Rockinghorse

by William W. Johnstone

  “He’s too old for a lot of sustained work,” Lucas said. “I’ll tell him to take it easy.”

  “Lucas, he’s not as old as we first thought him to be.”

  “Oh?”

  “I heard him humming a song earlier. It sounded familiar, so I asked him what it was. He said it was a song popular back when he was about seventeen years old. Then I remembered it. An old Pat Boone song. I recalled the movie it came out of. Back in ’57 or ’58.”

  “Well, now. Then that would make him about . . . forty-three or forty-four years old.”

  “That’s the way I see it.”

  “Wait a minute, Trace. That doesn’t jell. He said he remembered Ira. But that would make him and Ira about the same age.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right.”

  Lucas tried to envision Lige without the beard and long hair. He gave it up. “Trace, Lige has probably been lying about his age for years. That and a lot of other things. We’ll get to the bottom of it while we’re here this summer.” He looked around him. “Where are the kids?”

  “I told them they could explore around the edge of the forest, but not to go into the woods.”

  Lucas nodded. The kids would obey their mother. But just to be on the safe side, he thought, he’d take a walk around the grounds and check on them; make certain they understood the boundaries. And he’d see what Lige had accomplished thus far.

  * * *

  “God, it’s spooky in there,” Johnny said, peering into the tangle of brush and vines that clung to the dark clammy-appearing ground around the thick timber.

  “Don’t go in there,” Jackie warned.

  “Don’t worry about that. God, I bet there really is a bunch of wild animals in there.”

  “All the more reason to stay out here. Come on, let’s walk around the edge some more.”

  The kids walked on past the darkest tangle of vines and brush and timber. They walked right past without noticing the eyes that watched them from the edge of the forest. The eyes were savage, filled with hate and fury and bloodlust. The tongue snaked out of the mouth and licked the thick lips. The lips pulled away from yellow teeth in a semblance of a smile. The watcher remained in his silent crouch, watching, waiting.

  Jackie looked back over her shoulder. She appeared nervous. The small of her back twitched and sweat dotted her shirt.

  Johnny caught the quick backward glance of his sister. “What’s wrong with you now?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I just . . . well, I just kind of felt like someone was watching us. It gave me a funny feeling, that’s all.” She once more looked behind her at the dark timber. The forest remained mute and still.

  Johnny laughed at her. “You’re imagining all that,” he said. He walked on ahead of her.

  She hurried to catch up with him.

  The eyes shifted, following the boy and girl. The eyes were unblinking as they watched the pair.

  Some primal fear touched Jackie with a damp hand. She could not explain the sudden fear, knew only that it was very real. Something moved from within the dark woods. Whatever was in there was pacing the boy and girl as they walked. Leaves rustled softly and a hissing sound reached them.

  “Johnny!”

  “I heard it. But what is it?” Johnny had stopped and was looking into the darkness of the forest. Neither boy nor girl could see anything.

  A very foul odor slithered out of the darkness, touching the brother and sister. Fear touched them both, causing young hearts to pound and palms of hands to turn sour with fear-sweat.

  “Listen!” Johnny whispered, his voice shaky and breaking as dread filled him.

  A shadow fell across the old weed-filled path. Jackie turned toward the darkness and began screaming.

  * * *

  The painted-on eyes of the old rocking horse glowed in the musty, cobwebbed-filled attic. Amid the boxes and trunks and old furniture, its painted-on grin changed into the very essence of evil. Slowly, almost painfully, the wooden horse began to rock back and forth. It creaked and groaned on its curved runners. The dust-filled tail began to twitch with life. Faster and faster it rocked, kicking up pockets of dirt in the dark attic. The wooden hobbyhorse whinnied softly, just loud enough to be heard past the littered confines of its self-imposed corral.

  But its cry could be clearly heard in the depths of the dark forest. Shadowy forms began to move as silently as the walk of death. They glided effortlessly through the tangle of vegetation, moving toward the Bowers home.

  * * *

  “Jackie!” Lucas said, raising his voice to be heard above the girl’s screaming. “Jackie!” He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Now calm down, girl—what happened?”

  “Something’s in there!” she said, pointing into the murky shadows of the timber. “It’s been following us. It stinks and it hisses.”

  “Now, kids,” Lucas said, fighting to hide his smile and hoping he was keeping doubt from his voice. “Just calm down. Both of you. You’re letting your imaginations run wild.”

  “She’s telling the truth,” Johnny defended his sister. “I heard it, too, Dad.”

  Lucas shifted his gaze to the boy. He knew the kids were not story-tellers. They had been raised to tell the truth; lying got them spankings while the truth meant a less severe punishment, regardless of the minor offenses.

  “I thought she was just imagining it, too,” the boy said. “But then I heard it and smelled it myself.”

  Gripping his sturdy new walking stick, Lucas didn’t know whether to laugh it off or take them at their word. He decided on the latter. “Go on back to the house, both of you. Yell out when you get to the clearing. Tell your mother I’m going into the woods. Now take off.”

  The kids needed no further urgings. They cut out at a flat run. Lucas watched them, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He listened until he heard them shout that they were clear. Then he turned to the dark forest.

  He stepped into the bewildering wall of tangle. Making his way cautiously, looking for snakes—the sound could have been a rattlesnake—he walked into the silent humid forest.

  Humid, that word came to him. The forest should be cool, not humid. This wasn’t swampland, this was rolling hill country. These same woods had been cool when he was a boy. He remembered when his father had taken him walking through these same woods. Birds had sung then—but not now. There had been wild flowers growing in profusion—but not now. The forest had smelled alive then—but not now. Now it smelled dank and . . . and unfriendly. Hostile. And he could not recall all this mad tangle of vines and underbrush.

  He walked deeper into the silence. He experienced the uncomfortable sensation of time slowing, almost stopping. But why? he questioned his mind. Why should I feel that?

  Impossible.

  But the feeling of being an alien in a strange new world—a very unfriendly world, at that—would not leave him.

  Silly! he mentally chastised himself. Don’t be silly, Lucas.

  He thought he heard a shout behind him, but it was very faint, as if, the disturbing thought came to him, nothing human could penetrate into this wall of stillness.

  “Lucas,” he muttered. “Now you’re letting your imagination run unchecked. “Cool it, old man,” he cautioned. “Just cool it.”

  Ground creepers clutched at his ankles, seemingly in a deliberate gesture to trip him. Irritated at that thought, he kicked them away. Snakelike vines dangled and seemed to move like reptiles, tickling his face as he walked deeper. He brushed them away. They returned to dance lightly at the back of his neck.

  He stopped, listening. For what, he didn’t know. Then he heard it.

  It.

  A low sound. Not a growl from an animal. Not a human moan or groan; but more like an . . . an unearthly sound. He listened more intently. There it was again. No doubting that. He tried to locate the direction. To his left. He had entered the north edge of the woods, and had been working his way north by northwest. Ke
ep that in mind, he thought, planting direction and landmarks in his brain. It’s been a long time since you had any dealings with the outdoors, and these woods run for miles without a break. Awfully easy for a city fellow to get lost in.

  Then the strange sound seemed closer, more distinct, more west than north. He headed for the source.

  What sounded strangely like laughter, taunting laughter, drifted softly but menacingly through the thickness of nature’s tangle.

  Laughter? Out here?

  He heard the faint sounds of a horse whinnying. Lucas spun around as a branch broke behind him. He caught movement to his right. Sudden but furtive motion.

  “Who is it?” he called, trying to keep the edge of panic from his voice. “Come on out. What are you doing on this property?”

  Jeering laughter was the reply.

  The sound of galloping hooves came to him. Coming closer.

  Out here? In the thick woods? A horse galloping? Impossible.

  But the sound was real.

  There was something moving in the brush. Something moving all around him, encircling him. People rushing toward him. He guessed they were people—what else could they be? Jesus Christ! what the hell was going on. Lucas whirled around, trying to bring the elusive shapes into clear focus. He could not. He tried to make some sense of what was happening: the who and what and why of it all. Nothing made any sense. Nothing at all.

  Something screamed at him. He swung the heavy walking stick with all his strength—which under the circumstances was considerable—and felt it strike a target. He heard a scream of raw pain.

  Lucas’s head suddenly exploded in agony. He was pitched into blackness. Falling, falling—would it never end? Would . . .

  * * *

  “Easy, old son,” Jim’s voice reached him, traveling through a black void that seemed worlds away. “You’ve had a hell of a knock on the noggin.”

  Lucas opened his eyes. His head hurt and he could not bring the face into focus. He blinked his eyes and slowly the faces in front of him melted into one face. Jim Dooley. Lucas shifted his eyes and saw Deputy Burt Simmons towering over everybody. A state trooper stood to the deputy’s right, Tracy and the kids to his left.

  “What in the hell happened to me?” Lucas asked, his voice croaking out of his throat, pushing painfully past his lips. His upper right arm hurt, up close to the shoulder.

  “That’s what we’d like for you to tell us,” the state trooper said.

  Lucas started to sit up, but Jim’s hand was on his chest. Lucas pushed the hand away. “No,” he said, “I don’t feel dizzy or sick. I just want to sit up.” He did, and felt better for it. He put his hand to the back of his head and gingerly fingered the knot there. He could feel no stickiness under his fingers. When he looked at his fingertips, he could see no evidence of blood.

  “Let me call for an ambulance,” Tracy said.

  “Take an hour to get here,” Jim said.

  “No,” Lucas said. “Not just yet. If I don’t feel better in a couple of hours, we’ll drive into Rome and go to a hospital. Just let me sit here for a few minutes and collect my thoughts.” He rubbed his arm. Must have fallen on it when he was hit on the head.

  After a few seconds, Lucas gathered his thoughts and told the group what had happened, beginning with Jackie’s screaming and the kids’ stories. “. . . and just a few seconds after I saw the people—I don’t know whether they were men or women—something smashed into the back of my head and I had this sensation of falling. The next thing I know, I’m out here looking up at you people.”

  “And you hit someone with your stick?” the trooper asked.

  “Or something,” Lucas said. “Yes. I’m sure I did. I felt it strike and heard . . . whatever it was cry out in pain. Where is my stick?” He rubbed his arm. He looked at the trooper. “Why did you place the emphasis on ‘you?’ ”

  “Why do you want your stick?” the trooper asked.

  “Because there might be blood on it from whomever it was I hit. If so, I’d like it typed and cross-matched. I’m AB. See what I’m getting at?”

  The trooper smiled. “You’re sure a lawyer, all right. We’ll do that. I’ve got the stick and it’s got blood on it. And some gray hair. You don’t have any gray hair, Mr. Bowers. Not of the length found on the stick. If I had to take a guess, I’d say you ran up on some of those damned survivalist people. Woods are full of them. Most of them are pretty decent people, but some of them are real yo-yos. And they can be dangerous. We’ve had reports of them practicing in this area. The dangerous ones are paranoid; think the whole world is out to get them. I’ll send the stick off to our lab and get back to you.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” Lucas replied, rubbing his arm.

  “I think the city boy lost hisself in the woods, panicked, and fell down, hit his head. I think he’s makin’ all this other crap up,” Deputy Simmons said.

  The trooper looked at Simmons, ill-disguised contempt in his eyes. “Simmons, you’re an idiot,” he said. Walking stick in hand, he nodded to the group and left.

  The big deputy bristled. He puffed out his chest and shouted to the back of the trooper. “You cain’t talk to me lak ’at!”

  The trooper laughed at him and kept on walking. Simmons walked after him, shouting this and that and what he thought of the Georgia Highway Patrol. It didn’t seem to bother the trooper. After one final cussing, the trooper stopped, turned around, and said, “Simmons, if you open your goddamned mouth to me again, I will personally stomp your guts out. You got all that, big boy?”

  Burt’s mouth snapped shut like a snapping turtle. Burt was stupid, but not crazy. Georgia State Trooper Kyle Cartier had been one of those bad-assed Navy SEALs before joining the highway patrol. Before he settled down after several tours in ’Nam and joining the state troopers, Kyle had once whipped four guys at one whack in a bar outside Atlanta. Put all four of them in the hospital. He’d won all kinds of medals over in ’Nam, too. Kyle was just plain ol’ dirt-dog mean when you got him all worked up. To make matters worse, to Burt’s way of thinking, Kyle was one of them go-right-by-the-book cops. Word was that in ten years, he’d be heading up his own command of troopers. The smart-assed son of a bitch.

  “You still ain’t got no right to call me no fool!” Burt yelled.

  “I didn’t call you a fool,” Kyle said over his shoulder. “A fool can sometimes be entertaining. I said you were an idiot.”

  Trooper Kyle Cartier walked away.

  Simmons stood without moving, not looking at the others. He finally muttered something under his breath and walked away—but not fast enough to catch up with Kyle.

  “Feel like standin’ up?” Jim asked Lucas.

  “Oh, yes,” Lucas said, taking the offered hand. On his feet, he swayed for just a second, then balance once more came to him.

  “Is your vision OK?” Jim asked.

  “Yes. I don’t have any signs of a concussion. That’s why I didn’t want to go into a hospital just yet.”

  “Take my arm and we’ll head toward the house. Take it slow. It’ll be dark in few minutes.”

  Lucas had assumed he had been lying in the shade. Looking around him, he realized it was dusk. “But it couldn’t have been more than eleven o’clock when I went into the woods.” He rubbed his arm.

  “When you weren’t back by noon,” Tracy said, “I went to the edge of the woods and called and called for you. I got so frightened I panicked and ran in the woods. I . . . I got lost. God, I felt like a fool. I must have wandered around in there for over an hour before I found my way out. It’s dark in there! The kids were so upset that I had to settle them down. They’d been waiting and calling by the edge of the woods. I followed the sound of their voices out.”

  For the first time, Lucas noticed the tiny cuts and bruises on his wife’s bare arms and face.

  They stopped for a moment and Lucas felt the love for her rush out of him. She smiled at him and touched his face.

  She said, “I grabbed
the kids by the hand and we were all running toward the house when Jim pulled in with a tank of oil for the stove. He calmed me down and went in the woods looking for you. You want to take it from that point, Jim?”

  “I couldn’t find you, old son,” the man said. “After looking for about a half an hour without even finding a clue, I jogged back to my truck and called Trooper Cartier on the two-way. I got the only tow truck in town, radio-equipped, and he come runnin’. Burt intercepted the radio messages and he come buttin’ in. Made him mad I didn’t call him first.”

  “Sorry I got you in trouble with Simmons,” Lucas said.

  “Shoot fire,” Jim said. “That lardbutt can’t do nothin’ to me. He owes me five hundred dollars for gas and guns and ammo. I don’t sweat small fry like Burt. Anyway, we commenced to hollerin’ and bangin’ around in the woods. We were just about to give up and call the National Guard or something, when ol’ Lige come up on you right by the west side of the grounds. Lige helped us right smart in lookin’ for you.”

  Lucas stopped the parade and got his bearings. They were on the extreme west side of the estate grounds. “But I went in due north,” Lucas said. “I took careful check of my bearings. Not being a woodsman, I didn’t want to get lost. Then when I first heard the . . .” It began returning to him bits and pieces.

  “The what, honey?” Tracy asked.

  “I heard a . . . a groaning, moaning . . . no, that’s not right. It was a, well, unearthly type of sound. It was then I began heading north by northwest. Then I heard laughter. Then I heard the sounds of a horse galloping hard.”

  “A horse?” Jim said.

  “Yes. No mistaking that sound. Then I caught the first glimpse of movement. I shouted at them. Laughter came out of the woods. Then people were all around me, but they were very indistinct shapes. Someone, or something, screamed at me and I swung the walking stick. I hit something. Then the back of my head exploded in pain. The next thing I knew, Jim was talking to me.”

  The kids had joined them, their faces very pale in the waning light.