The Devil's Woods Read online

  The Devil's Woods

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Part Two

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Three

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Part Four

  Chapter Thirteen

  Part Five

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Part Six

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part Seven

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Part Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  The Devil’s Woods

  Brian Moreland

  Books by Brian Moreland:

  Darkness Rising

  The Vagrants

  The Devil’s Woods

  The Witching House

  Dead of Winter

  Shadows in the Mist

  Dark Needs

  Fear wears many skins.

  Deep within the Canadian wilderness, people have been disappearing for over a century. There is a place the locals call “the Devil’s Woods,” but to speak of it will only bring the devil to your door. It is a place so evil that even animals avoid it.

  When their father’s expedition team goes missing, Kyle Elkheart and his brother and sister return to the abandoned Cree Indian reservation where they were born. Kyle can see ghosts that haunt the woods surrounding the village—and they seem to be trying to warn him. The search for their father will lead Kyle and his siblings to the dark heart of the legendary forest, where their mission will quickly become a fight for survival.

  The Devil’s Woods

  2nd Edition, eBook edition

  Copyright © 2013 by Brian Moreland

  Published June 2017 by Rising Horse Books

  Dallas, Texas

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever, including photography, xerography, broadcast, transmission, translation into any language, or recording, without permission in writing from the publisher. Reviewers may quote brief passages in critical articles or reviews.

  Originally published by Samhain Publishing December 2013.

  Republished by Rising Horse Books June 2017.

  Cover design: Brian Moreland

  Images licensed through Fotolia.com

  Foggy Forest - Nebel im Dachauer Moor © Second2None

  Elk skull © baphomets

  Bull skull© smokedsalmon

  Coyote skull © emu

  To Betty Anne, for your loyalty, your encouragement,

  and, most of all, your infectious laughter.

  Acknowledgements

  There are a number of people I wish to thank for helping me as this story journeyed from manuscript to published book. Special thanks to my agent Betty Anne Crawford and my editor Don D’Auria.

  Thank you to my friends in my writer’s group for their feedback: Bridget Boland, Lisa Glasgow, Max Wright, Erin Burdette, Paul Black and Pat O’Connell. Pat, I send you endless gratitude for letting me stay at your cabin in the East Texas woods, where I wrote most of this book.

  Thank you to flight instructor Jeff Ellis for answering my questions on how to fly a seaplane.

  Special thanks and deep appreciation to Michelle “Mikki” Everroad for reading an earlier version of this book and encouraging me to keep writing on it.

  Also thank you to Erin Sweet-Al Mehairi for reading an early version of the book and providing valuable feedback. And to Brian Altman for inspiring me with his artwork over twenty years ago when he painted an original cover to this book.

  To my mom for reading the manuscript and being my sounding board. Last and not least, my family for all your support—Laura, Raymond, Saxon, Ally, Mom and Dad.

  Prologue

  British Columbia, Canada

  Lake Akwâkopiy Cree Indian Reserve

  Five days after the tragedy, Jon Elkheart returned to the forbidden forest. With a vengeful glare, he challenged the looming wall of aspen, spruce and vine-choked pines that guarded this unsacred land. The only entrance was a trail that disappeared into a black hole inside the jungle-thick brush. The darkness within Macâya Forest was an impenetrable void, a shadow world of shape-shifters, and yet its mysteries beckoned him.

  There are places in the world where lost spirits never rest, Elkheart thought with a coppery taste in his mouth. And man is considered prey. Standing by a swamp at the edge of the rainforest, he peered through the scope of his assault rifle, searching the woods for sudden movement. He listened for the slightest snap of a twig or brush of a leaf. The June morning was still and windless, as if all of nature sensed what he was about to do.

  You should turn back. You can’t do this on your own. The scholarly part of Elkheart understood this logic. As an archaeologist, he had always put his research first, above all else. Until this last mission went haywire. Now the guilt and anger pumping through his veins would not let him rest. You have to go back in there, spoke a voice that was not ruled by logic. You have to find Amy.

  Elkheart looked up at the sun creeping over the mountains. Clouds drifted across the valley, as if shielding the forest from the approaching light. Soon only the tips of the branches pierced the white smoke. Stretching out his arm, he turned a small video camera toward his face. “June 10th, 7:00 a.m. My name is Jon Elkheart. I am a professor from the University of British Columbia. I am also one of the last surviving members of the Lake Akwâkopiy Cree band. Most of my people abandoned this reservation years ago. Those who stayed behind have suffered nightmarish visions from a forest that has haunted our reservation for more than a century. A week ago I led a documentary film crew and four mercenaries into Macâya Forest, an uncharted patch of rainforest located at the northeastern tip of the reservation.” A heaviness burdened Elkheart’s chest as he remembered that tragic night. The screams and gunshots echoed in his mind and guilt twisted his guts. “Most of my crew was slaughtered by something that attacked us from the woods. My assistant, Amy Hanson, was taken alive. I’m going back into Macâya Forest to search for her. I pray the spirits of my ancestors will guide me.”

  Never enter Macâya Forest with impure thoughts, Grandfather Two Hawks had warned. You must call in your animal spirit guide and enter with the heart of a warrior.

  Elkheart blessed a large knife with an elk-horn handle. Grandfather had given him the hunter’s blade on his thirteenth birthday after killing his first elk. He had eaten the slain animal’s heart and earned his name. Now, Jon Elkheart dipped two fingers into a coffee can of elk’s blood and wiped red streaks across his cheeks, as if a mask of war paint could channel the ancient warriors of his tribe. The ceremony did nothing to settle his nerves. He faced the mouth of the forest where few men had survived before him. “This time I will not run.”

  Nervous whimpers broke the silence. Elkheart’s German shepherd pressed against his leg. He stroked his dog’s bristled neck. Should have left him back at the cabin. “Scout, run on home.” He shooed the dog. “Go on.” But Scout refused to leave his master’s side. Elkheart sighed. “You’re just as foolish as I am
.”

  Taking a deep breath, Elkheart sheathed his knife. He gripped his M4 Carbine. The semi-automatic assault rifle had belonged to one of the mercenaries who had died for this mission. Trying not to think of the soldier who had been decapitated, Elkheart turned on a flashlight that was attached to the barrel. A long beam pierced the dripping green-gray gloom that shrouded the rainforest. Wary of every sound, he passed through the threshold. His dog followed.

  As Elkheart crept down the narrow path between spiky pines, firs, and cedars tangled spruce, ghostly voices filled his head, pulling his thoughts in every direction. His Cree ancestors would not give him peace until he returned to these unsacred woods and exposed its secrets.

  A blanket of dew covered the bracken and surrounding leaves. Only splinters of sunlight lanced the dense canopy. The morning fog drifted between the trees, making visibility even more difficult. Elkheart could only see a few feet around him.

  Scout sniffed along the ground a few feet ahead, a silhouette in the haze. They weaved between trees, crossing cold-water creeks and climbing up fern-covered hills. The darkness faded into a gray gloom, as the morning sun finally filtered through the tops of the trees.

  Untying his green parka, Elkheart loosened the hood to cool off. Sweat soaked his black-and-silver hair. Slightly winded, he inhaled the pine-scented air. A branch shook above him, dropping pinecones onto his shoulders. He jerked the rifle upward. An owl swooped from its perch and disappeared into the mist.

  Elkheart released his breath. Okay, stay alert. Be ready for anything.

  Steadying his rifle, he stepped through a thicket. Large fern leafs and dangling vines made his efforts difficult. Only the twisting path separated the trees and underbrush enough to travel through the woods. To venture from the trail would be like wandering into an uncharted jungle.

  The fog thickened. Smokey plumes circled his feet, covering his boots and the moss-covered trail. Scout began to fade in the mist. Elkheart bird-whistled the German shepherd to come back. Elkheart’s heavy backpack burdened his spine. Easing the pack off, he leaned against a tree. Scout sat on his haunches, watching the forest.

  Fishing into his backpack, Elkheart retrieved his video recorder and a bottle of Stoli. The vodka had been a birthday gift from Wynona, his…what? Ex-girlfriend? No, their relationship had never been that formal. Ex-drinking partner was more fitting. “Friends with benefits,” his students would say.

  Studying the clear liquor, Elkheart felt a brief tightness to his chest, remembering the drunken, lust-filled nights he and Wynona had shared before the whole mess started. He still loved her, still caressed the empty spot in his bed where she once slept. But some pasts just couldn't be healed. And Wynona’s wounds ran deep as canyons. Letting her image fade, Elkheart swallowed a gulp of vodka. He glanced around warily, thumbed the camera’s record button.

  “So far, so good. I’m about a half mile deep and all’s quiet.” Elkheart paused to listen to the forest a moment, turning his camera toward the surrounding trees. “For over a century, my people have feared Macâya Forest. The landscape here is different from the woods that surround the reservation’s compound. Here, the trees tower to enormous heights and intertwine with one another as if trying to conceal something the land never wanted man to discover.” He gazed up at the giant trees, the sacred elders, wondering if they were listening. He felt as if eyes were watching him. “I’m about a quarter mile from the strange ruins my team and I discovered before their deaths. I only got a glimpse, but what I saw was beyond belief. I should be there shortly, where I hope to find Amy. If I come across what killed my crew, this time I’m prepared.”

  Elkheart hit the stop button. A strong wind blew along the trail, and the fog began to swirl. He half expected an ancient trickster to emerge from it. Or a threat much more real.

  Elkheart rubbed the antler handle of his knife, drawing courage from his spirit animal. When that didn’t work, he drank another fiery gulp of vodka. He then slipped his backpack over his shoulders, grabbed his rifle and stepped toward the swirling fog. Scout sniffed the trail a few feet ahead.

  As Elkheart grew closer to the ruins, his asthma kicked in. The fifty-year-old professor started wheezing. Fear paralyzed him as questions rolled through his mind.

  What the hell are you doing here? Why is revealing the secrets of this forest worth more than your life?

  Part of him wanted to return to Vancouver with the evidence they had found. He had plenty of artifacts and footage to open up an investigation. He would be on CNN and every major talk show around the world. Time and National Geographic would cover his story. He would finally be respected in his field, and more importantly, earn the respect of his three grown children. But Elkheart couldn’t leave Amy behind. He took another step, a warrior’s vengeance surging through him. He jerked his rifle at a sudden sound. Low, huffing grunts.

  Scout growled.

  Elkheart tensed, raising the rifle. “Shh, boy.”

  The shepherd silenced, but remained poised to attack.

  Ahead, something lumbered through the pines with heavy footfalls that sounded like a grizzly. But this predator had run off all the bears from these woods.

  Remain still. Wait it out. It’s only passing.

  The heavy footsteps tramping over damp earth echoed off the pines.

  Scout watched the path, waiting for his master’s command to attack.

  Elkheart remained still, holding his breath. Out here, the slightest gasp could be heard a great distance. The asthma tickled his lungs like centipede legs.

  The unseen animal lumbered away, its thundering footfalls and cracking branches growing softer.

  The wind carried the beast’s familiar stench, stinging Elkheart’s nose, and memories filled his mind: images of a moonlit night, gunshots firing, his crew wailing as their shredded bodies flew through the air. Amy screaming as the thing dragged her off.

  Now, Elkheart’s lungs clenched up. He groped for his inhaler, sucked in.

  Somewhere beyond the trees, the beast stopped walking.

  Elkheart fought to control his wheezing, pumping several gasps of asthma medicine into his lungs. The centipede legs abated and he finally silenced his panicked breathing.

  Too late.

  The snapping of branches rushed toward him.

  Scout turned and barked.

  The predator circled them, staying hidden within the fog.

  Elkheart hugged his rifle with shaking arms. Staring through spiky branches, he aimed at the forest. God, the beast’s right here! Behind the fog! His heartbeat quickened as he realized he was about to see the thing in the light.

  “Come on! Show yourself!”

  A cacophonous roar erupted from within the forest.

  Barking, the German shepherd dashed into the mist.

  “Scout! No!”

  The dog’s growling soon blended in with the roar of the unseen beast. Branches cracked, or were those bones? A fatal ripping followed by a canine yelp.

  “Scout!”

  A long, drawn-out shriek echoed across the valley. Branches snapped. Snarls filled Elkheart’s ears. He raised the rifle and fired a three-round burst into the fog. The shots whizzed between the trees, their final reports echoing across the valley. At least one bullet hit something solid.

  The forest grew silent again.

  Was it dead?

  Elkheart flattened against a tree, watching the mist swirling with the wind. He dug through his backpack. Pulled out the vodka bottle and a jar that contained a rag soaked in kerosene. He stuffed the rag into the bottle, allowing a long strip to hang out. I will not back down. Holding the flame of his lighter beneath the wick of the Molotov cocktail, Elkheart advanced along the path. The forest remained so dead calm he could hear his own heart hammering his chest.

  From somewhere in the infinity of trees a twig snapped.

  Elkheart stiffened. He listened for the faintest sound. The surrounding pines, like silent observers to this game of cat and mouse, offe
red nothing.

  Another twig cracked, this time sharper.

  Closer.

  He lit the wick of the Stoli bottle and threw it toward the sound. The makeshift bomb exploded against the trees, torching two of them. A tall shadow beyond the flames roared and lumbered back into the fog.

  Elkheart gripped his gun, backing away. The research couldn’t end like this. Not after all his work. Twenty years of expeditions. Who would be left to warn the ignorant world? He had to escape. He was the last Cree descendent who knew enough to expose the secrets of Macâya Forest.

  A woman screamed.

  “Amy!” Elkheart left the trail, running between the evergreens toward her crying voice. Branches clawed at his clothes with wooden talons. The girl’s moans echoed off to his left, then shifted to his right, and then strangely, back behind him.