The Grass Monkey and Other Dark Tales (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Prequel)

By Scott Langrel

Welcome to Shallow Springs, Virginia. It's not a nice place to visit, and an even worse place to live. Evil dwells in the mountains and lakes surrounding the town. Creatures more ancient than the Appalachian Mountains themselves lurk in the shadows and prey on the unsuspecting.
Consisting of three short stories and a novella, The Grass Monkey and Other Dark Tales takes the reader on a terrifying tour of Shallow Springs:

A family moves to the Springs from the city, only to discover that their new, peaceful surroundings are nothing but a deception...

A telephone lineman, out in a bitter winter storm, must fight demons--both his own, and the ones stalking him in the snowy woods...

A group of loggers set out to harass a tree-hugging environmentalist and instead find an ancient horror...

A lawyer and a farmer encounter an unspeakable evil in the 1930's...

A paranormal "handler" returns home to Shallow Springs to help a woman who is being stalked by a creature as intelligent as it is evil...

Welcome to Shallow Springs. Sit back. Stay a while. But you might want to be on your way before the sun sets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Langrel
• Release date: Dec 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301961580

Scott Langrel

I was born and raised in Big Stone Gap, Virginia, a town nestled in the mountains of Appalachia. Which, by the way, is pronounced "apple-atcha", not "a-puh-lay-shua". My favorite TV shows as a kid were "Kolchak: The Night Stalker" and "Night Gallery" with Rod Serling. I was also drawn to books with larger-than-life heroes such as Doc Savage and Robert E. Howard's Solomon Kane. I was (and still am) a big X-files fan, along with Lost, Supernatural, and The Walking Dead. I prefer horror and thrillers where there is a real, supernatural villain as opposed to psychological horror, and I try to incorporate such characters into my stories.

Book preview

The Grass Monkey

And Other Dark Tales

By

Scott Langrel

Smashwords Edition

Copyright©2012Scott Langrel

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

The Grass Monkey

Wood

The Moss God

The Sinkhole

The Otter King

Preview of Homecoming: A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller #1

Preview of Shadows in the Sand: A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller #2

The Grass Monkey

The old man rattled up around seven, his ancient Dodge pickup wheezing, dying of automobile emphysema. A gust of blue smoke spewed from the exhaust and floated lazily along the hedgerow, only to become lost in the shadows of the pines on the east end of the house. Cynthie came bursting through the screen door, drawn from the house by the sound of the truck’s geriatric engine.

Who? she asked simply, pointing to the truck and its lone occupant. Cynthie, like most three-year olds, didn’t mince words.

Dunno, I answered as I waved my hand in front of my face, partly in greeting, mostly to fan away the gnats.

Millie was next out of the house, her eyes lighting on the newcomer and then looking questioningly at me. I shrugged. I could tell she was peeved; we were still in the midst of unpacking, and one of the reasons we’d moved to Miller’s Ridge was the prominent lack of neighbors.

It took the old man forever and three days to drag his carcass out of the pickup. Like most of the old-timers we’d encountered since the move, he wore grimy coveralls and a ball cap. The cap advertised a certain brand of chewing tobacco.

Hullo, I called, rising. It was a good fifteen yards from the driveway to the porch, and at the rate the geezer was moving he would make it by dark. I walked down the steps and went out to meet him.

Evenin’, he said, and no more. Old folks and three-year olds seem to share the same vocabulary.

I’d thought that Millie would follow me out, but when I glanced back at the porch I saw that she’d slipped back inside the house. I hadn’t been completely deserted, though. Cynthie loped beside me, dogging my steps.

Name’s Dalton, the old-timer mumbled, sticking out a leathery hand. I shook it, and was surprised at the strength of his grip.

Dave Baracheck, I said. And this is Cynthia.

Cynthie, she corrected.

Dalton nodded. For some reason, it struck me that he hadn’t smiled once since his arrival.

Figured you might have little ‘uns. He turned and started back towards the truck, and for an instant I got the crazy notion that he was leaving, that Cynthie’s mere presence had somehow offended him. But he reached through the truck’s window, into the cab, and retrieved something.

Housewarmin’ present, I guess you could call it. He offered the thing to me, but I guess I just stood there and stared at it because he turned and gave it to Cynthie. She held it at arm’s length and studied it curiously.

The thing was made out of some sort of dried grass, which had been bound with string and shaped into the form of a crude doll. Two eyes were the extent of its features, these a pair of shiny black stones which had somehow been fastened to the doll’s head. It was an ugly little critter, and a hell of a thing to give someone as a housewarming gift.

What’s it? Cynthie asked as she fondled the doll with all the grace of a drunken baboon.

Ain’t got a name, really, Dalton shrugged. Least ways, none that folks can remember. I always called ‘em grass monkeys, ‘cause that’s what they look like.

I had to stifle a laugh. If Dalton had known that ‘grass monkey’ was also a popular term for a pothead, I’m sure he would have come up with a different name.

Monkey, said Cynthie, and she hugged the doll.

I had to admit that it did more resemble a monkey than a human doll, but that still didn’t change the fact that it was ugly, even tacky, like some of the homemade crafts they sell in the shops down in Shallow Springs. Millie would never allow such a thing to sit out in the open in her house. Most likely, it would find the trash can as soon as Cynthie put it down.

Set it in your window, missy, Dalton was saying. It’ll keep the boogers away.

Boogers? The old man had Cynthie’s undivided attention.

You know, princess, I said, shooting Dalton a warning glance. Monsters. The things that aren’t real, just make-believe.

Oh. Them.

Yeah. Now why don’t you go show Mommy the doll that Mr. Dalton gave you?

Monkey, Cynthie corrected, and scrambled toward the house.

Didn’t mean to offend, Dalton said as soon as she was out of earshot.

We moved here from Knoxville, I explained. It’s been quite a culture shock for all of us, but Cynthie especially. She’s not used to the quietness. It’s kept her a little unnerved."

Dalton nodded, his face stoic. Missus makes them things. She’s mostly Cherokee.

I could only assume he was talking about the grass monkey. Mountain people tend to have a one-track mind, and nothing much derails them.

We’re down the mountain a bit, you need anything. He was heading back to his truck, his business apparently finished. That’s what this little visit had been to him—a business call. Monkey delivered, mission accomplished. Time to go home and slop the hogs.

Dalton paused, one hand on the truck door, and turned to regard me.

The mountains can be just like the city, Mr. Baracheck. Sometimes they ain’t quiet. He opened the door and heaved himself up into the cab.

Sometimes the mountains ain’t quiet at all.

 Millie hated the monkey, just as I’d known she would, but Cynthie refused to surrender the thing. It sat beside her at supper, and during her bath it sat upon the toilet seat, always within reach. When bedtime came, Millie tried putting her foot down, but Cynthie would have none of it. The monkey rested on her nightstand as she drifted off to sleep.

I’ll bribe her tomorrow, Millie decided later as we sat watching the tube. Cookies, maybe. Or ice cream. She gave me a sour look. Why in the world did you let that old fart give her that thing?

It was a gift, I shrugged. "I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. We are new here, after all."

But it’s so damn ugly. And what if she’s allergic to it? It’s made out of weeds, you know.

I sighed. She’ll forget about in a couple of days. Or play with it so much it’ll just fall apart.

It shed grass on the toilet seat.

She said it so solemnly that I had to laugh, and soon we both had the giggling fits. In moments, the grass monkey was all but forgotten. At least until the next morning, when Millie called from Cynthie’s room.

Did you move that thing last night?

Move what? I was still half asleep.

That grass thingamabob. I know I left it on her nightstand. She appeared in the bedroom doorway and leaned against the jamb.

And it’s not there now?

It’s with Cynthie now. She’s been up for over an hour. There was a hint of accusation in her voice. But it was on the window sill when I checked on her this morning.

Don’t look at me, I said. I slept like a log last night. She probably moved it.

She says she didn’t.

She’s also three years old.

I got hit by one of her looks at point blank range, and it was enough to send me outside to work in the yard for the rest of the morning. Cynthie darted about under a perfect mid-summer sky, the monkey always with her, never more than an arm’s reach away. Around noon Millie put in a rare guest appearance, coming out onto the porch to announce that lunch was ready.

After lunch, Millie attacked with the ice cream bribe, but it failed miserably. Cynthie had taken to talking to the monkey, even pausing to listen to its imaginary responses. This irritated Millie even more, and I figured it was time to step in before it became an all-out war.

Look, I said later. We’ve just moved to a strange place. She’s missing her grandmother. The monkey’s just a way for her to cope.

But she has dolls. Pretty dolls.

The monkey’s new. And different. It’s just a phase.

That evening we sat the monkey on Cynthie’s nightstand, and the next morning it was back on the window sill. I guessed it was some sort of game for Cynthie. Dalton had told her to put it there, after all.

Monkey keeps out boogers, she remarked idly over breakfast.

There are no boogers, I said as Millie nearly choked on a mouthful of corn flakes. no monsters, no ghosts. Mr. Dalton was only teasing.

Monkey says they’re real.

Then monkey’s teasing, too.

She looked at the monkey, which sat in the chair beside her, then shook her head.

Monkey doesn’t tease.

Millie somehow waited until Cynthie had skipped outside, monkey in tow, before exploding.

Monsters now? Ghosts? Jesus, Dave! She’s regressing right before our eyes!

Millie she’s three—

Don’t give me that crap. Millie was fuming. She was smart enough to know the difference before we moved here.

A move which was your idea, I snapped.

Her eyes widened and I knew I’d hurt her, but I was getting tired of this whole monkey thing. Let Millie and Cynthie settle the issue between themselves. As far as I was concerned, I was out of it.

A week passed. Cynthie remained firmly attached to the monkey. Millie was strangely quiet—pouting, I knew. Each morning the monkey sat on the window sill, regardless of where it had been placed the night before. I have to admit that I was beginning to enjoy the game in a childish sort of way. Once, I even crept into Cynthie’s room after she’d fallen asleep and hid the monkey under her bed. The next morning it was back on the sill, and I grinned as I wondered how long it had taken her to find the thing.

It was on a Sunday night that it turned suddenly bad. We’d turned the fourth bedroom into a study, and I was in there goofing around on the computer. I looked up to see Millie in the doorway. I thought at first that she’d come to make peace (we hadn’t really talked for days), but then I saw the frightened look on her face.

Come listen, she said, and then she was gone. I jumped up and followed, thinking that a raccoon was in the trash again, but I found her standing outside Cynthie’s door. She put her finger to her lips, a nervous gesture. I tiptoed over to the closed door and listened.

Do you hear it? Millie whispered.

At first I didn’t, but then suddenly it was there—a faint scratching, like someone rubbing two pieces of sandpaper together. There was a metallic quality to the scratching, something I’d heard before but couldn’t quite place.

Is it Cynthie? I asked in a low voice.

Millie shook her head, I haven’t opened the door. I’ve just been listening.

That irritated me. Well, let’s look in and find out.

I eased the door open, and immediately the scratching stopped. Enough light fell into the room for us to see Cynthie lying in the bed, unmoving. I entered the room with Millie on my heels, so close that I could feel her breath on my neck. Cynthie was spread-eagle on her stomach, the way she always slept. A slight breeze floated through the window. Outside, crickets and frogs competed for the airwaves. Everything seemed in order, nothing out of place.

We may have mice, I told Millie. I’ll go into town tomorrow and get some bait.

Are you sure? she asked, but she was already scrunching her nose as she considered the thought of furry little critters in her house.

Must be. Probably hiding in the walls.

Millie checked on Cynthie again, then crept out of the room. I was about to follow when I noticed the monkey. It was sitting on the sill as usual, but there was something different. It took me a moment to realize what was odd, but it finally hit me. Every time I had seen the monkey on the window sill, it had been facing the room, its back to the window. Now it was turned, looking through the screen and into the blackness beyond.

The screen.

And then I knew what had been so familiar about the scratching noises we’d heard moments ago, the scratching with the metallic quality.

Something had been scratching at the screen.

I went into Shallow Springs the next morning  and returned with enough rat poison to wipe out the Pied Piper’s original entourage. I hadn’t quite convinced myself that the house was rodent-infested, but I had to follow through with the plan so that Millie would be content. We spent the better part of the afternoon setting out bait, and by dinnertime I was pretty well exhausted. I went to bed soon after, and as I slept I dreamt of the grass monkey.

In the dream, I was looking at my house from the outside. Due to that certain surreal quality inherent to all dreams, I could see each side of the house simultaneously, a sort of picture-in-picture effect. Grass monkeys, hundreds of them, clung to the screens fitting over each of the windows and doors. They were moving about as if blown by a strong breeze, and their coarse bodies rubbed against the screens, producing a noise that sounded like someone taking a rasp to a piece of metal. The scratching noise was maddeningly loud, but behind it, almost drowned out, I heard laughter. It was coming from the woods behind the house, and suddenly I wanted very much