Short Story: The Secret of Cedar Creek, by Damien Kane

I wrote this story a while ago. It's not the best, but I thought I'd share it with you:

Michael Hungerford, a successful real estate agent from Melbourne, undertook a trip around Australia during long service leave for his fortieth birthday. He was single and had few ties, many regrets and was highly strung, as many people are these days.

On day nine he stopped at a small town surrounded by outback with one dusty road to its name. The town was called Cedar Creek, pop. 14. It didn’t appear on his map and intrigued him: there were no trees or creek, so where did the name come from? The largest establishment seemed to be a retail outlet, so he parked his four-wheeled drive in its shadow and stepped out.

The heat hit him harder than a litre of pure alcohol. From his icy, air conditioned car to a dispassionate heat: he felt every prickle of skin, each forming bead of sweat and every pin of sunshine. From the corner of his eye he saw a figure and turned towards it.

"You can't stay!" the figure announced, a small woman pushing years, wrinkly as if she'd been in the bath for twenty years. "You shouldn't be here, stranger."

"That's my decision," Michael replied, closing the car door and straightening himself. The old woman huffed and her eyes followed him as he entered the shop.

It was cool inside but not as cold has his car; enough to attest an early sweat. A little bell jingled to indicate his presence. The shop was bare save for a few shelves of groceries, two large fridges and a box freezer that was the size of a picture booth.

"Can I help you?" a voice rumbled.

Michael hadn't saw him before, sitting in a chair in the corner, reading a well-thumbed book with no cover. "Hi," he said. "Hot day."

"Really?" he questioned. "Now: you're a weather forecaster, aren't you?"

Michael bit his tongue. Rude people infuriated him. "I'd like to ..."

The shop keeper pulled a gun and pulled back the hammer. "Let me finish that. I'd like to ... run out of here screaming, or run out of here screaming with a hole in my chest."

Both of Michael's hands went up in the air. "Woah! I'm gone, okay!"

"Now you're not, are you. You're here."

Michael left without hesitation, and spirited his car away into the desert, neglecting to take the road for fear of being shot at. His heart hurt his chest and the town slunk into the distance as he checked the rear vision mirror every other second. When he was out of sight, he stopped in his sandy storm of travel and leaned on the steering wheel for comfort. A cold sweat ran down his temple.

His tyres had kicked up sand which surrounded the car like a freakish storm. As it started to clear, he saw a silhouette - a tree? A very large tree.

His temples throbbed as he got out of the car and approached it. Funny, he thought, that such a massive tree, the trunk as big as his car, would be in the middle of the desert without even a blade of grass in sight.

Michael closing the car door and approached the tree then put a hand on its trunk. It felt cool and rough to the touch, and he could swear that something was crawling under his fingertips, but when he looked, it was just bark.

It started to ... tremble? Shake? Minutely, but it made him gasp and step backwards. He heard a vibration and a loud crack, and then something unbelievable happened: the crack formed a mouth and the tree spoke.

"I am the oldest and wisest tree

You ever did see.

Only those with problems,

Come to me,

And I know what you should be starting to do,

If only you asked me something about you.

But I warn you now, it may not be good

And I have no emotion because I'm made out of wood.

Of all your questions, I can give you an answer

Because I am Teuketl: the Necromancer."

Michael laughed: a talking tree!

"I'll grant you a wish if you grant me mine:

For this wish, I ask for nine,.

An honest ratio for your hearts desire,

To have anything you want - no need to aspire."

Michael was shocked and too fascinated to flee. From his earlier encounter with the gunman to this; a similar rush of adrenalin flushed his body. He shook like a sinner in the midst of God, but stood his ground. "I wish to be the wealthiest man alive!"

The tree frowned and its mammoth trunk shook.

"First you have to grant me mine: go kill your relatives. At least nine."

Michael spluttered. "I can't do that."

"Then you'll sit on a shelf

And will never know true wealth.

I can make you richer than a king,

But only if you fulfill everything."

It was an unbelievable situation. Appalled by the request, he found a logic in it: being so unbelievable, it must be true. He knew he couldn't kill. Of course not! "I can't do it, Teuketl, but is there anything else I can do, instead of that?"

"There's just one thing which keeps me whole:

Devouring the human soul.

I don't need rain to survive -

It's a spirit like yours that keeps me alive.

So do not ask any more questions,

Just go and do your dark intentions.

And with every person you will kill,

Bring them to me, because that is my will."

Michael watched in awe as the tree trembled, and an ear-splitting crack filled the air. The wooden mouth started to sew itself back together and seconds later looked like any other tree he had seen.

He raced to his car and drove home, frightened for his life, needing to be back to reality and his comfort zone.

The day after, he went to his sister’s for dinner. She was a fastidious woman: fast to complain and hideous. Halfway through his meal, as she moaned and groaned and complained about her childhood and his reluctant role in it, Michael thought about Teuketl: the talking tree. It seemed like a fairy tale, and the tree was four to five hours drive away.

As she nagged, something else nagged at the extraneous pieces of his mind. It seemed to be his own doing and after a few closed minutes, it seemed to exert a greater pressure on his thoughts.

He glanced at the silver blade, the serrated steak knife which sat in his right hand.

No. Too messy, and he thought: 'If I'm going to do this, it has to be clean, so I can deny everything. Besides, there's eight people to go after her.'

He lunged, unable to stop an urge which wanted to tell her to be quiet, to stop talking and relax. So strong was this urge, he knew what the result would be. He dropped the knife. His hands shot to her neck and wrapped around the bony trunk. He squeezed hard, both thumbs pressing into the delicate structure of the trachea. It was a revelation; a moment of peace and tranquillity and a moment which ceased her endless complaints faster than turning off a light.

A relief.

A relief fuelled by her eyes, showing him her misunderstanding as to what he was doing, why this was happening. He owed her an explanation. "It's the tree! You have to believe me!"

Post mortem, he placed her in his car and drove back to Cedar Creek, avoiding the strange, hostile town. When he arrived, he pulled the body of his sister from the car and lay her spread-eagled near the foot of the talking tree. "I got one!" he boasted.

There was a deafening silence followed by a deep rumble. It started to vibrate. He didn't know if it came from under his feet or his bones. Then, an ear-splitting crack, and through the shadows born from the car headlights, he saw a mouth appear.

"So!" it boomed. "This night you bring to me a soul

With another eight being your goal.

But next time we meet, I want at least three

And do not question my decree.

We now have a contract signed in blood

And if you break my rule, I'll turn you into wood.

So do my bidding and do it by midnight

And be back here before first light."

A huge branch swooped down and picked up the limp body of his sister, and fed her into its mouth without so much of an effort. No sooner had she disappeared when the mouth disappeared and Michael was left alone, stunned and tired.

Three more by midnight ... bring them here by first light.

Which is what happened, but by the time he returned to the tree, he was very tired and in need of a long sleep. Teuketl's mouth appeared and swallowed the bodies of his father, mother and brother in the same way it did his sister. When finished said:

"You have done well, just five to go

Before I bless the wealth I know,

For this is the voice of Teuketl:

So by the next moon, fulfil my will."

A thunderous snap deafened him for minutes and the mouth disappeared. Michael thought: five to go. That's two trips. I'm never going to be able to do that. He dropped to his knees and hung his head, knowing that he had to go through with it. Five.

When he arrived home, he set his alarm clock and allowed himself six hours sleep. Without it, he would fail, and he couldn’t pretend otherwise. With it, there was a chance he would succeed and become wealthy in the process. His dreams were frightening, filled with landscapes of ice and white barren deserts, a single black tree as if burnt by fire stood in the middle. When he awoke, it was in a cold sweat, and someone was knocking on his door.

He took a deep breath. "Open up, sir," the voice instructed, impatience lacerating the request.

Michael stole a glance out of the window and swore under his breath. It was the police.

He changed into fresh clothes and put on his sneakers and climbed into the attic. His timing was impeccable as seconds later, the police burst through wielding handguns. Michael resisted the urge to run or to attack them.

Under an hour later, they left. He reasoned somebody would be watching the house - perhaps even his car, but he had to get to Teuketl - ask for an extension of time - how, how could he fix this? How was he gong to kill five more of his relatives now?

He crawled along the dusty beams of the attic until he reached the bathroom at the end of the house and kicked his way through, dropping down into the bath. He climbed out of the window which backed on to the park and ran hard.

Five minutes later, he reached the border of the park and slowed, heart pounding like fists in his chest. Yet, for all that had happened, life looked normal around him and he turned to take one look at his house in the distance.

With some money in his pocket, he took a train then a bus to as near as possible to Cedar Creek. With fifty kilometres from the last bus stop, walked the rest of the way. When he arrived at Cedar Creek in the late evening, he was tired, bitter and shocked with himself.

The tree had disappeared.

A voice startled him, yet was familiar. "I told you," it said.

Michael turned. The voice belonged to that of a woman, as wrinkly as a prune, and one he didn't fail to recognise. "What?"

"I told you that you shouldn't be here," she said.

"It was the tree," Michael said.

"What tree?"

"It was going to give me what I want," he replied, "but I had to give something to him first."

"You can never leave," said the woman.

Michael noticed behind her that figures started to form, coming from the direction of the town. In the dusky evening they were more definable than silhouettes, but as they came closer, he noticed two things.

One. The first person he recognised was the shop keeper. The same man who threatened to shoot him.

Two, and even more disturbing, as they came closer Michael saw they were made of wood.

He screamed as he felt something crawl over his hand. It was sharp and hurtr and he looked to see what it was: bark. He was turning into one of them.

He stood rigid and looked at the shop keeper, fear dazzled in his eyes. "Cold night," said the shop keeper. "Have to get a fire going."

Michael watched as wooden tendrils broke out of his shoes and fed themselves into the ground. Roots: he was turning into a tree!

Another figure appeared to his left wielding an axe.

Michael howled in agony as his body was chopped into pieces, but the howls went unnoticed. The secret of Cedar Creek had not been spent. At least, not tonight.