If he could only open his eyes! It was like waking from a sound sleep, knowing he should get up but not having quite enough willpower to lift his eyelids and face the new day. Willpower! Yes. That’s what he needed!
He concentrated on a single thought: to open his eyes.
And they opened!
From his position on the floor — lying flat on his back wrapped in a scratchy woolen blanket — he looked around the dim, candlelit room.
In the orange flicker of the single flame, he could make out the stone formation of walls and dark outlines of thick timbers far above his head.
Scanning the walls, he saw no windows, but his eyes stopped somewhere to his right where he saw a heavy wooden door.
Closed.
At first he was sure he was in a cellar. But no. That wasn’t right.
Again he tried searching his memory.
There! He almost had it.
The remembered odor of the place with its familiar-looking stonework finally told him where he was. He was in the old monastery.
He fought the paralysis, trying — trying so hard — to move. With a monumental effort of will he was able to pry himself into a sitting position, slowly peeling his aching back away from the sweat-drenched blanket on the floor.
He was naked! God! Why was he naked?
His right hand lifted the blanket to cover his shoulders. He held it closed at the neck.
Oh! The motion reminded him that his muscles ached. Rolling his head around on his neck, he felt little cracks and snaps as tendons, joints, and muscles flexed and relaxed. He stretched his shoulders, his arms, his back, feeling similar relief before he dared to try standing up.
Woodenly, unsteadily, he found his way to his feet. His head reeled as if it were floating unattached in some tropical mist. Struggling for clarity of mind, he stumbled to the door, fully expecting to find it locked.
With what little strength he had, he pushed against the door. It would not budge. He pushed again, feeling the beginnings of panic coursing like electricity through his numbed limbs. Then in momentary relief, half smiling to himself, he pulled on the door. It opened easily.
He peered out into the darkness; it was utter and complete. With an effortless motion he picked up the stub of a candle — the sole light within the room — and held it up in the doorway against the profound gloom.
He saw the central passageway that he had seen… seen when? Not so very long ago.
Was he back in the monastery? Or was he still in the monastery? Could it be that he had never left?
A sudden confusion seized him then, a confusion that memory could not relieve. Had he fallen here? Hit his head, maybe? Had he been here all this time, dreaming strange dreams which now were impossible to remember?
Well, no matter. If he couldn’t remember how long he had been here, at least he could remember the way out.
Holding the candle high, his hand protecting its flame from the draft created by his rapid stride, Harrison made his way toward the far end of the corridor. There, he clearly remembered, was a stairway to the basement. And from the basement a tunnel led to the outside.
After passing doorways all along the passage, he arrived at the place where the stairs should have been. Instead, he found a heavy wooden door — closed. He put his weight against the thick planks, somehow knowing it was pointless. Neither pushing nor pulling would move it a bit.
After pounding on it a dozen times, he turned away, leaned his back against it, and tried to catch his breath. He knew he had the right door, and it was on the right end of the corridor. But — still capable of self-protective denial — he decided to check the other end just to be sure.
Moving from one end of the passageway to the other, he randomly peeked into several of the small rooms along the way. He wanted to be sure he was not overlooking any means of escape. He decided he was not; the only way out was to go up or down the stairs.
But when he arrived at the end of the hall, he discovered he had no access to any stairway.
Then his tentative panic became acute.
He pounded on the stone wall, moaning in frustration. Yet even in his despair he maintained the presence of mind not to let the candle flame go out. He needed the light. Needed it like a medicine. Somehow he sensed that permitting complete darkness would be like an invitation to the insanity he felt was so very near. Thoughts of madness crowded his fragile mind, signaling, taunting…
For the first time in many years, Harrison Allen sat on the floor and cried.
“I can’t get out,” he said over and over in a tiny, quavering voice.
Beside him the flame from the candle stub danced, throwing jittery shadows on the stone walls. A bit of sanity hidden deep below his hopelessness and defeat began to respond to the severity of his situation. Soon the tiny candle would be gone; he would be in complete darkness.
And then what?
There was no water, no accessible food supply. Shouting for help was pointless; on either side of him thick stone walls and acres and acres of uninhabited island meant no one would hear him scream.
Was this all some kind of joke. No, of course not.
Could someone have left him here to die? Probably not. At least not exactly. There was no reason to have brought him here if murder had been the plan. He was reasonably sure that his captors — whoever they might be — would arrive soon. Perhaps they’d bring food and an explanation. Perhaps they would be willing to bargain…
Or — and this might be a better idea — he should prepare for their arrival. At the same time, he’d prepare for his escape. After all, as he had learned long ago, the best defense is a good offense.
But whatever his plan might be, there was one nagging, unsettling phrase that continued to command his attention. It was like a persistent echo trapped inside his head.
A woman’s voice. An old woman.
He could almost hear her!
In some hazy, elusive memory he recalled an old woman’s conversation in which she had stated… “The wrong and the right of it don’t matter. First thing I gotta think about is the fam’ly.”
What had she meant by that? What had she been talking about? God! Why couldn’t he remember anything?
Slowly, reluctantly, Harrison began to rise to the challenge. For more than three decades he had successfully avoided many things. But never before had he come close to facing anything like this. This time he could not avoid it. This time there was no easy dodge or escape.
With no stretch of the imagination, Harrison knew he was a prisoner. There was no room for denial.
So what was he going to do about it?
With sustained concentration his thoughts began to clarify and focus. He needed a weapon.
Taking the remaining inch of candle, he began to look into the tiny rooms, searching for anything that might inflict pain, cause damage.
When he opened the door on the left side of the corridor — at about the middle of the building — he was startled to find himself walking into a well-lighted room. Candles, dozens of candles, lit the tiny chamber. They provided a warm, intimate glow.
Slowly, as the door opened wider, it revealed a sturdy three-legged table in the center of the room. On it Harrison could see two cups, a steaming teapot, a half a loaf of dark bread on a plate. Beside the table, back against the wall, two army-type cots were pushed together, side by side. They were covered with an inviting thickness of homemade quilts.
From where she snuggled below the colorful quilts, her black eyes looked out and met the terrified eyes of her lover. Jenny Snowdon rose to meet her husband.
Instantly, with scalding clarity of thought, Harrison Allen understood everything.
He backed out of the door. The piece of candle dropped from his hand and went out. The blanket slipped out of his grip.
He ran naked through the darkness to the far end of the corridor. He pounded on the locked door to the stairway.
A scream locked in his throat as the unyielding door tore the skin from his fist
s.
He wasn’t a man anymore; he was a force. He was unstoppable.
The door wouldn’t budge.
The last fragments of Harrison’s sanity escaped with an explosion of vomit and uncontrollable screams.
Behind him, in the dark passageway, the scratching sounds of clawlike toenails inched toward him on the granite floor.
A hand touched his shoulder.
An arm embraced him.
Chapter 19 - The Monster
Far from the towering gray and silent walls of the ancient monastery, below the cloud-heavy, lightless sky, the ever-changing swells of the great lake throbbed to an ageless rhythm.
Beneath its perpetual, imperceptible tide, in the cold, uncharted channels north of Friar’s Island, a dark, serpentine form roved silently through shadowless depths. Zeuglodon, plesiosaur, or great eel, it knew itself not by name but by sensation. Its route through the frigid waterway was guided by reaction, never by design. In the dimness of its animal brain, it knew — as well as it could know anything at all — that the waters around it were growing colder with each new darkness. And, as the temperature fell, its appetite diminished, leaving safe the small fish that frolicked nearby and fled whenever it came too near.
In a sightless, soundless recess of its primitive brain, there was a faint call, a summons, like the faraway sounds of its mother, who had died so long ago. Her tired, parasite-ridden body had drifted slowly, like a gyrating log, to the sunless depths.
And the animal was alone.
The faint call — irresistible, persistent — would guide the obedient creature among the Champlain Islands, urging it north, away from the lake and the coming of ice, then across meaningless borders to faster-moving Canadian waters. There its hunger would return. There it would feast, gaining new strength to complete its long migration to the sea.
Author’s Note
Although this book is a work of fiction, a tremendous amount of evidence suggests the Lake Champlain Monster — like his Loch Ness cousin — really exists. With the exception of the Oliver Ransom sighting, all the monster lore in this novel, including Sandra Mansi’s controversial photo, is on the level.
I’d like to thank Joseph W. Zarzynski, who generously assisted me with my research. For years Joe was a real-life monster hunter whose book, Champ: Beyond the Legend, is still the definitive study of the Lake Champlain Monster.
I would also like to thank my friends at Vermont Public Radio for their support and for making archival recordings of eyewitness monster sightings available to me.
Afterword
Like many authors, I have two first novels: the first written and the first published. My first published was Shadow Child, but this is the first book I ever wrote.
I began it around 1983 or 84. At that time I wanted to create a scary story like many I had enjoyed over the years. A long-time affection for such writers as Bram Stoker, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Arthur Machen and especially New Englander H.P. Lovecraft is evident and acknowledged.
I began reading Lovecraft when I was in the fifth grade. I remember the immediacy each tale took on when I realized it could be happening right here in Vermont. Right in the woods behind my house.
In writing this book I wanted to create what might be called a “Vermont Gothic.” I tried to include as many traditional Gothic trappings as I could: menacing and mysterious characters, remote and desolate landscapes, weird family relationships, lots of shadows, and of course spooky old buildings, dark passageways, and darker secrets.
Even in my literary naiveté I knew I was championing and outdated form. I tried to compensate by devising a modern and recognizable protagonist with just the right amount of 1980s angst.
Without pontificating too much about the metaphorical implications of Harrison Allen’s seemingly pointless journey to Friars Island, let me just say that the book’s original title was The Monster Hunter. It is about a man who goes looking for a monster he doesn’t find; who finds a monster he isn’t looking for; and whose odyssey is a search for self — a monster hunt of its own.
I chose Vermont’s Champlain Islands as the setting because they comprise a magical world, unlike anywhere else in the state. My first visit to Isle La Motte suggested the microcosm that became Friars Island.
The cycle of speculation about the Lake Champlain Monster is very much on the level. However, I felt that in dealing with legitimate folklore — or possibly unproven fact — it would have been irresponsible of me to ruin the integrity of the myth by “solving the problem.” So the monster remains undisturbed.
I should probably close by saying that any resemblance to the real Vermont, and any similarity between Harrison Allen and myself are coincidences too astonishing to be believed.
PRODIGAL
By Melanie Tem
For my daughter Veronica,
who taught me how to tell this story,
and who goes on teaching.
And, of course, for Steve.
1
Ethan came into Lucy’s room without warning, without knocking. He always did whatever he felt like. She didn’t even see or hear the door open; she had her eyes closed and her earphones on. Before she knew he was there, Ethan was beside her bed, leaning close over her and breathing bad breath into her face as if he was trying to say something, and he had his hands around her neck.
Ethan had been missing for a long time. Everybody knew he was dead.
Lucy slapped his hands away and pulled back from him against the wall. “Ethan!”
This wasn’t a dream. She had lots of weird dreams about her dead brother Ethan; in some of them, he tried to kill her because what had happened to him was somehow her fault. In the dreams, and for a while before and after, Lucy believed it was her fault, even though she couldn’t understand how, even though Ethan was the one who’d kept getting in trouble, who’d gotten into drugs, who’d run away and not come back. The times when she believed it was her fault weren’t as scary as the times when she knew she couldn’t have done anything to keep her brother safe, and neither could Mom or Dad.
This wasn’t a dream. She wasn’t asleep. It was the middle of a drizzly Saturday afternoon in May, and she was taking a break from chores and lying on her bed listening to the Top Forty Countdown, hoping she’d get through to number one before Mom or Dad found her and made her finish dusting. Maxx Well the deejay had been just about to announce number three when Ethan showed up in her room.
She took the earphones off and laid them in the sheets. Now the music sounded funny, voices without mouths. Ethan was still leaning over her, still had his mouth open, still had his hands raised and cupped to choke her. He could still reach her if he just straightened out his arms, and she couldn’t move any farther back. She drew up her knees, crossed her arms over her chest. “What are you doing here? What’s going on? Are you in trouble again?” That was a dumb question. Ethan was always in trouble.
He didn’t say anything. She turned off the radio. Now she never would know what this week’s number one was. Ethan’s mouth hung open. She could see his tongue, coated white, and his dirty teeth. His breath made her sick to her stomach.
“God, Ethan, don’t you ever brush your teeth?”
He still didn’t say anything. He was trying to; his mouth twisted and awful choking sounds came out. But she couldn’t understand him. He leaned and shook till she thought for sure he’d fall on top of her.
She longed to hug him again, like when they were little. She’d dreamed about hugging him, about punching him for all the stupid things he’d done, about holding on to him so he couldn’t run away again. But she knew Ethan was dead.
“I’m going to get Mom or Dad.” She scrambled to her hands and knees on the bed and started to crawl toward the foot, thinking she could circle around him. He put both hands on her shoulders and pushed her down.
Lucy screamed. “Mom! Dad!” She covered her head with a pillow, pulled the bedspread over her. When Mom came running into her room and Lucy opened her e
yes again, Ethan was gone.
2
Mom sobbed and rocked back and forth on Lucy’s bed. She was bent over and hugging herself with the arm that wasn’t holding Lucy, as if her heart and stomach would explode if she didn’t hold them in. Lucy hadn’t seen her cry like that for a long time; she’d thought she was over it.
Lucy sobbed, too, and they clung to each other. That helped some. But Mom’s body felt as if it had holes in it that Lucy’s hands could go right through, and she thought probably her body felt the same way to Mom. The other noises of the household sounded thin and not quite real, as if they were coming from earphones that had been knocked off her ears: the dishwasher rumbling in the kitchen under her room; Priscilla running the vacuum cleaner on the stairs and singing; the little kids squabbling; Dad’s saw in the basement. She wondered irritably what the number-two song was, whether it had moved up or down the charts from last week. She bet it was “You’ll Never Be Free of Me.”
The harder Mom cried and held her, the surer Lucy was that they were both going to slide off the edge of the earth, and that Mom knew it, too. Ethan had. He’d been missing for almost two years, and nobody had seen or heard from him, nobody had any idea what had happened to him. The cops couldn’t find him. That social worker Jerry Johnston couldn’t find him. She didn’t think they’d looked very hard. Mom and Dad couldn’t find him, and they’d looked everywhere.
“I’m … sorry … Mom,” she gasped. Her chest hurt and her throat was closing around the words. She didn’t feel scared like this much anymore, except when she made Mom cry. “I’m … so sorry!”
Mom took a few deep, shuddering breaths and smoothed Lucy’s hair. Lucy liked it when her mother touched her hair, and she tipped her head back into the unsteady stroking. “No, baby, no,” Mom whispered. Her voice shook, but she’d stopped crying. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
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