Oak Orchard

By Brian Durski

Oak Orchard is an adventure tale about a young man's almost overwhelming sense of dread. Something is constantly observing him from within the deep recesses of Oak Orchard Swamp. Darkness outside his farmhouse escalates his anxiety and Brad barricades the doors and watches outside through his kitchen window. With only his two dogs for companions, he waits in the blackness for whatever is out there. When the sun rises he stands at the edge of a fallow field and stares at the tall trees defining a - Green Gateway to Oak Orchard. A brisk wind moves their branches and it seems as if a conscious entity is beckoning him to approach. Walk along the tree lined banks of Oak Orchard Creek with Brad. Beware - the Cycle of Nature has started.

• Language: English
• Publisher: My Seashell Books - Michele L. Hinton
• Release date: Nov 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311532640

Brian Durski

I was born and raised in Akron, New York and have been happily married to my wife Catherine for 47 years. We have three children and eleven grandchildren. I am retired from the Air Force after twenty years and again from Civil Service after another eighteen. We have lived in different areas of the country from Hawaii to Virginia during the many years of government service. Writing is my hobby and Catherine’s assistance has been invaluable as my editor and advisor.

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Oak Orchard

Copyright © 2003-2010

By: Brian Durski

Published at Smashwords

All Rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher or the author.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

Publisher:

The Seashell Books

www.theseashellbooks.com

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mother

Geraldine Durski

~~~

Support and inspiration by:

My Wife, Catherine Durski

Cover art is a wood carving designed especially for this

novel by the talented

Pete Carges

Consultant – Michele Hinton

An individual who is passionate about helping new authors. I can attest to that fact.

OAK ORCHARD

Chapter 1

The barn’s rain streaked window faced a tall forest and was covered in spider webs; dead flies littered the sill. From the hayloft Brad stared through the glass and watched the tree line intently. He thought he detected some slight movement just outside the trees to the south, but it wasn’t definitive and only seemed to be a swaying of tall weeds growing freely in the now unattended fields.

A constant feeling of something observing him from within the deep recesses of Oak Orchard Swamp now completely dominated his life. Whatever it was seemed very wary and must be skilled at appearing only when there were no humans in the immediate vicinity.

He turned away from the loft window and glanced down at his two dogs lying on the cracked concrete of the barn’s first floor. Both Daisy and Quenten looked up at him when he moved to the edge of the loft. Not today because those fields are soaked. Tomorrow we’ll go for a long walk in Oak Orchard; I want to look at the cave again.

Rain started to come down harder and he could hear it hitting the rusting tin that comprised the barn roof. Brad glanced out the loft window across the field while he thought.

I’m so damn tired of being alone. Day after day it’s just me and two dogs. My only living relatives are my grandparents far away in Watkins Glen. I’m going to sell this farm and get the hell out of here. There’s no reason to stay; no cattle anymore and hundreds of acres growing nothing but weeds.

On the far left side of the hayloft were several boxes of his mother’s possessions he still had to sort through. The boxes sat there untouched for many months because he hated looking at the contents. Every piece of paper and every item only made him recall a sad or painful memory. Brad took a deep breath and forced himself to move closer. He opened the first box that had on the top marked in her writing, Brad’s school papers. A drawing was on top of the stack that he’d done when he was in school. It depicted tall trees that grew just beyond the field at the edge of Oak Orchard Swamp. He had even drawn the cave and titled the picture, Oak Orchard, in very large red letters.

God, how long have I been obsessed with that damn swamp? I couldn’t have been more than ten years old when I drew this.

He put the picture back in the box and returned to the loft window. He thought about the swamp and glanced to the left.

Near that large oak that grows on the forest’s fringe is the place I usually enter. A couple hundred yards further the creek slowly flows west. The dead maple tree that spans Oak Orchard Creek is where I always cross. About a half mile into the deep swamp is the limestone formation that holds the cave.

Lush vegetation near the cave entrance was never disturbed; he surmised that whatever was out there walked only on the rock near the entrance to avoid leaving any trail. He’d never even known there was a cave in the limestone outcropping because brambles and nettles grew all around it. Until his now dead father had shown him the dark entrance years ago he’d never been afraid of the large rock formation. Brad knew they were in there. His father told him so many times when they’d hunted near the entrance and even threatened when he was only a small boy to throw him in the cave. He remembered his words vividly.

Boy, stay away from that damn cave. They’ll grab your ass and haul you down into the rock. Do what I tell you or I’ll throw you in there with them.

He watched the tree line and thought about his mother never disagreeing or trying to protect him. She’d known only too well that the consequences of any protest would mean another beating for them both. He loved his mother so much, but his father he dreaded. The bastard was long dead now and could never hurt him or his mom who had suffered so long. She was in heaven and he hoped his father was burning in hell. So many years of pain and suffering; threats that were sometimes idle and sometimes real. How had his mother stood the abuse for so long? He’d never understood.

The farm was very isolated by its rural location. His nearest neighbors lived almost three miles away on the dilapidated asphalt of Hanscom Road that eventually meandered its way into a small town. Oak Orchard Swamp bordered his land on two sides and the federal government had declared almost all of it a Wildlife Preserve several years ago.

The swamp was named for Oak Orchard Creek that drained the area. It was filled with migrating geese in the spring and fall and its dark waters marked the boundary between his property and the preserve. The creek’s water was always stained a deep tea brown due to innumerable leaves that fell into its murky depths from trees growing along the muddy banks.

When he explored the area inside the swamp Brad always crossed Oak Orchard Creek on the same large dead maple tree that had fallen across the water years ago. Oak and maple trees were dense in the drier areas. Large poplar and willows would direct the way to the wetter areas of the preserve. The huge trees weren’t second growth in some areas and had never been harvested. He imagined some of them must be at least two hundred years old growing freely in the undisturbed depths of the swamp. Their leafy canopy effectively blocked the majority of sunlight from penetrating to the forest floor. The shadowed ground beneath the trees was covered with areas of poison ivy, large ferns, and other plants that only required mottled sunlight to grow and flourish. When the previously cultivated fields of his now inactive farm ended he would enter the forest and find himself only a few hundred feet from Oak Orchard’s deep swamp. It had its own distinctive odor. One of rotting vegetation and stagnant water filled with frogs and insects.

He had been recently puzzled when he explored the wildlife preserve bordering his land because tracks of deer had almost disappeared. In the last four months Brad hardly ever saw any in the early morning moving out of the dense foliage to feed in the now fallow fields. When he was younger they were everywhere; now he only rarely caught a glimpse of any forest creature that had previously been so plentiful in the area.

Maybe whatever was watching him had driven them away. Brad had even penetrated into the swamp’s depths at night and sat totally immobile trying to get a glimpse of something. Swarms of mosquitoes attacked relentlessly after dark. Night entry into Oak Orchard was only possible in the early spring or fall when the innumerable insects would be lethargic from the chill after sunset. The dogs would sit quietly at his side on command and he’d hold a flashlight prepared to turn it on at the slightest noise. Occasionally, a possum or raccoon would move through the vegetation and he would startle it with the light. He never saw anything else. At night the feeling of being watched by something became so intense that he had to physically resist the urge to turn on the light or get up and run.

He had no idea how big the things that he suspected dwelt in the limestone cave were or any other details about them. If the cave was truly their den they must be smaller than he was. He’d shined a powerful flashlight into the cave entrance several times and could see that in order to pass a narrowing of the rock they’d be somewhat smaller than an adult human would.

Brad never shared the fact that he thought he was being watched or that he knew some sort of unidentified animal was secretly dwelling in Oak Orchard Swamp. He assumed some people thought him strange living alone on the hundreds of acres that comprised his inactive farm far away from anyone else. His scarred face always made him feel self-conscious around people and he wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination a part of the local mainstream.

Again, he thought he saw movement through the loft window but knew from his many hours of vigilance that the mind and eyes would play tricks on a person if they concentrated intently on a single spot for very long. There was little wind today. On windy days watching was simply impossible and made him extremely uncomfortable. Trees would sway and the forest would be filled with moving limbs almost like it was a conscious entity beckoning him to approach.

The rain from an overcast sky stopped and he left the barn to take up a new position on the north side of the old farmhouse. A few more minutes of watching and he’d go inside to fix a meager supper. His two dogs followed him from the barn and he motioned for them to sit at his side. He raised the scope from his father’s rifle and watched the perimeter of the trees closely. The scope was all he’d bothered to keep from father’s old rifle; the firearm itself fostered too many bad memories. He’d burned all remnants of his father’s possessions including the rifle in a large bonfire behind the barn several months ago.

Two deer suddenly burst into the open from the trees and into the weeds of the uncut field. Brad raised the riflescope and followed them while they ran horizontal to the tree line. A mature buck and doe were running side by side. The buck suddenly bounded high almost as if it were jumping a fence. In several places all around the deer the weeds in the field were now moving.

What the hell? There’s no wind at all today. Something in the weeds is spooking those deer.

He watched the buck run south through the fields but the doe suddenly veered back toward the forest. When the doe was only a few feet away from the trees she went down. Part of a large stand of tall Goldenrod suddenly fell. Something was struggling there and the entire area of growth was moving now. He could see Goldenrod violently swaying and more suddenly toppled. He watched closely until the movement of the weeds gradually subsided.

Brad lowered the scope and knelt next to his two dogs. Both were standing now and he put his hand on the back of Quenten’s neck.

Hey boy, it’s okay.

Daisy still stood with the hair on her back standing straight up and was bristling at whatever was out there. The sun would be setting in an hour or so and he wasn’t going to enter the fringe of the forest this late in the afternoon to investigate what had happened to that doe.

He felt no hunger, but decided he needed to eat something and feed his dogs. It had been hours since he’d eaten and a frozen TV dinner would have to suffice. There were still hours of vigilance ahead after dark and he couldn’t possibly be distracted by having to eat after the sun went down. Daisy and Quenten followed him inside the house and Brad closed the shutters on the upstairs windows while his meal heated in the old stove’s oven. The downstairs shutters would be secured from inside in an hour or so. He’d reinforced the only two entry doors with a steel plate in the doorframe for deadbolts to be inserted in. He’d also place a two by four into brackets on each side of the doors when he finally came inside for the night. It would hold them secure from almost anything for a few moments. Forced entry into his sanctuary would be delayed until he had time to grab the pistol or shotgun.

He sat at the old kitchen table and glanced at the two dogs resting on the floor. The German Shepherds were his constant companions and only friends. They were now mature at two years old and he’d specifically trained them not to bark but rather to alert him by placing their paw on his leg while they watched. Sometimes they’d stand and stare at the locked door or window and remain that way for minutes. It was only another indication that something was prowling near his house.

They could be trusted to closely accompany him on his explorations and he felt comfortable with the pistol in his belt and them at his side. Night in the swamp wasn’t safe anymore. The last time he’d sat in the trees after dark both dogs had almost immediately bristled at the blackness around them and Brad had moved quickly out of the trees. He’d felt it at that instant as keenly as the dogs; something was all around them and moving closer. Instinctively he’d wanted to turn on the flashlight but something held him from doing it. Brad had exited the swamp with the dogs and they hastily made their way back to the house. The next day he’d purchased everything he needed to reinforce the doors.

He watched the sun slowly recede into the western sky while he sat at the table and thought about primitive man.

I feel the same fear they must have instinctively sensed when daylight turns to darkness. How terrified they must have been while predators lurked just outside the light from their fires. No wonder so many ancient cultures worshipped the sun and gave thanks to it for light and warmth. I’m twenty three years old and afraid of the dark.

Brad never felt terror only caution and a constant sense of alertness all his waking hours on the farm. He’d slept very little the last few months because of the reoccurring nightmare that consistently terrified him. He would be in a forest filled with swaying trees and moving bushes. The dogs were lost somewhere among the trees and he could feel something constantly watching him and moving closer. He would call the dogs and hear them barking just beyond dense blackberry brambles. Brad would always wake dripping perspiration and breathing hard.

He removed his meal from the oven and sat at the table eating the TV dinner. Brad slowly stirred the sticky mashed potatoes.

My life is about as exciting as this meal. Maybe there’s nothing out there at all. He glanced at the card sitting on the top of the refrigerator. That’s the only mail I’ve gotten in a week; a card from Grandpa and Grandma for my birthday.

He threw the uneaten parts of the heated dinner in the trash and sat back down at the table. The kitchen window next to the table faced south and through it he watched the branches of a pine tree in the side yard while they moved in concert with a gentle breeze.

Brad spoke to himself, I’ve never accomplished anything in my life except to graduate from high school. My entire purpose amounts to pretty much nothing. He laughed softly. I guess my job is to hike through the swamp and never find anything exciting. A soft rain started again and he watched it slowly drip from a pine’s branches outside the window.

My life is just a sad and lonely joke.

He’d turned twenty-three a week ago and spent the majority of his time exploring the woods and swamp within ten or so miles of his farm. Massuagua Rattlesnakes were native to the area but rare. Even though he only saw one of the rattlesnakes once he always watched where he put any exposed portions of his hands or where he sat while he rested in the swamp. He always wore sturdy hiking boots when he explored Oak Orchard Swamp; they would be sufficient to prevent the fangs of the small snake from penetrating his flesh.

Brad knew that most people outside the immediate area considered Western New York densely populated but were unaware that many areas were still rural. Farms comprised of many acres like his still existed away from the large metropolitan areas of Buffalo and Rochester.

Oak Orchard Swamp actually consisted of three separately managed wildlife areas totaling over 19,000 acres. The Byron Bergen Swamp was indirectly joined into this triad and together they formed a loosely connected area stretching almost fifty miles across the eastern portion of upstate New York. Every sort of wildlife native to the area used to abound in the wooded and swampy areas near his farm and he’d learned to identify the tracks of almost all. Brad never hunted; he only observed and became so adept at blending in that he could frequently get quite close to watch the animals without alerting them to his presence.

He suspected that some of the town’s residents thought him a nice young man; Brad was always friendly and courteous to them whenever he went there for groceries or on some errand. It wasn’t much of a town and he could have easily driven an extra ten miles into a larger more populated area to find specific items but the majority of his needs were simple. He was aware that others in the small town told stories about how rich he was after the death of his mother and like most curious and cruel people made up stories about the big man with the scarred face. Once a group of small children had fled from him and screamed. That sad day he’d almost cried while he drove his truck back to the farm. He’d only smiled at them and said, Hello kids. He turned his thoughts to the swamp and away from that painful memory.

The sun had almost gone down now. He let the dogs out one last time and stood patiently on the back steps watching them until they emptied their bladders. Tonight there would be little moon; early in the evening a front moving in from the west would obscure it anyway. The radio’s weather station was predicting thunderstorms before midnight and he’d watch as long as there was any light to see by at all. Daisy ran behind the barn and he waited in the slowly deepening dusk for her.

Maybe I’m losing my mind and this is all an illusion. Perhaps there’s nothing at all out there and these two dogs are living with a deranged man. Did my father drive me to this? Am I still haunted by his ghost in my mind or is there really something watching me from inside the swamp?

Brad brushed a mosquito off his cheek; Quentin walked back to his side. No, I’m positive this isn’t something in my mind. Father is dead and I won’t let him destroy my life anymore. Something is out there and I can feel them constantly watching me. You sense them too don’t you, Quenten?

Daisy slowly walked from behind the barn and Brad petted both dogs for a few minutes while he gazed at the trees across the field. Last night two dead chickens he’d left as bait had been taken in the darkness. He had placed one on the grass in the backyard and secured the other about ten feet off the ground in a large maple tree on the east side of the house. If a fox or dog had taken the one on the ground it could be easily explained away but the one in the tree was also missing. He worried about the one taken from the tree and looked west. It was late June and thunderstorms were common in the area this time of year as they spilled east from Lake Erie and Ontario. Often thunderheads could be seen looming high in the western sky before they approached his farm.

Brad watched dark clouds build against the last remnants of a setting sun and thought about the girl he’d loved for so long.

Tara is far beyond me and ripe wheat always reminds me of her hair. Every time I see its golden color in the fields I think about her. What’s she doing at this moment? Tara is probably with some guy and maybe at the movies or something. Are they parked at the old quarry and the man is holding her close? Stop it and think about something else.

He forced his thoughts away from her and turned to stare across the fields at the tall trees that defined the green gateway to Oak Orchard Swamp. The dogs were finished and followed him into the kitchen where they settled down by the back door. Brad went through the downstairs and closed all the shutters from the inside of the windows. He locked the deadbolts securing the front and back door and placed a two by four into brackets across both doors.

Chapter 2

Twilight deepened while he sat in the kitchen watching the side lawn through the only non-shuttered window. The bird feeder was never disturbed, but last night a large block of suet that he’d left for woodpeckers was missing along with the chickens. He put out another this afternoon and watched the vicinity of the white block carefully.

It was almost nine, in the now completely darkened farmhouse, when Quenten and Daisy suddenly stood up; the hair on their backs bristled. Even in the kitchen lit only by sparse moonlight he could see them stare directly at the backdoor. Quenten slowly moved across the kitchen and placed his paw on Brad’s leg. Daisy stood her ground immediately behind the door with her fangs exposed and he quietly walked closer to her side across the dark kitchen.

Brad placed his ear against the door and his hand on the knob. Very slowly the knob moved in his grasp, and he realized that something was trying to open the door from outside. There was no sound only the constant movement of the doorknob in his hand and he could hear the door creak when something strained to force it open. The wood comprising the doorframe creaked again and Brad pushed his shoulder against the door with all his strength. Finally the thing on the other side released the doorknob and Daisy moved quickly to the front entry.

Quenten, the larger of the dogs, stayed close to Brad refusing to move from his side. Daisy stared directly at the front door and again Brad could hear the doorknob rattling; he grabbed it and held tightly. He contemplated opening the door with his pistol in his hand, but thought better of it when he heard a low moan just outside the door. Now the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. There was no way in the world he was opening that door. Again the doorknob was released and he heard nothing outside the front door.

Brad motioned Daisy and Quenten to follow him into the kitchen where he again took up his station by the side window. The suet block was gone; he could dimly make out the vacant space next to the bird feeder where he’d attached it that afternoon.

***

His sleep was only fitful that night. He knew the dogs would alert him of danger, but he’d been very badly shaken. Thunder roused him just after three and he went through the house turning on lights. A heavy rain followed shortly thereafter; there would be no discernible tracks in the morning after this downpour.

Brad dressed quickly and waited for sunrise. He glanced at Daisy and Quenten. As soon as it’s light we’re going to see if we can find out what happened to that doe.

Just as the sun broke the eastern horizon, he and the dogs started across the weed covered field toward the broken patch of tall growth where he’d seen the doe go down. From fifty feet away he could clearly distinguish that the Goldenrod had been broken. He cautiously walked closer after he motioned for the dogs to stop and wait. There had definitely been a struggle at this very spot. The muddy ground was covered with tufts of hair and broken bones were clearly discernible over the entire area. There was no carcass. Even the skull had been broken and stripped clean of any traces of meat. Brad stepped back.

What the hell got that deer? The bones are broken open. My God, they must have even eaten the marrow. There’s no skin, nothing. Just clumps of hair in the mud can’t be all that’s left of an adult deer. Everything consumed in less than one day; it just isn’t possible.

He knelt on the muddy ground and picked up one of the broken bones. This isn’t gnawed at all. The bone has been snapped in pieces to get at the marrow. What could possibly have happened here?

Daisy and Quenten suddenly ran to his side. Both were looking intently into the trees and he felt it now too and backed away from the remnants of the deer. Something was moving under the trees and coming closer. The dogs were bristling and showing their fangs and Daisy started to growl. He moved back into the field.

Daisy, Quenten, come on. We’re out of here.

***

He sat at the kitchen table and slowly drank a cup of coffee while he thought.

Wolves, it can’t be wolves. There hasn’t been a wolf in these parts for over a hundred years. A bear couldn’t consume an entire deer.

Brad watched the clock until it was exactly eight. He picked up the phone and dialed the number he’d copied from the phone book. On the fifth ring he heard a woman’s voice.

Fish and Wildlife, this is Ranger Smith.

Good morning Ranger Smith, my name is Brad King. I’d like to talk to someone about a deer kill in the Oak Orchard Wildlife Preserve.

Certainly Mr. King, and how may I help you?

I just wanted to ask if there are any animals in the vicinity of Oak Orchard Swamp that might kill an adult deer and totally consume the entire carcass in a single day.

I hardly think so sir. We have documented feral dogs, bobcat, coyote, and even a rare black bear kill of deer, but none of those would be able to totally eat an entire deer carcass in a day. Over a period of time scavengers and insects would be able to accelerate the ingestion of the carcass. I would say about a week or two at least. You probably found an old kill, Mr. King.

He was hesitant to explain what he’d seen and thanked her. He thought about her words.

I can’t explain I was watching the entire thing and insist that it was in a single night that deer was eaten to the bone. She’ll think I’m crazy for sure!

Brad sat at the table after he’d poured another cup of coffee. The dogs lay resting near on the kitchen floor. He’d been awake for hours, but used to it.

Ever since he could remember, he’d always gotten up before the sun broke the darkness to the east. Rising early was profoundly ingrained in his body clock. When he was young his father would rouse him at four to help with cattle feeding and other farm chores before he went to school. There were never any extra activities for him after school. As soon as the last bell rang signaling schools end he’d climb on the yellow bus to be transported straight home to assist his father with afternoon and evening chores. He’d missed the bus only once while from a distance he watched Tara and the other girl’s practice their cheerleading skills on the football field behind the school. He had to walk the four miles home. His father made sure that night when he liberally applied the cow strap to his legs that he’d never miss the bus again. Brad had limped for almost three days.

Most of the time his daily chores were finished by seven at night and after supper he’d help his mother with the dishes. As soon as they’d finished, he’d shower and climb the steep stairs to his small bedroom only to fall into bed exhausted from his daily routine. He could usually finish his homework during the last school period, study hall, or on the long uneventful bus ride home. At least that way he could go straight to his bed without having to be delayed by schoolwork.

Their farm had always been the last stop on the school bus route. He and the driver would be the only two remaining on the bus for the last three miles. His friend, Mr. Long, the driver, would always say. See you tomorrow pal. He would thank the elderly bus driver and wave while Mr. Long turned the small bus around in the driveway before proceeding back down lonely Hanscom Road.

Sometimes when he was young Brad would awaken during the night and hear his mother sobbing from some punishment his father meted out to her for an imagined transgression. Maybe the roast had been tough or the potatoes overdone. It hadn’t really mattered if it was real or imagined by his drunken father.

When Brad was fourteen he plunged a pitchfork into his father’s groin. The burly man was slapping his mother in the barnyard while Brad was feeding the cattle. Rage overcame fear when he grabbed the fork and savagely jammed it into his father. An ambulance came and he was sure he would be taken to jail, but his father had said that he fell on the fork. No police ever came to the farm. His father was too ashamed to tell the truth. He remembered and sobbed. Quenten got up and moved nearer the table to be next to him. He’d sensed his master’s distress and licked Brad’s hand before he lay at his feet. He reached down and petted him for a moment. Brad slowly shook his head.

Quenten, I’ll never understand how he could do that to me. I paid so dearly for protecting my mother and it ruined my life.

The dog wagged his tail and looked up at Brad. He smiled at him and again petted his head.

I wish you and Daisy had been there that day to protect me. You would have done what I didn’t; you would have torn his damn throat out.

Brad looked away out the window again and was quiet while he thought about it.

I walked into the barn two weeks later and Father was waiting just inside the door. He laid my cheek open from my hairline to my jaw with that leather cow strap. The second blow caught me across the mouth and sliced my lips and jaw. The leather strap was what Father used to move unwieldy cattle; it was a brutal thing with a wooden handle and a sixteen-inch long strip of heavy leather attached. My blood pooled on the dirty barn floor underneath my shattered face and I can remember gagging on it while it flowed from my mouth. I was beaten until my entire body was covered with welts and discolored for weeks.

To this day I have those long white scars on my face. The carefully rehearsed the story was consistent. I fell from the loft and landed on a sharp piece of tin. Mother dressed the wounds, but they never healed properly. Father called the school and told them I had chickenpox and kept me out of school for three weeks.

The scabs were still clearly visible when I went back to school; the principal had called me from my classroom and asked me what happened. I lied and told him that fabricated story about falling on tin. How desperately I wanted to tell him the truth, but remembered Father standing in the barn describing how he’d kill my mother if I didn’t lie. I knew he meant it and protected her by lying and remaining silent.

He forced his thoughts away from his brutal father and stood up. Come on dogs. I need to do something besides sit here and think. I’ll mow the lawn. Brad spent the day doing routine chores around the house just to keep occupied.

***

The next day proved to be cloudless just as the weather station had predicted. Western New York awoke under a deep blue sky and the bright sun assured another hot and humid late June day.

His image in the mirror looked back at him while he shaved. Scars dominated his face and even though his features were even and regular in every other aspect; the scars made him feel so ugly. Small children ran from him. He sadly laughed when he looked down at Daisy.

It looks like it’s just us, Daisy. I’m pretty damn ugly, but you don’t seem to mind do you girl?

His light brown hair was getting rather shaggy and he’d have to get his monthly haircut soon. He disliked his hair long because it would spill into his eyes and stick out from under the baseball cap he usually wore. Al, his barber, was one of the people he liked best in town. The man would tell him all kinds of gossip. Things about everyone in town and what was going on all around that part of the countryside and Brad always looked forward to his haircut. At least it was somewhat of a break in his lonely routine.

He thought his eyes his best feature. They were like his mother’s eyes; exactly the same shade of blue and he could see her clearly in himself. She used to tell him he had the most beautiful blue eyes she’d ever seen and how handsome he was. That was before the cow strap. Brad once asked her years ago when he was nine years old. "Mom, how come my last name is King and

Father’s last name is Johnson?"

He could remember her words exactly as she had spoken them. Honey, in my family if the girl is an only child she retains her last name of King even when she gets married. It’s just a tradition that the King family has practiced for well over a hundred years now and I’m not going to be the one to break it. Your father wasn’t real happy about it, but finally agreed. He even let your last name be King too. Your father was so different before you were born Brad; so different. I used to love him so very much.

He missed her badly and could remember the joy on her face whenever he’d bring her a small bunch of wildflowers from the fields. She couldn’t put them in a vase or even keep them in the house because father would insist that damn weeds had no place in his house. After her death, Brad found several of her favorite wildflowers, Black-Eyed Susan, pressed between the leaves of her small bible.

Brad had grown tall and strong working the farm as a boy and his daily explorations helped maintain that muscle tone. Sometimes he’d walk ten or fifteen miles through the forest and swamp always watchful and alert with the two dogs at his side.

Today he’d return to the limestone outcropping deep in the swamp. It was an enigma to him; why and how had it formed? Oak Orchard Creek ran close; perhaps its dark waters had cut through the rock eons ago leaving it standing stark and alone in the midst of the swamp. That was where the cave was; his father had first shown it to him on one of the many deer hunts he used to make Brad accompany him on.

This time he took the pistol and shotgun because they tried to force entry through his door. The first time they’d ventured that close to his home and actually tried to come inside the farmhouse. Besides, Ranger Smith had been explicit about the fact that nothing living in Oak Orchard Swamp could consume an entire adult deer in a day. Brad was now convinced that something emerged from the cave and took that doe. He couldn’t conceive of any other explanation. The fact that the bones were broken open and not gnawed bothered him the most. It would take an incredible feat of strength to break the leg bones of an adult deer into many pieces to consume the marrow.

He stood in the field just outside the swamp. Brad reached down and petted Daisy. That’s the first time I’ve ever found a deer kill like that. I think they took those two chickens I left as bait near the house too. We’ve never found a single track girl; never any sign of large animals in there except a fox or deer. What the hell are they eating?

The dogs preceded him by a few feet when they entered Oak Orchard. The fallen maple still spanned Oak Orchard Creek and Brad motioned for the dogs to stop. He stared at the creek’s dark water for a moment.

Geese by the thousands populate this whole area every spring and fall during their semiannual migration. They took the dead chickens I used for bait. Spring and fall they eat the damn geese; in the summer they take deer and other animals they hunt here in the swamp.

He moved up onto the maple and crossed over the water into the midst of the swamp. The dogs swan across the width of Oak Orchard Creek and actually arrived on the far bank before he did. They were well trained and always stayed within ten feet of him. When he stopped they did and when he moved they moved with him as a single entity.

Insects were plentiful during the summer and Brad always wore the same type of protective clothing. Long pants, long sleeve shirt, and hat were absolutely essential in Oak Orchard Swamp. Mosquitoes were everywhere and small black gnats proved a constant irritation. He’d learned to place a small wad of cotton in both ears to prevent the tiny insects from entering. He wasn’t concerned it might degrade his hearing; the dogs were really his ears anyway.

The limestone was close and he moved slowly and quietly toward it. Moss grew freely on the gray rock and Brad walked cautiously to avoid disturbing the growth near the entrance. He wondered if they were watching or listening to him approach from deep inside. He shined the flashlight into the entrance as he had many times before and saw nothing, but damp rock. This time he could smell a horrible rank odor. It was worse than it had ever been before and a putrid stench seemed to pour from inside the limestone entrance to the cave. He backed away from the opening; the cave was always permeated with an odor of dampness and mold, but never anything like this.

How could they enter and exit without leaving any tracks or sign? He walked over the rock and closely examined the branch of a large maple that grew near the eastern end of the limestone rock. The branch spread over the rock and he had to duck under it to move further along the limestone shelf. On the backside it looked worn and he moved nearer to look closer. It was worn for almost two feet along the branch of the tree and raw wood was partially exposed. Now he could understand how they moved away from the rock and into the forest. The tree’s branch extended over a large area of shallow stagnant water that pooled for almost fifty yards. Of course, the tree was the exit and entrance into the swamp. Brad sat the shotgun down and moved up into the tree; he could clearly see the branch extending further over the bog was also worn along its thick length. It would be so simple to lower or pull yourself from the shallow water. The branch must be how they covertly managed to make their way in and out of the area near the cave.

They’d finally tried to invade his territory by attempting to force entry into the farmhouse. Now he’d do the same to them. He walked a short distance into a wooded thicket and cut ten branches that were straight and sturdy. He sharpened both ends with his pocketknife and returned to the tree. Brad walked to the cave entrance and fired the shotgun into its dark interior twice. That would drive them back. He stepped into the water under what he suspected was the exit branch and pushed the stakes through the shallow bog and deep into the muddy bottom. Ten stakes altogether immediately under the branch where they would drop into the water. He’d return tomorrow to find out if his suspicions were correct. Hopefully one would drop from the tree onto one of the stakes and if they were disturbed he’d be able to confirm his theory.

He took the most direct route back to his farm. Whatever was out there was probably watching him and the dogs leave and move across the field back to his haven. He saw it as soon as he entered the yard. The bird feeder was torn to pieces; Brad couldn’t believe that it was actually ripped apart. His mother had loved that feeder and had sometimes called him into the kitchen to look at small finches or sometimes even a bluebird.

Damn you to hell. That feeder was my mother’s!

Chapter 3

His father had told him long ago that there was something in the cave that would get him. Brad sometimes dreamed of the dark entrance and the sound of something crawling from within. Tonight he would wait in the barn and watch the house from there. He attached two logs of suet to the same tree branch that had held the destroyed remnants of his mother’s bird feeder and went in the house to fix a good meal. No frozen dinner this time; he was starving and prepared two hefty ham sandwiches.

He closed and secured the door to the calf holding pen and the one to the grain storage area with a length of chain. The barn’s back windows he boarded up; that left only the single window that faced the house uncovered. The heavy sliding barn door itself he planned on chaining closed once he was securely inside for the night. Brad placed two strong beamed flashlights and extra shells for the shotgun next to the door and stood in the barn thinking.

That should do it. I guess I’m as prepared as I’ll ever be.

As he walked back toward the house he turned and glanced at the barn. Just before the sun sets the dogs and I will lock ourselves in the barn. If the dogs alert me or look agitated I’ll flick the switch next to the window that turns on the outside floodlight. If nothing else I should at least be able to get a glimpse of one that way.

It was barely noon; he slept for three hours in a living room chair with the dogs at his side and dreamed of his only short vacation. He heard his grandfather and grandmother were calling him from their front porch. He was only six and been allowed to spend two weeks with them in Watkins Glen. It was nestled in the heart of the Finger Lakes Region of New York that was so beautiful. That had been the best two weeks of his life. No beatings and no chores to complete in strict accordance with his father’s instructions. He’d gotten to play and splash in the lake and they even took him to an amusement park. He rode the merry-go-round and played several games on the midway. Brad had won a small stuffed bear by some quirt of luck and his grandparents let him sleep with it and take it with him when he rode in the car. He named his bear, Andy, and was so proud of the fact that he’d broken three balloons with darts and won it all by himself.

He was covered with perspiration when he woke and vividly remembered the contents of his dream.

I still hate him so much. Grandpa dropped me off at the farm two weeks later. I remember the goodbye hug for me and my mom before Grandpa left. After he drove away, Father burned Andy the Teddy Bear in the trash barrel out back. He’d said to me, I’m not going to have a son that plays with dolls. Later that night, he slapped me because of the stuffed bear. I cried for Andy my bear and for myself that night so many years ago. You bastard! I hope the devil turns up the heat. I’m glad you’re dead.

Both Daisy and Quenten looked uncomfortable and he let them exit the back door. The suet blocks he’d attached to the branch were gone and Brad made his way to the barn. It remained as he left it but he decided to stay in the house tonight instead of the barn. The missing suet bothered him deeply.

They’re getting bolder.

Brad’s uneasiness grew stronger;they’d raided in the daylight and took the suet.

He watched the fringe of the forest until the sun dipped below the horizon. The darkness passed without any repeat of previous activity. Daisy and Quenten lay quietly on the kitchen floor and never interrupted his vigil or alerted him. There was no rattling of doorknobs or moans from outside the house. He’d finally fallen asleep in the kitchen chair and awoke just prior to sunrise.

He turned on the old radio that sat on a shelf near the kitchen table. A local station that broadcasts from only twenty miles away always seemed to have the most accurate weather report. It was only a couple of minutes until they broadcast the news and weather report on the half-hour and he half-heartedly listened to the news while waiting for the weather report.

Brad heard the announcer’s voice:

The search continues for Cathy and Cindy Peterson, who disappeared yesterday morning while picking wild blackberries near Oak Orchard Creek in Shelby, New York. No trace of the two girls has been found. Local law enforcement, as well as many volunteers, continue to scour the area for the girls. Cathy, eight, and Cindy, ten, still haven’t been located after twenty-four hours of intensive searching. Authorities have not provided any other details except that both Peterson girls have light blonde hair and were wearing red baseball caps, jeans, and white T-shirts. They were last seen crossing the dam on the outskirts of Shelby. Anyone having any information about the two children or wanting to assist in the search should contact the New York State Troopers immediately.

Brad quickly got up from his chair. That’s only a few miles from here. Good God in heaven, I hope they find those kids. His thoughts were almost out of control now and he pulled himself away from thinking about how the doe was taken. Come on dogs. Let’s get out of here for an hour or so.

***

Brad drove into the small town and went directly to the only hardware store to purchase four motion sensor lights and several boxes of ammunition. The dogs rode in the back of his truck and were trained to stay in the pickup’s bed.

The grocery wasn’t a large chain store, but contained what he needed. Two cases of bottled soda and other supplies went into the cart along with twelve frozen whole chickens. In fact, he needed two carts after he picked up a large bag of dog food. His supplies were loaded in the back of the truck with the dogs and he allowed himself his only frivolous indulgence. A two-scoop strawberry and cream cone from the Ice Cream Shop.

He just wanted to see her; ice cream wasn’t his real motivation for stopping. When he walked in he immediately spotted Tara who worked in her father’s shop. He always felt so awkward when he asked her for a double scoop of ice cream. He’d never had much ice cream in his life; why he liked this flavor he never knew. It just seemed right.

Brad ordered a double scoop cone and watched her pile the ice cream to almost overflowing. She was so beautiful and her large blue eyes seemed to engulf him when he’d politely asked for the cone. Her hair shimmered like gold and her smile almost overpowered his senses; he’d loved her since his freshman year in school.

Tara put the final scoop of ice cream on the cone and glanced up at Brad. He was a strong man and looked like it. She wondered why he was so shy and would always avoid looking her directly in the eye when he ordered?

He would always stop in, pay, thank her, and immediately leave after he got his cone. He never said another thing like, hello, Tara, how’s it going, or hey beautiful, or any of the other meaningless things some young men said to her. The other boys she’d dated in school now seemed so shallow. Many of them spent their lives trying to relive the lost glory of small town football or other bygone things discussed in local taverns. She’d been caught up in it also as a cheerleader and athlete in her own right. But that was so trivial now; past glory was just that, past.

She vividly remembered Brad from her days in the town’s small school. He’d been a quiet boy who never seemed to be involved in anything except the classroom. He was never a part of the excitement of school life and never at any dances or anything else. A farm boy who walked the halls with his head down avoiding others glances and withdrawn to the point of being introverted. She always gave Brad an extra scoop; Tara was only twenty-two and still unsure of exactly what she wanted from life.

Finally, just as he was about to shyly thank her for his cone, she asked, Are you going to come into town for the Fourth of July Celebration in the park?

He looked her in the eye. Well, I always wanted to, but feel pretty stupid by myself. I’m not much on carnivals or fireworks.

She smiled at him. Saturday I’ll be at the Ferris wheel at two in the afternoon. If you want to ride, I’d like it if you rode with me. Heck, I’ll even buy our tickets.

He was totally shocked to think that she might be interested in him and what he did on the Fourth of July. Brad stood there for a moment with his cone starting to drip and just looked at the girl he’d dreamed of for so long. Finally he responded, I’ll be there and I’ll buy the tickets.

She smiled at him again. Whatever you want is fine with me, as long as we get to ride together.

The scars on his face stood out so white in stark relief against his red face. Tara wondered how he got them. I’ll be looking forward to seeing you.

You can bet that I’ll be there at two o’clock on Saturday.

***

He drove home still wondering if he had really gotten an opportunity to ride the Ferris wheel with the most beautiful woman in town. Town, hell! New York!

Tara was about five eight and had the most beautiful shade of yellow hair he’d ever seen; that smile and her blue eyes. It was a miracle she wasn’t married by now. She’d only dated the very popular boys when they were in school. Tara was just one year behind him and must be at least twenty-one by now. She’d been the most sought after girl in school and he used to anticipate each day at school just to catch a simple glimpse of her. She was so beautiful and would always smile or she’d say hey, how’s it going to the other kids; even him once in awhile if he caught her eye. Brad knew she was very intelligent and had graduated high at the top of her class.

Why hadn’t Tara gone to college? A girl like her could do so much better than working in her father’s small store.

His time in school hadn’t been happy and seeing her was the only bright spot in his dreary days. His mother and father had never attended parent teacher conferences or anything else. He knew he missed so much, but the farm always came first and he hadn’t any other choice. He said aloud, I can’t screw this up; it’s my one chance to actually be with her for a few minutes.

When he turned the truck onto Hanscom Road he recalled his request to his father for some money to buy a yearbook when he became a senior.

The young boys and girls in my graduating class all had their activities listed under their senior pictures; mine had nothing under it. No football, no clubs, nothing. It could have said abused, neglected, beaten down, and worked half-to-death, but instead was just blank. I looked at the yearbooks the other