Squatters. We were eavesdropping on squatters.

I was still relieving myself when I saw Cal approaching. That surprised me, of course; more so when I noticed the finger pressed against his lips.

I followed him, finding the group in a clearing, ducked behind fallen timber. Beyond them were the mangled remains of a small cabin. Its perimeter was charred, with jagged wounds ripped out of the walls. The little of its interior that I could see appeared weather-worn and blackened. Apart from a few gashes, though, the roof was mostly intact.

I also heard voices. There were people inside the building. Their shadows shifted and spilled across the empty portal where a front door once stood. Brase and his new friend? Excited, I dropped down beside my friends and waited.

It became clear after a few minutes. We weren’t eavesdropping on Brase, the Melted Man, or any iteration of the mysterious Warlock. The people inside the derelict cabin were only squatters.

Without consulting the rest of us, Brent stood up and shimmied over the log.

“What are you doing?” Brooke hissed.

“Getting answers,” he whispered. Then, voice raised, “Excuse me. Hello?”

The conversation in the cabin abruptly ended.

“Dammit,” Brooke growled, rising and moving beside her brother. Like him, she held her hands in front of herself in a gesture of peace.

“We mean you no harm; we’re not the police, nothing like that,” Brent announced. “We would just like to talk to you a minute if you don’t mind.”

No response for a moment. Then, “’An’ what if we do mind?”

“We can leave,” Brent promised. “But then we won’t be able to pay you for answering a few simple questions.”

Chatter renewed inside the cabin, a clucking deliberation initiated by Brent’s suggestion of financial dispensation. “Ain’t no ‘simple questions’,” one voice insisted.

“They said they ain’t the police.”

“Police ALWAYS say they ain’t the police.”

“No, they don’t; they can’t do that.”

Brent was nearly to the porch. He paused there, hailing the squatters once more. “I’m just looking for my brother. We think he might be out this way.”

A face poked through the naked door frame. “’WE?’” it demanded, “How many a’you’s out there?”

“Just a few,” Brent said, “all looking for my brother. Have you seen him?”

A second face joined the first, nearly on top of it. “Ain’t seen no one – now pay us ‘an git!”

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“This your cabin?” Brooke asked. “What’s left of it?”

“Suppose it is?” the first face said.

“Suppose it AIN’T?” the second challenged.

Slowly, Brooke lowered her hands, surprising Brent. He gestured for her to lift them again but she shook her head.

“Look,” she said. “I don’t care whose cabin this is. I just want to find our brother, not play games, not make you feel threatened. We think he might be with a very bad person, so if you don’t mind, can we please just skip all of this and have a normal conversation?”

The two faces retracted just as a third appeared in their place. It showed us a big toothy grin. “Well, why didn’t you say so? YOU’RE lookin’ for the Warlock, ain’tcha?”

Brooke sighed, nodding. “Unfortunately it’s starting to look like we might be.”

~~~

The squatters were still a little squeamish, but after cautiously stepping onto the porch and getting a better look at us all (the rest of us revealed ourselves by then), they seemed to relax.

Eventually, we introduced ourselves; they did likewise. They’d been staying at the cabin off and on for a few weeks, disappearing for a day here and there in pursuit of game.

“Have you seen him?” Brent asked after preliminaries were completed, “the Warlock? Anyone?”

They hadn’t. They were familiar with the legend, of course, but the stories hadn’t kept them away from borrowing the man’s previous dwelling. “He’s long gone,” one assured us. “But if he did come ‘round, what’s he going to do, kick us out?” Chuckling, he extended his leg through one of the many holes in the wall. “Place ain’t but burnt wood any more.”

They HAD encountered someone, though, at least indirectly – several of them. Their first week staying there, a handful of scavengers had come by while they were away. They returned from one of their hunts to find their scant belongings ransacked. Anything of value was stolen, the rest scattered and broken. This happened a few times during their residence. The most recent visitor came by just a few days ago. This interloper had been far more subtle in their prying.

“Wouldn’t even’a noticed this last,” one of the squatters, Alvin, told us. “But the cabin’s like home now. In your HOME you notice all the little changes.” He shrugged. “Whatever they was lookin’ for, must not’a found it. Didn’t take nothin’.”

“Nothin’ left ta’ take,” another squatter, Jeb, told us with chuckle, “’less they in the market for rot ‘an soiled drawers. Plenty ‘a those to go ‘round.”

“Maybe they’s still lookin’ for them missing girls,” Alvin said. “I don’t know. They took nothin’ so don’t matter much. Ain’t like we got up a ‘no tresspassin’ sign.”

“’At’d be a fair sight,” Jeb noted, giggling again.

They weren’t lying; even if they had legal claim to the rubble, there wasn’t much to defend. They offered us the grand tour, but given the state of the place, we politely declined the hospitality.

“COULD it have been the Warlock, though?” Brent pressed, nearly pleading. “This last scavenger?”

Alvin narrowed his eyes, “Now why would that ol’ spook be wantin’ to come back ‘round here?”

“Town’d have his head,” Jeb agreed, “first time it peeked out from whatever hole it’s in right now.”

We gave the men a more detailed version of our story, including the expectation that our Melted Man and the Warlock of legend were, in fact, the same person.

“Could be…” Alvin admitted thoughtfully. “Lotta stories about him; lotta stories about him DOIN’ things at that circus… didn’t realize he was still hangin’ ‘round, though…”

“Better not be’wantin’ his cabin back,” Jeb grumbled.

“Could it have been him,” Brent asked again, “the last person who came by here? Could he and my brother have been by?”

Alvin offered him a sympathetic look, “Why? Why come back here”

“Well--” Brent stammered. “I suppose…”

Alvin shook his head, “Your brother got mixed up with the Warlock, intentional or otherwise, they’re looong gone.”

“But where would they go? Where would the Warlock go?”

“Son,” Alvin said, “I’m ‘fraid only one person knows the answer to that, and he ain’t ‘round to take no questions.” He glanced pointedly about the forest, “”Lessen’ you seein’ someone I don’t.”

“No,” Brent admitted solemnly. “No, I suppose I don’t.” Defeated, he turned away. “I’m sorry for wasting your time. I shouldn’t have--”

“Could be he gone back home.”