Never go into Warden’s Gulch. Never descend into the gulch during the day, and never even skirt the edges at night. There’s plenty of other woods around here, and there’s plenty of other places for you to play. But never the gulch.
What, you want a reason? Isn’t my warning enough? Back in my day, we didn’t ask so many impertinent questions of our elders. We did as we were told, and that was that.
Well, all right. You want an answer; I’ll give you one.
Long ago, back before I was born, when this countryside was home to uncountable cicadas— you know cicadas? If you ever go out west, to the country, in the summer, you’ll hear them; a mechanical whine unlike anything you’ve heard. Like a thousand looms going at once. It’s a powerful sound, that toneless hum. Deep in the summer, when the cicadas got going, you could barely hear yourself think, and the humming rang in your bones. Of course, now they’ve been driven out of here. All the fields and roads and buildings and such. But in those days, you could still hear them around here.
So one summer, a group of kids were playing in the woods. The woods were much bigger back then, of course, but the gulch still existed, and still took up most of the western half. The cicadas were louder there, buzzing like their lives depended on it, and it was dusk, getting close to dark. So the kids decided they’d play one last game, and then head home for the night.
You’ve probably heard of the game; it’s an old one, but kids like you still play it around here sometimes. It’s called “Roll Call.” I’m sure you know the rules— what, you’ve never heard of it? What games do you kids play nowadays?
Hopscotch? You’ve got to be kidding me.
No, Roll Call is nothing like hopscotch. It’s a little scary, so maybe not for kids like you. But the game goes like this: everyone forms a line, and the line leader walks around the forest, and everyone else follows behind. Once the game starts, there’s no talking, unless the leader calls out, “roll call!” Then, one by one, everyone in the line says their names, from the kid behind the leader to the last kid in line.
The thing is, there’s one person not in the line. That’s the Taker. The taker takes people— silently, stealthily— from the end of the line. And once you’re taken, you become a Taker too.
Takers can’t speak. So if you hear someone behind you, and the leader calls roll, and they don’t speak— you know they’re not one of you. And you know they’re coming for you next.
This group of kids decided to play a round of Roll Call before going home for the night. And they decided to play in Warden’s Gulch. Oh, they had good reasons, or they thought they did. The narrow gulch delineated a clear boundary for the game, and the abandoned houses provided abundant hiding places for Takers. But it wasn’t about that. These kids had been warned about the gulch by their parents, but they thought they knew better. They wanted to taste danger, feel it nipping at their heels.
Well, they got what they asked for, all right.
One boy was picked to be the line leader. He was about your ages, younger than most of the group. But he was a little cocky, and he fancied himself clever. He knew their parents would want them home soon, before darkness fell completely. So he decided he would call roll only very rarely, so the game could move along faster, the Takers could get on with their Taking, and everyone could go home for the night.
The game began. The boy paraded his crew, him and nine others, down Warden’s Gulch. He meandered cautiously over fallen rocks and around dead logs, peering through the gloomy twilight with more than a little apprehension. The children behind him fell into step in silence.
Once they had reached the bottom of the gulch, the boy paused, and shouted “Roll call!”
Nine voices answered him. He let out a breath, then continued along the forest floor.
The cicadas hummed, a deafening whir in the balmy night. Squirrels and groundhogs skittered away from the silent line of children, along with the occasional set of heavier footsteps that might have belonged to a raccoon or two. Once, the boy thought he heard a pair of sneakers trampling through the undergrowth, but though he peered into the trees, he saw nothing.
“Roll call!” he heard himself say. This time, only seven voices answered. The boy’s heart began to pound a little louder, though he outwardly smiled. Good, the Takers were getting on with it. Soon the game would be over, and they’d depart for the night.
The column, now two people shorter, climbed around mossy boulders, hulking monsters in the intense dusk. The boy checked his watch— 9:03 pm. Well past his bedtime.
“Roll call!” he repeated impatiently. Six replies. He quickened his pace a little.
This time of night, the cicadas buzzed louder than ever, and the ruins of old houses were barely more than shadows against the dim sky. As he peered into the gloom, he thought he saw a flash of light in one of the windows— but then he moved again, and it was gone.
His watch still read 9:03. Time seemed to drag on.
“Maybe we should head back,” he found himself murmuring. “It’s late.”
Nothing. Then the voice of the kid behind him. “What, you scared?”
“No way!” he protested. “Fine. Let’s keep going.”
The kid behind him said nothing, so the boy continued his meandering walk through the gulch.
As they went around a blind curve, twisted tree roots hanging down from both sides of the narrow path, the boy said, “Roll call!”
Three voices chorused in response, then…
Silence. Nothing but the sound of cicadas chirping. Only four of them were left in the line.
The boy looked at his watch again. The glowing numbers read 9:03.
A chill went down his spine.
He studied the watch intently, sighing with relief when he saw the seconds ticking by in the dark, but then stiffening. After sixty, they went back to zero, but the reading… the reading stayed the same.
“Roll call?” he softly asked the still night air.
Silence stretched, and his heart beat faster, but first one, then two voices responded.
The boy let out a sigh of relief. His watch must be broken; he’d have to ask his sister to fix it in the morning. But first they had to finish the game.
He crept around a hairpin turn into a clearing. A hill fell steeply downwards, into the heart of the gulch. The boy craned his neck and squinted but could not see the bottom.
“Roll call?” he asked, a little more confident.
A brief pause before the kid behind him answered. Then a seemingly endless silence.
Just the two of them.
He started down the slope, footsteps echoing dutifully behind him. At one point, he thought he heard something, and paused, but the footsteps behind him continued uninterrupted. It was only about halfway down the slope, the bottom still shrouded in darkness, when he realized what it was.
Without warning, the cicadas had stopped their humming. The gulch was eerily silent.
“Roll call?” he asked, his voice shaking.
Nothing. No one called back.
But the footsteps behind him kept coming.
The boy’s heart leapt into his throat. He started down the slope again, faster now, until his feet tripped over themselves and he began to run. Behind him, he could hear the footsteps coming closer, and put on an extra burst of speed.
As he approached the bottom, still shrouded in impenetrable darkness, his foot caught an exposed root and he tripped. He clawed desperately at the ground, but the dead leaves were slippery, and seemed to evaporate under his hands. He tumbled down the slope, gathering speed as he went, until at last, he slid to a stop.
His heart beating loud in his ears, he turned to meet the Taker who was chasing him.
His breath caught in his throat.
He did not know what this thing was, but it was very clearly not human. It shambled toward him on too-long legs, and he found all screams stuck in his throat. He put out his hands, ready to protect himself, but as he did so, his gaze fell on his watch.
The numbers were merely blinking 00:00. As he watched, they flickered, then went out.
The boy was never heard from again.
So there you have it. That’s why you should never go into Warden’s Gulch— what, that was too scary for you? Oh, come on. No, wait, don’t cry. Buncha sissies. Back in my day we could appreciate a proper story, you know.
About the Author:
Emma Simon is a high school senior in Washington state, USA. An emerging writer, she is also a founding member of her school's Writing Club. She enjoys reading and sketching in her spare time.
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