The Pines

It was one of Steve’s Xeroxed sheets, an old newspaper article, very old, from before any of them were born, an editorial ridiculing the superstitious pineys. A drawing at the top depicted a faintly kangaroo-like creature, something like an upright jackass with wings. The caption described it as Jabberwocky, and her eyes wandered down the page. In a facetious tone, the article claimed that P. T. Barnum had offered $100,000 for the capture of the Jersey Devil “for exhibition purposes.”

A joke. The paper still in her hand, she wandered into the living room. It’s all just a joke. She pulled aside a curtain and peered between two of the planks she’d nailed up. Warped and pitted window glass distorted the moon’s sheen.

Finally acknowledging her exhaustion, she collapsed into the armchair. Where could Pam be? The thought caused a crawling apprehension at the back of her neck. She wouldn’t have gone back to the trailer. Not alone. She rubbed her eyes. Maybe I should ask the Ouija board. She yawned, sank deeper into the chair. I should make more coffee. The room waved and receded. What a cliche. On the edge of sleep. And I could, could just tumble off. Her thoughts whirled to Matthew, to Chabwok. It’s all some horrible farce. Doris hurt. My fault. Everyone dies…everyone around me…Granny Lee…Wallace…Lonny…Barry…Where’s Pam? She sat for a long time, her thoughts increasingly groggy and tortured. Around me. Circling…circling… closing in on me. The paper fell from her hand. Beware the Jabberwok, my son. She heard the words as clearly as if they’d been spoken aloud.

And she jerked awake.

Pulling herself out of the armchair, she limped heavily into the kitchen and switched on the light. She stood before the massive basement door and turned the old iron key with a harsh scraping noise. The door creaked open.

She looked up at the clutter of objects on the shelf: ancient paint cans, aerosol sprays with unreadable labels, motor oil. Pocketing the key, she pulled down the dusty kerosene lamp and heard the gurgle of fuel. While she took matches from the stove, a spider sank from the lamp and hurried across the table.

The lamp sputtered and smoked, then began to burn steadily, and she replaced the glass, ignoring the soot that got on her hands. Run through by a curving crack, one side of the lamp’s chimney was blackened, marred by greasy fingerprints. Pamela’s fingerprints. She took a deep breath.

Holding the lantern out before her, she passed slowly down the cellar stairs into the depths of the house. On the crack-veined wall, the rocking light revealed only a thick layer of dust on plaster and slats.

Uneven strands of cobweb melted across her arm as her shoes scuffed at the rough floor. Monstrous shadows swung about her as she moved forward, and the smell of wet coal hung in the dampness. Granny Lee’s trunk lay far in the back, boxes stacked all around it. She set the lantern down, and the swirls of the lamp glass made concentric patterns on the floor.

Mice stirred as she shifted boxes. Taking hold of the handles, she heaved the chest forward a bit, clearing the way as she pulled. The hinges stuck at first, then the top opened soundlessly.

She brought the lamp closer and held it above the trunk. Her hand went to the old shawl on top. She sighed and held the fabric close. It smelled of dust and age and lilac. Perching the lamp on a box, she rummaged deeper, while flights of dust rose. One by one, she handled the bits of bric-a-brac, the framed diploma, the family album, a shoe box marked documents. Underneath it all lay the book.

It was a volume of stories and verse for children, and by the dim glow, she leafed through it, scarcely seeing the faded illustrations, truly seeing only her memories of them. Parchment crumbs and clots of dust flaked down. Expanded from the dampness, the rough-cut pages felt thick, the paper fuzzy at her fingertips. The book was yellowed and cracked, but her memories were soft and deep. She paged past stories of treasures and handsome princes, through fairy tales with grotesque drawings of trolls and witches, then past selections from Mother Goose and the Brothers Grimm. At last, she found the Lewis Carroll poem, and her lips softly formed the words.

“‘Beware the Jabberwok, my son.’”

She savored the soothing whisper of her own voice. Almost, she seemed to comprehend the nonsense words, which for the first time appeared to mask some underlying reality.

“‘The claws that catch, the jaws that bite.’”

Irresistibly, an image formed in her mind, an image of something that hovered just out of sight above the pines, something that played with Matthew when he was all alone. As she crouched on the grimy basement floor, she recalled reading this poem to her baby, her bright baby, much too young to understand.

She turned the page, and a sound choked in her throat: the monster—the famous Tenniel illustration. Horrible and bug-eyed, the creature tore at her from the page—the flapping wings, the feeding tendrils, the reptilian tail.

Behind her, the basement door swung shut, and a slithering sound shifted on the stairs. The book dropped. Unsteadily, she stood and slowly raised the lantern. The light didn’t quite reach. “Who’s there?”

Bare feet padded on the stairs. “Pammy’s dead.”

Looking at the bloodless face, she felt sickened.

“Chabwok got her…blood…coming…” The boy spoke in a dulled voice. “He’s coming.”

“No, Matthew, it’s all right. Stay there. Don’t come down in your bare feet.” Going to him, she tried to turn him around and lead him back up the steps.

The floorboards above their heads vibrated as though from an explosion.

“Chabwok…killed…Pammy.”

She froze. Instinctively, she stretched out a hand; the boy’s shoulder felt rigid as wood.

Overhead, something growled, breathing down through the boards.

“No!” She tripped, almost dropping the lantern, caught herself on the banister. The thing! It’s in the house. The thing from the woods!

Her reeling brain tried to interpret what she heard. “Listen…it’s going upstairs,” she hissed. “Don’t make a sound.”

There came animal cries—more felt in the skull than heard—a snarling, rampaging fury. Groping toward the door, she pressed close, trying to make out exactly where the noise was coming from. My room?

Sudden silence.

Doris’s rifle is just outside in her car. Her hand touched the doorknob. Listening, she turned the knob slowly. Her muscles tensed with a dull nausea as she opened the door an inch. If I can move fast enough…

“Don’t…try. H-He knows…” Behind her, Matthew spoke clearly. “…hears me, hears in my head, knows where we…coming now.”

The ceiling rafters shook, and dust sifted.

“Coming down.”

Thunder drummed through the walls.

“Down here.”

She pulled the door shut. “The key!” A cry of fear spurted from her as she thrust her hand in her pocket. “Where did I…?”

She found it, fumbled it into the lock.

The door thundered and shook, gritty cinders raining down on their heads. The key fell out and rattled down the stairs. She stepped back, grabbing the boy. The door leaped in its frame.

“It won’t hold!” she shouted over the roaring. “Oh God, it won’t hold!” Letting go of the boy, she scrambled back to the landing and reached for the shelf. It’s gotten stronger! She stood with her back to the door, and it slammed against her spine. Stronger than before! Something screamed in her ear. Clutching the shelf to keep from being thrown down the stairs, she screamed herself as she dragged down the toolbox.

She pulled it open, crouching on the stairs by the lamp. “Don’t be frightened, Matthew!” Snarling rage and a stench poured through the battered door. “Don’t be afraid!” As she tore the shelf plank off its braces, the entire contents of the shelf crashed down the stairs. The boy watched, his face blank and cold, while she grabbed the hammer and a fistful of nails.

She threw herself against the door. The thing beat at it, and the door struck her head, but she pressed with