Stomping Grounds: A Horror Novel (Invasive Species Book 2) Page 2

  “I promise, Uncle Steve. I'll be on my best behavior.”

  Uncle Steve shrugged. “Well … Have fun. Just not too much fun, if you catch my drift.”

  Justin hugged his Uncle. “I catch your drift.”

  “You think she'll make it?” his Uncle asked after clearing his throat, tilting his head toward Justin's car, his eyes shining with moisture as well.

  Justin looked at the pumpkin-orange Honda Civic with its primer-gray passenger door. The car—shaped like an egg, or some sort of escape pod from an intergalactic starship—waited at the curb. “Oh yeah, she'll make it no problem,” he said with great pride. “She may not look like much, but we've got her purring like a kitten.”

  “Just remember to check her oil every time you stop for gas. Speaking of which.” Uncle Steve pulled a roll of bills from the front pocket of his dark blue Dickies. “I know you saved some money from your job, but here's a little extra to help out with gas. Inflation and all, you know,” his uncle finished, embarrassed with what was for him an outpouring of emotion.

  Justin had accepted the cash with gratitude, uncertain whether the money he’d saved would be enough to get him back home. That’s how much he felt he needed to make this journey; he had to do it, even if he couldn’t make it back. Something was pulling him, calling him like a distant distress beacon. Back to the place where he’d sworn he’d never return.

  Now, just south of St. Augustine, Justin flipped the right turn signal and exited I-95. The first part of his journey was here. And seven hours into his trip, Justin still wasn't sure if he was mentally prepared for it.

  His heart thumping against his chest, Justin turned onto the street leading to Ocean Vista Memorial Cemetery—the final resting place of his family. The name sounded peaceful, but the only vista it offered was four lanes of interstate, and expensive, ugly condos.

  St. Augustine had been their home before they’d moved south. It’s where his parents had grown up and met as high school sweethearts, and had then gone on to get married and start their adult lives. It was where his brother, Clinton, and himself, had been born. Despite all of these historical factors, Justin felt like a stranger in a foreign land as he cruised toward his beloved family.

  Before he could properly ready himself for the visit, the turnoff and cemetery gates loomed on his right. It was probably for the best that he wasn’t prepared; thinking about it would’ve giving him the chance to talk himself out of the visit. For a split-second Justin did consider gunning the orange Honda, speeding on to his next destination, but as if on autopilot, the car turned into the drive and rolled through the open gates.

  The grand oaks lining the drive blocked the sun, dropping a curtain of gloom upon the small car. Spanish moss hung from the trees’ arthritic limbs like the ghosts of condemned criminals, swaying in the soft coastal breeze.

  Justin hasn't visited his family's plot in almost six years, but he had no problem finding it, as if drawn to the place, his small car a divining rod tuned to the dead relatives of its operator. With a squeal of brakes, the car jolted to a stop. Justin sat in the idling machine for several seconds, staring out among the shaded tombstones. He finally killed the engine and exited the comfort of his prized vehicle. He went around to the back and lifted the hatchback, reached in, and grabbed the backpack he'd prepared special for just this occasion, closed the hatch, and walked off to see his family.

  Trying his best to not walk on any of the graves, Justin meandered through a litany of dissimilar tombstones, varying in size, age, and coloration. He stopped in front of three stones: two large ones with a slightly smaller one to the right, all sharing the same grayish hue from equal exposure to the corrosive Florida weather.

  Tears filled his vision. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. Hey, Clinton.”

  He sat in the grass, legs akimbo, unzipping the backpack on his lap. “Sorry I haven't come sooner. I brought you guys some things.”

  Justin pulled an arrangement of plastic flowers from the pack. He divvied them up and laid several at the base of each stone. “Here you go.” He placed the flowers in front of his parents’ headstones. “Deal with it, Clinton,” he said when he placed some on his brother's grave.

  “I miss you guys so much,” Justin choked, hanging his head.

  He looked to his brother's stone. “Clinton, you probably know already, but Chewy passed away last summer. He died in his sleep, on his favorite bed. He was the best dog in the world. He saved my life, more than once. I'm sure he's there with you now, watching over you. Give him a pat on the head for me, will ya?”

  Justin pulled a photo from the front pocket of the backpack. It showed the brothers with their arms around a shaggy brown dog. Justin and Clinton both stared at the camera with tough-guy looks. Chewy looked off to the side, his mouth open in a classic canine grin, tongue hanging out, not a care in the world. He set the picture at the base of Clinton's stone. “This is yours. I have a copy on the wall at home.”

  He then pulled a pamphlet of papers from the bag, carefully encased in a plastic folder. He held the stack of pages toward Clinton's stone. “I think these are why I feel the need to go back, Clinton. These are some of your comics, the last ones you did. I've read them over and over again. They're amazing. They're the reason why I'm taking Art in college next year, you know. I started drawing my own stuff not long after I moved in with Aunt Anne and Uncle Steve. It wasn't until recently that I got a strange feeling from these, though. A feeling that you were trying to tell me something. Something of what happened at Poisonwood.”

  The familiar illustrations flashed by as he thumbed through the pages. “They're different…more vivid. They seem so real to me. Not the usual comic book monster and horror stuff we were into back then, you know.” He paused on one particular drawing—a detailed portrait of a young boy. The face was instantly recognizable—Jerry Harris, the first kid to go missing that cursed summer. But the uncharacteristic strange eyes and demonic grin on Jerry's face brought back images of Justin’s mother. Her face had looked like this as she’d stalked Justin, her intent obvious. If Chewy hadn't intervened, his mother would have killed him just like she had his father.

  Justin caressed his mother’s stone, mentally assuring her that he didn’t blame her, that it hadn’t been her fault.

  Like every other time he'd stared at the drawing recently, the same thought popped into his head: Why would you draw Jerry like this, Clinton? Why would you draw Jerry at all?

  Stuffing the pamphlet back into the bag, Justin stood. “I'm gonna find out what happened to you guys, I promise. I know I can't bring you back. I can’t go back in time and change history, but … but at least I'll know what happened. And who knows, maybe I'll finish what you started, Clinton.” He held the drawings aloft. “Maybe I’ll finish your story.”

  He touched each stone lovingly, turned, and walked back to the car.

  He cranked the engine and let loose a tremendous sigh. The first step had gone better than planned. He'd originally thought that seeing the graves would end his strange desire to return, make him cut and run, join his friends in Daytona Beach. But sitting there in his orange escape pod, Justin felt his urge to find answers swell within him, stronger than ever.

  He took one last glance at his family, now reduced to three moss-shaded stones jutting from the earth like rotting teeth from diseased gums. Heat flushed his face, the sight of the headstones filling him with vengeful anger.

  Justin thought of one of his uncle’s many favorite sayings, ‘Everything happens for a reason.’

  If that’s the case, Justin thought. I’m going to find that reason, and kick it right in its teeth.

  He put the car in first gear, popped the clutch, and sped out of the cemetery. The compact car merged back onto the highway like a blood cell entering a vein, en route to the heart.

  To Hopkinsville.

  And Poisonwood Estates.

  3

  She sensed it.

  She’s close.

  She stood, h
er belly bulging from the recent meal. Leaning out of the boxcar, she studied the passing trees. Yes, she was definitely close now. She could detect her tree's presence, the feeling growing stronger with each thump of the train's wheels.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the carcasses sprawled out on the freight car’s floor. The wind and sun had turned the delicious blood into a thick, gummy puddle of dark syrup. Even though she’d enjoyed slaughtering these men, she regretted jumping onto this particular car. When the bodies were discovered, the people known as cops would come. This is one thing she’s learned about this place, this time. And that’s the last thing she wanted. She hoped the men would be found far away from here, far from this section of forest she considered her home now.

  Home.

  The word etched a grin on her face. On the little boy’s face. Dried blood fell from her cheeks like flakes of rust. She looked at the gas can as if it were an adorable kitten. Soon, we’ll be home.

  She pressed the gas can to her thin chest. Although empty now, it had held the precious sand for many years as she carefully recruited slaves to help her feed, rationing the substance like water in a vast desert.

  The more she fed the longer she could stay in this vessel. Looking back over the many years since her first death, over the many vessels she’s inhabited, she thought this might be the longest period of freedom she'd ever experienced. Her vengeance had ebbed as the distance from her tree had increased, and for the first time, she’d eaten merely to exist.

  Now, as she approached her woods, she once again could feel her bloodlust rise up, stronger than ever. The grin morphed into a snarl. No more would she settle for the pathetic humans that slept in trains, or the thin, foul-tasting people that lived under bridges or in abandoned buildings. She wanted to reign again. To fill her tree with as many leaves as it could hold.

  She smiled again, exposing dark, chipped teeth stained with blood. She patted the gas can as if burping a small baby.

  Calm. Calm. We have all the time in the world. We'll take it slow this time.

  Over the years she’d discovered the benefit of having a child as her vessel: nobody feared a helpless child. Especially one as pathetic looking as this one—thin, dirty, alone. She'd learned to be careful, using her innocent appearance to her advantage.

  Her smile broadened, showing blackened gums, as the train traversed a thin, winding river. She gazed up ahead. The front of the train vanished from view as it made a long, lazy turn.

  Yes, very close now. Her grip on the metal can tightened, its edge digging into the boy’s bony ribcage. As the train straightened out, and the trees crowded the tracks, she jumped. She hit the gravel ballast along the tracks and rolled down to the edge of the forest, suffering several gashes that oozed a thick, umber substance.

  She stood, not feeling the pain, watching the train rumble out of sight. Still clutching the can to her chest, she turned and walked into the woods.

  Birds took to the sky and creatures scurried through the brush as a wicked laugh reverberated throughout the forest.

  A warning that the evil that lives here has come home.

  4

  Justin's grip on the wheel tightened as the familiar town names glared at him from the green highway signs.

  He’s close.

  As a child, upon returning from a family outing or coming home from his aunt and uncle's house in Georgia, these signs had filled him with joy, knowing he would soon see his friends and his favorite woods. Now, his knuckles turning white, Justin felt intensifying dread as each sign sped by.

  His friends were dead. The woods he'd loved so much had burned and were filled with nothing but ghosts. His brother's body had been found out in those woods, along with several others he’d known—Jerry, Mrs. Frazier, the Reed twins.

  Why, Clinton? Why were you out there? Why were any of them out there?

  His mind lost in thought, Justin nearly missed his turnoff. Without signaling, he tugged the wheel to the right, the tires screeching on the asphalt. He coasted down the exit ramp, halting at the stop sign, and took a deep breath. Justin released his death-grip on the wheel and lifted his hands. They trembled. He sat there for a moment, staring at the road sign peppered with bullet holes, at the small white arrow pointing to the right, HOPKINSVILLE printed in bold reflective letters above it. He took another deep breath, allowed his hands to steady, and turned right onto the two-lane road.

  He sped off toward his final destination. “I'm gonna find out why.

  “Even if it kills me.”

  5

  She made her way along the worn path, a sly grin splitting her face as if she had a secret nobody else knew. She strolled casually, like a weekend hiker, the gas can swinging at her side. The trees thinned out as she moved deeper, charred stumps jutting from the ground, young pines and thin shrubs growing through blackened soil around their bases. The faint smell of burnt wood mixed with the sweet scents of pine and honeysuckle filled the spring air. Not that she noticed the floral aromas or the pleasant weather. Her thoughts were on something else in the woods, something much more sinister.

  Her tree.

  She sensed its presence stronger than ever, pulling her to it as if she were the fish, the tree the angler.

  She slowed and looked ahead, surveying her domain. Her woods were much shorter than before. The once towering majestic trees had been reduced to blunt and blackened fingers pointing to the bright sky. But even these shrunken hollowed husks still dwarfed the surrounding lush spires of new growth, as if the young trees were unwelcome in these ancient, haunted woods.

  She recalled the fire now. Recalled awakening anew in the body of the hated boy, surrounded by the flames, and her narrow escape as the rain and men with water came to extinguish the fire. She remembered filling the gas can with the precious sand, fetching her favorite blade, and fleeing through the scorching woods in her new vessel—her current vessel—and the train that had called to her with its moaning whistle, carrying her away to safety across the river. Sometime later, the train had approached lights in the distance, and she’d jumped from the boxcar as the whistle once again split the night air. She'd taken refuge in the woods outside the bright city, until her hunger pulled her toward the lights. Toward people.

  A disheveled man sleeping under a bridge had been her first victim. The strength flowed through her as she fed, her mind clearing as the overwhelming need to kill and feed was satisfied. The next time she returned to the lights, she made a slave. He turned out to be a perfect choice, his hatred toward his fellow man rivaling her own.

  She grew wiser to the ways of these people. In order to not draw too much attention, she never had more than two slaves at once, and she only used the derelict men that slept under bridges or in the deserted buildings that lined the tracks—outcasts that wouldn’t be missed. She wanted to stay hidden, stay invisible until the sand ran out. She quickly learned that a minuscule amount of her beloved sand was all she needed to turn the dead into slaves. So, rationing the substance, she remained in the woods, feeding herself through her minions and the occasional tramps that wondered into her territory in search of a place to sleep.

  Unfortunately, her recruits did not benefit from the meals like she did; they rotted quickly in the sweltering Florida heat. In time, the sand dwindled, the gas can becoming lighter. Two weeks ago she'd used the last grains. Yesterday, her last two minions rotted beyond usefulness.

  Now, as she felt the pull of the tree grow stronger with every step, she looked at the empty gas can. Before, she'd practically worshiped the can and its contents. Now, she realized it had kept her away from her home. She should have returned long ago to claim what belonged to her. Instead, she had hidden, like the pathetic humans she'd been feeding on for the past eight years, hiding from their own kind.

  She'd hidden in fear.

  She'd strayed too far from her tree, from the source of her power, but now she has returned.

  She stopped and tossed the can into the bushes.
r />   Never again will I hide, she thought, her grin stretching wider.

  All will hide in fear of me.

  6

  Justin cruised along, surprised at the smile that forced itself upon his face, enjoying the familiar streets of the small town. Just as he was thinking how much Hopkinsville hasn't changed over the years, a massive square structure appeared on his right, the shape and color of a maximum-security prison, with an expansive parking lot full of cars. The only thing missing from the picture was an impassable perimeter of razor wire.

  His suspicion of the building’s identity was confirmed as the giant letters on the front of the monolithic structure came into view: UNEEDIT MART. One-stop corporate shopping had found its way to even this small corner of the country.

  Justin shook his head, his smile fading as he eyed the giant supermarket. “So much for supporting mom-and-pop.”

  The ugly building squatted where ancient oaks had once stood. Justin could remember family outings at the local hot dog stand, and the battered picnic tables that served as their dinner table, eating the messy meal under the shade of those majestic oaks. Now, asphalt and painted white lines blighted the once beautiful area.

  Still shaking his head, Justin continued on, leaving the hideous building behind. He entered the downtown stretch of Hopkinsville. All two blocks of it. His smile returned as the hot dog stand came into view, still doing a brisk business.

  Flashing blue lights filled his rearview mirror.

  The police cruiser rode his rear bumper so tight Justin couldn’t even see its headlights. “Ah, crap. What did I do?”

  He pulled the car to the curb and fished out his license and registration as the officer exited his vehicle and sauntered to Justin's window as if performing an impersonation of a tough cop from a movie. Smoothing out his regulation-trimmed mustache, the officer leaned down to peer through Justin's open window, mirrored aviator sunglasses hiding his eyes. “You know why I pulled you over, son?”