The Hag

by Erik Henry Vick

  Tom shook his head. “That’s unrelated to this.”

  “But you said you had experience in this? Outside of your own children, I mean.” Hedy’s gaze bored into Tom’s.

  Tom felt the grimace coming but couldn’t stop it. “Unfortunately, yes. But we caught the man, and most of it occurred in another town.”

  “That… Oneka Falls?”

  The scowl wrinkling his face deepened. “Yes. You’ve heard of it.”

  “I didn’t know that was close to here.” Hedy’s gaze left Tom’s face and tracked to his wife’s. “We…we wouldn’t have bought here had we known.”

  Tom waved it all away. “What happened in Oneka Falls happened seven years ago, that was a different situation. And Oneka Falls is forty minutes away, so it’s not really close.”

  “But there were children from Genosgwa?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will sue that real estate agent!” snapped Hedy.

  “Can’t we focus on our son? You can get all riled up about the real estate agent later!”

  Tom made placating gestures with his hands. “Remember what I said: it’s best if you can keep your emotions in check for now. There’ll be time to sort all this out later.”

  Hedy nodded but did not seem mollified. “To answer your earlier question, no, I can think of nothing that would have upset Stellan so.”

  Tom tilted his head to the side and straightened. “Okay. Let’s move on. Has either of you seen strangers around? People who don’t seem to fit in?”

  Martha laughed bitterly. “Everyone’s a stranger to us here.”

  “But everyone seems to belong here,” said Hedy.

  “No deliveries? No servicemen?”

  “Not that we’ve seen.”

  “Okay. My officers are already out there, looking, and I assure you that I will do everything in my power to bring Stellan home.”

  Outside, Tom found Gary Dennis waiting for him. By his expression, Tom expected terrible news. “Gary,” he said with a nod.

  “Chief. We checked the houses on both sides five lots in each direction. A couple of the kids said that they knew Stellan, but none of them admit to playing with him today. I sent Martin on, told him to keep walking until he had something good to tell us.”

  Tom rubbed his temples, trying to force the splitting headache back into its dark cave. “Did you pick up on any hesitation?”

  Gary shook his head.

  “But they have seen him here in the last couple of days?”

  “By all accounts, yes.” Gary glanced toward the Stensgaard house. “You suspect the parents?”

  “What? Oh, no. Covering the bases.”

  Gary nodded.

  “And the parents of Stellan’s friends? Did any of them seem uneasy?”

  Gary lifted his hands, palms up, and sighed. “No, Boss. Nothing I picked up on.”

  “Well, fuck.”

  “We could use him right now, couldn’t we? Chief Greshin, I mean.” Despite the situation, Gary smiled a little at Greshin’s iconic phrase.

  “Hell, yes. He always had a way of seeing things…”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Did you ask these other households about servicemen and deliveries and such?”

  “I asked. It seems it’s been quiet around here, today.” Gary scratched his chin and glanced at the woods across the road. “You don’t think…”

  “What?”

  “You don’t think it’s starting all over again, do you?”

  “I think what happened in Oneka Falls only happens once in a lifetime, if that. And besides, Owen Gray is in Sing Sing.”

  “You’re right on that score, but the girlfriend…”

  “Girlfriend, schmerlfriend. No one ever saw her before Owen Gray, and no one’s seen her since. I don’t know who she was, but she headed off into the sunset, and you can bet your bottom dollar on that.”

  “I sure hope so,” said Gary. He waved his hand toward the Stensgaards’ house. “Do you think their boy is somewhere playing? Somewhere sulking?”

  A grim, ugly expression distorted Tom’s face as he answered. “No, Gary. I want that to be true with every ounce of my being, but there’s a small voice in the back of my head that says ‘no.’”

  “Yeah,” Gary said with a sigh. “Mine, too.”

  Tom cleared his throat and spat into the grass. “Better call everyone in, Gary. Overtime is in everyone’s future. Double up on the patrols, I want two units near this lake at all times. You can handle the scheduling, correct?”

  “Yessir.”

  11

  Greg snuggled down under the covers, luxuriating in the bed's warmth and the softness of the sheets. It had been a hard day, of that there was no doubt. First, the argument with his invisible friend, then seeing the Lady in the Lake waving from below the surface of the water.

  “Feeling better, now, Greggy?” his mother asked.

  He nodded, but deep inside, something wanted to shout “No!” at the top of his lungs. His invisible friend had left him alone all afternoon—maybe because he’d cuddled in Grandpa’s lap, or maybe because of their argument, but either way Greg was a little relieved.

  “Well, that’s good, dear. Don’t you want to tell Mommy what happened? To tell me what got you so upset again?”

  Greg shook his head and avoided eye contact.

  “That’s okay, Greggy. You can tell me when you’re ready.” She smoothed the hair across the top of his head. “That Grandpa you have…he sure is special, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. He’s the best!”

  “And what about Grandma?”

  “Her, too.”

  His mother smiled her “mommy-smile” and chucked him under the chin—something she’d been doing as long as he could remember. Bedtime was “mommy-time,” and that was okay with Greg. He spent plenty of time with his dad, playing games, or reading books.

  Usually, he and his mother talked about all kinds of things—everything from what he did that day in school, to what he wanted for Christmas, to whatever was on her mind—but Greg didn’t feel much like talking, so he kept his answers short, and his mother didn’t stay long.

  The little bedroom he used in his grandparents’ lake house had a view of the lake, and if the night were warm enough, he would crack a window and listen to the gentle susurration of the waves lapping against the shore. That night, however, his mother had said it was too cold—even though it wasn’t. After she left the room, Greg slid out from between the sheets and padded over to the window. He turned the little crank that opened the window and smiled at the soft, rhythmic sound of the waves on the shore. The sound had always relaxed him.

  He crawled back into bed and snuggled into the covers yet again. His mind tried to turn back to when the Sheriff’s Department boat turned for the top of the lake, but he wouldn’t let it. Next, his brain tried to dredge up the argument with his invisible friend, but he stopped that, too.

  He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to remember the Lady in the Lake, so he did what he always did when he tried to avoid something: he replayed episodes of Transformers cartoons in his mind.

  His favorite was Bumblebee, although most of his friends chose Optimus Prime. Greg thought Bumblebee was spunky, and that spunk was more important than size and strength. He let his mind wander through memories of the episodes he’d watched before coming to the lake that summer, smiling a little at the scenes that flashed before his eyes.

  Out in the lake, something splashed, and Greg came up on his elbows, heart beating fast. Don’t be silly, Greggy, he told himself. That’s only a fish jumping. Grandpa says it happens all the time. Even so, Greg stayed alert for a few minutes, straining his ears to hear extraneous sounds. But there was nothing else, and he soon turned to his Transformers once more. His mind drifted, mixing and matching scenes from various episodes, creating his own stories, his own epic battles.

  He was almost asleep when the splashing sound came again.

  In an insta
nt, Greg was wide awake, all thoughts of Transformers wiped clear of his mind, and all drowsiness expunged. Was it closer this time? he asked himself. Do you really believe that was a fish? He listened to the sounds of the night, the lake lapping at the shore, insects buzzing and chirping, the wind whispering through the leaves in the trees across the road.

  Greg relaxed back into the bed with a soft sigh. He pulled his arms back under the covers and pulled the covers up to his chin. Now, where was I?

  In the lake, something splashed a third time, and there could be no doubt. That was too big for a fish. But that doesn’t mean some dead lady’s on her way to get me.

  You are so amusing sometimes, sport.

  “I thought you were mad at me,” Greg whispered.

  I will not lie to you, boyo. I was mad at you. But sometimes that happens between friends, doesn’t it? And we are friends, right?

  “I’ve always thought so.”

  That’s not the same thing as a ‘yes.’ Is it, Greggy?

  “You’ve been…different…since we came to New York. Did I do something?”

  Now, now. Don’t carry on so, sport. These things happen, and sometimes I can be a grumpy old man.

  “A grumpy old man?”

  Figure of speech, Greggy.

  Even though his invisible friend intended the words to sound amused, and to be reassuring, Greg thought he heard annoyance in it. He wracked his brain, trying to remember any other time that his invisible friend had called himself a grumpy old man.

  Don’t you think going over to the window would serve you better? To see if you can see what’s making that splashing noise?

  The sound of splashing was coming at regular intervals. Almost…

  Footsteps!

  Maybe so, maybe no. You’ll never know unless you go look. Go on, sport. Do it, do it, do it. Looking is always free, right?

  Icy terror descended Greg’s spine, and the last thing he wanted to do was go to the window and look out. He pulled the covers up, over his head, and shook his head from side to side.

  Boring. You’re acting like a little kid, Greg. I don’t enjoy your company when you carry on this way.

  “Sorry,” whispered Greg. “The Lady in the Lake scares me.”

  Oh, kiddo. What’s there to fear? An old woman who lives down at the bottom of the lake? I bet she’s never even seen a Transformers cartoon.

  Outside, the splashing stopped, but a low squelching noise took its place. Greg drew in a deep breath and held it.

  Oh, Greggy, I don’t think that will help you. If the Lady in the Lake is out there making that noise, you can bet your last nickel she knows where you are with minute precision.

  “What do I do? What do I do?”

  First thing you need to do, sport, is get out of bed and go over to that window. You need to see who’s coming up from the shore. How can you make any kind of plan without knowing who the enemy is?

  It sounded so reasonable, but, at the same time, so dreadful, that Greg found the thought of going to the window abhorrent. His bladder felt full, even though he had gone to the bathroom before getting into bed.

  The air temperature in his room took a sudden dip and Greg shivered—though whether from fear or cold, he couldn’t say. He moved the covers minutely—just enough so that he could peek into the darkened room. Strange shadows danced on the wall opposite the window. “Trees! It’s only the trees blowing in the wind!” But no matter how much he said it, he couldn’t dispel the image of something lurching up the gentle slope from the lake.

  I don’t know, kiddo. If you’re going to lie there and cower, you’re not doing anyone any good. Now, get up and get over to that window. Do it, Greg. Do it, do it, do it.

  With trembling limbs, Greg pushed the covers away and swung his legs down to the floor. He stood, but his knees felt so weak he almost fell back onto the bed. He couldn’t rip his gaze away from the window long enough to recheck the shadows. The window…the window looked as if it were icing over…in the middle of July.

  Greg shook his head and tried to steel his nerves. “I don’t want to,” he hissed. “I don’t want to see her.”

  Sometimes life sucks, kid. We all have to do things we don’t enjoy. My lot in this life seems to be dealing with whining brats who won’t do as they’re told.

  Greg hesitated and even looked to the side where he always imagined his invisible friend stood. Of course, there was no one there—or if he was, Greg couldn’t see him. Which made sense, once he thought about it, since his friend was invisible and all.

  When he brought his gaze back to the window, a dark form stood right outside. Three colors mottled the Lady in the Lake’s skin: charcoal gray, black, and a sickly green—the colors Greg’s mind associated with zombies, with decomposition and death. Her eyes were closed, as was her mouth. Her hair streamed water down the rest of her body, and when she breathed out, the window grew even foggier.

  Run! Just run! He shouted it again and again inside his mind, but his feet weren’t listening. He tried to close his eyes, to pretend she wasn’t there, but not even his eyelids would obey him.

  When she opened her eyes, warm liquid exploded down his leg, and it felt as if his heart had stopped dead in his chest. She held up her arms, and the rips and tears he’d inflicted on her with the kayak’s paddle gaped like hungry mouths. She emitted an angry hiss, and when she opened her mouth, Greg saw hundreds and hundreds of gleaming bone-colored, hook-shaped teeth.

  He opened his mouth to scream, or he tried to, but hysteria locked his jaw. All he could do was stand there and stare at the Lady in the Lake—who was no longer in the lake.

  The thing outside his window cocked her head to the side, sniffed and made a face. She reached forward and touched the glass but jerked her hand away as if scalded by the glass. She frowned at him through the window.

  “Go away,” he croaked through a dry mouth and an even more parched throat.

  She smiled, and it was enough to drive someone insane. She raised her index finger and shook it back and forth, as a mother scolding an errant child might. With the same finger, she tapped the glass again, then pressed harder—hard enough that the glass bowed a little. Her smile changed, becoming predatory, and she licked her lips. She grasped the outside edge of the window Greg had opened and pulled it open wider.

  Greg’s paralysis broke, and he turned and ran from the room. Behind him, the windowpane cracked, and a ragged scream erupted from his throat.

  The Lady in the Lake laughed.

  12

  Joe Canton bolted up out of his comfortable chair as Greg came screeching into the room. Mary was on her feet in a second and already running toward the boy. Joe’s gaze locked on his son, Stephen’s, and he saw understanding reflected there. He nodded and turned on his heel, hustling toward the kitchen. Joe turned the corner around the large refrigerator and trotted into the deep, walk-in pantry. He worked the hidden switch that exposed a gun safe tucked behind the built-in shelving at the back of the pantry.

  He typed in the code as fast as his fingers could move, but with a calm precision that at any other time would have made Joe proud. The thick steel door popped open, and he reached in, grabbing his customized M1 carbine. He slid a magazine into the waiting orifice and slapped his palm against the bottom. He racked the slide and flicked on the safety.

  As he turned on his heel, he heard Greg wailing in the other room, and an unreasoning, unfettered fury sang in his veins. His ragged respiration rasped in his throat for the moment it took for his training—decades-old, but valuable still—to kick in.

  Joe raised the butt of the carbine to his shoulder, holding it there with one hand, set himself, and opened the back door, making as little noise as possible, and slid out into the night. He circled around the house on the side of the road, his eyes darting from the shadows behind the house to the gloom that shrouded the forest across the way.

  He moved far quicker than a man his age should be able to and as quiet as any man could. Al
ong the back of the house, he saw nothing but darkness. He came to the corner where the back wall of the house and the wall that enclosed Greg’s bedroom window intersected, and pressed his shoulder blades against the house, gathering his strength and his breath.

  When he was ready, he darted his head around the corner—as quick as a striking snake—before pulling his head back. He thought for a moment, processing the brief glance, trying to identify danger spots. Joe stepped away from the house to make a wide turn into the side yard, in case anyone had set up in the side yard, expecting him to come right around the corner.

  He took a deep breath and sprinted in a wide arc around the side of the house. He angled his run so it would end near the big stump at the edge of the yard. When he reached the stump, he slid on his knees behind it, listening with everything he had. He thumbed off the rifle’s safety and drew a deep breath. He came up on one knee in the classic kneeling position, then leaned to the right, supporting the barrel against the stump and with an elbow on his knee.

  Using the M1’s iron sights, Joe scanned the space alongside his house, his right index finger resting on the trigger like a feather. There were shadows, but none of them were deep enough to hide a person.

  Joe came up into a crouch and swept the rifle from the side yard down toward the lake. He hadn’t expected to find anything—not after Greg’s screams—and he didn’t. He brought the gun back around, circling around the stump, and repeated his sweep of the forest across the road.

  Nothing moved. He saw no one and nothing. There were no sounds of someone sprinting through the underbrush, no harsh breathing, nothing.

  With slow precision, Joe reestablished his trigger discipline and thumbed on the safety—as they’d drilled into him in boot camp many years before. Still holding the gun up, he left the cover of the large stump and walked toward Greg’s bedroom.

  Stephen was doing his job inside, keeping everyone quiet, and keeping everyone out of Greg’s room. Joe approached the window with care, his eyes flicking from the cracked windowpane in the bent frame of the pop-out window. Something dark and nasty was smeared across the glass in the broken pane…something that might be mud or maybe blood.