The Year's Best Horror Stories 9 by Karl Edward Wagner (Ed.) Page B
Authors: Karl Edward Wagner (Ed.)
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the last minute or so? And was Petey calling something? Yes. Hal couldn’t make out what it was over the wind. It didn’t matter. Getting rid of the monkey for another twenty years—or maybe forever (please God, forever)—that was what mattered.
The boat reared and came down. He glanced left and saw baby whitecaps. He looked shoreward again and saw Hunter’s Point and a collapsed wreck that must have been the Burdon’s boathouse when he and Bill were kids. Almost there, then. Almost over the spot where Amos Culligan’s Studebaker had plunged through the ice one long-ago December. Almost over the deepest part of the lake.
Petey was screaming something; screaming and pointing. Hal still couldn’t hear. The rowboat rocked and bucked, flatting off clouds of thin spray to either side of its peeling bow. A tiny rainbow glowed in one, was pulled apart. Sunlight and shadow raced across the lake in shutters and the waves were not mild now; the whitecaps had grown up. His sweat had dried to gooseflesh, and spray had soaked the back of his jacket. He rowed grimly, eyes alternating between the shoreline and the flight bag. The boat rose again, this time so high that for a moment the left oar pawed at air instead of water.
Petey was pointing at the sky, his screams now only a faint, bright runner of sound.
Hal looked over his shoulder.
The lake was a frenzy of waves. It had gone a deadly dark shade of blue sewn with white seams. A shadow raced across the water toward the boat and something in its shape was familiar, so terribly familiar, that Hal looked up and then the scream was there, struggling in his tight throat.
The sun was behind the cloud, turning it into a hunched working shape with two gold-edged crescents held apart. Two holes were torn in one end of the cloud, and sunshine poured through in two shafts.
As the cloud crossed over the boat, the monkey’s cymbals, barely muffled by the flight bag, began to beat. Jang-jang-jang-jang, its you, Hal, its finally you, you’re over the deepest part of the lake now and its your turn, your turn, your turn —
All the necessary shoreline elements had clicked into their places. The rotting bones of Amos Culligan’s Studebaker lay somewhere below, this was where the big ones were, this was the place.
Hal shipped the oars to the locks in one quick jerk, leaned forward unmindful of the wildly rocking boat, and snatched the flight bag. The cymbals made their wild, pagan music; the bag’s sides bellowed as if with tenebrous respiration.
“Right here, you sonofabitch! ” Hal screamed. “RIGHT HERE!”
He threw the bag over the side.
It sank fast. For a moment he could see it going down, sides moving, and for that endless moment he could still hear the cymbals beating. And for a moment the black waters seemed to clear and he could see down into that terrible gulf of waters to where the big ones lay; there was Amos Culligan’s Studebaker, and Hal’s mother was behind its slimy wheel, a grinning skeleton with a lake bass staring coldly from the skull’s nasal cavity. Uncle Will and Aunt Ida lolled beside her, and Aunt Ida’s gray hair trailed upward as the bag fell, turning over and over, a few silver bubbles trailing up: jang-jang-jang-jang . . .
Hal slammed the oars back into the water, scraping blood from his knuckles (and ah God the back of Amos Culligan’s Studebaker had been full of dead children! Charlie Silverman . . . Johnny McCabe . . .), and began to bring the boat about.
There was a dry pistol-shot crack between his feet, and suddenly clear water was welling up between two boards. The boat was old; the wood had shrunk a bit, no doubt; it was just a small leak. But it hadn’t been there when he rowed out. He would have sworn to it.
The shore and lake changed places in his view. Petey was at his back now. Overhead, that awful, simian cloud was breaking up. Hal began to row. Twenty seconds was enough to convince him he was rowing for his life. He was only
The boat reared and came down. He glanced left and saw baby whitecaps. He looked shoreward again and saw Hunter’s Point and a collapsed wreck that must have been the Burdon’s boathouse when he and Bill were kids. Almost there, then. Almost over the spot where Amos Culligan’s Studebaker had plunged through the ice one long-ago December. Almost over the deepest part of the lake.
Petey was screaming something; screaming and pointing. Hal still couldn’t hear. The rowboat rocked and bucked, flatting off clouds of thin spray to either side of its peeling bow. A tiny rainbow glowed in one, was pulled apart. Sunlight and shadow raced across the lake in shutters and the waves were not mild now; the whitecaps had grown up. His sweat had dried to gooseflesh, and spray had soaked the back of his jacket. He rowed grimly, eyes alternating between the shoreline and the flight bag. The boat rose again, this time so high that for a moment the left oar pawed at air instead of water.
Petey was pointing at the sky, his screams now only a faint, bright runner of sound.
Hal looked over his shoulder.
The lake was a frenzy of waves. It had gone a deadly dark shade of blue sewn with white seams. A shadow raced across the water toward the boat and something in its shape was familiar, so terribly familiar, that Hal looked up and then the scream was there, struggling in his tight throat.
The sun was behind the cloud, turning it into a hunched working shape with two gold-edged crescents held apart. Two holes were torn in one end of the cloud, and sunshine poured through in two shafts.
As the cloud crossed over the boat, the monkey’s cymbals, barely muffled by the flight bag, began to beat. Jang-jang-jang-jang, its you, Hal, its finally you, you’re over the deepest part of the lake now and its your turn, your turn, your turn —
All the necessary shoreline elements had clicked into their places. The rotting bones of Amos Culligan’s Studebaker lay somewhere below, this was where the big ones were, this was the place.
Hal shipped the oars to the locks in one quick jerk, leaned forward unmindful of the wildly rocking boat, and snatched the flight bag. The cymbals made their wild, pagan music; the bag’s sides bellowed as if with tenebrous respiration.
“Right here, you sonofabitch! ” Hal screamed. “RIGHT HERE!”
He threw the bag over the side.
It sank fast. For a moment he could see it going down, sides moving, and for that endless moment he could still hear the cymbals beating. And for a moment the black waters seemed to clear and he could see down into that terrible gulf of waters to where the big ones lay; there was Amos Culligan’s Studebaker, and Hal’s mother was behind its slimy wheel, a grinning skeleton with a lake bass staring coldly from the skull’s nasal cavity. Uncle Will and Aunt Ida lolled beside her, and Aunt Ida’s gray hair trailed upward as the bag fell, turning over and over, a few silver bubbles trailing up: jang-jang-jang-jang . . .
Hal slammed the oars back into the water, scraping blood from his knuckles (and ah God the back of Amos Culligan’s Studebaker had been full of dead children! Charlie Silverman . . . Johnny McCabe . . .), and began to bring the boat about.
There was a dry pistol-shot crack between his feet, and suddenly clear water was welling up between two boards. The boat was old; the wood had shrunk a bit, no doubt; it was just a small leak. But it hadn’t been there when he rowed out. He would have sworn to it.
The shore and lake changed places in his view. Petey was at his back now. Overhead, that awful, simian cloud was breaking up. Hal began to row. Twenty seconds was enough to convince him he was rowing for his life. He was only
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