Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala (50 page)

Damned if it didn't feel … funny, somehow.

Too much work, too much to drink, too much fucking and not enough sleep
, he thought.

Chuckling softly, he pressed his tongue against the insides of his teeth. Damned, if that didn’t feel odd … as if his teeth were grooved with numerous tiny ridges.

LaBelle sat up in bed and stared at him with those slitted, golden eyes of hers. A tiny beam of sunlight caught her eyes at just the right angle, making them sparkle like amber glass beads. Her dark skin, in stark contrast with the glaring white of the sheets, made his eyes hurt … hurt like hell, in fact. His mouth was filled with a sickeningly sour aftertaste as though he had been on a week-long bender.

"No," he said, forming the word carefully in his mouth. "I was-s-s jus-s-s-st—"

Again, he stopped, his eyes widening with a subtle current of rising fear. Frantic, he swung his legs out from under the covers.

"Which way’s-s-s-s the bathroom?" he asked, fighting to keep his tone of voice casual. The pressure forcing his eyes to remain wide open was unbearable. "I jus-s-s-t want to s-s-s-see—"

He lurched suddenly forward and knocked one knee against the bed stand, sending the empty wine bottle and cigarette pack and lighter flying as he stumbled away from the bed. A jolt of pain from the impact burned up his thigh to his hips. When he glanced down at his injured knee, his breath whistled in his throat with a loud, hissing sound. Covering both legs, from the knees down to his ankles, was some strange brown stuff that looked like—

"Oh, Jesus-s-s-s! Je-s-s-sus-s-s
Chris-s-s-s-t!
"

He reached down with both hands and started rubbing his legs. The skin was dry and scaly. Even as he stood there staring at himself, too stunned to say or do anything, the brown scaly growth shimmered and shifted up over his knees and down his feet until it covered the toes of both feet. A distinct design of triangles appeared beneath his skin, darkening and becoming more clearly defined by the second. A cold prickling sensation raced up Dennis's legs as if something was burrowing underneath his skin. He imagined dozens—hundreds—thousands of tiny worms twisting along narrow caverns inside his leg muscles and bones.

The bedsprings squeaked behind him. Turning, he saw LaBelle, rising slowly from the bed in a slow, liquid motion reminiscent of her erotic dance. She raised her arms above her head as she slipped into a thin, nearly transparent nightgown. She stood silently at the foot of the bed and stared at him, her golden eyes widening as she watched him looking back at her. Moaning softly, Dennis leaned down and began to claw frantically at the scaly skin that was rippling up, encasing both of his legs.

"What the hell is-s-s this-s-s s s-s-s-shit?" he screamed, clenching both hands into fists and shaking them at her even as he stared, wide-eyed, at her body, made gauzy, like something in a dream, by the flimsy nightgown.

LaBelle smiled at him—a thin, wicked smile that showed the edges of her pearly teeth denting her lower lip. The golden gleam in her eyes intensified, becoming brighter than the glare of morning sunlight.

Involuntarily, Dennis clamped his arms flat against his sides. Tearing his unblinking gaze away from her, he looked down in mute horror as the thick, brown scales with black and red designs washed like waves up and over his hips, engulfing his stomach, chest, and arms. His legs suddenly tugged together so violently he almost lost his balance.

"What the fuck is-s-s-s going on?"

The muscles in his neck tingled as the icy sensation of tiny fingers, squeezing tightly, choking him, got steadily stronger. Air came into his lungs in rapid, hissing gulps. His lips peeled back in a silent grimace of pain, and when he opened his mouth again to speak, his tongue flashed out and wiggled beneath his nose. In that flickering instant, his tongue appeared to be doubled, as if it were forked!

The scales continued to sweep up over his body, covering his neck and jaw. With his legs bonded so tightly together, he lost his balance and pitched face-first onto the floor beside the bed. Through his blinding panic, he was only distantly aware of the painful impact. Inside his body, his bones were shifting, compressing, crinkling like tissue paper as his muscles and tendons stretched and shortened, twisting into new, bizarre shapes. His head was pulled back so, even lying on his belly on the floor, he was looking up at the ceiling. Morning light streaming through the bedroom window stung his eyes, and all around him—around LaBelle, the bed, the bathroom, everything—he saw bright splinters of luminous light that rippled with subtly shifting rainbow hues. The next time he opened his mouth to speak, the only sound that came out was a long, rasping
hiss
.

LaBelle stood back with her hands on her hips and watched all of this, smiling wickedly as Dennis writhed helplessly on the floor in front of her. Her smile widened as the scales swept up and covered his face and head. Within seconds, his body, face and all, was sheathed in glistening brown and orange scales, a glorious pattern of subtly shifting colors. Without the use of his arms and legs, which were now fused to the sides of his twisting body, he could do nothing but glare up at her with a steady, unblinking stare.

"I told you last night, Dennis," LaBelle said, her voice teasing and low as she moved closer to him. "I know
exactly
who you are . .. and I know exactly
what
you are." She chuckled, soft and light. "You're nothing but a snake in the grass!"

Then she burst into wild laughter, and Dennis knew there was a terrified gleam in his eyes that communicated to her that he still could hear and understand her. Frantically, he worked his mouth, but the bone structure of his new jaw was entirely different. His mouth was lipless, and without lips, without a human throat, he wasn't able to utter any of the words that cascaded insanely through his mind. Distantly, he heard a loud, hissing sound, and after a moment or two realized it was the only sound he could make.

"Yes, Dennis, you tasted things last night," LaBelle said softly. "Things that no man ... no
man
now living has ever tasted. They turned you into what you truly are … what you have been all along."

With a final burst of heartless laughter, she went to the trailer door and flung it open. Leaning out into the brisk, morning air, she cupped her hands to her mouth and called out, "He's ready. You can come and get him."

The carnival people were happy that early May afternoon. Mothers, fathers, and children arrived as soon as the gates were open, and they poured hundreds of quarters and dollars into the pony and go-cart rides. The Ferris Wheel and Scrambler sold out and didn’t stop all day, and all of the games, events, and food concession stands made more money than they had at the last three stops combined. LaBelle's dance, as always, filled the tent every show with leering, horny men.

In front of the FREAK SHOW tent, the barker, wearing a red and white striped vest and straw hat, repeatedly slapped his cane on the podium, making a loud
cracking
sound as he tempted the crowd with promises of the wonders held within. Above him, alongside pictures of TABOO—THE TATTOOED MAN; VENNY—THE PIG BOY; TOM, DICK, AND HARRY—THE THREE-HEADED MAN; LUCAN—THE WOLF BOY; MATILDA—THE FAT LADY; and TONY—THE SPIDER MAN with "
COUNT 'EM, BOY 'N GIRLS-SIX
" ARMS, was a picture of a coiled snake with a human face. In broad, red letters, still gleaming with fresh paint in the early morning sunlight, were the words:

"
SEE DENNIS … THE SNAKE MAN … HE SLITHERS AND CRA WLS ON HIS BELLY LIKE A REPTILE!
"

Although it was often part of his job as a recovery diver for the state of
Maine, Jeff Stewart hadn’t been expecting to find a body today. It was Saturday morning, and he was doing some diving for his friend and drinking buddy, Mel “Biz” Potter. A storm had passed through a couple of days before, and they were looking for some of Biz’s lobster pots that had broken off their buoy ropes in the rough seas. Locals called such lost traps “ghost traps” because when they lie there on the bottom of the ocean, a lobster can still scuttle inside. If more than one lobster ends up in a trap, the bigger, stronger one will kill and eat the other—or others. But that only prolongs its captivity until—eventually—it dies, too … of starvation.

Even on the sunniest day, there isn’t much light down as deep as Jeff was today. The storm was long gone, but the sky was still overcast, as gray as soot, and the seas were choppy. Even at six or seven fathoms, the powerful tug of the tide knocked Jeff about. He’d agreed to help out Biz—like he usually did once or twice a summer—for the comradeship and for the simple pleasure that diving gave him. No matter how much Marcie, his girlfriend, bitched about him screwing around on the one day of the week they had to spend together, Jeff took advantage of any and all excuses to dive. He relished the freedom, the sense of weightlessness and total isolation.

Working his day job was search, rescue, and recovery for the U.S. Coast Guard, so Jeff had seen more than his fair share of drowned bodies … “sinkers,” as he and his co-workers called them. When this one hove into view, illuminated by the diffused beam of Jeff’s underwater flashlight, he couldn’t help but be startled.

Most drowning victims, if you found them soon enough—say within twenty-four to forty-eight hours, before the lobsters, crabs, and other scavengers on the ocean floor started to consume the dead meat—ended up the same way. Once the person was dead, the blood pooled in their rumps and lower legs, weighing them down so they were sitting on the ocean floor with their legs splayed out in front of them. Their arms invariably would be raised and extended, like they were reaching for something to cling to … something solid so they could hoist themselves back up to the surface.

In all his years of diving, the one thing Jeff had never been able to get over—the single most fascinating thing—was the dead person’s face … especially the eyes. Once the blood drained out of the head and upper body, and settled into the lower trunk, the puckered skin turned as white and translucent as marble. Winding traces of veins stood out like faded tattoos beneath the pasty pale skin. Of course, someone with darker skin coloration wouldn’t be as white as alabaster, but the effect—at least on every body Jeff had ever recovered—was as fascinating as it was gruesome. The eyes—if some sea creatures hadn’t already gotten at them yet—would be wide open and staring with what Jeff always saw as an expression of stunned surprise. It was as if the victim still couldn’t believe he or she was actually dead down here on the sea bottom.

But it was one thing when Jeff was fifty or more feet below the surface of the ocean actually
looking
for a drowning victim. Finding one when he wasn’t expecting it sent a tingling rush through him, like an electric jolt to the groin. He drew back involuntarily, waving his arms and kicking his legs to keep his orientation. His heart started pounding like a drop forge hammer, and a thick, salty pressure throbbed behind his eyes. The flashlight started to slip from his grip, but he clutched it tightly. After the initial shock began to subside, he trained the beam back onto the drowned man. Kicking easily and still trying to calm down, he approached the corpse slowly.

Judging by the clothes, the victim looked like he’d been down here quite a while. Tattered remnants of a plaid work shirt and protective yellow rubber coveralls—something all lobstermen wore when at sea working—were covered with thick strands of green slime and were rotting away. The man was sitting with his legs out in front of him, his toes pointing upward. Jagged black shreds of rubber boots still clung to his feet and lower legs. His arms were extended and waving from side to side like thick fronds of kelp moving with the deep-sea currents. The man’s hands were extended, his fingers hooked like claws. Long yellowed fingernails looking like chipped, old porcelain stuck out from the ends of the withered, bone-white hands.

Jeff couldn’t help but think the man looked like he had been waiting patiently for him … or
someone
… to come along and find him in the darkness seven fathoms below the surface.

Tiny pinpricks of light squiggled across Jeff’s vision. He realized he was still breathing too fast for safety and consciously slowed his breathing. He willed his racing pulse to slow down while he considered who this might be … and what might have happened … and how long he’d been underwater.

To the best of Jeff’s recollection, no one had gone missing at sea recently. This man might have been swept overboard during the recent storm and not been reported missing yet, but the condition of his clothes and skin certainly made that an unlikely possibility. The only people who’d been lost at sea so far this summer season had been a couple of lobstermen out of Vinalhaven whose bodies had washed near The Nephews, an island due east of The Cove. Jeff didn’t know of anyone else who’d gone missing.

As he drew nearer, Jeff noticed something peculiar. There was something wrapped around the man’s waist. It was difficult to tell what it was, since it was lost in the dark folds of slime and the man’s rotting clothes, but it sure as hell looked like a chain. Jeff wiped the slime away and picked up the slack. Following it outward, he found one end of the chain tied to a cement block. Barnacles encrusted the corroded iron and cement block, further evidence that whoever this poor bastard was, he had been down here for a long time.