Rockinghorse by William W. Johnstone Page A

The forest should be cool, not humid. This wasn’t swampland, this was rolling hill country. These same woods had been cool when he was a boy. He remembered when his father had taken him walking through these same woods. Birds had sung then—but not now. There had been wild flowers growing in profusion—but not now. The forest had smelled alive then—but not now. Now it smelled dank and . . . and unfriendly. Hostile. And he could not recall all this mad tangle of vines and underbrush.
    He walked deeper into the silence. He experienced the uncomfortable sensation of time slowing, almost stopping. But why? he questioned his mind. Why should I feel that?
    Impossible.
    But the feeling of being an alien in a strange new world—a very unfriendly world, at that—would not leave him.
    Silly! he mentally chastised himself. Don’t be silly, Lucas.
    He thought he heard a shout behind him, but it was very faint, as if, the disturbing thought came to him, nothing human could penetrate into this wall of stillness.
    â€œLucas,” he muttered. “Now you’re letting your imagination run unchecked. “Cool it, old man,” he cautioned. “Just cool it.”
    Ground creepers clutched at his ankles, seemingly in a deliberate gesture to trip him. Irritated at that thought, he kicked them away. Snakelike vines dangled and seemed to move like reptiles, tickling his face as he walked deeper. He brushed them away. They returned to dance lightly at the back of his neck.
    He stopped, listening. For what, he didn’t know. Then he heard it.
    It.
    A low sound. Not a growl from an animal. Not a human moan or groan; but more like an . . . an unearthly sound. He listened more intently. There it was again. No doubting that. He tried to locate the direction. To his left. He had entered the north edge of the woods, and had been working his way north by northwest. Keep that in mind, he thought, planting direction and landmarks in his brain. It’s been a long time since you had any dealings with the outdoors, and these woods run for miles without a break. Awfully easy for a city fellow to get lost in.
    Then the strange sound seemed closer, more distinct, more west than north. He headed for the source.
    What sounded strangely like laughter, taunting laughter, drifted softly but menacingly through the thickness of nature’s tangle.
    Laughter? Out here?
    He heard the faint sounds of a horse whinnying. Lucas spun around as a branch broke behind him. He caught movement to his right. Sudden but furtive motion.
    â€œWho is it?” he called, trying to keep the edge of panic from his voice. “Come on out. What are you doing on this property?”
    Jeering laughter was the reply.
    The sound of galloping hooves came to him. Coming closer.
    Out here? In the thick woods? A horse galloping? Impossible.
    But the sound was real.
    There was something moving in the brush. Something moving all around him, encircling him. People rushing toward him. He guessed they were people—what else could they be? Jesus Christ! what the hell was going on. Lucas whirled around, trying to bring the elusive shapes into clear focus. He could not. He tried to make some sense of what was happening: the who and what and why of it all. Nothing made any sense. Nothing at all.
    Something screamed at him. He swung the heavy walking stick with all his strength—which under the circumstances was considerable—and felt it strike a target. He heard a scream of raw pain.
    Lucas’s head suddenly exploded in agony. He was pitched into blackness. Falling, falling—would it never end? Would . . .
    * * *
    â€œEasy, old son,” Jim’s voice reached him, traveling through a black void that seemed worlds away. “You’ve had a hell of a knock on the noggin.”
    Lucas opened his eyes. His head hurt and he could not bring the face into focus. He blinked his eyes and slowly the faces in front of him melted into