Paul stood riveted to the spot, intently listening to the cracking of twigs and branches. He relaxed as he realized whatever was out there was moving away from him. He had a sudden urge to follow it to find out. The woods were very dense around the lake and he knew he would make too much noise that way. His eyes fell upon his canoe and he began moving toward it. He could still hear rustling off in the woods. He quietly pushed the canoe into the water and hopped in. He slipped on a life jacket and pushed off in the direction of the noise.
Paul was not sure how long he had been following the sounds but he figured he was almost to the far side of the lake. At the slow pace he was rowing and because he was sticking close to the shore he figured he must have been out for over an hour. Suddenly the noise stopped and Paul stopped rowing, keeping his oar in the water to avoid making a splash. He sat silently in the canoe, waiting. It occurred to him that he might not really want to see who was out in the woods, but he pushed the thought away. He remained motionless, waiting for movement. His muscles began cramping because of the awkward position he was in. He thought he caught a movement along the shore in front of him, realizing that shapes were beginning to form around him. He looked up and saw the clouds thinning, allowing dim moonlight to filter through. He couldn’t stay hunched over holding the oar any longer and risked sitting up, pulling the oar into the canoe as quietly as he could. When he did, a shape began to distinguish itself from the rest of the darkness on the shore. The dim moonlight brightened as the clouds separated and Paul realized he was staring at a deer drinking from the lake. He felt the air rush out of him and suddenly felt very tired. He had stayed up half the night on this great adventure and it turned out he had followed a deer halfway around the lake. He felt foolish and positioned himself to turn the canoe around and head home. The moon again disappeared behind the clouds leaving Paul in darkness again, but the eastern sky was beginning to change from inky black to a grayish blue. As Paul dipped the oar back in the water, something crashed through the woods where the deer had been. He figured the deer had run off but then the sounds turned into a chaos of rustling and something that sounded like growling. He turned in the canoe and stared into the blackness, leaning forward as if this would give him a better view. A sound unlike any he had ever heard rose above the rest and the other sounds stopped. He realized he had been listening to a struggle. He blinked frantically, willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. There was more movement in the woods, different again. This time Paul recognized the sound of something heavy being dragged along the ground. He leaned forward even more, threatening the balance of the canoe and was able to see movement, black on black, toward the shore. He now heard small splashes and other slippery noises and when a sliver of moonlight broke through the clouds, he saw the deer pulled into the water and out of sight.
He sat motionless in the canoe. Panic threatened to overtake him as what he saw began to sink in. His mind buzzed, trying to comprehend what could take down a deer so quickly and also lived underwater. His thoughts turned to crazy stories of alligators living in New York City sewers and he wondered if something like that was possible. He stared at the spot where the deer went in but the water had stopped rippling and there was no sign of anything breaking the surface anywhere. The sky was beginning to lighten and the lake took on that dreamy, surrealistic appearance Paul had seen many mornings waiting for the sun to rise. It suddenly clicked what the sound he had originally heard was. It wasn’t something jumping into the lake but something coming out. Something that Paul followed around the lake until it found the deer. Something that was in the dark waters below him. He sat there until the sun was well over the horizon before he had the courage to row home. Even then, in the light of day, he was sure with each stroke that something was going to come out of the lake and take him under.
He jumped back from the water’s edge, the fear returning as quickly as the memory had. There was more, of that Paul was sure. The rest of the memories would come back to him about that summer. After this one, Paul was not sure he wanted to remember anymore. A chill ran through his body and he went back to the screened porch. He sat down and went over the events in his mind. What did he think he had seen? He recalled the other memory that had hit him on his first day back, and he knew they were related. Whatever had dragged that deer into the lake was the same thing he had tried to kill later that summer. But what was it?
Paul turned and went back inside, locking the door behind him. Then he went back to bed, and was still wide awake when the sun rose.
(23)
Denny always felt silly carrying a gift. Walking down the hill to Billy’s house Saturday afternoon he felt like the eyes of the world were on him, and the people who those eyes belonged to were pointing and laughing. He didn’t know why, but presents seemed like girl stuff. Of course Denny loved receiving gifts—that was a different story—and man, would he love to be getting the one he was holding. He adjusted the awkwardly-wrapped package, trying not to sweat through the wrapping paper, thinking how this would look on the shelf in his own room.
The week since Denny had visited McCarthy had been uneventful at school, dragging the way warm spring weeks do in school. Tomorrow he would go to mass for the first time and he was cautiously optimistic that his plan would work and his mother would be saved. The sound of a screen door slamming did not disturb his daydream, but the sound of the voice did.
“Are you heading to Billy’s birthday party?”
The voice sounded normal, but before Denny turned to see who it came from, he realized that he was passing Paul Greymore’s house. Icy fingers of dread squeezed his chest, making it suddenly hard to breathe. His mind’s eye glanced away from the present he was holding to a newspaper headline: Butcher Claims Another Victim: Killer’s Neighbor Found Dead In Lake.
Keep walking, he thought, pretend you didn’t hear. Over the deafening sound of his own blood pumping through his veins and the beat of his own heart he heard footsteps rapidly approaching.
“Hey, you must be Denny? Billy’s friend?”
Denny was caught in the vise grip of panic. The world began to float in front of him, shimmering in the heat of his fear. As much as his brain was screaming at him to run, he found himself turning to face the voice. Every horror movie he had ever seen, every comic book he had ever read, every nightmare he had ever awoken from shaking and sweating, suddenly ran through his mind in that split second. Then he was face to face with the Butcher, and his fear dissolved as quickly as it had formed. Paul Greymore was scarred and disfigured, yes, but he was human. He was smiling as he approached Denny—not a creepy spider-to-the-fly smile, but one that started in his blue eyes and drew the corners of his mouth up in a way that made the scars less important.
“I’m Denny O’Brien. It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Greymore.”
Denny found himself smiling at the comical expression of surprise Greymore registered. Clearly, he had expected Denny to cringe at the sight of him, or even run away. Greymore quickly regained his composure and held out his hand.
“My pleasure, Mr. O’Brien, any friend of the Cummings family is a friend of mine. Please, call me Paul.”