Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala (23 page)

Any second now, Holly expected to feel razor-sharp claws slice into her back, but—somehow—she found the strength to get up, turn around, and look back down into the cellar. The creatures were swarming all over her mother, their angry snarls filling the air as their claws and fangs flashed in the darkness and ripped into her. Pieces of flesh and blood flew into the air. Her mother’s screams rose to a shrill note and then suddenly cut off with a gargling sound that was then replaced by the sounds of tearing flesh and cracking bones.

Slowly, her body shaking terribly, Holly staggered to her feet. Burning gasps wracked her thin chest with every breath she took. A horrible taste filled the back of her throat, making her gag. She was afraid she was going to throw up. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably as she grasped the doorknob, preparing to slam the door shut.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that the thin door wasn’t anywhere near strong enough to stop these things, whatever they were. Their claws could rip through the wood as easily as they tore through flesh and bones, she knew, and she—
just like her daddy and the oilman and her momma
—was going to be killed … ripped to bloody pieces.

Numb with shock and terror, Holly looked around, her mind totally blank as she tried to think of what to do next.

She couldn’t run outside. All she had on was her slippers, pajamas, and her winter coat, but she needed hat and mittens in the storm. Besides, with several inches, maybe a foot of snow on the ground, she wouldn’t get very far before they caught up with her. The nearest neighbors—Mr. and Mrs. Holland—lived more than a quarter mile away. If her daddy and momma were really dead, there was no one around who could help her.

Holly was convinced that, if she went upstairs and tried to hide, the creatures would find her and kill her. She knew where her daddy kept his hunting rifle, but she had no idea where he hid the bullets. Even if the gun was loaded, she didn’t know how to shoot and, besides, there were way too many of these things. She couldn’t stop them all.

Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision as she looked around the kitchen for something to use to defend herself. The creatures were moving around down in the darkness at the foot of the cellar stairs. When she glanced down, numerous pairs of dully glowing eyes stared up at her.

Glancing over her shoulder at the kitchen window, Holly was surprised to notice that the snow had stopped. Above the trees across the road, the sky was brightening, turning from black to a dark, sooty gray as the dawn approached.

They’re afraid of the light
, she realized, remembering how one of the creatures had squealed when her daddy had shined the flashlight into its face.

Would the daylight be bright enough to scare them away?

Would there be enough light to keep these horrible things down in the cellar?

She was barely aware of the whimpering sounds she was making as she slammed the door shut and leaned her back against it. Clinging with both hands to the doorknob, she pressed hard against the door.

From down in the cellar, she heard the stairs creak and snap as the creatures started up them, coming after her. Their claws scraped against the wood, and the soft grunting and clicking sounds they made chilled her.

And then the first body slammed against the cellar door. The impact was hard enough to jolt Holly, but she gritted her teeth and held on, pressing her back flat against the door.

Will it hold?
she wondered, her lower lip trembling as she fought back tears.

She remembered her daddy saying something about how one of the things he liked about this house was that it was made of good, solid, old-fashioned oak, not the cheap kind of construction you find in most houses today.

Is this door as solid as oak?
she wondered.

Will it be strong enough to hold until daylight comes, and the creatures would be afraid and have to return to the darkness?

Holly’s tears burned her eyes as she stared out the kitchen window at the gradually brightening sky. The storm clouds were blowing away fast, now that the storm had passed. The dark gray of dawn was steadily lightening to a faint tint of blue. Her heart was hammering in her chest, making her neck throb.

The door, no more than an inch thick, she guessed, was all that separated her from those terrible creatures with their ugly faces and their claws.

From the other side of the door, she could hear the steady rasping sound as they scarped and tore at the wood.

Will it hold?

Pressure was building up on the other side. She could feel it as more and more creatures came up the stairs and pressed their weight against the door, clawing at the wood … pounding on it. Every now and then the doorknob would jiggle in her hand, but they didn’t try to force it. Holly guessed they were just dumb animals, too stupid to know how to use a doorknob. Kicking off her slippers so she could get better traction on the cold linoleum floor, she braced her shaking legs and leaned as hard as she could against the door. The frantic scratching sounds and the squealing from the other side got steadily louder.

Will it hold?
….

Will it hold?

That thought kept pounding in her head like the steady hammering that came from the other side of the cellar door.

If she could hang on just long enough … if she could just keep them down there in the cellar until dawn … Holly knew she might have a chance.

She might not die.

But how soon would the sun come up now that the snowstorm was over, and how strong was the door?

Would it hold them back long enough so, as morning light filled the cellar, they would be driven back into their hole?

Or had the snow piled up high enough over the cellar windows so it would block out the sunlight, and they wouldn’t be afraid?

Maybe they would keep beating and tearing at the door until it finally gave way, and then they’d pour into the kitchen?

By then, would there be enough daylight to scare them back down into the cellar, or would they do to her what they had done to her daddy and her momma and the oilman?

Holly choked back her tears and squeezed her eyes so tightly shut they hurt as she pressed her full weight against the cellar door, her body jumping with every impact from the other side.

She
had
to hold on … at least until daylight.

She had to be
strong
and keep these things from getting to her.

No matter what, she had to do this … She had to be brave so her daddy would be proud of her.

“Frogs at the bottom of the well see only a small part of the sky.”

—A Chinese proverb

“I think I might’ve seen pop last night.”

Mark Stover was sitting at the kitchen table across from his mother. Overhead, a single light bulb cast a dull yellow patina, like a coating of dust, over the well-worn linoleum floor, the faded and chipped countertop, and the frayed, red and white checkered tablecloth. Ellen Stover, Mark’s mother, was sitting silently with her hands folded on the table in front of her. Between her forearms was a cup of tea. Although it was no longer steaming, she hadn’t sipped it yet. The overhead light made the skin on the back of her hands look as cracked and pale as the old ceramic teacup. It was almost translucent. Pencil-thin tendons and twisting blue veins stood out in sharp relief beneath her skin as she twisted and twined her fingers together.

“What do you mean?” she said, her voice low and tremulous, a faint whisper.

Mark heaved a sigh as he leaned his chair back on two legs and took a swallow from his beer bottle. His throat made a loud gulping sound that might have been funny except for the sensation he had that unseen hands as cold as ice were gripping him by the throat and slowly squeezing.

“Well, I—” He paused and took another swig. “You have to realize how tough this is for me, coming back home after all this time.”

His mother nodded but said nothing. His grip around the beer bottle tightened as he absent-mindedly flicked the edge of the bottle’s label with his thumbnail. His vision went unfocused as he dredged up the memory of the nightmare he’d had the night before. It had been his first night sleeping in his boyhood home in over ten years.

“I know it wasn’t pop. Not really. But I was thinking about him, you know, and I was trying to—to ...”

He let his voice fade away because he wasn’t sure how to say what he wanted to say without hurting his mother’s feelings. She smiled reassuringly and sighed and then shifted her gaze away, blinking her eyes as though fighting back tears.

“Well of
course
it couldn’t
really
have been him,” she said. “Your father’s been dead more’n eight years, now.”

Mark nodded and after a moment said in a low, raspy voice, “I still feel bad about not making it to his funeral.”

“What’s done is done,” his mother said with a shrug that wasn’t quite as casual as she might have intended. “So where’d you see him?”

A terrible chill gripped Mark as he allowed the memory of his nightmare to come back. For a moment, he couldn’t take a deep enough breath to speak, but he finally managed to croak out the words, “In my bedroom.”

“I see.”

An odd expression crossed his mother’s face. His stomach tightened, and his heart dropped in the cold center of his chest.

I know exactly what it was!
Mark thought, fighting back the chills that skittered up and down his back.

The bastard’s still here!

No matter how long he’s been dead ... no matter how deep we bury him ... he will always cast a shadow over this house and both of our lives.

He wanted to say this—or something very much like it—to his mother, but the sensation of cold hands tightening around his throat grew stronger. To relieve it, he tilted his head back and focused on the ceiling as he took another long swallow of beer.

After a lengthening moment of awkward silence, he cleared his throat and said, “Do you have any idea how much I hate this place?”

“Home, you mean?”

“No, the island.”

His mother sighed, lowered her gaze as though heartbroken, and said nothing.

“The whole goddamned place! Goddamned Glooscap Island and the goddamned ocean that surrounds it and everything about it! You know—”

He caught himself and sniffed with laughter as he narrowed his eyes, lowered his head and shook it as though deeply saddened.

“It’s funny how every summer this place is overrun with tourists and summer people—”

“And every year, things get nothing but worse,” his mother added, sounding wistful.

“What do they come here for?”

His mother frowned and shrugged.

“To get away from it all, I guess,” she said. “Away from the crime and overcrowding in the cities, the hustle and bustle. They want to be surrounded by the ocean so they can relax and forget all about their problems back at home—in the city. They want to breathe fresh ocean air and—”

“Exactly! Fresh air,” Mark said sharply, pointing at her with his beer bottle. “But do you know what this island smells like to me?”

He paused, but when his mother didn’t say anything, he continued.

“All it’s ever smelled like to me is dead, rotting fish!”

His mother considered this for a moment. Then she nodded and stared at him silently. Mark sniffed the air, flaring his nostrils as though testing the wind.

“Can’t you smell it right now?” He snorted loudly, the faint stench—or the memory of it—clinging to the insides of his nose and throat. “God, ever since I can remember, that’s all this house, this town, this whole goddamned island has
ever
smelled like—a barrel of dead, rotting, putrid fish.” His voice trailed away as he shook his head slowly and finished, “Like pop’s bait barrel.”

He took another swallow of beer, draining the bottle, and then, feeling a bit woozy, placed it carefully on the table in front of him.

“That always was pop’s own special smell, wasn’t it?” He chuckled softly. “It was like his personal cologne or something—a mixture of—what? Dead fish, diesel fumes, cigar smoke—” He swallowed again, noisily, and added, “—and cheap whiskey.”

“Your father was a lobsterman.” His mom let out a lilting laugh of her own. “It was all part of the job.”

“Really? You accept that?”

His mother smiled and said, “I had to. It was my lot in life.”

“Yeah, but do you realize how embarrassing it was? Jesus, I’d go to high school and had friends on the mainland, but I never wanted to invite any of them to the house. I didn’t dare to because of the smell. I was so embarrassed by the way the stink of him permeated … everything.
Everything!
You remember that I used to shower sometimes two or three times a day, right? I did it so that god-awful smell wouldn’t cling to me the way it does—the way it did to
him
.”

Ellen tilted her head slightly to one side and shrugged.

“Your father certainly wasn’t the only man on Glooscap Island who smelled like that, I can assure you.”