The Rocks

The crickets chirped in the cool blackness of night, echoing throughout the emptiness of the woods. It wasn’t really “woods”, per se, it was more of a convergence of trees and hills of stone. Eons of erosion had widened mere cracks into crevasses large enough for a car to drive into, while some had to be squeezed through in order to enter. Small shrubs climbed the faces of the rocks, but reluctantly fell back as if they failed to scramble up. It was a popular campground, despite the wizened surroundings. The outcropping of stone had taken on the name of “The Rocks”, and had gained a near magical, if not mythical, reputation.

And in the morning, as the sun peeked above the false horizon of the trees, the camp season began. backpackers, hikers, RVers, and tenters by the dozens filed into the woods to begin their summer adventure. They all belonged to nature, and in turn, nature belonged to them. It was all as it had been left- untouched and unscarred by the ravages of winter, as alive as the day they had left it. As the scores of families trekked through the woodlands and hoisted themselves upon the fabled rocks, they each in turn discovered their own bit of nature, to be theirs in memory forever.

As midday broke, tentpoles were raised in their 1 and a half-yard glory, as valiant as flagpoles, only to hold up the canvas that protected dormant men and women from the beasts. Sandwiches were passed around and coolers were opened. The first of the onslaught of trash graced the floor of the forest. Others preferred to hunt their game, loading their weaponry and cocking the steel guns they had toted with pride all the way from their suburban dwellings. Shots occasionally rang out, hopefully followed by the slump of dead fowl or deer hitting the ground. The hunt was always longed for, especially with the possibility of a prize buck.

As the cycle of dawn to dusk goes, night soon fell, and the first day of exploring came to a close. Stragglers and latecomers to the harvest of nature set up camp and began the ritual slumber that came with the night.

At least, most of them. There were a few young children, who simply refused to leave the outdoors, as if it were the grasp of their mother. Such was the case of eight-year-old Oliver Shoane.

“Oliver! Come back to the camp!” A voice associated with his father reached out to him.

“But I don’t want to!”, came Oliver’s initial, almost automatic respone.

“Then I’ll have to come get you.” His dad replied.

Firm on staying put, Oliver answered with a curt “Fine!”

Led by the hand back to camp, Oliver found himself tight inside a sleeping bag and surrounded by the inside of a bright red tent. He knew himself, he was young and fearless, and he could stay out for at least another half hour. But his father was probably still awake in the tent across from him. Only a very crunchy ground kept him from escape. The boy squirmed in his sleeping bag. He couldn’t nod off anyway, what with all the noise of crickets amidst the other ambiance of the forest. Closing his eyes, Oliver cleared his mind and, despite his quiet complaints of insomnia, he fell asleep.

“Help… helll-p…”

Oliver’s eyes split apart as if one was pepper and the other was an open cut. The quiet cry of help was barely inaudible, yet as beckoning as if someone was leading him to it. The young lad crawled out of his bag, slipped on some shoes and a coat, and wet his lips. Despite his saliva, they were still dry and cracking. He grasped the zip of the tent entrance with his stubby fingers, and slowly pulled it down, being careful not to make the tell-tale unzipping sound. As far as he knew, his dad was a light sleeper.

His sneakers only made a faint crunch against the ground, but not enough to be heard from more than a yard away. He was stepping lighter than he ever had, trying to come to the aid of the voice. As Oliver got further and further away from the site, the more and more careless with his footfalls he became.

Soon he had escaped the shroud of the forest and was face to face with the Rocks. They were white enough to contrast with the dark sky, which only yielded for faint moonlight.

“Help… Help…”

The cries were eminating from a cave not 50 feet from Oliver. He trotted over and stared into the mouth quizzically. The “Help” cries were definately coming from inside there. It was darker than outside, but Oliver had no fear. He entered the cave, sure of every footstep, but still careful enough to make sure he wouldn’t step anywhere he would regret.

Near the end of the natural tunnel, there was the dim glow of a fire, yet it was strong enough to drop shadows against the person who was calling out to him. It was a gray man, covered in dust and dirt until an almost perfect camoflage against the cave walls, wedged between two stalagmites. Hair had grown wild on his head and chin and mouth, giving him an almost feral manner.

“Help me…” He whispered with a voice that sounded akin to fingernails scratching on a chalkboard. Oliver took the man’s outstretched hand, but was pulled in closer by the wild man.

“Help me out of these rocks…” The voice made Oliver cringe. He yanked the man’s appendage again, only to be pulled in closer.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be alright, just help me up…” It felt like a tiny knife going into his eardrum. The lad kept pulling, but every time, the cave dweller pulled him in closer.

An inch from his face, Oliver could notice a host of gross, green teeth, some of which were neighbored on either side by a gap. His breath smelled of rancid butter and blood. Tears were welling in his eyes, leaving streaks where dirt and earth used to be.

Suddenly, the man rolled out of the stalagmites and spun Oliver around so his mouth was covered by a bear-like palm.

“Don’t Scream…” The man whispered. Oliver could see that he wore only a tattered pair of cargo shorts, which had clearly seen better days. He hugged the boy into his armpit as he hobbled along. Adorning the walls of his cave were various refrigerators that were clearly harvested from abandoned-for-the-moment RVs. The man straightened his hunched back and retrieved a small bowie knife from the top of a dented fridge.

He grasped the knife with a dead firmness in his paw-like hand and slashed manically the boys throat four times, cackling as he did it. As Oliver’s eyes shut off, permanently sealing him from life, the decripit man giggled menacingly, “I’m happy when the blood comes…”

***

It was morning, and the people went about their morning routines. Guns were polished, fires were started, and harmony of man and nature was once again assumed. However, Oliver’s father awoke to horror. His son was gone. He gasped in fright for his boy’s saftey, and, as a reflex, called out his name. Pulling on some boots and grabbing a flashlight, the man set out at a sprint to find his son.

No doubt that Oliver had gotten lost in the Rocks, thought the man. He never slowed until he reached the wide breadth of the Rocks. They stood white and glorious, but he had no time to admire the splendor. The man clicked his flashlight on, and shone it into every cavern he could find. Most were not too deep, and could be examined without exploration. The man rushed down across the gentle cliffs, until he stopped at a cave so deep, he did not see the end of it. And there were tiny footprints leading into it.

The man approached the mouth of the cave with caution. He had never liked spelunking, and was slightly claustrophobic. He bit back fear nonetheless, and padded softly into the cavern. He was careful not to excite whatever lived in here, nor to frighten his only child. Slowly and with great care he proceeded through the cave, the flashlight playing on the ground immediately in front of him.

Murmuring rang quietly, yet thouroughly throughout the cave. As melancholy as a hymn, and as remorseful as the dead.

“Virginia…I still love you…Virginia…”

Th man’s eyes scattered across the room, looking for a body that belonged to that voice. At the very back of the cave was a bony man cloaked in dust and soot, crouching on the ground, holding his face in his hands.

“Hey! I’m looking for my son. Have you seen a-”

The gray person turned around. He had a distorted and disfigured face that looked as if it were in a sorrow and solemn frown. His voice carried throughout the cave like a whisper. He replied before the stranger could finish his sentence, he replied with his never-changing moan.

“I still love Virginia. I’m happy when the blood comes. I’m happy when the blood comes.”

The strange man looked on with an equally strange look on his face. The crouched-over man stood up and jumped at the other man. The two wrestled, one for his life, the other determined to take his adversaries’. The man with the flashlight kicked away his opponent, but only long enough to see his son’s corpse, mutilated and mangled next to him. Bones protruded from what little flesh was left, and bite marks were visible on the gristle. He gasped, and his eyes welled, but was countered by the gray man sinking his teeth into his thigh.

He howled in pain, but the cave man took control. Dirty hands clasped around his throat and formed a boa’s grip. The strangler murmured as tranquil as if he were sitting down, “You’re going with little boy, and Virginia.”

As much as the man fought, he came to realize that this was one grip he could not shake. Everything went black, and his neck felt squeezed and fatigued. Just as he was prepared to let go, Three shots rang in the cave, as crystal clear as falling water.

The man’s eye came into focus, as a hunter stood at with mouth of the cave, holding his shotgun up to his eye. Smoke doubled out from the barrel, and the dust-covered man lurched backwards. His visible spine hit the ground, and his final words, still as quiet as the rest, fell from his lips.

“Virginia.”