said aloud, but if anything, animal or otherwise, heard him, there was no sign. This wasn’t just bones in a hole anymore—this was an open grave.
Almost without thinking, Darrin raised the camera, gazed at the digital reproduction of the grisly scene before him, and zoomed in on the broken skull and its bed of leaves. He pressed the button, which gave an artificial but satisfying “click,” a little sop to those who’d grown up using non-digital cameras. He was thinking of evidence for the police as he snapped his pictures, but he was also thinking of beauty, and composition, and light levels, and because it was dim under the trees he turned on the flash.
The leaves stirred as he took pictures. Wind? A strange wind, to stir only in a hole. Then the bones clattered and rattled together, and Darrin kept taking pictures, oddly mesmerized, until a great pile of bones and leaves heaved up, like a blanket with a body moving beneath it. Darrin stumbled back, camera thumping against his chest.
A voice rose from the pit, no more human than a lion’s roar or an avalanche, but making words: “Fee, fie, foe, fum, I smell blood and shit and come. Make you spatter, make you spurt, make you scream and flinch and hurt.” Something rose from the pit, bones and leaves cascading away as it emerged. “Bind your bones into my bed, make a soup bowl from your head, eat your heart and eat your lungs, make a morsel of your tongue.”
Giant
, Darrin thought, and for just an instant he lifted his camera, wanting to take a picture of whatever monstrous head and shoulders might rise from the pit, but he wasn’t
that
drunk, or such a voyeur that he’d watch his own oncoming death. He let the camera fall again, strap pulling at his neck, and raced away from the pit, away from the path. Terror gave him the luxury of not thinking about the words he’d just heard, about the impossibility of giants, let alone a giant in an empty lot a block from his house. So he ran, leaping over those footstool-sized mushrooms, crashing along through low-hanging branches. Noises came from behind him, great stony grindings and cataclysmic thumps as the half-buried thing in the hole dug itself out. The sound was more like that of earth-moving equipment than of anything alive. And still that droning, inhuman voice, chanting words Darrin couldn’t make out now. Something whizzed through the air over his head, a spinning blur of white that struck a tree and exploded into fragments. As Darrin pushed himself faster, his side beginning to ache from the exertion, camera bouncing painfully against his breastbone, he realized the thrown weapon had been a long bone of some kind, a recognizable knobby joint lying in his path where it had bounced after impact. The thing behind Darrin was hurling body parts at him.
The ground sloped, up and possibly out, the trees thinning, and Darrin expected to see a familiar street, houses he knew, maybe even his own home; this was the right general direction.
But when he crested the ridge and emerged from the trees, there were no houses, only a road paved with great flat stones, and more trees across the way. There was, however, one familiar thing, which made Darrin pause in his flight, confusion compounded into paralysis.
The Wendigo was parked in front of him, passenger side facing Darrin, and the door was open. A great mound of paper, envelopes, notes, and sheets of musical notation was scattered all around the car, and the bucket seat inside was clear of litter, mostly. Arturo popped out from the driver’s side, looking at Darrin across the Wendigo’s roof. His balding head glistened with sweat, and his moustache twitched. “Get in,” he shouted, slamming the flat of his palm on the Wendigo’s roof.
Trees snapped behind him as Darrin sprinted the last few yards to the car, and from Arturo’s wide eyes and gaping mouth, Darrin knew the thing from the pit, the creature that slept under a blanket of bones, had cleared the
Almost without thinking, Darrin raised the camera, gazed at the digital reproduction of the grisly scene before him, and zoomed in on the broken skull and its bed of leaves. He pressed the button, which gave an artificial but satisfying “click,” a little sop to those who’d grown up using non-digital cameras. He was thinking of evidence for the police as he snapped his pictures, but he was also thinking of beauty, and composition, and light levels, and because it was dim under the trees he turned on the flash.
The leaves stirred as he took pictures. Wind? A strange wind, to stir only in a hole. Then the bones clattered and rattled together, and Darrin kept taking pictures, oddly mesmerized, until a great pile of bones and leaves heaved up, like a blanket with a body moving beneath it. Darrin stumbled back, camera thumping against his chest.
A voice rose from the pit, no more human than a lion’s roar or an avalanche, but making words: “Fee, fie, foe, fum, I smell blood and shit and come. Make you spatter, make you spurt, make you scream and flinch and hurt.” Something rose from the pit, bones and leaves cascading away as it emerged. “Bind your bones into my bed, make a soup bowl from your head, eat your heart and eat your lungs, make a morsel of your tongue.”
Giant
, Darrin thought, and for just an instant he lifted his camera, wanting to take a picture of whatever monstrous head and shoulders might rise from the pit, but he wasn’t
that
drunk, or such a voyeur that he’d watch his own oncoming death. He let the camera fall again, strap pulling at his neck, and raced away from the pit, away from the path. Terror gave him the luxury of not thinking about the words he’d just heard, about the impossibility of giants, let alone a giant in an empty lot a block from his house. So he ran, leaping over those footstool-sized mushrooms, crashing along through low-hanging branches. Noises came from behind him, great stony grindings and cataclysmic thumps as the half-buried thing in the hole dug itself out. The sound was more like that of earth-moving equipment than of anything alive. And still that droning, inhuman voice, chanting words Darrin couldn’t make out now. Something whizzed through the air over his head, a spinning blur of white that struck a tree and exploded into fragments. As Darrin pushed himself faster, his side beginning to ache from the exertion, camera bouncing painfully against his breastbone, he realized the thrown weapon had been a long bone of some kind, a recognizable knobby joint lying in his path where it had bounced after impact. The thing behind Darrin was hurling body parts at him.
The ground sloped, up and possibly out, the trees thinning, and Darrin expected to see a familiar street, houses he knew, maybe even his own home; this was the right general direction.
But when he crested the ridge and emerged from the trees, there were no houses, only a road paved with great flat stones, and more trees across the way. There was, however, one familiar thing, which made Darrin pause in his flight, confusion compounded into paralysis.
The Wendigo was parked in front of him, passenger side facing Darrin, and the door was open. A great mound of paper, envelopes, notes, and sheets of musical notation was scattered all around the car, and the bucket seat inside was clear of litter, mostly. Arturo popped out from the driver’s side, looking at Darrin across the Wendigo’s roof. His balding head glistened with sweat, and his moustache twitched. “Get in,” he shouted, slamming the flat of his palm on the Wendigo’s roof.
Trees snapped behind him as Darrin sprinted the last few yards to the car, and from Arturo’s wide eyes and gaping mouth, Darrin knew the thing from the pit, the creature that slept under a blanket of bones, had cleared the
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