Ike Hamill - The Hunting Tree Trilogy

“But Mike,” said Gary. “He loves hands.” His voice was low and threatening, but that’s not what caused Mike to look back over his shoulder. What drew his attention was a popping, crackling sound. His eyes confirmed what his ears had already guessed—rolling flames had engulfed the rafters, flowing around the insulation and wiring. The fire licked down the bare studs, dripping like water down the knotty pine.

Mike flipped over on his back, pushing himself away from Gary. He only had a few feet separating him from the stairs, but what he saw drained the strength from his limbs. Flames dripped down and touched Gary’s head, turning his hair into a torch. Gary stared at Mike’s eyes and a sinister smile passed across his lips.

Gary didn’t acknowledge his burning and smoking hair. As he spoke, the flames reached Gary’s collar and flames moved down to his shoulders—“It’s time for us to join him Mike,” said Gary. “Down in the crawl space.”

Mike could barely hear him over the crackle of the flames.

Gary reached out his stump as if to help Mike to his feet, but instead a fresh glob of blood jetted out, hitting Mike’s waist.

Mike watched in horror, unable to scream or move away from his possessed friend or the searing heat. Gary’s body stiffened and his face curled, as if he suddenly smelled something disturbing. His jaw dropped open and a guttural, ripping scream tore from Gary’s throat. His legs pumped and Gary ran over Mike’s prone body, around the stairs and towards the front of the house. Mike’s eyes followed the flaming man. Gary’s run fanned the flames and his shirt burst into flames just as he hit the window at the front of the house.

Momentum alone would have carried Gary through the window, but he leaned forward and thrust himself through, launching himself and taking his scream out into the night.

Fresh air burst through the window and the fire exploded down at Mike. He could smell his own hair and clothes smoldering, so he pulled towards the stairs and tumbled down the treads, rolling, crashing and banging to the landing. A whooshing sound preceded the crash of exploding windows above on the second floor. Mike rose to his knees and spit out a mouthful of upchuck.

The doorknob grew in size as he reached for it. By the time his hand reached it, the handle was the size of a softball; he had to grab it in both hands to make it turn. Several things occurred to Mike simultaneously: the knob was at eye-level, but he was no longer on his knees. He wore his favorite green pajamas from when he was a child, and this knob belonged to inside of the bedroom he’d shared with his brother, Charlie.

“Don’t leave me, Mike,” sobbed Charlie.

Mike turned around but already knew what he would see—his brother’s bruised and fragile face. Charlie’s balled fist was pressed against his temple. He was about to cry.

“You died of leukemia, Charlie. It already happened,” said Mike. He tried to sound confident, but his little-boy voice sounded tentative.

“You made me go to the crawl space,” pouted Charlie. Fat tears rolled down his drawn cheeks.

“You didn’t catch it from the crawl space,” Mike protested. “Mom said so.”

“She said prolly,” corrected Charlie. “You know it’s true.”

“I can’t stay,” said Mike. “You’re trying to trick me.”

“You owe me, you said so. Just stay until I fall asleep.”

“No, Charlie,” said Mike. He turned back to the doorknob and exhaled with relief to see that it had returned to its normal size. When he touched the knob, Mike heard the splintering crash of the roof collapsing. He turned and pulled, collapsing through the door and away from the devastating heat, into the night.

Rough hands plunged under Mike’s armpits and he blinked against the heat of the burning building as he was dragged down Bill’s driveway. Katie and the news crew clustered in the lawn. Both Leslie and her producer had their cell phones clamped to their ears. The cameraman looked naked with nothing on his shoulder.

“What happened?” asked Mike, looking up at Bill.

“You tell me,” said Bill.

Conversation was impossible for the next minute—an explosion from the house pushed warm air over the group and showered down glowing debris. The ringing in Mike’s ears was replaced with the sound of distant sirens as he regained his hearing.

“Where’s Gary?” Mike yelled, coughing and choking, still spitting out chunks of lunch. He blinked several times to clear his eyes and propped himself up to look at the house. The top half of the house looked like a bite had been taken from the roof. Flames flowed up through a ragged, burned hole that stretched from the two outer dormers. The center window, the one Gary had plunged through, was completely gone, burned away with the surrounding roof.

Mike’s research van, parked just to the right of the front porch, had rolled right and leaned heavily against the news van. Both vehicles were gutted by flame.

Katie knelt next to Mike and fixed her cold eyes on him. “He’s gone,” she said.

“Gone? Are you sure that…” he was cut off by another explosion. The rear wheels of the news van lifted several feet as a fireball shot out from under its frame. A wave of heat made Mike blink and he scrambled away from the noise and debris. Mike glanced back and saw that Bill and the news crew had retreated farther across the lawn. Except for Gary, everyone was present.

“He fell out of that window and crashed through the windshield of your van,” said Katie.

Mike panicked and jumped to his feet. He overbalanced and almost crashed to the ground, but caught himself and stood up. “Where is he? We’ve got to help him,” he said to Katie.

She folded her arms and shook her head. “It’s too late. He was dead when he hit the van. Dead and on fire.”

“Oh my god,” said Mike. He had to struggle to stay upright. Mike propped himself up with his hands against his knees for a moment and then turned back to Katie. “Do you have any idea of what happened? Did you get any readings at all?”

“No evidence of the paranormal , if that’s what you’re asking,” she said, sneering.

Mike sunk to the ground as the first fire truck pulled up.

THE PREDATOR PUSHED UP from the tree branch and shifted to the left. He had a perfect starlit view of the path, but couldn’t afford to have his muscles go numb from inactivity. When the wind picked up, and started the tree swaying, he clenched and released the muscles of his legs in time with the creaking of the limbs.

The moving air brought a new scent—the one he had been waiting for. He rolled his shoulders and flexed his back, preparing for his attack. This moment was the culmination of several days of careful observation, and he didn’t want to waste the opportunity because of a careless mistake.

Leaning forward and looking back between his legs, he was able just make out the path behind him. At the edge of perception, he saw a woman adjust her stance. Could she have seen him? Was she getting ready to cry for help? Was it time to run? His mind raced—his calm confidence eroded instantly.

He braced his feet and prepared to flee, but took one more look down the path. This time he saw the reason for the woman’s delay: another set of legs. She hadn’t seen him, she was just engaged in a conversation. As he watched, she pulled away from the other woman and continued up the path, directly towards his tree. He shielded his eyes and refocused, where her back would be to him in his tree.

She moved quickly. Perhaps, he thought, she had heard reports from other families, and knew that a predator lurked in these woods. The thought excited him, and he held his breath while he waited for his opportunity. Her step was light and quiet, but he heard every footfall.