Devil's Forest

DEVIL’S FOREST ANTHONY M. STRONG West Street Publishing This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to events or places, or real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Copyright © 2023 by Anthony M. Strong All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. CONTENTS Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Epilogue Also by Anthony M. Strong About the Author PROLOGUE The flames of a recently built campfire warmed the cool fall air of a New England night. The flickering glow pushed back the shadows and sent long forks of dancing orange light through the trees and into the woods beyond the clearing. Around the fire sat three men wearing thick shirts and jackets. They drank cans of beer and talked, the conversation becoming more raucous as the alcohol flowed more freely. “This is the spot then, eh?” William Bartram—known as Big Willie to those few close friends that dared reference the six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound lumber mill worker in such a familial way—glanced around the clearing with a mixture of disdain and disappointment on his face. “The way you talk about it, I expected something a bit creepier.” “It’s a forest clearing in back-of-beyond Maine thirty minutes before midnight. It’s pitch black, and I’ve heard at least a dozen coyotes. There’s no one else for fifty miles in any direction. How much creepier do you want it to get?” asked Barry Norwood, who was a foot shorter than his companion and half his weight. He also worked at the lumber mill, but in the office. “And we’re almost out of beer,” said the third man, Jamie Dylan, tossing his empty can into the blackness beyond the fire and reaching into the red cooler at his side for a new one. “Don’t forget that fact.” “See, now it just got way more scary.” Willie chuckled to himself. “All right, you guys. Enough. You’re the ones that wanted to come up here. Honestly, I don’t know why I let you talk me into it. I hate this place. You know that. Have done ever since I was a kid.” “Yeah, yeah. So you say.” Willie shook his head. “Tell us the story. You were what, ten years old?” “Twelve.” “You sure you’re remembering it right?” Willie crumpled his can, then rooted in the cooler for a replacement. “You probably just saw a bear or something. You know there are more black bears in Maine than in any other state, right?” “I remember it well enough. I know what I saw.” Barry glared at his friend. “It wasn’t a bear.” “I had a close call with a bear once,” Jamie said. “Dang thing came right up into my backyard while I was grilling. Scared the bejesus out of me, and I don’t mind admitting it.” “I’m surprised it had any interest,” Willie said. “I’ve been to your cookouts. They’re not so much a meal as a cremation.” “That was one time.” “One time too many,” grumbled Willy. He turned his attention back to Barry. “I think it’s about time you told us the story. You’ve been avoiding it all night.” “I’ve told you at least a dozen times already. You must know it by heart.” “You haven’t told it to us around a campfire in the place where it happened.” “I thought we had a deal. If I came up here camping with you guys, we wouldn’t keep talking about it. You know it freaks me out.” “And we won’t,” Willie said with a lopsided grin. “After you tell us the story. Now spill it.” Jamie nudged his friend. “You might as well get on with it. He isn’t going to take no for an answer.” “I can see that.” Barry sighed. “But then we talk about something else, okay?” Willie shrugged. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Barry took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts. “What I’m about to tell you happened back when I was a kid. My dad loved camping. Made me go with him anytime he could. He thought it was some kind of father-son bonding thing. I would have preferred to stay home, where it was warm and dry. I was never much for the outdoors—” “Still aren’t, judging by how long it took you to light that fire earlier,” Willie quipped. “The bear could have done it quicker.” “Do you want to hear this or not?” “You know I do.” “Then stop interrupting.” Willie remained quiet and sipped his beer. “That’s better,” Barry said. “Now, where was I? . . . Oh yes. My dad. So anyway, he drags me up here unannounced on this weekend camping trip. Made me walk eight miles up the trail because he wanted to camp in his favorite spot where he and my grandpa always camped when he was a kid. It didn’t matter that there were better campsites lower down. The first night wasn’t so bad. I was exhausted after the walk, chopping wood for the fire, and catching fish in the brook to cook over it. Fell asleep in the tent before my head even hit the pillow . . .” “So it’s your dad we have to blame for our sore feet,” Jamie said. “That walk hasn’t gotten any shorter or easier in the years since.” “If anything, it’s worse now,” Barry replied. “I don’t remember