The Bigwoof Conspiracy Read online

  Something strange was happening in the town of Sticky Pines, and the only thing Lucy knew for certain was that no one could see it but her.

  For the first time in her life, Lucy skipped school. She knew her parents would destroy her if they found out, but there were more pressing things on her mind than social studies could address. And besides, hadn’t she promised Mrs Stricks she would focus on what was truly important?

  Before the first bell, she took a right instead of a left at Bessy the barn-red bell tower and headed out across the playground. With some effort, she hoisted her heavy backpack over the chain-link fence and hopped over into the woods.

  Her parents’ camera was still broken, so Lucy had filled her bag with plaster kits and bottled water in case she ran into any footprints of unusual size. By mixing plaster with water and pouring it into a footprint, it was possible to create a likeness of a creature’s foot. It was a technique popular with squatchers and Girl Scouts.

  What have I become? Lucy lamented as she slipped the dusty bag over her shoulders and hurried into the trees.

  Lucy’s parents had taken the day off to join a sizable search party for Mrs Stricks. Most of the teachers at school had done the same. As a result, Principal Pakuna had arranged a wilderness safety assembly that would take up most of the day. Lucy had it on good authority that puppets would be involved. She was sure she wouldn’t be missed.

  The search party was out looking for Mrs Stricks on the birding trail. Lucy was going to visit the Other Mrs Stricks.

  Even if she’s as crazy as people say, she has to know something.

  Lucy zipped up her red hoodie and inhaled the crisp fall air. The leafy branches, slimy orange fungi and chittering wildlife usually set her mind at ease, but after the events of the last few weeks, the woods were starting to give her the heebie-jeebies. Twice, she thought she heard footsteps behind her, but when she turned she saw nothing but the wind through the ferns.

  She picked up the pace, following a dirt road through a sparsely populated neighbourhood. Soon, she reached the Strickses’ hand-built cottage nestled among a lofty grove of Douglas firs. A weathered wooden staircase connected the driveway to the raised porch. Elaborate carvings of owls, one at rest, one about to take flight, sat atop each bannister like watchful guardians.

  “The owls are not what they seem,” said a gravelly voice.

  Lucy jumped before she realised that a tall woman with wild silver hair was speaking from the shadows behind the screen door.

  “They’re not barn owls, they’re barred owls,” the woman continued. A pair of round yellow sunglasses was perched at the end of her long nose. “The stripes have faded over time. Mrs Stricks will have to repaint them when she returns.”

  “You think she’ll be back soon?” asked Lucy, hopeful.

  “Of course she will,” the woman snapped. “Twyla is as resourceful as they come, and quite formidable when the need arises. She’ll be back before you can spit.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” said Lucy, who was far from sure.

  “I’ve been ordered to wait here in case she returns or phones home.” The Other Mrs Stricks examined Lucy more closely. “You’re one of the Sladan girls, aren’t you? The funny one.”

  Funny? “Uh, yeah. May I come in? I won’t take much of your time.”

  The Other Mrs Stricks pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and sniffed the air. “You might as well,” she sighed. “I’m not about to start turning away children on a day like this.”

  Lucy fought the urge to inform her that she was practically a teenager and ran up the stairs two by two.

  She was greeted by a strong earthy scent, like boiled mushrooms, as she entered the cosy cottage. The pine walls were lined with shelves filled with knick-knacks and talismans from tourist traps all across the state. Four different clocks ticked away in the spaces the shelves did not cover, each reading a different time. Lucy found the atmosphere oddly comforting, both strange and familiar at the same time.

  The Other Mrs Stricks sat in an overstuffed floral armchair, slouching into her hand-knit pink-and-grey striped shawl. The glass coffee table was cluttered with used mugs, the dried-up teabag tags draped over their sides like wilted flowers.

  “Would you like some tea?” she asked Lucy, who was busy shaking a snow globe from the Giant Shoe Museum of Seattle.

  “Sure,” said Lucy.

  “Kettle’s in the kitchen.”

  Lucy deposited her backpack in the living room and went through a pair of swinging barn doors into the rather whimsical kitchen.

  The ceiling was painted a deep blue scattered with yellow stars, a globular white light at the centre resembling a full moon. Portraits of deer, raccoons, turtles and other wildlife dotted the walls. Above the sink hung a watercolour of two smiling owls on a gnarled tree branch. Lucy guessed they had all been painted by her teacher.

  On the stove sat a large, steaming copper pot – clearly the source of the earthy smell. Inside, something brown and foamy was bubbling away. Blergh. Whatever the Other Mrs Stricks was making for dinner looked rather unappetising.

  A box of mint tea and a freshly sliced lemon sat next to a kettle. Lucy flicked it on and grabbed a Paul Bunyan mug from the cabinet.

  She located a jar filled with packets of the new-and-improved sweetener, the word “Nucralose” printed in bold red letters. Ripping open two packets, she tore the creepy clown logo’s head in half and dumped their contents into her tea.

  Careful not to spill, Lucy returned to the living room and sat on a paisley love seat facing the armchair. She took a sip from her mug and nearly choked. Yikes, this stuff’s sweeter than it used to be.

  “So what do you want, Sladan?” The Other Mrs Stricks added a packet of sweetener to her own tea.

  “Oh, um.” Lucy tried to think of a good opening question while she rummaged through her backpack for her notebook. “Have you lived here long?”

  “Mmm.” The older woman nodded. “We land where we land, we make what we need.”

  Lucy smiled, though she wasn’t quite sure what she meant.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, child,” said the Other Mrs Stricks, “but shouldn’t you be in school?”

  “I want to help Mrs Stricks, if I can.” Lucy opened her notebook. “I have a couple of questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Questions, questions, all anybody has is questions,” grumbled the Other Mrs Stricks. She eyed Lucy’s notebook. “What kind of answers have you got in there?”

  “That’s what I’m working on,” said Lucy.

  The Other Mrs Stricks grunted and adjusted her shawl.

  Lucy checked her list of questions. “Can you think of any connection between Mrs Stricks and the people who disappeared? Mr Millepoids and Mr Chelon?”

  “All things are connected,” said the Other Mrs Stricks. “People are never really alone, you know. Any given person’s really about a dozen mixed together.”

  “So that’s a … yes…” Lucy’s brow furrowed. This might be harder than I thought. She moved on to the next question on her list. “Did either of you see anything strange in the woods recently?”

  “Strange?” The Other Mrs Stricks adjusted the chain on the cuckoo clock by her chair. “What do you mean, strange? Top hats and toe socks are strange.”

  “Have you noticed any large creatures around?”

  “There are often black bears about.”

  “I’m not talking about bears,” said Lucy. She flipped through the pages of her notebook and held up a rudimentary picture she had drawn of Bigwoof. “I mean something big and weird and hairy that walks on two legs.”

  The Other Mrs Stricks blinked coldly. “Please, child, tell me you aren’t talking about Bigfoot at a time like this.”

  “Well, I—”

  “What are you, Sladan?” The old woman narrowed her eyes. “Some kind of tabloid-hungry squatcher out to make an easy buck on the World Wide Web from my misfortune? I’m not interested in lunacy or
publicity, thank you very much.”

  “No, I didn’t mean—” Lucy quickly shoved the notebook into her overstuffed bag. “I’m not a squatcher, honest.” She sensed that the old woman’s patience was rapidly wearing thin. “How about lights in the sky?” she blurted out in desperation. “Have you or Mrs Stricks seen any UFOs?”

  She regretted saying it immediately.

  The Other Mrs Stricks’s cheeks flushed crimson. “U. F. Os,” she enunciated slowly. The cuckoo clock began to chime. “I have neither the time nor the energy for this today, Sladan.” The old woman glared into space, seemingly lost in thought. “I have nothing more to say. Now, please go.”

  Lucy mentally kicked herself as she gathered up her bag. “Look, something weird is going on around here. I can’t be the only one who’s noticed.” She stood. “I’m sorry I bothered you. I hope Mrs Stricks comes back soon.”

  Frustrated and dejected, Lucy slunk out of the cottage. That went well. A dark cloud drifted over the sun and the breeze disappeared, the forest eerily still.

  Momentarily out of ideas and certain she wouldn’t be welcome at the search party, Lucy headed down the road back towards school. She paused when she heard the sound of footsteps behind her. As soon as she whipped around to look, the sound stopped.

  Was there something moving in the bushes or was it just her imagination? “Who’s there?” No answer. She picked up a rock and threw it as hard as she could into the foliage.

  “Ow!” yelped a familiar voice. Milo popped out from behind a huckleberry bush, hands raised in surrender. “OK, you caught me.”

  “What the flying fart?” said Lucy. “You’re following me?”

  “I saw you sneak off campus,” he said. “I figured wherever you were headed was bound to be more interesting than raccoon puppets.”

  “Am I supposed to be flattered?” she asked.

  “I don’t suppose you would be.” Milo stepped out on to the path. He wore a tan trench coat over a blue button-down shirt and a pair of khakis, all of which were, again, unsuitable for the outdoors. “I heard that the English teacher went missing,” he said, concerned. “I like her class. She seems clever.”

  “How do you know that if you ditched school when I did?”

  “My dad told me about it this morning.”

  The picture thief. “How’d he hear about it?”

  “He stays well informed. He joined the search party this morning. Who was that lady you were visiting?”

  “That’s the Other Mrs Stricks. I thought she might know something about what happened.”

  “Did she?”

  “Less than nothing.” Lucy kicked a pebble. “It was worth a shot, I guess.”

  “Well,” said Milo, “maybe this will cheer you up.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the digital camera his father had confiscated the night before. It was now attached to a chunky telephoto lens like Lucy had seen in spy movies.

  “No way,” she gawped. “You got your camera back!”

  Milo ceremoniously placed the device into her outstretched hands. “My computer is sadly no more, but the camera is fine. In other news, I know what I’m getting for my birthday.”

  Lucy draped the strap around her neck. “Are the pictures still on here?”

  “Yes,” said Milo tentatively, “the pictures are there, but…”

  “But what?” she said, flipping through the thumbnails. “Did you look at them?”

  “Of course. I went straight to number two forty-nine, like you said. But…”

  “What’s the problem? Did your dad delete the picture? If that laserbrain deleted the picture, I swear—”

  “Laserbrain? Really?” He scowled. “Look, the pictures are all there, it’s just…” He took a deep breath. “Bigwoof’s not.”

  Lucy stared at him blankly. Thunder rumbled in the distance. A soft drizzle began to fall, raindrops pattering gently on the trees around them.

  “I looked at every single photograph,” Milo insisted, “but, well, see for yourself.”

  Lucy found picture two forty-nine. It was the right photo, but something was wrong. She zoomed into the spot where the creature had been. Now she saw nothing but shadows and trees. Suddenly she was unsure of what to do with her hands, or what hands were, or why hers felt so numb.

  “I had a chat with my dad at breakfast,” said Milo, “and he had a suggestion.”

  Lucy gave him a death stare.

  “Isn’t it possible,” he continued, a tad too brightly, “that after being struck by lightning, not getting enough sleep and looking at literally hundreds of photographs, you, kind of, maybe, saw what you wanted to see?”

  Lucy noted that he had stepped out of punching range. “I was not imagining things.”

  She returned her attention to number two forty-nine, the photograph that could have proved the existence of the supernatural, the picture that could have changed the world.

  Milo’s head snapped around. “Did you hear something?”

  “Hear what?” Lucy clicked frantically through more photos on the camera, but Bigwoof was nowhere to be found. A million and one thoughts ran through her mind, none of them kind.

  Then she heard it too – a rustling in the bushes behind Milo. Sweet baby corn, now what?

  A dark, furry creature emerged from the shadows between two ferns, heading straight for them.

  “Oh wow,” said Milo, pointing to the cutest, cuddliest thing he had ever seen. “It’s a baby bear!”

  Lucy’s muscles tensed. Oh no. “Back away, Fish,” she warned.

  He bent down and reached out a hand for the bear to sniff. “Hey there, little guy.” He beamed back at Lucy. “This is so neat. I’ve never seen a bear up close before. Take a picture, will you?”

  “That’s not a bear,” Lucy hissed.

  “What do you call it then?” he asked. “It’s not a pup.”

  “Fish.”

  “Cub! It’s a little baby bear cub.”

  “Fish!” She grabbed his shoulder and pointed him towards the trees behind the cub, where Milo now saw something big, and hairy, and full of teeth. “That’s a bear.”

  The black bear rose to her full, towering height and let out a bellowing roar. Had Lucy been able to speak, she could have informed Milo that mother bears are called sows.

  Milo leapt away from the cub and clung to Lucy’s side. “Should we run?” he whispered.

  “No,” said Lucy. “Back up slowly and don’t make any sudden moves.” She held him by the elbow and led him gently away.

  The sow dropped to all fours, snuffled and pawed the dirt. For a brief moment, Lucy thought that would be the end of it. Then Milo tripped on the hem of his oversized coat. He flailed and yelped before Lucy caught him. The mother bear bellowed again, then charged.

  “Run!” Lucy squealed, gripping Milo’s hand.

  They ran. The bear was at their heels in an instant. Everything felt like it was happening in slow motion. Lucy yanked Milo over a log, down a crumbling slope and into a gully. It took the mother bear just a moment to reorient herself to the chase, but it was enough for them to gain some distance. It almost looked as if they were going to escape when they hit a slick of mud that sent them slide-tumbling down an embankment.

  After rolling and bumping for what seemed like a painful eternity, they sprawled on to the dank forest floor. Lucy tried to stand, but her ankle gave out and she fell to her knees.

  Milo was worse off. Head ringing, he writhed on the ground, wheezing. A blow to the sternum had knocked the wind out of him. He gasped for air as he rolled over on to his back.

  Lucy could hear the thudding, grunting approach of the mother bear rushing towards them. She threw her body over Milo’s in a clumsy but daring attempt at heroism, nailing him in the nose with her elbow. Now he was bleeding everywhere.

  Oh glob oh glob oh glob! Lucy closed her eyes and dug her nails into Milo’s trench coat.

  Suddenly, she heard the sickening THUD of meat against meat as the bea
r’s roar turned into a howl of surprise. Lucy sat up like a meerkat on the plain.

  The sow was sprawled out on its back, moaning in confusion. Crouched between the bear and the children, so close Lucy could smell its sweat, was a heaving humanoid beast, its dark, scraggly hair bristling over tautly muscled shoulders.

  “BIGWOOF!” Lucy shrieked. She clasped her hands over her mouth.

  The grotesque, blunt-faced giant turned to roar in her face, its eyes like black marbles, its pointy, snaggled teeth like those of an anglerfish.

  So this is how I die, thought Lucy. I can live with that.

  Behind Bigwoof, the bear scrambled to its feet and pawed the ground again, gearing up for battle.

  Without a glance behind, Bigwoof leapt skyward and flipped around in mid-air, landing in a crouch in front of the panicked animal. The bear swung its heavy paw like a club and knocked the monster, CHONK, into a knotty tree.

  Bigwoof lunged at the sow and the pair rolled, mashing and gnashing, across the forest floor, flattening the foliage in their wake.

  “Bigwoof is saving us,” Lucy muttered in disbelief. She glanced down at Milo, who was curled up in the undergrowth with his hands over his wounded face. “Look, Fish, look!”

  Gasping for air and choking on the blood gushing from his nose, Milo rolled over and raised himself up on all fours, squinting at the commotion. “Cool,” Lucy swore she could hear him say, just before he collapsed face-down in a puddle of mud.

  Lucy realised with an ecstatic pang that Milo’s camera was still hanging around her neck. She held it up, taking as many pictures as she could. “Do you see?” she said. “I can’t believe this is happening. This is amazing. Are you seeing this? Fish? Do you see?”

  “What do you mean you’re not sure what you saw?!” Lucy gestured wildly at the dozen footprints she had filled with plaster and left to dry on the sloped forest floor. The beastly fight was long over, ending with both creatures disappearing into the woods.

  “Bigwoof rammed the bear here,” Lucy pointed towards a tangled patch of brambles, “and the bear was like ‘whoa, what the heck’ and it stumbled over here.” She ran around to give Milo an impression of the beastly struggle.