Crescent Lake

by David Sakmyster

Nick desperately tried to shut out the voices and the sounds. But the horror continued. His dead wife shambled toward him while the girl, still kneeling on the bed, began to bounce up and down.

  "What's the matter?" the Sally-thing asked as it approached. "Too drunk to think of a name?"

  Audrey reached the front door. In the distance an owl hooted and settled on a branch. With a deep breath Audrey turned the knob.

  The door creaked–

  And effortlessly swung open, unchecked, to bang against the inside wall. Audrey cursed in disbelief. Both locks penetrated so quickly! It was impossible.

  Unconsciously, her only motive to protect her charge, she flung herself inside the house, gun poised. The banging door had blown her cover anyway. Her best chance was a sudden assault. The house was nearly silent: a strong breeze from the screen doors fluttered some papers in the kitchen, came through the hallway and stroked her sweaty hair. She clenched her teeth, and moved.

  She ducked and rolled into the kitchen.

  Nothing.

  Aimed into the den. Empty.

  She jumped at a sharp sound: a stair creaking.

  Nick cringed as if struck. It was true: they had never thought of a name for her. It was too early. They hadn't even discussed it. He was overjoyed with the prospect of having a daughter; that was enough. Names would come later.

  But somehow… deep inside, his guilt had been drawn to this oversight, had magnified it, focused it.

  The skeletal child continued to bounce, its jaws clanking up and down against each other. Sally stretched her shredded hand toward him. A shiny gold wedding band encircled a skinless finger. She held it before her face and tapped the ring.

  "'till death do us part?"

  Nick covered his eyes; he tried to shut out her voice, tried to concentrate on the image of the little girl. He recalled her rosy cheeks, her pointed dimples, beautiful hair and happy eyes. She looked a lot like little Theresa Angetti.

  "Say 'I do', Nick. Say it." Sally bent over and uttered the words directly into his ear; he felt her hot, ghastly breath on his skin, and his stomach lurched with the stench.

  Nick retreated into the pillow. Theresa. That was a nice name. But his child needed a name. And Nick thought with a sudden hope: maybe then she could rest.

  "WHAT'S THE MATTER NICK? Too drunk to say you'll take me and love me forever, to have and to hold, to love and cherish, to name our children and to be there in case I desperately need a ride to the hospital till death do us part?"

  Nick squirmed under her hot breath; and a conflicting chill threatened to devour his body. A name! Come on Nick, think of a name for the girl.

  Audrey clumsily banged her foot against the refrigerator in a mad effort to get to the stairs. She stifled a cry and ignored the shooting pain. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she spun around the corner and aimed the gun up the stairwell. The lamp in the upstairs hallway was on, and the light made the figure on the stairs seem darker and larger than he really was.

  Audrey dropped to one knee and sighted at the figure's head. She couldn't take the chance that he was armed; she had no cover here at the bottom of the stairs – she had to kill him...

  And yet, she paused, her finger trembling spastically on the wet trigger.

  That pause was all the intruder needed. In a movement too fast for Audrey to follow, he had soundlessly covered the five steps and gripped her wrist fiercely with one hand, deflecting the gun barrel. His other hand roughly slammed down over her open mouth.

  "Don't fire!" he commanded in a hushed voice.

  Audrey twisted her head slightly, and bit down on the hand while simultaneously thrusting her knee between the intruder's legs.

  Predictably, he released her and crumpled like a doll. Groaning, he writhed on the bottom step as Audrey dropped to one knee and roughly jammed the gun under his chin.

  "Now," she said softly, after several calming breaths. "Are you alone?"

  The man whimpered and looked up the stairs. In the dull light that spread down the stairs, Audrey noticed he was old, at least sixty. His hair was dark, but streaked with gray. He wore iron spectacles that were taped at one end.

  He gasped and reached for her shoulder. "Don't..." he managed to say.

  Audrey bit her lip. "I'm not going to kill you. Unless you do something foolish. Now, are you alone?"

  The man shook his head. "I know you won't kill me," he whispered. His eyes opened and moved back and forth across her face, as if she were a book. "Sensed it on the stairs. You made a promise a long time ago, not to kill. Don't know if you can. You wanted to be a cop, wanted it more than anything... except you didn't want to kill. You lie awake at night dreading the day you ever have to take a life."

  Audrey's jaw dropped. She lowered the gun.

  The man smiled, raised his hands and started to sit up. "I'm alone," he said. "You needn't worry."

  Audrey was still reeling. How did he know? That was impossible... She swallowed hard, and felt her control slipping away. And how did he get through the locks?

  "No time for that now," he said urgently, and then glanced up the stairs.

  On her knees, Audrey backed away, holding the 9mm loosely, but ready to react if he moved suddenly. But could you kill him?

  The man slowly made it to his feet, using the banister for support. "I'm here," he said in a hushed voice that Audrey could barely make out, "to aid your friend."

  Audrey blinked and opened her mouth. She thought she recognized the intruder now.

  "I was outside," he said, "when you were at the diner. I knew it would happen tonight." He pointed upstairs.

  Audrey thought she heard an anguished moan from Nick's room.

  The man took a step up, cocked his head and waited. Slowly, a smile came to his lips, a devilish grin that made Audrey tighten her grip on the gun.

  "It seems," he said, "that Mr. Murphy has a lot more strength than I initially gave him credit."

  "What are you talking about?" Fear giving way to confusion, Audrey moved forward.

  And the old man whistled, starting back down the stairs. "I think he may actually pull out of it on his own."

  Nick took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Sally was chattering in his ear, repeating accusations again and again. She demanded retribution, something Nick realized he could never give. It had been five long years, and not a night went by that he didn't relive that experience; he had run through a thousand different ways that night could have turned out, tried every variation his mind could think up: if he stayed home from work that morning, if he didn't drink when he joined them, if he flat out told his friends to screw off, if – but the alternatives were endless, and his conscience sought to hound them all.

  Each scenario had one constant, and one only: Sally made it to the hospital to deliver a perfectly healthy baby girl.

  A girl who needed a name, Nick reminded himself. Nothing else mattered – not the grisly creature that was ceaselessly taunting him, trying to chip away at his sanity. Not the chattering thing that bounced and flayed on the bed.

  Nick understood now. The Sally-creature was wrong, it had to be. He had been punished enough for his sin. He had suffered enough, and not another minute of soul-lashing would bring his love back to life, nor would it make amends for his crime.

  She was gone, and he had to accept that truth. But what gnawed most at his emotions was the unborn child: the girl that never got the chance to take a breath on her own, the girl that grew and died inside her mother without even an admission of her existence – an admission that would have been sealed with a name.

  And that, Nick realized, was his biggest sin. After the accident he had only one loss to mourn, for the other was not yet real; unnamed, his daughter remained outside his sphere of intimacy. How could he love that which had no name? He opened his eyes and sat up in bed.

  Sally leaned over him, her mouth open. A dripping crimson tongue danced along her bruised lips. "Care for a drink before bed, Nick?"

 
He crawled past her, sliding on the blood-soaked sheet to where the skeleton-girl knelt, chattering and clapping two bony hands together. Her tiny skull lolled around in wide circles. Nick gripped the sheets tightly and, following the motion of the skull, he wracked his brain for a suitable name, one that fit as perfectly as an old slipper.

  "No way," said Sally, hissing in his other ear. "You're too drunk to drive."

  Think! Nick commanded. He shut his eyes and pounded a fist against the mattress.

  The skeleton chuckled at him and Sally blew a foul kiss against his cheek.

  Think! Come on. Alice, Maggie, Katie, Joy.... No, no...

  "Too drunk!" Sally rebuked him. "Too drunk to drive. Too drunk to think."

  God, think... Kelly, Pam –

  He looked up sharply, and lunged forward, pushing past Sally's blood-coated arms. He gripped the bony shoulders of the girl and pulled her close, until he stared into her empty eye sockets. Her jaw rattled and a putrid odor wafted from her dark mouth.

  "Melissa," he said, letting the word roll gently off his tongue. He said it with love, with pride. And, after uttering the last syllable, he closed his eyes–

  –And opened his heart to the emotion of loss. The full intensity of the feelings he had been denying for so long hit him like a wave of pure energy. It now had a name, and his heart spoke it a hundred times over as he gripped the dead thing that could have been his daughter – his own flesh and blood, someone to tuck into bed every night after a story, someone to bounce on his knee, to watch grow, to care for and love...

  The chattering jaw fell silent and the bed stopped its creaking. The shoulders under his fingertips became more pronounced and full. He opened his eyes in time to see her blond hair fall into place, several wisps gracefully falling over her shimmering blue eyes. Her dimples expanded as she gave a wide, toothy smile.

  Tears streaming down his face, Nick leaned forward to hug her, to hug Melissa.

  But his arms closed around themselves and he fell face down on the foot of the bed. The girl was gone. Gripping a handful of the sheet, he buried his head and wept with the knowledge that he would forever be denied the privilege of holding his daughter. The tears soaked his face, and his head felt like it would explode from the pressure.

  He glanced up and saw the Sally-creature backing away, toward the door. She was holding her head, pulling out great strips of bloody hair. She looked up, teeth flashing in the hall light.

  "Go away," Nick whispered. "Please, Sally. Please go."

  She whipped her head from side to side, flinging clumps of hair and blood in each direction. "Can't leave, darling. Can't... until you seek forgiveness."

  "No," Nick said, sliding off the bed. He took a step toward her, satisfied when she took a step away. Sally growled. She stood in the doorway, fingertips gripping the door frame.

  Slowly, he shook his head. "The sin is there, the crime done. I can't be freed from it. And what's more, darling, I don't want to be. I want to remember this pain for the rest of my days. For only then can I truly live with myself."

  Sally dug her nails into the wood. "Nooo!" she hissed. "You have to take me to the hospital. You must–"

  Nick shook his head. "No, Sally," he said gently as he came within an arm's reach. "That time is gone. I can't drive you."

  He wiped a tear from his cheek; others had made it into his mouth, and he tasted their salt and savored the sensation.

  "I can't," he said again. "And I can't be forgiven. Not by you or by anyone. But I can repent."

  He lifted his hands out to her, palms up.

  "And I have, Sally. I have repented. I have suffered. There is nothing else to do but go on. And Sally, I must go on. I have a life to live. I'm sorry for my part in ending yours... but the real Sally would understand. The woman I loved – and still love – would let me go."

  Sally blinked at him. A patch of her skull glittered under a mass of stringy flesh. Her mouth worked.

  "Please," Nick implored. "Set me free."

  He turned and stared at the floor, at her elongated shadow in the intruding rectangle of light. "I love you Sally. You and Melissa will always be in my heart."

  He walked to the bed. Already the sheet was turning white, the blood filtering away. The scarlet footprints on the floor seemed to wash off, and Sally's shadow quickly faded.

  Nick sat on the bed and held his head in his hands. A breeze from downstairs came through the doorway and rustled his hair and soothed his head. He fell backwards on the mattress, and gave in to the full flood of emotions. But these were tears of relief. Tears of joy.

  Downstairs, the man hastily introduced himself as Grant Wilson. Without concern that Audrey still had her weapon trained on him, Grant made his way into the kitchen. He turned on the light, and walked to the sink. Ran his fingers through the stream that gushed out after he had adjusted the faucet. He brought his fingers to his nose, then to his lips.

  "Yes," he said finally, after licking the droplets off his flesh. He looked around the cabinets. "Find a glass. Make him drink several full glasses of water. And have him take a shower tonight – or preferably a bath."

  Audrey leaned against a wall. "What's wrong with him? Why a shower?" She couldn't fathom this at all. It laughed in the face of logic. Everything about tonight did. Grant sneaked in here, past her; he knew Nick's real name – but didn't want to kill him. He seemed genuinely concerned about his situation. How did he know that this night was special to Nick?

  "Are you listening, Audrey?"

  She nodded. "How do you know my name?"

  Grant winked at her. "Same way I know your friend's name. Same way I knew you wouldn't shoot me. Same way I know a lot of things."

  He turned off the water and wiped his fingers on his shirt. "Now, Audrey. Remember the water and the bath. Again in the morning. And then – come see me as soon as possible."

  Audrey frowned. "Where will you be?"

  "The library. Where else?"

  Audrey stumbled to the kitchen table and set the gun down. "And then what?" she asked.

  Grant smiled at her as he soundlessly walked by, into the dark hallway towards the open door. "Then we'll talk. Trouble's coming. If you plan to stay in this town, and I guess you do, then we have to plan."

  Audrey blinked. And in that instant she noticed Grant had vanished and the front door was gently swinging shut.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Stuart Harrelson was a soft-spoken man. He was "naturally quiet", his mother had said by way of apology to any guests that wondered why such a youth never uttered a word around strangers. Stuart would have argued that it was a lack of confidence that made for his exceptional lack of verbiage, however a combination of insecurity and fear usually kept his mouth sealed. As time passed, he became more and more withdrawn, shying away from new acquaintances. He tried moving away from Silver Springs, but he inevitably returned within weeks, disillusioned and further lacking in self-esteem.

  It was in such a state, at age thirty-one, lonely and introverted, living on an isolated farmhouse just past the town's borders, that Reverend Zachary had come into Stuart's life. He knew when the silver-bearded man entered into his house that it was a momentous occasion; it seemed his tongue was loosened, and within minutes of meeting the Reverend, the stream of words began, and his life spilled out, his heart laid bare.

  Reverend Zachary accepted Stuart's failures and understood his inadequacies. And what's more, the Reverend needed him. "I want someone like you," Zachary had told him and filled his heart with joy. "One I can trust completely, one who will serve unquestionably to further mine and the Lord's work. Here in Silver Springs... and beyond, when the time is right." Stuart was given a position of worth, a valued station in the Reverend's church. When the Reverend was busy, the people took their concerns to Stuart. He would act as mediator in certain situations, and at others he would be the voice of the Reverend. In the space of several years, all traces of his childhood shyness had evaporated. He had a new sense of self-w
orth and belonging, and that had made all the difference.

  At the end of every day, Stuart met the Reverend in his office in the church tower; there they discussed the town's situation. They kept tabs on the people, noting their level of commitment, deciding which worshippers needed more attention and which were slipping. Then there were the usual concerns, the perennial dilemmas.

  This night was no exception. Carrying several files, Stuart climbed the spiral metal staircase winding up to the Reverend's chambers on the top floor. He reflected on his years of service to the Reverend. The years of ascending these very stairs night after night, delighted to be an active participant in this, the most glorious of the Lord's works. Time had in no way lessened his satisfaction. Every day brought greater wonders.

  The Reverend's work – their work – here was almost complete. Stuart sighed and paused before turning the final bend. He glanced out the brass-lined window set in the rounded stone wall. Beyond the dark slope of the hill, the lights of Silver Springs beamed at him; every lit window of every home seemed to be burning in grateful acknowledgment of his valued service.

  We're almost finished here. Except for a few loose ends. Then they could move on. The Reverend already had plans in motion. Contacting radio stations, requesting personal meetings with influential people. Stuart was a simple man, and didn't understand much of politics; he had always been content to just get in that voter booth and select the candidate with the shortest name. But he recognized that the way to expand was through the government. And Zachary could do it, he knew. He could impress the right people: a God-fearing politician or two had to exist out there somewhere. And if not – all of them were certainly sinners, and once touched, then the expansion could begin in earnest.

  Stuart was smiling broadly when he stepped through the heavy oak doors and onto the plush white rug that covered the Reverend's office. The chamber was square and small, but gave an illusion of vastness because of the eastern set of wall-sized windows behind the mahogany desk. A leather couch sat against the opposite stone wall, its cushions basking in a lone shaft of moonlight.