Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala Page 20

  “Dad?” I called out in a strangled voice.

  I raised my head and slowly unfolded my body, looking all around.

  I already knew the terrible truth of what had happened.

  My father was dead ... gone ... destroyed by that indescribable darkness that had risen out of the lake.

  He was gone, and I—somehow … for some reason—I had been left alive.

  “I only am escaped alone to tell thee.”

  I haven’t got any clear memories of what happened after that. I know from what my Uncle Mike told me afterwards that I managed to drive the car out of the woods. How, I’ll never know. After I got onto the main road, I ran off the shoulder of the road, smack into a tree. A passing patrol car found me unconscious behind the wheel some time later. I told the policeman that my father was missing, and he went back to look for him, but—of course—they never found him. The authorities concluded that he’d gone for a late night swim and had drowned, but his body was never recovered.

  I knew different, but I never told anyone—not even the police—what I had seen. I knew no one would ever believe me. They’d think I was crazy, maybe even take me away from my aunt and uncle, and lock me up in a nut house.

  For years, I was consumed with grief over losing my father, but more than that—infinitely more—I was filled with the deep, indescribable terror that has filled me ever since that night … even in my dreams.

  There’s still so much to tell ... about how my aunt and uncle raised me, and how I tried to deal with what had happened that night. How I tried to believe it hadn’t happened. I’ve never stopped feeling as though my entire life has been a dream, that I am a walking, talking phantom that has no business being here on the earth. I’ve kept this journal and, over the years, have worked and re-worked my description of that night because I think it will help.

  But it hasn’t.

  Not really.

  Ever since that night, I’ve been lost in a surreal feeling that absolutely nothing is real in this life ... nothing except the nameless horror that I saw and felt that night when I watched a dimensionless darkness rise up from the waters of Watcher’s Lake and take my father away from me.

  Even now, one small, rational corner of my mind insists it had to have been a dream … that it couldn’t really have happened the way I remember it, but I know what I saw.

  And I wonder sometimes ... all the time, in fact, if it’s still out there ... if that nameless darkness really lurks in the depths of Watcher’s Lake ... if Watcher’s Lake is, somehow, a lens that focuses whatever it is from whatever dimension it originates.

  For the last several years, I’ve been having some disturbing dreams about what happened back then. I’ve been toying with the idea of driving up to Hilton just to take a look around. I still own the property around the lake, so I know no houses have been built out there along the shore. Everything should be exactly as it was that night more than thirty years ago when my father disappeared.

  If I do go out there, I probably won’t go down to the lake.

  Or if I do, I’m going to make damned sure I don’t get too close to the water’s edge ... especially if it’s late in the afternoon. I know how fast it gets dark out there in those woods.

  Still, I wonder what that thing is that lurks in Watcher’s Lake, and I wonder what I might find if I were to drive down that narrow dirt road just to take a look around.

  It’s a beautiful autumn afternoon. Maybe when Matt gets home from school, he and I will hop into the car and take a drive up north. I’m sure we can get to Hilton—and the lake—long before dark.

  Black Iron

  Every evening, it was always the same.

  No matter what John Newcomb did, just after the sun had set, its glow still lingering in the sky, he found himself halfway across the metal footbridge that crossed the Presumpscot River on the old black iron railroad bridge a mile or so out of town.

  The river had many moods, and staring down through the waffle-shaped metal grating, John was always fascinated by the darkening water rushing by less than twenty feet below.

  Like the sky, the river was never the same. Sometimes its surface caught the fading colors of the sunset, reflecting back the brilliant swatches of red, yellow, and gold that shot across the sky in the summer or, in winter, lit up the horizon with vicious streaks of purple and orange. Night after night, John watched the light and deepening shadows shift across the water’s surface until they faded to black. On other evenings, when the sky was overcast, the river looked like a sheet of dull, beaten tin dimpled here and there where bass or sunfish popped up to the surface to snap at low-flying insects. Other nights, when it was raining or snowing, the water fairly vibrated with concentric ripples. And still other evenings, the river appeared to be as silent and black as the rusted bridge that spanned it … as black as the thoughts that filled John’s mind because every night, no matter how much he tried to vary his routine so he wouldn’t end up here on the bridge at the same time, he always did.

  Recently, as the shadows deepened from gauzy gray to deeper black, he had started seeing another person, standing at the far end of the bridge.

  John always froze where he was, halfway across the bridge, unable to move forward or back when he felt this person’s gaze turn to him. He tried not to look directly at the person, but he couldn’t stop from taking sidelong glances at him.

  At least he assumed it was a man. In the gathering darkness, it really was neigh on impossible to be sure. The shape certainly appeared too large to be a woman, but then again, the stooped shoulders and bowed head certainly didn’t look all that manly, either. And every night since he had begun to appear, the stranger would hesitate at the far end of the bridge as if he didn’t dare cross while John was standing there, gazing down into the swirling water below.

  What really bothered John was knowing … or at least suspecting … who the figure lurking in the shadows might really be. After so many nights of standing there, pretending not to notice him, John had come to the conclusion that this was, in fact, Death … waiting for him to cross over the bridge.

  Of course, night after night, John also told himself that such a thought was ridiculous.

  If Death was, indeed, a “person” who was after him, He (and John always thought of Death with a capital letter) could easily chase him down and claim him.

  Why would Death have to stand there and wait?

  Didn’t all of the poets say that Death waits for no one?

  It was a foolish notion, John knew, but every night it filled him with cold dread deeper than any dread he had ever experienced before, even after what had happened to Sarah and the girls.

  Of course, John knew what had happened to his wife and two daughters wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t even been in the car that night, and if he had, he no doubt would have died, too.

  But try as he might, he couldn’t stop thinking about how if only he had been there, he might have done something different … something to save them. The slightest variation might have meant the difference between life and death. Even if all he had done was drive one mile per hour faster than Sarah had driven … or if he had slowed down incrementally, it might have—it would have made all the difference in the world. The car wouldn’t have gone into a skid when it did. The town snowplow would have passed by or not gotten there yet, and he would still have his life with his wife and two daughters.

  If only I had been there … If only I had been there … If only …

  That had become John’s mantra over the last three years as he took his late afternoon walks that, when evening fell, always ended with him on the black iron bridge.

  There were times, make no mistake, when John would have willingly embraced Death. He knew he was depressed, and for the last three years he had been seeing a therapist to help him cope with his tragic loss, but no amount of talking … no dosage of antidepressants … nothing was going to change the single, terrible thought that circulated in his brain like the water tha
t whirlpooled around the huge cement stanchions that supported the railroad bridge.

  If only I had been there …

  But he hadn’t been there, and no amount of wishing and hoping was going to change that. He was going to have to deal with his grief and loss as best he could if he was going to keep on living, no matter how tempting it was to think that Death was waiting for him there at the end of the footbridge and would willingly embrace him. All he had to do was find the courage to walk over to Him and tell Him—yes, he was ready to go now.

  It was late autumn, and thin collars of ice had formed at water level around the rocks below. The river gurgled faintly as the black water slid by, unhurried in its run to the Atlantic. John focused on the river about fifteen feet below him until he could just barely make out his rounded silhouette in the dark water. He asked himself … as he had so many nights before … why he didn’t dare to do it.

  Why couldn’t he bring himself to vault up onto the thin railing and be done with it?

  All he had to do was balance there for less than a second before he could let himself fall forward into the water below. His clothes would get saturated within seconds, and the weight would pull him down, and then … then … just maybe he would find the peace he so desperately sought.

  But not tonight.

  No, like so many other nights before, John couldn’t bring himself to jump, no matter how much he wanted release from his grief and agony.

  If Death was waiting for him in the shadows at the far end of the bridge, then He was going to have to come and get him.

  No matter how much despair and gloom filled his life, John was determined to cling to whatever tattered shreds of his life remained.

  He froze when a heavy footstep sounded on the metal grating. The low vibration shook his feet, and a chill reached inside his jacket and took hold of his stomach, squeezing his heart. His teeth chattered as he waited with bated breath, listening … waiting as another step … and then another … and another came closer.

  Rotating his head slowly, he looked down the length of the walkway toward the man—

  toward Death

  —walking toward him.

  Tonight—finally—Death was coming to meet him.

  A cold, heavy lump formed in John’s throat. He would have cried out, but his breath was trapped in his chest. His throat made a funny clicking sound that matched the steady cadence of approaching footsteps. John shivered within his lightweight jacket, drawing his collar around his throat as he waited to feel the icy sting of Death’s touch on his shoulder.

  “’Evenin’” a voice finally said, sounding low and hollow in the darkness. Its tone wasn’t nearly as threatening or frightening as John might have expected. He still hadn’t taken a breath as he turned slowly and looked at the person, standing less than ten feet from him. Death was silhouetted against the dusty night sky, but enough light lingered in the sky so John could make out the man’s features.

  It wasn’t Death.

  There was no skull face … no empty eye sockets … no ghastly grin …

  Just a face of flesh and blood, with eyes opened perhaps a little too wide as though in fear or anticipation. The man smiled at John with a tight smile.

  “’Evenin’” John replied, surprised by the way his voice echoed from the cement walls of the abutments at the far end of the bridge. A cold, hollow note sent a silver-edged shiver racing through him.

  The man—and it was, indeed, a man—hesitated. John was positive, now, that he was human even though he still wanted to believe he was facing Death in the face.

  “You … ah, you come out here often?” the man asked.

  There was a curious tightness in his voice, and John didn’t have to wonder long why the man might be nervous. He could just as easily have been convinced that John was Death as John had been sure he was Death.

  “I, uhh … Yeah. I do.” John lowered his gaze so he was staring down at the water below. “I—umm, usually take a walk in the evening, you know, to … uhh … to clear my mind.”

  “This is a really beautiful spot to watch the sunset,” the man said, sounding more relaxed. “A little spooky, kinda, but nice, too. You can … just let go of all your cares and worries …. let them float away on the river’s current.”

  “If you’re lucky,” John replied as a bitter wave of sadness swept over him.

  “What’s that?” the man said. “You have problems?” When John didn’t respond right away, he continued, “Hey, Bud, we all have problems. Everyone—even the richest man in the world has problems …”

  “I suppose you’re right,” John said simply as he clasped his hands together and leaned over the railing. Looking down, he felt suddenly dizzy. It was as if the water were calling to him, luring him to jump … right now … and end it all.

  “I see you here just about every night,” the man said, “and you wanna know something funny?”

  John grunted but didn’t speak.

  “You scared the be-jezus out of me. Every night I’d see you, and I was more than half-convinced you were, like, maybe a ghost or something.”

  “’S that a fact?” John said, slightly amused by the idea. His laughter echoed in the night with a rolling hollowness that, when it ended, sounded like the concussion in the air after a sudden clap of thunder.

  John finally took a deep breath and tried to look away from the black water rushing by below him.

  “Do you want to know something funny? I thought pretty much the same thing about you, only I was convinced you were Death.”

  “Death? … You mean, like, the Grim Reaper?” The man followed this with a tight chuckle that had not a trace of humor in it.

  “Uh-huh,” John said. “I was convinced you were waiting for me … waiting to take me away.”

  “It’s that bad, huh?” the man said.

  “What is?”

  “What happened to you.”

  “You have no idea.”

  As he said this, John rotated his head slowly and looked at the man. He didn’t know why, but for some reason he could see the man’s face more clearly, now, and his expression sent a bolt of panic through John. The man’s eyes shot wide open, too, and his jaw dropped, making him look like he’d been hit on the head with a baseball bat. He took several staggering steps back. John could tell the man wanted desperately to run but didn’t dare turn his back on him.

  “Holy shit … Oh my Jesus,” the man muttered. He raised his hands defensively in front of his face and started shaking his head from side to side as he backpedaled a few more steps.

  John wanted to ask him what the problem was, but the stark terror he saw on the man’s face stuffed anything he might say back down into his throat. The man was trembling, his body out of control. A dark stain spread across the front of his pants. His eyes, wide and glistening, looked like drops of shivering quicksilver in the darkness.

  “What the …? What is it?” John finally managed to ask, but he noticed something was wrong with his voice. It was harsh and grating, and his teeth made loud clicking sounds in his head when he spoke. The man was still backing away from him on legs that looked as stiff and unbending as wood.

  “You … Oh, shit … Oh, Jesus! … You’re a—” but the man’s voice twisted off into a low-pitched moan. His feet made the metal footbridge ring like a tuning fork as he stumbled a few more steps away from John.

  When John raised his head to look at the man, something in his neck made a loud snapping sound. He felt a terrible stiffness in his bones. Raising one hand to his neck, he was surprised how thin and bony it felt beneath his touch … as if there was no flesh there whatsoever. Confused and frightened, John lowered his hand and looked at it. Even in the darkness, he could see that it was much thinner and whiter than it should have been. It looked like it was made of two thin bones that protruded from the sleeve of his jacket. His knuckles were big, white knobs of bone.

  John tried to speak again, but his face was numb. It was like he didn’t have a
ny lips or tongue to form words. He raised a trembling hand to his face and touched his cheek. There was no fleshy resistance. The only thing he could feel and hear was a harsh grating sound that sounded like bone rubbing against bone.

  What the hell is happening to me?

  With the tips of his fingers, he probed his face, poking at his cheekbones, which protruded in large ridges below his eyes. When he ran his hand further up his face, he was stunned to feel his forefinger enter his left eye socket without any resistance.

  This can’t be happening! he cried inside his mind but was unable to say out loud.

  As crazy … as impossible as it was, he had to believe the evidence of his own senses. The skin on his face and hands was gone, leaving nothing but exposed, rotting bone. And his eyes … his eyes! … How could he see when there were no eyeballs in his eye sockets? How could he even be here unless he was a …

  “No,” he whispered, his voice a faint, feeble gasp that was lost beneath the rushing sound of the dark water moving beneath the black iron bridge.

  “This … this … can’t … be …”

  The man was still backing away from John, step by terrified step, all the while staring at John. When he was at the end of the bridge, he suddenly turned around and started running. His high-pitched scream trailed after him as he disappeared into the darkness, leaving John alone on the bridge … alone to face the terrible truth.

  It suddenly made perfect sense.

  For the last three years, his life had been nothing but an illusion … a death dream. Shortly after his wife and children died, he had actually gone through with what he had been thinking about doing. He didn’t have a reason to live—not anymore, so he must have climbed up onto the railing of the bridge and then jumped.

  And every night, that’s why he found himself here on the bridge … because that man who had just fled from him was right.

  John was a ghost, and for the last three years he had been haunting the site of his suicide. And he would continue to haunt this place until …