Rockinghorse

by William W. Johnstone

  “Take your time, hon,” Jim said. “We’ll be right here.”

  “She is . . . ah . . . very lovely, Jim,” Tracy said, after Lyda had stepped out into the hall.

  “She’s an airhead,” Jim said, but said it gently. “But she’s a really fine person. One of the few that can put up with my shenanigans. Well, you folks have had a very busy past few days, haven’t you?”

  “He said with tongue in cheek,” Lucas said with a smile.

  A squeaking sound drifted faintly into the room the family had converted into a large and comfortable den. The people were just aware of the noise, which was not yet loud enough to attract that much attention or disrupt conversation. It was just there.

  “Yeah,” Kyle said. “And those mysterious folks over at the Gibson house all turned out to be pretty good people after all. Weird as hell, but seem like nice folks.”

  “That’s the way it is sometimes,” Jim replied.

  The squeaking grew just a bit louder.

  “You believe in ghosts, Jim?” Tracy asked.

  “Yes. I think there is too much evidence supporting their existence to not believe in . . . well, spirits and the like.”

  “Good ghosts and bad ghosts?” Kyle asked his friend.

  “Yes. That, too.”

  The cop shook his head. “I never did.”

  Jim smiled. “Until now, you mean.”

  “That’s about it,” the cop admitted.

  The squeaking grew louder. This time it caught everybody’s attention.

  “What the hell is that?” Lucas asked, looking around him.

  “Seems to be coming from the hallway,” Jim said, looking up.

  Lyda stepped back into the den. “Jim, my makeup wasn’t that bad. And that is the cutest little thing out in the hall. Where in the world did you folks get it?”

  “What are you talking about?” Tracy asked.

  “That darlin’ little rockin’ horse out there,” she waved her hand. “Its smile is so adorable. Why, I just love it.”

  Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

  * * *

  After a clearly startled Jim and Lyda had left, Lucas and Kyle carried the rocking horse out to the trash pile and tossed it on the heap. The hobbyhorse landed on its side, stayed in that position for a moment, its eyes gleaming balefully in the wet night, then slowly and almost painfully righted itself to its runners. It seemed to crouch there like some primeval hunting animal, grinning at the men in the rainy darkness. It whinnied softly, the call sinister-sounding, the notes of the whinny wavering through the storm.

  “I see it with my own eyes,” Kyle said. “I see it but I don’t believe it. It’s impossible.”

  “I do know the feeling. The question now is, what next?”

  “Good question, buddy.”

  Kyle looked around him. He finally walked to the tool shed and found a length of rope, fashioning a lasso. On the second toss, he managed to get the loop around the neck of the dodging, ducking rocking horse.

  “Bastard!” Kyle yelled at the wooden hobbyhorse.

  The rocking horse bared its teeth and snarled.

  Kyle jerked it off the garbage pile. The rocking horse landed on its side and quickly righted itself, lunging at the men. Lucas kicked it in the side and the wooden horse screamed in the night.

  “I’ll hold it,” Kyle said tersely. “You get some shovels. By God, we’ll bury the damned thing.”

  The rocking horse fought the men as they dragged it from the trash heap into the wet night, close to the woods’ edge. The hobbyhorse howled and snarled and screamed in rage. Both men were on the verge of losing the frail hold on their fears. The beast in both of them, the ancient brute that roamed just outside the safe lair, was now crouched very close to the surface, threatening to rear to the fore, sending both modern men scurrying back to the sanctuary of the torchlit caves of their ancestors, where, hopefully, the fanged cats would not enter for fear of the fire.

  The rocking horse seemed to sense this, and began changing before the men’s eyes. It became a tiger, with fangs like those found in prehistoric times. It became a hissing serpent, a hideous winged monster, half-man half-beast as it fought the heavy rope that held it.

  “Fight it!” Lucas yelled. “It’s playing with your mind.”

  “Goddamn it, Lucas!” Kyle yelled. “This is impossible.” He panted the words, struggling against the rope and the lunging, backward-jerking wooden horse.

  “Tell the horse,” Lucas said, his words brittle-sounding.

  “Hold the rope,” Kyle yelled. He picked up a heavy stick and smashed it over the hobbyhorse’s head. The wooden horse reared and screamed in pain. It fell to the ground, on its side, its wooden runners jerking in agony.

  Kyle broke the club over the horse’s head.

  The sky visibly darkened, lightning dancing and striking close, as if the horse could somehow control the elements.

  Kyle found a two-by-four and beat the horse’s head in with the wood. The animal finally lay still on the wet ground, thick blood pouring from its battered head. The rain picked up in intensity; a major summer storm beat at the men.

  Both men backed up to catch their breath and try to maintain some hold on their emotions.

  “I keep hoping I’ll wake up,” Lucas said. “We don’t know each other. Not really. I’m back home in the suburbs. This is all some sort of insane nightmare.”

  “It’s real,” the cop said, his voice as tight as their nerves. “It’s real,” he repeated. “But it’s damn sure a nightmare. A living one.”

  The storm grew in strength, the rains now a thick torrent; the winds hammering at the men as they began digging. The men were soaked, hair plastered to the head. They continued digging as fast as their strained muscles would allow, but always keeping one eye on the wooden but somehow living horse. Once the hobbyhorse reared up and tried to bite Kyle, its yellow teeth just missing the man’s leg. The trooper smashed his shovel blade on the horse’s head. The rocking horse screamed a horrible yowl and fell back to the earth, stinking blood from the centuries past gushing from its now-shattered skull.

  But still it would not die.

  The men dug the hole deeper as the lightning hummed and spat and danced in macabre obscenity. The devilish display of lightning licked around the men, producing a sulfurous odor that clung to their wet clothing and seemed to snake its way into their very flesh and bone.

  “All right,” Kyle finally gasped. “That’s enough.”

  The men climbed out of the pit.

  “Come on,” Kyle said. “We’ll get those sacks of mortar out of the shed. Pour that over the goddamned thing. I don’t know how much good it will do, except to add more weight.”

  “It won’t bond in this weather, will it?” Lucas asked.

  “Just added insurance, buddy. I don’t know how much more of this I’m gonna be able to take.”

  “I heard that.”

  The rocking horse lunged at Lucas, its teeth snapping, just missing his arm. Lucas whirled, rage overwhelming him. He brought his shovel down on the horse’s neck with all the strength he could muster. The head of the horse fell off. Blood erupted out of the severed neck.

  “Impossible,” Lucas muttered.

  The men kicked the broken horse into the pit and dumped the sacks of mortar over the horse, lying in shattered bits in the pit. Whinnying, pitiful sounds came from the head of the wooden horse.

  Both men tried to ignore the painful, whinnying cries. Neither man would look the other in the eyes, for both were fearful of losing what little control they had left over their ragged and tightly-stretched emotions.

  The wet earth began to cover the mortar-spotted hobbyhorse.

  In the house, Tracy and Louisa sat with the kids in the den. Jackie with her mother’s arms around her, Johnny with Louisa’s arms around him. The storm battered the Georgia countryside, but not in a manner that punished the house. Inside the mansion, the storm sounds were muted. The lights flickered and dimmed several tim
es, but stayed on. They all heard the back door open and close. Then the sound of footsteps. The men appeared in the archway of the den. They were both muddy from boots to head, their faces gray and lined with tension and exhaustion. Both looked to be very close to the breaking point.

  The women and kids looked up. Tracy asked, “Is it? . . . ”

  “Buried,” Lucas told the group. “Covered with mortar and dirt in a deep pit. I think it’s all over, now.”

  “Both of you better take a hot shower,” Louisa said. “We’ll lay out clean clothes for you and make some coffee.”

  “You kids go to bed,” Lucas said, his voice shaky. “Leave your door open. At the first sign of anything happening that’s out of the ordinary, get to our bedroom, OK?”

  Showered and dressed in clean, dry clothing, Kyle and Lucas poured mugs of hot coffee and sat down in the den. They sat for a few moments in silence, neither of them quite believing what had happened this rainy evening. But knowing it was all true. Kyle was the first to speak.

  He looked at Louisa and said, “I want to apologize, hon. Never again will I kid you about your beliefs in the supernatural. That’s a promise.”

  She put her small hand in his big hand and gently squeezed. Her eyes told him she had never really minded the good-natured kidding from her husband.

  “While I was taking a nap today,” Tracy said, “I had a . . . a nightmare. A daymare. Whatever. I dreamed we decided to leave this place, but the house refused to let us. Isn’t that crazy? The house refused to allow us to leave. But I was relieved when I woke up.”

  The house don’t want to be sold! Ira’s words jumped into Lucas’s brain. The house.

  He said nothing. He could feel Louisa’s eyes boring into his brain.

  “I wish somebody would tell me what it is about that . . . damned wooden horse,” Kyle said.

  “It’s possessed,” Louisa said. “By evil.”

  “You didn’t say possessed by Satan,” Lucas said. “Why?”

  Louisa only shrugged.

  “I wonder if this time it’s gone for good?” Tracy asked.

  “No,” Louisa said. Her one word chilled them all.

  In their beds, Jackie and Johnny both felt and heard again that mysterious heavy breathing.

  18

  Kyle was the first to awaken at the sounds of squeaking. For a moment he lay still in bed, trying to figure out what it was and where it was coming from. Then the events just prior to fighting and burying the rocking horse returned to the cop. He shut his eyes, mentally willing the squeaking to stop.

  It did not.

  Kyle sat on the edge of the bed, conscious of his wife’s eyes on him in the purple darkness.

  He turned his head to look at her. “You haven’t been asleep, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? What have you been doing?”

  “Waiting.”

  “Waiting?”

  “For the horse to return from the grave.”

  Kyle could not suppress his shudder of revulsion at her choice of words. “That goddamned horse is back, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. And it’s waiting.”

  “Waiting for who?”

  “You.”

  Kyle dressed and picked up his .38 Chief’s Special, checking to be sure it was fully loaded with five rounds. He walked to the bedroom door and looked up and down the dark hall. He could see nothing. Only hear that damnable squeaking. The rhythm of the sound bothered him, working into his head and staying there, clouding it somewhat. He attempted to shake off the fog.

  Very faint laughter drifted up the hall to him. It was taunting laughter. He looked into the darkness, trying to locate the source.

  The rocking horse sat in the middle of the hallway, looking directly at the man. Even in the near-total darkness of the hallway, Kyle could see the evil painted mouth and lips, the yellow teeth, the taunting eyes staring and glaring at him, shining with a strange light.

  The horse spoke in a language Kyle could not understand.

  “You son of a bitch!” Kyle cursed the wooden hobbyhorse.

  The horse laughed. It began rocking back and forth, squeaking on its runners. The horse was wet, covered with damp earth and bits of mortar clinging to the wood.

  It was not scarred. Where it had once lain in broken pieces, the hobbyhorse was now whole. Kyle could not understand how that could be.

  “Fool!” the word drifted up the hall to his ears.

  The horse began moving slowly backward. The lips of the horse peeled further back, revealing teeth that were no longer paint-white and cute, but cruel and yellow.

  Kyle moved as the horse moved, following it, his .38 ready, finger on the trigger.

  The horse suddenly spun about and ducked into an empty room. Kyle made a grab for the animal, his fingers just grazing the tail. An odd sensation filled him. He shook off the feeling and stepped into the doorway, looking in. He could see nothing except darkness.

  The laughter reached him. It was ugly and evil and taunting.

  He heard whispered voices, speaking in a language he had not heard in years. Vietnamese. The voice switched to heavily accented English.

  “Yankee pig!” the voice taunted him. “Baby killer. Slime. How ’bout it, ’Merican, ready go flip-flop?”

  “I ain’t playin’ your game,” Kyle said, speaking through gritted teeth. “I ain’t pullin’ tail end.”

  “All die. All die. All die. No TacAir here, Navy puke,” the whispered voice reached Kyle, edging him backward in time.

  “Screw TacAir,” Kyle said. He was not sure where he was. Part of him, he knew, was back in ’Nam.

  “Mary Foxtrot Two,” a metallic-sounding voice came to him, as if pushed out of a walkie-talkie. “You’re on your own, boys. Can’t get in. It’s too hot from the ground.”

  “So what else is new?” Kyle said, as more and more of his being was spun back in time. “Ain’t we always on our own?”

  “B-40’s incoming!” the voice yelled in Kyle’s head. “Down, down, down!”

  Kyle’s experience took over. He hit the hard floor, belly down, his heart pounding, body tense for the explosion.

  Mental explosions ripped through his head.

  Laughter hooted and cawed throughout the small room.

  “Sucker! Sucker!” the voice called. “Fooled you, didn’t I, Navy-puke!”

  Sirens began roaring in Kyle’s head. The horse’s whinnying became savage. Kyle looked up just in time to avoid being struck by the leaping animal’s runners. He rolled on the floor. Vietnamese curse words roared in his head.

  Then he was up to his waist in water.

  Where in the hell was he and how in the hell had he gotten here?

  He looked around him. He was in camouflage. He held a Stoner in his hands. One of his buddies floated past him, half his head shot off, his brains hanging out. Little fish darted up to the gray matter, tearing off a chunk, then darting away. Kyle remembered as time held him in a backward glance, throwing him back years, to a silent op. The team he was on had paid dearly for that operation. Paid in blood.

  His buddy suddenly rose out of the waist-deep water, his right teeth all shining where the flesh had been blown away. He opened his arms and held out his hands to Kyle, his mouth working silently, his fingers waggling in a gesture to come. Come to him. Join him.

  “No!” Kyle roared. He jumped to his feet in the dark little room. He shook himself like a big dog, attempting to clear his head of the awfulness. Fought away the memories. Fought away the long dead. Put his buddy back into that long sleep. Came back to hard present reality. Saw the horse grinning at him through the darkness. Leveled his .38 and began pulling the trigger. The reports momentarily deafened him, the muzzle blasts filling the room with sparkling illumination.

  The .38 jumped in his hand. The slugs tore into the hobbyhorse, ripping great chunks from the animal’s head. The horse reared and bucked and screamed in
pain.

  A foul odor filled Kyle’s nostrils, almost causing him to puke.

  It smelled like . . . a stinking grave, where the corpse had rotted.

  The lights came on. Kyle stared in open astonishment.

  The room was empty.

  He looked at the still-smoking pistol in his hand. “Jesus Christ!” he yelled. “What the hell is going on?”

  Someone called his name.

  He spun around, eyes darted, seeking the rocking horse.

  But it wasn’t the rocking horse this time.

  “Kyle!” Louisa called. “Kyle!”

  “Here, baby!”

  He turned as hurried footsteps came closer. Looked up into the faces of wife and friends.

  “That goddamn rocking horse came back,” Kyle explained. “I just barely touched the thing and lost control of my mind. Thing spun me back to ’Nam. But where did it go? I shot it. Hit it every time at this range.”

  No one said anything. They all just stood and looked at the man. “Kyle. . .” Lucas finally said. “Buddy. . .”

  “What the hell is everybody lookin’ at me for?” the cop shouted the question. “Goddamn it, I didn’t dream it. It happened, I tell you. It did.”

  “No one is doubting it happened in your mind, Kyle,” Lucas said.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” the cop roared.

  “Check your pistol,” Lucas asked.

  Kyle looked at the .38 in his hand. “Check it?” he questioned. “Why? What for? The damn thing is empty.”

  “Check it, honey,” Louisa urged.

  Kyle dropped the wheel. He stared. Shook his head in disbelief. “No. No, by God—that is impossible.”

  The bright glass gleamed at him. Kyle ejected the loads. They were fresh. He closed his fingers around the ammunition. He lifted his eyes. “You all heard me fire, didn’t you?”

  “We didn’t hear anything, buddy,” Lucas said. “We came on the run after Louisa woke us. Then the lights popped back on. There were no shots fired, Kyle. None. Only in your mind.”

  “But. . .”

  “The horse was here, Kyle,” his wife told him. “I know that. You didn’t imagine that. It was and is real. I told you all: it has powers that are beyond human understanding.”