Moonbog (3 page)

The trees opened again onto a view of the Bog— a wider, more desolate view of the swampy area. “The goddamned Bog.”

“What? What’d you say?” Allison asked suddenly.

David was startled and shook his head. “Oh, nothing . . . nothing. I must have been thinking out loud.”

“About the Will?”

“No, not about the goddamned
Will!
” he snapped. He was silent for a moment, then continued. “I was just thinking how glad I am that I
did
get the hell out of Maine and moved to New York. And how once this hassle with the Will is settled, I’ll probably never come back here again.”

“You seem to be getting pretty excited about being back,” Allison said. There was a trace of accusation in her voice that grated on David.

“Well . . . it
is
my hometown. It doesn’t mean I want to move back here.” He reached out and placed his hand on her knee, giving it a little squeeze. Allison moaned softly and shifted in her seat, leaning back and letting her legs, spread invitingly. David let his hand wander up to mid-thigh before stopping.

“Don’t stop. I like it, I like it,” she whispered, letting her head fall back against the car seat.

“Yeah, and so do I, but right now I’ve gotta’ drive.” He paused, then let his hand run over her stomach, breasts, and shoulder before returning it to the wheel. “But just you wait ‘til I get you in that motel room,” he said with a leering snicker.

“Yeah,” Allison responded, “you’ll probably be so tired from driving you won’t be able to get it up.”

“Don’t worry about me,” David said with a gritty growl. “Once I get out of this car and take a shower, I’ll keep you awake all night.”

Allison snickered. “Yeah, you probably will—with your snoring.”

David was about to reply when he saw a sign up ahead on the left. Pine Haven Motel, it read in flashing neon script. David pointed to it, and Allison nodded her head tiredly.

After they had checked in and inspected their room, they flipped a coin to see who would take the first shower. They had wanted to take one together, but the stall was barely big enough for one person. Allison won, so David went through the motions of unpacking while he waited for his turn. Half an hour later, with the humming sound of Allison’s blow-dryer filling the room, David finally got to wash away the tension and grime of the long drive.

“Hey, hon’?” he called, stepping from the shower, “Can you bring in the hair-dryer?”

There was no answer. Frisking his hair with a towel, he went to the bathroom door and peeked out. Allison was tucked into bed with the blankets pulled up to her chin. Her eyes were closed, and David guessed she either was sleeping or faking sleep to spite him. He dressed hurriedly and then, hair still damp, stood at the foot of the bed, watching Allison.

“Hey,” he whispered, “hey, sleepy-head.”

Allison stirred, but her eyes remained shut.

David glanced at his watch and saw that it was eleven-thirty. “Hey, Allison. You awake?”

There was no answer, just deep breathing.

“Well, I’m glad you’re having such fun,” he said softly as he took his jacket from the chair. He picked up his keys from the bureau and jingled them in his hand. “Well, you know, it’s been a while since I’ve seen the old town so, since you’re having such a good time, why don’t I slip on out for a drive? I just want to see the place, okay?”

Allison’s breathing was deep and steady.

“I knew you wouldn’t mind,” David said. Easing the door shut behind him, he went out to the car.

T
he Pine Haven Motel was about three miles out of town. As he got closer to the actual town of Holland, David felt a twisting knot in his stomach. His mind filled with memories of his childhood. Growing up in the country hadn’t been all that bad, he decided, maybe a bit boring at times, but certainly not that bad. He was glad he had left the place, but for him it still had a charm, a simplicity that he found lacking in the city. He started whistling an off-key version of “Take Me Home, Country Roads”.

The night pressed in around him as he drove. The chilled air mixed with the warmth the ground had absorbed, forming swirls of patchy fog in the hollows. Out on the Bog, a larger, thicker wall of mist loomed. Whenever David glanced in its direction, he felt the tension in his stomach tighten, and that made his whistling sound even more sour.

He gave up on making his own music and was reaching for the radio dial when he saw something moving beside the road ahead.

“What the—!” David shouted as his foot went for the brake, pressing it down hard. The tires started to skid on the tar, then they hit a patch of sand and began to drift. David jockeyed the steering wheel back and forth as he tried to stay on the road. He knew that, with front wheel drive, he was supposed to accelerate in a skid, but somehow that felt wrong to him. He pumped the brakes and gritted his teeth. There was a loud clunk from beneath the car. Then the front tire went over the edge.

“Hang on, baby,” David grunted, stiffening his arms and pulling at the steering wheel. Gravel and rocks flew up in his wake, and the headlights swung wildly, illuminating the side of the road. He thought for sure he was going to crash into a tree or fly out into the Bog but, with one final jerk on the steering wheel, the tires held. The car stopped moving and then stalled out.

“Jesus H.,” David muttered, wiping his forehead.

He leaned across the car seat and, rolling down the window, stared out at the mist-shrouded Bog. “What the hell was that?” he asked himself. For several minutes, he sat looking out into the thick night and wondering if he had really seen what he thought he had seen.

 
“Shit,” he whispered as he pulled up the emergency brake and slowly got out of the car. He walked to the back and snapped open the trunk latch. In the bottom of the wheel-well, beside the spare, was a flashlight. He picked it up and flicked it on. The beam shot out in a faint, glowing bar. He cupped the flashlight with his hand and, tilting his head back, looked up at the sprinkling of stars. He took a few deep breaths to calm his nerves and then swung the beam of light out over the Bog.

“I’m just over-tired,” he said softly to himself, surprised at the muffled quality of his voice. “There wasn’t anyone out there.” But he couldn’t deny the sensation that he was being watched as he tracked the light along the ground. Around him, the loud chorus of spring peepers filled the air, and David considered that, if someone was out there and wanted to sneak up on him, he’d get pretty damn close before he heard anything over the sound of the peepers.

He shivered and, with one hand, pulled the tab of his jacket zipper right up to his Adam’s apple. Twisting and turning to keep a clear, all-around view, David started walking back down the road to where he had seen . . . whatever it was that he had seen. He replayed the memory, trying to see more clearly, but all he could remember was an indistinct shape that looked like a person carrying something over his shoulder.

“His,” David muttered, “his. Why do I think it was a man?”

The light beam danced out over the land toward the Bog. It illuminated scrub pine, brush, and a dense carpet of spagnum moss. The sounds of the spring peepers swelled, rising louder and louder. The sound put David’s nerves on a keen edge as it became almost deafening.

Suddenly, David stopped short, and a surprised grunt escaped him. There, in the dirt alongside the road, were long furrows that looked like someone had run off the side of the road, dragging something.

With one last look around, he started down the embankment and out toward the Bog. As he moved, David was careful to keep the flashlight aimed directly in front of his feet. He carefully tested the ground before giving it his full weight. He knew from growing up near the Bog, that what often looked like solid ground wasn’t solid ground. The ground made a squishy, sucking sound and, once or twice, he almost lost a shoe. As he moved along the path made by whomever he had seen, David remembered his grandmother’s warning about the Bog:

“You be careful, now, you hear? I don’t want you disappearin’ in that durn Bog. Nosiree! It can suck you in right out of sight. Right out of sight. Disappear with nary a trace. Don’t you ever go into that there Bog!”

Still, far out over the Bog, the thick wall of mist drifted. Tatters of steam rose from the moist, warm ground and twisted like slow-moving sheets. David realized that he could be wrong; that this path could have been made hours or even days ago.

But something compelled him onward.

Suddenly, his breath caught in his throat with an audible click. There on the ground, caught in the circle of light he directed with a shaking hand, was a clearly distinguishable footprint.

Leaning close to the ground, he saw the impression of a bootheel. He stood up quickly, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Swinging the flashlight beam around in an arc, he scanned the area. The trail seemed to lead across the edge of the Bog, toward a small clump of trees. Was someone hiding there, watching?

A warning, tingling sensation brushed along his spine. Was he the hunter or the hunted? He purposely directed the flashlight beam away from the clump of trees, but he kept his eyes fixed on the spot.

“I know you’re out there, you bastard,” he whispered harshly, knowing that, at that distance, anyone hiding in the trees could never hear him over the sound of the spring peepers.

He kept the flashlight beam moving in random sweeps, but all the while he waited for some sign of motion from the trees. Everything remained still, motionless. Either there was no one there or. . . .

David stood in the night chill, wondering whether or not he should follow the path. He had played in the Bog—despite his grandmother’s warning—often enough as a child to feel confident walking in it at night, but he also knew the dangers.

—Suck you in right out of sight!

David made a move along the path and then halted.

—Disappear with nary a trace!

Dimly, vaguely, another fear rose in his mind. A fear, a childhood memory that he had lived with for so long that it operated in his subconscious mind.

—Don’t you ever go into that there Bog!

Long ago, when he was ten or—he wasn’t exactly sure now—maybe eleven years old, he and his best friend, Les, had been playing in the Bog one night. Les had told him that he had to pass a bravery test before he could join his club. That night Les had led him blindfolded into the Bog and told him he had to find his way out—alone.

David shivered as fragments of the memory of that night came to him. It had been a night like this: soft, moonlight wisps of mist; the song of spring peepers; close, pressing dark. And even though he and Les knew the Bog like their backyards, David had gotten lost and confused and frightened. As he searched for a way out of the Bog, for a familiar path, fear and panic had closed around his chest like an iron hand. After what seemed like hours, running in pure, blind fear, a shape—a man’s shape—suddenly loomed up out of the darkness. He saw him: a huge, hulking black shape coming toward him. David had gripped something—a tree limb, and in his panic, swung the tree limb like a baseball bat at the dark, hulking shape of the man. The last thing he had heard before his overwrought nerves collapsed and he fainted was the clean, sharp sound of a bone breaking.

Now, standing in the cool night, he directed his flashlight toward where he
knew
someone was hiding and watching. David made a small whimpering sound. The memory of that long-ago night came back with a sharp sting. Glancing nervously around, David started to move backward, away from the distant clump of trees.

“Why go looking for trouble,” he said hoarsely, keeping his eyes fixed on the far trees. Ghostly swirls of mist twisted at his ankles as he turned and started an easy jog in the direction of his parked car. The flashlight beam jiggled crazily as he ran, and he had to fight the growing, gnawing sensation that someone or some
thing
was gaining on him. He wanted to stop and look back behind to prove to himself that there was no one following him. Instead, he increased his pace and was soon dashing across the open ground.

When he was about fifty feet from the embankment, his foot hit a snag and he pitched face-first onto the soggy ground. The flashlight flew from his grasp and landed in the muck about ten feet from him. The light blinked out when it hit the ground.

“Goddamnit!” he hissed as he sat up and wiped the mud from his face. His jacket was water-proof, so his chest didn’t get wet; but his pants from the knees down were soaked through. Crouching, he went over and felt around on the ground until he found the flashlight. He wiped the muck from the lens and then snapped the button. He was surprised that the light still worked and, as he directed the beam along the ground, he muttered to himself, “Go ahead. I
dare
you to call these batteries regular.”

He looked back behind him, to see what had tripped him. When he saw what it was, he gasped once, then doubled over and held his hands against his stomach in a vain attempt to keep his supper down. He dropped to the ground on his knees and vomited.

“Oh my God!” he sputtered, and then retched again. Wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket, he pointed the flashlight beam at what had tripped him. He started to crawl on his hands and knees toward it and, as he got nearer, he had a dissociated sensation of a movie camera zooming in and out of a close-up.