Song of a Lost Child: A Horror Novel (Invasive Species Book 1) Read online

  Song of a Lost Child

  Invasive Species: Book One

  Craig Wesley Wall

  Broken Nose Books

  Song of a Lost Child

  Copyright © 2017 by Craig Wesley Wall

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Book cover by The Cover Collection

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  I. The Swamp Potato War

  II. A Feast Of Vengeance

  III. The Left Hand Path

  Epilogue

  Thanks for Reading!

  Newsletter

  About the Author

  Also by Craig Wesley Wall

  Prologue

  May 26th, 1982

  Jerry Harris ran faster than he’d ever run in his entire life, his fear of the twins much greater than his fear of succumbing to his asthma. Deeper and deeper into unknown territory he fled, taking hits from the inhaler on the fly, the sounds of his pursuers driving him forward. He focused on every stride, realizing one misstep could alter the course of his life.

  “Get that spider-queer!” shouted Andy, forcing another bout of snickers from his twin brother.

  Jerry missed out on this last bit of Andy Reed witticism. All he could hear now were the hissing breaths from his overtaxed lungs, performing the perfect impression of a torn bellows as they stoked the cold fire in his chest. His tired mind raced, searching for a way to elude the twins before his lungs gave up altogether.

  The trail brought Jerry to a fork, splitting off in two directions. He stopped here to catch his breath and decide which way to take: right or left. The right-hand trail appeared worn and clear from use; Jerry could see a good distance down before it turned sharply. The left looked overgrown, almost non-existent, the entrance more of a suggestion than an actual opening, obviously not used often. Jerry inhaled more of the bitter medicine, wiped sweat from his forehead, and made a quick decision—take the left-hand path. The overgrowth would slow the bigger boys down and give him more coverage, more places to hide. The other trail would leave him too exposed until he made the turn; the twins would see him before he reached the bend. His mind made up, Jerry faced left, took one step toward his salvation, and stopped. He froze, unable to move, rigid as a statue.

  Something was wrong. An invisible force glued Jerry’s feet to the ground. Crippling dread overshadowed his fear of the twins. His torso prickled with goose bumps, his sweat-soaked shirt like ice on his skin. He wanted to move forward but his flesh quaked and his mind screamed for him to turn away, take the other trail, to go any way but this one. The tall trees loomed before Jerry, pushing against him.

  An approaching shout from one of the brothers broke the spell, overruling any fears or doubts Jerry had about the trail. The Reed brothers scared Jerry more than the path less taken any day. Plunging into the overgrowth, he moved at a sluggish jog.

  Pushing aside palm fronds and branches, Jerry ventured deeper down the menacing path, his misgivings fading the further he went, the terror seeping away. The trail seemed like any other part of the woods now—unfamiliar, but ordinary. Sawgrass sliced his flesh, drawing beads of blood across his hands and arms, but he refused to stop moving until the twins’ shouts were weak in the distance. He slowed his pace, trying his best to creep through the dense brush without making a ruckus.

  The brothers stopped at the vacated fork, catching their breath.

  Between mouthfuls of air, Andy said, “You take the left and I'll go right.”

  “We should stick together,” Jason said, his voice quavering.

  “Don't be a pussy, that dork weighs half as much as you.”

  “I'm not afraid of him, you moron … it's just … .”

  “What?” asked Andy, knowing exactly what his brother was talking about. They never took the left trail. It had been an unspoken rule as long as they could remember. The path just seemed … wrong. It always has.

  “Okay,” Andy said, nodding and jabbing his thumb to the right. “We stick together and check this way, he wouldn't go that way anyhow. And if we don't find him it ain't no big deal, we got all summer to kick his scrawny ass.”

  The brothers plodded down the familiar open trail, shouting their prey's name, taunting him with false conditions of surrender.

  Tired, bleeding, his lungs being squeezed by unseen hands, Jerry halted and sat down. Another slug from the inhaler that hung from a string around his thin neck calmed his wheezing and raw nerves. The forest surrounded him on all sides, actually comforting him, as if he were in the womb of the woods. He stayed that way for a while, tempted to lie back and fall asleep right where he sat, but the fear of waking in the dark—or worse, being awakened by the twins—proved enough to get him on his feet and moving once again.

  Jerry stood and listened for several seconds. Birds chirped and insects buzzed. His pursuers were either being quiet or had moved further away, out of earshot. He decided to take a gamble and head back the way he'd came, back to the safety of the group. Jerry knew he could still find his way back, and that venturing any further would put him at risk of being dangerously lost. He crept forward, back toward the fork, careful not to make any unnecessary noises, eager to be out of the thick woods.

  Jerry managed ten paces when a commotion in front of him stopped his legs mid-stride: the sound of movement through the brush. He eased his foot to the forest floor, and waited for the noise to repeat itself. The rustling of leaves and the sharp snap of a branch caused his heart to knock on his chest like a fist. Terrified, Jerry spun and continued his flight deeper into uncharted territory, convinced the brothers had found him. Unseen behind Jerry, a harmless Armadillo crossed the footpath and scooted through the vegetation on the other side, unaware of the events it had forced into motion.

  Jerry moved faster now, turning to look to his rear every few seconds, certain he would see the Reed twins behind him, their sneering faces parting the greenery. He even mistook the clamor of his own struggle through the overgrowth, sure the twins were hot on his tail. His attention diverted, Jerry didn't see the wall of vines blocking the trail until he became trapped in it, snaring him like a fly in a web.

  Panicking, Jerry cried out, thrashing his arms, his fear causing him to believe it actually was a giant web. He freed his limbs—dry vines and thin branches clinging to his hair and shirt—and took several shambling steps back, gasping for air. He took another hit of spray and looked up. What he saw caused his initial embarrassment over panicking like a fool turn to crushing self-defeat. The trail ended in a tangled wall of branches and vines standing twice his height, woven into the thick underbrush bordering the trail, blocking his way and any hopes of escape.

  Trapped.

  Studying the top of the wall, Jerry realized the dense trail had opened up to the afternoon sky at some point during his frantic run, revealing bruise-colored clouds galloping overhead—a storm closing in.

  Great, he thought, his inner voice filled with sarcasm. Maybe I'll get struck by lightning after I get beat up.

  He approached the wall and leaned his forehead on the barrier in defeat, too tired to go any fu
rther anyway, his asthma sapping the energy from his small body. Through the gaps of entwining branches and twirling vines, Jerry could discern something white on the other side

  The other side?

  Jerry's heart picked up speed again, this time with renewed hope instead of fear. He pried the branches and vines open. They parted easier than expected, as if someone had been through the wall already. In seconds, Jerry had an opening large enough for his small twelve-year-old frame to squeeze through.

  Fending off dried creepers that clawed at his eyes, tugged at his clothes, and even tried to enter his ears, Jerry wiggled his way through into an opening.

  A clearing of white sand.

  A circular clearing. Too circular to be natural, Jerry thought. The white sand felt soft under his feet, unlike the hard forest floor just a few feet away on the other side of the strange wall of vines, giving him the impression of standing on the crest of an immense sand dune. More woven vines and branches made up the perimeter of the clearing, the surrounding wall keeping the impassable palmettos of the woods at bay.

  The only way into the clearing was the way he had just entered.

  Smiling, Jerry turned and mended the wall, enclosing himself in. The twins will never find me in here. I'll just wait them out. Head home in a little bit.

  Jerry didn't notice the tree in the center of the clearing until he turned around again. How he hadn't noticed it straight away would remain a mystery. It wasn't an exceptionally tall tree—shorter than most of its neighbors in the surrounding woods—but it loomed over him like a giant nonetheless. The trunk stood roughly twenty feet away, but the thin, bare branches reached out to him, causing him to unconsciously step away until his back caressed the wall of vines. The trunk and branches of the tree, colored a uniform black—not burned (which had been his first thought) just an empty, lifeless black—stood out in stark contrast to the snow-white sand encircling it.

  One thought echoed in Jerry's mind as he stared up at the black tree with the darkening clouds moving behind it like a polluted stream.

  Get away from here. Now.

  The twins were no longer a concern. He had to get out of this clearing and away from this tree even if it meant having to fight the evil brothers. Before he could turn to leave, dark bubbles formed and burst at the edge of his vision as a low squealing filled his head. Jerry rubbed his eyes and looked around for the source of the noise. He realized it was coming from him.

  He couldn't breathe.

  He instinctively reached for the inhaler around his neck, and for two everlasting seconds he stared at the broken length of string coiled in his palm.

  The inhaler was gone.

  Panic overcame his surprise. Frantic, Jerry searched around his feet, the white sand the same color as the plastic life-saving gadget. He fell to his knees and grasped fistfuls of sand, his vision now swimming with the popping orbs, his consciousness slipping.

  Jerry's right hand grazed something hard. He fumbled with the object, dropping it twice. After an eternity, he lifted his hand to his face, his failing vision recognizing the familiar device gripped in his fist. Seconds from passing out, he willed the inhaler to his lips and pressed down, using his last ounce of strength.

  The familiar whoosh filled his ears. And a gritty mist of sand filled Jerry's mouth and lungs as he struggled to inhale, choking the already dying boy.

  Jerry collapsed onto his side, legs convulsing, kicking up sand. His back arched and his hands clawed at his throat as his sand-coated tongue protruded between blue lips, kissing the air like a beached fish. No matter how hard he tried, that precious air would not fill his feeble lungs. His eyes bulged, threatening to pop from their sockets. Jerry's spasms slowed to intermittent jerks. His hands relaxed, flopping to the sand like wounded birds, the expression on his purple face one of utter confusion. His eyelids dropped slowly as his life slipped away, the ominous black tree his last image of this world, its malformed limbs reaching to the leaden sky with an air of remorseless glee.

  Jerry's frail, lifeless body rested in the white sand. The songs of birds and insects filled the surrounding woods, oblivious to the tragedy. Pregnant rainclouds marched overhead, their long shadows caressing the dead body. A rumble of thunder crawled above the clouds.

  Seconds later, Jerry's eyes opened. A grin creased his pale face.

  The dead boy sat up, and the woods fell silent.

  I

  The Swamp Potato War

  1

  May 24th, 1982

  Two days earlier.

  The old man gulped the humid morning air, one hand on his hip, the other clutching a double-barreled shotgun that rested on his right shoulder.

  He studied the all too familiar scene before him through squinted eyes, twin fiery orbs glaring from the thick lenses of his glasses, the new day's sun already hot and bright as it crept up the pale sky behind the wretched tree.

  Like a monument erected to all things corrupt and eternal, the lone tree stood in the center of the clearing, black and lifeless, just the way it has since the first time he had the misfortune of stumbling upon it, so many years ago. His eyes fell from the tree, examining the sand at its base for any sign of human disturbance—he found none. Except for his scattered footprints, the white sand appeared as smooth as a deserted island's pristine beach. He then turned a full circle, scrutinizing his surroundings with paranoid mistrust. The lush woods encircling the clearing exuded the innocuous sounds of summer: birds singing, insects humming.

  All was normal.

  As normal as he could ever hope for in this poisoned glade in the woods.

  Pushing his glasses up his sweaty nose with a forefinger, the old man released a grateful sigh of relief and bowed his head.

  The tree was bare.

  Not a single leaf sprouted from its dark branches. It had only been a dream. A nightmare.

  Or a vision, he thought. A portent. A warning.

  The dream returned to him: the image of the tree in full bloom, broad leaves sprouting from every branch, a crimson sky flowing behind it like a river of blood. He'd awoken in a cold sweat, a deep despair sinking into his chest, his skull throbbing from too many beers the night before. He'd dressed, grabbed his shotgun, and made the long hike to the clearing.

  With his knuckles bone-white as he squeezed the worn wood of the old gun, eyes wide and alert, the old man chose the left hand trail without hesitation when he reached the fork in the path.

  He never thought he'd actually be relieved to see the repulsive thing, its black branches outlined against the morning sky like the skeletal legs of some fossilized, extinct insect—its gratefully bare branches.

  He filled his lungs with the heavy air again and turned to leave; but before exiting the clearing, the old man whirled, leering at the seemingly harmless tree for several seconds, shotgun at arms, as if turning his back on it would cause his nightmare to manifest.

  The dreams were visiting him more than ever before, more realistic, with a sense of impending doom, setting the man’s nerves on edge. The alcohol had been the only thing keeping the dreams at bay. Not anymore. Why now after all these years? After all the precautions he’d taken to keep the tree a secret? Nothing about its appearance had changed, and although weakened, he could still sense the warding spell surrounding the tree and trailhead.

  Maybe I’m finally going crazy, he thought. Or maybe I need to lighten up on the booze. He barked a short laugh, and then clamped his mouth shut with a click of teeth. The innocent sound of his laughter seemed foreign in the clearing, in the presence of something so evil.

  Like a fart in church. He cracked a thin smile at this thought, but held his laughter. He eyed the tree for several more seconds in complete silence, the wild sounds of the woods calming his buzzing nerves. Satisfied it was still dead—or at least dormant—he turned and left the clearing and the tree behind, saying a silent prayer that his nightmares would never become a reality.

  Not on my watch, he thought, moving along the de
nse trail, but one word flashed in his mind like a neon bar sign as he began his journey home, buzzing in his tender, booze-addled skull.

  Warning … Warning … Warning.

  2

  A distant train whistle pervades the tranquility of the sunlit woods, wailing the song of a lost child.

  The lyrical piping of the train glides like mist around the oaks and pines, past the cabbage palms, winding through the woods, searching for an ear to fall upon.

  Lewis kicks his heel back, engaging the coaster brakes, his bicycle fishtailing and sliding to a halt in the dirt and pine needles blanketing the trail. His thin chest heaves, struggling to catch a useful breath in the stifling humidity of the summer air. A buzzing cloud of hungry gnats and mosquitoes immediately home in on his new location, eager to feast. Lewis swats the air around his head to ward off the attack, and offers his ears to the train's imploring howl as it mingles with the persistent hum of the swarming insects.

  Lewis has always loved the train’s mournful cry. The sound makes him feel safe and secure, like things are still moving along on schedule—a daily affirmation of his existence in a world he often feels excluded from. However, some days the whistle called to him like the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Lewis would make the long journey to the tracks and watch the train rumble past, fantasizing of jumping onto one of the passing freight cars like a hobo from the movies, complete with a red bandana tied to the end of a stick, stuffed with all his meager belongings. Instead, Lewis would just watch until the last freight car and caboose traversed the small river bridge, vanishing around the bend, wishing it and his imaginary doppelgänger a safe journey.