Winter Wake

by Rick Hautala

  “YOU DID THIS TO ME!”

  All around him, the barn creaked and groaned as the storm hammered its sides. Indistinct whisperings drifted to his ears, sounding almost like words … vague, angry accusations. He couldn’t tell where they came from. They seemed to come from every direction. He turned frantically this way and that, trying to locate the sources of the sounds.

  “This is fucking ridiculous,” he muttered, letting his flashlight beam swing around but not quite daring to point it up to the hayloft because of what he was afraid he’d see.

  “No,” he whispered, his voice raw. “No one’s going to be —”

  “John …”

  That single word — had it really been my name? — drifted from out of the dark and sent a cold bolt of fear racing up his spine. Aware that he had been holding his breath, he let it out slowly as he pointed the flashlight up … up … to the hayloft.

  Although Haskins was long since dead, and his barn was scheduled to be torn down to make way for the condo project, John was surprised to see the loft still piled high with bales of hay. The dirt floor was littered with dull brown chaff that had sifted through the cracks in the loft floor. On one side of the barn wall, two-by-fours had been nailed across the inside studs to form a crude ladder.

  The ladder Abby climbed up that night ... with a coil of old rope over her shoulder.

  A hard, dry lump formed in John’s throat.

  “John …”

  He tensed, positive now that someone was calling his name. It wasn’t the wind or his imagination.

  The voice had come from up in the hayloft.

  “Sally?” he called out, his voice barely vibrating in his throat. “Are you up there?”

  There was no reply, and for several heartbeats — heartbeats that came rapidly — John stared up at the bales of rotting hay, not daring to shine his flashlight on the rafter Abby had used.

  Is someone up there? he wondered, tingling with fear. How can there be? … Not tonight … Not on a night like this …

  “This isn’t funny, you know,” John shouted, forcing strength into his voice he didn’t feel. “I don’t think it’s one damn bit funny!”

  “John …”

  Again, the voice came, faintly and, seemingly, from several directions at once.

  John tried to convince himself that it was the wind, whistling through the cracks in the barn. He was imagining hearing someone call his name. There couldn’t be anyone up in the hayloft.

  “Come up …” the voice whispered.

  As crazy — as impossible as it seemed, John was now convinced someone was up there.

  It had to be Sally Curry.

  In a perverted sort of way, it made sense that she would do this. Abby must have told her sister everything, and now — after twenty years — Sally had heard that John was back on Glooscap, and she had come home to set him up. The notes, the creeping around the house, the telephone calls — everything was so she could get her revenge!

  It was insane, but that had to be the answer.

  “I — I’m not coming up there, Sally,” John shouted. He smiled to himself, thinking maybe there wasn’t anyone up there, that the tiny voice was a product of his overworked imagination.

  Talk about crazy. He chuckled to himself. I’m nuts to be out here on a night like this talking to myself in an empty barn …

  “Come up … here.”

  “Whoever you are, if you’re not going to show yourself, I’m leaving,” John said.

  He was staring at the underside of the loft floor, and his heart froze in mid-beat when the floorboards creaked overhead. Fine grit and chaff sifted down, caught and swirled by errant breezes — a miniature version of the blizzard raging outside. Heavy, dragging footsteps moved from the back of the loft toward the front — the open end.

  John’s hand involuntarily clenched the tube of the flashlight. Inside his glove, his hand was slick with sweat.

  Slowly, feeling every heavy thump his heart made, John directed the flashlight beam up … up …

  At first, he saw nothing but piles of pale yellow straw and the dark ribs and walls of the barn. But then the darkness shifted as though a portion of the impenetrable night had seeped into the barn.

  And then a face coalesced and resolved out of the darkness.

  When it registered who —

  Or what

  — it was, he tried to scream, but his throat clamped shut.

  Long, black hair framed a thin face so pale it hovered in the darkness of the loft like a cloud-masked moon. Dark circled eyes stared down at him, and the mouth — harsh, bloodless lips set in a firm line — slowly widened into a smile that showed yellowed teeth. Beneath the mass of black hair, a heavy gray sweater hung loosely over the shoulders. Thick globs of moss and dirt and rot stained the sweater. It hung heavily, as though it was damp and moldy with age,

  “Jesus Christ … No!” John whispered, taking an involuntary step back.

  The face loomed above him, the mouth widening into a cruel smile as the lips peeled back.

  “You still recognize me … after all this time?”

  Her voice had a razor edge that cut into John’s awareness.

  “No … It can’t be! … It’s impossible! … Abby?”

  A sudden rushing noise inside his head masked every sound other than her voice. He recognized the face — the same one that had been outside his house … looking in through the window — the same one he had seen, pale and staring at him from inside the noose twenty years ago!

  “YOU DID THIS TO ME!”

  The thought clapped in his mind like thunder.

  “This can’t be!” he wailed, taking more steps backward.

  As much as he wanted to, he didn’t dare take his flashlight beam away from Abby’s leering face.

  It’s no hallucination! … It’s real!

  “Oh, yes … it can be! It is,” Abby said.

  With that, she threw her head back and let out a long, cackling laugh that swept around and through John as if he had become immaterial.

  John’s breath came in sharp, painful gasps. The sounds of the raging storm outside faded to a distant memory as his mind reeled, trying to grasp the actuality of who — or what — he was looking at. The pale face, like the gray sweater, was smeared with dirt and mold and rot.

  “See what you did to me?” Abby said. She raked her fingers down across her cheek, carving deep furrows into her rotting flesh. Gray swatches of skin peeled away in strips, exposing the dull gray bones beneath. The flesh was seething with worms and maggots.

  It’s not possible! his mind wailed, while taking on its own lunatic giggle. It’s not possible!

  “You made me kill myself … I had no other choice … because you didn’t want my baby … our baby!” Abby’s voice was a low, evil rasp. “And then you buried me … Did you think you could get rid of me as easily as that?” Her voice was as sheer as black pond ice. “You actually thought you could hide what you did? ... That you could bury me and no one would find out? What a fool!” Again her laughter filled the barn, spinning around John like a whirlpool that threatened to suck him under.

  “You can’t be Abby!” John cried, his voice winding up the scale. “Abby’s dead! I saw her! I buried her!”

  To save the last, few shreds of sanity he had remaining, he had to believe this was Abby’s sister in an elaborate show to force him to admit what he had done, to drive him insane with guilt.

  “You buried me,” Abby said, laughing hollowly. “And you thought … if I was dead and buried … you’d be through with me … that you could go right on living. But you were wrong!”

  A terrible fury flashed inside her eyes, and she raised her hands into the air — thin, talon-like fingers with cracked and yellowed nails. Her black hair was caught in an updraft and twisted around her head like a tangled knot of snakes.

  “You were wrong, John!” Abby said, her voice low and measured, chilling in its hollowness. “Spite and anger never die! They can�
��t be buried! They grow in the dark. They feed on the dark until they become strong!”

  She clenched one hand into a fist in front of her face and shook it viciously. Thin tendons worked beneath the layer of rotting flesh.

  “And in all that time, I waited … growing stronger in the cold and the darkness where you left me.” She jabbed a pointed finger at him in accusation. “But I was patient … I waited … because I knew you’d come back … I knew I’d have you again!”

  “I never did anything to you,” John wailed. “You did it to yourself!”

  Tears flooded from his eyes, blurring his vision and freezing on his face. Abby shattered into dozens of sparkling reflections. Everything around him — the barn, the hayloft, the face leering over him in the darkness — all of it whirled around, smearing and blending into chaos.

  “You had your chance, John!” Abby wailed.

  He had the momentary impression that there was no flesh left on her face. She was a grinning skull face.

  “And now … after all this time … and eternity spent waiting in the dark … I’ll get my revenge! On you … and your daughter … and your wife … and — best of all — on the baby she’s carrying!”

  John shook his head, not grasping the full impact of what Abby had just said.

  “You didn’t even know, did you?” Abby laughed again, the sound seeming to come from the bottom of a deep well. “You didn’t know your wife was pregnant.”

  “No, I … I —” John stammered, but words failed him.

  I would have been content to get my revenge on you for what you did to me, but as soon as I sensed the baby growing in her womb — like the baby growing in my womb that you killed! — I decided you would all have to die! I’ve already killed your father. Remember his face? Do you remember how he struggled the night he died?”

  Stunned at the memory, John could do nothing but nod.

  “I killed him!” Abby smiled wickedly. “He saw me that night at church, and he almost remembered … he almost told you that I was back, so he had to die first. You remember that night, don’t you? How he suffered? How he screamed as I tore his soul apart? I was in the room with him. It took me a while to gather the strength I needed. Even though people could see me, I couldn’t do anything … not at first. But the more I saw you and your family, the more I let the cold darkness and the hatred grow inside me — like my baby that you killed! The more I hated you, the stronger I got and the more I could do.”

  “The notes …” John said with a gasp. “You wrote those notes?”

  Slowly, Abby nodded. A cold, red glow burned in her eyes.

  “I WON’T FORGET WHAT YOU DID TO ME!”

  Her laughter rose shrilly.

  “Of course I did … I had to learn how to use things again. I had to get strong so I could make things happen. At first, the best I could do was scrawl those pathetic notes and then —” She laughed again, a cold, thin laugh. “It brought me such pleasure to feel your panic, your gnawing fear and guilt grow as you read each new word. And as I grew stronger, I found I could do more … like move things around ... the furniture in your house.”

  “After the funeral,” John said, more to himself than to Abby.

  “And so — first your father … and eventually your family. I have to destroy the baby your wife is carrying just as you murdered the baby I was carrying. But first … first, it’s your turn to die!”

  With a sudden forward lurch, she jumped off the edge of the loft. For a frozen moment, John expected her fetch to up and snap backward at the end of a rope. He was prepared to hear the broken board snap of her neck. But with her arms upraised and her mouth wide open, Abby’s dark form drifted, rather than fell, as it swooped down on him like a black hawk. She landed lightly on the barn floor only a few feet from him.

  The circle of his flashlight underlit Abby’s face as she leaned closer. Her skin — skin he remembered as being so soft … so smooth and healthy — was mottled and blotched with rot, crawling with white worms. Through the shreds of torn skin on her cheek, John saw her dirt-crusted teeth. When she opened her mouth, a sickly wash of foul breath made his stomach revolt.

  “Blood will answer blood!” Abby shouted. “You will all die!”

  She raised her hands above her head again, and with a bone-chilling whoosh, she vanished. The space in the barn where she had been standing a mere second ago sucked in with a dull concussion.

  John stood, amazed, as he glanced back and forth. His only thought was that he had to have imagined what just happened. Outside, in the storm, his overwrought nerves had worn down. They tricked him, making him hallucinate everything because of twenty years of guilt.

  But then, at first faintly but steadily growing stronger, something — a sense of menacing presence drew his attention upward. The oval of light from his flashlight swept back and forth over the stacked bales of hay and across the rotting rafters. At first, he saw nothing, but below the howling of the storm, he heard a high-pitched squeaking sound that soon took on the sound of a chorus, like ...

  Like rats, he thought.

  Cold fear tightened around his heart.

  Rats in the wall!

  The stacked bales of hay in the loft seemed to be throbbing as the squeaking sounds rose in intensity. Before long, there was no doubt in John’s mind — the hay bales were moving. He took another two steps backward but stopped when he backed into the barn wall. A jolt of pain shot up his shoulder to his neck, but that was nothing compared to what he felt when the hay bales suddenly exploded into a dark, quivering mass that spilled out across the loft floor.

  “Mother of Christ!” John shouted as the hay bales surged to life.

  And then the shattering realization hit him. It wasn’t the hay bales. It was something coming out of the bales. A heartbeat later, a tangled mass of rats scrambled over the hayloft floor to the edge of the loft. Dozens — hundreds — of beady eyes gleamed red in the glow of his flashlight.

  John turned and started to run, but his foot snagged on something, and he fell to the floor. The flashlight flew from his hand and rolled away, its beam spinning wildly before winking out. Above and behind him, the chattering sounds of the rats — hundreds of them — rose until it filled his ears like a storm wind. In the darkness behind him, he heard them as they plopped heavily onto the barn floor, sounding like pelting rain.

  The first jolt of pain that hit his leg was like a hot, bright sliver of metal jabbing into his flesh. Within seconds, an ever-increasing weight piled up — first on his legs … then it swept up over his hips. The tide of squealing rats cascaded over him, threatening to smother him. Tiny claws raked exposed face, ripping his pants and coat. Chisel-sharp teeth slashed him. Throwing his head back, John let out a lung-ripping scream that was cut off when a fat-bodied rat jammed itself into his mouth. He bit down hard, severing the body in half, gagging as a hot gush of blood filled his throat. He spit out the rat’s body and covered his face with his arms to protect his eyes from the whirlwind of claws and teeth.

  John’s arms and legs worked furiously to get him out from under the crushing mass of rats, but it was too much. His boots kept slipping on the dirt floor, and he flopped onto his back, unable to shake loose. The darkness in the barn masked the scene of horror as more and more rats tumbled from the loft to the floor and swarmed over him.

  Before long, his coat and pants and body were nothing more than shreds. The rats bit and chewed at any portion of him they could get at. He felt like he was being splashed with acid as the claws raked his skin open. The flow of hot blood drove the rats to an even greater frenzy.

  Their combined weight was crushing as John kicked and flailed to extricate himself. As he rolled and flopped around on the floor, every now and then he caught a glimpse of the barn door and the solid sheet of falling snow beyond. He realized that, even if he made it outside, the chances of getting to his car and making it home in this storm were slim to impossible …

  But he had to warn Julia and Bri.
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br />   The horrible thought tormented him that Abby was headed there next. She had left the rats to finish him off while she went to the house to do what she had said ... kill Julia ... and Bri ... and the baby she said Julia was carrying.

  With a sudden jolt of adrenaline, John thrashed at the overwhelming crush of squirming, furry bodies and, miraculously, the weight shifted. With his arms free, he scrambled to shake his legs loose. With a sudden forward lurch, he stood up and, crouching low, running off balance, his arms pin-wheeling wildly, he made a desperate dash for the barn door. His shoulder slammed into the rough wood, and the door gave grudgingly against the snow that had piled up against it.

  Wind and snow tore into his face as he charged outside. Knowing that seething mass of rats was close behind drove him forward through the high drifts toward his car. He ran, swinging his torn and bleeding legs high above the wind-whipped surface of the snow.

  If I can only find the frigging car! he thought frantically. If the snow hasn’t buried it!

  The frigid air tore like flames into his lungs as he ran, encased in the storm. All he knew was that Haskins’ barn and the rats were behind him, and Abby was ahead of him. As he ran, he expected her decomposed face, grinning a wide, maniacal smile, to dart out at him from the night … laughing … screaming before clawed fingers grabbed his throat and ripped the life out of him.

  Time stretched into a numbing eternity as he forged his way through the deep snow, his legs churning wildly. Ahead, without even the feeble security of a flashlight, he could see nothing ... no streetlights, no shadowed bulk of his car — just an endless, windswept snowfield of howling gray. He wouldn’t be at all surprised to find he had gone around a complete circle and ended up back at the barn.

  Maybe that would be best, he thought bitterly. Let the rats finish me … or run off a cliff into the ocean and drown …

  But he couldn’t let that happen!

  He couldn’t let Abby — as impossible as this seemed — get her revenge.