Dan Simmons - A Winter Haunting

Dale looked around and realized that he had walked to the little woods not far from the Johnson farm. The black dogs had followed him this far a few weeks ago. Had they? There was almost certainly a real black dog somewhere in all this hallucination—a visual trigger for these fantastic illusions—just as there was probably a real, living red-haired woman that he’d glimpsed at the Oak Hall City Market some weeks ago that had made him obsess on the memories of the sixth-grade sex grenade, little Michelle Staffney.

Anne’s hair is an auburn red—in the right light.

Dale rubbed his face, realizing that he had forgotten his gloves as well as his hat. His hands were chapped and red with cold.

The hellhounds could be behind you right now, moving silently through the snow, stalking you. He turned slowly, not feeling real alarm.

Empty fields and falling snow. The already dim light was fading farther. Dale checked his watch—four-thirty. Could it be so late? It would be hard dark in half an hour. The snow had accumulated to seven or eight inches now, wet, soaking through his chinos. . . the same bloody chinos he had been wearing the night before. It was his blood, of course, from where he struck his head on the door during his fall. What made me fall? Who made me fall?

He walked back toward the unseen farmhouse, cutting diagonally across the frozen fields and climbing two more fences where they came together at a post. He was approaching the barn from the south along the fenceline there when the house came into view, a dark gray shape against the dark gray evening.

A Sheriff’s Department car was in the drive, but it was the bigger vehicle, years older than the ones the deputies drove. The sheriff’s car.

C.J. Congden stood near the chicken coop, gray Stetson covered by one of those clear plastic hat covers that state troopers and county mounties wore when it rained or snowed. Congden had his hand on his holstered pistol and was tapping the white grip of the gun. He was grinning.

“Thought you had orders to stay in the house, Professor ,” the big man said.

“They told me to stay at the farm,” said Dale. “I’m at the farm.” His head began hurting in earnest again. His voice sounded dull even to himself. “Did you have a good Christmas vacation trip, Sheriff?”

Congden grinned more broadly. His teeth were yellowed from nicotine. Dale could smell the cigarette and cigar smoke on the fat man’s jacket. “So, you all through telling ghost stories, Professor ?”

Suddenly Dale felt as if someone had put snow down the back of his neck. “Wait a minute,” he said, reaching out as if to grab Congden’s jacket. The sheriff stepped backward so as not to be touched. “You were there .”

“Where?” C.J. Congden’s grin had gone away. His eyes were cold.

“At the schoolyard that night. You saw her. Presser had so convinced me that I was nuts that I almost forgot. . . you saw her. You spoke to her.”

“To who?” asked Congden. He was smiling slightly again. It was dark enough now that Dale had to lean closer just to see the expression on the former bully’s face under the brim of the cowboy hat. With no lights on in the house, the big structure seemed to be disappearing with the last of the winter daylight.

“You know goddamned well who I’m talking about,” snapped Dale. “Michelle Staffney. You offered to drive her home, for Christ’s sake.”

“Did I?”

“Fuck this,” said Dale. He brushed past Congden and started walking up toward the house. “Arrest me if you’re going to. I’ve had enough of this shit.”

“ Stewart! ” The noise was at once a bark and a command. Dale froze and turned slowly.

“Come here a minute, Stewart. I want to show you something.” Congden took a step back, half turned, and took two more steps. Toward the barn.

“What?” said Dale. Suddenly he was afraid. It was dark out now, really dark. He had no flashlight. Once, in that same summer of 1960, C.J. Congden and his pal—Archie?—had stopped Dale along the railroad tracks outside of Elm Haven and Congden had aimed a.22 rifle at Dale’s face. It was the first time that Dale Stewart had felt absolute, knee-weakening, bladder-loosening fear.

He felt it again now.

“Come here, goddamnit,” growled Congden. “ Now ! I don’t have all day.”

No.

“No,” said Dale.

Go to the house. Hurry.

Dale turned and began walking quickly, expecting and fearing the fast strides behind him or the gleam of hounds’ eyes ahead of him.

“Stewart, goddamn you to hell, come here ! I want to show you something in the barn!”

Dale broke into a clumsy run, ignoring the pounding in his head that throbbed every time his boots struck the frozen earth through the snow. He couldn’t see the house. It was too dark.

Dale almost ran into a barbed-wire fence, realized that he was behind the chicken coop, and ran to his left and then to his right again. The house became visible as a shape in the darkness. Dale threw a glance over his shoulder, but he could not see Congden in the gloom. Snow stuck to his eyelashes and threatened to blind him.

“Stewart, you pussy!” came the sheriff’s voice, but from Dale’s right somewhere in the dark, closer. “Don’t you want to know what happened?”

Dale thudded up the cement steps, threw open the door, slammed it behind him, locked the main lock, and threw the heavy bolt. His head throbbing, he turned slowly in the dark kitchen, listening for movement or breathing in the house. If there was any, he could not hear it over his own panting and the pounding of his heart.

He peered out the window, but even the sheriff’s car was lost to the gloom and the heavy snow. Jesus, that son of a bitch has a gun. And I don’t. And he’s crazier than I am.

Not turning on a light, Dale went down into the basement and felt along the wall near the crates of books. The big console radio was playing 1950s hits softly, its glowing dial the only light in the room. There it is. Dale hefted the Louisville Slugger and carried it back up to the kitchen. It was no match for the huge.45 Colt pistol Congden carried in his holster, but perhaps in the dark—

In the dark. Dale peered through the window, standing to one side so that he could not be seen himself. Suddenly he had the image of C.J. Congden’s face pressed against the glass less than an inch from his own, teeth yellow, skin yellow, tongue lolling.

Holy fuck , thought Dale, instinctively raising the bat. There was no face at the window. Congden wasn’t anywhere to be seen in the few feet he could see in the dark. Maybe he drove off when I was getting the bat and I didn’t hear the car.

And maybe he didn’t.

Maybe he’s already in the house with you.

Dale realized that he was shaking, his hands clutching the Louisville Slugger so tightly that his fingers were cramping. Jesus, God, I am losing it. I’m coming apart at the fucking seams.

Dale slid down the wall against the stove, still holding the bat as he sat on the old tile and pressed the side of his face against the cool metal of the stove itself. He felt the melted snow in his hair running down his temple and cheeks. The cold circle of the muzzle . Dale was glad that Presser hadn’t returned the Savage to him—he felt so low and frightened at the moment that pulling the trigger seemed almost a welcome escape. Would it fire this time? Dale thought, Yes.

There was a movement outside on the stoop just a foot away through the door. Snow dropping from the eaves? A stealthy footstep, those scuffed cowboy boots? Someone shifting an ax from his left hand to his right?