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Authors: Rick Hautala

Tags: #Horror, #Fiction

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BOOK: The Mountain King
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“No! No
fucking
way!” Mark whispered. He shook his head as if that would help his numbed brain accept what he had just seen. His pulse was slamming like a hammer in his neck, and his entire body was trembling. He had to have imagined it all! 
After staring awhile in dazed disbelief down at the foot of the cliff where his friend should still be, he braced himself and finished making his way across The Zipper. But even after he was on relatively solid ground, he couldn’t stop trembling. 
He knew he had to move fast. If he didn’t get down off this mountain before nightfall, he would die of exposure ... or worse! He might end up another victim of whatever the hell that creature was that had just carried Phil away! 

 

 

Chapter Three
 

Two-timer 
 
 
“I dunno ... I just don’t like doing it like this, you know?” 
“Don’t worry. It’s not
your
problem.” 
“Bull
shit
it’s not my problem! If your husband ever finds out I was here, he’ll make
sure
it’s my problem, all right!” 

“Yeah, sure, but he’ll never find out. Come on, Dennis! Jesus! ... Sit your butt down! Relax a little, will you? God, you make me nervous when you pace like that!” 

“I’m sorry, okay? I—I just
can’t
relax!” 
“How about a beer, then? Maybe that’ll help you unwind . . . unless you want a little of . . .
this.”
 

Even with her hands cupped over her ears, Sandy Newman wasn’t able to cut out the voices that drifted up to her bedroom from the living room. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes tightly as she cringed beneath her bed covers, trying her hardest not to think about what was going on downstairs. Of course, knowing Polly, her stepmother, as she did, it wasn’t all that hard for Sandy to imagine what was happening. 

“God damn you! God damn you both!”
Sandy whispered in the darkness underneath her bedcovers. 

It was a little past nine o’clock on Saturday night, but Sandy had gone to bed early because she hadn’t been feeling all that well. Her stepmother had accused her of faking being sick so she could miss school on Monday, but that wasn’t true at all. Sandy’s senior year at high school had started just a few weeks ago and, so far, was going great. She was actively looking forward to finishing off her high school years with straight A’s so she could get into her first-choice college, either Bates or William and Mary. 

No, she really
had
been feeling lousy for the past three days, and right now, more than anything else, all she wanted to do was sleep. 
But the voices coming from downstairs—and what she imagined Polly meant when she said Dennis might want some of
this
—were keeping sleep at bay. 
“I’m telling you to forget about it, all right?” 
“Yeah, but I—” 
“Come on. Sit down on the couch next to me. Let me give you a back rub.” 
“I don’t
want
any goddamned back rub!” 
“Then how about a
front
rub?” 
“Jesus Christ, Polly, will you cut it out? Shee-it! It’s one thing to fool around a little back at my place, but 
I—I don’t know ... I mean, you really want to do it right here, right now?” 
“You got any better ideas?” 
“I dunno. I mean, in your own home—in
Mark’s
home? Key-rist! It—it just doesn’t feel right.” 
“Hey, let
me
feel it. I’ll tell you if it
feels
right or not.” Polly let loose a low, malevolent laugh. 
Their voices were as clear as if the two of them were standing right there in Sandy’s bedroom beside her. Sandy closed her eyes and focused on the shimmering darkness behind her eyelids, trying to shut out the voices. She desperately wanted to clear her mind, but there were just too many questions. 
Like
why
was her stepmother acting like such a . . . such a
slut? Why
had her father ever married her in the first place? Had she always been like this, or was this something new? 
As much as Sandy hated the word
slut,
it seemed to fit Polly perfectly. 
This certainly wasn’t the first time Sandy had suspected her stepmother of fooling around. 
Oh, no. 

She had seen the way she and Dennis Cross, the man who was downstairs with her now, acted whenever they met around town. Dennis worked at the Mobil station on the corner of Main Street and Salmon Road. Yeah, good old Dennis. All-around gas jockey and married woman’s stud. Just last week, when Sandy and Polly had driven in to the Mobil station to get some gas, Sandy had wondered why both Polly and Dennis had chuckled so hard when he asked if she wanted him to check her oil. 

While Dennis might not be as handsome as he seemed to think he was, he wasn’t exactly ugly, either; but how could her stepmother cheat on her father like this? How could she stand to be touched by those callused, work-stained hands? Had he even tried to clean the oily black rings from under his fingernails before coming over tonight? 

Other
why
questions filled Sandy’s mind. 
Like:
Why
couldn’t her father see what was going on? He certainly wasn’t stupid, but he had taken off for a weekend hike with his friend from work as if everything at home was just peachy-keen. Could he
really
be totally blind to it all? Or was he pretending that he didn’t see it . . . for whatever reason? Maybe he did know about it and had simply given up. After all, two failed marriages wasn’t much of a confidence builder. 
And why, Sandy thought,
why
did she feel so nervous, so tormented about telling her father about all of this? 
She knew she should. She knew she
had
to, but doubts and worries and concerns filled her. How would her dad react? Would he even believe her? They’d had more than their fair share of conversations about how he thought Sandy wasn’t giving Polly a fair break. He objected to the way Sandy treated his new wife with such cool, aloof distaste—at best. 
But what did he expect? 
Sandy’s
real
mother had left home when Sandy was only ten years old, and in all that time she had never called her or visited her. She might as well be dead, as far as Sandy was concerned. Maybe she was. Either way, it was the kind of loss she knew she would never get over. Things weren’t supposed to happen that way. And no matter what her father thought about his first failed marriage, Sandy wondered how he could ever expect her to accept, much less like, someone like Polly. 
And thinking of Polly, how would
she
react if—no, not
if

when
Sandy told her father what she knew? 
Would she deny it all? Would she make up some half-assed excuses? Would she break down in tears and say she was so-o-o sorry and promise never to do anything like that ever again? 
Or would she try to get even with Sandy? Maybe she’d have Dennis or someone else hurt her. 
Sandy found herself wishing—
praying
that her father would come home tonight—right now!—unannounced so he’d catch Polly and Dennis screwing around in the living room. That sure would make things easier. Then he’d
have
to deal with it! 
Once again, the discussion downstairs drew her attention. 
“Don’t worry about her, all right? She’s asleep.” 
“Yeah, but what if she can hear us?” 
“She’s asleep, I tell you.... She went to bed early, saying she was sick. And even if she isn’t asleep, so what? What’s she going to do, huh?” 
“Maybe tell her father . . . or maybe he’ll find out for himself.” 
Yes! Please, yes, God!
Sandy thought, clenching her fist desperately. 
 

“Christ, how many times do I have to tell you this? Mark isn’t going to be home until tomorrow night. He’s going to call me when he and Phil—”  

“Phil Sawyer, right?” 

“Yeah. When he and Phil get out of the woods and find a phone booth somewhere near Gorham, New Hampshire. I have to drive out there to get him, I suppose, if Sandy’s sick. So just forget about Mark, all right? He’s a good thirty miles away from here. Come on— 

Sandy’s heart pulsed heavily in her neck, almost choking her when she distinctly heard the rustle of clothing and the rasping sound of a zipper being opened. 
“You like this ... don’t you?” 
“Ummm.” 
“Well, then ... come on. Get the rest of those clothes off and show me a little appreciation, why don’t you?” 
Sandy took a deep breath, held it a few seconds, and then let it out in a slow, rattling hiss. 
“You’ll be sorry. . .” she whispered to the close darkness under her bedcovers. “Just you wait! You’re gonnabe
real
sorry,you—youtwo-timinglittle ...
slut!”
 

 

 

Chapter Four
 

Down Off the Mountain 

 

 

Flames rose like slick, orange tongues high into the night sky, but the glow of the campfire could only reach so far; beyond the sphere of light, the night curled around Mark like a dark, threatening beast. The air was numbingly cold as he sat with his back to the blaze, his every sense tuned to the brooding silence of the surrounding forest. Every vagrant breeze, every snapping branch drew his attention. It was well past midnight, but he knew sleep wouldn’t come as he watched and waited with his camping hatchet clutched tightly in his right hand, a cold cup of coffee in his left. 

“This is ridiculous . . . absolutely fucking
ridiculous!”
he muttered, but he didn’t dare drop his guard even for an instant. Danger was a palpable presence, hovering all around him. 

During the torturous hike down the mountain, Mark had seriously begun to doubt what he had seen. The creature
couldn’t
have been what he had thought it was! Other than moose and bears, there simply weren’t any animals that big in Maine. And none of them, not even bears, wandered that high above the tree line. It was totally insane to think there might be something like a mountain gorilla or whatever on Agiochook! What he had seen must have been something else, something distorted by the snow and the glare off the ice. 

Or his panic. 
In all likelihood, it probably had been another hiker, coming to Phil’s rescue. Or else it had been Phil himself. Maybe that dark shape at the base of the cliff had been Phil’s discarded backpack, and the shambling figure had been Phil, hobbling off to find his own way off the mountain. 
But no matter what he thought, Mark couldn’t deny the sense of danger he felt pressing in on him from all sides. In a deep, primordial way, he sensed that he was being stalked. From all the years he had spent hiking, hunting, and camping in the Maine and New Hampshire woods, this was the first time in his life that the forest had actually held the threat of genuine, deadly menace. 
“But it
couldn’t
have been what I thought it was,” he whispered. “No fucking
way?”
 
His eyes darted to one side, following the faint crackling of leaves from somewhere deep in the darkness. 
I was just freaking out a little . . . because Phil fell off the cliff . . . I probably imagined the whole damned thing!
he thought, even though it felt a lot like he was trying to convince himself. 
But whatever the case, Phil was in all likelihood still up there on the mountain, maybe still crumpled at the base of The Zipper, either dead or seriously hurt. Mark had been so intent on getting down off the mountain before dark that he hadn’t gone down to check. Now that he had time to think about it, he knew he still wasn’t thinking clearly, that he was letting his imagination get carried away. 
And worst of all, he couldn’t decide what to do next. 
Should he continue down off the mountain so he could go find help? Or should he head back up and do whatever he could to find and help his injured friend, even if it cost him his life? Maybe Phil had staggered away from the cliff and was now lost on the mountaintop. 
Mark’s thoughts were shattered when a loud roar suddenly filled the night. 
“Jesus Christ!”
he shouted as he leapt to his feet. 
The howl rapidly built to a piercing shriek and then immediately faded. It echoed in the forest for several seconds, leaving behind an uncanny stillness. 

Mark’s eyes darted back and forth as he tried to pinpoint the source of the sound. His grip on the hatchet tightened as he stood up, crouching defensively, and scanned the surrounding darkness. Every wavering shadow cast by the fire seemed fraught with danger as he waited for the sound to be repeated. When it was, it came with a deafening roar and a flurry of dark motion as something charged out of the forest and headed straight at him. 

For a single heartbeat, Mark was paralyzed with fear. He felt more than saw the two eyes that were locked onto him. They burned with a cold, green fire. There was a heavy thumping sound of feet trampling the forest floor as the black shape rapidly closed the distance. Long arms reached out. Firelight reflected off two sets of long, curved claws. An instant before it was too late, Mark ducked to one side as he swung out wildly with the hatchet. 

The blade connected with ... something. 
The shock of contact almost tore the hatchet from his hand as a loud howl of pain and anger filled the night, so close his ears began to ring. 
The figure streaked across the open fire-lit space like a midnight freight train and then disappeared into the inky gloom of the forest. A thin haze of yellow dust from the forest floor swirled in its passing, the only visible indication that
something
had actually gone by. Silence dropped like a blanket over the forest, broken only by the raw gasping of Mark’s breathing as he crouched defensively and scanned the shrouded forest. 
“Come on! Come on, you son-of-a-bitch!”
he yelled. 
His insides were trembling wildly as he shook the hatchet above his head. 
“Come back here and fight me!”
 
He paused and listened, but could hear only the thundering rush of his pulse in his ears. The night was cold and silent, but it still seemed laden with danger. Mark stood rooted to the spot, his body tensed as he waited for another attack. Already his exhaustion and the sharp bolt of fear were giving this encounter the eerie dissociation of a bad dream, like it hadn’t really happened. Shuddering wildly, he ran his hand across his face. 
“Jesus! Gotta get a grip ... Gotta get a grip,” he muttered as he shifted back and forth, straining to catch sight or sound of whatever had just tried to kill him. 
Nothing but impenetrable silence filled the forest. 
After a while, Mark relaxed his guard a little and sat back down at his campfire to watch and wait. He knew he would be inviting another attack if he started traveling before morning, so he piled more wood onto the fire and let the blaze reach high into the night sky. 
Hours later, just as the first hint of dawn tinged the eastern sky, he packed up his few supplies and started out on the trail again, his hatchet in hand. He was determined, now, to get back to town and report the incident. After that, he would return to the mountain to search for his friend. Only this time, he was going to come well armed. 
All day, Mark hiked through the forest, keeping to the blazed trail that was the shortest route out. His progress was aggravatingly slow because he was tensed, expecting to be attacked at every turn. Shortly after noontime, nearly faint with exhaustion, he paused for a quick lunch at the crossing of the Bull branch of Sunday River. He was still more than five miles from the nearest road, and from there he had no idea how long it would take to walk or hitch a ride back to Hilton. 

The day grew steadily warmer. He wanted desperately to rest but didn’t want to chance getting too comfortable and falling asleep. He was surprised that all day he hadn’t encountered any other hikers. Perhaps the bad weather yesterday had discouraged any plans anyone might have had for a weekend hike up Agiochook. The rushing roar of the Bull River masked all other sounds, so he ate hurriedly and then continued his trek, knowing that he had to get out of the woods before dark. 

Although he never saw or heard anything to indicate that he was being pursued, he still couldn’t shake the persistent feeling that
something
was tracking him. Worn down by exhaustion, he began to imagine that he was being pursued by Phil’s ghost, which was hungry for revenge for leaving him dead back at the base of The Zipper. The bright, sunlit forest held dark, menacing shadows that seemed to coil as they waited to spring out at him. The pleasant songs of birds and the soft hiss of the wind in the pines overhead were grating, like fingernails being raked across a chalkboard. Even the blue vault of the sky seemed somehow dull and lowering, as if it wanted to press him down into the cold, dark earth. 

Mark was nearly delirious when, just before dark, he staggered out of the woods onto Route 26. With the sun setting behind him, he guessed home was in the opposite direction, so after taking a quick swig of water from his canteen and adjusting the backpack on his shoulders, he started down the road, heading east. He was anxious to meet the first car or truck going in his direction, but there was never much traffic on a road like this, so he walked on as darkness spread from the woods like an ink stain over the road. Dazed from fatigue, Mark didn’t even hear the semi bearing down on him until a blast from the air horn shattered the night. 
“Christ!”
he shouted as he wheeled around on one foot and snapped up his thumb. There was a loud gasp of air brakes and the soft, tearing sound of tires skidding on asphalt as the truck downshifted and slowed to a stop. Mustering a last burst of effort, Mark walked up to the sixteen-wheeler as the passenger’s door swung open. He heaved his backpack off and clambered up into the cab. 
“Thanks for stoppin’,” he said breathlessly. 
The driver looked at him with a curious expression. “Thought I’d better. I wouldn’t want to read in the newspaper how the next truck passin’ by turned you into street pizza.” 
In his exhaustion, Mark missed the joke as he settled back against the seat and took a deep, shuddering breath. 

“If you don’t mind me sayin’, you look like shit warmed over,” the truck driver said. 

Mark rolled his head and stared blankly at him as he nodded. “Umm. You wouldn’t by any chance be heading to Hilton, would you?” 
The driver stepped down hard on the accelerator and revved the engine. The truck growled like an angry beast in the night, and Mark couldn’t help but remember the howl that thing had made when it had attacked him the night before. 
“I’ll be passing through,” the driver said. He popped the gear shift into first and stepped on the accelerator. The truck lurched forward. 
Mark didn’t respond. His head was thrown back against the seat, and he was already sound asleep. 

 

BOOK: The Mountain King
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