by Max Ehrlich
He sat down gingerly on the edge of the dock and looked down into the water. He could see the stones on the bottom amid the swaying weeds. He sat there for a while, still thinking about it. Then he decided. I’ve come this far; do it now and get it over with.
He took a long breath, dangled his toes in the water. It was cold, all right. He took a longer, deeper breath. Well, here goes nothing.
He slipped into the water. The first shock numbed him. But after that it didn’t seem so bad. He set a course straight out toward the center of the lake, toward the big illuminated sign. Not that he was going to swim clear across to the other side. Far from it. Just a few hundred yards from shore would be enough. Then he would tum around and swim back, say, the moment when he began to feel the chill getting into his bones.
He swam easily, smoothly. He was used to the warmer waters of the pools and beaches of Southern California, and he found the cold of this water exhilarating, The whiskey in his stomach still warmed him. He felt his blood tingle pleasantly,
Tiring just a little, he turned on his back and floated. He saw the bald spot on the side of the mountain, the patch of smooth-faced stone. Just as Jeff Chapin had seen it out here almost thirty years ago. But now the trees around it, running thickly up the mountain, weren’t blazing with the colors of autumn but were dressed in leaves of fresh spring green. The water was probably just as cold as it had been when Jeff Chapin made his last swim.
He turned and swam a little farther. He was a good long-distance swimmer, and he did not tire easily. But he was almost to the center of the lake before he realized he was out that far. He decided to turn back.
Just as he did, he saw automobile headlights tum into the driveway of the cottage. For a moment their glare caught him directly in the face, Even from far off, they blinded him. Then they went off abruptly.
It’s Ann, he thought. Her meeting must have broken up way ahead of time. She was some two hours early.
He started to swim back. A cloud drifted over the moon, obscuring it. It was dark now. He was just a little tired, and beginning to feel the cold. It would be nice to get back to the cottage, take a hot bath, have a drink or two with Ann, and then get under the blankets with her. He felt good just thinking about it. Of course, she had surprised him. He’d have some explaining to do when he got back. She’d want to know what the hell he was doing, swimming in Lake Nipmuck in the middle of the night. He’d have to think up some story.
The lights in the cottage were directly ahead. Ann was probably inside, wondering what had happened to him. She would find his car there, of course. He quickened his stroke just a little. The cloud completed its passage over the moon and swung clear of it.
Then he saw the boat.
It was moving straight toward him, and corning fast. He could hear the sound of the motor. He saw the yellow light glint off the metallic sides. It must be the boat that had been beached next to the dock. He strained his eyes. He could see now that the occupant of the boat was a woman.
He smiled. Ann had caught him in the headlights of the car and had come out to get him. She would give him hell for being such an idiot. But when the boat came closer, he saw that the woman in it wasn’t Ann at all.
It was Marcia Chapin.
He stopped swimming and began to tread water. He watched her coming on. He couldn’t believe it. He strained his eyes again. Maybe it was Ann, after all. Maybe his imagination was playing tricks. Maybe he was dreaming the dream all over again.
But it was Marcia, all right. No mistake about it. He could make out her face clearly now. Taut, pale. Looking strange. A weird mask in the moonlight.
My God, he thought. What is she doing here? But of course he knew.
Fear clutched him by the throat. He began to shiver violently. Fascinated, he watched her come on. He felt completely helpless. There was no way and nowhere he could run. The lake was his trap. He laughed suddenly at the absurdity of it. This is supposed to be a dream. This isn’t for real.
This is where we came in, Marcia, baby. You and I.
But that was 1946, and this is 1974. And this is for real. This lake is real, and that boat is real, and the night is real, and the woman in that boat is real, and so am I, treading water here like a sitting duck, and the cold and the fear and the nausea are all too real.
She cut the motor. The boat drifted a few yards from him. She stared down at him. Her eyes were bright, feverish. Her pallor was heightened by the moonlight, which gave an obscene cast to her rigid face. He saw she was wearing a cloth coat. Long ago, it had been a fur coat. Stupidly, he wondered whether she had anything on underneath it.
“You shouldn’t have come back, Jeff.”
He had to think. Think.
“I’m not Jeff,” he said. “I’m Peter Proud,”
“Oh, no, darling. I know who you are. Your friend told me.”
He could see her mouth trembling. Foam flecked her lips. He knew that she was completely mad.
“Marcia,” he said desperately, “listen to me …”
“Why didn’t you stay where you were?” Her voice was a wail, almost a shriek. “Why did you have to come back, Jeff? You had no right to do that.”
“Listen to me. For God’s sake, Marcia, listen to me. I’m not your husband at all. Jeff Chapin is dead. Do you understand? He’s dead. I’m somebody else. Peter Proud …”
“I loved you, darling. I loved you so much, you’ll never know. But you never believed that. You never let me alone. All these years, you never let me rest. Now you’ve come back to torment me. You’re evil, Jeff. Far worse than you were before. You’re a vile monster. It isn’t just me. It’s Ann. You’ve come back and seduced your own daughter. Our child. How could you have done that, Jeff? You’re her father. How could you have done such a dirty thing? You’ve slept with her, you filthy bastard. And she doesn’t know who you are, Jeff. But I know. You don’t deserve to live again. And now, you’re going to make me do it all over again.”
She sounded aggrieved, martyred. He calculated the distance between himself and the boat. She had drifted close now, only a few feet away. A couple of swift strokes, and he might catch her off guard. It was just possible. Grab the side of the boat and turn it over. But he was tired and cold. He didn’t know whether he had the strength. But he knew he had to try. It was his only chance. He figured she would swing at him with the paddle, the same way she had the first time. He had to be very careful, move to one side, duck under water, anything.
He had no real idea of what she intended. She could see that he was tired. Maybe she planned on preventing him from swimming toward shore, maneuvering the boat so that it would always be in his way, forcing him to swim around it. Swinging the paddle at him, keeping him at a distance, and, finally, tiring him so much that he couldn’t go on any longer and would drown.
“Damn you, Jeff, if you’d only just stayed dead …”
Now.
He went for the boat, arms flailing, legs kicking. He saw the startled look on her face, her mouth opening. She stood up and thrust her right hand into her coat. Just before he reached to grab the side of the boat, he saw it, staring him straight in the face. The muzzle of the gun. It was no more than three or four feet from his face. He had just managed to get his fingers on the edge of the boat when he saw the blinding flash, heard the roar, echoing and reechoing, across the lake.
In his last fragment of time, her face was fixed on the retina of his eyes. He transferred it to his mind for eternity. He had one more instant of consciousness before he sank. Then the lake closed over him. He went down slowly, very slowly, turning over once or twice, and at last the bottom reached up to take him, and he lay still, his mangled face buried in a deep cushion of muck.
About the Author
MAX EHRLICH, born in 1909, was best known for writing the novel The Reincarnation of Peter Proud and the screenplay for the movie of the same name. His work encompassed television scripts (The Twilight Zone, Star Trek) and numerous novels, including The B
ig Eye, The Cult, and Spin the Glass Web. He died in 1983.
