't get jealous when you went off for the weekend? With another girl? In the woods with no chaperones?" Joshua ran his tongue over his lower lip. "Keep talking," he said. This time no slurring of his speech occurred. It was the voice of the witch, and the witch had all of her teeth. Heather stood her ground. The pole was free. She concealed it behind her right leg, hoping for a chance. (The thought of what she might do then, outside in the woods, in the dark, with no flashlight and no sense of direction had yet to occur.) She held her breath and waited. Moving incredibly fast, just as Michael had warned, Joshua leapt forward. Heather was flung to the ground. The pole flew from her hand and went skittering across the floor. This time she was finished. Howling, Joshua fell upon her and grabbed her by the throat. He struck her once on the jaw, then again, then batted her head into the ground. Drool splattered from his graveyard of splintered teeth; his breath was subteranian. "I died here!" he screamed. "They banished me from my own house to wander in the fucking woods! No food and no water! For four days I stayed alive! Then I found my way back to this house and leaned against the wall outside, right over this spot and covered myself in snow. To stay warm!" he screamed, punching Heather again. "I was too weak to climb the stairs! Too weak to open the door! The following spring, when the thaw came, I was still here! And I've been here ever since!" Even in her extremity of terror, Heather could not shut her eyes. "The people who hurt you are all dead, Kedward!" she cried. "They can't hurt you any more! No one here did anything to you! We're all innocent here!" "No one is innocent!" Kedward screamed. Opening her mouth, opening it farther than any human mouth could open, the witch positioned it above Heather's face. Teeth ringed it like those of a Great White Shark. Heather placed her hands on the ground, palms down, waiting to die. Her right hand touched something, and it slid away. Mindlessly, she groped after it, located the object again and gripped it in her fist. It was the plastic tent-peg. With no consideration and no hope at all, she raised her arm and plunged the peg into Joshua's throat. Screaming, he twisted sideways, but Heather hung on, ripping the peg out herself. She stabbed him again, puncturing the carotid artery. She was sprayed by cold blood, pumped by a dead heart. Releasing her throat, Joshua punched Heather hard in the face; she heard, rather than felt, her nose break. Her vision exploded. Then Joshua hit her again, and Heather covered her face with her forearms, somehow holding onto the peg. Then he was tearing at her shirt, ripping open her brassiere, as though raping her were the solution. This brought Heather back from the edge. Rising up with a scream, she stabbed Joshua in the face, not caring whether she lived or died, only wanting the creature off her. The point caught him on the right cheek, ripping a furrow to his eye. Then she stabbed again and the peg went into Joshua's right eye, lodging deep within his brain. There was a moment's silence. Joshua sat rigid, head back, left eye straining to see the right eye. Then he reared back and emitted a scream heard all the way to hell itself. He tumbled off her onto floor and rolled violently away, while Heather clawed herself erect. Then she screamed, "You fucker!" and kicked the witch with all her might. She howled again and kept kicking. "Fucker! You Fucker! You die right here!" Totally maddened, she ran to the closest pole and grabbed it up, then ran back to the witch. She smashed the club down, fracturing bone. Joshua's scalp was laid open, blood spraying everywhere. Screaming like a banshee, Heather pummeling the witch until her arms refused to function, until the pole refused to rise. Then she staggered away, remaining somehow erect, as the pole slipped from her grasp. Then she sat down. * * * The sound of movement came from her right. Expecting another horrific resurrection, Heather raised her head and looked around. Michael was sitting up. "You're alive!" she cried, flinging herself into his arms. She tried to choke him. "Easy!" Michael croaked. "Let go!" Heather let him go. She held him at arms length. Then she kissed him violently. Michael blinked, dazed but happy. "I did something to deserved that?" Heather laughed. "You lived!" "I don't suppose--" he started, then looked around. "What did you do to him?" Heather took his arm. "Can you stand?" "If it means getting out of here," he said. "I'll crawl." Heather helped him to his feet. "I thought I was a goner," he said. "Thank you." Heather kissed him again. "Let's get out of here," she said, indicating the huddled shape. "I'm not sure it's dead. Not sure at all." Retrieving the flashlight, she helped Michael to the stairs and they began to climb. Halfway to the landing, she heard a sound from below, a stirring, then a groan. "Go!" she screamed, as a snarl arose and then the sound of hooves. Whatever was moving down there was no longer human. Clearing the kitchen door, they ran headlong across the branches and leaves. Heather struggled to retrieve her lighter and the matches. They stopped at the far side. "The lighter! The lighter!" she cried. Then a terrifying wail arose from the basement and whatever made it started up the stairs, hooves clambering on the rock steps. Ripping open the bag, Heather lost the box of matches, but managed to keep the lighter. Dropping to one knee, she held the lighter against a wad of paper and flicked the wheel. Nothing happened. "Come on!" she yelled, spinning the wheel again. The butane still wouldn't light. Holding the lighter aloft, she put it against the lens of the lamp. It lighter was empty. Screaming, she flung it across the room and frantically searched for the matches. "Help me!" she yelled. Twenty feet away, the creature was out of the stairwell and into the kitchen. Hooves clattered on the wooden floor. It emitted another wail, making Heather and Michael both scream. Then her hand fell upon the box of matches, and she grabbed it up and tore it apart. Matches flew everywhere. Grabbing one frantically, she struck it on the side of the box, and flung it into the leaves. The head flared briefly, then went out. Screaming again, she flung out another and this one caught. Then they alternated striking, and throwing matches onto the pile until soon the floor was ablaze. "Yes!" Michael yelled, standing up. He fell back to his knees when a bellow erupted from across the room."What in the hell is that!" The creature, right out of their nightmares, glared at the spreading flames. It was half-boar, half-lion and all evil. Its massive yellow head swung back and forth; its eyes glowed yellow. Powerful claws splintered the plank flooring, audible even over the flame. The creature bellowed in rage. Heather continued striking matches and pitching them where flame didn't blaze. The creature, realizing it was trapped, bellowed again and raised up on its hind legs. It looked like an attacking bear. But, flames now licked the ceiling and had begun to consume the walls, and the heat drove the creature back. Supernatural manifestation or not, it held fire in fear. "Let's go!" Heather yelled over the roar. The heat was stupendous. Backing away on her hands and knees, she lead the way out and Michael followed. They reached the exterior wall. Jumping down first, Michael held out his hands. "Thank you!" she yelled. Then she took his hand and ran with Michael to the top of the embankment. They watched the house burn. "Do you think it worked?" Michael yelled. "We'll soon find out!" Flames skyrocketed into the night sky, raising steam off the trees and vegetation. They no longer heard the beast, and although she knew this not to be the case, Heather wished it a speedy return to hell. Then a portion of the roof collapsed, then one of the walls, and a fountain of sparks soared into the air. Much of the surrounding greenery was ablaze, with fire spreading to the out- buildings. It was time to leave. Halfway across the field, Heather was buffeted by a tremendous explosion. Looking back, she watched as two oil drums rocketed into the sky, then fell back as flaming wreckage. Michael watched tight-faced, but said nothing. When they reached camp, most of the upper structure was gone; what remained burned furiously. The hill had returned to its previous height. Picking up their sleeping bags and turning them outside in, Heather threw them into the collapsed tent. She didn't think much of spending the night here, but she was not going back into the woods. If the witch came, she came. What could she possibly do that was worse?" "Time for you to fuck me now, Michael," Heather said. And Michael did. Epilogue The morning had broken clear, blue and cold, with a stiff wind blowing out of the northwest. Michael awoke first, and for a time lay still, looking at the sagging tent. He listened to the sounds of the forest around them: the trickle of water from behind the tent, the buzz of insects, the calling of birds. He enjoyed the warmth of his bed mate. Although he knew it was time to get up, Michael let Heather sleep. Her face was peaceful for the first time in a week; he sensed no dreams troubling her sleep. And despite her swollen nose and bruised face, the ground in dirt and dried blood, the disheveled mass of hair, she was quite beautiful. Extraordinarily so, Michael thought. Their lovemaking had begun the instant Michael zipped together the bags. Heather slipped into his arms and clung to him with an intensity both desperate and impassioned. Neither could contain their energy--nor their noise. Heather's climax brought a temporary cessation to all sound in the area. Sometime around 3:00 a.m., while in the middle of a sentence, Heather fell asleep. Michael took a moment realizing she was gone, then drifted off to sleep himself. Neither stirred until first light. That was three hours before. It was now 10:00 a.m. Stopping in a clearing, Heather consulted the sun. If she were right, Tappy creek, out of sight but now within earshot, was off to their right. The undergrowth was extremely dense, a good sign. Suddenly, there was a sharp burp of sound. "What was that?" Michael asked. He stood with his right foot half-raised. Heather said, "A backfire?" They hurried along, trampling the underbrush rather than skirting it. They erupted onto a dirt road. Dust hung in the air from the vehicle's passing, and although no longer visible, they heard the crunch of its tires. "Damn!" Michael said. "Thirty seconds too late." Heather grinned. "How do you know it wasn't one of our redneck friends?" Michael returned her grin. "Right now I'd kiss a redneck, just like he was my mother." "You might get your chance," Heather replied. There was the sound of another vehicle, this one approaching, and they stepped back to wait. It came around a bend, a hundred yards distant, an old jalopy trailing dust. Vintage thirties or forties, Heather thought, a Ford, and surprisingly well kept. Only she knew better than that. The car pulled up beside them and the driver, a young man with wire-framed glasses and slicked back hair, asked: "You folks need a lift?" Tinny ragtime emanated from the dashboard. Heather attempted a grin. "We're headed into town," she said. Screaming had left her nearly hoarse. The driver indicated the opposite door. Going around the front end, Michael opened the door and Heather slid in. Michael climbed in behind her and closed the door. "So where you all from?" the driver asked. He dropped the transmission into low gear, and the car jerked forward. Heather answered: "Just outside DC." "Planning to stay?" Heather and Michael exchanged looks. "Looks that way," Heather said. The driver stuck out his hand. "Randy Donahue. Pleased to meet you." Heather took the driver's hand and pumped it hard. Her grandfather had a very strong grip. "Janet Barnes," she said. "And this is my husband, Bill. We're pleased to meet you, also." Continuing along the dirt road, the Ford eventually disappeared around a turn. Dust settled, and the sound of tires faded. A lark sang somewhere off in the woods. Appearing at the side of the road and sensing no danger, a squirrel scampered across. Time passed. Traveling through the undergrowth without disturbing it in any way, a shape appeared at the road. It moved to the road's center. It stood for a very long time. The shape of an old woman first, with sharp, haggard features, it then became a young man with a beard and mustache. Then it was something best left to nightmares. Then it became an old woman again. Slowly, as though willing to wait the necessary years, but having other things to attend, the creature moved back into the woods. No branch moved, and no leaf was disturbed. It left behind a rhime of frost. Eventually, the woods became active again. Soon it would snow. The End ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of the hands of children. They should be outside playing in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Kristen's collection - Directory 20