Bad Seeds: Evil Progeny Read online

  “Animal and mineral.”

  “Where did you find it?” Marilyn asked.

  The smallest child spilled soup in her lap and howled. When Marilyn got back to the table, everyone was talking about the discovery in the barn: Derek curious, the children mysterious.

  “But what is it?” Marilyn asked.

  “It’s better to see it. Come with us after we eat.”

  The children had worked hard. The shrouded winter light spilled into the empty space of the barn through all the open half-doors of the stalls. The rotting straw and grain was all gone, and the dirt floor had been raked and swept clear of more than an inch of fine dust. The large design stood out clearly, white and clean against the hard earth.

  It was not a horse. After examining it more closely, Marilyn wondered how she could have thought it was the depiction of a wild, rearing stallion. Horses have hooves, not three-pronged talons, and they don’t have such a feline snake of a tail. The proportions of the body were wrong, too, once she looked more carefully.

  Derek crouched and ran his fingers along the outline of the beast. It had been done in chalk, but it was much more than just a drawing. Lines must have been deeply scored in the earth, and the narrow trough then filled with some pounded white dust.

  “Chalk, I think,” Derek said. “I wonder how deep it goes?” He began scratching with a forefinger at the side of the thick white line.

  Kelly bent and caught his arm. “Don’t ruin it.”

  “I’m not, honey.” He looked up at Marilyn, who was still standing apart, staring at the drawing.

  “It must be the Indian curse,” she said. She tried to smile, but she felt an unease which she knew could build into an open dread.

  “Do you suppose this is what the spirit who haunts this land is supposed to look like?” Derek asked.

  “What else?”

  “Odd that it should be a horse, then, instead of some animal indigenous to the area. The legend must have arisen after the white man—”

  “But it’s not a horse,” Marilyn said. “Look at it.”

  “It’s not a horse exactly, no,” he agreed, standing and dusting his hands. “But it’s more a horse than it is anything else.”

  “It’s so fierce,” Marilyn murmured. She looked away, into Kelly’s eager face. “Well, now that you’ve cleaned up the barn, what are you going to do?”

  “Now we’re going to catch the horse.”

  “What horse?”

  “The wild one, the one we hear at night.”

  “Oh … that. Well, it must be miles away by now. Someone else must have caught it.”

  Kelly shook her head. “I heard it last night. It was practically outside my window, but when I looked it was gone. I could see its hoofprints in the snow.”

  “You’re not going out again?”

  The children turned blank eyes on her, ready to become hostile, or tearful, if she were going to be difficult.

  “I mean,” Marilyn said apologetically, “you’ve been out all morning, running around. And it’s still snowing. Why don’t you just let your food digest for a while—get out your coloring books, or a game or something, and play in here where it’s warm.”

  “We can’t stop now,” Kelly said. “We might catch the horse this afternoon.”

  “And if you don’t, do you intend to go out every day until you do?”

  “Of course,” Kelly said. The other children nodded.

  Marilyn’s shoulders slumped as she gave in. “Well, wrap up. And don’t go too far from the house in case it starts snowing harder. And don’t stay out too long, or you’ll get frostbite.” The children were already moving away from her as she spoke. They live in another world, Marilyn thought, despairing.

  She wondered how long this would go on. The barn project had held within it a definite end, but Marilyn could not believe the children would ever catch the horse they sought. She was not even certain there was a horse out in that snow to be caught, even though she had been awakened more than once by that shrill, distant screaming that might have been a horse neighing.

  Marilyn went to Derek’s office and climbed again into the hidden window seat. The heavy curtains muffled the steady beat of Derek’s typewriter, and the falling snow muffled the country beyond the window. She picked up another of the small green volumes and began to read.

  “Within a month of his arrival, Martin Hoskins was known in Janeville for two things. One: he intended to bring industry, wealth, and population to upstate New York, and to swell the tiny hamlet into a city. Second: A man without wife or children, Hoskins’ pride, passion, and delight was in his six beautiful horses.

  “Martin had heard the legend that his land was cursed, but, as he wrote to a young woman in New York City, ‘The Indians were driven out of these parts long ago, and their curses with them, I’ll wager. For what is an Indian curse without an Indian knife or arrow to back it?’

  “It was true that the great Indian tribes had been dispersed or destroyed, but a few Indians remained: tattered and homeless in the White Man’s world. Martin Hoskins met one such young brave on the road to Janeville one morning.

  “‘I must warn you, sir,’ said the ragged but proud young savage. ‘The land upon which you dwell is inhabited by a powerful spirit.’

  “‘I’ve heard that tale before,’ responded Hoskins, shortly but not unkindly. ‘And I don’t believe in your heathen gods; I’m not afraid of ’em.’

  “‘This spirit is no god of ours, either. But my people have known of it, and respected it, for as many years as we have lived on this land. Think of this spirit not as a god, but as a force … something powerful in nature which cannot be reasoned with or fought—something like a storm.’

  “‘And what do you propose I do?’

  “‘Leave that place. Do not try to live there. The spirit cannot follow you if you leave, but it cannot be driven out, either. The spirit belongs to the land as much as the land belongs to it.’

  “Martin Hoskins laughed harshly. ‘You ask me to run from something I do not believe in! Well, I tell you this: I believe in storms, but I do not run from them. I’m strong; what can that spirit do to me?’

  “The Indian shook his head sorrowfully. ‘I cannot say what it may do. I only know that you will offend it by dwelling where it dwells, and the more you offend it, the more certainly will it destroy you. Do not try to farm there, nor keep animals. That land knows only one master and will not take to another. There is only one law, and one master on that land. You must serve it, or leave.’

  “‘I serve no master but myself—and my God,’ Martin said.”

  Marilyn closed the book, not wanting to read of Martin’s inevitable, and terrible, end. He kept animals, she thought idly. What if he had been a farmer? How would the spirit of the land have destroyed him then?

  She looked out the window and saw with relief that the children were playing. They’ve finally given up their hunt, she thought, and wondered what they were playing now. Were they playing follow-the-leader? Dancing like Indians? Or horses, she thought, suddenly, watching their prancing feet and tossing heads. They were playing horses.

  Marilyn woke suddenly, listening. Her body strained forward, her heart pounding too loudly, her mouth dry. She heard it again: the wild, mad cry of a horse. She had heard it before in the night, but never so close, and never so human-sounding.

  Marilyn got out of bed, shivering violently as her feet touched the cold, bare floor and the chilly air raised bumps on her naked arms. She went to the window, drew aside the curtains, and looked out.

  The night was still and clear as an engraving. The moon lacked only a sliver more for fullness and shone out of a cloudless, star-filled sky. A group of small figures danced upon the snowy ground, jerking and prancing and kicking up a spray of snow. Now and again one of them would let out a shrill cry: half a horse’s neigh, half a human wail. Marilyn felt her hairs rise as she recognized the puppetlike dancers below: the children.

  She w
as tempted to let the curtains fall back and return to bed—to say nothing, to do nothing, to act as if nothing unusual had happened. But these were her children now, and she wasn’t allowed that sort of irresponsibility.

  The window groaned as she forced it open, and at the faint sound the children stopped their dance. As one, they turned and looked up at Marilyn.

  The breath stopped in her throat as she stared down at their upturned faces. Everything was very still, as if that moment had been frozen within a block of ice. Marilyn could not speak; she could not think of what to say.

  She withdrew back into the room, letting the curtains fall back before the open window, and she ran to the bed.

  “Derek,” she said, catching hold of him. “Derek, wake up.” She could not stop her trembling.

  His eyes moved behind their lids.

  “Derek,” she said urgently.

  Now they opened and, fogged with sleep, looked at her.

  “What is it, love?” He must have seen the fear in her face, for he pushed himself up on his elbows. “Did you have a bad dream?”

  “Not a dream, no. Derek, your Uncle Martin—he could have lived here if he hadn’t been a master himself. If he hadn’t kept horses. The horses turned on him because they had found another master.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The spirit that lives in this land,” she said. She was not trembling, now. Perspiration beaded her forehead. “It uses the … the servants, or whatever you want to call them … it can’t abide anyone else ruling here. If we … ”

  “You’ve been dreaming, sweetheart.” He tried to pull her down beside him, but she shook him off. She could hear them on the stairs.

  “Is our door locked?” she suddenly demanded.

  “Yes, I think so.” Derek frowned. “Did you hear something? I thought … ”

  “Children are a bit like animals, don’t you think? At least, people treat them as if they were—adults, I mean. I suppose children must … ”

  “I do hear something. I’d better go—”

  “Derek— No—”

  The doorknob rattled, and there was a great pounding at the door.

  “Who is that?” Derek said loudly.

  “The children,” Marilyn whispered.

  The door splintered and gave way before Derek reached it, and the children burst through. There were so many of them, Marilyn thought, as she waited on the bed. And all she could seem to see was their strong, square teeth.

  My Name Is Leejun

  John Schoffstall

  I heard dad swearing as his boots stamped up the steps. I scooted under my bed and hid among the socks and the dust balls, like a cockroach would. I’m good at hiding. You can learn a lot from a cockroach.

  The screen door slammed. “Janice!”

  Mom and I are always done with lessons by the time dad gets home, because he doesn’t like to wait for supper. Mom’s voice was from far away. That means she’s in their bedroom, up at other end of the trailer.

  “Dinner’s in the oven, hon! It’s a pot roast.”

  “Janice, you still on the computer? Have you even been outside today?”

  “What’s wrong, baby?”

  “I said, look outside. I’m calling the county. They think they can ignore us, just ’cause it’s a goddamned trailer park. You better believe they spray in Woodbridge and Chestnut Run. I hear those people on the radio news complaining when they don’t.”

  The screen door latch clicked again. Mom’s voice said, “What’s wrong, baby? It’s a beautiful day outside.”

  “Janice, will you look? Dead birds all over the place. Dead crow in the carport, another one on the walk, one on the lawn. You know what that means? It means West Nile. The county needs to spray. Folks will start turning up sick any day.” The phone slammed down. “Answering machine, and it’s not even five o’clock. I’ll call ’em tomorrow.”

  Mom’s voice, fainter, from outside. “Baby, it was probably just a cat. Don’t call the county, they’ll send a sheriff’s deputy around again, the way they did about the Davisons’ dog. He scared Bobby. Bobby had nightmares for weeks.”

  “Janice,” dad yelled, “for chrissakes, don’t touch that bird, you don’t know what it’s got. It’s not a cat doing it. A cat wouldn’t kill three birds and not eat any.”

  “Please don’t call the county,” mom said. “I’ll just keep Bobby inside. We’ll keep the screen door closed. We’ll keep screens on the windows all the time. Nobody will get the West Nile. Don’t call the county. Please?”

  The screen door opened and closed again, and I heard mom walk across the living room. She came into my room. I saw her shoes walk across the floor. “Bobby? Bobby, where are you? Rick, he’s hiding again. You scared him with all that yelling. I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

  We had pot roast for dinner. I like pot roast. The Davisons’ dog Rowfy wants to stick his whole head in, and go glosp, glosp, glosp, and come up wagging his tail. When I did that with pot roast once, mom laughed until she peed her pants, but dad was really mad. Since then I ignore Rowfy and just eat with a knife and fork like mom and dad want me to.

  “What did you learn today, Bobby?” dad asked, the way he does every night at supper.

  “I read about the Ant and the Grasshopper,” I said.

  “Bugs,” dad said. “Janice, don’t encourage him to eat bugs again.”

  “It’s just a story,” mom said. “It has a moral. Tell your dad about it, Bobby.”

  “Well,” I said, “the ant spent all summer storing food and stuff for the winter, but the grasshopper just hopped around. Then the grasshopper asked the ant for food, but the ant said he should dance instead.”

  “Pretty mean ant,” dad said. He dished more pot roast onto my plate.

  “What’s the moral?” mom said.

  “Um,” I said. “I think … it’s to gets lots of stuff and save it, so it’s still there when you need it.”

  “Good!” Mom gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Every story has a moral that helps you learn right from wrong. Right?”

  “Right!” I said.

  “Did you read that story yourself, or did your mom read it for you?” dad asked.

  “He read some of it himself,” mom said. “He’s starting to write, too. He can write his name. He wrote, ‘I am Bobby’ today. He got most of the letters right. He’s a quick learner, Rick. He takes after you.”

  Dad pointed his finger at me. “And I don’t eat bugs. Remember that.”

  “You don’t need to keep reminding him,” mom said. “He only ate one bug.”

  “It was more than one.”

  “And he doesn’t do it anymore.”

  Dad forked another piece of pot roast into his mouth and chewed on it. “Do we really need to home-school him?”

  Mom nodded. “Honey, they’d put him in the Beech Valley district. You know those schools aren’t very good.”

  Dad sighed. He said, “I wish you didn’t have to stay home all day. It would help a lot if you could cashier at McDonald’s or the dollar store or something. But with Bobby, I don’t know.” He stared at me with that way he has. “There might be bugs in school. He might eat more bugs. Or something else.”

  “Rick! He doesn’t.”

  “How about it, son?” dad asked. “Are you going to eat bugs, ever again?”

  I shook my head.

  I don’t eat bugs any more. Really I don’t. It was a mistake to eat bugs. You can learn everything a bug knows without eating it.

  I stayed awake after they sent me to bed. When there was no more TV noise, I snuck out of my bedroom.

  The living room was dark except for stripes of moonlight through the blinds. I walked very slowly towards the door, keeping near the walls. I stayed away from the center of the room. That’s so you don’t make noise from the floor squeaking, especially in house trailers like this that ain’t built for shit. That’s what Howie Lackmann says, and Howie’s a burglar, so he knows. You can learn a lot fro
m a burglar.

  I opened the front door and went down the steps, keeping near the edges again. I looked all over in the moonlight, but I couldn’t see any dead birds.

  They keep the trash cans under the carport, next to where dad parks his pickup. I took the lid off one trash can, and there they were: three big black crows. Crows had been hanging around in the pine trees for a couple of days. They’re almost tame. The day before yesterday I sat on the steps and fed them pieces of bread. One came so close I could nearly touch him, but not quite. Mom came out and told me not to touch them. She made me go back in the house.

  I reached down and touched the crow lying on top of the trash. The feathers on its tummy were soft and nice to feel, but its body was stiff and cold. The crow part was gone. You can’t learn anything from a dead crow.

  Mom made me stay inside all the next day. In the morning I learned how to add numbers with two places. It’s harder, because you have to carry. While mom was eating lunch, I found a mosquito that got in even though we have window screens. I caught it in my hands. There’s not much you can learn from a mosquito, though.

  “What have you got in your hands?” Mom asked. “Let me see.”

  “Mosquito.”

  “Let it go.”

  I opened my hands, and let the mosquito fall into the wastebasket.

  Mom didn’t let me out of the house all day, but through the screen door I saw another dead crow in the yard, and one more across the drive in the Davisons’ yard.

  In the afternoon a truck stopped out front and a man in a brown uniform knocked at the door. Mom let him in, and they talked for a while. He left some papers on the kitchen table. After he was gone, Mom sat at the kitchen table and cried for a while.

  When dad got home, he picked up the papers on the table. He said, “What’s this?” He shuffled through them. “This is stuff about West Nile.”

  “A man from Public Health came,” mom said.

  “I thought you didn’t want to call the county,” dad said.

  “Maybe someone else called,” mom said. Dad shrugged.

  A week later the sheriff’s deputies came.

  Some of them wore uniforms, and some were in yellow coveralls. It was after dinner, while mom and dad were watching TV. The deputies crowded into the trailer. I stood in a corner by mom and held onto her hand.