Out There

Something is lurking just out of sight in the small town of Durbin, something that's been killing children...

The drear, dusky little town of Durbin was nestled snugly in a valley in Clark County, in northern Minnesota. The houses were spread apart, none too close to another, except for the poorest parts of town, where they were clustered together in great bunches. The town had been built around a train station that now sat long abandoned, with train tracks spanning East to West, but with no train to ride upon them. Home to just over a thousand people, Durbin could have possibly been the least interesting place in its little part of the country. The summers were cool and breezy, the wind flowing through the thick forest that surrounded the little town on all sides. The autumns were cold, the leaves on the trees barely getting the chance to turn red, orange, or yellow, before the biting winds tore them away from their native branches. The winters, though, were the worst of them. 

It was in the glum, quaint town of Durbin where Charlotte Loren had spent her entire life. As a little girl, she had dreamed of California, of hot summers, and warm winters where it felt like paradise all year round. She had never left, however, and at 26, Charlotte felt as though her chances were dwindling. She took after her father, who had been a part of the Durbin police force, where she now worked as a detective. Her thoughts of California as a little girl were gone, replaced by the frustration of unfulfilled dreams. 

It was January. She was sitting in the living room of her tiny home, twirling a paperclip around her finger and watching her neighbor shovel snow from the latest storm outside when her nephew, a little, eleven-year-old boy that constantly dressed in clothes that were too big for him, woke up.

Charlotte was surprised, it was early for him, only 7:00. “What’re you doing up so early, Jack?” His eyes were red and puffy. “You okay?”

Jack sniffled and wiped at his eyes. “I just had a nightmare, that’s all.”

“Well,” Charlotte smiled. “You’re awake now. No more nightmares. You want some toast?” This was the third month that Jack had been living with her. Her brother, Jack’s father, had died close to a year ago, and he had stayed with his grandparents before coming to live with her. “I can put the avocado on it if you’d like.”

Charlotte was making his breakfast, avocado on toast with some apple juice when she got the call. Charlotte leaned over the coffee table to look at the screen. The name on the screen read Hoskins. 

Charlotte picked up the phone, bringing it to her ear. “Sheriff?” she asked. “I wasn’t expecting a house call.” 

The voice on the other end of the line was shaky, and he hesitated before answering. “This is bad Charlotte, you need to get down here right now.”

Charlotte sat up. “What happened?” she asked, even though she thought she already knew. Please, not again, she silently prayed. 

“It’s the Ledger boy. Charles Ritz found him by the tracks. You’ve got to come out here right away.”

“Okay, I’ll be right out,” she turned over her shoulder. “Jack, you’re going to stay with Elise for a little bit. Something came up.”

***

Hoskins hadn’t told her exactly where on the tracks the boy had been found, but once she had passed the closed up station, she could spot three patrol cars and an ambulance stopped in front of the woods. About half of Durbin’s police force, Charlotte thought.

The scene had already been secured with caution tape spanning from tree to tree. Charlotte killed the engine to her beaten Mazda and jogged for the scene. She ducked underneath the caution tape, and Hoskins was already there. She caught a glimpse of what the caution tape was surrounding before Hoskins turned her around with a hand on her shoulder. 

“It’s bad, Charlotte,” he said. Stephen Hoskins was tall and skinny, with thinning red hair and a close-cropped mustache to match, and twenty years her senior. His face was pale, and he looked like he was going to be sick. “It’s like what happened to the Carver boy.”

Charlotte swallowed the lump in her throat. “Christ,” she sighed before pulling in a shaky breath. “I have to see.”
Hoskins nodded glumly before Charlotte turned and moved closer, hesitantly. The snow crunched under her feet as she drew nearer. Hoskins had been right. It was bad. The body of what she could only guess was Darren Ledger had been mangled beyond all recognition. It had been lifted up and impaled on one of the lower hanging branches of a tree. Her nostrils caught the scent all at once, and she had to fight the urge to throw up. The body looked to be somewhat decomposed, she guessed that Ledger had been dead for about two days, which would coincide with when he was last seen. 

Pounds of flesh had been torn from the boy, and he had been twisted as if whatever had killed him was trying to ring out a towel. His entire throat was missing, torn out, but the part that disturbed Charlotte the most were the sticks, little broken bits of a tree branch, that had been stabbed into the boy’s eyes. 

Charlotte placed a hand over her mouth and drew in another shaky breath before turning back to Hoskins, who had not come back to observe the body with her. 

“What the hell could have done this, Stephen?” Charlotte asked once she had reached Hoskins, looking back over her shoulder at the bloody ruin of the boy.

“I- I don’t know, Charlotte.”
“There wasn’t any blood or trace evidence around his body. He wasn’t killed here was he?”

Hoskins nodded. “We don’t think so, at least.”

Charlotte’s breath clouded in the cold January air. “What the hell happened here.”

“I don’t know, but the same thing happened to Michael Carver. Same exact circumstances. Same injuries. Same… oddities.”
By oddities, Hoskins had meant the same manner of death. Michael Carver had been missing before his body was found, impaled on the branches of a tree on the other side of town. He too had had sticks stabbed into his eyes. He too had been twisted in the same fashion. 

Charlotte had been on the scene of that killing too, only at that point, Hoskins had thought that a bear might have done it. Now that it had happened twice, he wasn’t so sure. 

“Why would a bear do this, Sheriff? Why would a bear go through the lengths to make such a sight out of the murder of a fourteen-year-old boy? Maybe once it could have been an odd occurrence, and maybe it could have been a bear. But twice?” Charlotte rubbed her arms, she had forgotten to bring her coat.

Hoskins saw that she was shivering and shrugged off his coat and handed it to her. Charlotte took it gratefully. “Charles Ritz is around here somewhere. He told us some of what happened, but I’d ask you to go talk to him some more. He’s shaken up so go easy on him”

***

Charlotte found Charles Ritz sitting in the back of an ambulance with a blanket wrapped around his frail shoulders. A little Cockapoo sat in his lap. Even through his coat and the blanket, the old man was still shivering. 

“Mr. Ritz,” Charlotte started, sitting down next to him. The little dog stood up and sniffed her shoulder. “I just need to ask you some questions, if that’s okay.”

Ritz nodded and swallowed. “Alright,” he said, petting the dog. “And Charles will do just fine.”

“Sounds good, Charles. I just need to ask you what happened.”

Ritz shifted the weight of the blanket around his shoulders. “I just came out here to walk little Queenie. We always come down by the tracks, it's nice here.”
“What time did you leave home?”

“About 6:30 or so, I walk her every morning, and my wife walks her every night. Although, walking down here has been more for me than her. I get some exercise, you see?” Ritz tapped his knee. “I gotta keep ‘em strong.”

“Alright,” Charlotte said, taking out a pad of paper and writing down what he had just said. “And then…”
“And then we just started walking like we always do, and then little Queenie picked up a scent or something because she started pulling towards the woods. Now, she’s a small dog, but I had some trouble keeping her back. Something really piqued her interest. I let her guide me a little way into the woods, and then I started to smell it. Oh, it was horrible. And then I saw it, then ran back out onto the tracks and called 911.” By the end, the old man was shaking so bad that Charlotte had to put a hand on his shoulder. From the cold or from the memory, she could not be sure.

“You go home now, Mr. Ritz. We’ll take care of it from here.”

Ritz looked up at her. “It’s the Ledger boy isn’t it?”
Charlotte took a shaky breath. “Yes.”

***

She sat in the car for a long while before getting out. Hoskins sat with her, and even after they had parked on the street, he kept his hands on the steering wheel, his knuckles white. 

“This is my least favorite part of this whole job,” he said, looking at the house. “It’s always the hardest.” They had been sitting outside of the house where Darren Ledger had lived for almost twenty minutes. 

The car was a nice, warm alternative to the biting cold outside. It was still early in the morning, but not too early for the Ledger’s to still be in bed. Hopefully the children are still asleep, Charlotte thought. It would be better if they talked to the parents alone. “Let’s not waste anymore time,” she said, opening the door. 

Hoskins nodded and followed her. 

It was Catherine Ledger who answered the door at their knock. She was only 35, but lack of sleep and exhaustion had made her obviously attractive features more haggard. She looked older. 

“Have you found my boy?” She asked shakily. “Oh, please tell me that you’ve found my boy.” Her eyes were already watering.

Hoskins was only able to get out a single “Ma’am” before she broke down. “Oh dear god,” she cried. “Is he dead?”

Charlotte looked down at her feet. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Ledger,” Hoskins said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

***

It took half an hour for Catherine to calm down. By the end of it, her eyes were red and puffy, and she had cried her voice hoarse. Charlotte had felt odd, sitting in her living room with the sheriff, watching her cry. She had wanted to leave and come back later, but Catherine had insisted that they stay. 

Catherine took in one shaky breath before standing up. “Would you like some coffee?” she offered, her voice cracking. “I’m going to make some.”
“That would be nice,” Charlotte responded kindly. 

Catherine nodded and left the room. From the kitchen, they could hear her filling a kettle up with water from the tap.

Charlotte’s eyes drifted around the room. On almost every wall, there were pictures of children. Some were of Darren, but Charlotte could not look at them without remembering the horrific ensemble that had been laid out before her earlier that morning.

There were other children, though. Siblings or cousins. A girl with two tight pigtails and a pink dress. A boy missing two of his front teeth. A family picture, with Catherine Ledger with her arms wrapped around her now dead son. 

Charlotte took in a deep breath before Catherine came back into the room. “The water’s boiling,” she said before taking a seat on the couch.

Hoskins gave her a sad smile. “That's good, Mrs. Ledger. We just need to ask you a couple of questions.”
She nodded, but didn’t say anything. She had already answered countless amounts of questions before, and now she would have to do it again. 

Charlotte leaned forward, and produced a small device from her pocket. She clicked the recorder, placing it on the coffee table. “When was the last time you saw Darren?”

“It’s been two days. On Friday. He was leaving for school.” She said it like she would have recited lines to a play. “I said goodbye and then went to work.” Her eyes welled with tears.

“Did you see him leave for school?” 

Catherine nodded. “And then I left shortly after he did.”

“Does he take the bus to school? Or does he walk?” Charlotte knew that a lot of kids in this particular neighborhood would walk to school. She did know if it was due to low incomes or the closeness of the school. Probably both, Charlotte thought. 

“He walks to school. The school’s just so close, and all the kids here do it. I should have signed him up for the bus. If i did… he would still be here.”

Hoskins leaned forward and put his hand over Catherine’s. “What happened wasn’t your fault, Catherine,” he promised.

All of the kids here do it, Charlotte thought. “Do you think that maybe one of the other kids saw something?”

Catherine shook her head. “He doesn’t walk with the other boys. They’re all older than he was, big seventh graders. They liked to pick on him, so he wouldn’t walk with them.”
“Do you know the route that he does take?”

“It goes through the woods. It’s a little longer, but he liked it. Darren liked the woods, you know?” 

Charlotte looked over at Hoskins inquisitively, but he put a hand up. “We’ve already searched the route. We didn’t find anything,” he said.

She turned back to Catherine, who looked like she was about to cry again. “One more thing, Mrs. Ledger,” Charlotte said. “Was Darren acting strangely leading up to his disappearance?”

Catherine shook her head. “He wasn’t acting weird. He had some nightmares for a couple nights before. He seemed really upset about them, but I suppose that’s nothing to worry about. Other than that, there was nothing.”

Hoskins stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Ledger. We’re very sorry for your loss.” He motioned for the door. “Charlotte, we best be going.”

“But… but your coffee…” Catherine said, looking down at her feet. Charlotte could tell that she was crying.

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Ledger, but we really must get going,” Hoskins said, moving towards the door. “Another time, perhaps.”

Catherine stood up, and Charlotte went to hug her. She was surprised at first, but then hugged Charlotte back, and started to sob into her shoulder. “Why did it have to be like this?” She asked through muffled tears. “Why did it have to be my boy?”

Charlotte thought about her nephew, Jack at home. The boy wasn’t even hers, but she was all that he had now. She had come to think of the boy as her own, and would be devastated if anything ever happened to him. “I’m always around if you need to talk to me, Catherine,” Charlotte whispered into her ear. She stepped backwards and towards the door.

Catherine nodded shakily, and Charlotte left with Hoskins. 

***

It was only twelve o’clock when Charlotte and Hoskins made it back to the station. Charlotte sat in the Sheriff’s office, while Hoskins sat opposite her at his own desk. Hoskins was drumming his fingers on his desk while Charlotte looked over photos from the Carver boy’s body.

The circumstances had been almost identical, except Michael Carver’s body was found on the West side of town, while Darren Ledger’s had been found on the West. 

Charlotte put down the pictures and looked up at Hoskins, who had been waiting for her to finish. Charlotte shrugged. “I just don’t know what could have done this, Stephen. I really don’t.” She handed him the file over the desk.

“To be honest with you,” he said, flipping through the pages. “I don’t know either, but it scares me. I mean the way that I see it, it was either a bear, or some sick, sadistic killing.”

“Did the autopsy report come in for Michael Carver yet?” she asked, biting the inside of her cheek.

“It came in earlier this morning,” the Sheriff said, turning around and pulling a drawer open from a filing cabinet. He rummaged through the drawer, and came up with another file, which he handed to Charlotte. “This is everything.”

She took the file from him, and he leaned back in his office chair. “Thank you,” she said, opening the file. Inside were more gruesome photos of a horrific, bloody scene. Looking at them now, it was hard to discern Michael Carver’s body from Darren Ledger’s. She placed the pictures on the desk and unfolded the autopsy report. 

Charlotte flipped through the pages, and found what she was looking for on the last page, near the bottom. The words “cause of death” were printed in large, bold letters. Underneath, is small, scrawling handwriting: Mutilated by a large animal. 

“Have you read this?” Charlotte asked the sheriff, handing him the report back. He nodded. “An animal attack?” she asked, incredulously. 

“I don’t know, Charlotte. It’s the best thing we’ve got.” Hoskins sat back in his chair, rubbing his temple. It was only ten in the morning, and he was already exhausted. 

“You know that this wasn’t some animal attack, Stephen. Animals don’t lift their meals up and impale them on tree branches. Animals don’t stab sticks into the eyes of their goddamn meal!”

Hoskins shook his head. “What do you want me to say, Charlotte. A person couldn’t have done this. That’s evident from the wounds found on the bodies. There are bite marks and claw marks, and neither of them match those of a human. I don’t know what you want from me, Charlotte.”

“And did those markings match up with that of a bear?” She asked, planting her hands on his desk. “A wolf maybe?” The sheriff sat, silently. “Right.”

Hoskins sighed. “Charlotte, you’ve got a boy at home, right?”

She hesitated before answering. “Yes,” she responded.

Hoskins leaned forward in his office chair, the support groaning. “Go home. There’s nothing to do here.”

“But I can-”
“I’ll make sure to call if we find anything new. Now go home.”

Charlotte had the nagging feeling that he was just trying to get her out, to get her to leave him alone, but she didn’t care. “Fine,” she said, standing up and moving for the door. Charlotte looked back at the sheriff over her shoulder. “This wasn’t an animal attack, Sheriff.” And with that, she left.

***

The Durbin police station was situated on the North side of town, while her home was on the South side. She was angry when she left the Sheriff’s office, refusing to believe that whatever had committed these unspeakable crimes had been a bear, or anything else living in these woods. But Charlotte also didn’t think that what did it was human either. She didn’t know what to think, and it made her head hurt anyways. 

The road here wasn’t paved, and it was bumpy going. She was lost in her thoughts when the ringing of her phone jolted her back to reality. She pressed the answer button before she looked at the name. 

“Hello?” She asked into the phone.

“Hi, Charlotte. How are you?” came Elise's cheery voice.

“I’m doing alright,” she lied, “how’s Jack?” In the background, she could hear Elise TV playing, and Jack giggling to whatever he was watching. 

“Oh he’s doing great, he’s just watching TV while I cook up some lunch.”

“That’s good,” Charlotte responded. “Hey, Elise. Thanks for taking him on such short notice. Something came up at the station, and I couldn’t leave him alone.”

On the other end of the line Elise laughed. “Oh it’s no trouble, honey. Your boy is good company, I don’t mind at all.” The way that she had said “your boy” had made her shiver. Maybe he was her boy now. Your all that she has left, Charlotte thought. 

“Are you sure?” Charlotte asked hesitantly. 

“Don’t you worry about it. I was just calling to ask if I could give Jack a little bit of ice cream after lunch. It might seem silly, but my daughter doesn’t allow her son to have ice cream, and he’s almost thirteen!”

Charlotte chuckled into the phone. “Yes, Elise, that’s quite alright.” In the distance, she could see the Wildlife Preservation Museum. “Listen, I’m not going to be home for a little bit. Can you make sure that Jack takes a nap? He was up early this morning.”

“Alright, you go now,” the old woman said. “Goodbye!” And before Charlotte could respond, she hung up. 

***

She wasn’t sure where she was supposed to go. She couldn’t go home, and not do anything. Whenever she was on something as important as this case, it felt wrong to Charlotte if she were to sit at home and pretend like nothing was the matter. 

So she decided to go and talk to Michael Carver’s parents. 

The drive to Brentwood was long, as it was on the other side of town, and the roads were snaking and sharp. 

As she drove, Charlotte wracked up the evidence that had been gathered so far. Two dead boys, both gruesomely killed. And that was it. That was all that she had to work with, plus the fact that it couldn’t have been any local animal, and it probably wasn’t a person. But then what happened?

Charlotte repeated the question over and over again in her head until she arrived in Brentwood, the richest neighborhood in Durbin. The lawns were clean and freshly mowed, the houses were big and pretty, and nice cars sat in the driveways. 

32 Brentwood Dr. When she pulled into the driveway, Charlotte noticed that there weren’t any lights on in the house. The snow crunched lightly under her feet as she approached the front door, and it took almost a minute after she had knocked for someone to answer. 

It was Jennifer Carver, and behind her, her husband  Nick. Jennifer looked nothing short of terrible, with heavy bags underneath bloodshot eyes. Her hair was greasy and unwashed, and all tuffled in the back. She was wearing a dirty bathrobe. Nick, behind her, looked much more presentable.

“Who are you?” Jennifer asked, her voice hoarse. 

“My name is Charlotte Loren,” Charlotte responded, showing the couple her badge. “I’m with the DPD. I just have some questions for you.”

Jennifer’s lips curled into some sort of muted snarl. “I have no more answers for the police.”

“Honey,” her husband said, putting a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go upstairs. I’ll take care of this.”

She gave Charlotte one last look, before turning back and heading up the stairs, disappearing from sight. Nick Carver sighed, and motioned for Charlotte to come in, which she did gratefully. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, taking her coat. “Jen’s been a wreck ever since… Michael.”

Charlotte swallowed hard. “I’m very sorry about your son, Mr. Carver. Is it okay if I asked you some questions, and then I’ll leave you and your wife be.”

Carver nodded and led her into his kitchen where he took a seat at the table, and Charlotte did the same. “Can I ask why you're back here? I mean we’ve already answered so many questions already.”

Charlotte hesitated before answering his question. “We found another boy this morning. It was the same as your son.”

“Was it that Ledger boy?” He took her silence for an answer. “I thought so,” Carver said, with his head in his hands. “It’s a terrible thing, it really is. Do you have a son, or a daughter, Ms. Loren?”

Charlotte nodded. “A nephew. He might as well be my son.”

He shook his head. “I pray that you never have to read an autopsy report on your own child.” There were tears welling in his eyes. “My boy,” Carver moaned. “I had to read every line. I had to identify his body, you know? I didn’t even recognize him.” He was starting to cry now. “Michael was… he was broken. Torn open with a gaping hole in his chest. I suppose that’s from being… being impaled onto that tree branch.” His head fell, and started to sob. 

Charlotte, desperately uncomfortable, let him cry for a minute, before putting a hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Carver,” she gently urged. 

He picked his head up and whipped the tears away. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “It’s just hard, now that he’s gone.”

Charlotte nodded. “I can’t even imagine what kind of hell you and your wife are going through. But please, let me ask you a few questions, so that hopefully we can find out what happened to your son.”

Carver drew in a shaky breath, and nodded his head.

From inside her pocket, Charlotte drew out the recorder and clicked it. “When was the last time you saw Michael?”
“Wednesday, the day of that storm. He left right around noon. School had been cancelled. Michael said that he was going to go and play with his friend, Tommy Wesnick. They were going to build forts out of snow. Little igloos, I used to make them with him when he was smaller.”
“And that was the last time you saw him?”

Carver nodded. “When he wasn’t home by ten that night I started to get worried. I called Mrs. Wesnick, but she said that Michael had never been there.”

“Did you think that he could have lied about where he was going?”
“No, of course not. Michael is a good kid, he never lied to me or his mother.”

Charlotte folded her hands together. “Was he acting strangely before he left? Was there anything out of the ordinary?”
“Nothing at all. I was surprised when he said that he was going out at all; he had been up since two in the morning. He had come into our room the night before he went out, complaining about a bad dream. My wife stayed up with him all night.”

“Was there anywhere that Michael could have gone instead of Tommy Wesnick’s house?”

Nick Carver shook his head fervently. “Absolutely not. The boy said that he hadn’t even seen Micahel that week and Michael wasn’t the type of kid to hang out by himself.”

Charlotte nodded. “Did Michael have any sort of hobbies? Was he a troublemaker?”
“He never caused any trouble for me and my wife. He was a very good kid, you know? As for hobbies… he didn’t really have any. He liked to read, and to write. Michael was normal.” He sniffled. “I just don’t see why anyone would do this to my boy.”

Charlotte clicked the audio recorder and slipped it back into her pocket. She placed one of her small hands over Nick Carver’s larger ones. “I’m going to find out, I promise.”

***

By the time Charlotte left the Carver household, the sun was setting in the sky, even though it was only 6:30. She sat in her car with her hands on the steering wheel, exhausted. A couple of deep breaths later, and she started her engine. 

She had barely pulled out into the street, leaving the Carver house behind, when she got a call from Hoskins. Charlotte hesitated before picking up the phone, she was still annoyed by their discussion earlier that day. 

At last, she found herself answering him. 

“Charlotte,” he sounded out of breath and panicked. “You’ve got to get down to Willow right now.”

“What’s happened?” she asked, swerving her car to orient herself in the direction of Willow, a little campground that was on the edge of town. She had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “What’s wrong, Stephen?”

“It happened again,” he moaned into the phone. “Just get to Willow,” and he hung up. 

***

The sun had disappeared from the dreary winter sky when Charlotte finally pulled into the Willow Grove Campground. She hadn’t even needed to ask Hoskins which campsite she was supposed to be reporting to, for there were already two other cars at the scene.

Without turning her engine off, Charlotte jumped out of her car and ran to where Hoskins was standing by a cruiser, waiting for her.

“What’s this all about?” she asked him. “What happened here?”

Hoskins was pale, and looked like he was going to be sick. Without saying anything, he motioned for her to follow him. She did. 

The campsite was small, with a beaten up motorhome parked on the tree line. The embers of a recently extinguished fire sat smoldering in the fire pit. 

The door of the motorhome had been nearly ripped away. The metal was bent and twisted, and was hanging limply by only one hinge. Inside the motorhome, the lights didn’t work, so Hoskins had to flash his light around the floor for her to see what was there. There was so much blood that she was unsure of what the original color of the walls had been. There were three bodies on the ground, each in various sections of the motorhome. They had been absolutely mutilated, so much so that Charlotte couldn't even recognize who they had been. 

“We pulled identification from their bodies,” Hoskins said in a hushed voice. “Richard, Hunter, and Kenny Miller. All three of them were brothers.”
Charlotte was about to say something when Hoskins cut her off. “There’s more,” he said, bringing her to the backside of the motorhome, the side that was facing the woods. He pulled a flashlight from his belt and clicked it, shining up at the trees. 

Charlotte felt the pit in her stomach drop even further. Hoskins’ flashlight was focused on another body. This one a little boy. Memories of Darren Ledger’s body flashed through her mind as she starred, dreadfully, at this newest discovery. The boy had been impaled onto the branches of the tree, with sticks stabbed into his eyes. His body had been twisted, like someone had been trying to ring out a towel. His chest had been torn open, which should have revealed all of what was inside. But there was nothing inside his chest. The boy was hollow, like how one would scoop the seeds out of a pumpkin. 

“Johnnie Miller. He was Kenny Miller’s son.”

She looked at Hoskins, but couldn’t get any words out. He put a hand on her shoulder, and led her away from the red ruin of the boy that hung from a tree branch, back to where the cruisers were parked outside. He leaned against the hood of one of them. “We got a call from the next campsite over. Said that they heard screaming.”

Hoskins nodded his head over to where another police cruiser was parked in the campsite to their left. “He’s just over there. Go talk to him.”

Charlotte nodded shakily, and made her way over to where a man sat at a picnic table with a police officer sat opposite him. The man had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and was shaking. 

When she approached, the police officer stood up. “I’ll take it from here, Darden.” Darden nodded, and went to join the others at the first campsite. 

Charlotte took a seat by the man. “Are you alright, sir?” she asked gently, even though her heart felt like it was beating in her throat. 

“I’m just fine,” the man said in a shaky voice as he pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He spoke in a light southern drawl. 

“What’s your name, sir?” Charlotte tried to meet his eyes, but he looked down to his lap when she did. 

“Pat Denborough.” When he spoke, Charlotte could smell the liquor on his breath. 

“Alright, Pat. Can you tell me what happened?”

He took a minute to respond, his head was still in his hands. “It was awful. I just- I just don’t know what happened.” His speech was slurred.
“Try your best,” Charlotte urged as gently as she could. 

Denborough nodded. “It was maybe 6:15. I was just in my trailer,” he motioned behind him, where there was another motorhome. This one was much nicer than the one that had been in the adjacent campsite. “And then I heard something. It was real low, like a growl, coming from that site. Then it got louder, and higher pitched until it was some sort of screamin’.”

“A scream?” Charlotte asked.

“Yeah,” he answered. “Like a shrill scream. And then I heard some boy crying, and then I heard the door to that trailer break open, and the men started yellin’ and hollerin’ and I heard that noise again, like a roar this time. I heard some thumpin’ and then the yellin’ stopped but I could still hear the boy cryin’.”

Charlotte’s foot was bouncing nervously against the picnic towel. There was snow in her boot that was melting, but she didn’t quite care. She found it hard to talk, even after she cleared her throat. “You’re sure that’s what you heard? A roar?”

Denborough nodded and shivered. Charlotte looked over her shoulder to the adjacent campsite, which was now a crime scene. Hoskins was emerging from the motorhome, the light was gone from his eyes. He looked exhausted. “It was a roar,” Denborough repeated. “It had a weird gurgling quality to it, though.”

Charlotte rubbed at her eyes, she needed sleep. “Did you see anything?”

“Yeah, it was…” Denborough trailed off, his eyes moving to the woods behind the campsite. 

“Mr. Denborough,” Charlotte waved a hand in front of his face, and his attention snapped back to her. “What did you see?”

Denborough cleared his throat. “After the yellin’ had stopped, I looked out the front window, tryin’ to see something. Then I saw this thing leave their trailer, and it was draggin’ the boy. He was cryin’, and the thing brought him behind the trailer, and then the cryin’ stopped. By then I had already called the police.”

“What… What kind of thing?” Charlotte asked tentatively. 

Denborough shook his head. “It was too dark to really see anything, but it had big horns or somethin’. It wasn’t no human, miss. It was some kind of monster.”

***

“Did he have anything useful?” Hoskins asked her when she returned. “See anything.”

Charlotte shivered and rubbed her arms. “He said that he saw a monster leave the trailer, but he was so drunk that he could barely speak correctly. He smelled like cheap vodka that you can pick up at a gas station.”

Hoskins nodded grimly. “I’ve been thinking about what you said back at the station,” he said. “Maybe we ought to consider that this wasn’t… something that we’re… entirely familiar with.” He spoke in a hushed voice, as so none of the other deputies on scene could hear him.

“What do you mean?” Charlotte asked, even though she knew what he meant. She had thought over the idea in her head in the past hours. She hadn’t wanted to think about it too much. 

Hoskins motioned her and brought her a little ways away from the others. “I’m talking about something… it sounds silly but I really don’t know what else we have.”
“Just say it,” Charlotte pressed. Her breath was clouding in the air. It was so very cold. 

“Maybe Denborough saw what he saw,” Hoskins said. “Maybe he wasn’t hallucinating off of cheap liquor.”

Charlotte shook her head. “You think that a monster has been killing boys around Durbin for the past week?” She was trying to make the idea seem ridiculous, even though the thought had been in the back of her head.

Hoskins looked down at his hands. “You’re right, I’m just nervous. I just can’t see a person doing this. But whatever is out there, we need to find it.”

Charlotte nodded, “We will, Sheriff.”

Hoskins smiled and put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s getting late, and there’s nothing more here to find. Go home, Charlotte. You look exhausted.”
Charlotte chuckled, “You don’t look too great either, Sheriff.”

“Get going then, I’m sure your nephew misses you.”

Charlotte nodded, and got back into her still running car.

***

When Charlotte finally pulled into her own driveway, she realized that she had forgotten to pick Jack up from Elise’s. Disgruntled, she reversed back up her long driveway, and parked outside of Elise’s large house. The lights were off inside. 

The snow crunched underfoot as she walked up the hidden pathway that led to the front door. When she knocked, it was Jack who answered. The boy had bags under his eyes, and was holding a cookie. He looked nervous. 

“Hi, Auntie,” Jack said with a mouthful of cookie. 

“What’s up big guy?” she said as he hugged her around her waist. 

From somewhere inside the house, Charlotte heard Elise call out. “Is that you, Charlotte?” The old woman asked.

Jack grabbed Charlotte by the hand, and pulled her inside. There were no lights on inside the house, and the sky was dark outside. Jack led her through the house and into the living room, where Elise sat in an armchair with a blanket around her. The TV was playing, but it had been muted. Elise had a thick wool blanket wrapped around her. She was staring out the large window, towards the woods. 

The dim glow of the TV was the only light in the room, and cast a ghostly illumination over the entire scene. Something was nagging at Charlotte. 

“Charlotte?” Elise asked, not pulling her gaze away from the window. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” Charlotte said, putting a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I’m just here to pick him up. Is everything alright?”

“Oh yes,” Elise answered. “Everything is great, my dear.”

Charlotte squinted out the window, but could only see the faint shadows of the tree line outside. She hesitated before responding. “Well, it was good to see you.”

Jack was pulling at her finger. “Can we go?” he asked. 

“Yes, Jack,” she said, turning to leave. 

“There’s something out there,” Elise said. 

Charlotte turned around instantly. Elise hadn’t looked away from the window yet. “What?” Charlotte asked.

“I said that there is something out there,” Elise said, hauntedly. “I’ve been watching it for some time now.”

Charlotte didn’t respond. Instead, she grabbed Jack by the hand and hurried him out of the house. 

***

Charlotte’s hands were shaking so bad that she had to have Jack unlock the front door to her little cottage. When they were inside, Charlotte locked the door. 

“What was that, Auntie Charlotte?” Jack asked, he still had the cookie in his hand. “Is Mrs. Elise okay?”

“Yes, Jack, she’s alright.” Her heart started to calm down. Elise was old, that’s it. Nothing more. There was nothing out there, she knew that. 

Maybe Denborough saw what he saw.

Charlotte shook her head, as if it would send the thought away. Jack was still wearing the pajamas that he had woken up in that morning, and Charlotte gave a nervous chuckle. Innocence, she thought. 

She kneeled down to him, and hugged him. “Did you take a nap while you were there?” She asked, pointing at the bags under his eyes.

Jack nodded. “I slept for a little bit but then I had another nightmare, and when I woke up Mrs. Elise was acting weird and was watching the TV with no sound.”

Charlotte froze, and her eyes grew wide. “What did you just say?”

Her grip on his shoulders tightened and he winced. “I just said that I took a nap but had a nightmare, and when I woke up Mrs. Elise was acting weird.” He looked worried. “Did I do something wrong? I’m sorry if I did.” His eyes were filled with tears. 

Charlotte let go of him, and pulled her phone out of her pocket. She called the Sheriff’s number as quickly as she could. 

“Charlotte?” Hoskins asked through the phone. “Everything okay?”

“What was the name of the boy at the campsite?” She asked, frantically.

“Err… Johnnie Miller. Why?”

“Do you have his mother’s phone number?”

“Yes, but Charlotte, what’s this about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she snapped. “What was her phone number, Hoskins?!”

He told her and she hung up immediately, and dialed the number. 

“Mrs. Miller?” Charlotte asked when her call was picked up. 

She had been crying, Charlotte could tell. After all, her son had just been killed. “Yes?” she responded shakily.

“Was your son having nightmares?” Charlotte asked, growing increasingly frantic.

“W-What?”

“Did Johnnie have any nightmares?!” She was yelling into the phone now. The woman started to sob on the other end of the line. “Answer me!” Charlotte yelled. 

“Y-yes,” the woman finally choked out, and Charlotte hung up the phone. 

She looked at Jack, who was standing in the corner of the room, looking terrified. 

Nightmares.

She thought back to what Catherine Ledger had said earlier that morning. He had some nightmares for a couple nights before. He seemed really upset about them…

Nightmares. 

She thought back to what Nick Carver had told her earlier that day. He had come into our room the night before he went out, complaining about a bad dream. My wife stayed up with him all night.

Nightmares.

She thought back to what Jack had just told her. I slept for a little bit but then I had another nightmare. She thought back to what he had told her earlier that morning. I just had a nightmare, that’s all.

Nightmares, Charlotte thought.

That’s when the screaming started.

***

The shrill screaming split the cold night air, and traveled clearly down the hill to Charlotte’s cottage. It was Elise, Charlotte knew immediately. She felt the blood drain from her face as she listened, frozen.

Jack whelped and clung to her leg, burying his face into her thigh. Charlotte put a hand on his head, and moved to the window. 

The lights were off in Elise’s house, and the screams were still coming. Charlotte was barely able to make out the sliding glass door that served as the back entrance to Elise’s house. It had been shattered. Her screams continued to ring in Charlotte’s head, and she moved to open the door, when Jack yelled.

“Don’t go out there!” He pleaded, grabbing her hand. “Don’t go out there, please!”

She looked back at him. “Jack?” Charlotte asked. There were tears running down his face. 

The screaming stopped, and Jack pointed out the window. “It’s out there. The thing in my nightmares. It’s here.”

Charlotte looked outside, to where Jack was pointing. In front of the remnants of the shatter glass door, Charlotte could make out the silhouette of something. It was tall, taller than the doorway, with what looked like antlers coming out of its head. “Jack?” Charlotte asked nervously again, turning to the boy. 

Jack wasn’t crying anymore, instead he had backed up from the window. He was pale. “What is that?” Charlotte asked him. 

“It’s the thing from my nightmares,” he whispered, looking out the window. “It’s here for me.”

She was about to ask what he was talking about when the lights went off. Charlotte looked back out the window, and saw that the thing had moved closer to her cottage. The clouds shifted, and the moon cast light down on her yard. With the new light, she could see what it was.

Charlotte guessed that it was probably ten feet tall, with large, branch-like antlers sprouting from it’s skull. It’s skin had a bark-like texture, and was dark and earthly, with tinges of gold and white. It had long arms, corded with muscle, that hung down to its knees, and huge hands, with long fingers that ended with splintered looking fragments of bone. She couldn’t see it’s face. 

Using her phone as a flashlight, Charlotte backed up and grabbed Jack by the arm, and ran up the flight of stairs, and into her bedroom. She locked the door behind her, and rushed Jack into her closet, where she shut the door.

She tried to call Hoskins, but she didn’t have service. Whatever was outside had cut out both her power and her service.

Jack was whimpering quietly, so she held him tightly. “It’s going to be okay,” she told him, rubbing his back. 

Downstairs, Charlotte heard her front door being ripped apart, and then came the roar that Pat Denborough had described earlier that night. It wasn’t quite a roar, Charlotte thought cynically. It was a deep, guttural scream that shook the house. It sounded entirely primal, and rocked Charlotte to her core. 

She didn’t hear any footfalls, but heard her bedroom door being ripped open. Jack started to cry, and she hugged him tighter. “It’ll be okay,” she lied to him again, as the door to the closet was torn open. 

It stood in front of the two of the, huddling together in the closet. Charlotte covered Jack’s eyes, and looked up at it’s face, shining her light. 

It had golden eyes, and a large mouth. The thing smiled, and Charlotte could see rows of jagged, broken teeth. 

GIVE HIM TO ME.

Charlotte heard the voice in her head, coming from all around her. It had a gurgling quality to it, and sounded like it was whispering, although it was so loud that it made her head ring. 

HE IS MINE. 

“No,” Charlotte set her jaw and moved in front of her nephew. “He’s mine.”

The thing smiled wider.

***

It was two days before anyone found the bodies.

It was Sheriff Hoskins who found Jack, who had been impaled on a tree branch outside of the cottage. Hoskins found Charlotte inside, ripped apart and twisted in her own bedroom. 

Author's Note

This is my first real try at a short story, and I really want any feedback you have! Thanks so much!

Reviews

[JayG]

Well, you did ask, so you have only yourself to blame for this. 😋 But since I saw a problem that will be invisible to you, and it’s critical, I though you’d want to know—especially given that it’s unrelated to how well you write, your talent, or the story.

Because of a problem I call, The Great Misunderstanding, like the majority of hopeful writers, you’re transcribing yourself telling the story to an audience. And like all verbal storytellers, because there are no actual characters on stage performing, you must, through your performance, make up for that. So, in storytelling, HOW you tell it matters as much as what you say. But...how much of your performance can the reader see or hear? Not a trace. Sure, when you read, the story lives because you know how you intend it to be spoken. You know the gestures that will visually punctuate, the expression changes and the body language. But in all the world, only you know that. But since you do, and'll both hear and visualize the performance as you read, and the story lives. But look at the story, not as that storyteller. Instead, become the reader, who hears only the emotion that punctuation suggests, and takes the meaning the words suggest TO THEM, based on their background, not your intent.

The first paragraph is 155 words long, which takes up the first page and part of the second (we assume each chapter opening has only a half page of print). And what to we get? A description of the entire town, in general terms. And apparently, based on that description, there’s no manufacturing or farming, so there’s no income that would allow purchases of goods or food, that must come from outside.

But that aside, why do I, as a reader, care that the houses of the poor are “… clustered together in great bunches.” It’s irrelevant to the story. The size of the town is irrelevant to the story. But the reader must plow through all that to get to the actual story.

See the problem?

the second paragraph is 95 words long. But…do I care that she once wanted to live in California when she was a child? No. Sure it’s true, but again, it’s irrelevant to THIS story. All we learn in the paragraph is that she’s a detective. But wouldn’t we learn that for ourselves if she began acting like one?

The short version: Begin with story, not history. History books are boring because there’s no immediacy or uncertainty. And uncertainty is what readers feed on.

But here’s the good news: The reason you’re writing the way you are isn’t your fault. In fact, you’re writing exactly as you’ve been taught. And that’s the problem.

Remember that misunderstanding I mentioned? Because we learned a skill we call writing, and no one said different, we naturally assume that the word “writing” that’s part of the profession, Fiction-Writing, refers to that skill. It doesn’t. Not even close. Think of the number of stories you were assigned to write, as against the number of reports and essays. It’s tiny, right? Think of how much time was spent on such basics as the three issues we need to address on entering any scene, so as to provide context. How about the nuance of viewpoint or the best use of tags in dialog? Did they hit those subjects? Of course not. They were teaching you the writing skills more adults need on the job, where you mostly need to write reports and essays. In other words, nonfiction writing. And while nonfiction's goal is to inform, fiction's goal is to provide an emotional experience.

In fact, did even one teacher mention the elements of a scene on the page, and how/why they differ so much from a scene on the screen or stage? If not, how can you write one? And making things worse, we no more learn the techniques of fiction by reading it than we learn the skills of a chef by eating.

But…and this is the killer. For your whole life your choices of fiction have been written and prepared with those specialized skills. And just as you can tell in a bite if the meal you’ve been served was prepared by a chef, you know, in a paragraph, if the writer is trained in the skills of the profession. Of more importance, your reader knows. And I can think of no more compelling argument than that to dig into the tricks of writing fiction.

Of course it’s more than a list of, “Do this instead of that.” But that’s true of any profession, so it’s no big deal. More a rite-of-passage than a disaster. And given that most hopeful writers never learn this, you’re ahead of most right now.

And think about it. If you’re meant to write, the learning will be interesting, and the practice is writing stories. So what’s not to like?

The library’s fiction-writing section is filled with books on the subject, but at the moment, the best book on creating scenes that will sing to the reader is free on the site I link to below this paragraph. So grab a copy before they change their mind, and dig in.
https://ru.b-ok2.org/book/2640776/e749ea

For an idea of what you’ll be getting into, you might check a few of the articles in my WordPress writing blog, linked to at the bottom of this post. But whatever you do, hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/