They passed the gas station and turned up the on-ramp to the highway. Chris McCauley had written a breathtaking piece about the events of the summer, interwoven with excerpts from Mossy’s letter. Despite the general skepticism and in some cases, outright disbelief of his story, he’d been asked to write for the Haven News full-time. Denny didn’t know who ran the gas station now.
The story was unbelievable. Denny read it over several times and even though he lived it, it still didn’t seem possible. The pictures had come out grainy and dark and blurry and were generally thought to be fake. Nevertheless, the story was out and there are always some that want to believe in the unbelievable. The lake had gained a reputation as being the next Loch Ness. Tourists flocked there to get a glimpse of the monster and Betty Chandler had more people to gossip with than ever before.
Authorities had decided the caves were unsafe and had hired demolition experts to seal the entrances permanently. Denny sometimes wondered if it was because they were too afraid to find proof of the creature. Secretly, he and Billy and the rest knew they didn’t seal all of the entrances. Paul’s appearance at the lake after being taken by the creature inside the caves was explained by Mossy. The same thing had happened to him on the night he escaped from the base. There was another cave, accessible only from beneath the surface, that the creature took its victims to after injecting them with the venom that paralyzed them. It left them there to die before bringing them back to the main cave to eat. Who knew why? Paul, like Mossy, must have developed some sort of immunity to the venom after his first dose of it. In both cases, they had done the only thing they could: dove in the water and swam for their lives, both coming out on the lake side of the underwater cave. If they ever wanted to, and God knew none of them did, they could get back in that way. Denny shuddered, getting looks from both Paul and Billy. They just looked away. They knew.
Denny sat at his desk, exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. The day at Fenway had been magic, despite the results. Somehow the three had turned a devastating Red Sox loss into a memory that would last forever. Denny closed his eyes and pictured the emerald green grass and the looming of the “Monster” over left field.
Guidry had pitched a two-hit shutout for the Yankees on the way to a 7-0 rout. The Red Sox lead in the division, once double-digits, was down to one game. Denny felt the familiar dread of a Red Sox fan; it was going to be another year without a pennant.
It had taken a long time for Denny to get his thoughts straight enough to put down in his journal. Finally, the words had come and he was satisfied with the entry, closing the book and placing it back in his drawer. It was late and a half-moon hung heavily over the lake outside Denny’s window. He flashed his light at Billy’s window and waited. No response. Billy was either asleep or in the living room with his family. This thought no longer made Denny sad or jealous, instead bringing a smile to his face. He loved Billy’s family.
From downstairs, the sound of his mother’s laughter mingled with Paul’s and Mossy’s was like a dream. His mom had asked Paul in for tea after they got home from the game. That was hours ago. Still smiling, he jumped in bed and closed his eyes. They snapped open when the sound of a branch breaking disturbed the quiet. It wasn’t the creature Denny feared, it was Dale Crawford. Since running off after seeing his burned father stagger up from the lake, Dale had not been seen. Many thought he wandered back into the caves and was sealed in there after being lost. Others thought he wandered out of the woods and just kept going, starting over somehow in another town. Denny sometimes thought he was still out there in the woods, biding time, waiting. More laughter from below and the sound of the deer crashing through the woods eased his fear.
While they were all in agreement the creature could not have survived—the bullets, the poison and the cave-in all too much for anything to live through—it still seemed possible at times like this, alone in the dark, that it had. He sleepily wondered where he would be in seventeen years—if the thing had somehow survived and was hibernating again, that’s when it would awaken—and somehow he knew he would be here in Haven watching the papers for stories of missing children or murders or maybe driving the roads by the lake in the spring looking for roadkill. For now, time stretched out in front of him in an endless road to great adventures and he lay awake in bed as crickets played background music to the laughter from downstairs.
Acknowledgments
Writing a book is hard. For a lot of the time, it’s lonely hours spent squeezing words out of an exhausted brain, long after everyone else is asleep. It’s agonizing self-doubt and crippling fear of failure. Finally, it’s time to show the world what you’ve done… and it’s terrifying. I dedicated Haven to my daughters because, in a way, this book is like their sibling. I started writing it when they were small children, and finished it when they were both in college. There were years when the book went untouched, overshadowed by life, but Haven was always there. Waiting. Whispering in my ear. Growing.
As solitary as writing a book can be, it is by no means a one-person accomplishment. Without the help of countless people, Haven might never have seen the light of day.
First and foremost, my heartfelt thanks to Brian Freeman and Richard Chizmar for taking a chance on an unpublished writer. I had long been a fan and customer of Cemetery Dance before submitting a manuscript. It is an icon in the horror genre and I am humbled to be a part of it. It took a lot of hand-holding to get me through the process, for that, Brian and Richard have my undying gratitude.
Without the help of the next person on my list, Haven might never have gotten to the point I was brave enough to send it to Cemetery Dance. Stewart O’Nan. Stewart was kind enough to read my extremely rough draft, and not only did he provide extensive notes, corrections, and the hard-to-hear criticism that I needed to hear, he gave me a blurb that I believe is what caught the eye of the publisher.
Over the years I have come to realize that the horror genre is filled with amazing, generous people like Brian, Richard, and Stewart, who are willing to help out an aspiring writer. Among them are some of today’s biggest names: Christopher Golden, John McIlveen, Rio Youers, Bracken MacLeod, Sloane Kady and Jonathan Maberry—thank you all for your kindness and patience.
Of course, at the heart of it all is family and friends. There are so many friends over the years that played some part in the completion of Haven, too many to name. But you know who you are—thank you all. Family… I would be remiss not to mention my wife, Sheila. She gives me endless support and encouragement, and believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself. My brother, Mike, one of the first victims of the rough draft, provided invaluable notes and critique. And my daughters, Shannon and Alyssa, it always comes back to them, for everything.
Praise for HAVEN
“With compelling characters (both good and evil), a shifting narration that keeps the story moving, a building sense of dread, and breathless action sequences, this is a well-crafted example of what is best about horror today. While the novel is obviously for fans of Stranger Things and the classic small-town horror by those like King or Straub, don’t let its setting keep you looking in the past. There is a modern perspective behind this tale, similar to Maberry’s Pine Deep trilogy or Janz’ Children of the Dark (2016). Hand out freely to anyone looking for a solid scare.”