Night of the Were-Squirrels

Night of the Were-Squirrels

  by Drew Beatty

  Copyright © Drew Beatty

  Some Rights Reserved.

  Have you ever driven through the country and seen one of those big, creepy farmhouses? You know what I mean, all faded paint and dusty corridors and dirty windows? Well, the country house my parents bought was nothing like that. It was yellow. The brightest, cleanest, shiniest, yellowest farmhouse in the world, just an hour north of Toronto

  Toronto is where we used to live, but a couple of weeks ago my unwanted 13th birthday present was moving here to the middle of nowhere. It sucks.

  I woke up to the sun shining in through my windows. I still hadn't put my curtains up. My parents said I was old enough to organize my own room now; they had to take care of the rest of the house and work at the same time. They both worked from home, which was why they thought this house was perfect. Mom had turned the attic into a video editing suite, and dad had converted the barn to a recording studio so he can work on his commercial jingles in peace.

  I pushed myself out of bed, and seriously thought about those curtains. My mom was already in the attic above me, setting up yet another computer. Dad would be out in the barn already, getting ready to sell more boner pills or junk food.

  I went downstairs to the yellowest kitchen in the world. I found the three things I needed to start my day; cereal, milk, and my iPod. I didn't eat the iPod, I just kept it on to block out the noise of the birds. Those things sing 24/7 around here. It drove me nuts. I gulped down my breakfast and decided to see if my dad could use a hand.

  “Hey, dad,” I called out as I entered the big red barn. It was the only thing around here that wasn't yellow, as far as I could see. My dad had divided the barn up into smaller rooms, one with the control board, some smaller practice and recording areas, but he kept a huge space open so he could kick out the jams and pretend he was a rock star. The barn was lined with pristine guitars, amps, keyboards and drums. He was obsessive about them. Everything on them gleamed. Especially the guitar strings. My dad used special silver-coated premium strings that shined brighter than any other strings I had seen.

  “Hey kid,” he shouted. I looked up to see him coming out of the control room built into the second level. My dad, the jingle king of Toronto. Well, not Toronto anymore.

  “Hey dad. Do you need any help today?” I had been making some extra allowance helping him unpack and set up the studio. I had my father's gift for music, if not his drive to create it.

  “Nope, I'm all set now. Do you have any plans for today?”

  I toed the cork floor, liking the springy feel of it under my feet. “Not really. No. Maybe I'll just surf the Internet, play some games.”

  He came down the stairs and put a hand on my shoulder. “I know this sucks for you,” he said. “But there are some good things that will come out of moving here.”

  “For example?”

  “Follow me.” We walked together to the back of the barn, out the rear door.  A brand new bike was leaning against the wall.”It's a little late for your birthday, I know, but I thought you might want to try out some of the paths around here.”

  It was a damn nice bike, I could see that right away. I picked it up with one hand. It was as light as a feather.

  “The trails around here aren't going to be like the ones in Toronto.  The forest won't be so crowded with people.” He gestured to the forest that lined the back of our land, a couple of acres away beyond an overgrown cornfield. “You will need to be careful, and smart. Take your phone with you, wear a helmet, blah blah blah. Understand?”

  I didn't want to jump up and down like an excited puppy, living out here was still going to suck, but I did appreciate the gesture. A summer with a bike like this, with new trails to explore might be all right after all.

  “Thanks dad. I love it.”

  “Good. Now I have to get back to work. Those chips aren't going to sell themselves.”

  It took me a while to find a way into the forest. My dad was right, it wasn't like the paths in Toronto. It was beautiful, with huge old growth trees, covered with moss, saplings and bushes growing just off the path. The path was narrower than what I was used to. It was little more than a footpath, with just enough room to duck under the whipping branches overhead. I bounced over rough terrain, trying not to crash.

  I pulled up to the crest of a giant hill. The path wound down through the trees, moving between shadow and sunlight as the coverage thinned. It looked like a tough ride, but a fun one.

  I pushed off from the top and started down, clutching the handlebars to control my descent. Branches were slapping my helmet, brushing against my arms and legs. I careened around a sharp corner, and at the last second I saw a gnarled root reaching up from the ground like an ancient hand. I tried to stop, but I had lost control of the bike. My tire jammed beneath the root and my bike stopped. My momentum pitched my forward, tossing me right over my handlebars. I crashed to the ground, landing right on my back. And then the bike fell on top of me

  I lay still for a minute, taking an inventory of my injuries.  No broken bones, but I was winded and sore. I stood up, lifting my bike while I did so. I had scratched some paint, but otherwise it was fine.

  I decided I had had enough excitement for one day, and turned around to head home. I was halfway up the hill when I felt a strange sensation. I suddenly felt a chill, a shiver ran down my spine. There was something different about this part of the forest. I stopped to look around.

  Then I put my finger on what was so unusual. I was standing in a completely silent forest. I heard nothing, no sounds at all. No birds sang, no animals scuttled through the underbrush. Nothing. I know most people think cities are noisy, but out here in the country it's just as loud. More natural, yes, but still loud.

  A pinecone crashed through tree branches, shattering the stillness. It rocketed down through the air and struck the back of my bike. A metallic clang echoed through the forest. I glanced up to see a group of squirrels standing together on a branch, watching me silently. They looked like a family; the mother and father were a little bit bigger than the other two, the biggest one was a reddish color. The rest were brown and black, with small patches of white at their throats. They looked like regular squirrels. Silent, motionless, predatory squirrels, looking down at me as though I had just interrupted their most holy ritual, or something.

  I'm a city kid. I've been alone on subway cars with some scary people. One time I got lost in the Queen Street alleys at night. I've been around. But I've never seen anything in the city as creepy as those four squirrels looking down at me, unmoving, unblinking. They were unnerving.

  A twig snapped under my foot as I shifted my weight, breaking the standoff. The squirrels darted down the tree trunk towards me. I sprinted up the hill. When I reached the top, I threw my leg over my bike seat and pedaled without stopping until I was safely home.

  Leave it to the country to make me afraid of squirrels.

  “Are you all right?” my mom asked as we sat down for supper. She looked carefully at the scrapes on my legs and arms.

  “Yeah, mom. I just took a tumble on my bike. No big.”

  She furrowed her brow, but I could see her deciding to leave it alone. “Did you have a good ride? Your dad thought you would love that bike.”

  “He was right, it's great. Biking is a little different here, but I'm sure I'll find some good paths. No waterfront, though.”

  “Well, there's lots of nature around here, that's for sure,” chimed in my dad. “You'll have a great time, just be careful.”

  “Will do. I might try to bike into town tomorrow.”

  “Oh, good, you might meet some local kids your age.”


  “Yeah. That'll be… neato.”

  “You will try, right?” My mom asked, no longer trying to hide her frown.

  “Try what?”

  “To be nice to the other kids.” I could hear the strain in my mother's voice. She had moved to Toronto when she was starting high school, and never got used to city life. She was worried I would be too much of a big time city slicker and not fit in. She might be right.

  “I'll try,” I said, half to myself. We finished the meal in silence.

  Tired from my ride and the strange encounter with the squirrels, I decided to call it an early night. I looked out the window; the full moon hung low in the sky. I cursed then, realizing that another day had gone by