LOT'S MOUNTAIN

Chapter Three: The Stone Men

When the cops show up and start asking me questions, the truth just falls out of my mouth. I tell them about the knife guy and the monsters. Hey, I'm still kinda in shock. At least, I don't mention anything about the Stone Men. I manage to shut up before I say anything about them. I wish I hadn't told them a thing.

And then I see somebody I know.

At first, I think the guy is Greg, my dad. I always call Greg by his first name because he's just an asshole that happens to be my father and was never all that happy about it. But it's not Greg. It's Tim Sherman, my foster dad. My real life seems at least a zillion miles away. But the longer I look at Tim with his square shoulders tucked away in his red windbreaker the more reality comes screeching back to me.

But I know what happened to me. It was real. All of it was.

When the cops talk to him, Tim Sherman takes the news fairly well. Being told "Well, your foster kid says he was attacked by a maniac and nearly mauled by monsters" is never the way you want to end an evening. After the police finish talking to Tim, he walks up to me. I'm sitting on the car that had almost made me a hood ornament about fifteen minutes ago.

Unable to stay still any longer, the kitten wriggles out of my jacket and crawls into my hands. One of the deputies reaches out to take her, but I won't let go. It feels like my fingers have frozen around her.

Tim says something, but it's like he's not talking English. I'm lost in all the words and can only stare at the woods. Somewhere, a fire truck races away, heading north.

"That storm was real bad. They're out of power in most of the town." I don't know who's talking, but it's someone with a low voice.

"Yeah," some other nobody answers.

The sheriff strolls up to me and thumps the brim of his hat with his finger, kicking it back. Then he says, "With all due respect, this monster stuff sounds like a whole lot of nonsense. It could have been a bear."

Bears don't have red eyes, and they sure as hell don't talk. I may not be the smartest person in the world, but even I know that.

"Tim ... Mr. Sherman," the sheriff corrects himself. Then he goes on, "You see, we got us some problems. The storm did a helluva job. We have power out, trees down, and roads're blocked. We don't have time for kids screwing around."

"You don't have time for a child being attacked?" Tim asks. His voice shakes a little.

"We got a lot going on here, Mr. Sherman. Just a block away, somebody called us because their yard's full of copperheads and rattlesnakes. You can't even see the grass." The sheriff waits a minute and adds, "I think a lot of things were driven out of hiding by that storm. And you know what that means, don't you, Mr. Sherman?"

"Maybe he does, but I don't," I pipe up. They all turn to look at me. From the frown plastered on the sheriff's face, he doesn't give a damn about what I have to say, but I keep talking anyway. Sometimes I think my mouth needs an emergency break. "This thing ... no, these things jumped out of the trees and ripped a guy apart. When are you going to check the woods?"

The sheriff shakes his head and says, "Look, what happened tonight is starting to make perfect sense."

I'm glad this is making sense to somebody because I'm totally lost.

The sheriff gets in my face and says slowly, lingering on each syllable before he finally spits out the words, "Sometimes storms are scary."

There's no way he's actually talking to me like I'm a little kid. So I tell him, "Sometimes storms are scary? You gotta be kidding me."