Werewolves and Demons

a harvest festival in the fall. They're no different and generally not as impressive as the carnivals, fairs, and festivals held in any of our neighboring towns. Every December of the mayor's office decorates main street with lights and glittery images of snow men, reindeer, and Santa Claus, and there is a Christmas parade. All of our neighboring towns do

the same. When I was a kid, my parents would take me down to the town square so that we could walk from storefront to storefront looking at the animatronic elves, building toys and dioramas of Santa's workshop, or wintery images of forest animals decorating living Christmas trees in the woods. I would ooh and a, and the shop owners would give me a candy cane for my efforts with the advent of shopping malls in political correctness. Even in a town as isolated as ours, that is all now a

thing of the past. The nearest shopping mall is thirty miles away, but people would rather go there than enjoy the small shops owned by locals. It isn't any of these things that make our town unique. Our town is unique because in Stone River we have rules. Don't leave the house alone after dark or before dawn. Lock all the doors and windows every night, never leave a window open, don't camp out. Farmers should always put livestock inside barns at night, never leave them to graze in the pasture.

Travel in pairs, never alone, And before you leave home, call ahead to let them know you're coming, and when you get there, call home to let them know you've arrived. These rules, and the dozens of variations of them, are what we live by in Stone River. When the occasional stranger moves to town, here or she will inevitably break those rules out of ignorance, we have a welcoming committee here for the express purpose of letting the stranger know

as soon as possible about our rules. But without a clear understanding of why we have such rules, they generally ignore them, sometimes until it's too late. We could tell them while we have rules. It's just that explaining our reasoning isn't as easy as it might seem. After all, how do you tell a stranger that monsters live in our woods and they have a preference for human flesh. I don't know when the rules began. I'm almost sixty three years old, and as far back as I can remember,

those rules have existed. My grandmother, however, was fond of talking about a time before the rules. She was born in nineteen nineteen, and that means they were set in place sometime during the twentieth century. That isn't when the monsters first appeared. Local lore indicates that they were here long before Europeans arrived. The earliest tales came from the native people who lived here. They spoke of wolves that would come into their camps at night and steal away

children and the elderly and the weak. In these stories, the wolves hunted in packs like other wolves, but on two legs like a man. That's how we know it's the same creature that hunts our woods. Today they're all on two legs, and they no longer hunt in packs. Maybe they've advanced beyond pack mentality. Maybe they've become so aggressive that they can't get along with each other, so they have to remain solitary. Or maybe there aren't enough of them left out there to form packs. That is

our town's one great hope. Maybe they're dying out, going extinct. Maybe someday we'll be free of them until such a day as the two legged wolves disappear. Forever, we keep our rules. Every child born in Stone River knows them by heart before they enter school. Every newcomer is worn and prayed for, and every visitor is watched over. Even so, there are some who don't survive. My grandmother was fond

of telling her stories. A favorite one was the story of the man who came through Stone Rivers shortly after World War II ended. It may have been before the rules. I couldn't say. He was a wealthy man and a bit full of himself, grandmother would tell us. She described him as a big dresser. Now, I used to imagine a man as a tall piece of bedroom furniture when I was little. It wasn't until I was fifteen or so that I realized that she meant that his clothes

were fancy. His suits were clearly tailored to fit his broad physique, and his shoes were polished to a brilliant shine, and he wore a fedora cocked sideways on his head. In addition to this, he kept a cigar firmly gripped between his teeth at all times. No one ever forgot the man's name, because he walked around in town introducing

himself constantly. His deep booming voice reverberated up and down the streets as he reached out a big hand and violently shook the unsuspecting hand of whomever he crossed paths with. How do you do? He'd say? Names, Parker, Everett, Gordon, Parker, Folks call me EG for short. The poor fool who allowed him to virtually shake an arm off would then be forced to listen while he regalled him or her with stories of a resort. He planned a bill outside

the town. He assured everyone that it would bring wealth and prosperity to our little village, and everyone would thank him for it. Later E. G. Parker brought a small crew of men to look over the land shortly after he arrived. There were four of them. Two were surveyors, one was an engineer, and the other was from the bank that was helping to finance this magnificent resort. They all arrived on a Friday and checked into the local hotel. That night, they ate a big dinner at Belitera, a

fancy little Italian restaurant down on Third. The next morning they got up and headed out to the woods. Grandma said, the men drove out of town in the kind of maroon station wagon with wood panel doors that people used to call woodies. When everyone saw the camping gear piled on the roof, they knew these men wouldn't be coming back. Well, why didn't anyone stop them? They used to ask at this point, But Grandma would shake her head mournfully and say,

who would have believed them? A week later, some men decided to go out to the woods to try to find them. They found the campsite, They found the woody. They found all the camping tools and the surveying tools, in a good supply of food, most of which was never touched. They even found a chewed up cigar on the ground with a single tooth embedded in it, but E. G.

Parker and the crew were gone. When they walked around to the far side of the tents, they discovered torn shreds like some kind of an animal had clawed its way in, dried blood stained the tattered edges of the canvas. Any other evidence of what might have happened was gone a race by rainstorm earlier in the week. Grandma said the old cor could still be found in the woods by anyone brave enough to venture out there. There aren't many who will go into the woods around our town

each fall. There are a few determined deer hunters. In every spring at least two or three turkey hunters wander out there, but most of us are too afraid. I can still remember what happened back in the early nineteen seventies to Alan Finnegan and Lisa Tinsdale. Alan and Lisa were the darlings of Stone River High School. He was a star running back of the football team and a captain of the basketball team. He was a cheerleader and

president of the Future Homemakers of America club. To No one's surprised they were crowned King and Queen of the Homecoming. It said that they would have been crowned King and Queen of Prom too if they had lived. Who knows what made them think that they would be okay to go parking in the woods that night. The general consensus is that they weren't parking at all, at least not intentionally. Lisa lived on a farm at the edge of the woods,

and Allen lived in town. The popular theory indicates that they were most likely driving around and spending every last minute together that they could before Lisa had to be home for curfew. They probably didn't notice that the gas tank was nearly empty. The car was out of gas when they found it, but the ignition was on, so it might not have run out of gas until after they were gone. That's only speculation. The morning after the kids I didn't come home, both sets of parents called

the police. A search party was formed to comb the town in all of the surrounding woods. It didn't take long to find them, less than a mile from Lisa's family's farm, on a narrow gravel road that cut through the woods down to the river. Allen's in nineteen sixty eight green Mustang Fastback sat alone. It looked as though the kids had parked it and decided to go for a stroll. Anywhere else on earth that might have been

a consideration, but not in the Stone River. Children no more than five, no better than to get out of a car and walk through the woods at night in Stone River. Bob Dettweller, the deputy in charge, claimed to have nightmares about that day for the rest of his life. It was his group that first discovered the car, and when they walked around to the passenger side, it was clear that the window on that side was broken out.

Little rivers of blood traced their way down shards of glass and dried in mid flow before reaching the bottom. Ted Brenner covered his nose and hissed at the acrid odor that drifted out of the vehicle. Smells like something marked it's turf here, he said, through a handkerchief that he pulled from his pocket. Everyone around him stopped and turned to look into the dense woods around them. Over there, Charlie Henderson cried, pointing at something that could have been

nothing more than a pile of discarded clothing. The men walked the twenty five feet to the clothes and stared down at it. Bob Datweller knelt down on one knee and pushed at a piece of cloth. It flopped to the side, revealing Alan's sightless eye. Someone gasped, and someone else's gagged. Another person issued a horrified oh my God, and still another said what in the hell. Deputy debt Weller pulled the material back a little further and revealed

what was left of Alan's face. His jaw had been partially ripped off, and the tip of his nose looked as though it had been bitten off, and his tongue was gone. When Bob poked around the materials some more and realized that only Alan's head was under this pile, he quickly looked around for more. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, and partially buried under some dried leaves, they found Alan's torso. It had been disemboweled. The autopsy report would indicate that

all major organs were missing. His legs and arms were found scattered about the forest floor within one hundred feet of the torso. Debt Weller called in there fine and requested the corner, and then he looked around for the female body. When Lisa didn't immediately reveal herself on that side of the road, the men crossed over and began to search the woods on the opposite side, and that's

where they found her. I was an adult before I learned the full details in the condition of her body, and to this day I can't bring myself to describe it. My eyes always glaze over when I think about it, and by all wells up in my belly and I have to stop. There's a corner's report on record at the courthouse. I'm told it includes photographs, and it isn't

something that I want to see. The hunters who go into the woods sometimes don't come back, and those who do tell horrific tales of being stalked, or give descriptions of tall, wolf headed animals on two legs, howling and sometimes growling at them. Once in a while, a hunter will bring something out of the woods with him that will explain this disappearance or that. One man found a doll that belonged to a little girl who disappeared out

of her backyard. Another brought out parts of a bicycle that looked like the one ridden by a teenage boy who had vanished. These are the reasons why we have rules in Stone River. It's just too bad that sometimes, and through no fault of our own, those rules have to be broken. I would never have broken any of them if I could have helped it, I certainly never meant to. It just happened. My grandson turned seven years old last year. He is the light of my existence.

When my son and his wife decided to move away from here, I thought I'd die of loneliness until I realized that they wouldn't have rules where they moved to. However, in order to spend my grandson's birthdays with him, I have to drive sixteen hours. Last year, I went out on a Monday intent on spending the entire week with my grandson. We were going to visit the zoo, go fishing, and watch TV together. It was his week and anything

he wanted was all right with me. On Thursday, I got a phone call that I would cut my visit short. My little brother was in the hospital and he was barely hanging on to life. He had apparently had a heart attack. And even though we have never been especially close, he's eight years younger than I am. He was my little brother when we were younger. Despite our age difference, we were close. However, his wife never approved of me. She's better educated and probably a great deal more intelligent.

His job with the city was a lot more impressive than mine at the factory. Well, none of that mattered now. My sole thought was to get home and to be with him. I was nearly all the way there when my sister in law phoned to let me know that he didn't make it. I was too late. We spoke for quite a while. It was a close she and I had ever come to having a real conversation. She expressed her plans for his funeral and burial, and I told her that I would do whatever I could do

to help. Well. She thanked me and asked me if I thought our church would be willing to host the dinner afterward. I said I was sure it would, and that I would contact our pastor in the morning. We hung up and I pulled over for a minute. I tried not to cry. I'm old fashioned that way. Men don't cry. I cried that night. Once I was in control of myself again, I got back on the road and headed home. I knew I would have to call my son in the morning. For now, I simply wanted

to go to bed. My phone beeped a short, high toned, ringing sound. I picked it up and stared at the screen. It didn't appear that there was any reason for it to do that. Another ten miles and I would be off the interstate, and then it would be seven miles to town, three or four minutes to cross it in two more miles to my house on the other side. My phone made that strange beeping sound again, and I picked it up, and I stared at the screen, and again there didn't seem to be a reason for it

to do that. I was off the interstate and on the highway to town when my phone made that strange sound again, and once again there was nothing to indicate what that sound meant. It occurred to me that I had heard it making that sound once or twice while I was speaking with my sister in law. The last thing I needed was for my phone to give out on me. Now. I didn't want to make the forty mile drive to Springfield to get it fixed or to buy a new one. And for the love of Pete,

why why now? Irrational anger was taking over when that sound happened one last time before my truck died for the first time in hours. I glanced down at the dashboard and I coasted to a star as my eyes fixed on the little red gas indicator. It wasn't my phone that had been beeping at me. It was my truck telling me that I hadn't put gas in it for some three hundred and fifty miles. How could I have been so stupid? As late as it was, I knew there wouldn't be any open gas stations in town.

We have rules in Stone River. Even if there were an open gas station, how was I going to get there? Walk alone at night? Not in Stone River. I ran through the list of rules that had regulated my entire existence since birth. What should I do? My mind was mired in a fog of exhaustion from the long driving, sorrow from my loss. I couldn't seem to remember what I should do, So I decided the best thing for me to do would be to sit still. Certainly the police would be out on patrol. My phone told me

it was eleven thirty PM. I sat it down on the seat beside me and took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Why couldn't I focus enough to know what to do. Minutes later, it occurred to me that I should use my phone to call the police if I needed further proof of my mental exhaustion. Not thinking to make a simple phone call would have been it. I reached down to pick it up, and of course I

knocked it onto the floorboard. It's sixty one. The thought of squirming around in my seat to reach down and pick up made my bones hurt, so before doing so, I reached up and flipped on the interior light so I could see it. It had slid all the way across the passenger door. I sighed, and I lifted my arm rest out of the way and bent over and stretched out my arm. My fingers barely touched the phone, and little by little I managed to work it toward

me until I could get a good grasp on it. Now, the blood had rushed to my face, and my lungs felt deprived of oxygen, and a muscle on my left side was threatening to cramp. I sat up and flipped off the overhead light and stared at the wolf that was now standing at the front of my truck, staring back at me. The ridiculous image of bugs Bunny doing battle with the big bad wolf flashed through my mind.

It was everything I had ever imagined. It was large and had upright ears and red glowing eyes and a mouthful of sharp, jagged teeth, and it was standing on two legs like a man. There was something malevolent in that creature's expression. Even more frightening was the level of intelligence that I could see. White hot anger permeated the air around it in the form of steam that rose off its heavy muscle fur covered body and swirled in the beams of my headlights. Our eye eyes were locked

in a silent battle. The physical fight would be useless. Somewhere deep inside my conscious mind, I felt some primal voice screaming for flight. That too, would end badly. I wasn't going to outrun this thing at the height of my youth, when my body was at its finest. I would not have outrun this monster at my current age. I wasn't sure that I could even slide to the other side of the truck. My hand ran along the arm rest on the door to find the lock button,

and I hit it and then jumped. When that thing reacted to the clicking sound with deliberate movements that I was sure were meant to instill absolute terror in me. It turned and began to make its way around the side of my truck. Oh my god, it was coming to the driver's window. I remembered that Lisa's car window

had been shattered all those years ago. The screeching sound one of the long claws being dragged along the side of my truck rang in my ears, and I realized then that my heart was beating against my ribs, like a moth against a screen window. No, I yelled, but I'm not sure if I did so out loud. Somewhere in the back of my mind, A voice was calmly saying, call the police. Your phone is in your hand, Call the police. And my hands obeyed, even when my mind

could not nine one one. What is your emergency? A voice said, I'm broke down on Highwaii nineteen. I answered, there's a I suddenly didn't know what to call it. What did we call them in Stone River? It occurred to me that no one had ever given them a name. These days, people would say dog man. I didn't remember anyone in Stone River ever using that word. It was now staring at me through the driver's side window. What

are you, I ask in a small, pathetic voice. At any other moment, under any other circumstances, I would have laughed at myself for being so ludicrous, Sir. The voice on the other end of the phone asked, is someone else there? Yes, I said meekly. Is that person threatening you? She asked, yes, No, yes, it's not a person, I stuttered, not a person. The panic I was already fighting increased exponentially with the realization that I might not have connected

with a local nine to one one operator. A local operator would not have sounded quite so shocked at the words not a person. It's a I tried to say. It growled fogging the thin sheet of glassed between us. Oh, she said when she heard the sound. Thank god it was a local operator. She knew what I was dealing with. Help me, I said, shaking. It's right outside my window. Can you get away? She asked, Now, my vehicle's out of gas. Do you know what my marker your own?

I don't. Looking around, I tried to find a landmark to indicate how far I was from town. The world around me was nothing but black, dense woods to my right and an empty corn fill to my left. Maybe I'm three or four miles out of town, I offered, never mind, she said, I pinged your cell phone. There's a patrol car minutes from you. Help us on the way. The loud pop of breaking glass shocked me out of a microsecond of relief that I felt. I saw a spider web of cracks, behind which I was sure that

face was laughing in victory. I slid as far from the window as I could, and I turned to reach for the opposite door. Was I really going to jump out of this truck? Beside me? I heard another loud pop and felt the force of more glass begin to shadow. Oh Lord, help me. I began to pray as I crawled across the seat like a frightened toddler. Behind me, an arm reached in and grabbed my leg. I felt the searing pain of its claws sinking into my flesh, and I felt the hot blood soak my pant leg,

and I felt my bladder release. No, this time, I knew. I said it out loud, and I spun around hard and began to kick at the beast. It swiped back, opening another set of wounds, but it failed to get a firm grasp on me. A siren rang in the distance. I kicked harder and screamed louder. I was not going to give up without a fight. And again and again I kicked at this thing. Again and again. I felt my flesh tear away in its claws, and then I felt its hand wrap around my ankle. It had me.

I reached out to grab anything to keep it from pulling me out of my truck. There wasn't much but what I could find I held on to as tightly as I could. My free leg made contact with its face, and it released a furious howl. Dear God, help me, I screamed. Don't let this thing get me. Flashing lights lit up the road ahead of me. I don't want to die, I screamed. It managed to get me back across the cab to the window. Now I was fighting to keep it from pulling me all the way out

of the vehicle. I screamed and cussed at it. My free leg kicked and my arms flailed. Everything inside me fought to survive. Glass ripped through my back as it hauled me across the broken window, and the world turned upside down as it lifted me by my ankle into the air. With its free hand, it was trying to get a hold of my head so it could turn me over. I wasn't done fighting the My other foot planted itself into the thing's face, and it howled again. I knew I was losing the fight. I knew I

wasn't going to survive this night. I knew that I would be with my brother soon. But in defiance of this knowledge, my body twisted and writhed to keep the end from coming. The creature's free hand wrapped itself around my neck. It dropped my leg and lifted me high into the air with its teeth bared as it opened its mouth wide to clamp down on my throat. I knew I was going to die. I don't know where the deputy aimed his gun when he fired. I assumed that he fired into the air. How could he do

otherwise without the risk of hitting me. But the next thing I knew I was being thrown aside. My body was literally thrown six feet into the road. More gunshots filled the air as it turned and moved toward the squad car. I was struggling to get to my feet when I heard someone yell stay down, so I obeyed. I was too weak to get up anyway. How long I lay there while they shot at the beast, I don't know. Time has a way of slowing to a crawl in moments like this. I couldn't count the bullets.

The headlights of the patrol car blinded me from seeing much more than shadows and silhouettes. And I heard it howling, and I saw well enough to know that it suddenly turned and jumped into the woods. An arm reached out from the haze of light and pulled me to my feet. That same arm went around me and allowed me to sack against it. I was walked to the squad car and pushed into the back seat. The siren rang out again as I slipped into unconsciousness. When I woke up,

it was a day later. My body was covered in bandages, and I later learned that I had over five hundred stitches in my legs and back. There had been two cops in that squad car. If there had only been one, I doubt either of us would have survived. I should have known that a primary rule in Stone River is to never go out alone. I was fortunate to be released from the hospital in time for my brother's funeral. My sister in law was surprisingly forgiving of my inability

to help with the plans. It could have been compassion on her part, or maybe it was all After all, I'm now the only person in the history of Stone River to have been attacked by one of those things and survive. The Binding Watch by Greg Ballin. I was fourteen years old that summer afternoon in nineteen seventy two. I was fishing in a small lagoon below the Monkey

Bridge with few friends. The Monkey Bridge is simply three old, rusty pieces of cabling strung across two telephone poles, with some scattered old wood every few feet, fastened with rusty bolts. One had to be either part monkey or part insane to attempt crossing such a rickety structure. This bridge hung ominous over a lagoon inlet, home to the best fishing along the Chaws River. I was hoping to hook into some serious action and pass another summer day free from

chores and schoolwork. My third cast snacks some deep bottom weeds, and after ten minutes of a struggle, I was able to reel in five pounds of muck weeds and lagoon bottom. My friends enjoyed a good life at the large circle of crap i'd captured. Now, I began the messy task of locating and freeing my favorite lure from the mess. In the minutest of foraging through the gunk, my fingers found a solid, round to object. I tugged on it a bit and managed to pull the encrusted thing free.

I rinsed it in the water and was surprised to see an old watch emerged from the filth. The timepiece was remarkably preserved, but the leather belt loop was half rotted and soggy. The once polished chain was pitted and rust covered, and as my friends hooked into fish after fish, I continued to clean my treasure with a wet nap I had in my backpack. My friends glanced wide eyed at my treasure as I tucked it into my jeans

and went back to fishing. We cast our lines for another hour, but the fish stopped biting as suddenly as they had started. The afternoon sun dipped below the treeline, casting long shadows across the black water. We packed our gear ready for the mild trek through the woods toward our neighborhood, and as we made our way through the thick canopy of oaks and elm forest. The ground behind us crunched with faint footfalls. Nearby branches rustled with no

errant breeze. On more than one occasion, I'd glanced back, expecting to see deer or some other woodland creature disturbed by our passing. My friends also peeked back every so often, or they'd glance up at the canopy of branches. We heard something, but none of us felt the need to share that observation. I'd never felt comfortable in the woods behind my house, but I was relieved to finally see

the main trail heading back to our neighborhood. After dinner, I showed my prize to my father and my grandfather, and my grandfather studied the watch. Gray eyes went in behind heavy glasses. He said the watch was made by a company back in eighteen seventy one. He said these watches were carried by the upper class of that era. Graps wound the mechanism and his jaw dropped watch began

to tick and the second hand moved. After several years being in that lagoon, he took the watch to his bedroom and was gone for several minutes while I wolfed down my dessert, and as I finished the last bite, my grandfather presented me the watch, with a new leather loop and a silver carry chain. He had polished the timepiece and the glass casing, making it look almost good as new. The metal had some tarnish and the glass still had a few deep scratches, but it was mine.

I felt drawn to this timepiece, something old and valuable. I'd rescued from oblivion with one cast of my fishing pole. That night, I put the watch on my dresser and happily went to bed, looking forward to more adventures with my friends. I don't remember falling asleep. I was back at the lagoon, but it seemed different. The monkey bridge was there, only in much better shape. I was climbing the metal pegs in a large pole, carefully making my way to the top, where thin wooden cross pieces formed

the first part of the bridge. Unbridled waves of fear crashed through my body as I glanced down into the lagoon. Several of my friends shouted encouraging me. At least I thought they were my friends. I scarcely recognized a single soul urging me out on that swinging bridge of horror. I tried to stop myself from stepping on that first cable, but I couldn't control my legs. My arms stretched for the nearest cable to pull myself up. I placed my

foot on the lower cable. The arrangement of wooden steel shimmied side to side like a rodeo bull. Both of my hands gripped the top cable, and my knuckles white from such a firm clasp. I eased my way over the lagoon, inch by inch, sliding each foot along the separate steel wire, only finding a solid foothole where a section of old planking remained unbroken. Rhythmic thumping grew louder and faster. It was the sound of my heart beating,

fueled to this frenzy by my own fear. I tried to turn around, but had no control of my body. I kept inching forward until I was out in the middle of the lagoon. The bridge swayed and bowed under my weight, threatening to toss me like a man would do to an errant fly or a mosquito. My eyes fell upon the watch. It looked brand new, not a scratch or mark on it. As I took the next step, my right foot slipped, and in my angst I lost

my grip on the cable. My head cracked on something as I fell backward, and my body plunged into the ice cold water. The dark lagoon swallowed me into its murky depths. I tried to swim and force my limbs to move, but they failed to respond, and my lamp body settled on the lagoon bottom. Wet clothing clung, encasing me like a mummy. I came to rest on a sunken section of treefall, and my left wrist was entangled

in a network of branches. Swam damn it, I screamed in my head, but all I could feel was the icy cold water and the cold muck of the lagoon as it claimed me. The black water blanketed me, scorching my lungs as I inhale the fetid liquid. I woke screaming in terror. My head shot from my pillow as if fired from a cannon. The dark lagoon water gave way to the darkness of my basement bedroom. My head tingled, and the hair on my arms and neck stood up. Standing at the foot of my bed was a boy

my age. He was reaching out to me. Vacant, hollow eyes studied me. I could see through his body. I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out, a muted gasp of silent terror. The boy was reaching to me. He was pointing, help me. The words weren't mine, but they came from my mouth. The voice wasn't me either. I could smell the musty, dank odor of Briar's Lagoon. The scent of the river water was all over my body, embedded in the very sweat pouring from me like a fountain,

and something warm ran down my thighs. I just wet myself. The embarrassment of suling myself shook me off the terror, and I felt the growing stain of pea in my pajamas. And I blinked once, and the boy was gone. Between shivers, I managed to turn on my nightstand lamp, dispersing the darkness with a sixty white bulb. I glanced over at the dresser and saw my watch. It was shiny but worn. I reached over from my prize possession and the second

hand had stopped, and the time read four eighteen. I stared at the glowing amber hands on my alarm clock. It was just before one in the morning. This can't be right. The watch was working fine before I went to bed. The methodical ticking helped me drift off into a slumber. How could it be reading this time? Now? General ticking broke the silence. A fresh wave of goosebumps raised up my spine and down my arms, and the hairs on the nape of my neck stood as I shivered.

My watch now read twelve forty five, and it was running again. What just happened? Had I really seen someone in my room and did the watch stop? I must have still been dreaming. I began the process of changing my underwear and pajama bottoms, thinking fate that my mattress and bedding were dry. The embarrassment of telling my mom I went to bed would have been too much. I stared at the lamp from the comfort of my mattress, wondering if the darkness would again summoned the boy specter.

It had to just be part of a dream. My hand trembled, reaching for the lamp cord, hesitating as my fingertips rested on the small string. It was a dream. I pulled a cord. Darkness surrounded me. I put my head on a pillow and curled up in a ball and did my best to dismiss the terror as a simple nightmare from eating too much pepperoni pizza. I woke early the next morning. Last night's episode was forgotten. I had no luck fishing yesterday, but today would be different.

I bring in a string of keepers. I ate my breakfast quickly and rushed to gather my fishing tackle, and I walked the mile of woodland paths, alarmed at the unusual silence. The normal background noise of birds and squirrels and grass was missing. But through the silence, a set of footsteps followed me, loud yet annoying and untraceable. The tingling and goosebumps soared through my body, and I picked up a fair sized rock and patted the fishing knife

hanging off my belt. If that's you, Mike, it's not funny, I shouted into the silent woods, hoping my friend would materialize from behind one of the many large oak trees, laughing at my discomfort. Silence was my only answer. I took several stealthy steps and was rewarded with more nothing. I gave up and headed back for the lagoon. The comforting sound of bird song and the annoying whine of horseflies returned. The annoying buzz around my head replaced the

eerie silence. These flying pests became welcome company. I assumed a code was nearby looking for its breakfast, and the large predator so close accounted for the eerie silence and the footsteps shadowing me. Obviously, I wasn't a rabbit or a deer, so the canine quickly lost interest and moved on. I approached the lagoon, my eyes transfixed on the monkey bridge. I looked up at the rusted and weathered death trap, recalling the vivid images from my dream. A force compelled

me to walk over to that large support pole. I found myself standing at the base of the main support post, looking thirty feet up at the wooden cross pieces. The rusted pegs invited me to ascend and embark on the journey of my dream. Faint echoes of voices surrounded me, urging me on, daring me to across the lagoon. I reached for the first rusted peg. The voices around me grew louder, faint wisps of shapes darting back and forth compelled me. I placed my foot on a peg, hefted

myself off the ground. Mother hand grasped a higher peg while my legs stretched upward and found a solid foothold, and I slowly climbed to the top of the thirty foot pole, gazing up at the lower cross support of the monkey bridge, just as I had done in my dream. The wood was green with mold, and I could see the visible rot engulfing the age structure. Still, I reached up to the highest peg and I pulled my body up the last five feet with one strong jerk. A

chill surrounded me. My breath a white vapor as I exhaled. It was mid July. This kind of cold was impossible. He appeared from a mist, a boy my age, standing directly in front of me. I looked again, and he was transparent. I could see through his body, as if he wasn't really there, and the whispers I heard were now clear. There were loud chants. I could see the other boys, just like in my dream, But these boys weren't cheering. They were mocking him, daring him to do

this foolish feat. The names they shouted were cruel and vile. His fear and shame coursed through me, pulsing in my veins, just like a dream. No don't, I whispered, shaking my head, you'll fall in. The boy looked at me and his face was filled with terror. He turned back toward the bridge and took a step out, and then another step in. Another come back, you'll fall please, But the phantom boy didn't hear me. The bridge changed, as did the world around me. I was reliving my dream, only I could

have sworn I was awake. The bridge looked newer as it had in my dream, and the boys on the ground were no longer boys. There were dark specters, the denisen of gloom and despair. These phanfasms were urging him on, playing on his ego, hoping he'd go on and fail. And I shouted again, pleading with the boy to come back. One of the things on the ground looked up at me as if it saw me for the first time. It was then that I saw its true form, blood

red eyes, charcoal flesh, and pearl white horns. It was something dark and foul. But to the boy on the bridge, it was one of his so called friends, urging him to his death. I shouted again for the boy to return, and the dark beast hissed a sound so evil and foul that I trembled in fear. My arms wrapped around the pole, terrified hands clung to rusty pegs and a cable,

and fingers pale white from my death grip. Too terrified to move a muscle, I watched in horror as the boy slept as I had, I slipped in my dream, and he fell backward and his head slammed into one of the cross members. I watched helpless as his lamp body slipped below the surface of the lagoon. The dark things laughed and giggled. Demonic cackles tore through my body,

sapping my strength and will. My stomach wretched and turned, and I felt myself vomiting, uncontrollably, clinging to the rotted pole, and they danced together in a circle, chanting and laughing a ghoulish cackle. My flesh trembled, my whole body shook with fear. As I heaved the last of my breakfast, and before the poor boy was completely swallowed by the dark waters, I noticed the expensive silver watch clutched in his right hand. It was the same watch I had

looped around my pants securely tucked in my pocket. I saw an image of another young boy crossing a fast moving creek on the opposite end of the rapid torrents of water. Were these the same two grimlins, urging the boy further and further into danger. The boy had a silver pocket watch, my watch. I was sickened as he slipped and his skull fractured against a nearby stone, and the scene repeated over and over again, each time a different victim. How many lives have been claimed by this trinket?

I was crying and praying these horrid visions would stop. This watch killed whoever was unlucky enough to find it, and the watch always seemed to be found by another young boy, another innocent victim of these two things. I hadn't been lucky to find this watch. I had been cursed. I was the next in line of boys to be claimed by these creatures. I hid my eyes for several seconds in the chill finally passed, and I found the courage to look up. The woods were calm and tranquil.

A sparrow chirped, flying over the lagoon, chasing a horse fly. The monkey bridge was back to being old and rusted and tattered. I looked down by my fishing gear and I saw my pals, Mike and Gary exhaled a great sigh of relief. Did they see the ghuls or the boy? I was desperate to seek comfort from my friends. Go on, you big whoosy, we know you're afraid to cross it. Gary shouted, you, big wamp, go on. Michael laughed a sick cackle, rolling his eyes at me. You were always

a coward. Shame washed over me. The words cut into my boyish pride, and my muscles tensed, forcing down the panic. A stubborn determination filled my body. I was no wamp. I could do this. I reached for the top cable with my right arm. The watch fell from my pocket, glistening in the sunlight. Dangling from the heavy silver chain struck my eyes, blinding me for an instant. Opened my eyes and blinked a few times as more emotion welled up inside me. Only a fool would try to cross

this bridge. I didn't want to do this. An unknown power was pushing me forward, praying on my insecurity. I glanced down at my friends and they seemed different. They were different. They were the grimlins fishing for their next victim, and I was falling into their trap. I closed my eyes, forcing the voices out of my head. Go away, I screamed with all of my remaining strength, leave me alone. Opened my eyes and forced myself to look at the shoreline.

The gremlins were gone. I glanced down at the watch and then it stopped at four eighteen. I knew that was the exact time of death of the boy who died here so many years ago. I managed to climb down on the pole without an incident, unsheathing my fishing knife, not really knowing what a tiny blade could do against such creatures. I looked back up at the monkey bridge and I could see the shadow respecter of the boy that fell to his death, and he looked down at me.

His expression was one of grief and sorrow. That boy's spirit was chained to the spot, bound to the watch that hung from my belt loop. How many lives had this watch claimed? How many unwilling, innocent victims were tricked into terrible deaths? I was next on the list. I wanted to fling the watch back into the lagoon and part with it forever, but throwing it away helped me. Now, had I been chosen just by freeing the cursed thing? What could I do? Who could I tell? No one

would believe my tale. I arrived home and saw my grandfather. The old man knew something was wrong because I never came home early in the summer unless it was raining or I'd gotten in trouble. He asked me what I'd done wrong, assuming the worst, and I started crying. I don't know why, I just couldn't stop myself. I told him of the terrors I'd witnessed, perched thirty feet up on that pole on the monkey bridge. My grandfather helped me as I perched my grief, and he studied the

watch he'd so meticulously restored. The time still read four eighteen. He motioned me to follow him into his room, and he took the warm, rotted strapping and rusty links he'd removed yesterday and placed the fragments in a cloth bag along with the watch. He sat down in his rocker and he told me a story of a boy my age named Timothy Burns. Timothy came from a wealthy family and would have worn a watch like the one I found. Timothy Burns drowned in Briar's Lagoon over thirty years ago.

His death was a very big mystery. My grandfather got up and gestured for me to follow him. We went to the local library and he began wading through several pieces of microfish that contained years of newspaper archives. He called me over and pointed to a particular picture. It was a cover of a society page of the Sunday Globe. I saw an extravagant family portrait of people that radiated wealth in high society. Now recognized the boy from my dream and earlier that day. That's him, the boy from

the bridge in my room. My flesh crawled as I spotted the watch he was holding. Gramps nodded. He looked through a few more papers and then motioned me along to another library aisle. He told me to wait while he thumbed through a dusty old book. Come here, Grap's motion toward me as he placed the large book on a table. Is this what you saw at the lagoon? I followed his pointed finger to the very large yellowed page.

There were two ghouls drawn in black ink, performing that same horrid dance over the hastily sketched body of a soldier. My skin crawled and I shivered just looking at the picture. I held my gramps shaking, yes, tears of fears streamed down my cheek. This was really happening. Monsters did exist. Gramps slammed the book shut, his face grimaced in seam, set in stone. What are they, Gramps? You act like you know them personally, he shook his head. No, sun,

not personally. I've seen them in war, after particularly gruesome battles. They filled some soldiers into getting themselves shot up. We were warned about them, but nothing prepares you for that kind of encounter. Handballed into a fist. So this is what they do in between wars for kicks. Gramps eyes narrowed. I don't want to die, Gramps. What am I gonna do? You're not going to do anything but what I tell you. I'm gonna put young Master Burns and countless other souls

to rest and in this string of torment. Hopefully. We climbed back into his car and made a forty minute drive to a remote cemetery. What are we doing here? Gramps been over and looked directly into my eyes. I need you to be very brave right now and do exactly as I tell you. Can you do that? Son? I swallowed hard and I nodded. I followed my grandfather as he walked toward a rather large headstone. The name Burns was etched on the marker. The temperature dropped noticeably

as we approached. Talk to him. He'll hear you and be compelled to come. The watch binds you to him and other victims. I didn't know what to say to a dead person, and I simply looked at the grave. There's not much time, so unhurry, he urged Tim. I whispered, I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve to die that way. I hope you can finally rest after Gramps does whatever it is he's going to do. A chilling wind struck us. As I finished, we were being watched. Two dark shadows

hovered in the distance. My grandfather saw them, but there was no fear in him. He seemed made of the strongest steal. At this moment, I could hear those vile things talking to him and threatening him with untold torments and horrors. Gramps never flinched or wavered. He shot the ghuls of look that even to this day, I'll never forget the look of a man protecting his grandson, a mighty lion protecting his pride. Look of love and compassion against the face of evil. You chose wrong this time.

You can't have my grandson tell the devil that I sent you. His voice was loud and powerful, and it echoed off the gravestones, trumpeting over the threats and hisses. Gramps looked over at me and he smiled. His total like of fear gave me strength. I watched spellbound as he took out the small cloth sack that contained the watch and the original loop and chain go back to Hell.

Gramps smashed the object against the granite headstone. A moaning wail that must have echoed for miles shattered the silent cemetery. The two dark shadows withered and melted away, their screams of despair echoing behind them. He doused the sack with lighter flood, and he set it ablaze, and the flames were a sick, unearthly hue of red and purple. Watch fragments hissed angrily as they were consumed. My grandfather whispered a silent blessing over the flames, and they seemed to

waver and then burn more like a natural fire. After five brief minutes, the flames sputtered and died. I stared, stunned as he buried the watch ashes and the charred fragments next to the grave. You can rest now, Master Timothy, be with God, he whispered, struggling to his feet. We both looked up and saw the spirit of Timothy Burns, along with other boys, approach a glowing vortex. Timothy turned toward my grandfather and me, and he smiled. He simply waved back, and we watched him pass on to his

final resting place. I looked at my grandfather with a sense of pride and awe. My dad told me stories about him before he moved in with us, how he'd been through two wars, and about how brave and courageous he was. I saw the medals and the ribbons on his dresser, but I never understood their meaning. I never saw that part of him until today. I just knew Gramps was the silent man who moved in with us last year, not the hero of two wars or the twenty year beat cop. I don't know what I would

have done without him there to help me. I looked up at him, amazed at his courage and iron will, and he stared down the face of evil and mocked the denizens of darkness as they threatened his life. Is it over, Gramps, Are they really gone? He looked down at me, gently placing his hand on my shoulder for you and I, Yes, it's over, he pointed toward the car. But the war goes on, young man, Graham sighed. His face was sad for a second as he walked together.

The war always rages on. I am an old man now, a veteran of two wars plus multiple police actions, and a proud grandfather of a fine young boy. I too, live with my son in a small corner bedroom of his house. I am the silent old man, and I keep a constant vigil, hoping the boy never brings home any strange objects, and I always let him bend my ear for any reason. I realized during my first taste of combat that there were more grimlins in the world.

I fought them on the battlefield as they stole the lives of both friend and foe. Evil doesn't care about the moral calls or the mortal conflict. Evil only cares about killing, indifferent to what uniform you wear. We live in an age of scientific marvels, computers, phones, accomplished things I've never imagined possible. Within this technology, evil has found a home. The boys aren't drawn to shiny watches anymore,

drawn to the dark web and the cyber underworld. In this age of new fangal technology, evil comes in several appealing packages. Only those who have experienced the horror of war know about the soul gremlins, and we don't speak of it even amongst ourselves. We're old men who watch in silence, as my grandfather did so many years ago. Darkness never rests or sleeps, not when there are so

many victims right for the taking. The war does rage on, not fought on a battlefield, but wage through the computer or handheld device. The prize is still the same. The souls are the innocent, but the tactics are far more subtle and perverse in this age of expanding darkness. All I can do is stand fast and be a beacon of light. From my grandson, That's all any man can do. Be a beacon of light and hope and serve as an example of good, and pray that our kids have

the gilded cyber net cast into the electronic ocean. The war rages on, always,