owned one, and no one, not even Stick, had known what I was doing.
It’s a dream, I told myself then; it’s nothing but a stupid dream and you’re going to wake up any minute now. Any minute now you’re going to get out of bed and go down to breakfast and tell Aunt May you’re on another diet. And Stick will be there, telling you you’re an asshole because you won’t give up Mary.
I stood over her image and shook my head, reaching out to touch her, and yanking my hand back when I felt the cold wood. Looked up to the moon—it was new, just a crescent, but it and its stars were bright enough to let me see the lines in Mary’s face, and the shadow by the tree.
It wasn’t Stick Reese, because he was dead.
It wasn’t Mike, and it wasn’t Richard, and it wasn’t Uncle Gil.
And it certainly wasn’t Mary, come to bring me to her bed.
There was little form, less substance; there was no movement at all. In a gap between trees, only vague ripplings in black to show it was there at all, the suggestions of a dress or cloak, the outline of a covered head.
When the breeze gusted, it swayed.
And it appeared to be listening.
I cleared my throat, wiped my mouth, and tried real hard not to think about psychotic ax- and knife-wielding killers who preyed on innocent college juniors, slashing their throats and leaving them in deserted fields and orchards to be found days later, picked to pieces by the crows.
I looked over my shoulder, figuring the distance to the road and the odds of my being able to get there safely, assuming I didn’t fall, assuming I wasn’t caught.
The moon touched the orchard with traces of dead silver; the wind touched the air with traces of screams.
I eased back a step and looked to the shadow to see if it had followed.
It hadn’t.
It just stood there.
I thought about claiming I wasn’t alone, my friends were here with me and there was no chance it could take me without getting hurt itself; I thought about claiming I had a gun and wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
Standing there.
Sweat dropped into my eyes. I shook my head, rubbed a hand over my face, and looked again to see how much closer it had gotten.
It hadn’t.
It was gone.
Panic tightened my groin. My fingers clenched, stiffened, clenched again as I turned a quick tight circle, staring into the dark, looking for the shadow, finally closing my eyes and releasing a breath in a barely audible moan. Christ, I thought; and I punched my chest once, punishment for the way my imagination had scared me. I was alone. I knew it. Because everyone else had left me.
“All right,” I said briskly, clapping my hands and giving myself a shake. “All right, let’s get moving here, huh, Johns? Let’s get our ass in gear.”
First I’d take care of Mary, then get to the hospital and take care of myself.
Slowly I walked around the huge block of wood, peering closely again to be doubly sure nothing had been damaged. It was hard, though. I kept hearing things behind me, feeling things watching, feeling the nightcold as it sifted down from the moon. I knelt at the head, at each side, and finally the foot, suddenly awfully tired and holding onto the top corners when I pushed myself up.
And looked at my thin hands, at the thin pale shadow that draped over Mary.
I don’t know what happened, but I felt really dizzy and fell forward, my hands landing on either side of Mary’s hips to keep me from landing on her, one knee cracking against the rim.
The top moved.
The wind whispered.
I eased myself away so carefully I almost cramped, knowing something was wrong because that wasn’t any top—it was all one big piece, with nothing inside.
I reached out, pulled back, dried my hands on my jeans, and reached out again like I was ready to put my whole hand in fire. Mary, I thought; Mary, please help me. And I pushed a corner, hard. Nothing happened, and I laughed dryly. So I pushed a second time—and the scrape of wood against wood dropped me to my
It’s a dream, I told myself then; it’s nothing but a stupid dream and you’re going to wake up any minute now. Any minute now you’re going to get out of bed and go down to breakfast and tell Aunt May you’re on another diet. And Stick will be there, telling you you’re an asshole because you won’t give up Mary.
I stood over her image and shook my head, reaching out to touch her, and yanking my hand back when I felt the cold wood. Looked up to the moon—it was new, just a crescent, but it and its stars were bright enough to let me see the lines in Mary’s face, and the shadow by the tree.
It wasn’t Stick Reese, because he was dead.
It wasn’t Mike, and it wasn’t Richard, and it wasn’t Uncle Gil.
And it certainly wasn’t Mary, come to bring me to her bed.
There was little form, less substance; there was no movement at all. In a gap between trees, only vague ripplings in black to show it was there at all, the suggestions of a dress or cloak, the outline of a covered head.
When the breeze gusted, it swayed.
And it appeared to be listening.
I cleared my throat, wiped my mouth, and tried real hard not to think about psychotic ax- and knife-wielding killers who preyed on innocent college juniors, slashing their throats and leaving them in deserted fields and orchards to be found days later, picked to pieces by the crows.
I looked over my shoulder, figuring the distance to the road and the odds of my being able to get there safely, assuming I didn’t fall, assuming I wasn’t caught.
The moon touched the orchard with traces of dead silver; the wind touched the air with traces of screams.
I eased back a step and looked to the shadow to see if it had followed.
It hadn’t.
It just stood there.
I thought about claiming I wasn’t alone, my friends were here with me and there was no chance it could take me without getting hurt itself; I thought about claiming I had a gun and wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
Standing there.
Sweat dropped into my eyes. I shook my head, rubbed a hand over my face, and looked again to see how much closer it had gotten.
It hadn’t.
It was gone.
Panic tightened my groin. My fingers clenched, stiffened, clenched again as I turned a quick tight circle, staring into the dark, looking for the shadow, finally closing my eyes and releasing a breath in a barely audible moan. Christ, I thought; and I punched my chest once, punishment for the way my imagination had scared me. I was alone. I knew it. Because everyone else had left me.
“All right,” I said briskly, clapping my hands and giving myself a shake. “All right, let’s get moving here, huh, Johns? Let’s get our ass in gear.”
First I’d take care of Mary, then get to the hospital and take care of myself.
Slowly I walked around the huge block of wood, peering closely again to be doubly sure nothing had been damaged. It was hard, though. I kept hearing things behind me, feeling things watching, feeling the nightcold as it sifted down from the moon. I knelt at the head, at each side, and finally the foot, suddenly awfully tired and holding onto the top corners when I pushed myself up.
And looked at my thin hands, at the thin pale shadow that draped over Mary.
I don’t know what happened, but I felt really dizzy and fell forward, my hands landing on either side of Mary’s hips to keep me from landing on her, one knee cracking against the rim.
The top moved.
The wind whispered.
I eased myself away so carefully I almost cramped, knowing something was wrong because that wasn’t any top—it was all one big piece, with nothing inside.
I reached out, pulled back, dried my hands on my jeans, and reached out again like I was ready to put my whole hand in fire. Mary, I thought; Mary, please help me. And I pushed a corner, hard. Nothing happened, and I laughed dryly. So I pushed a second time—and the scrape of wood against wood dropped me to my
Similar Books
