The devil is in the details
The death of Nettie Mckeen forever changed Matthew. He brooded over her request to remember her. Because of her, he challenged himself to remember everything. His obsession was fortifying, his memory bolstered his intelligence, and he excelled academically. He was most proficient in mathematics. It became intoxicating for the young boy to work out calculations. He would turn the numbers over in his mind until he had the answer. His solutions were almost always right, a feat of which he was very proud. It was like a carnival ride in his head. He would loudly announce his accomplishments with a boastful roar, "I've got it! The answer is..." He was more than proficient at remembering numbers, but remembering to be humble was a habit he had yet to master. Often times he was reprimanded by the instructor for blurting out the answers. His persistence in strengthening his memory had it's benefits, though. All of Hanley Township considered him some kind of a savant. As a result, the people of Hanley treated him more like an adult than a child.
His ability to remember became an art-form. And all because of an old lady's dying wish. His grandmother became his muse, remembering became his dogma and academia the instrument to gain his obsession... his obsession to remember.
Except for his odd obsession for remembering things and his skills in mathematics, Mathew was extraordinarily ordinary. In youthful matters he was always in character. A typical boy, he loved playing games, riding bikes, fishing and doing everything he was told not to do. He especially liked doing the things he was told not to do. One of his favorite forbidden past times to engage in was racing remote controlled hover-bots. Hover-bots were small propeller driven drones with cameras attached.
Each day after school, along with his cybernetic dog Sarge, he would race to the flying field and meet up with other like-minded children between the high unkept shrubs in the meadow.
The small aviators and mechanical dog would spend hours weaving between the brush, staring at the sky. One eye was fixed high above on the plane in flight. The other eye was covered by a glass that received images of the ground transmitted from the hover-bot. Watching both the sky and the ground simultaneously, disoriented the children and they often stumbled and fell as they ran through the field.
Matthew flew his hover-bot almost as often as he paired two numbers together in computation. He loved the limitless possibilities of both and in both, the boy had wings. He and his friends virtually glided silently over the trees watching the people of Handley Township go about their daily business.
Though Matthew felt unrestrained in flight, the hover-bots were limited to the range of a signal. The hand held transmitter's range was approximately two miles. Some of the more adventurous children, Mathew included, would push signal boundaries, losing it in the end. They hoped to steal a glance at one of Hanley township most amusing individuals, Mr. Jacobson.
Jacobson was a fervently unsettled old man who lived alone on the edge of town. He was a solitary man who, only on rare occasions, dealt with others. His grumpiness seemed to stem from the ill company he kept. He was bad company to himself and bad company to others. Because bad company breeds bad company, Jacobson seemed to be more disagreeable with time.
The cantankerous old man was most disagreeable when he knew he was being watched. He knew the children were often watching. Watching through the cameras attached to the hover-bots. Oh how he fumed when he saw the metal birds gliding towards him. He was also very particular about his well manicured lawn. He didn't like the small ash flakes that fell from the hover-bots. Even though they were barely visible, he felt they spoiled the lush grass of his estate.
When provoked, he would try to shoot the metal birds from the sky. All he needed to be provoked was the sight of the children running through the field.
If Jacobson wasn't shooting at the mechanical birds with his fusion operated pellet gun, he was giving the children an eye full of irritation by scratching obscenities onto large pieces of ripped cardboard. He hung, nailed, taped, and glued the foul words to everything in sight. Dog eared and seedy, the cardboard smut peppered the landscape around his home and inadvertently did more harm to his well kept yard than the children could ever do with their enchanted soaring.
His rage became a breathtaking palpable garden of foul language. Ironically, his attempt to verbally ward off the children's buzzing only seduced them to visit more often.
If Jacobson was lucky enough to shoot down a hover-bot, he would hang the captured remains in his filthy cardboard garden, just to taunt and discourage the children. But it wasn't a deterrent. The mechanical birds still blissfully glided overhead. Again the pellets flew, new foul sunflowers bloomed from the neatly trimmed yard, signals were lost, and hover-bots repeatedly fell to the ground in flames of glory.
Matthew loved every minute of it but he couldn't help feel a bit sorry for the bitter man. It seemed to him that a man who filled his yard with angry words had no room for happiness in his home. Even though he never met Jacobson in person, he felt that privately he must be as unhappy as he was disagreeable. Matthew didn't brood over Mr. Jacobson's demeanor, however. As most young boys, his attention often flew, quicker than a hover-bot, from one thing to another. Besides, people who are easy to anger are, most often, just as easy to forget. So as quickly as Matthew began his flight and pondering Jacobson's disposition, he was onto something else. He called for Sarge and the both of them ran home.
To get there, he had to walk through a small grove of trees. Matthew didn't like the dark woods and he imagined Sarge didn't either. The light only broke through the leafy canopy sporadically when the cold wind moved the branches. Matthew felt claustrophobic every time he passed through the dim cold passage.
As usual, halfway through the muted, grey columns of tree trunks he began to feel uncomfortable. A dull hum rose up around him. The sky grew dark. The wind picked up, beating the trees against themselves. The wind wove between the trees and twirled around the young boy. Then, without warning, the air around Matthew exploded and knocked him off his feet. He felt the ground crush against his ribs and laid motionless dazed from the blow. His forehead stung and burned with pain. Matthew pressed his hand against his hairline to ease the discomfort, but it was persistent. He pulled his hand away and glanced at his hands, a small bead of blood clung to the tip of his middle and index fingers. There was a shallow cut.
An object began to move behind the trees. It rustled loudly through the leaves that covered the forest floor. The crunching reminded Matthew of a fall morning when the chipmunks would wake and burrow through the fallen leaves. It was a similar rustling, but this was heavier and deeper. Matthew could tell this was due to a sizable animal. The crunching was being made by large footsteps. It wasn't small, it wasn't a chipmunk. It was big and it was close.
Whatever was near, lightly scratched against the the bark of a tree. Matthew turned towards the scraping noise. Small fingers slowly wrapped around a tree trunk. Then a faceless, white haired figure appeared. The face was flat and smooth, as if someone had brushed away the features of its pale mask.
Matthew's heart skipped at the sight. He was horrified. His body began to shake uncontrollably.
The creature was naked. It's pale androgynous body was distorted and vague as if Matthew was viewing it through an unfocused camera.
Suddenly, another pale figure skirted around another tree. Then another appeared and another and another. Matthew's terror was multiplied with each appearance until it felt as if his heart would leap from his chest. One of the things began to slink towards him.
