Sherlock & Elf

It was during the bear cubs’ wrestling match that Sherlock felt the explosion in his head. Beulah’s spellbinding potion had been timed to take effect at midnight and the midnight hour had arrived. Back under her spell, Sherlock once again became the witch’s loyal familiar. With Beulah’s incantation, ‘bring the hare to me . . . . bring the hare to me’, sounding in his ears, he turned to January, his yellow eyes dull and vacant. “I just remembered something about Flash. I’ll take you to him.” His voice, usually warm and friendly, sounded cold and detached. His words came out emotionless. He stood up and walked towards the exit.

“What? Wait up, Sherlock.” January shouted. When he didn’t respond she raced after him, pleading, “Sherlock, wait for me!

Once they were outside of the performance ruins, January realized where Sherlock was heading. Since coming home, she, once again, had heard the stories that something evil had moved into the woods. Something that preyed on unsuspecting animals, especially rabbits. It was rumored that once an animal went into the creeper woods, they never came back out. She hadn’t believed the hearsay but as she got closer to the dark forest she was overcome with a feeling of dread. Now frantic, she yelled, “You are going towards the creeper woods. I’ve heard that bad things happen there. It’s not safe. I don’t think Flash would be in there.”

“Don’t you trust me?” Sherlock asked, without looking back.

Every fiber of January’s being warned her to stay out of the creeper woods, so named for the thick prickly vines that seemed to take over anything they touched. Trees and shrubs were covered with the dense vines that had crept their way up the trunks and wrapped themselves around the branches. The trees were so laden with the climbing plants that they looked like gargantuan beasts, their sprawling twisted branches resembling outstretched arms reaching for a hapless victim. Many of the vines had snaked their way across the tree tops, forming a thick canopy over the soggy ground where decaying leaves and pine needles filled scattered pockets of sticky mud.

“Please wait, Sherlock,” January pleaded as she hopped behind him. But Sherlock ignored her. Didn’t he hear her? He was sprinting ahead into the woods, disappearing into the darkness. January took a deep breath. She could hear the pure sound of Elf’s voice floating through the air from the amphitheater. She paused for just a second, then plunged after Sherlock, his scent drawing her further into the woods. She was just about to call out again for him when she stepped into the trap.

Fear washed over her. “Sherlock, help! Sherlock, please help me, I’m caught. Sherrrrrlooooooock!!”

He appeared out of nowhere. With his wet nose pressed so close to January’s that their whiskers were touching, he hissed, “Don’t call me Sherlock . . . my name is Lucifer!”

Up ahead in the cabin the witch was preparing the chopping block.