Elion

July 7, 1985. Sunday. 11:45 p.m. Timber Hollow. The Turners' garage. Leo sat in the garage alone. His father had passed out an hour ago; the TV in the living room still mumbled something about signal disruptions across the country, but then it too fell silent—the station must have gone off the air. The silence was so thick it drowned out even the crickets. Or maybe the crickets had simply died. In the last few days, many creatures had fallen quiet. A lamp with a green shade burned on the workbench. Leo leaned over the receiver—disassembled, its guts of wires pulled out. He wasn't cracking frequencies in the Hollywood sense—just trial and error, swapping circuits, shorting contacts, listening to how the noise changed. Regular police and military chatter ran in the 150–160 MHz range, but there was another band, lower, around 120 MHz, where strange things sometimes slipped through—fragments of phrases not in any protocol. At two in the morning, when he was about to give up and lie down, the speaker suddenly came alive. First, a whisper, unintelligible, like breath into a receiver. Then a voice. Young, frightened: "...repeat, there's some weird shit here. This isn't an animal. An animal doesn't do this." "What've you got there, Carter?" A second voice, older, crackling with interference. "The ranger. Old Hackett. I found him in the shed at Black Creek. Or rather... it's him. But he's not all there." "What do you mean 'not all there'?" "His hands. His hands turned into branches. Twigs. With leaves. And on those branches... eyes." A pause. A long one. You could hear Carter breathing—quick, wheezing, like a cornered dog. "What kind of eyes?" the older voice asked. "Human ones. Tiny. They hang on stems like berries. And they watch. They watch all the time. I walked out of the shed, and they turned." Leo froze. His hand with the soldering iron hovered over the board; a drop of solder fell and hissed on the concrete floor. He kept listening. "Carter, stay put. Don't touch anything. We're sending a team." "Don't send a team! It's... it's growing here. I saw a branch move. As if he's still alive. But he can't be alive. His face is bark. Solid bark. Only the eyes. And they're not his. Too many eyes. Sir, I don't know whose eyes those are. Maybe they're from the inside..." The connection broke. Not cut off—broke, as if someone had bitten through the wire. Leo set down the soldering iron and realized his hands were shaking. He didn't know Hackett personally, but he'd seen him a couple of times—a silent old man in a plaid shirt, gathering brushwood by the road. Now he'd become... a garden? An avenue of flesh and timber? Leo wiped his forehead with his sleeve and took off the headphones. He had to tell the others. Right now. Even if he had to wake them. July 8, 1985. Monday. 12:40 a.m. Timber Hollow. Tim's house. The backyard. He reached Zoe on the first ring—she wasn't asleep, sitting by the phone. Tim picked up after three rings, grumbling sleepily. He didn't have to call Mira—she came on her own, as if she knew she'd be needed. Twenty minutes later, all four sat in Tim's shed. Tim in pajama pants and a jacket thrown over, Zoe in her usual hoodie, Mira in her flannel shirt, Leo with flux stains on his fingers and wild eyes. He repeated everything word for word. When he got to the eyes on the branches, Tim jolted awake instantly. "Wait, hold on. Hands turned into branches? With eyes on them?" "Yes." "Someone else's?" "Yes." "And him? The ranger himself?" Zoe asked. "Is he dead?" "Carter said his face was like bark. And the eyes move. I think he's dead. But I'm not sure." "What do you mean, not sure?" Tim jumped off the couch. "Either dead or not. What's unclear about that?" "What's unclear," Mira spoke up, "is that Elion doesn't just kill." She sat in the corner, legs crossed, her closed notebook on her knees. "He changes. He takes a person and makes them into... something else. It's not death. It's transformation." "Like the ranger?" "Like everyone he touches." "Touches?" Zoe remembered the mark on her wrist. "We're all marked. Why aren't we transforming?" "We're anchors. He needs the connection. If he transforms us, the connection breaks. But those who aren't marked—they're just material. Food. Clay." The words hung in the air. Tim walked to the tool shelf, picked up a hammer, weighed it in his hand, and put it back. Then he picked up the crowbar—the same one he'd grabbed at the slab—and leaned it against the doorframe. "So he's remaking people into himself. And the further it goes, the more there'll be." "Yes," Leo confirmed. "And if we don't stop him now, in a month Timber Hollow will be a forest of people. Literally." "We need to track him," Zoe said. "Carter mentioned Black Creek. That's near the sawmill." "The abandoned McGregor sawmill," Tim nodded. "I know the place. There's a log yard and a drying kiln." "Why the sawmill?" "Because he hides where it's dark and smells of wood," Mira answered. "He likes the smell. I can feel it. He thinks of wood as something warm. Alive. Maybe his world is made of that." "His world?" Leo asked. "Where he came from. I don't see it. But I feel it—everything there is different. Not stone, not metal. Something between flesh and tree." No one asked anything more. Everyone felt uneasy. July 8, 1985. Monday. 1:30 a.m. Timber Hollow. Tim's house. The backyard. They sat until dawn. No one wanted to go home. Tim lit a burner and boiled cocoa in a tin mug, passing it around. They spoke little, listened more. The night was quiet, but the silence felt unreliable. As if movement hid behind it. At some point, Mira closed her eyes and began to speak—monotonously, not in her own voice, as if reading text written under her eyelids: "He's at the sawmill now. He's standing in the drying kiln. It's hot there and smells of resin. He likes it. He's thinking about you coming. He wants you to come." "Mira?" Zoe touched her shoulder. Mira opened her eyes, and for a second, a lilac light reflected in them—dim, like the glow of a distant lamp. "He's calling us. Not commanding. Just inviting. Like to a show." "I don't want to be a spectator in his theater," Tim cut in. "We don't have a choice. We're already in the hall. The lights are out. The stage is set." Leo finished his cocoa and set the mug on the floor. "Then we go on reconnaissance. Tomorrow evening. We'll see what he's doing at the sawmill and decide from there." "Maybe during the day?" Zoe asked. "During the day, there might be cops or military there. They've probably found the ranger's body and are cordoning off the area. Night's safer." "Safer?" Zoe laughed bitterly. "After everything that's happened, you still say 'safer'?" Leo didn't answer. He just looked at his green mark—it pulsed a little faster than usual. July 8, 1985. Monday. 8:30 a.m. Timber Hollow. The Sanders house. The attic. Mira hadn't slept. She sat on her mattress and looked at the drawing she'd made during the night—she didn't remember drawing it, but there it was. The sawmill. A tall, grim building with a collapsed roof. Glowing threads stretched from the windows. At the door stood a figure—thin, elongated, with four-jointed fingers. Waiting. She turned the page and began drawing a new one. This time consciously. Shadows. Many shadows. They emerged from the woods, from the ground, from the walls of houses. They had no eyes, but they watched. Mira shaded each shadow long and carefully, until the pencil wore down to the wood. From below came a call: "Mira! Phone!" She went down, picked up the receiver. Leo's voice: "We're going tonight at eight. Once it's dark. You with us?" "I'm always with you." "Then meet at the old gas station. And Mira..." "What?" "Can you... if he tries to control you—tell us right away. Immediately." "Okay." She hung up. In the mirror by the entrance, her face flashed—pale, with dark circles under her eyes. But her eyes were clear. Too clear for someone who hadn't slept in three days. July 8, 1985. Monday. 5:00 p.m. Timber Hollow. Black Creek area. During the day, they split up. Leo and Zoe rode their bikes to Black Creek to check on things after the night's incident. Tim went to gather equipment. Mira stayed home—she needed to be alone. At the creek, there was indeed a cordon, but not continuous. Two police cars blocked the dirt road; people in plainclothes bustled along the bank. Hackett's shed—a leaning structure of unpainted boards—was wrapped in yellow tape. But the body wasn't visible. Either it had already been removed, or it lay deep inside. Leo and Zoe hid in the bushes on the opposite bank. The creek babbled, masking their footsteps, but they still couldn't make out the conversations. They could see well, though. A man in a white coverall emerged from the shed—the same balding one who'd been thrown back from the egg two days ago. He took off his respirator, breathing heavily. His face was ashen. A younger man approached him and said something. The first shook his head, rubbed his temples, and waved his hand toward the town. "They're scared," Zoe whispered. "No kidding." Leo aimed his binoculars at them. "First time they dealt with an egg. Now—a corpse that sprouted branches. Not in the manual." A stretcher was carried out of the shed. On it lay something covered with thick fabric. But the fabric bulged—sharp angles, branches, maybe roots, poked from underneath. One of the orderlies stumbled; the stretcher swayed, and from under the fabric slipped a branch with three tiny eyes. They were open, staring straight at the sky. The orderly dropped instantly—just collapsed to the ground. A scream went up. "Damn," Leo breathed. "It's still alive. Or not alive, but... active." "We need to go," Zoe tugged his sleeve. "We've seen what we needed." They backed away, slipped out of the bushes, and, crouching, ran to their bikes. Behind them, people shouted, a dog barked, but all of it was quickly swallowed by the sound of the creek. July 8, 1985. Monday. 7:50 p.m. The old gas station. Tim came first, as usual. His backpack was heavier this time. He took out the contents and laid them on the concrete: two flashlights, a coil of rope, a crowbar, a knife, another folding knife, a can of spray paint (to mark the trail), a whistle, a first-aid kit he'd swiped from the school nurse's office, and a chocolate bar. "Going to war?" Zoe asked as she approached. "Reconnaissance. Reconnaissance without gear is a funeral." Leo and Mira arrived together. Leo immediately took one of the flashlights, checked the batteries, twisted the lens. Mira stopped a little apart, gazing at the forest. The striped sky overhead slowly dimmed, shifting into twilight blue. The bands hadn't gone anywhere, but at night they looked like dark scars on the sky's skin. "He knows we're coming," Mira said calmly. "I can't hear him right now, but I know. He's waiting." "Good," Tim zipped his backpack. "Saves us from playing hide and seek." "Tim, we're going to look," Leo reminded him. "Not to attack." "Look, attack... what's the difference? If he decides we've bored him, he'll flatten us. So we go and look. And if it comes to it—at least I'll try to hit him." "With a crowbar? Against something that survived under concrete?" "Got a better idea?" Tim stared at Leo point-blank. Leo looked away. "Fine," Zoe said. "Let's go. The longer we stand here, the more time we have to change our minds." She moved into the woods first. The others followed. They didn't turn on the flashlights—there was still enough twilight to make out the path. The forest around them was quiet, but not dead. Something rustled in the undergrowth. Not an animal—animals had left yesterday. More like shadows moving on their own. July 8, 1985. Monday. 8:45 p.m. The abandoned McGregor sawmill. The sawmill stood in a low spot by Black Creek—a huge, squat building of red brick, long since blackened by damp. The roof had caved in three places. The kiln chimney jutted into the sky like a gnawed bone. The timber-hauler gates were flung open, and in the opening gaped blackness—deep, wet. They approached from the south, hiding behind stacks of rotting logs. Tim was the first to peer around the corner. "No one." "He's inside," Mira said. "I can feel him. Like warmth from a stove." "It's dark in there," Zoe noted. "Flashlights?" "Not yet. Let your eyes adjust." They passed through the gates and entered the main hall. Here, saws had once roared; now there was silence—only water dripping somewhere, and a draft moving through the empty bays. It smelled of rotting wood and something else—sweetish, like overripe fruit. The smell of decay, but not vegetable. Animal? Or something third. "Look," Leo whispered, pointing up. Something hung from the steel beams under the ceiling. At first it looked like forgotten ropes. But they were moving. Slowly writhing, like seaweed in deep water. They were threads. Lilac, translucent, hanging from the beams all the way to the floor. "It's weaving through the building," Zoe said. "Like a web." "It's building a nest," Mira corrected. "A nest for what?" The question hung in the air. The answer came on its own—from somewhere deep in the hall came a sound. Not footsteps, not a voice. A crackling. Like breaking branches. Many branches at once. Tim switched on his flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness and hit the far wall. What they saw made them freeze. By the wall stood a man. Or rather, what had once been a man. It stood upright, but roots growing from its legs had pierced the concrete floor. Its arms—long branches with small leaves—reached up toward the beams. Its face—bark. Deep, cracked bark, oozing resin. And on every branch, every offshoot, hung eyes. Different ones. Brown, blue, green. Human. They rotated, blinked, looked in all directions—and all turned simultaneously toward the flashlight beam. "God," Zoe breathed, recoiling. "That's Hackett," Leo said dully. "The old ranger. Is he still... alive?" The man-tree didn't answer. It only rustled its leaves, and in that rustle was a whisper—unintelligible, layered, as if all the eyes were speaking at once. Mira stepped forward. "Don't!" Tim grabbed her shoulder. "I'm not afraid. I want to hear." "There's nothing to hear! It's just... remnants." "No," Mira pulled free and came closer. "This is a message." She stood a few feet from the creature. The eyes on the branches stared straight at her. The whisper grew louder, and words began to emerge from it—not in a voice, but directly in her head, as always with Elion: "You are the one who sees." "Yes," Mira answered aloud. "I see. What do you want to show?" The creature didn't move, but one of the branches slowly curved and pointed into the depths of the hall. To where the darkness was thickest. A draft and the smell of ozone came from there. "He's calling us there," Mira said. "No way," Tim stepped forward. "We're not walking into a trap." "It's not a trap. It's an invitation." "Mira, do you hear yourself? An 'invitation' from a monster that turned a man into an eye-garden?" "He's not a monster. He's different. He wants to talk." "Then let him talk from here!" Tim was nearly shouting. "I'm not crawling into his den just because he feels like it!" And then the darkness at the back of the hall stirred. Not shadows—the darkness itself grew denser, thicker. And from it, a figure emerged. Tall, thin, with silver skin and lilac veins. Elion. He didn't walk—he glided, like a reflection on water. He stopped exactly halfway between the friends and the man-tree. His eyeless face turned to each of them in turn. And then a voice sounded in their minds—low, slow, laced with something like sadness: "You came faster than I expected. Good. I want to show you the game." "The game?" Zoe repeated. "Yes. You saw the first piece." He pointed a long finger at Hackett. "This is not an attack. It is a gift. I gave him a new form. He is now part of me, and I am part of him. We grow together. When the game ends, there will be many like him. A whole forest. A forest that sees everything." "Why?" Leo's voice came out dry and cracked. "Because I am hungry. And alone. A forest of people will be my home. Their eyes—my windows. Their fear—my bread. And you, my anchors—my roots. You will bind me to this world. Forever." Elion reached out his hand. His finger almost touched Mira's forehead. Tim lunged, swinging the crowbar, but he was too late. The finger stopped an inch from her skin. "But I do not want to take by force. You interest me. You are afraid, but you do not run. You ask, but you do not beg. I will play fairly with you. You will seek a way to stop me. And I will... create. Let us see who finishes first." "And if we win?" Zoe asked. "You will ask me a question. And I will answer truthfully. Once." "And if we lose?" Elion withdrew his finger and stepped back into the shadows. "Then my forest will grow larger." And he vanished. Not dissolved—he simply stepped back, and the darkness closed behind him like water. The man-tree remained standing by the wall, its eyes slowly turning in their bark sockets. Leaves rustled, whispering to each other. Tim lowered the crowbar. His hands trembled, but he didn't let go. Zoe stared at where Elion had stood, trying to decide whether his promise was a game or a threat. Leo moved toward Mira. "You okay?" "Yes," she said, opening eyes she hadn't realized were closed. "He didn't want to hurt us." "And Hackett? He 'didn't hurt' Hackett?" Mira looked at the man-tree. Then at her own hands. "He gave him peace. Hackett was afraid. Very afraid. Now he's not afraid. He just is. Like a tree." "That's not peace. That's death." "For him," Mira said quietly, "it might have been the same thing." They stood in the silence of the ruined hall, under the gaze of strange eyes on the branches. And each thought the same thing: the game had begun. And the stakes were more than just their lives. The stake was whether they would remain human.