Rhett McLaughlin - The Lost Causes of Bleak Creek

“No need to climb,” Ben said, starting to walk. “Follow me.”

Rex immediately strode after Ben.

Leif paused, sighed loud enough for Rex to hear it, then followed.

When Ben reached the fence, he squatted down and placed both hands on it, moving them around like a mime outlining an invisible box until he found what he was looking for. He pushed forward to reveal a part of the fence was cut, giving them a gap to squeeze through, about fifteen links high. “You guys first,” he whispered.

Rex appreciated the polite gesture. Leif thought it might be a trap. “No, that’s okay, you go first,” he whispered.

“Okay,” Ben said with a shrug, sliding one leg through the gap, then his head and torso, followed by the other leg. A few twigs fell off him, but it was an otherwise smooth passage.

Rex went next, first popping his backpack through before his towering frame, sliding through the fence using Ben’s technique (though failing to make it look as easy as Ben had). Leif, perhaps in subconscious protest of this midnight mission, took a different approach, turning around and backing his way through the fence. The tail of his Coke shirt got caught, sending the fabric up and over his head, halting his progress. Before Leif could ask for help, Rex unhooked his shirt and the rest of him popped through the fence.

“You’re welcome,” Rex said.

Leif scowled at him, but his tall and currently irritating friend was already catching up with Ben.

They moved through the woods as silently as they could, each of them highly aware they were now on the grounds of the Whitewood School.

They had walked for a minute or so up a small hill when Ben stopped at a medium-sized tree with a trunk that, just above his head, forked into two. “This is the spot,” he said, crouching down and encouraging Rex and Leif to do the same.

Leif peered around the two-trunked tree. From the top of this crest, he could see they were only a couple dozen yards from the edge of the woods behind the school. At the bottom of the hill, glistening in the moonlight, was a pool of water about forty feet across, a creek slowly flowing away from it across the school grounds.

“Is that,” Rex whispered excitedly, “Bleak Creek Spring?”

“Yep,” Ben answered. “That’s where Bleak Creek begins, and it’s also where the action’s gonna happen.”

“I’ve lived here my whole life and I’ve never seen it,” Leif said, the wonder of seeing his town’s hidden namesake momentarily distracting him from his fear.

Beyond the sparse trees on the opposite side of the spring, they could see the school itself, a featureless pale rectangle in the darkness. It stood less than a hundred yards away, along with a row of four tiny buildings, all surrounded by a large lawn, the same lawn that Travis cut each week. An interior light shone from a first-floor window, a translucent curtain obscuring any details within.

“So…what happens now?” Rex asked, camcorder in hand.

“Now, we wait,” Ben said, gazing out at the spring.

“How long?” He didn’t feel as antsy as Leif, but he was again relying on the ol’ punching-bag-in-bed trick to keep his parents from realizing he was gone, and the off-chance of them checking his room left him uneasy.

“Just a bit,” Ben said.

As they crouched in silence, watching and waiting, they noticed the cicadas belting out their pulsing songs around them, making the forest seem alive, like it had a giant, beating heart. “I’m kinda hungry,” Leif said. Terror and hunger were often interchangeable for him.

“Here.” Rex dug around in his backpack and chucked a huge Ziploc bag over to Leif. “Brought some trail mix.”

“Thanks,” Leif said, instantly comforted by a familiar snack.

“You can have some too, Ben,” Rex said.

“I’m okay,” Ben said. “Still pretty full from my three-squirrel dinner.”

“Uh, all right,” Rex said, as he noticed Leif taking out individual peanuts from the bag and consuming them one by one. He was tempted to say something, but he was well acquainted with Leif’s pickiness—his aversion to olives, mushrooms, and pepperoni had sabotaged many a pizza order—and either way, this was no time to bicker over trail mix etiquette. Then Leif popped another peanut in his mouth, chewing so loudly, the sound began to rival the cicadas.

“Hey, Leif, don’t—Let’s not…let’s not do it like that.”

“Like what?” Leif asked.

“Like eating all the peanuts and nothing else.”

“But I don’t like M&M’s or raisins. I’m avoiding them.”

“Yeah, but you’re throwing off the whole ratio. My mom had a specific mix in mind.”

“You think your mom is gonna be upset about me eating the peanuts?”

“No,” Rex said, growing more flustered, “but when you eat trail mix, you’re supposed to take a handful. Everybody knows that. What you get is what you eat!”

“Maybe quiet down a bit,” Ben said from between them.

“Sorry,” Rex said.

“Yeah,” Leif said, depositing yet another peanut onto his tongue. “You offer me a snack and then you’re telling me how to eat it. Makes it kinda hard to enjoy.”

“Okay,” Rex said, reaching his arm across Ben, “gimme back my mom’s trail mix.”

“No,” Leif said, holding the bag close, “you—”

He didn’t finish his sentence, because that’s when the chanting started.

Just outside the school, about a dozen people were walking across the grass toward the spring. Their words were indecipherable but sounded to Rex like Latin. Or at least how he imagined Latin would sound. Two individuals holding torches led the procession; the others walked two by two behind them. All wore full-length hooded robes and walked slowly in step with one another.

“What is this?” Rex asked, hitting the record button on his camcorder and placing his finger over the red light to maintain their cover.

“See?” Ben whispered. “I told you you’d want to check it out.”

“Is it the KKK?” Leif asked. “I’ve heard they’re still around.”

“Nope,” Ben said. “KKK’s got white robes. These are light blue. Plus, they’ve got open hoods, not the pointy ones with eyeholes.”

“Yeah, they look more like Druids or something,” Rex said.

“Might just be, like, a nighttime choir group,” Leif said, gripping tight to the Ziploc of disproportionate trail mix. “You know, like Christmas carolers. Is there such a thing as Labor Day carolers?”

“Just keep watching,” Ben said.

As the group reached the edge of the spring, their chanting hit a crescendo. They were now close enough for the boys to hear the foreign words clearly: “Vee-tah ehst ah-kwa, vee-tah ehst ah-kwa .”

“Maybe they’re Episcopalian?” Leif asked, barely able to get the words out. “I think they do weird stuff like this.”

The pairs split, making way for an individual to walk down the newly created aisle between them. In addition to the light blue robe, this person wore a white stole draped over his shoulders with what looked to be some sort of star symbol embroidered at each end. Rex got a glimpse of the face under the drooping hood, the torchlight illuminating his features. “Is that…Whitewood?” he asked in disbelief.

“Bingo,” Ben whispered.

Leif couldn’t fully process what he was seeing.

Whitewood lifted his arms, and the torchbearers placed their fiery sticks into two stands near the edge of the water. The chanters fanned out, forming a semicircle around the spring. They all kneeled and began to chant more quietly.

“Are those students?” Rex asked.

“Unlikely,” Ben said. “I never wore a robe.”

“Wait, so they’re teachers ?” Leif asked.