Dark Screams: Volume Two

by Robert R. McCammon

  There had been a lot of people there that afternoon. It had been one of the hottest days of the summer.

  And then Glenn remembered that Linda suddenly set aside her needlepoint, her face shaded by the brim of her straw hat, and said the words he could never forget: “Glenn? I don’t see Neil anymore.”

  Something about the world had changed in that moment. Time had been distorted and the world had cracked open, and Glenn had seen the horror that lies so close to the surface.

  They brought Neil’s body up and tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but he was dead. Glenn could tell that right off. He was dead. And when they turned his body over to try to pound the life back into him, Glenn had seen the small purple bruise at the back of his son’s neck, almost at the base of the brain.

  Oh, God, Glenn had thought. Something stole the life right out of him.

  And from that moment on, maybe he had gone crazy. Because he’d looked across the surface of the pool, and he had realized something very odd.

  There was no aluminum ladder on the left side of the pool down at the deep end. On the pool’s right side there was a ladder—but not on the left.

  “He was a good boy,” Glenn told the two policemen. There was still a fixed smile on his face, and he could not make it let go. “His mother and I loved him very, very much.”

  “Yes, sir. Well…I guess we’ll go on, then. You sure you’re all right? You…uh…haven’t been drinking, have you?”

  “Nope. Clean as a whistle. Don’t you worry about me, I’ll go home soon. Wouldn’t want to get Linda upset, would I?”

  “No, sir. Take care, now.” Then the police car backed up, turned around in the parking lot, and drove away along the wooded road.

  Glenn had a splitting headache. He chewed a third Excedrin, took a deep breath, and reached down for the chain cutter. Then he got out of the car, walked to the admissions gate, and cleaved the chain that locked it. The chain rattled to the concrete, and the gate swung open.

  And now there was nothing between him and the monster in the swimming pool.

  He returned to the car and threw the clippers inside, shucked off his shoes, socks, and trousers. He let them fall in a heap beside the station wagon, but he kept his blue-striped shirt on. It had been a present from Neil. Then he carried his mask, fins, and snorkel into the pool area, walked the length of the pool, and laid the gear on a bleacher. Rain pocked the dark surface, and on the pool’s bottom were the black lines of swimming lanes, sometimes used for area swim meets. Ceramic tiles on the bottom made a pattern of dark blue, aqua, and pale green.

  There were thousands of places for it to hide, Glenn reasoned. It could be lying along a black line, or compressed flat and smooth like a stingray on one of the colored tiles. He looked across the pool where the false ladder had been—the monster could make itself resemble a ladder, or it could curl up and emulate the drain, or lie flat and still in a gutter, waiting for a human form to come close enough. Yes. It had many shapes, many colors, many tricks. But the water had not yet gone back to the lake, and the monster that had killed Neil was still in there. Somewhere.

  He walked back to the car, got the underwater light and the speargun. It was getting dark, and he switched the light on.

  He wanted to make sure the thing found him once he was in the water—and the light should draw it like a neon sign over a roadside diner.

  Glenn sat on the edge of the pool and put on his fins. He had to remove his glasses to wear the face mask; everything was out of focus, but it was the best he could do. He fit the snorkel into his mouth, hefted the underwater light in his left hand, and slowly eased himself over the edge.

  I’m ready, he told himself. He was shaking, couldn’t stop. The water, untended for more than two weeks, was dirty—littered with Coke cups, cigarette butts, dead waterbugs. The carcass of a blue jay floated past his face, and Glenn thought that it appeared to have been crushed.

  He turned over on his stomach, put his head underwater, and kicked off against the pool’s side, making a splash that sounded jarringly loud. He began to drift out over the drain, directing the light’s yellow beam through the water. Around and beneath him was gray murk. But the light suddenly glinted off something, and Glenn arched down through the chill to see what it was—a beer can on the bottom. Still, the monster could be anywhere. Anywhere. He slid to the surface, expelling water through the snorkel like a whale. Then he continued slowly across the pool, his heartbeat pounding in his ears and the sound of his breathing like a hellish bellows through the snorkel. In another moment his head bumped the other side of the pool. He drifted in another direction, guiding himself with an occasional thrust of a fin.

  Come on, damn you! Glenn thought. I know you’re here!

  But nothing moved in the depths below. He shone the light around, seeking a shadow.

  I’m not crazy, he told himself. I’m really not. His head was hurting again, and his mask was leaking, the water beginning to creep up under his nose. Come out and fight me, damn you! I’m in your element now, you bastard! Come on!

  Linda had asked him to see a doctor in Birmingham. She said she’d go with him, and the doctor would listen. There was no monster in the swimming pool, she’d said. And if there was, where had it come from?

  Glenn knew. Since Neil’s death, Glenn had done a lot of thinking and reading. He’d gone back through the Courier files, searching for any information about the Parnell Park swimming pool. He’d found that, for the last five years, at least one person had died in the pool every summer. Before that you had to go back eight years to find a drowning victim—an elderly man who’d already suffered one heart attack.

  But it had been in a copy of the Birmingham News, dated October tenth six years ago, that Glenn had found his answer.

  The article’s headline read “ ‘Bright Light’ Frightens Lake Residents.”

  On the night of October ninth, a sphere of blue fire had been seen by a dozen people who lived around Logan Martin Lake. It had flashed across the sky, making a noise—as one resident put it—“like steam whistling out of a cracked radiator.” The blue light had gone down into the lake, and for the next two days, dead fish washed up on shore.

  You found the pipes that brought you up into our swimming pool, didn’t you? Glenn thought, as he explored the gray depths with his light. Maybe you came from somewhere that’s all water, and you can’t live on land. Maybe you can suck the life out of a human body just as fast and easy as some of us step on ants. Maybe that’s what you live on—but by God I’ve come to stick you, and I’ll find you if I have to search all—

  Something moved.

  Down in the gloom, below him. Down near the drain. A shadow…something.

  Glenn wasn’t sure what it was. He just sensed a slow, powerful uncoiling.

  He pushed the speargun’s safety off with his thumb. He couldn’t see anything, dead bugs floated through the light like a dust storm, and a sudden newspaper page drifted up from the bottom, flapped in his face, and sank out of sight again. Glenn’s nerves were near snapping, and he thought with a touch of hysterical mirth that it might have been an obituaries page.

  He lowered his head and descended.

  Murky clouds swirled around him. He probed with the light, alert for another movement. The water felt thick, oily; a contaminated feel. He continued to slide down into the depths, and they closed over him. His fins stirred more pool silt, and the clouds refused the light. He stayed down as long as he could, until his lungs began to heave, and then he rose toward the surface like a flabby arrow.

  When he reached the top, something grasped his head.

  It was a cold, rubbery thing, and Glenn knew it was the grip of death. He couldn’t help it; he shrieked around the snorkel’s mouthpiece, twisted violently in the Water and caught sight of slick green flesh. His frantic movement dislodged the face mask, and water flooded in. He was blinded, water was pressing up his nostrils, and the thing was wrapped around his shoulders. He heard his gurglin
g underwater scream, flailed the thing off him and thrashed desperately away.

  Glenn kicked to the edge of the pool, raising geysers. The aluminum ladder was in front of him, and he reached up to haul himself out.

  No! he thought, wrenching his hand back before it touched the metal—or what was supposed to pass as metal. That’s how it had killed Neil. It had emulated the other ladder and entwined itself around Neil as he entered the water, and it had taken him under and killed him in an instant while everyone else was laughing and unaware.

  He swam away from the ladder and hung on to the gutter’s edge. His body convulsed, water gurgling from his nostrils. His dangling legs were vulnerable, and he drew them up against his chest, so fast he kneed himself in the chin. Then he dared to look around and aim the light at the monster.

  About ten feet away, bouncing in the chop of his departure, was a child’s deflated rubber ring, the green head of a seahorse with a grinning red mouth lying in the water.

  Glenn laughed and spat up more of the pool. Brave man, he thought. Real brave. Oh, Jesus, if Linda had been here to see this! I was scared shitless of a kid’s toy! His laughter got louder, more strident. He laughed until it dawned on him that he was holding his face mask’s strap around his right wrist, and his right hand gripped the gutter.

  In his left hand was the underwater light.

  He had lost his snorkel. And the speargun.

  His laughter ceased on a broken note.

  Fear shot up his spine. He squinted, saw the snorkel bobbing on the surface five or six feet away. The speargun had gone to the bottom.

  He didn’t think about getting out of the pool. His body just did it, scrabbling up over the sloshing gutter to the concrete, where he lay on his belly in the rain and shivered with terror.

  Without the speargun, he had no chance. I can use the chain cutter, he thought. Snap the bastard’s head off! But no, no: The chain cutter needed two hands, and he had to have a hand free to hold the light. He thought of driving back to Birmingham, buying another speargun, but it occurred to him that if he got in the car and left Parnell Park, his guts might turn to jelly on the highway and Neil’s voice would haunt him: “You know I didn’t drown, don’t you, Dad? You know I didn’t…”

  He might get in that car and drive away and never come back, and today was the last day of summer, and when they opened the drain in the morning, the monster would go back to the lake and await another season of victims.

  He knew what he had to do. Must do. Must. He had to put the face mask back on, retrieve the snorkel, and go down after that speargun. He lay with his cheek pressed against the concrete and stared at the black water; how many summer days had seen him in that pool, basking like a happy whale? As a kid, he couldn’t wait for the clock of seasons to turn around and point him to this pool—and now everything had changed. Everything, and it could never be the same again.

  Neil was dead, killed by the monster in the swimming pool. The creature had killed part of him, too, Glenn realized. Killed the part that saw this place as a haven of youthful dreams, an anchor point of memories. And next summer, when the monster came back, someone else’s dreams would die as well.

  He had to go down and get the speargun. It was the only way.

  It took him another minute or so to make his body respond to his mind’s command. The chill shocked his skin again as he slipped over the side; he moved slowly, afraid of noise or splashes. Then he put the mask on, swam carefully to the snorkel with his legs drawn up close to the surface; he bit down hard on the mouthpiece, thinking suddenly that if there was really a monster here it could have emulated the snorkel, and both of them would’ve gotten a very nasty surprise. But the snorkel remained a snorkel, as Glenn blew the water out of it.

  If there was really a monster here. The thought caught him like a shock. If. And there it was. What if Linda is right? he asked himself. What if there’s nothing here, and I’m just treading dirty water? What if everything I’ve thought is wrong—and I’m losing my mind? No, no, I’m right. I know I am. Dear God. I have to be right.

  He took a deep breath, exhaled it. The collapsed green seahorse seemed to be drifting toward him again. Was its grin wider? Did it show a glint of teeth? Glenn watched the rubber ring move through the light’s beam, and then he took another breath and slid downward to find the speargun.

  His thrashing had stirred up more debris. The water seemed alive with reaching, darting shadows as he kicked to the bottom and skimmed along it, his belly brushing the tiles. The light gleamed off another beer can, off a scatter of pennies left by children who’d been diving for them. Something bony lay on the bottom, and Glenn decided it was a chicken drumstick somebody had tossed over the fence. He kept going, slowly swinging his light in an arc before him.

  The dirty clouds opened under his waving hand, and more metal glinted. Another crushed beer can—no, no, it wasn’t. His heart kicked. He fanned the murk away and caught sight of the speargun’s handle. Gripped it in his right hand with a flood of relief. Thank God! he thought. Now he felt powerful again, and the shadows seemed to flee before him. He turned in a circle, illuminating the darkness at his back. Nothing there. Nothing. To his right the newspaper page flapped like a manta ray, and to his left the clouds parted for a second to show him a glimpse of the drain. He was in the twelve-foot depth. The deep end, that place where parents warned their kids not to go.

  And about three feet from the drain lay something else. Something that made Glenn’s throat catch and bubbles spill from his nostrils.

  And that was when the thing that had taken the shape of a speargun in his hand burst into its true form, all camouflage done. Ice-white tentacles tightened around Glenn’s wrist as his fingers spasmed open.

  The bubbles of a scream exploded from Glenn’s mouth, but his jaws clamped shut before all his air was lost. As he tried to lunge upward, a third and fourth tentacle—pale, almost translucent, and as tough as piano wire—shot out, squeezing into the drain’s grate, and locked there.

  Glenn fought furiously, saw the monster’s head taking shape from its gossamer ghost of a body; the head was triangular, like a cobra’s, and from it emerged a single scarlet, blazing eye with a golden pupil. Below the eye was a small, round mouth full of suction pads like the underside of a starfish. The mouth was pulsating rapidly, and began to turn from white to crimson.

  The single eye stared into Glenn’s face with clinical interest. And suddenly the thing’s neck elongated and the mouth streaked around for the back of Glenn’s neck.

  He’d known that was where it was going to strike, and he’d flung his left arm up to ward off the blow an instant before it came. The mouth sealed to his shoulder like a hot kiss, hung there for a second, and withdrew with a sputt of distaste. The monster’s head weaved back and forth as Glenn hunched his shoulders up to protect the back of his neck and spinal cord. His lungs heaved, his mouth was full of water; the snorkel spun away in the turbulence. Water was streaming into his mask, and the light had dropped from the fingers of his left hand and lay on the bottom, sending rays through the roiling clouds like a weird sunset through an alien atmosphere.

  The thing’s head jerked forward, its mouth aiming at Glenn’s forehead; he jerked aside as much as he could, and the mouth hit the face mask glass. Glenn felt tentacles slithering around his body, drawing him closer, trying to crack his ribs and squeeze the last of his air out. He pressed his left hand to the back of his neck. The monster’s eye moved in the socket, seeking a way to the juices it craved. The mouth was bright red now, and deep in the folds of its white body, Glenn saw a crimson mass that pulsated at the same rhythm as its mouth.

  Its heart, he realized. Its heart.

  The blood thundered in his head. His lungs were seizing, about to grab for water. He looked down, saw the real speargun a few feet away. He had no time for even a second’s hesitation, and he knew that if he failed he was dead.

  He took his hand away from the back of his neck and reached for the
gun, his own heartbeat about to blow the top of his skull off.

  The creature’s head came around like a whip. The suckers fixed to the base of Glenn’s brain, and for an instant there was an agony that he thought would end only when his head split open; but then there was a numbing, floating, Novocained sensation, and Glenn felt himself drifting toward death.

  But he had the speargun in his hand.

  The monster shivered with hungry delight. From between the suction cups tiny needlelike teeth began to drill through the pores of its prey’s flesh, toward the spinal cord at the base of the brain.

  One part of Glenn wanted to give up. Wanted to drift and sleep. Wanted to join Neil and the others who had gone to sleep in this pool. It would be so easy…so easy…

  But the part of him that clung to life and Linda and the world beyond this pool made him lift the gun, press the barbed spear against the monster’s pulsing heart, and squeeze the trigger.

  Sharp, head-clearing pain ripped through him. A black cloud of blood spilled into the water. The spear had pierced the creature’s body and gone into his own forearm. The monster released his neck, its head whipping and the eye wide and stunned. Glenn saw that the spear had gone right through the thing’s heart—if that’s indeed what the organ was—and then he wrenched at his arm with all his remaining strength. The spear and the heart tore out of the monster’s writhing body. The pupil of its eye had turned from gold to black, and its tattered body began to ooze through the drain’s grate like strands of opaque jelly.

  Glenn’s lungs lurched. Pulled in water. He clawed toward the surface, his arm puffing blood. The surface was so far, so terribly far. The deep end had him, was not going to let him go. He strained upward as dark gnawed at him and his lungs hitched and the water began to gurgle in his throat.