by Rick Hautala
“No matter what else you can say, I couldn’t . . . I didn’t save her.”
“You can’t think like that, do you hear me?” Guy said, placing one hand firmly on Mark’s shoulder and giving him a reassuring squeeze.
Mark looked up at him and took a shuddering breath.
“You did things not too many people could have done. You can’t go blaming yourself for what they— for what those creatures did to her.”
Mark’s eyes fixed on the policeman.
“So you believe me,” he said, fighting hard to control the waver in his voice. “You don’t think I was making them up, or hallucinating them, then, huh?”
“Not at all,” Guy said, shaking his head. “But to tell you the truth, it wasn’t just what I saw in the cave that convinced me. Sandy convinced me long before that.”
“Sandy—? What the hell did she know about them?” Mark’s vision began to swim with tears. “At least before it was too late?”
Guy quickly told Mark about Sandy’s accident on the road from the Round Top Trail, and how he had been skeptical about her report until he saw the damaged Jeep. He then told Mark how he had gotten worried when Sandy didn’t show up at school the next day, and he decided to check out at the trail head for her in case she had tried to meet up with him.
“And as it turned out,” Guy said, “it’s a goddamned good thing I got hung up on some other business and didn’t get out there until late last night. Otherwise, I might not have found you ... until it was too late.”
“So what the fuck is it up there, some kind of Bigfoot monster or something?”
“I have no idea, but I think you can say used to be up there . . . if—like you say—you killed them all. But, yeah—I believe you’re telling the truth. Oh, and it’s looking like the state investigators are convinced it was one of those monsters that killed Dennis Cross outside your house, too.”
“You know, I think it was looking for me,” Mark said, in a ragged whisper. He closed his eyes as a wave of chills raced through him. “They knew I had seen them, and all along they were hunting for me . . . ever since last weekend, when me and Phil were hiking up there.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. You might be giving them a tad more credit than—” Guy cut himself off when a light tapping sounded at the door. They both looked up, and Mark tensed when he saw Polly walk into the room.
“I guess I’ll get going for now,” Guy said, rubbing his hands together as he regarded Polly with a harsh stare. He walked past her toward the door, then stopped. “I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about,” he added.
Polly nodded a stiff greeting to Guy, then approached the bedside with her head bowed and her hands folded in front of her. She stood there silently for a moment, waiting for Mark to say something.
Mark’s pulse was racing high and fast in his ears as he closed his eyes and settled back onto the pillow. He realized right then just how horrible their marriage was, because his first thought upon seeing her was that she was the last—not the first—person he wanted to see right now.
“I—I’m so glad you’re—you’re all right,” Polly said.
Her voice was faint and unnaturally flat. She took hold of the bed railing with both hands and held on to it tightly, as if it were all that kept her from falling over.
“Yeah. I’m okay . . . but Sandy isn’t,” Mark said, knowing—and not caring—how much that would hurt Polly. Right now, he felt as though he had more than enough pain to share.
“Yes, Chief LaBrea told me that she was ... that she died up on the mountain,” Polly said.
Even without looking at her, Mark knew that she was crying, but he couldn’t help but wonder just how genuine her tears were.
“Do you have any idea what she was doing up there?” he asked, his voice trembling with emotion. He still had his eyes closed so he wouldn’t have to look at her, because, he knew in his heart that, whatever else happened after this, any love or affection he had once felt for her had been permanently changed . .. and all for the worse.
“No—she was—I don’t know,” Polly said, “but there’s ... I don’t know, maybe now’s not the time to talk about it, but there’s something—” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
“You mean about Dennis?” Mark said, knowing— and hoping—even as he said it that his words would cut straight to her heart.
After a long, awkward silence, Polly said, “Uh-huh.”
“Well, maybe I can make it easy for you,” Mark said.
He opened his eyes and looked squarely at his wife, unable to deny the rush of emotion he still felt for her; but he also couldn’t ignore how different, how distant she looked to him—like she was someone he had never even met before ... or a person he had known in another lifetime. Everything he once felt for her was blunted if not obliterated by what he had seen and been through on the mountain.
“I know all about you and Dennis, all right?” Mark said. His throat was on fire, but he couldn’t even bring himself to ask her to pass him the glass of water on the stand beside his bed. He didn’t want to owe her anything.
For several seconds, Polly said nothing. Her mouth kept opening and closing, but the only sound that came out was a high, strangled whimper. Her eyes were glistening with moisture, and tears were streaming down her cheeks.
“And I suspect—” he said. “No, I’m positive that it wasn’t the first time. Was it?”
He wanted to grasp her by the throat and strangle her as he screamed at her, hoping to break her down and make her cry, force her to admit it all; but he simply didn’t have the strength. The medication made keeping his eyes open and speaking barely above a whisper more than enough of a challenge.
Polly cleared her throat but still couldn’t speak.
“To tell you the truth,” Mark went on, “I don’t know what to make of it all. You know, I’m going to be in the hospital for a while, at least a week, and when I get out, I—I—” He gave a feeble shrug of the shoulders and let his sentence hang, unfinished.
Polly tried to say something, but her voice choked off as she wiped her tears with the flats of her hands. It looked to Mark as if she were trying to claw her own eyes out.
“What can I say . . . except that I—that I’m . . . sorry, all right?”
Mark remained silent, finding the effort of speaking and the emotional strain just too much to bear.
“After what happened to Sandy and all, I know that what you’ve been through has been just terrible,” Polly said. “But maybe we can—we can use this as a new beginning . . . for us. I—I promise you—I swear to you that I’m sorry for what I’ve done. You don’t know how sorry I am. It was horrible of me to treat you like that, and from now on I—”
She reached down and lightly gripped his hand, resting limply on the bed.
“From now on I promise I’ll never do anything like that again. Ever! I’ll be faithful to you, Mark. I promise! You have to believe me!”
Although an explosion of thoughts filled his head, Mark said nothing. Medication and exhaustion were dragging him down so his body and mind could heal. He knew that his feelings and emotions would stay wounded much longer than his body ever would, but right now, the soft, enfolding darkness of sleep was pulling him irresistibly down . .. down. From far away, he heard Polly’s voice, a faint, reverberating ruffle, speaking to him.
“I promise you, Mark ... I swear to God, from now on I’ll be the wife you’ve always wanted me to be. . . .”
Chapter Thirty-six
Change of Heart
“It’s been horrible, Mom—really horrible!”
Polly was sitting in the living room with her feet up on the coffee table and the telephone base resting in her lap. The receiver was perched on her right shoulder, pressing hard against her ear. The sun had set over an hour ago, and for the past half hour she had been going over the events of the last week with her mother.
“I know that wha
t you said—you know, that I should probably hang in there—is probably right. I know that’s what I should do, but I just don’t know, Mom. I’m just so . . . so confused.”
“Listen to me, darling. I know you’ll do what’s best,” her mother said for what seemed like the hundredth time. “I don’t want to tell you how to live your own life, but I do wish you would stop drinking. How can you expect to think clearly?”
“I haven’t had much to drink,” Polly said as she eyed the nearly empty bottle of whiskey on the end table.
“Look, dear, I have to be going now, but give me a call tomorrow and let me know what you decide, okay? I’m sure you’ll do the right thing, but if you need a place to stay, you can always come home.”
“Thanks, Mom. I appreciate that,” Polly said as a wave of disappointment swept through her. Her sense of loss, of absolute desertion, was as strong as it had ever been, even back before her father died. All her life, it seemed, she had been asking—begging—her mother for help and guidance that she simply had never provided. No wonder her life was so screwed up!
“I—uh, I’ll talk to yah later then.”
“ ‘Bye, honey. Remember, I love you.”
“Love you too, Mom,” Polly said. “ ‘Bye.” Polly hung up the phone but made no move to put it back on the bookcase. It slid off her lap and onto the couch cushion beside her as she reached for the whiskey bottle, unscrewed the cap, and poured what was left into her glass. The ice had long since melted, but she didn’t care. The whiskey burned the back of her throat as she swallowed it, actually enjoying the fire it lit in her stomach and the dulling of thoughts in her brain. Ever since the phone call last night that had informed her Mark had been admitted to the hospital and was in serious—if not critical—condition, she had been lost in a morass of worry, guilt, and doubt. At least the whiskey was helping blunt it all. “And the cops aren’t bugging me anymore,” she said before taking another sip. As long as she was no longer under suspicion for the death of Dennis Cross, she was free and clear. She could even leave town if she wanted to.
If she wanted to!
That was the question uppermost in her mind.
What the hell did she want to do?
Did she still love Mark?
Even if the answer was a resounding yes, which it wasn’t, what chance did they possibly have to pull their marriage back together after she had betrayed his trust so many times? He knew that Dennis wasn’t the first one, so how could he ever trust her again?
But if she left, where would she go?
She could head down to Florida and stay with her mother, at least until something better came along; but that would create as many problems as it would solve.
So where should she go?
What could she do?
Polly shifted her feet to the floor and would have stood up except for the muffled pounding inside her head. The room seemed to slip to one side as she flopped back, took a deep breath, and leaned her head back against the couch.
Maybe she had had a little too much.
“But I’ve gotta do something!” she whispered. “I’ve gotta get the hell out of here. This damned town— everything about it—is driving me fucking crazy!”
Her voice was slurred as she raised her glass to her mouth and sipped. Whiskey sloshed out onto her chest, but she didn’t care.
The car was still packed. All she had to do was grab a few more things and leave.
She stared at the glass as she rolled it back and forth in her hands, amazed at how all of a sudden the whiskey seemed to be hitting her, as if talking to her mother had been keeping her sober, but now . . .
“To freedom,” she said, raising her glass like a reveling Shriner.
She opened her mouth, about to gulp some more whiskey, but then froze with the glass halfway to her lips.
She had seen something—the mere hint of a shadow—move past the living room window, rippling over the gauzy curtains.
Her eyes opened wide with surprise and fear, and a bone-deep chill raced up her back as she stared at the window. She desperately wanted to convince herself that it had been nothing more than a fleeting shadow cast by a passing car or something, but the longer she stared at the curtains, the more she became convinced there was someone standing right outside there, looking in at her.
Moving slowly, forcing herself to make every motion appear completely natural, she lowered her glass to the end table, all the while keeping her gaze fastened on the window. She glanced at the phone beside her, then quickly snatched up the receiver. Her hands were trembling as she pressed the speed button for the police station, then brought the receiver to her ear. The phone beeped the seven numbers, but before anyone answered at the station, the shadow—this time looking quite solid and large—moved up closer to the window. Polly let out a high-pitched scream when something—a fist or a foot—slammed against the glass, making it vibrate.
“Hilton Police. Officer Clark speaking.”
Polly tried to say something, but her throat closed off. All she could think was, this had to be the person who had killed Dennis.
“Hello,” said the voice over the phone. “This is the Hilton Police Station. May I help you?”
“Yes, this is Polly-—Polly Newman calling.”
Her voice sounded like she’d been gargling with Drano.
“I think there’s a—”
Before she could say anything more, the living room window exploded inward. The window sheers bulged like full-bellied sails as shards of broken glass filled them like a blast of buckshot. One sweep of a huge hand yanked the curtains down off the curtain rod. They fell, covering the intruder, but Polly could see that he was huge. Broken wood and glass crunched underfoot, but every sound was masked by a loud animal roar.
Polly dropped the telephone. Her mind was paralyzed with fear. She didn’t hear or understand the voice of the police dispatcher, shouting to her through the receiver.
After a moment of struggle, the figure shook itself free of the entangling curtain and stepped forward with its arms held out wide, as if to embrace her. Polly’s mind went blank with terror when she saw what looked like an enormous, hairy ape. Flashing eyes sparked like lightning as the beast peeled back its thick lips, exposing its teeth, and roared again.
“Mrs. Newman . . . Can you hear me?” the tinny voice said over the phone. “I have a patrolman in the area right now. He’ll be there in less than a minute.”
Polly screamed once, loud and sharp as the creature charged at her. Somehow, she found the ability to move. With a quick kick, she propelled herself over the back of the couch, tumbled onto the floor, scrambled to her feet, and then started to run. The house filled with the enraged bellow of the beast.
Polly didn’t dare look behind her, but she could feel the creature closing the gap between them as she hooked her hand on the doorjamb and pivoted herself around, into the kitchen. Her only thought was to get the hell out of the house!
As she turned the corner, though, her momentum carried her too far. Her feet slipped on the linoleum, and she went down hard, banging both knees on the floor.
Terrified, she looked behind her and ducked just in time as the animal swung its ham-sized paw at her head, missing by inches and punching a basketball-sized hole in the wall. The gigantic bulk of the beast loomed above her, filling her mind with blinding white terror as she scrambled on hands and knees across the kitchen floor toward the back door.
The beast’s thundering roar filled the kitchen, vibrating the walls and rattling the windows as Polly stood up. She grabbed a chair as she ran past the kitchen table and flung it behind her, hoping to slow down her pursuer, but she knew with heart-stopping certainty that anything she tried to do to stop it would prove futile. Even if she made it outside, it wouldn’t take long for the creature to run her down.
Where could she run?
Where could she hide?
She banged into the door and was fumbling to turn the doorknob and open the door when the creat
ure swung its hand in a wide arc that caught her squarely on the side of the head. Bright lights and sounds exploded inside her head as she was swept to one side and slammed into the wall. Dazed from the impact, she slid to the floor and then scrunched up into as tight a ball as possible as she cowered back, pressing hard against the wall and wishing to heaven she could fall through it into safety.
But she knew she couldn’t.
This was the end.
The creature stretched to its full height, its head almost bumping against the ceiling as it braced its feet wide, flung its arms back, and let loose another terrifying howl. Polly couldn’t help but think it sounded more like a cry of pure joy.
Raising both hands high above its head, it swung down first one hand, then the other. There were two instances of blazing pain as the beast’s thick-nailed claws ripped down both sides of Polly’s face, removing large chunks of hair and flesh. The stinging pain was incredibly intense. Polly clapped her hands to her face and was sickened by the slick, bloody divots that had been her cheeks.