Richard Laymon - The Lake

“It’s okay, Leigh. Don’t you worry none about your aunt Abby. She’s in safe hands, and we’ll be looking after her when she comes out of the hospital. Sorry to spring this on you, honey—after such a wonderful evening an’ all. We both enjoyed it so much. Now this. Matter of fact, your Mom’s packing as we speak, so…”

“Sure, Dad. Have a safe flight. And tell Aunt Abby she has our love.”

“Speaking of which… Young Deana, has she—”

“Deana’s okay, Dad. Tucked up in bed right now…”

A white lie; reasonable at a time like this. Can’t have Mom and Dad worried about Deana. ’Sides, she’s gonna show up any minute now…

“She shouldn’t worry you like this, Leigh. Get to grips with the situation before…”

“Before she ends up like I did at her age?”

“You know what I mean, young lady. Now, sounds like my presence is required elsewhere…”

“Okay, Dad. Safe journey. Love to Mom.”

“Sure. Catch up with you later, honey.”

Leigh’s stomach began to churn. Something was not quite right about tonight; she was sure of it. And it wasn’t only the news about Aunt Abby, either. Put it down to Deana, she told herself.

For godsake, Deana. Where are you?

The phone jangled again. Leigh caught a ragged breath.

Deana. Something’s wrong…

She snatched up the phone again.

A man’s voice said, “I’d like to speak to Leigh West.”

“This is Leigh West.” Her heart pumped hard. She felt dizzy.

“This is Detective Harrison of the Mill Valley Police Department. I’m calling about your daughter…”

Glancing over her shoulder as she made her break for the woods, Deana saw him leap from the car. He was tall and cadaverous, with strangely long arms. He loped after her, waving a meat cleaver overhead. He was dressed all in white. He wore a chef’s cap that wobbled and flopped as he ran.

Whirling away from him, Deana dashed onto the path. She had a good head start. She was in good shape from running every day before school. If he wasn’t fast enough to overtake her quickly, she might get away.

I will get away, she thought. I have to.

If he catches up, he’ll kill me.

She couldn’t hear him. He must be far behind, but she didn’t dare slow down.

She pumped her arms, threw her legs out quick and far, felt the breeze in her face.

I’m really moving. He’ll never get me.

She looked back.

He was three strides behind her, a white silent phantom grinning in the moonlight.

No!

Deana lunged to the right, leaving the path, her only hope to lose him in the trees. The underbrush tried to snare her feet. But it’ll slow him down, too, she told herself. She jumped over a dead branch, hurled herself through a narrow gap between two trunks, made a quick turn, and scurried up a slope. Near the top, the slope became very steep. She clawed at weeds for handholds. Her feet slipped on the dewy ground.

A quick tug at her waist. Clutching the weeds, she twisted her head around. He was beneath her, a hand clenched on the hem of her skirt.

“Ho ho ho,” he said, and yanked.

Deana clung to the weeds. With a raspy tearing sound, the skirt released her. It whipped down her legs, jerked her toes from the ground. The man cried out. Skirt in his hand like a dark banner, he flew backward and tumbled to the bottom of the slope.

Deana scampered to the top. Panting for air, she leaned over the edge and saw him start to climb again. She stepped back. The forest floor was dappled with moonlight. She found a fallen limb and picked it up. Raising it over her shoulder, she crouched near the edge.

Seconds passed. She listened to the rustling sounds of his climbing. Then his head appeared. He had lost his chef’s cap in the fall.

He had the cleaver clamped in his teeth.

Deana brought the limb down with all her strength. It cracked against the top of his head. Losing his hold on the weeds, he dropped backward. His arms waved. His back hit the slope and his legs kicked up at the darkness.

He somersaulted down the slope.

He was still falling when Deana threw aside her limb and rushed away. As she ran, she wondered if she should have followed him to the bottom and hit him until he couldn’t get up again—until he was dead. Too late for that. But maybe the single blow had been enough.

She couldn’t count on that.

At least she had given herself some time. If she could just find a hiding place…

Climb a tree, she thought.

Slowing down, she glanced at the nearby trees. One had a fork in the trunk that looked low enough to reach. She rushed over to it. Leaping, she grabbed the thick branch and pulled herself up. She wrapped the trunk with her bare legs. Writhing, she hugged the branch. She twisted, kicked, hooked a foot over the crotch of the trunk, and finally managed to squirm onto the branch. Straddling it, she let her legs hang down while she scanned the woods.

Her pursuer was nowhere in sight. Maybe he still lay at the bottom of the hill, unconscious or dead. If the blow with the stick hadn’t done it, maybe he broke his neck in the fall or struck his head on a rock.

Tipping back her head, Deana looked at the branches above her. If she got high enough, she would be safe. He would never be able to spot…

Cold fingers wrapped her ankles.

Her breath burst out.

He was beneath her, grinning up.

“Now I gotcha,” he said in a low voice.

Impossible! Where had he come from?

“No! Please!” she gasped.

He pulled, forcing her down hard against the branch between her legs. Deana shoved at the branch with both hands, trying to ease the hurt.

He swung by her ankles, his weight a torture, his momentum scraping her on the bark. Blood spilled from her, splattering his face. Gazing down, she saw a split crawl out of her pubic hair, widening as it climbed to her navel. Her sweater was gone. She was naked, and the fissure was moving toward her chest. She felt the thickness of the branch tearing her insides, driving into her like a wedge. Her rib cage broke open. And still he swung beneath her…

In horror, she saw her breasts on each side of the branch. When it reaches my neck, my head will pop off . “Please stop!” she shrieked, and woke up gasping.

Deana was in bed, in her own room. Wiping sweat from her eyes, she looked at the alarm clock. Almost three o’clock in the morning. She was tangled in sweaty sheets.

She unwrapped herself and sat up. Her sodden nightgown clung to her body. She peeled it off and tossed it to the floor. The air felt good on her hot skin.

Crossing her legs, she held on to her knees and took deep breaths. Her heart began to slow down. She remembered the nightmare vividly. A strange nightmare—such a horrible, distorted version of what happened that night.

If only the reality, too, had turned out to be a nightmare.

Allan.

In her mind, she saw the car carrying him through the night, smashing him against the tree. She shivered at the memory and wrapped her arms across her chest.

According to the police, Allan had died almost immediately from the massive injuries. But Deana hadn’t known that until later, while she was waiting in the police station.

Fleeing through the woods, she had ached to return to him, get him into the car and rush him to a hospital. But the other was back there, pursuing her. So she raced on, then hid for a long time high in a tree, and later made her way down to a road where a teenaged couple on their way back from Stinson Beach gave her a lift to Mill Valley. She didn’t even ask them to take her back to the theater parking area.

For all she knew, then, Allan might still be alive. But the man might be there, waiting, and Deana couldn’t ask these strangers to risk their lives. She was afraid for herself, too. She had escaped, and the thought of returning filled her with terror.