Jon Fore - Black Water

He lay there for some time, contemplating a frigid slumber before noticing the sun had advanced itself further than he had hoped. He rose suddenly, worked the water from his clothing as best he could, stuffed the heat packs into his pockets, and started along the bank. He had a general idea of where he needed to head, and overshot his direction by a bit. If he went too much to the south, he would continue through the forest for days; too much to the east, he would end up at a farmer’s field or the road. He decided he preferred the road.

His legs felt gummy and weak, his feet tender and bruised. Warmth eased into him as he walked, and his pace improved steadily, although his feet ached more for it. Even after hours of walking, his clothing remained sodden and wet and his shoes still squished and rubbed on his feet bitterly. He began to feel sorry for himself, angry at his situation, and wanted nothing more than to stop and rest, perhaps sleep a bit.

It was his instinct to survive that provided his motivation, and he began to sing tunes, first in his head, then aloud in an effort to steer his thoughts from the darker places in his mind. Ethan knew that if he were to stop, even for a short rest, he would not be able to get himself going again. They would find him either dead from exposure or torn to pieces by what they would call wild animals.

That was when he realized there were no animals. He had not been singing loud enough to chase anything away, nor was his progress through the forest debris loud enough to announce him as predator. Nevertheless, no winter birds, deer, or anything else moved through the forest. He felt so utterly and completely alone. This added fear to his desire to survive, and he tried to quicken his pace, even though his feet began to slice pain up and along his calves.

He had run through just about every song he could remember and began simply to talk at random. His clothing had finally begun to dry a bit, even though the heat packs had gone cold, but his shoes did not seem to want to release the moisture they held. His thick socks, he was sure, were to blame. He did not stop, however, to remove them or his shoes; he had to get out of the trees before darkness fell.

As the sky grew duskier, he began to rush. He was certain that the forest should have released him by now, but it had not. Color began to drain around him as the light was slowly fading. He tried to run, but the forest floor was too chaotic and the trees too thick to allow it. Even a steady jog was not possible, but he pushed himself past the pain, past the failing hope, and as eastward as he could.

Suddenly, the ground became soft, almost like sand, and he fell forward and into a recently tilled field. The dirt wafted around him in a cloud and filled his mouth with grit. He rose tenderly, his feet now screaming with angry spikes of pain. The sun’s light was brighter here, but still obviously about to escaping the day. He looked around, trying to get his bearings, and saw a small white farmhouse far in the distance.

He began to stumble toward it, relief beginning to weep from his eyes. He had made it from the forest and soon he would be warm, dry, safe. If he had to, he would break into the home to use the phone. Desperation drove him past the pain, the exhaustion, and he ran toward the house and his salvation. The dirt gave way under his feet making his progression slow and enraging.

He caught sight of the tired blue Nova parked next to the house, Abby’s Nova. This was Brighton’s house, and lights were on, convincing Ethan someone was at home. Then he fell, this time harder into the dusty soil. He saw a bright flash of white, and his vision went dark and cloudy for a moment. His ears rang, but he fought for his feet. This time, they did not oblige, and he fell to his knees. He abandoned them and began crawling toward the house.

His desperation had become perfect, and his mind a jumble of rage and relief, guilt and loss. He watched the soil beneath him as he crawled, falling away from his knees as he smashed into the furrowed lines. The taste of it filled his mouth and picked at the edges of his eyes. He ran headlong into something and collapsed to one side. It took him a moment to realize he was staring at the treads of a tire just below a rusty blue quarter panel.

Ethan dragged himself around the side of the Nova and pulled at the door—locked. Abby always locked her car as if someone would steal it. He had teased her about this on more than one occasion, but it never changed. He began to pull himself toward the porch. He could hear the old television talking about the weather for tomorrow and the rest of the week. It was loud, and the normalcy of it spurred him on until he reached the steps of the worn porch.

Ethan pulled himself to a sitting position on the first step, and saw the old woman, still in her sundress and apron, the scarf tied tightly around her head, some distance away. She looked at him sadly, her face a mask of disappointment. After a moment, she turned and walked back toward where Ethan had come, her head hanging slightly, her age apparent in her walk. He had wanted to call to her, plead for help, but somewhere in his mind, he knew it would have been fruitless.

He pulled himself up each step, sitting on each like a geriatric climbing from a bathtub. His arms were close to giving out when he reached the top. He lay back for a moment to rest, and the mixtures of orange and purple staining the sky surprised him; there was more night than day there. He worked himself backward on his elbows until he met the side of the house and pounded on the door urgently.

The door screeched open, and Mr. Brighton looked down on him with no emotion. He stared for a moment, “You went down into the basement, didn’t you?”

Ethan croaked, “Help me…”

“Ya shouldn’t of gone down in the basement. Stupid kids…”

Ethan realized then that Mr. Brighton knew all about the house, what lay beneath it, the horrors in the darkness there. Fear bolted through him as this realization struck, and he yanked the revolver from his pants. Brighton jumped back toward the warm glow of the inside of his house. “Mr. Brighton, go and call the police, right now.” His voice was calm, the calm of one that had finally given up his hope and was now ready to die.

Brighton eased back into the house, and Ethan let the weight of the gun fall to his lap. He was panting with exhaustion, but if Brighton had known and did not tell them before they went up to the house, who knows what he could do. He heard the old man’s tired fingers spinning the dial of an old rotary telephone.

“This is Brighton. Can you send the police and an ambulance, Edna? No, nothing too serious, but tell them to get here as fast as they can. Yeah. No, I’ll tell you later. Thanks, Edna.”

Ethan could hear the old man rummaging in the kitchen before he reappeared at the door with a cup of steaming something. “Trade you this cup of coffee for the gun, son.”

“When the cops get here.”

“Well, take it anyways.” He offered Ethan the cup. “They are a bit slow getting all the way out here.”

Ethan took the cup and drank it quickly. It burned his throat, but the warmth spilled through him. “Why didn’t you tell us about the basement?”

“It was walled off about a hundred years back. Didn’t think you would go down there…”

“What’s down there, Mr. Brighton?”

“I don’t rightfully know, nor did I ever want to go down there and see either.” Mr. Brighton sat in an old rocking chair on the porch. “Hear tell it’s just the prison they used back in the war.”

“There is more to it than that, and you know it!” Ethan surprised himself by shouting.

“That’s just a legend, nothing more.”

“No it’s not! That place is evil, and you let us go up there anyway!”