Los Niños

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Like a lighthouse on a stormy night, its flame is a beacon in the darkness, calling out to those poor souls who wander too near.

Stay away, stay away! You have been warned.

A lighthouse is a safe and sturdy sanctuary, of course. The danger lies below, where waves crash and roil and rage and froth, breaking over jagged rocks.

Like any good sailor, most people instinctively avoid the area, giving it a wide berth despite the scenic views. Not everyone, though. No, not everyone. Those with evil in their hearts, those whose deeds are blacker than the surrounding forest… find themselves inexplicably drawn in, like moths battering against a light fixture. Half-crazed, drunkenly they stumble into the clearing. They see the candlelight, it calls to them. They feel the electric pulsating energy, it surges through them like adrenaline, like caffeine.

Foolish people, foolish moths. Stay away from the candle, or you will get burned.

***

They fought for the whole seven hours, Dean gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Crystal wouldn’t let up. When she got an idea in her head, there was no reasoning with her.

“As long as he’s around, she’s gonna have her claws in you. Alimony, child support, court dates. It’ll never end.”

“He’s a good kid. It’s not his fault his mother’s a greedy bitch.”

She took a last drag on her cigarette, flicking the stub out of the window.

“He’s weird. Always staring at me, sucking his thumb. He creeps me the fuck out.”

“He’s three years old, Crystal! You’ve never even tried getting to know him.”

“I know he’s always whining about something. Waking us up all hours of the night, still pissing the bed. He ruins everything.”

“Well, I still don’t think it’s right, drugging him like this.” Dean took the exit, leaving the smooth pavement of the freeway as he turned onto the winding mountain pass.

“It’s just Benadryl. Not meth, like your bitch ex probably gives him. It’s perfectly safe. My mom used it on us all the time as kids, so she could go out with her boyfriends.”

“Just be careful. I don’t wanna go to jail coz you OD’ed him or something.”

A small snore came from beneath the blanket in the backseat.

“See? It just makes him shut the fuck up for a while.” She put her hand on Dean’s knee, running her long red nails under the hem of his cargo shorts. “Don’t you like it better when we’re alone? Don’t you miss being able to do me on the kitchen table, without being gawked at by your feeb son?”

“Don’t call him that, Crys. It’s not cute. Cut it out.”

She pouted, eyes filling with unshed tears. “I just miss how it was before. We were good together, we were fire. I’m too young to play step mom to a bratty toddler.”

“Well, what do you suggest? I can’t just cut and run. My parents would kill me, they’re crazy about the kid.”

“All I’m saying is, this hiking weekend is an opportunity for us. Children get lost in the woods all the time, Dean. Toddlers are forever wandering off and getting into danger. I say we take a long walk, and leave him out there. No more child support, no more Brandy constantly hitting you up for diaper money and nursery fees. Freedom, hun. Think about it.” She moved her hands further up his thigh.

He groaned as she slipped beneath his boxer shorts and wrapped her fingers around him.

“Why do you hate him so much, Crys? He’s just a little guy. He’s harmless.”

She frowned, squeezing a little too tight, her nails digging into his erection.

“He takes your attention away from me. I don’t like to share my toys, babe. You know that.”

Dean pulled into a deserted rest stop, watching the clouds move over the trees below as she unzipped his shorts. The forest stretched out beyond the horizon. Such a peaceful place. He closed his eyes as her lips worked their magic. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

***

It was mid-afternoon when they reached the campsite. A kindly lady with a blue-rinse perm took their payment, providing a map of the area with an x marking their site. She handed the kid a lollipop.

“He’s a cutie,” she fussed, tousling his sandy curls. “He’s the spit of his papa, ain’t he? Don’t take after you at all, dear.”

Uh oh. Dean didn’t need to turn to see the look on Crystal’s face. He could feel her bristling.

“He’s slow,” She told the woman. “Guess he gets that from his daddy, too.”

She stalked out of the camp store, leaving Dean to apologize. He trailed behind with the kid.

“Wait up, Crys!” He called. “She didn’t mean nothing by it. Just small talk. She was trying to be nice, that’s all.”

“I don’t need some interfering old biddy up in my face right now. You go set up the tent. I’ll check out the map, see if there’s a good dump spot. I can’t look at him right now. And change his damn diaper! He’s stinking up the place.”

Dean got the camping equipment out of the trunk. The kid was happy enough, chasing a monarch butterfly around and giggling. Not a bad kid. Dean sighed. Shame Crystal was so against him. The tent was a pop-up, and in no time at all he had it staked down and ready. The kid had fallen over his own feet and was bawling his eyes out. Dean bundled him into the tent, hoping he'd quit squalling before Crystal got back. The last thing he needed was her getting mad and having one of her tantrums.

Luckily, she seemed to be in a good mood when she returned. Humming, swaying her hips as she walked in the way that got him all het up.

“I found the perfect place,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him hard. “There’s an old settlement a couple of miles up the trail. Some abandoned boom town, from the gold rush. Nothing there now, of course, all overgrown and dilapidated. But the guidebook says to avoid it, lots of superstitious bunkum about ghosts and Indian burial grounds. We’ll take him up there, dose him up again. Hike back without him, make a fuss about it. Just a tragic missing child case, nothing suspicious. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find an old well to toss him in.”

“I’m not sure about this, Crys. Couldn’t we just give him to my folks to raise? You know they dote on him.”

“And have Brandy constantly breathing down our necks, wanting money off you? Come on, babe.” She kissed him again, sliding her tongue between his lips. “This is the best way. You know it is.”

“I guess. Well, we’d best get going, if you’re so set on it. Don’t want to get stranded at nightfall.”

***

“We’re lost,” Crystal said, angrily slashing at the creepers that hung between the trees. “Where’s the old town? It should be right around here.”

Dean studied the map. “I think there’s a logger’s road about 200 feet to the east. If we can find that it’s bound to lead somewhere.”

They turned east, leaving the hiking trail behind them. The kid was tired and kept trying to sit down. Crystal grabbed him roughly by one arm, dragging him behind her so fast his feet barely touched the ground.

“Here, let me take him,” Dean said, feeling sorry for the tearful toddler. “We’ll make better time if I just carry him.”

“Fine, take your devil spawn, if you must,” she said, pushing the boy so hard he went flying, landing face-first in the thick undergrowth. He scraped his chin, and his bottom lip began to wobble.

“Don’t cry, kid,” Dean told his son. “You’ll just make her mad.” He scooped him up, swinging him onto his shoulders.

“Over here!” Crystal called from up ahead. “I think I’ve found the path – there’s some gravel, and the trees have thinned a bit.”

Sure enough, a narrow dirt road headed through the trees. Scattered here and there they saw crumbling piles of bricks and the remains of old chimneys from the settlement.

“No wonder nobody comes up here. There’s nothing to see,” Dean complained. Sweat dripped in his eyes, and the kid was heavier than he looked.

“Good. It means nobody’ll find him.” Crystal pushed on, swatting at the mosquitoes that gathered thickly in the heavy humidity. The sun was sinking over the tree line, shadows drawing in around them.

“Fuck!” She stumbled over a moss-covered rock, feeling her ankle give beneath her.

“You ok?” Dean set the kid down and hurried over to look at the rapidly swelling lump above her sneaker. “Yikes, that looks bad. Can you stand?”

She winced. “I don’t think it’s broken. What tripped me?”

He looked about, noticing other stones of varying sizes pushing up between the low-lying ferns. “They look like grave markers, to me.” He scraped at the lichen, revealing a name. “Mercy Lewis, 1918 – 1928” he read. “Just a child. I wonder how she died?”

“Boredom, probably,” Crystal retorted, tying her cloth belt around her ankle. “I think I can put weight on it if it’s bound properly. Let’s try and get a bit further in, see if there’s a well or a collapsed basement or something. If we leave him out in the open a bear’ll get him.”

Dean shuddered. “I think I’ve changed my mind, Crys. I don’t think I can do this…”

The kid was picking flowers, leaning against a small weathered statue of a cherub. Another child-sized grave. The whole place creeped him out. Too quiet, and there was something in the air – a strange smell, like damp earth and copper. An aura of sadness and solitude. A wrongness.

“You’re pathetic. If you can’t do it, I will. Say goodbye to your feeb son.” She stood angrily in front of the fading light, casting a long, black shadow over the boy.

Dean thought about saying no, putting his foot down. Maybe he should slap her about, she might respond to that. God knows she had it coming. But he didn’t have it in him, that kind of violence. He was a simple man, weak-willed, and easily manipulated. And the sad fact was, he didn’t care enough to turn this into another fight. He barely knew the kid, hadn’t seen him in two years before Brandy dumped him on their doorstep and went off on a bender. He hadn’t been there at the birth, hadn’t bonded over first steps and baby smiles. It might just as well be someone else’s kid.

“Fine, take him. Just stop yelling at me. I’m tired of it.” He turned away, lighting a cigarette and taking a long draw.

He heard a sharp smacking sound, and the high-pitched wail of his son as she dragged him further into the shadows. It was a relief when the crying stopped.

***

Night surrounded him, still hot and humid as the day. Crystal returned, limping. There was blood on her arm, and she wiped it off on some leaves. Dean wanted to ask about the kid, was he ok, was he someplace safe. But he was scared once he knew the answer he might not be able to handle it. So he said nothing, as they staggered their way down the logging road towards civilization.

Clouds loomed overhead, the deep greyish purple of an angry bruise, swirling in a circular motion. The wind returned, rustling the leaves high above them like the whispered voices of small children. There was an odd green glow to the darkness, and the whole forest seemed to hold its breath. Dean felt his ears pop, and a static electric buzz bored into his skull.

“What’s happening?” He yelled over the wind, pressing his hands over his ears. “I didn’t get a tornado warning on my phone…”

“No signal up here,” Crystal reminded him. “I don’t think I can make it down to the campsite. My ankle’s too painful. There must be a place to shelter somewhere roundabout.”

Lightning struck a tall tree on the mountainside, cracking it in half with a roar of splintering wood and thunder. They jumped, suddenly aware of how dangerous it was to be up here at night.

“I think I see a light, down trail, a few hundred yards… Yes!”

Dean threw his arm around her protectively as they hurried towards the flickering light. Rain pelted them, the wind lashing their backs and pushing them forwards. Towards the cabin, its candle burning patiently, door slightly ajar. Welcoming them inside its sanctuary.

“What is this place?” Crystal asked, looking up at the greying wood siding and slightly arched windows. “It doesn’t look like a logger’s cabin.”

They pushed open the door, which creaked ominously on rusty hinges. Inside there were just some overturned wooden benches, and a log burner in the centre of the room. An old-fashioned organ stood in the shadows at the back, covered in cobwebs. The whole place had the loamy scent of dry rot and decay.

“I think it might have been a chapel… for the boom town. Makes sense, with all those gravestones we passed. It feels like it’s been abandoned forever… but someone’s been here. Someone had to have lit that candle.” He walked towards the flickering flame, frowning as he examined the floor. “The dust hasn’t been disturbed at all! How in the heck did someone get here without leaving any footprints?”

Crystal sat on the floor, her arms wrapped tightly around her. Suddenly it was freezing, despite the earlier heat and humidity. “Can’t you try and get the stove working? I’m so damn cold!”

“Yeah, I’ll give it a look.” He crouched by the squat black burner, opening the grate.

A large crow flew at him from inside the stove, beating its black wings against his face as he fell backwards in surprise. “What the…!”

It circled the room, cawing angrily as it threw itself against the windows. Finally, it found the door and disappeared into the storm.

“How did a bird that size get trapped in there? The pipe’s so narrow…” He mused, rubbing a long scratch on his cheek.

“Whoever lit the candle must have put it in there as a joke. Probably local kids, messing with us.”

He smashed the nearest pew against the slab stone floor, breaking it down to fit in the belly of the stove. The wood flared up at once, dry and brittle from age. They huddled together as close as possible to the fire, comforted by the warm glow.

“We’ll have to spend the night here,” Crystal smiled. “It’ll make things easier to explain to the cops – anyone could lose a child in a storm like this.”

Dean’s shoulders tensed, and he shifted uneasily. He’d forgotten about the kid in their hurry to take cover. That poor boy, out there alone in this. He must be so scared. If he was still alive, that is. He remembered the blood on Crystal’s arm. Maybe it was better if he was dead already. Better than being alone in the raging storm.

The fire dried their wet clothes, and they dozed off to the sound of the rain pounding the tin roof, its loud susurration combining with the dancing flames in a hypnotic rhythm.

***

The boy curled up inside the hollow tree, whimpering softly to himself. He didn’t like the rough bark, the way it felt against his hands. He didn’t like the roly-poly bugs and scurrying spiders that tickled the back of his neck as they explored the darkness. He didn’t like the pain in his nose or the bubbles of blood that formed whenever he took a breath. Most of all he didn’t like being alone. He tried to stay quiet, knowing from experience that too much noise led to a slap or a pinch from the mean lady. He tried, but it was hard when he was so scared and uncomfortable. He tried sucking his thumb, but it tasted all wrong. Eventually, he fell asleep, unaware of the storm raging around him.

“Wake up, wake up little one!”

A voice called softly to him. A nice voice, sweet like GeeMa’s, only younger. Warily he poked his head out of the hole in the trunk and smiled. A girl in a dark green dress and jacket held out a hand to help lift him out. She was pale, with the prettiest yellow hair he’d ever seen. Her neck was bent funny, leaving her head tilted in a quizzical manner. Behind her, a white pony snorted and pawed impatiently at the ground.

“She shouldn’t have left you here,” the girl told him, a flash of anger crossing her face. “That was a bad thing. Grown-ups shouldn’t do bad things. They oughta know better.”

He swiped at the caked blood under his nose with the back of his sleeve.

“Here, use this.” She handed him a white square of material, with a frilly edge and a flower embroidered on the corner. “It’s a handkerchief. I sewed the violet my own self. It’s purty, ain’t it?”

He nodded, stroking the purple flower between his fingers.

“You can keep it if you like. I can always make another.” She turned towards the pony, patting its velvety nose. “I’m Mercy, Mercy Lewis. This here’s Willow. My Pa got him for my birthday. I’m ten years old, you know. I’m not s’posed to ride him at night, but sometimes I sneak out anyway. Ma says I’m gone wild, and if I’m not careful I’ll end up dead, like those poor Injun kids that lived here before.”

She lifted him onto the pony’s back, then jumped up behind him, wrapping the boy in her warm skirts.

“They took all the squaws – that’s the Injun’s wives, you know. Took ‘em to be housekeepers and hooers, Ma says. And then they just abandoned all the children, left ‘em to die of hunger in the forest. Isn’t that mean of them? Ma says it was different times, and not to think about it too much. But I’ll tell you a secret if you like.” She whispered conspiratorially in his ear. “Sometimes when I ride Willow at night, I see them! The Injun children. Their bellies are real fat, but their arms and legs are skinny as a hen’s. They have such big, sad brown eyes. I try to talk to them, but they don’t understand me and run away. I think they’re scurred of me, coz I look like the bad men that killed their papas.”

The pony turned towards the gravel road, plodding slowly down the mountainside.

“I live just over there,” she pointed vaguely between the trees. “I’d take you home with me, only I’m s’posed to be in bed, and I don’t want Ma to make me miss supper again. Supper’s my favourite meal when Pa’s home. He toasts bread over the fire to dip in our broth. He’ll be home again tomorrow, and I’m gonna ride down to the station to meet him. Only don’t tell Ma, or she’ll be awful cross.”

They passed a pile of scorched bricks on the left, and Mercy shuddered. “That used to be the old schoolhouse, you know. It burned down last winter when Miss Stacy’s dress caught light as she added coals to the fire. Most of the kids got out, but Juniper and Rowan Thimboll got caught inside when the beams fell. They say they burned up all to pieces, isn’t that horrid? I’m glad I was home with a head cold that day. Ma hugged me so tight that night that I thought I might burst!”

Now they turned off the path, brushing against low-hanging branches as they pressed onwards.

“This is where the graveyard is. I like coming here, though Ma says it’s a morbid, sad kind of a place to play. There’s some statues of baby angels, they’re the best ones. And a monument to all the migrant children who died in the smallpox outbreak. Have you had smallpox? I haven’t.”

She gestured to a stone cross. “That’s for the McCauley twins, Enid and Albert. They went missing in the forest, picking wild strawberries. They never found ‘em… Ma says it was probably their Pa what did for them, he was always drunk and belligerent. I like to think they just ran away and found someplace better to live.”

A grey cabin appeared ahead of them, a candle burning in the window.

“We’re here, kid. The chapel. You can go inside, find your father. He’ll be ready for you soon enough, you’ll see. And she’ll never hurt you again, I promise. Adults oughta know better. But they do so many bad, rotten things. Sometimes they need to be punished.”

***

THUMP

Crystal sat up with a start, looking around blearily for the cause of the noise. Beside her, Dean stirred but did not wake. She stood up, momentarily confused. Where was she? It looked like a church - rows of wooden benches facing a small platform near the rear, on which rested a large wooden cross. She could hear bells tolling relentlessly from a rickety tower by the door. Their solemn note pealed out into the night,

Gather round, gather round! Your presence is required!

She took a few faltering steps, jumping as the heavy door slammed open, ricocheting off the wall.

A young girl with flaxen hair tied in two long braids walked in, her head slumped awkwardly to one side. She stepped boldly up onto the small stage.

Crystal gasped. Behind the girl’s green skirts, sucking his thumb, stood the kid.

“Sit down!’ the girl demanded, raising her hand out in front of her. A rush of cold air thrust Crystal backwards, her knees buckling as they hit the edge of a bench. She sat down.

“What the…” she started, but the girl raised a finger to her lips, and Crystal’s mouth closed tightly.

“You're not here to speak. You're here for judgment!” She pulled the boy out from behind her, placing her hands gently on his shoulders and gazing around the chapel.

“Thank you for coming, everyone.”

Crystal noticed for the first time that they were not alone – every pew was full of children - the oldest couldn’t have been more than 15. There was a chubby toddler beside her with blue lips, wearing a cream bonnet and holding an armful of dried flowers. On the other side sat two children that surely must be siblings, their matching brown hair and smudged, sooty faces both hideously scarred with blisters, their clothes charred and blackened. Near the back a row of pockmarked hispanic kids sat together, dressed alike in simple smocks and hobnail boots.

An older black boy with deep scratches and an empty shirt sleeve where his arm should be stood up.

“What are the charges, Mercy?” He asked.

Mercy pointed a finger at Crystal. “That this bad, wicked woman left this poor little boy for dead. Deliberately!”

A gasp rippled around the room.

Crystal tried to speak, but her tongue was leaden in her mouth. She could only watch, rooted to the bench, unable to move a muscle.

“She took him from his papa and looked for a place to leave him where he'd never be found. Then she shoved him into a hollow tree and went back down the mountain. She wished him dead, I heard her, clear as day!”

The older boy stepped up onto the stage beside Mercy. “These are serious charges. This is a bad woman, a wicked woman, as Mercy said. She must be punished. Are we in agreement?”

Crystal’s eyes looked back and forth around the chapel, desperately pleading for someone to save her. On the floor by the old stove Dean lay fast asleep, completely oblivious to the roomful of creepy children. She would find no help there.

Mercy crouched down beside the kid, looking into his eyes. “Did she hurt you?” she asked him.

He nodded, holding up the bloody handkerchief as proof.

“Did she hit you and slap you, pinch your face and pull your hair?” A thin girl with a torn and bloody dress asked.

Another nod.

“Did she yell at you and call you bad names?” The twins demanded.

More nodding.

“Do you want us to make her go away?”

Crystal stared at the boy, eyes pleading with him to forgive her, to grant her a second chance. He looked at her for a long time, unblinking. The room was unbearably quiet, the weight of silence pressing down on her, crushing her.

He nodded.

The room erupted into whoops and cheers, and the stamping of dozens of tiny shoes. Abruptly Crystal found she could move again, and flew to her feet, ignoring the sharp pain in her twisted ankle, running desperately for the open door. She put her head down against the furious wind that tore at her hair, sending twigs and brambles flying past her cheeks. Lightning lit up the forest around her, and she stumbled through the trees, not knowing which way to turn, only that she had to get away, get as far away as she could from the children.

A green glow rose eerily from the mossy ground, as the trees moved apart to reveal a clearing. Small gravestones stood all around her, no longer overgrown and mossy, engraved with names of all the lost children. Behind her, she could hear their laughter as they followed her into the graveyard.

She looked frantically for the path towards the campsite. Maybe she could make it down to the camp store, find that old woman and beg for help. She made a guess, staggering against the strong wind. She shielded her eyes, aware now that the laughter was gaining on her, shadows running along on either side, flitting between the trees. She pressed on, surely the track was just beyond that Oak tree, she remembered the bent branches from earlier.

A flash of brilliant white light bathed the old tree as lightning rippled across the sky. She saw for just a second a group of Native American kids, blocking her path. Their bellies bulged and their eyes were black, glittering with rage.

“No, please, no!” She screamed, blinded as the world fell dark again. “Go away, get away from me!”

She sank to her knees, her hands pressed together as though in prayer. “I can be better! I can fix this! Please, let me fix this!”

The tinkling laughter of a hundred children surrounded her, pressing closer, closer.

She needed to be punished.

***

Dean awoke to find it was morning, bright sunshine flooding through the dirty old windows of the cabin. There was no sign of Crystal, she must have gone outside to pee or something. Opening the door he saw his son on the sagging steps.

“Hey, kid!” He smiled broadly, scooping the boy up and hugging him tightly. “Am I glad to see you! I thought… I… well, it doesn’t matter now. You’re safe and sound. How did you find me?”

The boy smiled. He held out a blood-stained handkerchief, yellow with age.

“Where did you get that nasty thing?” Dean asked, turning it over in his hands. “Look at you – did you hurt your nose? Let’s get you back to camp, clean you up a bit.” He lifted the boy onto his shoulders. Outside there were fallen branches everywhere, and the mud squelched sickeningly beneath his feet.

“Crystal!” He called, following the trail of her footprints. “Hey Crys, where are you? We gotta get going. The kid’s hungry…” He realized he was back in the old graveyard, with its tumbled and forgotten tombs.

The footsteps ended abruptly, beneath the twisted branches of an ancient oak tree. There the ground was churned up, as though a hundred hands had dug into the soft soil, leaving scratches in a circular pattern. What the devil had Crystal been doing here? Burying something?

He searched for a half-hour, shouting now and again as he passed the piles of bricks and the broken chimneys of the forgotten settlement. Finally he gave up, turning back towards the campsite.

“Come on, kid. Maybe she went on ahead.”

***

It was lunchtime when they reached the tent, and after checking for Crystal, Dean headed over to the shop. He bought a hot dog and a bag of chips for the kid and smiled as he watched him take giant bites, smearing ketchup all over his little cheeks. He turned to the counter, where the same lady from the day before stood watching him carefully.

“Hey ma’am, you haven’t seen my girlfriend, have you? Crystal – tall woman, with bleach blonde hair and a tattoo of the Tasmanian devil on her shoulder?”

The old lady frowned and paused a while before answering.

“What woman?” She replied, opening the candy jar and taking out a lollipop for the kid. “You didn’t come here with a woman, sir. Just you and your boy, here. Don’t you remember?”

Dean relaxed, his eyebrows unfurrowing. Of course! Crystal wasn’t here, had never been here. She was back in Las Vegas, camping wasn’t her scene. No, just him and the kid out here in the wilderness, bonding over hot dogs.

“You’re right,” he told her, taking a napkin and wiping red sauce off the child’s face. “It’s just me and the kid. A father-son trip.”