Shivers 7

by Clive Barker

  Bill and Jason don’t see it that way. They’re pretty good at Clue. They figure they’re ace detectives—that’s why they’re here at the lake in the first place, to see what’s up with all the ghost stories going around the neighborhood. And now there’s a stranger here, and they want to find out something about him. It’s like another mystery they have to solve, and they’ll solve it together. Like I told you, they’re best friends.

  Keeping his head down so he won’t be noticed, Bill peeks through the cattail curtain. The sun is setting behind the trees, and it’s hard to see the stranger on the other side of the lake when you’re staring into the sun that way.

  So Bill can’t see the mystery man’s features very well, but there’s other stuff he can see that tells him something about the guy. Like the fact that he’s clean-shaven and his clothes look neat and new. The man is wearing the kind of stuff Bill always thinks of as “Dad’s day off” clothes: khaki pants and a plaid short-sleeve shirt and some kind of loafers... probably Hush Puppies, Bill figures, because every dad he knows owns a pair of Hush Puppies—

  “Hey, look what he’s doing!” Jason says.

  With one hand, Bill shades his eyes against the sun for a better look. The man’s holding the canvas bag by the knotted end, pivoting in a circle as he swings the bag, taking little Hush Puppie steps as he turns ’round and ’round and ’round.

  “Jesus Chrysler!” Jason says. “This guy’s a human tilt-a-whirl!”

  For once, Jason’s right. Bill can see that. The man must be getting dizzy. He misses a step, nearly trips. He’s close to the water’s edge now, out of tree-shadow and into setting sunlight, and the stark brightness catches his sunglasses and Bill thinks he can see the man smiling for a second and he thinks: Yeah, he’s gotta be a nut, smiling like that, spinning ’round and ’round and ’round in his Hush Puppies like that.

  The man lets go of the bag. It sails out over the lake... and the man watches it... and Bill watches it... and Jason watches it....

  It’s completely quiet. Just for a second. And then there’s a big splash as the bag hits the water. The mystery man just stands there watching. He’s not smiling now.

  And the bag starts to sink. And the canvas ripples. There’s something inside the bag, thrashing around.

  Something that barks, then squeals.

  “It’s a dog!” Jason says. “That creep put a dog in that bag! He’s gonna drown it!”

  “Shut up!” Bill says. “You keep yelling, he’s gonna hear you for sure!”

  Bill looks across the lake to confirm his suspicions, but the mystery man isn’t there anymore. In the couple of seconds Bill spent staring at the canvas bag floating out there in the lake, the guy has vanished.

  Bill stares across the lake for a couple more seconds, just to be sure the stranger’s really gone. Nothing moves over there on that little scab of a beach. There’s nothing under the trees but shadows.

  “Hey,” Jason says. “How’d he disappear so fast?”

  Bill doesn’t answer.

  He peels off his T-shirt and tosses it on the shore behind him.

  He dives through the cattails, hits the water, and starts swimming.

  Bill is a good swimmer.

  And fast.

  * * *

  It’s a hot day. Been hot for a week now. Pushing a hundred degrees every day, and no breeze at all, and about six kinds of miserable if you’re not eating an ice-cream cone or sitting cool and cozy in an air-conditioned movie theater. So the water feels pretty good to our friend Bill.

  Or it should. After all, the water’s cold, like that August sun up there in the sky doesn’t bother it at all. Cold enough to raise gooseflesh on your skin. October cold. You’d think more kids would be at the lake on a day like this, because it isn’t that far from town. It’s just a mile or so off a country road which is a mile or so from the tract-house neighborhood where Bill and Jason both live.

  Yeah. You’d think more kids would be here today, relaxing in the shade beneath the old oak trees, taking a cool dip in the heat of the late afternoon. But no one comes to the lake much anymore.

  To tell the truth, it was never really good for swimming anyway. First off there are the cattails, which rim most of the lake. They’re like some kind of wall, and the little scab of a beach where Bill and Jason spotted the stranger is one of the few places where you can actually wade straight out into the water if you want to.

  You do that, you find out PDQ that the lake bottom is slimy muck. Kind of stuff that sucks at your feet like it wants to gobble ’em up while you wade through it. You get out a little further, to a place where it’s actually deep enough to swim, you run into clots of water lilies. They blanket big sections of the glassy surface and they’re cold and slimy and they make Bill think of dead fish floating belly up. He can’t stand them.

  So the lake’s no good for swimming. Oh, maybe kids might try it once in a while. Maybe they’d come here and swim across the lake... but only on a dare. And as far as dares go, it’d have to be a double-dog after that little girl drowned last year.

  It’s her ghost that kids have been talking about all summer. Some say they’ve seen her walking along the country road at night in wet cutoffs and a T-shirt, trying to find her way home. Others—mostly older kids, teenagers who visit the lake to drink beer—say they’ve heard her voice soughing through the cattails with the evening breeze. Sometimes Bill believes those stories and sometimes he doesn’t. Either way they scare him, and like any good detective he wants to know the truth. That’s why he and Jason came to the lake today with sleeping bags, canteens, and knapsacks packed with dinner. They’d planned to camp out tonight and find out for themselves if there’s really a ghost or not.

  One thing’s for sure—if there is a ghost, Bill and Jason are bound to recognize her, because the drowned girl was in their class. Her name was Cheryl Ann Rose. She took a dare from her friends last summer, tried to swim across the lake on a hot August afternoon. Liza Rycott said Cheryl Ann was doing fine until she hit one of those clots of water lilies. She went under and that was the last they saw of her. Took the cops three days to find Cheryl Ann’s body down there in that cold black water, down there in the mud with only a blanket of water lilies to keep her warm—

  No. Bill’s not going to think about Cheryl Ann. He can’t afford to do that now. Because he’s closing in on the bag. If he starts thinking about Cheryl Ann, he’s going to start thinking that every plant that brushes his foot is her ghostly hand, trying to pull him under.

  So he thinks about the bag instead, and that’s all he thinks about. As he raises his head for a breath he can see that the bag is mostly underwater, but the knotted end and a couple three inches of canvas still break above the surface. The material isn’t entirely saturated with water yet, and since the bag’s still floating there’s got to be a pocket of air trapped inside. Bill’s thinking that if there’s an air pocket in there, the dog might still be okay.

  Just then the bag bobs in the water. Movement. That means the dog’s still alive. At least right now it is... and right now Bill’s just ten feet away.

  He raises his head for another breath, then keeps on stroking. Behind him he hears Jason splashing along in his wake. Jason’s not much of a swimmer—he’s a big kid, already has a set of shoulders that tell you he’ll end up playing football in high school.

  If he lives that long, Bill thinks. And just that quick he shakes the idea out of his head. Because he’s really not thinking of Jason at all. He’s really thinking of Cheryl Ann Rose.

  He won’t do that now.

  Not when he’s so close.

  Not when he’s right there.

  Bill grabs the bag and starts treading water. The bag’s not very big at all. He rolls onto his back, pulls the bag up on his belly and holds it there with his hands. He glances at Jason behind him, just to be sure his friend is okay. Once he’s certain of that, he starts kicking toward shore, doing a modified backstroke.

  He kick
s through clutches of spidery plants that scrape at him from the mucky bottom, and he doesn’t think of the drowned girl’s hands once. Instead he tells himself that he’s going to keep kicking until he hits that little scab of beach on the other side of the lake.

  Bill feels other legs kicking, too.

  They’re kicking against his chest.

  The dog in the bag. It’s still alive.

  Bill hears it whimper. The poor thing must be terrified.

  He swims on, advancing through the cold dark water.

  He doesn’t make a sound.

  * * *

  Bill’s been on shore for a couple minutes, the open bag at his feet, when Jason comes slogging out of the water onto the little beach.

  “All right!” Jason says. “The dog’s okay!”

  Bill doesn’t say anything. Jason’s right, of course. The rust-colored terrier is fine. The runty pooch barks and wags its nub of a tail. It’s soaked straight through, shivering on little chopstick legs while it trots around in shadows cast by a couple of old oak trees. But Bill isn’t looking at the dog. He’s looking at the canvas bag—

  “Hey, Bill, are you okay?”

  Bill doesn’t answer, because he’s got the pocket knife he used to open the bag in one hand, but in his other hand he clutches a tangle of colored ribbon that had sealed the bag.

  He hadn’t noticed the ribbon when he first grabbed the bag out there in the lake. He’d been too intent on getting the dog to shore safely. But he notices it now, because a good detective has to be observant. There are two intertwined strands of ribbon, royal purple and dark valentine red, the kind of stuff you get at the five-and-dime when you want to wrap up a present. The ends of the ribbon have been scored with a pair of scissors or a knife, making curlicues that wrap around Bill’s fingers. He can’t imagine why someone who wanted to drown a dog would use gift ribbon to close up the bag, or why they’d score that ribbon with curlicues. He can’t imagine why the man who threw the dog in the lake would do that, but the fact that he did scares Bill, even though he really can’t explain why.

  Jason sweeps the mutt into his arms. The pooch nuzzles under his chin with its nose, then licks his cheek, and Jason can’t help but laugh while he scratches the dog behind one ragged ear.

  “Hey,” Jason says. “This mutt’s got a tag.”

  And he’s right. There’s a leather collar around the dog’s neck, with a silver tag dangling from it. Jason sets the dog on the ground. Bill kneels, takes the tag in his hand, and reads one side:

  MY NAME IS:

  RED ROVER

  And then the other:

  I BELONG TO:

  CHERYL ANN ROSE

  (707) 641-8734

  Bill swallows hard. He lets go of the tag. Red Rover barks happily, wags that nub of a tail and nuzzles Bill’s hand, then barks again.

  Bill stares down at the wet mutt. He’s Cheryl Ann Rose’s dog. Cheryl Ann drowned in the lake last summer. She drowned, and it took the cops three days to find her down there in that cold black water, down there in the mud with only a blanket of water lilies to keep her warm. And now someone has brought her dog here, brought him here to drown in a canvas bag wrapped with gift ribbons of royal purple and dark valentine red, brought him here like a present for a dead little girl—

  It all starts to make sense to Bill. Like Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick, like Professor Plum in the kitchen with a rope...

  The dog cocks his head toward the shadows and growls.

  Bill reaches down and grabs Red Rover’s collar.

  He hears the footsteps before he sees the man step from the shadows.

  Hush Puppies... khaki pants... a plaid short-sleeve shirt... and sunglasses.

  The same man who threw the dog into the lake.

  Cheryl Ann Rose’s father.

  Dad’s day off...

  Bill can see the whole picture now.

  Mr. Rose... at the lake... with the canvas bag...

  Mr. Rose steps onto the gritty beach. Bill holds tight to Red Rover’s collar. The little mutt barks at Mr. Rose, but the man only smiles.

  Mr. Rose stares at Bill from behind his sunglasses.

  “Give me that dog,” he says.

  * * *

  “W-we can’t do that,” Jason says, his voice shaking like it’s a loose part he’s ready to cough up and spit out.

  Mr. Rose laughs. “You can and you will. That dog belongs to my daughter. Her name’s Cheryl Ann, and the dog’s name is Red Rover. Just look at the tag if you don’t believe me.”

  Mr. Rose stares at the boys like he’s just explained something only a moron would have trouble understanding. He stands there at the edge of the woods, his arms crossed, waiting for an answer. Jason doesn’t say anything, just shoots a worried glance Bill’s way. Bill doesn’t know what to say, either. He’s never talked to a crazy person before.

  And he’s sure that’s exactly what Mr. Rose is. A crazy person. Forget the man’s neat appearance. Forget the “Dad’s day off” wardrobe. Mr. Rose is crazy. Anyone can see that.

  Even Red Rover.

  Mr. Rose takes a step forward, and the little dog barks louder, baring his teeth.

  Mr. Rose sighs. “I’m glad someone here will talk to me, but that’s enough from you, Rover. I already heard you bark. After all, that’s why I came back to check on you.”

  Cheryl Ann’s father smiles some more, but Bill’s having none of it. “We saw you throw this dog in the lake,” he says plainly, because he can’t see any point in sugarcoating what happened. “We can’t let you have it back.”

  “You boys are making a mistake.”

  “No,” Jason says, and his voice doesn’t quaver at all this time. “You made the mistake, mister. You tried to drown your dog. And we saw you do it.”

  “Red Rover is not my dog. I’ve already explained that to you. He belongs to my daughter, Cheryl Ann.”

  “It doesn’t really matter who he belongs to,” Bill says. “As far as we’re concerned this dog is our responsibility now, and we’re going to take care of him.”

  Mr. Rose shakes his head. “You boys have to listen to me,” he says. “I know it sounds strange. I didn’t believe the stories about my daughter when I first heard them myself. I didn’t believe them until I came out here to the lake a few months ago, on the anniversary of Cheryl Ann’s death. That’s when I found out that the stories were true. I heard my daughter’s voice, heard it as plain as you’re hearing my voice right now. I heard her calling for Red Rover. She had a special way of calling him. Red Rover, Red Rover, won’t you come over....”

  “Look,” Bill says. “We’re sorry about Cheryl Ann, but—”

  “I don’t care if you boys are sorry or not,” Mr. Rose says, his voice rising. “All I care about is my daughter. She wants her dog back. She loves that little guy so much, and she’s all alone now. She needs Red Rover. You boys can understand that, can’t you? You wouldn’t want my daughter to be all alone out here, would you?”

  Mr. Rose waits for an answer, but he doesn’t get one.

  A moment later he wipes a hand over one cheek, just below his sunglasses.

  The boys can’t believe it. Mr. Rose has started to cry.

  Bill doesn’t know what to say to that. Neither does Jason. He bends down and picks up Red Rover and cradles him under one arm. Then he turns his back on Mr. Rose and starts walking. Mr. Rose doesn’t make a move. After a minute, Bill follows Jason. They start along a dirt trail that traces the edge of the lake. The trail that leads back to town begins where Mr. Rose is standing, but they can’t take that one yet. First they have to go back to the other side of the lake, to the spot where they were looking for frogs. That’s where they left their camping stuff and, more importantly, their shoes. It’s a mile from the lake back to the country road that leads to town, another mile from there to their neighborhood. They’ll never make it that far barefoot.

  They walk fast. It’s rough going, though. The path is rocky, and they have
to watch their step. While they walk, Bill keeps glancing over his shoulder, watching Mr. Rose, all alone on that little scab of a beach.

  It’s dusk now, and soon it will be dark.

  Mr. Rose just stands there, not doing a thing.

  Bill steps on a sharp rock and winces. He looks down. He’d better watch where he’s going. There are lots of rocks on this part of the path. If he remembers right, there are a few broken beer bottles, too.

  Right now, a hunk of broken glass in his foot is the last thing he needs.

  What happens next, Bill doesn’t need, either.

  The next time he looks over his shoulder, he sees Mr. Rose coming after them.

  And he’s running.

  * * *

  Bill yells a warning, and Jason turns to look.

  “Jesus Chrysler!” he yells. He turns to run, the dog still cradled in his arms. Bill’s right behind him, picking up steam. A couple more steps and Bill’s shot past him. Rover’s clawing Jason’s chest, trying to break free, but Jason holds on, trying to keep his eyes on the dog and the trail at the same time. The rocks are killing his feet. Jason hates going barefoot and never does it. Bill’s always teasing him, saying that for a guy who wants to join the U. S. Marines someday he sure has tender baby feet—

  Jason sees the broken beer bottle a second too late, just in time to hear a thick shard crunch under his right foot. The pain explodes up his ankle, turns his knee to jelly, and drops him as surely as if he’d been hit by a hammer. He lays there on the path, and he’s still got Rover in his arms—he’d pulled the dog to his chest like it was a football when he fell—but he can’t hold on and the terrier scrambles away and charges up the path toward Bill, who doesn’t even know that his friend has fallen.

  Jason looks in the other direction and sees Mr. Rose running up the path, coming straight for him.

  “Bill,” Jason shouts. “Hold up!”

  Bill breaks stride. Stops and turns. Red Rover shoots past him like a rocket, and Bill swears.

  Jason gets up as quick as he can. He tries putting weight on his cut foot, but suddenly it’s like his foot has grown a mouth, and it lets go with a scream of bloodcurdling proportions.