Occasional Demons

by Rick Hautala

  “I just want to have a look around, is all,“ my dad said as he snapped open the car door and stepped outside.

  I sat where I was for only a second before deciding that I would rather be with him in the woods than left alone in the car, no matter how weird and creepy this place was.

  The pine needles made a funny crunching sound under our feet as we walked slowly down toward the water. A soft, hissing sound of wind whistled high in the trees overhead, but I couldn’t feel even the faintest stirring of a breeze against my face. Even with the sun going down the air was heavy and warm. Even so, a shiver ran up my back, and a cold tightening twisted deep in my gut.

  “Dad... Why’d we come out here?“ I asked.

  I was trying hard to keep my voice steady, but it was shaking and weak.

  “I have to see something,“ he replied, and I could tell by the dreamy edge in his voice that, once again, he was talking as much to himself as to me.

  “It’s about the...dreams.“

  I wanted to ask him What dreams? But I already knew. He meant the dreams where he feels like he’s not asleep, where he feels like what’s happening while he’s asleep is really happening.

  “It was a long time ago,“ he said, his voice distant and so low I could barely hear him above the sighing of the wind overhead and the crunching of the pine needles beneath our feet. “And it happened out here.“

  I wanted to ask: What happened? But couldn’t.

  We were close to the lake, now, and I felt a faint stirring of wind coming in off the water. It carried a damp, fishy smell that made me gag. Even with the wind rushing across the water, though, the surface of the lake was as flat and smooth as a polished mirror...just like a mirror except for one thing: a mirror reflects objects. I couldn’t see even the faintest trace of reflections in the water. My eyes were having difficulty adjusting to the odd lighting, like I was looking at something that had a different dimension to it or something. I know how weird this sounds, but something made me really afraid of the water.

  “There used to be a camp here. Long ago. We came out here...my friend, Glenn Chadbourne and I.“ My dad’s voice got distant and dreamy. “We weren’t supposed to be out here. We knew that, but—you know how kids are. We did it, anyway.“

  I couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t talking to me, that he had forgotten that I was there with him. He stared out over the water, and I remember thinking that the lake must have been looking weird to him, too, because his eyes didn’t seem to be focused right. They had a milky, glazed cast that scared me. They reminded me of the eyes of this blind kid in school, Billy Randall.

  The wind picked up, and as it did, I heard a low, hollow whistling sound. At first I thought the sound was coming from behind me, maybe from the old shed, but when I turned to look in that direction, the sound shifted and seemed to come from behind me again. I turned quickly, trying to get a fix on it, but no matter where I looked, the sound thrummed softly, like someone was standing behind me, blowing gently into my ears. At times, I imagined it was the faint sound of distant music. And with the sound, the smell I’d gotten a whiff of earlier got much stronger, like something was rotting.

  “It was in the summertime,“ my dad continued, still acting like he was unaware I was there with him. “Just around sunset...like this...only in the summer. We’d been playing baseball, down at Pingree Field. We’d ridden our bikes to the game and were heading home, but for some reason...for some goddamned reason—I don’t even know whose idea it was—we decided to come out here instead.“

  “Were you gonna go swimming?“ I asked.

  The sound of my voice seemed barely to intrude on his awareness. He shook his head slowly as though he was in a dream and was struggling hard to wake up. I was gagging from the decayed smell that was getting much stronger. It reminded me of rotting fish or sour vomit and...something else...something so horrible and noxious that it’s still indescribable, no matter how hard I’ve tried over the years to find words for it.

  “Yeah, but then... Glenn disappeared,“ my father said, “and... Oh, Jesus! It’s happening again!“

  I looked up at my dad, wondering what he was talking about. In the gathering gloom, his eyes widened, and he pointed with a trembling hand out over the water. The flat, dimension-less surface of the lake was still, perfectly smooth and unruffled, but now that the sun had dropped behind the trees on the far shore and stars were twinkling in the sky, the color of the water rapidly deepened as well.

  Too rapidly“I thought, and then my father whispered hoarsely, “See... Out there... There it is again.“

  As much as I didn’t want to look, I tracked my eyes out over the water. After a moment or two, I saw what he meant. The center of the lake was...thickening is the only word that comes to mind. The water was turning a deep black—as black...no, blacker than the oncoming night. And in the very center of the lake, a round patch of darkness was spreading out slowly like an ink stain seeping into cloth. But this stain didn’t fade on the edges as it spread out. It deepened, if that’s possible, as thick, winding strands of pitch black radiated from its center.

  I stared at what was happening to the lake, almost overcome by a feeling of intense vertigo. I couldn’t resist the nauseating feeling of falling forward, spiraling headfirst into that thickening darkness. No matter how desperately I wanted to look away, I couldn’t. Twisting, waving, black arms reached out to me, and I watched in stunned, silent horror as a hideous shape gathered and took on a three-dimensional quality as it rose up out of the water. Coiling strands of darkness clawed at the night, spraying fetid water in all directions. I knew, if that darkness reached me and touched me, I would be destroyed by a cold vacuum as deep and lifeless as space.

  “...run...“

  I heard the word distantly; it barely registered in my brain. I couldn’t move...I couldn’t breathe or swallow or blink my eyes. Frozen with fear, I didn’t move as the darkness deeper than the night quivered and reared up above the water’s surface. Black tendrils twisted and writhed, taking on hideous shapes that I was and still am powerless to describe. The horrible stench of rot and death filled my throat and chest, gagging me.

  “Bobby! Run! Get the hell out of here! Now!“

  My father’s voice came to me as if from an impossible distance, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. Vaguely, I knew I had to save myself, but I was frozen with fear, riveted where I stood.

  The black, amorphous shape shifted and grew into impossible dimensions as it covered the night sky, blocking out the stars and casting a thick shadow across the land. Thick, rounded shadows streamed across the ground, swallowing, embracing everything in their path as they moved closer and closer to where my father and I stood.

  Still was unable to move, I suddenly felt something grab me roughly by the shoulders and spin me around. As soon as I wasn’t looking at the monstrosity on the lake, its hypnotic grip was broken. My body was rigid as I lurched forward and then, just to keep my balance, I started to run.

  Even after all these years, I find it impossible to describe the fear that gripped me as I ran. It wasn’t just my imagination. The cold and horrible emptiness of that darkness gathering behind me filled me with terror. I realize now, all these years later, that I wasn’t just imagining it. There was a cruel, unfathomable intelligence inside that darkness that didn’t so much want to destroy me as it had no awareness or regard for pitifully small human fears and emotions. It was the cold, uncaring destructive power of the eternal void that swept away whole worlds as easily and unthinkingly as it destroyed human life.

  I have no idea how, but somehow I made it back to the car. I have a single, clear mental image of my hands fumbling to open the car door open, and then, more vaguely, I remember hurling myself onto the front seat and slamming the door shut behind me before rolling onto the car floor.

  Even then I knew that I wasn’t safe as I cowered on the floor, whimpering and curled up in a fetal position w
ith my head ducked down and my hands covering my head. The darkness outside was still rising, still swelling and gathering power, sucking it from the night. I heard a soft, strangled cry, but it took a while before I realized I was making the sound. By the time I did, I knew... I could feel that the darkness had retreated. My face was streaked with tears and snot as I cautiously raised my head and looked down toward the lake.

  The night was too dark to see clearly, but stars were shining through the trees. Behind me, a half-moon had risen. It cast a silvery glow over the shore. Long dark bars of the shadows of trees scored the shoreline like pinstripes. I remember being surprised that the lake now seemed to be “normal,“ whatever that meant. Its water reflected shimmering starlight, and far out in the center, I could see that a gentle breeze was ruffling its surface, giving it a beaten metal look.

  “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 up out of the lake.

  He was gone, and I—somehow—had been left alive. “I alone am escaped to tell thee.“

  I haven’t got any clear memories of what happened next. I know from what my Uncle Mike told me afterwards that I managed to drive the car out of the woods. Just 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—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 never told anyone—not even the police—what I had seen. I knew no one would ever believe me. I was positive 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 consumed me ever since that night.

  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. I’ve never stopped feeling as though my entire life is a dream, that I am a walking, talking phantom that has absolutely 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 consume my father. 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 still lurks in the depths of Watcher’s Lake...or if Watcher’s Lake is, somehow, a lens that focuses it from whatever dimension it originates.

  For the last several months, I’ve been having some disturbing dreams about what happened back then, and I’ve been toying with the idea of driving up to Hilton just to take a look around. I still own the property and the lake, so I know no houses have been built 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 might be out there in Watcher’s Lake, and I wonder what I might find if I were to drive down that narrow dirt road and 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 little drive up north. I’ll bet we can get to Hilton long before dark.

  Getting the Job Done

  1

  “I’m the perfect man to get the job done,“ Phil SanSouci said, struggling hard to control his anger. “I can’t believe you’re not letting me run with this.“

  He was standing in front of Captain Richards with two clenched fists on the desk supporting him as he leaned forward. He wanted to remain calm because he knew that any agitation he displayed would only strengthen Richards’ contention that someone else had to take over the case he and his partner, Levesque, had been working on for the last seven months.

  A good cop learns how to read upside down so he can see anything that’s on someone’s desk—you never knew when it would give you a lead—but Phil didn’t need to read a word of the file Richards had spread out in front of him. It was everything they had to date on the man the local media had dubbed “The Alley Cat.“ He was connected to at least six separate attacks on young women in the last seven months—six attacks that had left five women dead, all of them found with their throats slit from ear to ear. The sixth had—fortunately—made it to her car, locked the doors, and gotten away with a broken side window and her life.

  “You have run with it,“ Richards said as mildly as was possible for him. A throat wound from Viet Nam had turned his voice into a rumbling growl even when he whispered...which wasn’t very often.

  “In fact, you’ve run too far with it. I’m turning it over to someone else. You’re too close to it, Phil, and that when cops make mistakes...sometimes fatal mistakes.“

  Phil took a deep breath and held it in for a few seconds so he wouldn’t say something he might regret later. He squeezed his hand so tightly the heels of his hands started tingling from a lack of blood. He found himself wishing, just this once, that Richards wasn’t his superior. He’d like nothing better than to haul off and slug him.

  “Goddamnit! I’m the perfect man to get the job done,“ Phil said, still straining to keep his voice low and steady. “I’ve got the motivation to run this bastard down and nail him.“

  Richards heaved a sigh and began drumming his felt-tipped pen on his ink blotter. Phil knew the signal—That’s it... End of discussion... Over and out—but he couldn’t let it drop...not yet...not when Annie was involved.

  “Detective work is not revenge,“ Richards said. His voce remained calm, but the corners of his mouth twitched, the only indication of his growing impatience. “You should thank your lucky stars Annie got away from this...this Alley Cat. Think about the five women who didn’t.“

  “I do. All the time,“ Phil said, stepping back from the desk and shaking his hands to restore the circulation. “I think about them every minute we’re out on the streets looking for this creep.“

  “Well, not any more you aren’t.“ Richard slammed the file folder shut with his beefy hand and slid it to one side of his desk. “As of this morning, Piper and Scott have the case. And that’s final. Check with Levesque. I’ve already assigned you guys something else.“

  For the count of three heartbeats—Phil counted them, hammering like velvet drums in his ears—he stayed there in front of the captain’s desk. Then he straightened up and snapped a quick, “Yes sir,“ turned sharply on his heel, and strode out of the office. Just before he rounded the corner, he glanced back to see if Richards was sitting there watching him, maybe gloating on putting him in his place, but the captain had already turned his attention to something else on his desk.

  Probably working his way through the junior crossword puzzle, Phil thought bitterly. Fuming, he walked down the hall to the office he shared with Levesque and grabbed his coat. Without a word, he and his partner went outside to the car in the parking lot.

  2

  “That’s the whole goddamned trouble with the whole goddamned media, far as I can see.“ Levesque was hunched over his coffee and blueberr
y pie in Bryant’s Restaurant, where he and Phil ate lunch pretty much every day. “They take a scumbag like this...this Alley Cat guy, and they blow him way up all out of proportion until he’s fucking larger than life. They make celebrities out of these guys, going all the way back to Billy the Kid and Jesse James. Hell, even earlier—fuck heads like Robin Hood.“

  Phil looked down at his half-eaten tuna fish sandwich and slid it to one side. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, then crumpled it up and tossed it on top of the remains of his sandwich. His appetite was gone.

  “I think there’s a slight bit of difference between Robin Hood and someone who goes around slicing women’s throats,“ he said as he tipped up his coffee cup and looked inside. He scowled and pushed it away, too.

  “Yeah...sure. I guess so,“ Levesque said. “I was just making the point that it’s the goddamned press that causes half the problems. They give this guy the attention he’s looking for. They turn him into a fucking media star, so what’s he gonna do? He’s gonna go right on doing what he’s doing so he can keep seeing his name in the newspapers and on the evening news. What the fuck? Let it go, Phil. Maybe Piper and Scott will crack it.“

  “Piper and Scott couldn’t find their asses with a road map,“ Phil said. He rubbed his eyes wearily and signed.

  “I don’t know about that. They might be able to.“ McCammmon looked at him with a teasing half-smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Find their asses, I mean. I don’t have a whole lot of faith they’ll ever find the Alley Cat.“