Theres a monster in the.., p.1
There's A Monster In The Woods (Spooky Boys 0.5), page 1
There’s a Monster in the Woods
Spooky Boys 0.5
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Copyright © 2022 by Fae Quin
www.faelovesart.com
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or otherwise, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Cover Art and Interior Artwork by Fae Loves Art
Typography and Interior Formatting by
We Got You Covered Book Design
CONTENTS
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Author’s Note
About the Author
Dedicated to my husband, without whom my dreams would’ve remained dreams.
There’s a monster in the woods.
That’s what the stories always say.
With gnashing teeth,
And wind for wings,
Little children are its prey.
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There’s a monster in the woods.
At night you’ll hear its mournful cries.
And off the path,
You’ll feel its wrath,
Be wary of yellow eyes.
* * *
There’s a monster in the woods.
And if you listen close,
You’ll hear its cry,
Echo through the sky,
Its call for blood inside its throat.
Being the town outcast had its perks. No one invited me out anymore. No one expected me to participate in town functions, parties, or parades. And, aside from polite chitchat, no one delved into the complexities of my life. I’m sure most people would find it boring anyway.
I’d heard it all.
The whispers, the judgment, the pitying looks hidden behind hats and hands, eyes and lips that spoke quietly in the hopes I wouldn’t hear.
He hasn’t left his house in weeks, they’d whisper.
Twenty-seven years old with no future in sight.
That boy will rot alone with only his dog and his vegetables for company.
He’s too quiet, too…blah, blah, blah.
I’d heard the rumors, most of which made me laugh. I cared about them as much as I cared about the next episode of whatcha-ma-call-it I overheard everyone raving about watching every time I came into town. I didn’t care what they thought of me.
That’s what I told myself anyway.
I stared down at my dirty sneakers and waited patiently in line for it to be my turn at the cash register. My basket of seeds was plentiful this year, though I hadn’t bought pumpkin seeds for the fall despite preparing a space in my garden for them. It was a year for plentiful fruits and vegetables, not for dealing with Farmer Jones’s wrath.
I’d always liked gardening.
It had been something my Aunt June and Uncle Ruth had done with me from a young age.
Spring was the time to plant the hardiest of cool season crops: Broccoli, asparagus, onion, and peas. After the last frost came time for the half-hardy ones: Celery, lettuce, and potatoes. And then, when the last of the chill had left the air, it came time for the tender vegetables: Cucumbers, peppers, tomatoes, and squash.
I didn’t have the courage to plant pumpkins this year, but I figured there would be plenty of time for me to build it up before next spring.
I was feeling rather perky about the whole thing as I plopped my basket onto the counter and gave the clerk what I hoped was a sufficiently friendly nod. He was shorter than me—most people I met were—and I ducked my head, avoiding his gaze. Unfortunately, I couldn’t avoid my own reflection in the window behind him.
I was a tall, gangly, brown-haired blur, dressed in stained overalls, my sun hat perched like a shield atop my head—
“Ellis,” he grunted, just as he always did.
“Hiya, Tom.” I smiled at him, tapping my feet a little as I painstakingly waited for him to ring up each of my items.
“Planting season again I see.”
“Every spring.” My smile was harder to maintain as I felt his eyes on my face, his movements somehow growing even more unhurried. Jesus god, could the man be any slower? I smiled at him, hoping the friendliness would encourage him to work faster.
It did not.
“Good luck.” He hummed after I paid, pushing the basket my way again.
I always brought my own basket. It was easier than trying to juggle plastic bags all the way home. Maybe that was just another of the things everyone seemed to find strange about me. It wasn’t my fault I hadn’t been properly socialized as a child.
We’d lived in our own little world, just my Aunt and Uncle and me. The sun and moon dictated our schedule, and I’d only really left the little bubble they created after they died and I realized I’d need to learn to go into town for the things I couldn’t grow or make myself.
People were…hard.
Talking to them was harder.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like them—because I did. Truly. They were fascinating, with their colorful clothing, their hair dye, their suspicious nature. Like colorful birds strutting around with their necks bobbing and cell phones to their ears.
I’d never understood that either.
Cellphones.
I had a single landline growing up and I never intended to change that, despite the fact that the phone was more than likely older than I was.
My house was on the other side of town. As far away from civilization as my Aunt and Uncle had been able to manage. Most everything—all the businesses, the schools, the residential areas, and the fairgrounds—were located south of the woods. Only farmland remained on the north side and, despite owning nothing more than a little cottage and a massive garden, my home was located smack dab in between the farmland and the woods.
There were two ways home.
The long way, and the short way.
The long way wound around the woods, never crossing beneath the branches of the trees, always far enough away even the shadows wouldn’t touch you.
I always opted for the short way, which led directly into the forest and cut off a good forty-five minutes of my walking time. Plus, I liked the way the scent of the woods clung to my skin for days after walking through it. I liked listening to the birds cry as they flitted between branches. I liked the way the wind whistled through the air, caressing my hair almost like a long-lost friend.
I knew that was another reason the other townspeople didn’t understand me. Even though I’d grown up under a rock, I was still very aware of the stories that surrounded our forest.
It was haunted, some people said.
A demon inhabited it, others countered.
But the most common was the theory that the children’s poem we’d all grown up crying from the top of our lungs at playgrounds and throughout the town streets was true after all.
There’s a monster in the woods, the poem clearly states.
A monster I had yet to see in all my years cutting through the forest. I was skeptical it existed, in spite of the town ‘Sacrifice.’ Though I wasn’t alone in that skepticism, as it had been over a hundred years since the ‘monster’ had taken any of the Sacrifices it was given, if it ever existed at all.
The woods were chilly that day, the familiar caress of the wind against my skin soothing despite the way I shivered. The howl of the breeze through open branches followed me as I walked over the sun-dappled overgrown path.
It was a good day.
Despite it being a town day.
I hated those. I much preferred the solitude of home and the company of my dog. Rotho was white with big brown splotches dotted throughout his thick fur. I’d found him when he was just a puppy. He’d stared up at me with huge soulful eyes, his head tilted to the side like he wasn’t sure if he could trust me.
That natural distrust was what had drawn me to him in the first place. I had a thing for strays; I always had. Most of the time I felt like a stray myself.
Rotho’s kennel at the local pound had declared him an Australian Shepherd, though as he’d grown, I figured he must’ve been a mix. His legs were just slightly too long, his snout a bit too stubby. He was perfect, though he judged me more than anyone else. Often times Rotho was the only being I talked to for weeks on end, which was exactly as I preferred it.
The canopy above me reminded me of the buildings I’d seen illustrated on magazines and posters throughout the town square. The trees, however, were far less intimidating than the buildings as the sun trickled between branches and caught on the calloused pads of my tanned fingertips. I turned my hands over to admire the play of sunlight, stopping for just a moment, my grip on my basket loose.
I was nearly home when I heard a noise I’d never heard before. I cocked my head to the side, scanning t
It came again.
A sharp, broken sort of cry.
My basket slipped from the nervous sweat on my palms. I adjusted my grip, knuckles white as I whipped around. I stared at the gaps between tree trunks looking for signs of what might have made the noise. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Just leaves and brambles, bark and crickets.
Maybe I’d imagined it?
I took a few more steps and heard the sound a third time before the forest echoed in silence.
It was clear to me now the noise was coming from off the path, past a thick copse of trees that looked like it might hide a clearing. I could hear running water, spring bright in the air, as I made the split-second decision to help.
My basket remained clutched tight in my grip despite the nervous sweat that had built up, the seeds rattling as I pushed off the path and into the bushes for the first time. Despite using the shortcut through the woods for most of my life, I’d never dared to step off the path and into the woods themselves.
The part of me that was practical knew suspecting the monster might be real was silly. But then again, I’d grown up in a town with a yearly Sacrifice, so I felt my paranoia was at least a bit precedented.
I clearly remembered holding onto my aunt’s fingers as she laughed and pointed up at the platform the Sacrifice had been tied to. Blue ribbons twined around naked limbs, twisting like vines, as the sun set and the crowds parted, the scent of cornbread and apple cider donuts drifting through the air.
The first time I’d seen a Sacrifice, I’d thought he’d been covered in blood. I’d stared, and stared, and stared—Aunt June had laughed and shook her head. She’d taken me by the cheeks, her grip gentle, eyes twinkling, as she proudly proclaimed that that was the entire point of the paint in the first place. In fact, the first Sacrifices several hundred years ago had been covered in pig's blood to entice the monster out of the woods. It would take them away, feast upon them, and the town would remain safe from its hunger for another year.
In recent years, the red paint was symbolic since no one believed the monster existed anymore. The Sacrifice was an honor with no price tag attached. In fact, instead of death, you received prestige along with a hefty reward if selected. The whole thing was still macabre though. Despite seeing the red-splashed people every fall for as long as I could remember, the sight never got any less jarring.
The trees almost seemed to part for me as I stepped deeper and deeper into their shadows. It was a strange sort of sensation. I fit in more here between tree trunks than I ever had sandwiched between bodies. The trees were friendlier, kinder, quieter. Their long branches swayed as I traipsed underneath them. The way they waved in the flickering wind felt—
Welcoming.
Foreboding.
Hopeful.
Well…almost.
I could see the clearing through gaps in the trees up ahead and I paused at the edge of it. My heart rattled around in my chest as I stepped behind a thick oak tree to hide. I knew hiding was silly, but I did it anyway. The cool scratch of bark pressed against my palms as I peeked around it.
At first, I didn’t see anything.
The sun was too bright where it shone down on the tall grass, its light golden. It took my eyes a moment to adjust, and when they did, I had to hold back the cry that threatened to escape my lips.
In the center of the clearing was a creature.
Its body was large and slightly too lean for its height. It had skin tanned from the sun, much like my own, though its limbs faded into a blackened flesh that looked leathery and almost charred. Long black claws severed the flesh of the deer the creature had pinned beneath it. Its broad shoulders tensed, a swath of earthy dark curls obscuring what looked to be an entirely human face.
Huh.
It was…a man. That much was clear the moment I caught sight of the full glory of his naked body. A thick cock lay nestled inside a riot of dark curls that matched the ones on his head. I forced my gaze up, cheeks hot, the confusion buzzing under my skin a companion to my fear.
The scent of blood hit me only seconds after I registered what was happening. Copper burned inside my nose, sickness welling up inside me as I watched long claws slide slick and wet through deer flesh as the creature feasted. His antlers reached towards the treetops and I noticed with a sickening lurch that splatters of blood had decorated the black bone.
My heart was in my throat, beating erratically, rabbit-like and terrified. Each breath felt like a foghorn in the silence.
Would the creature want to hunt me if I ran?
Could he smell my fear?
My excitement?
How was this even real?
I’d heard all the stories as a child and I’d always thought the monster was a myth but…
I took a careful step backward, hoping to ease my way toward the path without being noticed. The first few steps I managed without incident.
Crack.
The noise of the branch I stepped on was loud enough it echoed. A bird took flight in the distance, the flap of its wings echoing like the ticking arms of a clock as icy dread filled my veins.
I watched—almost in slow motion—as the creature raised his head, his yellow eyes gleaming, just as the poem had always warned.
And off the path
You’ll feel its wrath
Be wary of yellow eyes.
He was beautiful, in a wild sort of way. Dirt smudged across the bridge of his nose, his ears hidden by a riot of curls so dark they were nearly black. Like dark chocolate truffles, or the soil right after a rainstorm. Everything about his face was human, inviting, masculine. His nose was hooked in a way that made something dangerous flip in the pit of my stomach as I watched his tongue flick out—bright red—before retreating back inside his mouth. His eyes met mine and panic burst white-hot in my chest.
I did the only thing I could.
I ran.
Branches whipped my skin, the wind pulling at my back, almost like it didn’t want me to leave. There was pain. There was the shudder of breath leaving my lungs, there was the burning sensation in my legs—
And then, finally, there was freedom.
My feet hit the path again, and I continued all the way home, listening for the sound of footsteps behind me.
I didn’t realize until after I’d showered off the fear and settled into bed for the night with Rotho laying his heavy furry body like a blanket across my chest, that I’d dropped my basket in the woods, seeds abandoned for nature to take hold of them.
His sleepy-doggy snores filled my head with their familiarity and I relaxed, deciding that despite my anxiety, I’d head into town again the next day and buy some more.
I’d take the long way.
Everything would be fine.
Through the crack in the window, the wind whistled. It echoed like the mournful cries I’d always associated with the monster I’d been raised to fear. I fell asleep to the song of loneliness, my eyes too heavy to keep open, despite the sadness I couldn’t describe threatening to cave in my chest.
There’s a monster in the woods.
And if you listen close,
You’ll hear its cry,
Echo through the sky,
Its call for blood inside its throat.
I must’ve imagined dropping the basket.
There was no other way to explain the fact that I’d woken up that morning, gone out to my garden to enjoy my morning cup of tea, and found the basket sitting in the dirt right where I planned to plant my tomatoes.
Maybe I’d dropped it on my way into the house?
Rotho bounded ahead of me, his long tail swishing as he sniffed around the basket and dug his cold nose between the seed packets. They rattled under his attention, and I laughed, shaking my head as I watched him deem it unimportant and scurry off to investigate the rustling of a squirrel out in the open field between our cottage and the tree line.
