by John Saul
A deadfall he’d never seen before.
But that wasn’t possible—he’d been everywhere in these woods. Everywhere!
Turning away from the tree, he started moving again, hurrying his step. He couldn’t be that far from town, but what if he’d turned himself around?
What if he couldn’t find the path?
He shivered as the idea of wandering in the woods all night long began to take root in his mind.
Maybe, after all, he should have walked Cherie home.
In fact, maybe he shouldn’t have gotten pissed at Adam, either.
Somewhere behind him, he heard a branch crack and froze in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat as his heart skipped a beat.
Was it a branch falling from the deadfall?
Or was it someone stepping on a branch that had already fallen?
Adam! That was it—Adam had followed him, just like he and Adam and Chris had followed those coneheads the night before last. “Adam?” he called out, taking a couple of tentative steps toward where he thought the path ought to be.
He heard the brush rustle behind him.
Once again he stopped short.
The rustling stopped.
Now his skin was starting to crawl. “Come on, Adam,” he said, struggling to keep his voice from betraying the fear that was starting to spread through him. “This isn’t funny. I’m not a conehead, you know.”
No answer.
He started walking again, and as he did, the rustling in the brush began again.
He stopped. “Chris?”
No answer.
“Adam? Come on, man! I’m sorry, okay?” Ellis quickened his pace.
What if it wasn’t Adam? What if it was a bear, or a mountain lion?
What if it was stalking him?
His fear suddenly threatened to explode into panic, and as he twisted his head around to peer into the blackness behind him, the toe of his tennis shoe caught on a root. He sprawled out hard, pine needles stabbing his face and hands, a sharp pain shooting through his leg as his knee smashed onto a rock. He stifled the yelp of pain almost before it escaped his throat, then lay silent, listening, trying to breathe noiselessly through his mouth.
All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart.
As the panic—and the agony in his knee—eased, Ellis rose unsteadily to his feet.
And the sounds behind him began again as soon as he started limping ahead.
He tried to move faster, but couldn’t, his throbbing knee threatening to collapse after every step. And then, a dozen paces farther, he found it.
The path, its features familiar even in the dark.
He began to run, ignoring the pain, wanting only to escape whatever it was that had been stalking him. But after only a few yards his knee threatened to give out and he fell back to a limping half trot.
And the footfalls behind him were there again.
He’d gained nothing by running; in fact, whatever it was seemed closer than ever.
Once more he forced himself into a run, even though he knew it didn’t matter.
Whatever was chasing him was going to catch him anyway.
But still he had to run.
Sheer panic drove him on until finally he could bear the pain in his leg no more, and his breath came in rasping gasps, and his heart felt like it was about to explode.
He could hear whoever—or whatever—it was breathing behind him now.
He reached deep inside himself, found one last hidden reserve of energy, and—
Something hard—something hard and heavy—crashed against the back of his neck.
Fireworks exploded in his head as he stumbled and fell to his knees.
He turned, wanting to see who—or what—had attacked him, but all he saw was a black silhouette looming over him, obscuring the faint moonlight.
The attacker raised what looked like a huge club high above him.
Ellis whimpered, cowering back, trying to drag himself away into the darkness.
And then, as the cudgel began arcing down on him, recognition flashed through his mind.
He knew who was killing him.
He knew, but it didn’t matter.
It was already far too late.
ERIC KNEW SOMETHING had happened the moment he saw Tad and Kent coming up the lawn the next morning, partly because it wasn’t even seven-thirty yet and he knew that Kent, at least, never got up before eight unless he absolutely had to. But it wasn’t just that Kent was up too early—Eric could see by the way he was walking that Tad was upset about something.
By the time they came to the steps leading up to Pinecrest’s wide veranda, Eric was already outside, waiting for them. “What’s going on?” he asked. Tad, his face pale, said nothing, and just as Kent was about to say something, the kitchen door opened and his mother stuck her head out as Moxie slipped through the crack and charged down the steps to throw himself on Kent.
“Breakfast in fifteen minutes,” Merrill said. “You two want pancakes?” When both Kent and Tad shook their heads, she widened her eyes in mock surprise. “Teenage boys who don’t want pancakes? It must be the end of the world!” Her eyes shifted back to Eric. “Will you keep an eye on Moxie, or shall I call him back inside?”
“I’ll watch him,” Eric replied. As the kitchen door closed again, he moved down the steps. “So what is it?” he pressed.
Kent tipped his head toward Tad. “Ask him.”
Tad glanced around furtively, and when he finally spoke, he still didn’t answer Eric’s question. “Maybe we ought to go down by the lake or something.”
You mean go somewhere where my Mom won’t hear anything, Eric translated silently, following Tad and Kent toward the water as Moxie charged ahead.
“I had a nightmare last night,” Tad said when he was certain they were out of earshot of the house. A strange feeling of something like déjà vu rippled through Eric as Tad added, “I mean, a really bad nightmare.”
“What kind of nightmare?” Eric asked, the feeling of déjà vu deepening as a vague, half-formed memory of his own dreams last night began to creep up from his subconscious.
Tad finally looked up from the ground he’d been gazing at and saw Kent eyeing Eric warily.
“You have one, too?” Kent asked.
Eric said nothing, for now another memory was recurring. Was it possible they’d all had the same dream again, like on the night Tippy was killed? Moxie, who had been sniffing along the lakeshore, suddenly headed toward the woods. Eric called after him, but the dog kept going, apparently on the scent of something.
“We better follow him,” Eric sighed, knowing what would happen if he went back to the house without the dog. “So how come this dream’s got you so worried?” he went on as they started through the trees.
“It was weird,” Tad said. “I was being chased.”
“Which isn’t so weird,” Kent said. “We were chased night before last by those yahoos from town, remember?”
Tad shot Kent a dark look. “It wasn’t the same. It was like I was being hunted. Only then I was the hunter.” He took a deep breath as he saw Eric and Kent exchange a glance. “Okay, I know it sounds stupid when I tell it, but it was really horrible. First I was in a tunnel, only the tunnel was made out of plastic garbage bags.” Slowly, he recounted every detail of the nightmare—the blades glinting in the darkness, the river of blood. And the table leg that turned into a club. When he finished, he gazed at the trees that now surrounded them. “It looked like this,” he said. “Except it was dark. And when I—” His voice broke at the memory of the dream and what he’d been about to do, and he fell silent.
The faint chill that had come over Eric when Tad began describing his dream now seemed to wrap him like an icy shroud. But maybe he was wrong, he thought. Maybe he hadn’t had the same dream himself last night—maybe it just seemed like he remembered having it. If he’d actually had it, wouldn’t he have remembered it before Tad started talking about it? Then Kent sp
oke, and the cold shroud tightened around Eric.
“The thing is, I had the same dream. Like the other night, when we all dreamed about Jack the Ripper. Remember? And last night—”
“We just dreamed about what happened to us,” Eric said, desperately wanting to believe his own words. “We found that table leg in the carriage house yesterday, remember? It was like a club, right? And night before last those jerks followed us through the woods and scared the crap out of us. So of course we dreamed about it! Why wouldn’t we? It’s no big deal! It was just a dream!”
There was a long silence as the three boys remembered what happened after they’d all dreamed about Jack the Ripper.
“What if it wasn’t,” Tad finally said. “What if it was like the other dream we had? What if—”
Before he could finish, they heard a rustling in the brush to the right, immediately followed by Moxie growling.
“Moxie?” Eric called out. “Moxie, come!” Instead of bursting out of the brush, the dog only growled louder. “He must have found something,” Eric sighed. “Now we have to go get him.”
With Tad and Kent following him, Eric pushed his way through the brush, following the dog’s now steady growling. Twice more he called out, but all he got in return was more growling and a single muffled bark. Then, ten paces farther on, they found the dog.
Moxie was crouched low to the ground, his jaws clamped on the end of a stick.
A heavy stick with one end much thicker than the other, like a club.
The boys stopped short, staring at the object.
All three of them had the same thought: the dream.
None of them spoke.
Eric glanced first at Tad, then at Kent, and finally moved closer, squatting down. “What is it?” he whispered. “What you got, Mox?” He reached out to take hold of the object and Moxie growled a warning. Eric jerked his hand away, then rose to his feet. “Drop it,” he commanded. Moxie’s ears flattened against his head, but he peered up at Eric. “I said drop it!” The dog stood up, hesitated, then finally let the thick stick drop back to the ground.
Now they could clearly see what Moxie had gone after: the knot at the end of the stick was covered with what looked like blood.
Blood, and strands of hair.
The details of his own dream flooded back to Eric. But it wasn’t possible—it had only been a dream! So what if Tad and Kent had the same dream? It was still only a dream. It had to be only a dream! He tore his eyes away from the bloody stick and turned to his friends.
“It’s like the dream,” Tad whispered. “But it can’t be. I mean, we were home. Asleep.” His voice took on a desperate tone. “We were in our beds.” He turned away. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Eric’s eyes fixed once more on the heavy stick. “You think maybe we better get rid of this thing?” he asked.
“Why?” Kent said, almost too quickly. “It doesn’t have anything to do with us.”
Moxie, who had barely been able to control himself since Eric had made him drop the stick, could contain himself no longer, and began slinking back toward it, whining eagerly as the scent of blood once again filled his nostrils.
“No!” Eric said, reaching down and scooping the dog up before it could begin licking and gnawing. “Let’s just get out of here, okay?”
With Eric leading the way, they started back toward the path, none of them saying a word, each of them hoping that if they didn’t talk about what Moxie had found, maybe they could just forget it. When they were a few feet away, Eric tossed the stick behind him.
But they knew that even if their memories from last night were nothing but a dream, the heavy stick Moxie had found wasn’t.
It was real.
And it was covered with blood.
CAROL LANGSTROM TURNED the rapidly browning sausages in the frying pan, lowered the flame, then put a lid on the pan and poured two small glasses of orange juice.
“Ellis!” she called. “Breakfast!” She listened for his usual sleepy-voiced response, but none came. “Ellis? We need to leave in ten minutes.” When there still was no answer, she set the glasses on the breakfast bar, walked down the hall, and knocked on his door. “Ellis? I need you in the shop today, honey.”
Still no answer. Which meant he’d been out way too late last night, and she distinctly remembered telling him to be in by midnight, and not a minute later. She turned the knob and opened the door.
Ellis’s bed was still made, and she didn’t even have to enter to know it hadn’t been slept in.
So he hadn’t come home last night.
He hadn’t even called.
Which was very odd.
Carol went back to the kitchen, turned the stove off under the sausages, and checked her watch. If she wasn’t going to be late, she had to leave for the store in ten minutes, and she needed Ellis today. The Fourth of July weekend was coming up, and it was her busiest of the year—people came from all over the county and even all the way up from Illinois and Ohio for the parade, the fireworks, and the picnic that Phantom Lake had become famous for.
And all those people bought, which meant her shop had to be ready for the onslaught of antiques buyers, which meant she needed Ellis’s help.
So where was he? She knew he hadn’t told her of any plans to spend the night at Adam Mosler’s place, because he knew perfectly well she would have said no.
And that, she decided, was precisely why he hadn’t asked. But if he thought that by not coming home he was going to get out of helping her unpack the five crates of furniture that were waiting in the back room of the shop, he was dead wrong.
Carol picked up the phone and dialed Adam’s number.
Cleve Mosler answered on the first ring with the kind of ragged hello that told her that he, at least, had had too much to drink last night. But that, fortunately, wasn’t her problem. “Hi, Cleve,” she said, trying to mask her disapproval of Adam’s father with a voice that was a little too bright. “It’s Carol Langstrom. Sorry to bother you so early, but does Ellis happen to be there?”
“Nope,” Cleve Mosler said. “Adam came home about two this morning, and he and I are going to have a little chat when I get home from work. But he came home alone, and he’s still asleep.”
“Okay, thanks.” Carol hung up the phone, the first pangs of real worry beginning to sprout in the back of her mind. Adam came home at two in the morning? Had Ellis been with him? And if he was, what had they been doing?
Drugs?
Absolutely not. At least not Ellis.
A girl?
There’d been no evidence of a steady girlfriend. Not yet, anyway. At least, not that she knew of.
Drinking? She started to dismiss that possibility, too, then revised her initial “no” to “maybe.”
But even if he’d been drinking, where would he have gone? Probably not back to Adam’s house, because Cleve Mosler was the kind of drunk who was quite capable of taking a swing not only at his own son, but at anybody who happened to be there when he got angry. And, despite his own habits—or maybe because of them—Cleve Mosler wouldn’t tolerate even a hint of alcohol on his son’s breath.
Carol took a sip of coffee as she tried to decide what to do next. Other than his friendship with Adam Mosler, Ellis had never given her anything to worry about. In fact, he was the kind of boy any mother would be proud of; he worked hard, and at least until now had always told her where he was going and with whom.
So for him to not call and not come home was totally uncharacteristic.
Which meant something was wrong.
Thoughts of an accident occurred to her. But if something had happened—something that could have put him in the hospital—someone would have called. And it was the same if he and Adam had done something that would have gotten them in trouble with the sheriff. Maybe in Milwaukee or Madison a teenage boy could get in trouble without anyone calling his mother, but not in Phantom Lake. In Phantom Lake, no news was definitely good news.
Then
where was he?
Two possibilities came to mind: his father’s house, or Chris McIvens’s.
She picked up the phone again, but before she dialed, she caught a glimpse of the clock—she was now going to be late opening the shop.
She’d call Chris’s house from work.
She finished her coffee, then wrote a note for Ellis in case he came home before she found him. Call me the minute you get home!! She underlined the six words three times, stuck the note to the refrigerator with a woodpecker magnet, put the eggs back in the refrigerator, wrapped up the sausages, rinsed her coffee cup in the sink, then grabbed her purse and keys and went out the door.
But as she drove the few blocks to work, her feeling of worry kept growing, and no matter how much she told herself that nothing was wrong, that Ellis was just being a typical irresponsible teenager, deep in her heart she didn’t believe it.
Ellis just wasn’t the kind of boy who would have taken off for the whole night without calling her.
If he could have called, he would.
Something had happened.
Something bad.
AS SOON AS his mother left with Marci, Eric began loading breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. Meanwhile, Kent, who had gotten there just after Merrill and Marci left, picked up the telephone and dialed Tad’s cell number. “Hey, you okay?” he asked when Tad answered on the first ring.
There was a moment’s hesitation before Tad said, “I guess,” and an even longer one after Kent told him to come back to Pinecrest. “If you guys want to go into that room again, go ahead,” he said just as Kent was about to start the “Can you hear me now?” routine. “But every time I go in there, I have nightmares, and after the last one, I’m not sure I want to know anything more about what’s in there.”
“Don’t you even want to find out why we’re having nightmares?” Kent asked, but Tad didn’t take the bait.
“No,” he said, his voice taking on a desperate tone. “I just want them to stop. Call me when you want to do something else,” he finished, and hung up before Kent could argue with him.
Kent clicked off the phone and set it back in its cradle. “He’s scared.”
