1
Today I must counsel my son for his turn in the town’s clearing. It rests in the wooded outskirts of our city, just within earshot of my neighborhood if you scream loudly. My heart has been in a state of perpetual unrest. Every time I close my eyes, the danger of a clearing’s turn imposes itself in flashes of blood and shredded clothing. I want to hold my child close to me. I wish with my entire soul that I could spare him this responsibility, and I look in his eyes. As I memorize his face, I try to keep mine from cracking under the heavy weight of grief.
“Remember your survival training,” I coach him. He nods in reply. I go through his camping pack with him to ensure he has a fighting chance. The food is there, the knife is there, and the medicine is there. I hug him tightly.
We stand before the giant metal gate that separates us from the clearing. Thankfully, I don’t have to walk my son to his potential death. Our town’s sheriff is here to see my son to the darkest time of his life. He places a gentle hand on my shoulder and gives me a sigh of solidarity.
“Take your pills,” I instruct Charlie. He opens the bottle and complies, placing a capsule in his mouth. The pills are supposed to calm his nerves.
“It’s only been four months. It might not happen this week,” the sheriff tries to assure me.
The ‘it’ is a monster that lurks in the forest. It is sinister and has plagued our town for decades, and it slaughtered our children in masses in its earliest appearances. Our history teaches us about our town’s leaders and how they mitigated the death toll with a biannual sacrifice. A deal was struck with the monster that he would feed only twice a year. Ever since then, a child has stayed in the clearing every first Saturday and Sunday of every month, and at random the monster feasts on two children before the final page of the calendar closes.
“Are you ready, Charlie?” he asks my son. Charlie swallows and nods his head. My heart plunges as the sheriff guides my son to the mouth of the giant, iron gate. The rusted mechanism screeches as the doors are pried open. Most children make it out alive, I remind myself. My problem is that I have been on the cleanup committee for the very unlucky children who don’t, and I have seen the grisly aftermath of each massacre. I look at my boy and try to not see his teeth laying in a pile of blood. I banish images of his hair laying in congealed red clumps. I watch Charlie’s legs carry him off to the other side. They are strong and graceful under his camping pack. I force a smile on my face as Charlie looks back. I try to be as reassuring with my posture as I possibly can.
The sheriff disappears through the opening with my sweet Charlie, who for the past fifteen years has filled my life with purpose. I can’t see Charlie beyond the gate, but the moments I have held him, the scrapes I have bandaged, the birthdays we have celebrated: all these moments dance in my head. I allow myself to grieve the moment I am sure Charlie can’t see me. I tell myself that 10 children make it back every year and there is no reason Charlie shouldn’t be one of them. I remind myself that the monster has historically gone longer than four months without feasting. I find comfort that Charlie is fifteen and nearly grown and that the monster tends to feed on smaller children.
Several moments have passed and the sun is beginning to set. The sheriff emerges from the entrance alone, and I say a prayer for Charlie. I hope that the preparation we have given him will save him should the monster strike.
“All we can do is pray,” he soothes. He hands me his handkerchief because my face is drenched in sorrow, and he walks me back to my car.
“I feel like I made a mistake with the medicine,” I confess to him through sobs. He pats my back.
“No, I promise it is for the best,” he says. “It’s better for him to be relaxed the entire weekend. It’s doubtful the monster would strike at such a large boy.” His words make sense. Every family in town sends their eldest kid into the clearing for that very reason. I can’t help but think, though, that tranquilizing my child wasn’t a good decision. But the sheriff knows best. He has walked every family through this process for the last twenty-seven years.
There is an absence in my heart as I ignite the engine. I feel like I abandoned my child. I feel that I won’t be able to breathe until I have him with me. I knew this day would come, yet nothing could prepare me for the emotional devastation.
2
As I am driving home, last Tuesday plagues my mind. The mayor and the sheriff had contacted my husband to let us know that it was Charlie’s turn in the clearing. I still wonder what it was about Charlie that got him selected. I pore over every aspect of my son. I think about all the sacrificial children in the past, but I cannot detect a consistency in the victimology. I always knew it was likely that one of my children would make it to the clearing, but I can’t help feeling betrayed by fate.
I make it home and my husband is on the couch with Charlie’s little sister. She is sobbing into her father’s shoulder. The evening passes with very little sound, and the fear for Charlie’s life is palpable, as if the three of us are afraid to exhale. We eat dinner quietly and put our daughter to bed, a normally difficult feat that is made easy by the weight of sorrow in her eyes.
The time I spend with my husband is fragile and silent, which makes me appreciate my husband and his understanding of me. As night time approaches, I climb into bed and pull my husband to my chest. He rests his right cheek on me and listens to the beat of my heart. I feel the rapidity of my pulse and know there is no quelling the anxiety tugging at my insides. Going to bed without Charlie in his room is too unnerving. My racing heart causes my husband to lift his head.
“I won’t be able to sleep,” he confesses. I hug him tighter and stare at the ceiling. I let out an involuntary sob. “This weekend will pass. We will see our boy again,” he assures me, but we both sense the uncertainty in his promise.
“I can’t go back there if it gets him,” I sobbed. I’m in charge of the grief committee in our town. We help the families cope with their loss. Too many times I have gathered the shredded clothing of the monster’s victims. Too many times I have returned from the clearing covered in a child’s blood. I know the horrors of the monster’s feast. I know what will be left of my son should the monster have his way. My thoughts are interrupted by my husband’s muffled gasps, and I join him in crying until we pass out from sheer exhaustion.
The next day comes. The sunlight pours from the window into my eyelids, and I shield my face until my eyes adjust. I get ready in a hurry while my husband gets my daughter ready. It’s custom that the families head to the town hall to be comforted by the rest of our community. We have done this song and dance every month for our entire lives, each time hoping that my children would never get their own honor. There will be food I will not want to eat. There will be people that I will have to respond to despite being in a state of shock, there will be apologies and words of comfort that I am not ready to accept, and there will be no moment for me or my family to be alone. I think of Charlie and, despite being atheist, I pray to the gods for his safety.
We arrive at town hall. My husband holds my hand as we pass through the front doors. A giant room swallows us in its blazing air-conditioning. The entire community is there, and everyone wears an expression of sympathy. The lights are dim, and everyone wears black, like we are at a funeral. I take a deep breath, let my husband’s hand go, and walk to the crowd. Our mayor offers me a hug and wishes Charlie luck. Thankfully, I am not caught up in the condolences; my husband absorbs all the apologies with our daughter on his hip. He knows I hate this part. I see someone I wouldn’t mind being with in this moment and make my way over to him.
“Mr. Allan,” I nearly whisper, “may I sit with you?” The grief in his eyes nearly matches mine, and I remember the way we held this very party for his daughter four months ago.
“Now you know,” he tells me as I sit down. His voice is barely audible, and tears roll down his cheeks. His daughter was the most recent victim of the monster. I recall how hollow his eyes were when we broke the news to him, how he wailed when we had to tell him there were only small remnants of his daughter’s body. And now I know how he felt.
“I’m so sorry…about Veronica,” I offer, but my voice is too weighed down by grief.
“And I am sorry about Charlie,” he says weakly. We just sit with one another for another hour and allow the silence to form a bond of solidarity between us.
The event dies and my family packs into the car.
“James, we will get through this,” he promises me. He kisses my cheek and for the first time since I left Charlie at the clearing, I feel warmth. I meet my husband’s gaze and I am grateful for him.
We reach our home to settle for the evening. Before we reach our front door, the blaring of the horn, the very horn that alerts us to the monster’s presence, initiates a halt to my heartbeat.
3
The horn blasts its shrill pitch throughout the entire town. I dread that horn. It has become synonymous with death and fear. While our gates are steel and tall, we can’t guarantee the monster will always honor his one-child promise nor that the gates will hold him should he seek more flesh. While families cower into their homes and barricade themselves, I grab a blade and charge toward the clearing.
“James, stop!” My husband calls for me. “Please, think about Abby,” he begs through tears. I look back at them. I love them. But I want to kill the monster for killing Charlie, no matter how suicidal my mission is.
“I am sorry,” I croak as I duck into the car. I turn the key and make my way to death.
My legs seem to be airborne as I climb out of my car. I approach the clearing. Fueled by hatred and revenge, a fire burns in my heart. I am almost to the entrance of the clearing when something stops me.
“Dad,” a voice wails. I turn to my side and see Charlie covered in blood. I am in disbelief. I close my eyes tightly and count to five. I open them and see Charlie running to me, knife in hand.
“Charlie?”
“Dad! We need to get home! Now!” he screeches.
“What?”
“Dad, there is no monster!” He begins to sob. “They have been sacrificing children in the clearing!”
“Who?”
“Sheriff White.” Our law enforcement, according to Charlie, has been murdering children for decades. I am standing still from shock. Charlie takes my hand and pulls me to the car. My senses return to me, and I act. We rush toward the car and climb in.
As I drive, I have a hundred questions.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yes! I didn’t take the pills. I spit them out! I played dead when I saw Sheriff White approach me. He wore a dark cloak and carried a weird axe. I realized he was about to kill me, and I stabbed him in the throat.”
“Where is he?”
“In the clearing. He’s dead.” I glance at my son. He weeps.
We make it home and see the mayor’s car parked outside.
“Stay in the car. Lock the doors,” I instruct Charlie. I don’t want Abby to see her blood-soaked brother. One child’s trauma will be enough to contend with. I’m puzzled by the mayor’s arrival. What could he be doing at our home this early?
I make my way inside and see the mayor standing over my family, and I see his gun pointed at my husband and my daughter.
“We need the boy,” he tells me. “You and your family can live. Name your price and name the place. We can get you there,” the mayor offered. There was an incredible tension in the room, and I am overcome with the realization that our town’s mayor and sheriff have been colluding against the very people they were supposed to protect.
“How could you do this? To children?” I am crying. I am angry. I feel betrayed. I think about how the mayor has hugged every grieving parent. I want to kill him.
“There’s a demon. He stalks our town. We must kill children,” he tries to explain.
“You are out of your mind!” I am shouting. With the rage I feel, I could rip his head off.
“You don’t understand. We need him. We must do it.” His voice is so arresting that it’s almost hypnotic. He understands that I am unwilling to betray my son. He sighs and points his gun at me. “I’m only going to ask one more time. Where is h-” he was cut off by blunt force and a sound of pierced flesh in his back. He stumbles to the floor and Charlie is behind him. My sweet angel rescued us.
“It’s okay, baby. Come here,” I coax him gently. The look of horror and shock in his face has me worried that he will never recover. The damage this town has done on my family is irreversible. I hold Charlie in a hug. His hair is matted, and his clothes are crusty with dried blood. My husband joins our embrace, and we share a collective sigh of relief.
“Okay, let’s get out of here,” My husband instructs. We spend the next hour packing and cleaning up. Charlie showers and emerges from the restroom looking like nothing had ever happened. We drive for hours and stop when we reach our summer home.
I know I should feel sadness. I know I should feel rage. I know I should drive back to town and let our community know the truth, but all I can feel right now is joy. Abby and Charlie giggle from their room and my husband lays next to me in our bed. I kiss him. We snuggle until the peace lulls us to sleep.
4
The most pleasant dreams come to me while I sleep, and I think it’s because my spirit is buoyed by my family’s reunification. I feel warmth on my face and my neck, like the sun is shining. A wet gripping on my arm jolts me awake.
My husband is hovering over me and clasping his neck. Vibrant, red blood oozes from the cracks in his fingers. I scream and hold him, and I try to make sense of the terror. I look around the room.
“Charlie! Abby!” I call out for my children. I get up to rush to them, but a new horror emerges in the doorframe.
Charlie enters our room, dragging Abby’s lifeless body. Gone are his sweet blue eyes and in their place are hollow black spheres.
“Hello,” Charlie growls through a sinister grin. There is a low, booming, thunderous quality to his voice. “My name is Rellik.”
“Charlie?” I gasp in disbelief.
“Charlie is dead,” he hisses. “I have waited a century to be free. I thank your son greatly.” His lips peel back to reveal a row of shark teeth. “As a courtesy, you and your family’s souls will not be damned to hell.”
Before I can act, he is upon me. He yanks my head back by my hair and plunges his face into my neck.
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