The mountain lion stopped pacing and settled at the end of the dock, still watching him. There was a great bloody hole in the beast's chest where its ribs showed through the fur, as if it hadn't eaten in a very long time.
At last, Lester quit paddling and rolled onto his back, panting. His arms ached, his chest hurt, and he was more frightened than he had ever been. Despite what Samantha had done to him, being raped was one thing, but this. . .he felt horrible about how she'd died. He glanced over to where she lay, the mountain lion's final, brutal shake had flipped her onto her back. Her skirt was bunched up at her waist, and her front was dirty from her tumble in the dirt, but untouched by the mountain lion's claws. Even dead, she was hot.
He felt the breeze against his prick again, and felt a twist of shame that didn't quite kill his lust.
He forced himself to look away, and found a fish flopping on the raft's warped wood, inches away.
The smell of the thing hit him as he faced it, making his gut clench. Its mouth gulped air, its gills hung in loose flaps. Pondweed hung from the empty sockets where its little fishy eyes should have been. Most of its flesh was gone, and Lester saw a knot of blackened, slimy guts behind exposed ribs.
It flopped again, landing a few inches closer to him.
Lester slapped it back into the water with a cry of disgust.
His bitten finger throbbed with fresh pain, and he brought it up to his face, resisting the urge to stick it in his mouth and suck it.
The finger had turned a light shade of blue to the first knuckle, and it was swelling. The skin around the bite was black, and pus trickled from it like yellow tears.
"Oh god, oh god, oh god," he said, holding the finger close to his face. "Oh god, oh god. . ."
Lester fainted.
***
He awoke with a jerk as something jabbed him in the side, and he screamed when he saw what it was. He'd drifted close to the shore at the other side of Campbell's Pond, coming to rest against a tangle of exposed tree roots. They poked out of the water, scraping against the side of the raft. Collapsed against them was the half-exposed body of a long dead moose. Mostly bones, with scraps of hide draped over it in spots, the snout of its skull was wedged between two thick roots. Its wide antlers stuck out over the edge of the raft. A gentle wave pushed him closer, and they jabbed him again.
A single glowing green eye stared at him from the brush up the bank, and a growl made the hair on his neck stand.
He grabbed the protruding antlers and pushed himself back into the open water.
The green eye disappeared, and Lester heard the brush rustling as the mountain lion moved from its spot, prowling the shore of the pond.
Waiting for him.
Lester wondered how patient a mountain lion could be.
It looked half dead already, maybe more than half dead. Lester certainly had enough fat on his bones to sustain him, and when he got thirsty enough, he was surrounded by water.
He looked around at the weed-choked, muddy water.
The fish had given up trying to board his raft. They'd quit jumping around him too.
He paddled farther out, stopping only when his bitten hand began to throb with greater pain. He brought it to his face; the dark blue hue had spread past his wrist, and the swelling had moved to his other fingers. The black spot had also grown, and his middle fingernail had fallen off. He grimaced and lowered it.
The night air had grown very hot and humid. Lester wiped sweat from his brow with his good hand and stared at the water. It was cool, inviting. He stuck his feet in and sighed with relief. He thought of letting himself slip in, just for a moment, just to cool himself off before the fish came back, but Samantha's words returned to him.
They found headstones when they were looking for that boy, she'd said, and though that might have been bullshit, he wouldn't dare to go down there to see.
Lester brought his legs back onto the raft in a near panic and brought his knees to his chest, hugging them.
Thinking about Samantha again, remembering her body, stunning even in death, he couldn't help taking another look. When he looked though, she was gone.
The mountain lion had finally dragged her off. Maybe it was eating her now.
Maybe now was his chance to get away, the only chance he'd get until the beast had finished with her.
In his mind's eye, he saw Samantha's dead body, face in the dirt, perfect ass pointing up in the air, while the emaciated one-eyed cat humped it.
You are a fucking pervert, Charles informed him.
Lester blushed.
It was now or never, he decided. If it turned out he was wrong, well, he wouldn't have much time to regret his decision. He wasn't going to last long if he didn't get out. The strange blue infection had moved down past his wrist and his swelled area was going numb. The middle finger had split, but he couldn't feel that at all anymore.
Some kind of weird infection, maybe blood poisoning. It would kill him long before he had a chance to starve.
He scanned the shore in the light of the awakening dawn, and the mountain lion did not show itself.
Steeling himself, Lester paddled toward shore.
He heard it before he saw it. A loud purring sound announced the return of the mountain lion. Then it appeared from the woods, stalked lazily down the dock and settled itself at the end. It growled once, but the growl sounded more like a human voice. Not English, but something older. Something forgotten.
"No!" Lester shouted. Somewhere close by a bird squawked and exploded into flight.
"Yes," the giant cat growled, and its cleft upper lip curved into an eerie caricature of a human smile.
"Lester," Samantha said, coming from the trees behind the dock. "Have you ever been fucked in a cemetery?"
She stepped onto the dock, giggling, patted the now docile mountain lion's head, then approached the water. She unbuttoned her torn mini-skirt and pushed it down her tattered, but luscious hips, letting it fall over her blood-and-dirt-crusted feet, then dove into the water.
As she surfaced and swam toward him, conflicting emotions sped Lester's heart; fear, revulsion, and lust. Her breasts bobbed above the water for a moment, and she slid beneath the surface again.
He fell back onto his elbows, panting, on the verge of passing out again, and saw her hands break the water. They grasped the edge of the raft, and she lifted herself out.
Lust won out as she slid onto the raft, crawling toward him. He sighed as her cold, wet flesh glided over his, shuddered as she pressed into him.
The mountain lion purred, lapped at a bloody paw. Around the raft, the frenzied fish breached the water, splashing them.
"Have you ever been fucked by the dead?" Her cold hand found his dick, guided it, and with a hungry groan, she impaled herself on him.
***
Awake again, watchful, Lester hid under cover of pondweed and muddy water. The open grave was like a bed. Partially filled over the years by silt, it was still deep enough to admit his bulk.
He watched the surface of Campbell's Pond.
People had quit coming to this place, but they always forgot. They always came back eventually.
Lester, Samantha, and the others would wait until then, and if their bodies rotted away before other people came, the thing that had resurrected them would find another way.
It always had.
Brian Knight lives in Washington State with his family. His published works include Sex, Death & Honey, Reservoir Gods, Broken Angel, Feral, and Dragonfly. His short fiction has appeared in Flesh & Blood Magazine, Best of Horrorfind, and Cemetery Dance.
—ALL DEAD
by JG Faherty
"Come feel me, Charlie." Kelli brushed her hands over her breasts. The silk teddy just barely held its place, clinging to the edge of her nipples, exposing the roundness of the perfect breasts I remembered so well.
Then I snapped out of the trance.
"Get the fuck away from me!" I swatted my hand at her. It passed right thro
ugh her face, leaving me unsatisfied and even angrier, but not surprised. I was long past being surprised. She'd usually go away if I was rude enough, although it didn't work as well with her as the others. Probably because she was used to me swearing.
Kelli giggled that cute little-girl laugh that had always worked on me when she was alive. "Same old Charlie. You're so stubborn. Like the time we went to Disneyland, and you were afraid to ride Space Mountain. Remember that day?"
I stayed silent, trying not to stare at the delicate pink nipple peeking out from under the silk.
"I'll take that as a yes," she said, her voice low and husky. Her bedroom voice. She took a slinky step toward me. "We ended up riding it again and again. You had a great time. And this will be the same, only I can ride you, again and again. And afterward we can hold each other. An endless embrace. You and me, together forever."
God help me, I wanted it. I wanted her.
Then I remembered what she was really asking.
"No, you're not real!"
She leaned in close to me, stroking her hand sensually through the air over my crotch. "If I'm not real, then why are you so hard?"
I slid back in my chair, turned my head away. I didn't trust myself to speak. I couldn't even look at her.
"Have I ever steered you wrong?" She was so close. I wanted to feel her breath on my face, but I knew that was impossible. "You just need to trust me." Her voice sent shivers down my back.
"How can I trust you after what you did to me?" I finally asked. "You left me here, alone."
Kelli shook her head, put a sad look on her face and pulled away. "Fine. Sit here and pout, then. I'll come back when you're in a better mood."
Tears ran down my cheeks and I closed my eyes, unwilling to believe she'd give up that easily. When she didn't speak for several seconds, I glanced over just in time to see her fading away, her body shimmering slightly as it went transparent and then disappeared.
"Thank you, God," I whispered to the now-empty room. Once more I was alone with the only earthly things that mattered to me anymore: my radio, my books and my bed. All three served the same purpose.
They helped me escape from the real world, and the unreal one.
***
After Kelli died—I still have trouble believing it's been three years since she killed herself—I kind of lost it. I know I did. Hell, I welcomed it, pretty much let the madness take me over. She'd been my last link to sanity to begin with, my partner in my never-ending struggle. No matter how great the temptation got to just give in, each of us was there for the other, a rock to lean on, a giver of strength. I always told her I thought she was the stronger one, because she bore the pressure with a smile while I was the one who would scream and shout and cry.
Turns out it was all an act; she put on a brave face for me but inside her defenses were crumbling. In the end, she knew she was going to give in, was even looking forward to it, but kept it a secret from me.
I know all this because the first night after they took her body away, she came to me and told me so.
"I did it for you, Charlie. I knew it was the only way to get you to join us. You want us to be together, don't you?"
She knew me too well. We'd been married almost fifteen years; when you live with someone for that long, you don't have many secrets. Each facial expression, each twitch of the hand or quiet sigh, tells your partner exactly what you're thinking, what you're feeling.
Truth was, I did want to be with her. More than anything. At that moment, I'd have gladly done what she asked. In fact, I'd already gotten out of bed and was heading for the garage when the phone rang.
Saved by the bell, I told myself later.
It was Reynolds from work. He'd heard what had happened, and was calling to tell me to take as much time off as I needed, but he begged me to please just stop by the office and drop off the Zymanski file, otherwise the whole project would be late.
"Sure," I told him. And then I went crazy.
I threw the phone across the room. I kicked over a table. I smashed every bottle in the liquor cabinet. I threw something—a figurine, maybe, or a vase—through the front window. When the police came, they found me with a knife in my hand, slashing the sofa cushions. They pegged me for suicidal and brought me here.
My first six weeks they kept me heavily sedated; those were the best six weeks in the last three years. Oh, sure, Kelli came and visited; so did the others. But I was too doped up to understand them, too stoned to care. Most of the time I just laughed at them.
Then the doctors weaned me off the good shit, and reality came crashing down on me.
I was alone, but never truly alone.
That's when I decided I liked my little white room; that it might be nice to stay awhile. I've never left.
***
When Kelli and the others get to be too much for me, I throw a fit and get a few days back on the hard stuff, the drugs that make me sleep through the night and laugh all day. Kelli hates it when I do that.
"She's not the only one who hates it."
A stern, disapproving voice behind me. I turned and saw my mother standing there, her arms crossed, a scowl on her face. The same look she always gave me when I'd do something she didn't think was in my best interest, like waste money on a new book or spend all day watching TV. When I got older, the supposed infractions changed—a new car, or working on a Saturday instead of coming to see her—but the look remained the same.
"This is no kind of life for you," she said now. "Sitting in this place. We both know you're not crazy. How long do you think you can fool the doctors?"
I smiled. It was always easiest to talk to my mother. I didn't know why they would even send her—she never could get me to do anything I didn't want to do. "As long as I have to, Mom. I'll stay here forever. Better than the alternative."
"Better than. . .?" Her eyes grew wide and insulted. "You'd rather be locked up and hooked on drugs than spend time with your family, your wife? What kind of son did I raise?"
"A smart one," I said with a shrug.
"A smart aleck, more like it," she countered. "We'll see what your father has to say about this."
Before I could respond, she vanished, leaving me blissfully alone again. But the respite didn't last long; it never did. Things were just getting started for me.
Flickering movement caught my eye, and I swung around in time to see my father take form.
"Hey, Dad." It was hard to get the words out. My relationship with my father had been a lot better than the one I'd had with my mother. We'd done all the father-and-son things growing up: playing catch, going fishing, watching ballgames together. He'd taught me how to ride a bike and how to tune up a car. When I moved out to be on my own, he'd helped me buy my first house, walking through it with me and pointing out what needed to be repaired.
The day he'd put the gun in his mouth and decorated the living room walls had been the worst day of my life.
Until Kelli.
For a moment, he didn't say anything, just looked at me and shook his head. When he finally spoke, his words dripped disappointment.
"Why do you treat your mother like that, Charlie? All she wants is what's best for you. For all of us. You know how important family is to her."
"You should have all thought of that while you were alive," I said. "We were already together."
"Not all of us," he reminded me.
I closed my eyes. I knew what he was referring to. The extended family, the grandparents and great-grandparents. The aunts and uncles. The cousins and second cousins. The whole goddamn family tree. Two trees, actually, if you count both sides of the family. Hell, go back far enough and you had a freakin' forest of relatives. Hundreds of them. All dead by their own hands.
All waiting for me to join them.
"It's not going to happen," I said, opening my eyes.
Dad was gone.
Something like a knife stabbed through my guts. I'd never had the chance to say my farewells to him ten y
ears ago, and he still preferred to sneak off when my eyes were closed or I was looking in the other direction.
"You're a fucking coward!" I shouted at the ceiling. "You hear me? A coward! You couldn't say goodbye then, and you still can't! You're all cowards and I'm not gonna join you!" I threw my pillow at the wall, just as the door to my room opened and two orderlies came in.
One of them held a needle.
"You seein' your family again, Charlie?" one of them asked.
I just smiled and held out my arm.
Two minutes later, I was lying on my bed, the world already growing fuzzy around me. Just before things went dark, I thought I saw my brother Jim, but I couldn't be sure. I hadn't seen him in twenty years, since he ran away and joined the Army.
Jim can't be here, I told myself. He's still alive.
Then I was gone, far from everyone's reach.
***
Charlie. Wake up. I have to talk to you. Charlie?
CHARLIE!
Kelli's shout brought me awake. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and looked at her. She was sitting at the end of the bed, her legs crossed Indian-style, right by my feet. It was how she'd always arranged herself when she had something serious she wanted to discuss.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"It's time." Her voice was solemn, her usual smile missing.
"Time? Time for what?" Still confused from my abrupt awakening, I tried to remember if there was something we were supposed to be doing.
"Time to come home. You've been here long enough."
I shook my head. "No, I'm not going anywhere. There's no home to return to, not with you gone."
Her lips tightened until they almost disappeared. "I'm not gone, Charlie. You have to listen to me. There are no ghosts talking to you. I'm not dead." She extended her arm toward me. "Touch my hand. Feel it. I'm real."
Horror Library, Volume 4 Page 32
