Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala

by Rick Hautala

  His hand was another matter. Holding his fist over the sink, he slowly uncurled his fingers and studied the damage. Fragments of glass fell into the sink, making faint tinkling sounds, like tiny bells. His fingers and the palm of his hand bristled with tiny shards of glass and were sliced open in dozens of places. Some of the cuts looked fairly deep, but he still felt no pain … just a faint stinging sensation.

  He ran the water again and put his hand under the cold flow, wincing and wanting to cry out as the pain intensified so much that his wrist and forearm went numb.

  He glanced at the bathroom door, knowing he didn’t have much time. He had to get the rest of the glass that was downstairs in the workshop and whatever was in the box out by the curb. He had to pulverize it all. He had to destroy it so no one … no one could ever see what he had seen through it.

  Taking another hand towel, he wrapped his bleeding hand and opened the bathroom door. Thankfully, Lisa was still upstairs, so he knew he could make it back down to the cellar without being seen.

  Once he was safely down in his workshop, he collected all of the glass and laid it out on the concrete floor. Taking a hammer from the pegboard, he began smashing it and smashing it until it was dust. He worked awkwardly because he had to use his left hand instead of his right, but it wasn’t long before there wasn’t a piece of glass larger than a pinhead remaining.

  “What’s all that pounding down there?” Lisa called from upstairs.

  “Sorry. I’m just about done,” Jeremy shouted back with a tremor in his voice. He waited until he heard her walk back into the living room.

  He quickly swept up the glass powder and dumped it into the trashcan. Then, without a word to Lisa, he went upstairs and out to the curb where he got the cardboard box with the rest of the broken glass and carried it down into the basement. After laying all the glass on the floor, he set to work, pounding it until it, too, was nothing but gray dust.

  As he worked, all he could think about was the hideous creature he had seen in the mirror—the creature that he was.

  He was down on his hands and knees, tears flowing from his eyes and blood oozing from dozens of cuts on his face and hands as he wailed away with the hammer, when Lisa came down into the basement and saw him.

  Jeremy didn’t realize she was there until he heard her scream.

  Then he looked up at her, his face drenched with sweat and streaked with blood as he panted heavily.

  “I can’t let you see me like this,” he said, his voice low and barely holding back the high, hysterical screech he knew was just below the surface.

  After a lengthening moment in which they stared at each other, Jeremy sat back on his heels and let out a long, shuddering sigh. When he wiped his face with the flat of his hand, he left a long, bloody streak on his chin and cheek. His eyes widened, and a cold, jolting shock went through him when he recalled the horror of what he had seen in the mirror. Then with an aching sob, he leaned forward and once again started smashing the powdered glass on the cellar floor. The hammer blows rang out loudly in the close confines of the workshop.

  “I can never let you see me like this! … Never let you see what I really am … Never!”

  Lisa’s eyes were wide with shock as she started backing up until she got to the cellar steps. Then she turned quickly and ran up the flight of stairs. Jeremy heard her close and lock the cellar door behind her. Crouching on the cement floor, he shivered as he gripped the bloody hammer in his left hand and strained to listen to what she was doing upstairs.

  He didn’t have the strength to react when she made a telephone call. He knew she was calling either for the police or an ambulance.

  Exhausted, he slumped forward and lowered his head. He sat there and watched as blood dripped from his face and hands onto the cement floor and mingled with his tears and the powdered glass on the floor as he kept whispering, his voice growing fainter and fainter.

  “Never … never … never … never …”

  Scared Crows

  A HELLBOY story written with Jim Connolly

  Just after dark, the rainstorm swept across the mountains to the west and blew eastward, heading toward the cold, gray Atlantic Ocean. The small town of West Buxton, Maine, was just one of many small New England towns in its path.

  It was late October and already past peak foliage season this far north. The storm’s powerful winds blew sheets of cold rain that shined like silver strings in the few streetlights that lined the all but deserted Main Street. Fast-running water, dead leaves, and blown-down branches choked the rapidly overflowing gutters. Nearly every resident of the town, at some point or another that evening, had muttered some variation of: “Good thing this ain’t snow, or else we’d be buried alive.”

  Moving perhaps a little too fast, a battered Chevy pulled into the rutted dirt parking lot outside a bar called The Crossing, which was located on the outskirts of town, just past the railroad crossing. Water and gravel from the muddy puddles splashed against the underside of the car, which sagged noticeably to the left because of the massive weight of the driver. Dark, wet leaves, looking like bloated leeches, stuck to the mud-splattered sides of the car as it lurched to a stop in the far corner of the parking lot where the red neon light of a beer sign didn’t quite reach.

  There were only two other vehicles in the parking lot that night—a black, late model Ford pickup that was pitted with rust and holes, and a mud-splattered Nissan Maxima sporting New York plates.

  The driver of the Chevy killed the engine but didn’t get out right away. For a minute or two, he sat there behind the steering wheel, listening to the sudden gusts of wind that punched against the side of the car like powerful, invisible fists. He focused on the rain that was pouring out of the rusted gutter above the bar door. Finally, with a belly-deep grunt, he grabbed the travel cooler that rested on the seat beside him, took the key from the ignition and pocketed it, and opened the car door.

  His long, tattered trench coat was soaked through the instant he stepped out into the storm. Rainwater ran in glistening streams down his face, making the deep red tone of his skin look like flayed meat. Taking long strides, with the travel cooler in hand, banging against his leg, he made his way to the front door of the bar and entered. A gust of wind slammed the door shut behind him, but even with the door closed, he could hear the high-pitched whistle of the wind and the splash and splatter of the rain outside.

  The bartender, a man named Kyle Kelly who owned The Crossing and lived in the small apartment upstairs, glanced up. His eyes widened ever so slightly when he saw his new customer, but Kyle had been a bartender his whole adult life, so he knew not to show too much surprise.

  “’Evenin’, Hellboy,” he said with a quick nod.

  He was about to follow this up with something on the order of Kinda surprised to see you ‘round these parts again, but thought better of it.

  “Damn good thing this ain’t snow,” he said as he watched Hellboy stride over to the booth at the back of the bar and sit down heavily, not bothering to remove his sodden trench coat.

  There were only three other customers in The Crossing tonight. Two regulars—brothers named Jed and Tommy Farrow who did odd jobs around town whenever their welfare checks ran out—were seated at the far end of the bar, close to the jukebox, which was playing Emmylou Harris’ version of “Sweet Old World.” Also seated at the bar, closer to the door, was an attractive, dark-skinned woman. She’d already told Kyle that her name was Lorraine, even though Kyle wasn’t one to pry. After ordering a beer, she’d gone on to inform him that she was on her way to North Conway to attend her sister’s baby shower but didn’t want to drive through the downpour. Not finding any fast food restaurants handy, she’d stopped in here for a quick bite to eat and a cold one … or two because that “cold one” had turned into three and then four beers. By the time Hellboy showed up, Lorraine was looking just a wee bit past tipsy.

  Unlike Kyle, all three patrons—if a place like The Crossing can actually honor i
ts customers by calling them “patrons”—watched Hellboy with varying degrees of thinly-veiled interest. Tommy, the younger of the Farrow brothers, couldn’t help but hoot with laughter at the sight of the new customer.

  “Whoo-ee,” he said, slapping his brother on the back and smirking with a wide grin that made him look even more of an idiot than he generally did. “Just when you think you’ve seen it all, huh, Jed?”

  Jed, the older and slightly more level-headed of the two, sighed and shook his head before turning around and silently hoisting the beer he had in hand.

  “How ‘bout that, Big Bro?” Tommy went on, giggling and jabbing his brother’s arm again, almost making him spill his beer. “The things you see when you don’t have a gun, huh?”

  Jed snorted and kept right on drinking, his Adam’s apple working rapidly up and down in his thin throat as he drained his glass.

  “And—Christ on a cross—was that really a freakin’ tail sticking out from under his coat?”

  “Just shuddap and drink,” Jed said as he slammed his empty glass down on the counter and signaled to Kyle for another one.

  But Kyle, ignoring Jed for the moment, called out, “What can I get for you, Hellboy?”

  Resting his left hand lightly on top of the cooler, which he had placed on the table in front of him, Hellboy glanced over at Kyle with a deepening scowl, then said softly, “How ‘bout a pitcher of beer ... and two glasses.”

  Lorraine’s eyes were unfocused as she leaned forward and whispered to Kyle, “You mean to tell me you know ‘im?”

  Kyle glanced over at Hellboy again, then nodded slightly but said nothing before drawing a pitcher of draught. He was happy for the business. With the storm and all, it wasn’t looking like tonight was exactly going to bust the bank. He grabbed a couple of clean glasses and walked over to the table without answering her.

  Lorraine couldn’t help herself. She spun around on her chair and stared at the man—if this was, indeed, a man—seated in the shadowy corner. She had never seen anything like him—especially his huge right hand that looked like it was carved out of stone or something.

  “Who the hell is’e?” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth to Kyle once he was back behind the bar, drawing another glass of beer for Jed.

  When Kyle didn’t answer her right away, she leaned across the bar so far her ample breasts flattened against the smooth, water-stained surface.

  “He live ‘round here?”

  Kyle ran his teeth over his lower lip, his eyes darting nervously back and forth between Lorraine and Hellboy.

  “No,” he finally said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “He’s not from around here ... and neither are you, so it’s just as well you don’t ask, ‘kay?”

  “Come on.” Lorraine snagged Kyle’s shirt sleeve and gave it a quick tug.

  Kyle licked his lips. When he spoke again, his voice was so low she could barely hear him above the sound of the storm outside and the jukebox, which was now playing the old Roy Orbison song, “Cryin.’”

  “We had a bit of ... ah, trouble out this way ‘bout a year ago, and he ... sorta helped us fix it.”

  “It was exactly a year ago tonight.”

  Hellboy spoke so suddenly Lorraine couldn’t help but squeal as she wheeled around to stare at him.

  “He’s got good hearin’, too,” Kyle added.

  Now that she had her opening, Lorraine—never one to be shy—got up from the barstool and started walking toward Hellboy’s table. He looked like an illusion to her—a figment from some terrible nightmare made real. His red skin was slick and still gleaming from the rain. On his forehead, two huge circular bumps shadowed his eyes, which glowed dull orange with what seemed like their own internal light. His jutting lower jaw kept his thin lips in a straight, unsmiling line.

  Halfway to the table, Lorraine’s foot caught on something, and she almost fell, but she caught herself and quickly regained her composure. Tommy, who was still watching all of this intently, let out a sharp bray of laughter that cut off quickly when his brother elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Mind if I join you?” Lorraine asked.

  Before Hellboy could answer, she collapsed into the padded seat opposite him and leaned forward across the table.

  “My name’s Lorraine Martin, from New York City,” she said, slurring her words slightly as she held her right hand out for him to shake.

  She cringed when he took her hand into his huge right hand and lightly shook it. His touch was stone cold, and she could feel the terrible power trembling in his grasp. She knew he could easily crush her hand to a pulp without even thinking, but he shook her hand gently and then let it drop.

  “I’m Hellboy,” he said simply, his voice making a deep rumble that reminded her of thunder.

  “Are you gonna drink that beer,” Lorraine asked, “or did you bring some of your own in that cooler?”

  “I’m waiting for someone,” Hellboy said simply.

  There was a hard finality in his voice that told her not to pursue it any further, but Lorraine had had enough to drink so she didn’t care. She was burning with curiosity to find out who this guy was and what he was doing here.

  “Friend of yours?” she asked.

  “Sort of. Someone I work with,” Hellboy replied with a quick nod.

  He looked past her. When Lorraine turned to see what he was staring at, she noticed the small clock above the array of liquor bottles behind the bar.

  It was a quarter to eight.

  “Well, until this friend of yours shows up, what say you buy me a drink?” Lorraine said.

  When she leaned forward and rested her hand lightly on his arm, she couldn’t help but notice that Hellboy turned his body ever so slightly, as though shielding the travel cooler from her.

  “What’ve you got in there that’s so important?” she asked, but he didn’t answer her. He simply stared at her with a glowering scowl that made it all too clear that he wasn’t going to talk about it.

  “So ... you gonna buy a girl a drink or not?” Lorraine asked.

  Hellboy looked over at Kyle and said, “Get her a glass of whatever she’s drinking.”

  Kyle nodded and, without a word, drew a beer and walked over to the table. His face was expressionless as he placed the glass down in front of Lorraine.

  “I have to tell you one thing,” Lorraine said once Kyle had retreated back behind the bar. “I don’t like drinking alone.”

  She clinked her glass against the untouched pitcher in front of Hellboy.

  “What say you join me?”

  When she reached across the table for the pitcher, making as if to pour him a beer, Hellboy snatched it from her and poured into one of the glasses. Holding it out to her, he said, “Here’s looking at you.” With that, he tipped his head back and drained the glass in two huge gulps.

  Amazed, Lorraine took a long, slow sip from her beer, all the while watching him over the rim of her glass.

  When the glass was empty, Hellboy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and placed the glass on the table. After filling it again from the pitcher, he sat back and drained it a second time, this time in four smaller gulps.

  “Well, you certainly don’t waste any time, do you?” Lorraine said.

  “I probably should have something to eat first,” Hellboy said. “I haven’t eaten all damned day.”

  “So tell me,” Lorraine said after a moment of silence. “Who’re you meeting? I can tell, just by looking at you, that you’re an interesting guy who does a lot of interesting stuff.”

  “I already told you,” Hellboy said, his scowl deepening. “It’s someone I work with.”

  “Well then, will you tell me what kind of work you do?”

  “It’s ... complicated,” Hellboy said with a scowl.

  “Does it have anything to do with what you’ve got in that cooler there? Com’on. Tell me what’s in there.”

  “Cold stuff,” Hellboy replied, and for a brief instant, the glow in his eyes
intensified.

  Lorraine nodded and sat in silence for another moment. Then she said, “Does it have anything to do with what happened a year ago tonight?”

  Hellboy’s scowl deepened. The two beers had gone straight to his head, and he shook it to clear it, then looked at Lorraine and nodded.

  “Matter of fact, it does,” he said. “I’m waiting to meet up with my friend. A guy called ‘The Finn.’ Our mutual friend, Red Shirt, died a year ago tonight. We’re meeting here to raise a glass to his memory.”

  “Or a pitcher,” Lorraine said with a slight laugh.

  “Or two,” Hellboy said as he grasped the near-empty pitcher and raised it above his head to let Kyle know that he wanted a refill.

  While they waited for the fresh pitcher to arrive, Hellboy refilled his own and then Lorraine’s glasses. Lorraine settled back in her seat and took a deep breath, taking it all in. One thing she couldn’t help but notice was the sour stench that emanated from either whatever Hellboy had in the cooler, or else from Hellboy himself. Maybe he didn’t smell so good after being out in the rain, she thought.

  Kyle arrived with the full pitcher, placed it on the table in front of Hellboy, took the empty one, and walked away. He had caught only a few snatches of their conversation but, knowing what he knew about the events that had transpired this time last year, he didn’t want to hear or know anymore.

  “So,” Lorraine finally said, unable to hide her interest, “you gonna tell me how your friend Red Shirt died? Or am I gonna have to get you drunk, first, and pry it out of you?”

  Hellboy shook his head and then belched loudly. This got a reaction from the Farrow brothers, both of whom turned in their seats and glared over at the table.

  Once again, it was Tommy who spoke.

  “Hey, you wanna keep it down over there?” he shouted. “This isn’t a fucking barn, you know.”

  Lorraine saw the orange glow in Hellboy’s eyes flare up as he stared back at the two brothers.