by Stephen King
Hal slammed the oars back into the water, scraping blood from his knuckles (and ah God the back of Amos Culligan's Studebaker had been full of dead children? Charlie Silverman ... Johnny McCabe ...), and began to bring the boat about.
There was a dr3' pistol-shot crack between his feet, and suddenly clear water was welling up between two boards. The boat was old; the wood had shrunk a bit, no doubt; it was just a small leak. But it hadn't been there when he rowed out. He would have sworn to it.
The shore and lake changed places in his view. Petey was at his back now. Overhead, that awful simian cloud was breaking up. Hal began to row. Twenty seconds was enough to convince him he was rowing for his life. He was only a so-so swimmer, and even a great one would have been put to the test in this suddenly angry water.
Two more boards suddenly shrank apart with that pistol-shot sound. More water poured into the boat, dousing his shoes. There were tiny metallic snapping sounds that he realized were nails breaking. One of the oarlocks snapped and flew off into the water would the swivel itself go next?
The wind now came from his back, as if trying to slow him down or even drive him into the middle of the lake. He was terrified, but he felt a crazy kind of exhilaration through the terror. The monkey was gone for good this time. He knew it somehow. Whatever happened to him, the monkey would not be back to draw a shadow over Dennis's life or Petey's. The monkey was gone, perhaps resting on the roof or the hood of Amos Culligan's Studebaker at the bottom of Crystal Lake. Gone for good.
He rowed, bending forward and rocking back. That cracking, crimping sound came again, and now the rusty Crisco can that had been lying in the bow of the boat was floating in three inches of water. Spray blew in Hal's face. There was a louder snapping sound, and the bow seat fell in two pieces and floated next to the bait box. A board tore off the left side of the boat, and then another, this one at the waterline, tore off at the right. Hal rowed. Breath rasped in his mouth, hot and dry, and then his throat swelled with the coppery taste of exhaustion. His sweaty hair flew.
Now a crack zipped directly up the bottom of the rowboat, zigzagged between his feet, and ran up to the bow. Water gushed in; he was in water up to his ankles, then to the swell of calf. He rowed, but the boat's shoreward movement was sludgy now. He didn't dare look behind him to see how close he was getting.
Another board tore loose. The crack running up the center of the boat grew branches, like a tree. Water flooded in.
Hal began to make the oars sprint, breathing in great failing gasps. He pulled once ... twice ... and on the third pull both oar swivels snapped off. He lost one oar, held on to the other. He rose to his feet and began to flail at the water with it. The boat rocked, almost capsized, and spilled him back onto his seat with a thump.
Moments later more boards tore loose, the seat collapsed, and he was lying in the water which filled the bottom of the boat, astounded at its coldness. He tried to get on his knees, desperately thinking: Petey must not see this, must not see his father drown right in front of his eyes, you're going to swim, dog-paddle if you have to, but do, do something--
There was another splintering crack--almost a crash--and he was in the water, swimming for the shore as he never had swum in his life ... and the shore was amazingly close. A minute later he was standing waist-deep in water, not five yards from the beach.
Petey splashed toward him, arms out, screaming and crying and laughing. Hal started toward him and floundered. Petey, chest-deep, floundered.
They caught each other.
Hal, breathing in great winded gasps, nevertheless hoisted the boy into his arms and carried him up to the beach, where both of them sprawled, panting.
"Daddy? Is it gone? That nastybad monkey?"
"Yes. I think it's gone. For good this time."
"The boat fell apart. It just. . . fell apart all around you."
Hal looked at the boards floating loose on the water forty feet out. They bore no resemblance to the tight handmade rowboat he had pulled out of the boathouse.
"It's all right now," Hal said, leaning back on his elbows.
He shut his eyes and let the sun warm his face.
"Did you see the cloud?" Petey whispered.
"Yes. But I don't see it now . . . do you'?"
They looked at the sky. There were scattered white puffs here and there, but no large dark cloud. It was gone, as he had said.
Hal pulled Petey to his feet. "There'll be towels up at the house. Come on." But he paused, looking at his son. "You were crazy, running out there like that."
Petey looked at him solemnly. "You were brave, Daddy."
"Was I?" The thought of bravery had never crossed his mind. Only his fear. The fear had been too big to see anything else. If anything else had indeed been there. "Come on, Pete."
"What are we going to tell Mom?"
Hal smiled. "I dunno, big guy. We'll think of something."
He paused a moment longer, looking at the boards floating on the water. The lake was calm again sparkling with small wavelets. Suddenly Hal thought of summer people he didn't even know--a man and his son, perhaps, fishing for the big one. I've got something, Dad! the boy screams. Well reel it up and let's see, the father says, and coming up from the depths, weeds draggling from its cymbals, grinning its terrible, welcoming grin . . . the monkey.
He shuddered, but those were only things that might be.
"Come on," he said to Petey again, and they walked up the path through the flaming October woods toward the home place.
From The Bridgton News
October 24, 1980
MYSTERY OF THE DEAD FISH
By Betsy Moriarty
HUNDREDS of dead fish were found
floating belly-up on Crystal Lake
in the neighboring township of
Casco late last week. The largest
numbers appeared to have died in
the vicinity of Hunter's Point, al-
lthough the lake's currents make
this a bit difficult to determine.
The dead fish included all types
commonly found in these waters--
bluegills, pickerel, sunnies, carp,
hornpout, brown and rainbow trout,
even one landlocked salmon. Fish
and Game authorities say they are
mystified...
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Stephen King
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