Scratch (4 page)

“Old Scratch. It has to be!”
 

I started to respond, but he pointed at the house. His finger trembled.
 

“Look!”
 

I glanced back at Thena’s. The thing had wriggled farther into the home. Now, only the tip was visible, hanging over the windowsill. It smacked against the side of the house, denting the aluminum siding. There was still no sign of Thena or her kids.
 

Jeff pulled my arm. “Come on.”
 

“But what about—”
 

“Now!”
 

Sanchez yipped in agreement. I allowed the two of them to lead me away from the creek. I glanced over my shoulder once, and the thing had vanished into Thena’s house.
 

Then the mist closed around us and I saw no more.
 

If Thena and her children were screaming, I wouldn’t have been able to tell.

Jeff led me back towards my house. He walked quickly, splashing heedlessly through the puddles, and I had to hurry to keep up with him. Sanchez ran ahead of us, apparently happy to be away from the creek. Despite my protests, Jeff didn’t speak until we were standing in my driveway, and then, he answered my questions with one of his own.
 

“You own a gun?”
 

“What?”
 

“Do you own a gun?”
 

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve got a little .357, and my father’s old deer rifle. But what—”
 

“Get them.”
 

“Jeff, tell me what’s going on. What the hell was that thing? I mean, I know what it looked like, but it couldn’t have been.”
 

“It was. Get your guns. Try the phone. If it’s working, call 911.”
 

“And tell them ... what?”
 

“That Thena’s house is flooding and they need to do a water rescue. That the ghost of Osama bin Laden is shacked up there with the spirit of Saddam Hussein. I don’t know. Tell them anything that will get them here. Then meet me back here right away.”
 

Without another word, he ran for home. I’d never seen him move so fast. His arthritis usually bothered him after the most menial of tasks—taking the trash up to the road or trimming with his weed whacker. It was especially bad on rainy days. If it was troubling him now, Jeff gave no sign. I yelled after him but he didn’t answer.
 

Marlena opened the door and called to me. Dylan peered out from behind her.
 

“I want to go outside.”
 

“Not now, Dylan. Quiet.” She must have seen the expression on my face because her tone was concerned. “What’s wrong?”
 

I started to speak, but wasn’t sure how to verbalize what I’d just seen or how it made me feel. “Try calling 911,” I said. “Thena’s place is flooding. The water’s up to her front door and they can’t get out.”
 

“Oh my God. Are the kids okay?”
 

“I don’t know.”
 

“I want to see,” Dylan insisted. “Please, Mommy? Let me go see.”
 

Marlena and I both told him no at the same time. She shooed Dylan away from the door. Pouting, he plopped down in the living room and returned to his trains. Marlena ran off to try the phone, while I shrugged out of my wet coat and shoes and toweled Sanchez dry. He shook, spraying the kitchen with water, and then trotted off to check his food dish. Now that he was inside, he seemed no longer concerned with the thing we’d seen near the creek.
 

I wished that I could shrug it off just as easily.
 

I hurried into the bedroom and felt around on the top shelf of the closet until I found the handgun. I kept it locked in a box, and I had the only key. You can’t be too sure these days. It wouldn’t do for Dylan to get his hands on it. The only other items in the lockbox were the owner’s manual, a cleaning cloth, and a small container of bullets. The Taurus held five shots. I loaded it with trembling fingers and clicked the cylinder back into place. Instead of a manual safety, it had a special key that unlocked the activation pin. I turned the key and then stuffed the revolver into my back pocket. Even though it was small, it felt big and bulky back there. I put the lockbox back on the shelf. I didn’t bother with my father’s rifle because I had no bullets for it. I hadn’t been hunting since I was fourteen, and I kept the weapon strictly out of sentimentality. It was an heirloom. My father had loved that gun, and had shot many deer with it over the years.
 

Marlena walked into the bedroom as I was closing the closet door. I quickly pulled my shirttail over my pants, hoping she wouldn’t see the gun and start asking questions. I don’t know why I wanted to hide the truth from her, but I did. Maybe it was because I didn’t know what the truth was. Maybe because I’d just been confronted by something that shattered my illusions of protecting her and Dylan—just like the storm that had preceded it. I wanted them to think I could keep them safe, and if they found out what was going on, they’d know I couldn’t.
 

“The phones are still down,” she said. “And there’s only one bar on the cell phone.”
 

“Keep trying. I’ve got to go.”
 

“Where?”
 

“Jeff and I are going to try to help Thena.”
 

“Be careful.”
 

“I will.”
 

She didn’t try to talk me out of it. Sometimes, I wish she had. If she’d tried, maybe I’d feel differently about things now. If I’d stayed inside with her and Dylan, instead of returning to the creek, maybe the world wouldn’t have intruded upon us.
 

But I didn’t stay inside. Instead, I got back into my wet raingear. A car horn blared as I slipped my boots on, and I glanced out the window. Jeff’s Dodge truck sat idling in our driveway. As I walked to the door, Dylan and Sanchez clamored to go with me, but I made them both stay inside. I gave Dylan and Marlena a quick kiss, told Sanchez to sit, and then stepped out onto the porch.
 

“Be careful,” Marlena repeated.
 

“I will,” I promised her again, sounding anything but confident.
 

She shut the door behind me. It sounded very loud—and final.
 

I hurried over to the truck and climbed up into the passenger seat. Warm air blew across my feet, and my glasses fogged up again. Waylon Jennings played softly, singing about how this outlaw bit had done got out of hand. I asked Jeff why he didn’t have the local radio station on, instead.
 

“Damn WSBA is off the air. I’m betting lightning hit their tower. And that station out of Hanover only plays rap music. I don’t need to hear that crap. Especially now. My nerves are already shot.”
 

Jeff struggled with the gearshift and the transmission made a grinding noise. We lurched forward. Wet gravel crunched beneath the tires. Jeff turned on the wipers to clear away the mist.
 

“Where’s the rifle?” he asked.
 

“I don’t have any bullets for it, but I brought this.” I pulled out the .357 and showed it to him.
 

“It’ll have to do, I guess. I’ve got the 30.06 in the back.”
 

I turned around and sure enough, the rifle rack, which was mounted behind the seat, held a gun. He’d wrapped the stock with camouflage tape. A box of shells sat on the seat between us.
 

“I want to know what’s going on,” I said, as we reached the top of the driveway. “What the hell was that thing?”
 

“I thought you said you knew what it looked like?”
 

“Yeah, I did. It looked like a big fucking tentacle.”
 

He made a left out of our driveway. No other vehicles passed us. The road was a mess—full of fallen branches and limbs. Muddy water streamed along the sides. I noticed with dismay that my mailbox had fallen over. The embankment around the post had eroded from all the rain.
 

“It wasn’t a tentacle, Evan. It was a tail.”
 

“A tail? The tail to what?”
 

He paused. “You ever hear of Old Scratch?”
 

“Sure. That was a nickname for the Devil, back in medieval times. You mentioned it earlier, too.”
 

“It’s also the name for a Central Pennsylvanian legend. Old Scratch is a giant water snake. He’s supposed to live in the Susquehanna River, between Wrightsville and Walnut Island. You don’t hear much about him these days. He was sort of like our Loch Ness Monster. People used to see him all the time, up until the Thirties, when they built the Holtwood and Safe Harbor dams. After that, sightings were less frequent—but he still popped up from time to time.”
 

“A giant water snake ...”
 

Frowning, Jeff slowed down as we neared the bridge. The waters churned and crashed beneath it. More debris floated by.
 

“Looks sturdy,” he muttered, and then rolled across the bridge. “Yeah, a giant snake. I’m surprised you never heard about it, what with you drawing funny books and all.”
 

“They’re not ...”
 

“I’ll tell you something else,” he interrupted. “Old Scratch isn’t the only giant snake in the State. From the early 1900’s up until last year, there’s been sightings of a forty-foot long snake on Big Top Mountain up north. And Lake Raystown supposedly has one swimming around in it, too. They call him Raystown Ray. I know, it’s kind of a stupid name. I think the chamber of commerce came up with it so they could sell t-shirts. But people have seen it. You and Marlena ever take Dylan to Gettysburg?”
 

I stared at him, unblinking.
 

“You know Devil’s Den?” He continued, oblivious to my silence. “That big jumble of rocks and boulders where the soldiers hid? It had that name before the Civil War. Supposedly, there was a giant snake named Devil that lived inside one of the crevices. Devil’s Den—get it? All the farmers said he was real. He used to eat people’s livestock. The Indians have legends about giant snakes, too. They knew all about this stuff. They carved petroglyphs of Old Scratch on rocks along the Susquehanna.”
 

I wanted to protest. I wanted to tell him that there was no such thing as giant snakes in Pennsylvania—unless somebody’s pet boa constrictor escaped or something like that. But even then, a boa constrictor couldn’t reach the size of the thing we’d seen. I didn’t tell him any of this. I didn’t speak at all, because I knew better. I had to believe because I’d seen it with my own eyes. So had Sanchez. What Jeff was saying—bizarre as it sounded—was true. I wouldn’t have believed it the day before, would have chuckled at the story and then sent Tim Graco an email, telling him I had an idea for our next comic book.
 

But it
was
real—and that reality made my stomach churn and my ears thrum and my breath catch in my throat.
 

We reached the end of the bridge, and Jeff took the next left, turning onto a dirt road that looped around back to Thena’s house. It had washed out in places, and we bounced over the ruts and puddles. My head smacked against the rifle rack.
 

“You okay?”
 

“Yeah.” Wincing, I rubbed the back of my head. “So, you said they’ve been spotting this thing—this Scratch—since the Thirties?”
 

Jeff nodded.
 

“Well, then how is it still alive? Is it supposed to be immortal or something?”
 

“Ain’t nothing immortal in this world.” He shrugged. “Snakes can live a long time, I guess. Or maybe this is a descendant of the original Old Scratch. But whatever the reason, it’s real. We saw it. Ain’t no denying that.”
 

“Jesus ...”
 

“Look, I know how you feel, Evan. I never really believed it myself. I mean, I’ve seen some weird things. Me and some buddies pulled an eight-foot catfish out of the river up near the Pennsylvania Power and Light company dam about ten years ago. It was pure white, and when we touched it, the skin sloughed off in our hands like slime. That was strange, to say the least.”
 

“Pollution?”
 

“Maybe. Who knows? All I know is it was weird. Like I said, I’ve seen some weird things, but I always figured Old Scratch was just a legend, like the Goat Man of LeHorn’s Hollow, or Gravity Hill, or the seven gates of Hell. That’s how I knew about it. I like all that local folklore stuff. But now I know better.”
 

“But you said he lives in the river.”
 

“So?”
 

“Well, if that’s true, then what’s he doing in our creek?”
 

“Hell, Evan. We’re only three miles from the Susquehanna. Our creek flows right into it.”
 

“Yeah, but the creek is awfully shallow in some places. For a thing ...” I paused. My mind refused to think of it as a snake. That hadn’t actually hit home yet. “For
something
that big, you’d think it would stick to the deeper waters, where it’s safer.”
 

“He probably does,” he agreed. “Except in rare instances like now, when it’s flooding.”
 

Jeff slowed down as we approached the spot where the creek had jumped its banks and flooded out the road.
 

“Looks like this is as far as we go,” he said. “We’ll have to walk in.”
 

“Shit.”
 

“Yeah.”
 

“I hope they’re okay.”
 

“Me, too. If they managed to get upstairs, they should be all right. I’ve been in her house, and that stairway is pretty narrow. Maybe Old Scratch can’t fit up there.”
 

Jeff’s voice had a plaintive, almost pleading tone. It was obvious to me that he didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. I wondered if he was trying to convince me, or convince himself.