Goblins

They want the children!

Someone is taking children from their homes on Roanoke Island and gruesomely slaughtering their families.

After a small, hideous-looking creature is discovered at one of the murder scenes, Chief of Police Marcus Hale realizes whatever is responsible for the killings isn't even human. Hale suspects a bizarre link to the past, to the end of the 16th Century, when the island's first settlers disappeared, leaving only the word Croatoan carved into a tree.

But something far more sinister than he ever imagined is at work. And if it isn't stopped soon, the entire island's population will perish. Just like it did so many centuries ago.

Goblins

David Bernstein

Dedication

For Adam, the best brother in the world.

I'd like to thank the usual suspects: Don D'Auria and the entire Samhain team for making this book the best it can be. I appreciate the time and effort that goes into making a book shine.

And to Sandy, my first and constant reader, and for always being there.

Author's Note

The word Croatan—no o after the t—is the proper name of the Native American tribe that lived in the Outer Banks of the Carolinas. The word Croatoan—with an o after the t—was the name of an island (now called Hatteras Island) located in the Outer Banks region of the Carolinas, near Roanoke Island. However, the word Croatoan was also an alternate name used to describe the tribe.

Chapter One

Jacob Brown, the pitcher for the Roanoke Island Wildcats, stood tall on the pitcher's mound. It was the bottom of the ninth inning, the game on the line. He inhaled through his nostrils, chest expanding, then let out a long breath through his mouth. His stomach was in knots. His nerves felt like they were going to get the best of him. But he held them in check with controlled breathing as best he could. This was it. The game.

The crowd was a mixture of cheers, some for him, some for the batter. He tried to block out the noise and focus on the catcher's mitt, like the big league pitchers did, but the surrounding din made its way into his head.

The batter was the notorious Kyle Morton, a huge kid and the Bulldog's best home run hitter. In fact, Kyle was the most feared hitter in all of North Carolina's Little League circuit. The husky eleven-year-old had already walloped ten home runs during this year's playoffs. Jacob had faced him a number of times over the couple years they'd both been playing. Kyle had his number. The feared batter had eight hits off him, five for home runs.

Jacob didn't worry about the past now. This was his time to shine and to give the island of Roanoke a championship.

The score was 3-2 in the Wildcats' favor. There were Bulldogs on first and second base. A single would tie the game, possibly win it if the ball rolled between the outfielders. A home run would put the crosstown rivals in the lead, and with the bottom of the order due up, it didn't look good for the Wildcats. Jacob had to get the slugger to strike out or pop up.

Jacob's parents had been on the bleachers, along with the rest of the crowd, but now they were up against the fence, cheering him on. He knew they were proud of him, always were, but he wanted them to be extra proud of him. Hell, he wanted the whole town proud of him. He wanted to be the hero of the island.

Jacob looked in at the catcher, Timmy Drakes. Timmy was a chubby, freckle-faced kid and long-time friend and teammate. Timmy put down the sign, indicating what type of pitch he wanted Jacob to throw. It was a high fastball. So far, Jacob had thrown two curve balls, a fastball, and one off the plate. Kyle was a dead high fastball hitter. Jacob usually threw whatever the catcher wanted, but in this case, he thought the kid was nuts.

Jacob shook Timmy off, indicating he wanted a different pitch. A droplet of sweat fell from his forehead into his eye. He blinked away the annoyance and was thankful when Timmy called time. The chubby kid was up from his squatting position and jogging out to the mound for a chat.

“High fastball?” Jacob asked, holding his glove in front of his mouth so the other team wouldn't be able to read his lips.

Timmy shook his head, then without lifting his mask up, said, “Sorry, Jake, I messed up. I meant for you to throw an outside fastball. I'm nervous as hell and sweating like my Aunt Gertrude after she's climbed a flight of stairs. Hard to breathe and think straight, you know. I mean, this is it. This next pitch could mean everything.”

“I know,” Jacob said. “Just relax as best you can.”

Timmy nodded.

“So, are you sure you want an outside fastball?” Jacob asked, thinking it was the right call.

“Yeah, I'm sure,” Timmy said.

“C'mon, ump,” someone called from the stands. “Break it up already.”

Jacob patted Timmy on the shoulder and said, “I got this.”

As Timmy turned and headed back to home plate, Jacob's stomach roiled, and for a moment, he thought he might puke. He'd done a good job playing off that he wasn't nervous, but now that it was just him on the mound, he felt like he needed to scream in order to get his mojo flowing again. He was shaking. Thinking too much wasn't always good for him, which was another reason he liked to trust his catcher and throw whatever the armor-wearing teammate wanted.

As Jacob stood back on the rubber and readied himself to pitch, he wondered if Kyle was just as nervous as he was. He hadn't thought about it until now. The big kid hadn't looked so good on the last two pitches, and if Jacob was being honest, he'd say he'd gotten away with one that should've been smashed over the outfield fence.

If he won the game for the Wildcats, the summer would be his and the team's. They'd be celebrated wherever they went and get free ice cream for the month, something the owner of Danny's Delights had announced to the team before the season started. People around town would say things like “there he is” or “atta boy” or “he'll be in the big leagues one day for sure” and then pat him on the shoulder or back.

Kids at school would be envious, and maybe Suzie Beckers would see him in a different way, want him to be her boyfriend.

Jacob was roused from his daydream by his coach, who told him to snap out of it. He blinked a few times, looked in for the sign, which he didn't get because he knew what to throw. He was ready. His heart was pounding faster than it ever had, even faster than when he had to kiss Ginger Kliner at Mark Tuvon's party when they all played spin the bottle.

Sucking in a gulp of humid, summertime air, he stood tall on the mound's rubber, then exhaled. His mouth was parched, like after the time he'd snuck a sip of his mother's dry wine. He'd run to the sink and chugged mouthfuls of water, thinking he'd drank poison.

He gripped the ball, moving it around so that he had the proper hold. He went into his windup, then lunged forward. His arm came around, moving in whiplike fashion, until it was fully extended. His hand opened, fingers letting go, and the ball was released.

Time seemed to stall, like the slow-motion scene in an action movie. All sound became muffled, warped. Everything went out of focus except for the ball and the catcher's mitt. Jacob's focus was that intense.

The batter's eyes lit up. Jacob saw that the green light had gone off in Kyle's head. The kid had made up his mind, he was going to swing. He saw the kid tap his foot, a ritual batters used to help them time their swing.

Jacob swallowed, feeling as if a baseball were lodged in his throat. This was it, the game. Then a droplet of sweat fell into his right eye and the scene blurred. He blinked, but the stinging pain was too much. He closed his eyes just as Kyle's bat cocked back to swing.

Jacob's eyelids fluttered as he tried to clear away the salty liquid. The goings on of the world were temporarily unknown to him. When he was finally able to see clearly again, he saw that Timmy's mitt was closed and that Kyle's bat had come around. Jacob wasn't sure what had happened, but he was sure he hadn't heard the sound of lumber hitting leather. Catchers always closed their mitt whether they caught the ball or not.

Then the umpire pumped his fist and yelled, “Strike three!”

Kyle's shoulders slumped as he headed away from the batter's box.

Timmy turned the glove toward himself and opened it, as if he couldn't believe he had the ball. Then he jumped up and held his glove to the sky and ran toward the mound.

The Wildcats had done it. They'd won the series. Jacob let out a long breath and felt the tension leave his body. His muscles relaxed. He was loose and free. He bounded up and down, cheering and laughing as Timmy and the rest of the team came to the mound and celebrated. Everyone piled on him for a minute before they climbed off and congratulated each other with high fives and hugs. This went on for a bit, but then the coach rounded everyone up for the traditional end of game, good sportsman-like routine, where both teams lined up and slapped one another's hands while saying “good game” as they walked by one another. The Wildcats' players' faces were bright with smiles, while the Bulldogs' wore frowns and were red from crying.

Afterwards, the Wildcats hung around the dugout and celebrated with sodas and pizza, Ray's Pizza Shop supplying the pies.

After everyone had eaten, the team gathered around the coach and listened as he talked about the importance of winning and how hard work paid off. The kids hung on to every word he spoke. The fact that the man, Jared Michaels, had been in the Major Leagues, having played in the outfield for the Orioles and Braves for a total of five years before shattering his ankle, gave the man's words that much more credence.

When the coach was done, the team saluted the man with hip hip hoorays and cheers and hugs, then begged him to hit. The kids loved when he took batting practice and launched ball after ball way into the outfield—sometimes beyond the fence. He only performed for the kids when they won.

The Wildcats took turns in the outfield catching their coach's bombs, almost every ball reaching the outfield fence. The kids teased that he was holding back, that they'd seen him smash baseballs much farther when he had been playing.

“C'mon, coach,” Timmy said. “Send one to the moon.”

The other kids started chanting, “Moon, moon, moon.”

The coach announced his last at bat. The kids moaned, but he promised to hit it as hard and as far as he could. Jacob was in the outfield, having waited his turn for what seemed like hours. He made sure to stay near the fence and to the right part of the field, knowing that was where most of the coach's hits wound up.

As a pitcher, Jacob only got to play the outfield during practice, or when his coach was hitting. There wasn't a player who didn't enjoy watching the man hit. Jacob liked to imagine it was the end of the World Series and he was the one that was going to catch the final out and win the coveted trophy for his team.

It was during this final at-bat that the coach smashed a ball farther than Jacob had ever seen the man hit one. It sailed clear over his head and the outfield, landing past the tree line where the woods began.

Jacob stood at the fence, mouth agape and marveled at the man's power. He hoped that someday he too would be as gifted as his coach and be able to play in the big leagues.

Most people from the area were either Orioles or Nationals fans, but Jacob's team was the New York Yankees. His favorite player was Derek Jeter. Jacob's grandfather was a New Yorker and had grown up a Yankees fan. His father fell in line. And even though Jacob had never lived in New York, he became a Yankees fan, too. The pinstripes stood for honor and had a wonderfully storied history, something his dad had said was important when rooting for a team. They were the model franchise—the best—which was important in all aspects of life. And, his dad admitted, it didn't hurt that they won a lot, which made watching the games a lot more fun. The team also had a player everyone—fans and rivals—respected and admired. There was no better role model in sports than Derek Jeter. “That's how all ball players should conduct themselves,” his dad always said.

Before Jacob knew it, he had his glove off and was climbing up and over the outfield fence. He wanted that ball. It was special and meant for him—hence the reason it had flown directly over his head. It would surely bring him luck with his future baseball aspirations. It would always remind him of the year his team won the trophy. But it would also remind him of his coach and of wanting to make it to the major leagues. The coach might want it back, considering it was a super duper home run type of hit, but he'd do his best to convince the coach to let him keep it.

As he ran away from the fence, he checked over his shoulder to see if he was going to have any competition. No one followed, the kids only watching him go. He imagined his teammates saying, “That's all yours, Jacob” or “You deserve it for winning us the game.” It was most likely because they didn't think he'd find it in the woods, but he liked to believe they thought he deserved the ball.

The tree line was a tangle of tall weeds, vines, shrubs and trees—both pine, oak and maple. It took a minute of searching and getting poked by a few branches, but Jacob found a way in.

Once he was through the practically impermeable barrier, the forest opened up a little. The pines and oaks grew farther apart, as if respecting each other's space. The forest floor was made up of scattered leaves, green and brown pine needles, downed tree limbs and twigs. The temperature seemed to drop a few degrees, chilling Jacob's sweat-lined skin. The tall trees blotted out much of the sunlight and he needed a few moments for his eyes to fully adjust after having been in the bright field for so long.

He glanced around and wanted out of the woods, unsure as to why he felt unnerved. He'd been in the forest plenty of times. Loved playing in the woods, building tree forts and exploring with his friends. He wouldn't leave until he found the ball, he decided, and shook off the odd feeling.

After looking around and being unable to locate it, he moved deeper into the forest. Twigs snapped and leaves crunched with each step, the sounds incredibly loud in the overly still forest. He didn't think the ball had gone so far, but guessed it could've taken a large bounce and had rolled away. It could be hidden under brush, too. If that was the case, he'd never find it.

He scoured the area where he guessed the ball could be, turning over leaves and kicking at small ferns. He was beginning to lose hope that he'd find it when he spotted a divot in the ground where a bit of fresh dirt showed. Jacob's eyes widened and a grin spread across his face. The prize was going to be his. Just a little farther and he was sure to find it. He headed in a straight line from the point of impact, hurrying faster with each step. He wanted the ball, but the farther he went into the woods, the more his trepidation grew. He paused and glanced around, feeling like he was being watched. Seeing no one, he continued onward and was starting to lose hope again. The ground had a slight decline to it now. The ball could've rolled farther than he thought it might have. He should have found it by now. He had to be at least thirty feet from where he found the divot.
A little farther
, he thought.

His eyes scanned the ground and he imagined he was a robot from the future that desperately needed to find a sphere of power. He slowed his walk, thinking he should turn around and go back—maybe try a little to the left or right—when he cringed from the awful aroma of what could only be rotting meat.