by Rick Hautala
Elizabeth’s vision blurred as she looked straight ahead up the slope, past Doug’s parked car toward where she knew that block of polished pink marble stood. And then the thought she’d had before hit her again, this time so hard it took her breath away in a sharp gasp.
Maybe he did do it! she thought, feeling herself cringe under his touch. Maybe he came out here late that night and dug up her uncle’s grave! It had happened the first night she was back in Bristol Mills. Maybe this was his way of terrorizing her, of knocking her off balance, by doing something so horrible so close to Caroline’s grave! This was his way of getting even ... of destroying what few shreds were left of her sanity!
“Impossible,” she whispered.
“Huh?” Doug said.
Snapping back to what was happening, Elizabeth shook her head to clear away such a ridiculous thought. Of course it was ridiculous! Doug could never do something like that. An act like that was ... was crazy, completely insane; and while Doug certainly had been upset, maybe even a bit unbalanced, by Caroline’s death, he certainly wouldn’t do anything as extreme as that just to upset her if, in fact, the grave robbing had been done to upset her. She had to believe that the incident at the cemetery and her arrival home weren’t in the least bit connected.
“Just leave me alone... please,” Elizabeth said, still not daring to look at him directly. “I’ve got enough problems without you hanging around. I can take care of myself ... if you’ll just leave me the Christ alone!”
Doug quickly withdrew his hand from her shoulder as if he had gotten an electric shock. He started to say something but then remained silent. For emphasis, Elizabeth stepped down hard on the gas and let the car’s engine roar.
She sensed him moving away from the side of the car, and she turned to watch, tracking him with a narrowed gaze as he walked slowly up the hill to his parked car. Without a backward glance, he got behind the steering wheel, started the engine, and drove down the hill. Even when he slowed to pull around where Elizabeth’s car was mired, he didn’t bother to glance at her. From the side, all Elizabeth saw was the ruined half of his face as, eyes straight ahead, he drove past her and out onto Brook Road. He barely paused at the stop sign as he took the left-hand turn toward Route 22.
“And stay away!” she shouted as she hammered both fists onto the dashboard. “Stay the Christ away from me and Bristol Mills! Do you hear me? Goddamn you to hell!”
She was crying as she watched her husband’s car round the comer onto Old County Road and disappear from view.
4.
Wind whistled through the open windows as snow drifted onto the sills and spilled onto the floor of the darkened bedroom. Elizabeth shivered, but not so much from the cold as from the look the old woman was giving her. It was a look that cut through flesh and blood and peered intently at the core of her soul.
“Are you sure you don’t want to see what I have in my shopping bag?” the woman asked, leaning close to Elizabeth and freezing her with the cold, hawklike gleam in her eyes. She was smiling, but her expression could just as easily have been that of a hungry wolf.
Behind her, all around her, Elizabeth heard the snaps and creaks of the old house as it stood up against the swirling blizzard outside. She choked on her reply and could do no more than shake her head in desperation.
“Please ... take a look?” the old crone begged. “I got it just for you.”
Elizabeth’s ears filled with the sound of crinkling paper as the woman raised the shopping bag and held it out to her. The expectant, pleading look in her eyes made Elizabeth’s breathing hot and labored.
No! Not crinkling paper! Flames! Fire!
“No, I ... I can’t look! I don’t wantto look!” Elizabeth pleaded. She tried to look away but felt herself pinned by the woman’s icy stare. “I ... don’t want to ... see.”
“How do you know you don’t want to if you don’t know what it is?” the old woman crooned.
For a dizzying instant, Elizabeth felt as though she were gazing into a mirror at a nearly unrecognizable reflection of herself.
“You don’t know what I have ... do you?” the woman asked, almost accusingly. Her face shifted subtly and took on the cast of the evil witch in Snow White. Her features seemed starkly underlit, as though the lighting were coming from below her. The hissing wind lifted the strands of her hair, making them twine like a knot of serpents.
“It’s something ... nice,” the old woman purred. “Something special ... Something you’d just love to see again!”
Harsh red light cast thick, ink-black shadows on the woman’s face, highlighting her face with blood-red curves. Her cheeks and brow stood out in sharp contrast, wavering in the flickering light. A wicked gleam danced like flames in her rheumy eyes.
“I don’t want to see it!” Elizabeth shouted. She swung her hands wildly at the large shopping bag the woman was holding up to her, but it was as futile as trying to swat a mosquito in the dark. Somehow, Elizabeth’s hands couldn’t make contact with the bag, even as she knew the woman was bringing it closer to her. As the old woman began to open the bag, the paper crinkled as loudly as a roaring fire.
Elizabeth thought crazily, How can she be carrying a fire in a paper bag?
She suddenly felt someone’s hands ...
Whose hands? she wondered, feeling a cold, dark pull centered in the pit of her stomach. Certainly not the old woman’s! She was holding the shopping bag!
But someone’s hands roughly gripped Elizabeth’s head and started to pressure it inexorably forward and down, forcing her to look. Elizabeth tried to shut or avert her eyes, but they felt as though they were stitched open. The light and the heat rising from below her grew steadily stronger as the mouth of the bag gaped wider and, against her will, she looked down ...
... and saw the woman’s cracked and wrinkled hands, carefully unfolding the top of the bag ...
... and saw, inside the bag, a pulsating, orange glow that stung her eyes and made them water ...
... and saw the face rising from the core of the flames, floating like a chip of wood on a sea of fire. It was a face Elizabeth recognized immediately!
Oh my God, Caroline!
Her daughter’s features were restfully composed, just as Elizabeth had always imagined Caroline should have looked, lying in her pink satin-lined, polished white coffin. But Elizabeth knew that Caroline’s face and body weren’t at all composed or at peace. She had been fried in the blast-furnace heat as the two vehicles’ gas tanks exploded; her entire body crushed and burned beyond recognition.
“See ... ?” the old woman croaked. “See what I have for you?”
Unable to tum away from Caroline’s face, Elizabeth saw it loom upward at her out of the raging flower of flames. Heat and light hammered her face, feeling strong enough to melt her own flesh and bones down to ash. And then, as spikes of terror drove through Elizabeth’s mind, she saw Caroline’s eyes open slowly. Her eyelids fluttered; her lips began to move. Elizabeth knew with heart-squeezing horror that it wasn’t just an illusion produced by the madly flickering flames. Caroline’s face was struggling, twitching with agony as she twisted her lips, trying to form words, trying to force her burned vocal cords to vibrate. Caroline was trying to reach her! She was trying to tell her something!
“ ... Help ... Mommy ... “ Caroline said. Her voice rang with that same crystal-clear sweetness Elizabeth always remembered. Just hearing it wrung her heart between cold. clammy hands.
“ ... Help ... Mommy! ... Help! ... Mommy! ... “
With a roaring intake of breath, Elizabeth yanked herself out of the dream and found herself sitting straight up in bed. Her eyes were wide open, staring fixedly at the glow of moonlight on her windowsill. In her blurred vision. the sills did look snow-covered. Outside. a steady breeze rustled the leaves of the maple tree in the backyard. Holding both hands firmly over her mouth, Elizabeth forced back the scream that was surging like a wild beast inside her, trying to break free.
SEVEN
Night Hunter
1.
The last thing Henry Bishop wanted was trouble because he was hunting out of season; but when that damned raccoon broke into his chicken coop three nights in a row, he figured, “Fuck the law! I’m going after the bastard!” When the ruckus started sometime after midnight, he put on his plaid jacket and his battered Bean boots, grabbed his 4-10 shotgun and his high-powered flashlight, and headed out the door. He considered bringing Murf, his hunting dog, with him but decided against it.
“Stay here, pal,” he said, pausing a moment to scratch the dog behind the ears before opening the back door and starting out across the yard. The night air had a sharp chill to it, and he pulled his collar up tightly against his throat. Faint moonlight glimmered on the path from the house to the chicken coop.
The noise from inside the hen house was deafening as the chickens scrambled wildly around. Several ran out into the hen yard and started beating themselves against the chicken wire. A flurry of feathers and down filled the air and drifted against the edges of the cage like snow, gleaming white in the moonlight.
“Goddamned bass-turd,” Henry muttered as he stormed over to the hen house and flung the door wide open. The air inside was filled with a swirling dust of dried chicken shit, grain, and feathers. Henry choked and sputtered when he entered.
“Come on, you Goddamned sum-bitchin’ coon!” he shouted. He scowled as he swung the flashlight beam back and forth. The cone of light was practically solid from the raised dust.
The hens were running and flapping every which way, and in the swirl of activity, Henry didn’t at first see the raccoon. Then, over by one of the rounded hen doors, he caught sight of a bushy, bunched up shape. The animal was surprisingly large, but Henry felt a measure of satisfaction when he saw the thick, striped tail. The animal stared unblinkingly up at him, its eyes reflecting back the beam of light with a glittering green glow.
“You’ve et your last fuckin’ bird,” Henry growled. He raised the shotgun to his shoulder and braced the flashlight alongside the gun barrel as he sighted down the bead; then, holding his breath, he gently squeezed the trigger. The blast from the gun was deafening as it kicked back hard against Henry’s shoulder. If it was possible, the chickens scrambled and flew in an even wilder frenzy. Hazy blue smoke hung heavily in the dusty air, like smoke from a pile of burning leaves. As Henry’s vision cleared and he looked to where the raccoon had been, he was surprised not to see the buckshot mangled body splattered in the comer.
“Well suck my hairy bag,” Henry muttered as his eyes darted back and forth, looking for any trace of the raccoon. The buckshot had blown a gaping hole in the side of the coop. Henry swore to himself when he considered the repair work he would have to do ... but not before he took care of that motherfucking raccoon!
“You sum-bitchin’ coon!” he sputtered as he shouldered open the coop door and barrel-assed back outside. He practically ripped the outside-cage screen door off its hinges when he went into the hen yard. Frantic with fear, chickens beat against his legs and scrambled in the dirt as he waded through them over to the small doorway into the coop. He fully expected to see the wounded animal sprawled on the ground outside the door. It didn’t take him long to realize that the bastard must have turned and run the instant before he pulled the trigger.
“You ain’t gettin’ far, though,” Henry snarled. He smiled grimly as he shoved the chickens out of his way and bent down to inspect the ground. A dark red splotch of drying blood glistened on the wooden ramp. He touched it with the tip of his finger and smiled when he felt it was warm and fresh.
Straightening up, he shouldered his shotgun and went back to the house. Flinging open the door, he whistled for Murf, who, excited by the noises coming from the hen house, bounded out the door, almost knocking him over.
“Hold on there, shit-for-brains!” Henry shouted as he grabbed the dog by the collar and yanked hard. “I want yah to get a good whiff of the prick before we head out. “
It took Henry a lot of effort to hold Murf back while trying to carry the flashlight and shotgun, but after bringing Murf out to the coop and letting him sniff around the doorway, he turned him loose. In a flash, Murf took off into the night-drenched woods baying like a lunatic. Henry’s only problem now was to keep up with him. Cradling the shotgun in the crook of his arm and lighting his way with the flashlight, he followed Murf into the woods.
The dog’s wild barking echoed eerily in the night, and Henry couldn’t help but wonder if one of his neighbors, having heard the commotion and the shooting, might call the police or game warden. He knew Kendall Payne, who lived on the farm next to his, probably wouldn’t; but Murf had taken off in the direction of the housing development going up in the woods on the other side of Henry’s property, and he knew damned well those friggin’ yuppies wouldn’t hesitate to call the cops if they heard gunshots and Murf’s barking, especially if it woke up one of their spoiled little yuppie-brats!
“Fuck ‘em! Fuck ‘em all!” Henry muttered as he ran as fast as he could through the thick woods. Branches, suddenly illuminated by his flashlight beam, leaped out at him like hands from the dark and just as quickly whisked away. Henry’s boots pounded heavily on the forest floor, crushing last year’s leaves. He realized it was useless to try to track Murf in the dark, but the old dog was keeping up such a racket, Henry figured he’d have no trouble finding him once he treed the wounded raccoon. As long as the bastard doesn’t turn and fight, he thought. He knew raccoons weren’t quite as nasty as fishers, but once they were cornered, they could give even an experienced dog like Murf a pretty good tussle.
Before long Henry’s lungs were burning with exhaustion. Murfs baying didn’t sound any closer. If anything, it was further off. Henry started to wonder just how wounded this raccoon was. He knew the woods didn’t go on forever. He had already passed behind the new yuppie housing development, so if he kept going in a straight line, he figured he’d come out on Old County Road, maybe up near where it joined Deering Road, out behind Oak Grove Cemetery.
“Dammit all!” Henry muttered over and over. “Dammit all to hell!”
Slowing his pace, he took in huge, burning gulps of air, not even sure whether he was cussing the raccoon and Murf for leading him on such a merry chase, or his own drinking and smoking that made a chase like this such an effort. It hadn’t been this tough back when he was, say twenty — or even thirty. Cocking his head to one side he listened and heard Murf, still baying like a hound from Hell as he raced effortlessly through the woods; but then, when Murf’s howling suddenly cut off with a sharp, rising yelp, Henry froze in his tracks. A teasing chill raced up his neck as he strained forward and listened.
All around him, the woods were deathly quiet. Deep shadows and weak moonlight shifted under the trees. Henry was a hunting man; he had spent plenty of nights out in the woods, so he would never have said it was fear he felt tingling his gut; but something made him feel ... well, cautious. It wasn’t like Murf to stop his barking like that. If he had the raccoon treed, he’d be roaring as he leaped into the air, jaws snapping, trying to get to the animal scrambling up into the higher branches. Christ! Henry thought, they should be able to hear him all the way to the fucking game warden’s office!
“Goddamned sum-bitchin’ coon!” Henry muttered as he swung his flashlight around in a wide arc. Off to his left, he caught a green glimmer of something. Thinking it might be the wounded raccoon, Henry approached, his gun held level and steady. It turned out to be nothing more than a discarded Heineken bottle. Damned uppity teenagers, sneaking out here and drinking Heineken in the woods. Shit! Budweiser had always been good enough for him and his friends! Kids these days sure thought they had class! Henry picked up the bottle and threw it into the night. He waited until he heard it thump to the ground.
Henry froze where he was, listening, hoping to hear Murf at least snuffing ‘at a hole in the ground or a hollow log where the raccoon had gone to ground, but the silence of the ni
ght was like an extra layer to the darkness. Eerie shadows thickened in the underbrush.
Placing his tongue up against his top teeth, Henry let out a short, shrill whistle. It echoed back out of the darkness, sounding much too close.
“Hey boy! Murf!” Henry shouted, when repeated whistles produced no response.
Henry didn’t like what he was feeling and thinking; he was suddenly quite sure that something had happened to Murf — something bad! It couldn’t have been that wounded raccoon, though; it would take more than a sum-bitchin’ raccoon — even a desperate, wounded raccoon-to get the best of Murf. Of course, there was always the chance that a bear or a bobcat had run him down; or that in the dark Murf had fallen into a ravine and hurt himself; or just maybe he really had run off so far that he was truly out of earshot.
Henry whistled again and called the dog’s name, even louder. He took a deep breath of relief when he heard a response, a faint chuffing sound. It sure as shit sounded like Murf, but either he was far off or else he had his head stuck inside a hole or log nearby. The sound was heavy and muffled, as though Murf was ...
“You all right, boy?” Henry shouted. His voice echoed back out of the darkness. The ringing echo indicated he had misjudged his direction and was closer to the cemetery and Brook Road than the Old County Road.
Without warning, Murf started barking, loud and steady nearby. The sudden sound made Henry jump, but after a moment, he got a fix on the direction and, lighting his way with the flashlight, followed the sound. Before long, he found Murf. He was down in a narrow ravine, his face buried in the dirt as he scrambled wildly to dig up something.
“There yah are, you sum-bitch! Good boy! Good boy!” Henry shouted. “Y’got ‘em!”
The forest floor was spongy underfoot, and Henry slipped as he started down the slope to where Murf was furiously digging. Leaves and dirt flew high into the air from between Murf’s hind legs as he dug, growling deeply in his chest.
