Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala (19 page)

"Just help me push it over," George pleaded. "That’s all I ask.”

I shook my head no.

“I can't do it by myself. After that, you can go back to the camp if you want to. I just wanna check it out."

"We shouldn't be messin' around with stuff like this," I said. "What if old man Holland sees us out here? He’s got dogs … and shotguns."

"He ain't gonna see us. 'N even if he does, what’s he gonna do about it?"

“Tell our parents, for one.”

We both fell silent at that as we cast our glances back toward the gravestone. The sky was much darker, now, especially under the trees. From where I was standin’, I could hardly make out the stone, but the growin' shadows made what I could see look all the bigger.

Finally realizin' that George wasn’t about to take no for an answer, I walked slowly over to him, 'n we both approached the stone. Reachin' out, I placed my hands on the gritty surface. It was slimy. This chill went clear up my arms, all the way to the back of my head. My teeth wanted to chatter, but I clamped my jaw shut. I wasn't 'bout to let George know how scared I was.

"Dig your feet in real good," George said, "’n when I give the word, we both push with everything we got. Okay?" He crouched into position, his left foot backed by a rotten log, and started countin', "All right, then. One ... two ... three, and—
heave!
"

I pressed my shoulder to the stone 'n puffed out my cheeks as I pushed as hard as I could. It was kinda scary when the stone started to move, but then it stuck at one point and wouldn't budge no more.

We was facin' each other, 'n I remember thinkin' it was kinda funny the way George's face got all distorted from pushin' so hard. We rocked the tombstone back and forth, ‘n it made this wicked grindin’ sound, but every time it would get to that one point, it’d stick like it was gonna stay there forever. By now, gritty black soot covered our faces 'n hands. Sweat was tricklin' down my back between my shoulder blades and across my ribs. I was a lot skinnier back then, you understand.

"We'll ... get ... it ... this ... time," George said, keepin' the stone rockin' back and forth in time with his words and then he yelled—“Now!”.

We both grunted 'n strained, pushin’ harder than ever before.

The stone reached its stickin' point again, paused for maybe a heartbeat or two, although it seemed to stay there forever, 'n then ever so slowly, it toppled over. I was reminded of how a large tree falls in slow motion as I watched the gravestone keel over with deep-rooted resistance. It hit the soggy ground with a sickenin', squishy sound.

I stepped back quickly from our work, wipin' my hands on my shirt, leaving black smears. I was already a mess, so a little more wasn't gonna hurt. We was already in the dog house, anyway.

"Jeeze," I said, barely above a whisper. I looked at George 'n added, "You know our moms are gonna kill us, right?"

George wasn't listenin' to me. He was kneeling down on the ground ‘n lookin' into the hole where the stone had been.

"Cripes! Look at this!" he said. His voice was tinged with wonder.

I shook my head 'n started backin' away.

"Uh-uh! No way!” I said. “We've gotta get back to camp before it's all the way dark."

That was a foolish thing to say since it was already all the way dark. Stars sprinkled the deep purple sky.

I didn't notice that I was backin' up toward the fallen stone, but when my foot tripped up on somethin', maybe the edge of the stone, I fell backwards onto the surface of that cold stone. I grunted softly as I twisted around 'n managed to bang my knees on the edge of the gravestone. It took off a coupla layers of skin from my knees, but that ain't why I let fly a scream.

Hell no, I was scared ... scared right outta my mind!

I rolled off the stone 'n onto the soggy ground, tuckin' my head down 'n puilin' my legs up tight to my chest as if that was gonna protect me or somethin'. George was laughin' at me, ‘n the sound stung my ears. When I finally dared to look up, though, in the faint light of the stars overhead, I noticed somethin' on the stone—some writin' or somethin' we hadn't noticed before. Maybe our pushin' had removed enough of the crud coverin' it, or else I just had the right angle to see it. I crawled toward the stone on my hands 'n knees, tryin' to make out what I saw written there.

"Look at this!" I said. My hand shook like a branch in the wind as I pointed at the stone.

The years had all but erased the letterin', but by tracin' each letter with my finger, I was able to spell out the
name—"S-T-E-P-H-E-N-L-O-G-A-N. .. Stephen Logan!
" My voice threatened to break into a scream. "It says
Stephen Logan!
"

George looked at me, 'n I could tell by the expression on his face that he was 'bout ready to pass out. His face was white as a sheet.

"What the—?" he said, but then his voice cut off like he was chokin' on somethin'. He started moving toward me. His throat all the while was makin' this weird clickin' sound.

"That's what's carved on the stone here," I said, surprising myself by the sound of my voice. I stood up stiffly and rubbed my hands on my shirt again. "Is this someone ... someone from your family who’s buried here?"

For the first time in my life, I saw surprise and, I think it'd be fair to say, genuine fear on George's face.

"That was my ... my
grandfather's
name!" George said softly. One of his hands was coverin' his face, so the words was muffled. "I was ... named after him—George
Stephen
Logan!"

"What the heck's he doin' buried out here?" I asked.

I was hopin' a sensible question might calm him down, but I gotta admit, I was scared out of my knickers, too.

Damned questions!

You see? That's how trouble always starts!

George shrugged and shook his head.

"I dunno," he said. "I mean, all my mother's ever told me 'bout him was I was named after him. He died a long time before I was born."

"But why's he buried out here?" I asked. My voice was shooting up the scale like one of them thermometers in them cartoons.

My cut knee was startin' to sting. My legs were soaked up to the knees. My arms 'n shoulders were wicked sore from pushing against the tombstone. All I wanted to do was get back to camp 'n clean myself up before supper. I knew we was gonna catch a lickin' for bein' out so late and being so far from the camp. My mom was probably out in the yard, hollering for us, and we was too far away to hear her.

But I could face the prospect of a lickin’ a heck of a lot easier than I could the idea that George's grandfather was buried out here in the middle of the woods ... that his body was right down there where we'd moved the stone from.

George was about to say somethin' when I saw—I swear to God I saw somethin' movin' behind him. He had his back to the gravestone, 'n I swear to Christ one of them darker shadows under the trees started to, like, shift and move toward us. All I could do was whimper and point weakly at the hole in the ground behind George when I realized that the shadow was comin' up out of the hole.

Just as he turned around to look, we both heard … somethin'—a deep, hollow sound … like someone sighin'.

I know we both heard it 'cause George looked at me, his eyes wide with terror. I couldn't look away from the spot above the grave where I could see this shadow gettin' bigger ‘n thicker 'n blacker. It was takin' on a human shape. ‘N then it started to move. What looked like this long, black arm reached out toward us. With a terrified scream, I turned and started to run.

I wasn't aware of anythin'—my mind was a blank as I ran. I didn't feel the water I splashed through or the branches that slapped against my face. I didn't even hear George runnin' along behind me. 'N I certainly wasn't about to turn around 'n look! All I could think was that black shape was comin' after us, bearin' down on us from behind. That drove my feet with a speed they ain't seen before nor since, I'll tell you that much.

It must've been luck more 'n anythin' else that kept me on the path back to the camp. I was in such a panic I sure as hell had no idea where I was goin’. The woods were pitch dark by then. I couldn't even see my own feet as they beat against the soggy ground. One thought I remember was thinkin' how strange it was that George hadn't caught up with me yet. He'd always been a better runner than me. I figured maybe he'd lit out across Holland's field, but I just kept runnin'. I knew, sure as shit, that shadow was comin’ up behind me, getting closer.

Finally, up ahead through the trees, miraculously, I saw the camp lights. The back porch light was on, 'n I could see two people—mine and George's mom—sittin' on the steps. I made that light my goal as I pumped my arms like they was pistons 'n gave it a final burst of energy.

I broke out of the woods near them moss-covered stones where George 'n me'd been sittin' earlier that afternoon. Racin' frantically across the lawn, trippin’ ‘n stumblin’, I tried to call out, but I couldn’t make a sound other than my ragged breathin’. I was halfway to the camp when my foot snagged on a tree root or somethin', 'n down I went, face-first on the grass.

Panic still had me in its grip, and I let out a howl as I rolled over onto my back and started scramblin' backwards, like a crab. All the while, I was staring at the woods behind me.

Everything was pitch dark, but I collapsed on the ground 'n cried out shrilly when one of them shadows under the trees that was darker than the night moved straight toward me.

It came on silently, with a swiftness ‘n a purpose that riveted me to the ground. I tried to get back up and run but couldn't.

The shadow rushed at me out of the woods like a black freight train or somethin'. I knew it was gonna flatten me right then and there. I tightened myself up into a ball 'n waited, knowing I was gonna die.

And then, with a sudden
whoosh
, it was on me, touchin' me with cold, clammy hands that slid across me like slime. The shadow wrapped around me so tight I couldn't breathe. The left side of my face felt like it was on fire, 'n then it rushed past me, shooting up into the air and dissolving into the night sky, leavin' behind this wicked nauseatin' stench of swamp water and rot. After that, I fainted.

Hours later—warm 'n dry 'n tucked into my bed with clean, fresh sheets—I woke up. I had a thick pad of bandage on the left side of my face. Soon as my eyes were open, I started babblin' 'bout what happened. I kept askin' if George was back home yet—if he was okay. My mom just smiled weakly and, tucking the blanket up under my chin, told me to get some sleep. When she left the room, I wouldn't let her turn out the light.

'T'wasn't until the next day, round 'bout noon, that they finally told me what had happened to George.

After my mom heard me 'n found me sprawled on the lawn, she and George's mom carried me inside. I started talkin' real crazy, they said, like I was out of my head, but once they pieced together what we'd done, George's father called the
Windham police 'n then headed out to the grave site alone. It wasn't until later, once I thought about it, that I realized he went straight out there like he'd known all along where that grave was. I was told he found George not twenty feet from the opened grave. He was dead, lyin' facedown in the black muck.

Years later, before she died, my mom told me the doctor said George had died of cardiac arrest.

A heart attack!

Can you believe it?

I'm an old man now. I've had to live with this fair to middlin' sized scar on the left side of my face my whole life. Now, I've had a bit of heart trouble my whole life, too, so I know what it's like to have a bad ticker. But one of the questions I have after all these years is—how in the hell does a ten-year-old boy die of a heart attack?

Sure, I know all about them congenital diseases 'n such, but still ... You can’t convince me George didn't die of pure fright.

'N that's somethin' I've been wonderin' about my whole life.

What in the blazes did George see that could do that to him?

What was down there under that stone, what did we release from that hole when we pushed that gravestone over?

The nurses here think it's kinda funny, 'specially now that it's August again, how every day 'round six o'clock, after supper, I won't let 'em take me outside. No matter how much they try to convince me what a beautiful day it is and that I could use some fresh air, I won't go out there on the lawn. Not as evenin' approaches. I don't wanna see them late summer shadows, inchin' their way across the lawn. No way! 'Cause you know—and this is my last question: Who the hell knows what those shadows are as they slip out silently from the woods behind the rest home?

Like I said at the start, I sure hope to hell I never meet George again so's I can ask him!

Most everyone at the newspaper office called Jay Benson “The Ghoul.” This was behind his back, of course, but he knew what everyone said. In his own defense, he never considered what he reported for the
Morning Express
was particularly “ghoulish.” Truth was, some of the stories struck him as rather funny. He convinced himself that he always showed the proper respect for the individuals involved—especially if they died—but privately he had to admit that some of the bizarre things that happened to people genuinely amused him, so he wrote headlines that had a gruesome little twist to them.