Spindle Lane. Mark Reefe

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      I put an index finger on the design and traced the crescent shape and then the circle below. The cuts were smooth and a good inch deep. Something razor sharp with serious power had to have made those sweeping gouges. “I don’t think a knife could cut like that. Look how perfect it is. There are no hack marks or signs of whittling.”

      Paul was next to touch it. “Maybe some kind of hook did it.”

      “Or a claw,” Kevin added.

      I was glad Kevin said it. This time I couldn’t be the one blamed for diving off the deep end. For one of the very few times in my life, I chose the path of caution. “What kind of an animal could carve something like this? Look, it’s almost a perfect circle and quarter moon.”

      “If it was a person, they’re tall,” Paul said. “If they reached out straight in front to make these markings, they’d have to be at least six feet at the shoulder.”

      “What do you think it means?” Kevin asked.

      “Don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it,” I said.

      Paul kept his eyes locked on the symbol as he stepped back from the tree. “Sometimes when people are in the woods, they mark things, so they know where they’ve been. You know, so they don’t get lost.”

      Kevin shook his head. “Lost…on the bike trail? C’mon, dude, it’s not like this is the Amazon.”

      “A warning,” I whispered.

      “What was that?” Paul asked.

      I turned to my friends. “It could be a warning—kind of like a no trespassing sign.”

      Kevin’s eyes narrowed. “What good is a no trespassing sign if no one can read it?”

      “Maybe they’re initials or something like that,” Paul theorized. “Like when you write your name in your school books so people know they’re yours.”

      “Someone wanted us to know the tree is theirs?” Kevin teased.

      Paul’s cheeks turned pink. “No. They wanted us to know the forest is theirs. I wonder if we would find more of these if we looked around.”

      Footsteps came from behind. Somebody was approaching from the bike trail.

      “What are you knuckleheads up to? Steve’s starting to get pissed!”

      Perry.

      I looked at Paul and Kevin and shook my head, hoping they would get the point. This needed to be our secret for now. It was too early to share, and with no concrete proof that something supernatural or at the very least fiendish was going on, there was no point in sharing our discovery. All they would do was rag on us.

      “What’s so great about this place?” Perry huffed. “Doesn’t look like anything special to me.”

      There was nothing more for us here. We found what we were looking for—at least I thought we did. There was no doubt in my mind that the symbol and the Goatman were connected. Maybe the creature was marking its territory like Paul suggested, but whether that proved to be the case or not, we didn’t need Perry or Steve poking around yet. “Eh, maybe you’re right; guess I remembered it a little differently.”

      “Yeah, well, you guys better get back. You’re holding everything up, and you know how Steve gets.”

      For the next couple hours, the three of us screeched, hollered, and howled as we relentlessly pursued our prey through the dirt paths and alongside the muddy creek beds of White Marsh. It was funny in a warped sort of way. Just over a week ago, I was the one being hunted here—except then it was real. Now it was just Paul, Kevin, and me sporting a bunch of greasepaint and fake fur glued to our hands and faces as we chased Brian—otherwise known as Professor Benedict Haywood—at the command of the nefarious Doctor Gerard Dubois—aka Perry. Mark was always more comfortable behind the camera and content to serve as Steve’s special effects and lighting coordinator. To sum up, the Professor triumphed in the end, defeating the doctor and his furry minions.

      Steve had started off filming in a pissy mood, barking orders at me and my friends like we were nothing more than a pack of wild dogs, which we vaguely resembled in hindsight. But by the time we were finished, his mood lightened, and he seemed genuinely pleased with how the shoot went.

      Steve pushed his glasses up, smiled, and announced, “Okay, that’s a wrap! Let’s head back. We have Italian ices and freeze pops at our house. Good job, guys!”

      Getting praise from my brother lifted all of our spirits, and the ride back was a loud one filled with jokes and laughter as we took turns mocking each other’s acting skills. Turning off Stonybrook and up Spindle, we passed Mr. Hutchinson watering his rosebushes. He waved at us and shouted as we rode by, “Christopher! Do you have a minute?”

      Christopher, ugh. I hated it when adults used my full first name; it always made me feel like I was in trouble. I noticed Paul slow down and turn a frowning face to me as if to say, Ignore the old man and keep pedaling. I waved him off and circled back around.

      Mr. Hutchinson released the hose nozzle and smiled as I approached. “Nice riding, young man. Looks like you guys are having fun today.”

      I was taught to always respect my elders and Mr. Hutchinson seemed a little cooler than most, but his timing really stank. For the first time in a very long time, I was actually having fun with my brother, and here the old man comes and wants to strike up a conversation smack dab in the middle of it. I swallowed my frustration and put on the best fake smile I could muster. “We were all just making a movie. It was kind of fun, I guess.”

      Mr. Hutchinson pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and patted it on his forehead. “That’s nice. Sorry to barge in on your merriment, son. I was just wondering if you would like to make a little extra cash this summer.”

      The annoying conversation suddenly got interesting. “Sure. What do you need me to do?”

      “Do you know how to mow a lawn?”

      I knew Mr. Hutchinson had seen me mowing our lawn, so the question seemed a little weird. “Sure. Me and my brother take turns doing it.”

      “Excellent! See, I’m afraid I’m getting a little too old for that type of thing. My knees and back aren’t what they used to be. What would you say to coming over every Sunday starting tomorrow and mowing the front and back for let’s say…fifteen dollars?”

      I had never noticed Mr. Hutchinson having any difficulty with his yard, but I wasn’t about to let that get in the way of making some serious moolah, especially since the going rate for a lawn the size of his was ten bucks. “You bet! I mean, I’d have to check with my dad, but I don’t think it will be a problem.”

      “Good man! That’s what I like to hear. Please, run it by your father. If he says yes, let’s say you drop by tomorrow around ten o’clock. I’ll give you a walk-through and then turn you loose.”

      “Sounds good, sir. I’ll ask him tonight.”

      I’m pretty sure Mr. Hutchinson was still talking when I sped off. I wasn’t trying to be rude. I was just pumped at the prospect of a paying job. Also, I was dying СКАЧАТЬ