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Down in the Dirt v052

IT’S DEAD ON

Jeremy Billingsley

I
THE GRANDFATHER: ARTHUR CORNELL
HIS GRANDSON: MATT—AGE 10


    Matt studied the sketch in the back of the minivan, oblivious to the talk of his parents. His dad smiled into the rearview mirror; his mom saw but Matt didn’t. Matt had his sketch pad on his lap, folded open to the latest penciling to which he was adding the finishing touches. It was a portrait of the family dog—the black lab—Frazzle. Frazzle had posed for a headshot, sitting down. From that shot Matt had sketched this portrait. And it was dead on.
    “It’s dead on,” Matt’s father said, glancing again into the rearview mirror. Turning around in the passenger’s side captain’s chair, Matt’s mother—smiling—examined the picture. It was obvious that she had missed the enthusiasm in her husband’s voice, because her jaw dropped, her expression changed from a complacent That’s nice, dear countenance, to one of awe. If she could speak, she would have said the same thing.
    “What’s that mean, Dad?” Matt asked. He was a bright kid for ten, but that was a new one on him. He maybe had heard his father use a similar phrase before, but it hadn’t caught his attention until now.
    “It means it looks exactly like Frazzle.”
    Matt frowned for a moment, and then perked up. “If I stay with you guys for the summer then maybe I could do more pictures of Frazzle. And of the house and of the yard and of the street and of the neighborhood and of the ...”
    His mother faced front again. “Nope,” was out of her mouth quickly.
    “Your mom’s right, pal. Your grandfather wants to see you.”
    Matt slumped down in the seat, frowning, arms folded across his chest, nostrils flaring. This had been the source of nightmares for some time. His grandfather was an outdoorsman, loved nature, didn’t own a television—just a radio he kept on the oldies station. He was vocal about the waste of time of books, so, Matt figured, his grandfather wouldn’t be too keen on drawings, either.
    “You can still draw them, honey,” his mom said. “Just imagine them.”
    “I can’t!”
    His father’s eyes went to straight to the mirror and his mom spun in her seat, a look of shock on both their faces. Matt’s eyes welled up; he looked frightened, and only after he took a few breaths did he explain.
    “I only draw what I know is real, and I only know something is real if I see it. I’m scared to draw something if I can’t see it.”
    “Everything will be okay, honey,” his mother tried. Her hand touched his quivering knee; she looked to his dad with worry.
    “I don’t want to leave you guys,” Matt said, then, staring into his mother’s eyes.
    “Your grandfather will take care of you,” his father answered. But for a while, that wasn’t good enough.

    They drove. They stopped for gas and the parents found that the simplest way to turn him from his fears was, surprisingly, to draw them away. They pointed out a cow in the field and Matt drew the whole scene. They rounded a bend to a breathtaking view of the Ozark hills, and Matt sketched it. And always was the touch of realism, the shading, the layering and texturing—you could feel the bark on the trees and almost hear the leaves fluttering in the breeze. Matt was on a role, and as the light faded, his dad flicked on the interior light and asked Matt to sketch what he saw. His human profiles were accurate. There his mother turned around in her seat, smiling at him. There his father behind the wheel—we see the back of his head and in the mirror, the reflection of his eyes. The seats and dash were detailed, the glass of the windows held the glare at the right angles, and everything seemed normal and in place. Outside (the van had stopped at a country four-way, as Matt included the finishing touches) trees and brush and hills were there, but silhouetted against a deep purple sky. Stars were luminescent, amassing around a crescent moon, jaundice and hanging just above the tree line.
    Matt frowned as he drew the last detail—cat-like eyes peering out from the underbrush, eyes devoid of irises or pupils or detail of any sort, except that they were a deeper shade of the pencil’s gray than, say the moon. It was no stretch of the imagination to know that these eyes were red, even in this black and white picture.
    His mother commented on them and Matt just shrugged them off; he stared out the window to his right, to just past the stop sign where the big oak stood against that barbed wire fence. He turned in his seat and espied the area for as long as he could, until they topped a hill and he lost sight, and then they were there.
    Gravel popped under the tires. The house was one-story, ranch-style, brick and siding with a brick fireplace. The porch light came on and Matt’s grandfather stepped out, waving to them. And as at the end of any long trek, the last leg began, the scramble to exit the car with all baggage and all the drama of releasing what once was confined.
    Matt’s father pulled the grandfather aside, while Matt’s mom helped Matt get ready. Presently all were inside, and the grandfather approached Matt gravely. The boy was seated in the loveseat in the living room—quiet and timid—clutching his sketchpad. Matt was small for his age.
    “Can I see your drawings?” the old man asked.
    He had only met his grandfather a handful of times. He stared up at the stranger looming over him, nearly every inch of his body quivering. Finally, timidly, he handed his sketches over. Then he watched a smile creep to Arthur Cornell’s lips.
    “Very good,” Arthur said, but in his eyes was the same awe Matt’s mother and father had shown.

II
THE LEGEND


    It took Arthur several days to prove that he was not going to hinder his grandson’s creative spark. Realizing the task needed work and compromise, Arthur started by leading Matt outside—much to Matt’s chagrin—to draw. Arthur introduced Matt to a whole natural world full of rocks and flowers and fields of hay and streams and brush and trees and hills and plains and ponds, of cows and deer and fish and squirrels, of birds. And Arthur spurred the boy on. He reminded Matt to grab his sketchpad and pencils when the two were set for their walks.
    Never did the boy disappoint; he drew what his grandfather showed him. They walked longer and longer, and Matt began to see the value of outside. Arthur’s lessons came after his grandson went to bed, and he began to thumb through the sketchpads, looking at all the drawings.

    By the end of the first week, Matt actually smiled when Arthur suggested they go for a walk. It was just after breakfast when he gathered his freshest sketchpad and pouch of pencils, but a sudden thought stopped him. It was one of those worrisome thoughts that are ever so important to boys, incessantly asked until they had an adequate answer.
    “But we walked everywhere,” was the best way his question could be posed.
    To which Arthur laughed.
    “I got lots of land, boy. I got nearly two hundred acres, and only eighty in pasture. We ain’t touched the surface yet.”
    Arthur walked and Matt followed. He asked his grandfather if they could walk to the end and happily, Arthur obliged. Matt watched Arthur stare at the canopy of limbs and cock his head toward the chirping birds of various species.
    They walked up and down the woven path, under the trees, as forest undergrowth began to bloom. Stretching vines tried to trip them up as their feet stepped on saggy leaves and the moist dirt floor. Cedars were spaced intermittent among the oaks, the silver-leafed maples. Hints at a blue sky and sun spotlighted irregular points on the forest floor. There was a lot to draw here, but still they kept moving.
    “Draw me a stream,” Arthur said. He sat upon a stump, smoking a cigarette; Matt stood dutifully beside him. “It rambles through some gentle hills.”
    Matt began to draw. It took him twenty minutes, and in that time Arthur rested, smoking his cigarettes as the boy brought something he imagined to life.
    They walked and for Matt, it seemed to take forever. They followed more of a dirt path and more of the same scene. It was worthy of a picture, but it was commonplace. Matt frowned and found himself sweating and wondering how far they had to go, until they topped another hill, and found the path blocked by a single strand of barbed wire. But it lent a hell of a view—as his dad might have said.
    To their left and their right, the bluff and the wire continued. In front their path continued down a very steep path that all but vanished before them. The path down the hill was surrounded by rocks and shrub, a few pines smattered on the vertical terrain, little growth; impeded by the single strand of barbed wire.
    To look at the fencing, one would think it was of little value. It was a single strand of barbed wire and the barbs weren’t evenly spaced. Arthur did not seem amazed that Matt noticed this eccentricity.
    “Why do you think it’s like that?” Arthur asked.
    The boy frowned.
    He looked downhill. Down the hill, even the bright green of the cedars and pines seemed scarce. Everything was gray, like spring had yet to hit. What green there was seemed an accident. Rocks were more appropriate. Dead trees were more appropriate.
    “You’re trying to keep something out,” Matt said finally, firmly.
    Despite himself, Arthur smiled. From his pocket he pulled another cigarette and lit it, took a puff and sighed with smoke, curling from his lips. He closed his eyes in ecstasy.
    “Do you remember the picture of the stream and the hills?” Arthur asked.
    Matt nodded.
    “Do you think you could add a cave?”
    Matt immediately sat upon a flattened rock and flipped his pad to an empty page. Again he began to sketch the stream, the hills, and Arthur had to stop him, a bemused look upon the grandfather’s face.
    “The last picture was finished,” the boy said, simply. “This is a new picture, is all.”
    And he drew. He recaptured accurately the originally picture of this Ozark stream passing through some gently sloping hills, and then as naturally as Monet, he incorporated a cave’s opening.

    All through dinner Matt stared at his new picture, particularly at the mouth of the cave. There was something missing, he was sure, but he didn’t know what. He studied, taking a bite only when his grandfather reminded him there was food on his plate. He missed Arthur’s sad gaze to his own plate.
    Matt waited, after the entire house was dark, and the evening news had been muffled. His blanket tucked under his neck, he was warm and secure in the covers. But his mind was working; Matt would not sleep tonight. He had to know what was beyond the barbed wire. Whatever it was, he knew it was linked to the cave in his drawing.
    Matt waited until the sounds of life had died down in the house, and then he folded back the covers. His feet touched carpet and he waited, eyes unblinking, until his vision adjusted. He could make out shapes and obstacles, tints and shades, just enough to maneuver quietly. Nervous but confident, the ten-year-old boy dressed in relative silence.
    He opened his door a crack and listened into the darkness. No sound. No light. The darkness was as inviting as it was unnerving. Matt stepped into the hall and pulled the door too behind him.
    The latching door stopped him. He imagined a world of sound but in the darkness, nothing came. It would almost be reassuring if his grandfather opened the door, Matt realized then. Then whatever was lurking in the cave wouldn’t be after him.
    Not just in the cave, a little voice in his mind said—it sounded like his own but not really. Thinking back, Matt remembered the eyes. He had drawn them into the picture of the interior of the van. Even then it was watching him.
    He had to get to the barbed wire.
    Every floorboard creaked with every step he took, and Matt wasn’t sure until he pulled the front door too—and paused to wait as no light came on and no sound was made—that he had escaped. As he walked across the yard, the butterflies settled. As he climbed over the corner post of the fence that separated yard from field, and he walked briskly past the sleeping heifers in the pasture, he gazed back intermittently to see a darkened house, and so felt a little better.
    Matt walked down the hill sloping toward the pond, saw a cow—perhaps searching for a midnight drink—lowering its lips to the water’s surface. It espied him as he walked past, and he met the cow’s eyes.
    Don’t go!
    But cows don’t speak, he scolded himself.
    Matt reached the southwest corner of his grandfather’s pasture, stopped to catch a breath and looked back. The field was dark. Silhouettes and shades and shadows permeated Matt, and thinking about the eyes, the boy again came unnerved. He was visibly shaking, but the urge to mount the fence was something primeval. He had to know what was beyond. He had to see the barbed wire, and what it could possibly restrain. Consumed by the eyes, he climbed the fence, and began down the moonlit path into the wilderness. He was oblivious to the two forces stalking him: one with a flashlight whose beam focused on a certain point; one guided by smell and a keen sense of night vision.
    The land traversed was familiar even in the night, and Matt didn’t even have to get his bearings. He saw but he didn’t see. He walked, knowing where he was going, but not conscious of it. He was lost between sleepwalking and somnolence. He recognized where his grandfather had paused in reflection, trees and shrubs and such landscape points. He followed the trail onward, until his chest smacked against something sharp. It was a pointed jab; Matt could feel the blood instantly.
    His hand reached up first, tugging at whatever invisible thing snagged his shirt in the darkness. It was a wrinkle in his line of sight, a simple snap that made Matt realize he had reached the threshold. The barbed wire had snagged him, as it was supposed to do. His eyes adjusting again, Matt saw the hill fall away, the winteriness below. Everywhere else spring was in full bloom. The season had birthed with the bloom of the dogwoods, leading quickly into the Easter season. Overnight, the grass had greened and more trees had bloomed. Aside from a few late bloomers, nature had recognized spring. Except down the hill; Matt could still see the gray. Nothing was blooming.
    The moon broke through the clouds and illuminated everything, painting the scene in navy. Uphill, color struggled to break through. Downhill was bare—the dark, the gray seemed to fit. Matt listened to the scuffling of things in the underbrush, things unseen, and it happened, that as he fully awoke, he became afraid. His imagination kicked in and he could imagine some pretty wild things, sneaking around out there.
    “But none of it’s real,” he whispered, and the sound of his own voice calmed him.
    Then from down the hill came a sound, unlike anything the boy had ever heard. Looking that direction he saw the eyes, millions of red eyes, highlighted and bright and sanguine and not tainted by the navy. He blinked and backed away, and imagined some of the eyes nearing. And then something strange happened. Most of the eyes blinked out. They were gone, and only a single pair stared up at him. He couldn’t tell if they were moving, but he would have been surprised if they weren’t. They were featureless, as all the eyes had been, and the same shade of red as all the others, but still he recognized them. These were the eyes he had seen the night his parents brought him up, and these were the eyes he imagined in the picture he had drawn.
    He took another step back.
    Long fingers wrapped about his shoulder blade; he was yanked nearly off his feet.
    Spun around before he could scream, his imagination told him that he was going to face the rest of the eyes. They had ambushed him, blinked out and snuck around and now they were here, ready to eat him up. No, not eat him up, but play with him until the other one arrived. It would eat him up. It ... was his grandfather.
    Arthur stared down at the boy with a solemn disapproval on his countenance. The old man tore his eyes from Matt as he raised his left arm, a pistol in his hand. Glaring down the hill, the old man pulled the trigger. Matt looked back, away from the gunfire, but he didn’t see the eyes.
    “Come on,” Arthur said. “We still need to go.”
    And so they left, and didn’t speak again until they were sitting in the living room, Arthur standing by the fireplace, frowning, looking at the ground.
    “Torture from you to me,” Arthur mumbled. “We’ve always called it the Aminal,” he said to start. “The kids in town named it, years ago, when the first disappearances happened. Now we all just know. A child goes missing, the Aminal.
    “The Aminal takes children. It has taken many children, over the years. It looks kind of like a wolf, but it is the size of a cow. Your Aunt Shelly saw it. She isn’t like most people though. Most people who see it become obsessed with it. And then they disappear. We’ve had a few adults, but most have been children.”
    The two locked eyes and stayed silent. This lasted a moment.
    “Now get back to bed,” Arthur said finally.
    Matt rushed to him; hugged him. Arthur hugged back. Matt returned to his room.
    He undressed and put on his pajamas quickly, and laid down in bed. Pulling the covers up, he could hear his grandfather through the wall, coughing, shuffling about—probably undressing and going to bed himself—and stared straight out the window.
    The curtains were pulled back; the blinds were drawn up. Blackness stared in at him, framed like a portrait, though a portrait missing something.
    Red eyes.
    Throwing the covers back, hopping out of bed, Matt rushed to the cord that controlled the blinds and yanked it. The blinds crashed to the windowsill. Unhooking the satin cords, the curtains fell and closed, and the blackness was gone.
    Matt laid back down and pulled the covers up. He felt safe under the covers. He believed, as most children believe, that the monster can’t get you if you are covered up. So he tucked himself in nice and tight. He forced his eyes shut, took a few deep breaths, and then settled into the mattress.

    Arthur laid in bed in the dark, thinking. The Aminal had taken many children. He had watched it over the years, watched each of his friends fall into mourning. Frank Cross lost a son, some thirty years ago. Barry Levi lost a daughter five years after that. For some it skipped a generation. Kelly O’Roarke from Chicago had his grandkid to visit one summer about ten years ago—just a toddler—and the boy went missing one early June morning while they were getting ready to go fishing. And when Arthur was a kid, he remembered stories. He had friends that went missing.
    The Aminal. Always the Aminal.
    Even at seventy-five, the mere thought of the thing sent shivers down his spine, to turn an old phrase. Still the one questioned remained, and to it, Arthur had no answer.
    Why?
    He loved his grandson. He relished in the boy’s talent. So why even introduce it?
    They had hunted it, once. It had taken the mayor’s nephew, back in ‘77. Still a younger man, Arthur—then a volunteer fireman and a deputy for Sheriff Larsen (Godresthissoul)—led the hunt. It was never a question for any of these people in this rural community if this creature ever existed.
    Some twenty men tracked the Aminal in the wee hours of the morning, in separate packs of five. No Dogs. They followed tracks. They found first a stream, ambling through a gently sloping series of hills. They found a cave. Four went in. Arthur and the others heard a cry—“Red Eyes! Red Eyes!” And then they heard gunshots. They heard a growl and then all went silent. When the smoke wafting out the mouth of the cave evaporated, and no one came out, Arthur called. When no one answered, Arthur motioned and five guys inched forward behind him, gripping their guns like aimed teddy bears, quivering.
    The four lay in the semi-darkness, mauled. The official report said missing. As the darkness enclosed the six armed men, as they pressed together, the heat wafted up from below. In front of them, as near as they could tell, the cave fell gradually; the wind softly rising from the depths was that of a furnace, not cool, as most Ozark caves. That was about all Arthur had time to notice before the eyes blinked and stared, and all six men opened fire.
    The eyes were red, feline in shape, featureless. There was a growl, a guttural rumble emanating from this thing, and it didn’t take long for the order. Shotguns and rifles fired at Arthur’s command. The eyes stared. They unloaded their casings into the darkness, at the eyes, but the eyes remained unmoving, and when the guns stopped and the echoes faded, just below the ringing in their ears, Arthur and the men could hear it. It growled louder.
    And then other eyes opened. Further back and further down, other red, almond-shaped, featureless eyes opened. The six backed out of the cave.
    “Plan B” Arthur called out, and eight more guys carried up bundles of dynamite, wired to one charger. The bundles were set inside the mouth of the cave, even as one guy asked about the first group that went in.
    Arthur didn’t answer.
    The charges were set. When the living stepped back—no barrel left the mouth of the cave, and nothing emerged into the sunlight—the charges were ignited, and the mouth of the cave and half the hillside fell in, burying the mauled men and the red eyes.
    Tonight Arthur had seen all the eyes.
    Sniffling broke his concentration. The sound came from an adjacent room. Walking down a u-shaped hall, opening a door, Arthur found Matt laying in the fetal position in bed, the source of the sniffling.
    The grandfather sat on the side of the bed, pulled back the covers, stroked the boy’s back. After a moment, the boy spoke.
    “I don’t like to imagination things, when I draw.”
    The grandfather realized his mistake immediately.
    “The last time I used my imagination, Mommy got hurt. I didn’t use my imagination in a good way.”
    “What happened?” Arthur asked; he did the best he could to mask the concern.
    “Mommy and Daddy were fighting, and I wasn’t happy. They told me to stay in my room, but I could still hear them. I imagined Mommy got hurt, and I wanted to draw, and I started to draw. I drawed Mommy and Daddy fighting. I didn’t really want to, but I could hear them. I drawed Mommy getting hurt. And Daddy hurt her.”
    “I’m here,” Arthur said. He rubbed the boy’s back and hovered over, until Matt drifted back to sleep. He stayed a while longer, looking at his grandson, thanking his lucky stars that the curse that had struck his friends had avoided him. And he felt lucky, that the draw of the Aminal had not enthralled his family.

III
N AUGUST


    Two days before the birthday party, Arthur pulled a large tarp out of the shed and tied it to limbs of four trees, some fifteen feet overhead. Matt steadied the ladder for his grandfather. Then Arthur contacted an old friend at the school, and he and Matt drove the old pickup into town, returning with a truckload of metal folding chairs and three eight-foot tables.
    Through this the phone kept ringing.
    As they put the finishing touches on a banner reading CANTRELL FAMILY REUNION—incorporating Matt’s special talent—Arthur found his grandson frowning.
    “But it’s my birthday,” Matt said, like someone forgot.
    “We are using the occasion of your birthday to bring the whole family together.”
    Matt scratched his head with the end of his pencil. “You mean all our family is coming to celebrate my birthday?”
    “Yep,” and Arthur meant it.

    With all this preparation, there still wasn’t enough seating. The house was full. Kids ran around with balloons and cap guns they won in the pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey game. Others sucked on lollipops and ate Tootsie Rolls and Sugar Daddies they won out of the busted pi–ata. The garage door was opened. Lawn chairs were placed on the concrete slab between the garage and the gravel drive. There was just enough concrete for the kids to draw a hop-scotch game in chalk.
    Relatives Matt had never heard of—but he recognized from his drawings of their headshots on the banner—congratulated him on turning eleven, while those same people hugged Arthur. Arthur had come to believe he would never see some of them again, it had been so long. The cake was brought out and the audience focused on Matt, who walked to the table as nervous as a freshman politician at his first debate. His smile frozen, his eyes unblinking, Matt stood behind the flickering candles, as the wind threatened to blow them out. To his left stood Arthur. To his right stood his parents. In front of him the nameless horde that swore they were his family.
    They all sang. And when they finished, expectant eyes were upon him. For a flicker of a second Matt swore the eyes were red, but he took a deep breath. The eyes were normal; Matt blew.
    The candles flickered, but the wind and breath were too much.The candles all went out.
    The cheer sent the birds in haste from the trees; flutter of wings as thunderous as the applause that this child’s wish had come true. Only when the moment of truth had come, and the wish had sprung to life in his own mind, did Matt realize what it was he truly wanted, and the notion that it was going to happen completely shocked him. He saw sanguine eyes again in his adoring loved ones, and after the blowout felt as though he had collapsed.
    His parents ushered him toward the living room, along with his grandfather and Aunt Shelly, and Matt obliged. He walked and was cognizant of everything, but responded to nothing. Like a zombie Matt sat on the marble hearth, his body framed by the brick fireplace. Aunt Shelly sat in a recliner, as did Arthur. Matt’s parents took the loveseat adjacent to the couch—all were situated in a very conversational way—and old times were discussed. To Matt it felt inevitable that the conversation turned to the Aminal.
    “I saw it,” Aunt Shelly said, to start, “and I wasn’t a child.”
    They had disclosed—without Matt’s participation—the midnight sojourn he had taken to the brink of the Aminal’s lair, and how Grandpa Arthur had arrived just in time. Of course Matt’s dad laughed it all away, but Arthur remained ardent in his narrative, and Matt only listened, occasionally nodded.
    “I was driving one night, back home, when I still lived off County Road 314. I had just hit the gravel when I glanced over to the ditch and saw the eyes, those red eyes. I thought wolf at first, but it was standing as tall as a cow. It seemed to take notice of me, and it howled. Or it growled. I couldn’t tell, but the neck tilted back and some sound came out.
    “I slammed on the gas and spun the back tires and fishtailed just about in order to escape, and that thing watched me. And then it followed.” She laughed, a humorless joke to herself.
    “I was doing seventy on gravel and it was keeping pace. I could see it out my passenger-side window. It looked almost like a wolf but not quite. It had human features. It stood as tall as a full grown cow, though, and that is something that no wolf could ever do. I looked into its eyes. I saw its eyes, more than anyone else had ever seen its eyes, I suppose.”
    Matt kept silent. There were lots of kids that went missing, due to the Aminal. They probably saw its real eyes, too, he thought. They probably saw its real eyes, before—

    They had laughed, Matt thought, as he crawled out of bed. He was quiet. It was still dark, and he was sure that no one was awake. His parents and his aunt and his grandfather had laughed at his aunt’s story. Only his grandfather had looked at him, with a kind of serious look that replaced the laugh. But it was only for a second; Matt had tried to smile.
    He felt like an experienced dresser in the dark. He walked through the halls, and imagined the old black and white movies his dad watched, about the prisoner, spread-eagle across the wall, dressed in pinstripes and wearing a burglar’s mask, inching along the brick wall and freezing when the spotlight danced across. The spotlight danced across when he came to the archway of the kitchen, the light still on.
    His grandfather sat with his back to him, alone in the kitchen. Arthur seemed sad, or deep in thought. Matt didn’t stick around to find out which. He returned to his room, flicked on the light, and noticed all the pictures he had drawn over the summer, stacked neatly on his dresser.
    Seated on the edge of his bed, the pictures on his lap, he began to sort through them. They were loose, and as he viewed each, he laid it face down beside him on the mattress. The last picture was not completed—Matt knew—as he stared at it.
    There was a stream, and some gently rolling hills, and a cave, and stepping stones leading across the stream. There was barbed wire stretched across the nearest side of the stream, and flowers by the mouth’s cave. But something was missing.

    Wind slapped at the eaves with a screech; the house moaned in response. Albert tried to remember if the weather forecast called for a storm, even as he caught the faint sounds of rattling somewhere deep within the house. He stood, took a step toward the living room, then stopped and turned. Just behind the kitchen a crooked hall bent to the back set of bedrooms. Arthur stepped into the darkness and heard the strange sound more clearly. Like cards, shuffling, muffled only by the wind outside.
    Like flapping, he thought, as he followed the sound—no cards, wait. It’s a whipping noise. From behind he heard Matt’s dad groggily ask what the noise was. Seeing Matt’s parents triggered a spark in Arthur. Not enough to connect all the pieces, yet, but more a sick sense that he knew what was coming, he just didn’t want to admit it. In that instant, Arthur understood what the sound was.
    Despite the wind, the door opened easily enough, gaining them access.
    All of Matt’s drawings flapped and fluttered about the room. The screeching wind had found an entrance into the old house via a window in Matt’s room. Where Matt should have been laying on the bed, however, lay only a single picture atop the covers. It was undisturbed by the wind.
    The parents called for the child; Arthur sank to his knees and pulled the picture close.
    The picture was of a familiar scene, a stream or a brook, ambling down a gently sloping hill, a series of stepping stones leading across the water, and a cave on the opposite side. On this side of the stream, a single strand of barbed wire, and in the cave, a pair of eyes. Just stepping across to the other side, a little boy.
    Arthur cried.



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