Richard Laymon: The Lake

It wouldn’t have done any good, going back. She knew that now, but the guilt remained and would probably be with her for a long time. The fear, too.

Sleep had been a refuge. She’d slept through most of the day after getting home, and gone to bed early last night. She wished she could go back to sleep now, but she felt wide awake and she was afraid of the dream. What if it came back?

What if it returned every night?

And maybe that other nightmare she’d had, had been a portent of things to come. It was too spooky to think about.

Swinging her legs off the bed, she reached up and turned on a lamp. She crossed her room to the dresser, took out a jersey nightgown, and put it on. The clinging fabric felt good against her chilled skin. She left her room and made her way down the dark hallway to the bathroom. After using the toilet, she returned.

With pillows behind her back, she sat in bed and opened a book. As she started to read, a quiet sound from the hallway made her stiffen. She darted her eyes to the door. A moment later, her mother appeared.

“How are you doing?” Mom asked.

She shrugged.

“Want to talk?”

“Sure.”

Mom sat near the end of the bed, turning sideways to face Deana, a leg drawn up beneath her nightgown. “Trouble sleeping?” she asked.

“I had this lousy rotten nightmare.”

“Rough, huh?”

“It wasn’t fun. He caught me. Split me right up the middle.” Trying to smile, she drew a finger up the front of her nightshirt. “The mind plays funny tricks.”

“Hilarious tricks,” Mom said.

“Does it get any better?”

Mom shrugged.

“How did you… cope with it when my father was killed?”

“I guess you helped pull me out of it. When I found out I was pregnant, it gave me something new to worry about, so I stopped dwelling on the past.”

“Maybe I should run out and get pregnant.”

“I don’t recommend it.” Lowering her eyes, Mom frowned. “There was something else, too. Your father… It’s hard to think of him as your father… The young man who got me pregnant…”

“Charlie Payne,” Deana said.

“I didn’t know him very well. I didn’t actually love him. That must’ve made a difference. I took Charlie’s death pretty hard. I mean, I was there and it was partly my fault, so I had plenty of guilt to deal with, but I know it would’ve been a lot worse if I’d actually loved him.”

“What is there, a family curse or something? Look at us. Both of us lost boyfriends—lovers. You were eighteen, I’m eighteen. It’s kind of weird, don’t you think?”

“There isn’t any curse.” Something about the tone of Mom’s voice made Deana wonder.

“Just bad luck?”

“We were both taking chances, honey. Going where maybe we shouldn’t have been. It doesn’t take a curse.” Mom patted Deana’s leg through the blankets and stood up. “The important thing is not to blame yourself for what happened.”

“Not so easy.”

“I know. Don’t I know.” Bending over, she kissed Deana. “See you in the morning, honey.”

As she headed for the door, Deana said, “You’ll come with me to the funeral, won’t you?”

“Of course. We’ll go out tomorrow and buy you something appropriate.”

The mother’s face was hidden behind a black veil, but she felt the eyes on her, watching her, hating her. The preacher, standing beside the grave, spoke calmly of the sure and certain hope of resurrection. The mother, voiceless, damned her.

It’s not my fault. Please .

“And so,” the preacher said, “as the coffin sinks slowly into the ground, we bid a fond farewell…”

The mother started to move. She walked around the end of the grave, slowly.

Stay back.

No, don’t point at me. Oh, my God!

She took a step backward as the mother approached, but bumped into someone behind her.

“You! You did this to him. You filthy whore!” The pointing hand opened and darted, smacking her face. “You murdered him with your lust, you whore! Monster!” To the others, she shouted, “Look at her! Look at the monster! This is what murdered my boy!” The hands clawed at her, ripped her blouse open, tore it from her shoulders, grabbed her naked breasts.

Crying out in agony, she squirmed and tried to pry the fingers loose.

“ You should be dead, not him! Not my boy!”

“No! Let go!”

“You killed him, whore!”

She was dragged forward by her breasts, whimpering. Then the mother twisted and flung her. She hit the edge of the grave with her knees. Wildly flailing her arms, she caught her balance. But a shove from behind sent her down.

“ That’s where you belong!”

She fell and fell.

She wanted to scream out her terror, but she couldn’t get a breath.

Why is it so deep?

It always is.

She’d been here before. She realized that now. Familiar territory, this bottomless grave.

Only, it’s not bottomless.

She knew that. And she remembered what was below. Choking out a whimper, she flapped her arms and kicked, desperate to stop, to take flight, to get the hell out of here.

Pitch dark. Grave dark.

But she could see in the dark.

The coffin didn’t have a lid. There had been a lid when it was lowered, but not anymore. He wore a necktie and brown suit. His feet were bare. His face, as pale as chalk, glowed beneath her.

Okay now, don’t, she thought as she fell closer. Please don’t.

Oh, but he will.

Oh shit he will he always does but they were dreams before and this is real and he’s really dead so he won’t open his eyes this time, not this time, or reach up like a goddamn zombie to grab me, not this time.

The holes where his eyes had been opened wide.

He reached up.

“NO!”

Leigh heard her voice and opened her eyes as she thrust herself away from him. Below was her powder-blue pillow. She was on her hands and knees, gasping.

It was a dream. Of course.

Thank God.

And thank God morning was here.

Still braced on stiff arms, Leigh lowered her head.

Scratch one nightgown, she thought.

It used to happen a lot. But the last time, Deana was about four.

Talk about Allan’s funeral, that’s what did it. The last thing before sleep.

Leigh rolled off the bed. When she stood, the nightgown slipped the rest of the way down. She stepped out of it, picked it up, and inspected the damage. The gauzy fabric was split down the middle, breast to belly, and one of the straps had been wrenched from its seam. One for the rag bag.

No, better get rid of it. You don’t want Deana seeing it. Deana didn’t know about the dreams. Or about the funeral of Charlie Payne. And finding out wouldn’t do her any good.

Leigh looked down at herself.

She groaned.

Edith Payne didn’t grab her for real in nightmare-land and do this. Leigh had done it to herself.

But this was a new twist.

Not even in the old days when the dream came regularly did she ever wake up to find fingernail marks on her breasts.

Tiny little crescent moons.

They looked a lot like the ones Edith Payne gave her the day of the funeral.

When Deana woke up, she heard bathwater running. It was unusual for Mom to take a bath first thing in the morning.

She remembered the shopping trip. To buy a black dress. For tomorrow’s funeral.

Her fresh, morning eagerness collapsed. Her stomach went jittery and she knew she had to get up fast or she would lie here immobilized, sinking.

She swung her legs down, sat on the edge of the bed, and wondered if she could force herself to go running. She always went running as soon as she got up. She loved it—the peacefulness of the quiet streets, the smell and feel of the morning air, the way it felt when she was pushing to make it up a slope, and especially when she reached the top and there was level road ahead and she would really go all out.