Swimmer by Graham Masterton

Then I tidied my sock drawer. I swear to God. All of my socks are matching and they’re all rolled together and they’re all in rows. They look like a passing-out parade at West Point. Well, except for seven or eight of them that don’t seem to have a friend.’
    â€˜Maybe your busty mystic in the low-cut dress could help. If she can do orchard therapy I’m sure she can manage sock treatment.’
    â€˜Karen, it’s
you
I’m asking to come to Washington. Nobody else. Marry me.’
    â€˜No, Jim. I’m sorry. What we have together … it’s good. Occasionally it’s nearly wonderful. But it’s not enough.’
    â€˜It’s not enough?’
    â€˜I’m sorry.’
    â€˜
You’re
sorry. How do you think I feel?’
    â€˜I don’t want to hurt you, Jim. But it could never work out, alphabetical spices or not.’
    â€˜I see. Well, I guess I can take a hint.’
    â€˜I’ll see you tomorrow, at college.’
    â€˜Sure.’
    â€˜Don’t be angry, Jim. You know it wouldn’t work. There’s more to marriage than a tidy sock drawer.’
    From where he was sitting on the couch, Jim caught sight of a pair of shorts that he had kicked under the armchair about five days ago. Candy-striped, faded and crumpled. He was beginning to feel very sorry for himself, but he dropped his head in mock-resignation, like a marionette with its strings cut.
    He fell asleep within five or ten minutes, which was unusual after a day in which he had been involved in so much psychic activity. Most days, a supernatural experience would leave him nervy and sweating, and he would roll about in bed for hour after hour while all kinds of mysterious images danced and flickered in his head like black-and-white movies. Pale, featureless faces, staring, half hidden behind misted-up windows. Monk-like figures in hoods and habits, rushing silently around corners before he could reach them. Sometimes he heard music, somebody playing a discordant piano in an echoing upstairs room. Sometimes he heard women weeping, ‘
Don’t, don’t, don’t
…’ over and over.
    But tonight he slid down that long dark shelf into unconsciousness almost immediately, and when he opened his eyes he was caught up in a dream so sharp and detailed that it was even more realistic than life itself.
    He was walking along a wide gray seashore, with the wind fluffing in his ears. The sky was overcast, and the beach was so flat that the waves were only inches deep. The waves poured over the sides of his shoes and soaked his socks, and then retreated.
    As he walked along, he became aware that somebody was walking far up ahead of him – a woman, it looked like, with her hair streaming in the wind and her shoulders bowed. He tried to walk faster, to catch her up, but she always seemed to remain out of reach. He had the urgent feeling that he needed to talk to her, or else something was going to go seriously wrong. The wind was rising now, and very much colder, and the waves began to splash against the legs of his pants, soaking him up to his knees.
    Without warning he was hit by a huge, overwhelming wave. It was freezing cold, and it dropped on top of him like a ton of wet cement, forcing him down to his knees. He tried to stand up, but the undertow dragged his feet away from him, and the next thing he knew he was floundering in nine or ten feet of salty water, his arms waving and his legs thrashing, completely helpless.
    Desperately, he tried to swim to the surface. But no matter how hard he kicked his legs and paddled his arms, he couldn’t seem to rise any higher. There was something clutching his ankle … something dragging him back down again.
    Bursting for breath, he twisted himself around to see what it was. With a cold shock of recognition, he saw that it was the same liquid figure he had seen climbing out of Jennie’s pool – a sinuous shape with long,