The earth had been through some terrible contortion, Miller had been right about that. In places the road was merely cracked, but in others the ground itself seemed to have caved in, tilting up great slabs of paving. I was able to get over with the help of the four-wheel drive.
Thank God for that. But I was terribly afraid that we would soon come to an obstacle that even the four-wheel drive couldn’t get us over.
It took me forty minutes to make a drive that usually only took seven or eight. At last the sign that marked our private road loomed out of the mist. Billy, roused at quarter of five, had fallen solidly asleep inside this car that he knew so well it must have seemed like home to him.
Amanda looked at the road nervously. “Are you really going down there?”
“I’m going to try,” I said.
But it was impossible. The storm that had whipped through had loosened a lot of trees, and that weird, twisting drop had finished the job of tumbling them. I was able to crunch over the first two; they were fairly small. Then I came to a hoary old pine lying across the road like an outlaw’s barricade. It was still almost a quarter of a mile to the house. Billy slept on beside me, and I put the Scout in Park, put my hands over my eyes, and tried to think what to do next.
Now, as I sit in the Howard Johnson’s near Exit 3 of the Maine Turnpike, writing all of this down on HoJo stationery, I suspect that Mrs. Reppler, that tough and capable old broad, could have laid out the essential futility of the situation in a few quick strokes. But she had the kindness to let me think it through for myself.
I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t leave them. I couldn’t even kid myself that all the horror-movie monsters were back at the Federal; when I cracked the window I could hear them in the woods, crashing and blundering around on the steep fall of land they call the Ledges around these parts. The moisture drip-drip-dripped from the overhanging leaves. Overhead the mist darkened momentarily as some nightmarish and half-seen living kite overflew us.
I tried to tell myself—then and now—that if she was very quick, if she buttoned up the house with herself inside, that she had enough food for ten days to two weeks. It only works a little bit. What keeps getting in the way is my last memory of her, wearing her floppy sunhat and gardening gloves, on her way to our little vegetable patch with the mist rolling inexorably across the lake behind her.
It is Billy I have to think about now. Billy, I tell myself, Big Bill, Big Bill... I should write it maybe a hundred times on this sheet of paper, like a child condemned to write I will not throw spitballs in school as the sunny three-o’clock stillness spills through the windows and the teacher corrects homework papers at her desk and the only sound is her pen, while somewhere, far away, kids pick up teams for scratch baseball.
Anyway, at last I did the only thing I could do. I reversed the Scout carefully back to Kansas Road. Then I cried.
Amanda touched my shoulder timidly. “David, I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to stop the tears and not having much luck. “Yeah, so am I.”
I drove to Route 302 and turned left, toward Portland. This road was also cracked and blasted in places, but was, on the whole, more passable than Kansas Road had been. I was worried about the bridges. The face of Maine is cut with running water, and there are bridges everywhere, big and small. But the Naples Causeway was intact, and from there it was plain—if slow—sailing all the way to Portland.
The mist held thick. Once I had to stop, thinking that trees were lying across the road. Then the trees began to move and undulate, and I understood they were more tentacles. I stopped, and after a while they drew back. Once a great green thing with an iridescent green body and long transparent wings landed on the hood. It looked like a grossly misshapen dragonfly. It hovered there for a moment, then took wing again and was gone.
Billy woke up about two hours after we had left Kansas Road behind and asked if we had gotten Mommy yet. I told him I hadn’t been able to get down our road because of fallen trees.
“Is she all right, Dad?”
“Billy, I don’t know. But we’ll come back and see.”
He didn’t cry. He dozed off again instead. I would have rather had his tears. He was sleeping too damn much and I didn’t like it.
I began to get a tension headache. It was driving through the fog at a steady five or ten miles an hour that did it, the tension of knowing that anything might come out of it, anything at all—a washout, a land-spill, or Ghidrah the Three-headed Monster. I think I prayed. I prayed to God that Stephanie was alive and that He wouldn’t take my adultery out on her. I prayed to God to let me get Billy to safety because he had been through so much.
Most people had pulled to the side of the road when the mist came, and by noon we were in North Windham. I tried the River Road, but about four miles down, a bridge spanning a small and noisy stream had fallen into the water. I had to reverse for nearly a mile before I found a spot wide enough to turn around. We went to Portland by Route 302 after all.
When we got there, I drove the cut-off to the turnpike. The neat line of tollbooths guarding the access had been turned into vacant-eyed skeletons of smashed Pola-Glas. All of them were empty. In the sliding-glass doorway of one was a torn jacket with Maine Turnpike Authority patches on the sleeves. It was drenched with tacky, drying blood. We had not seen a single living person since leaving the Federal.
Mrs. Reppler said, “David, try your radio.”
I slapped my forehead in frustration and anger at myself, wondering how I could have been stupid enough to forget the Scout’s AM/FM for so long.
“Don’t do that,” Mrs. Reppler said curtly. “You can’t think of everything. If you try, you will go mad and be of no use at all.”
I got nothing but a shriek of static all the way across the AM band, and the FM yielded nothing but a smooth and ominous silence.
“Does that mean everything’s off the air?” Amanda asked. I knew what she was thinking, maybe. We were far enough south now so that we should have been picking up a selection of strong Boston stations—WRKO, WBZ, WMEX. But if Boston was gone—
“It doesn’t mean anything for sure,” I said. “That static on the AM band is pure interference. The mist is having a damping effect on radio signals, too.”
“Are you sure that’s all it is?”
“Yes,” I said, not sure at all.
We went south. The mileposts rolled slowly past, counting down from about forty. When we reached Mile 1, we would be at the New Hampshire border. Going on the turnpike was slower; a lot of the drivers hadn’t wanted to give up, and there had been rear-end collisions in several places. Several times I had to use the median strip.
At about twenty past one—I was beginning to feel hungry—Billy clutched my arm. “Daddy, what’s that? What’s that?”
A shadow loomed out of the mist, staining it dark. It was as tall as a cliff and coming right at us. I jammed on the brakes. Amanda, who had been catnapping, was thrown forward.
Something came; again, that is all I can say for sure. It may have been the fact that the mist only allowed us to glimpse things briefly, but I think it just as likely that there are certain things that your brain simply disallows. There are things of such darkness and horror—just, I suppose, as there are things of such great beauty—that they will not fit through the puny human doors of perception.
It was six-legged, I know that. Its skin was slaty gray that mottled to dark brown in places. Those brown patches reminded me absurdly of the liver spots on Mrs. Carmody’s hands. Its skin was deeply wrinkled and grooved, and clinging to it were scores, hundreds, of those pinkish “bugs” with the stalk-eyes. I don’t know how big it actually was, but it passed directly over us. One of its gray, wrinkled legs smashed down right beside my window, and Mrs. Reppler said later she could not see the underside of its body, although she craned her neck up to look. She saw only two Cyclopean legs going up and up into the mist like living towers until they were lost to sight.
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For the moment it was over the Scout I had an impression of something so big that it might have made a blue whale look the size of a trout—in other words, something so big that it defied the imagination. Then it was gone, sending a seismological series of thuds back. It left tracks in the cement of the Interstate, tracks so deep I could not see the bottoms. Each single track was nearly big enough to drop the Scout into.
For a moment no one spoke. There was no sound but our breathing and the diminishing thud of that great Thing’s passage.
Then Billy said, “Was it a dinosaur, Dad? Like the bird that got into the market?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think there was ever an animal that big, Billy. At least not on Earth.”
I thought of the Arrowhead Project and wondered again what crazy, damned thing they could have been doing up there.
“Can we go on?” Amanda asked timidly. “It might come back.”
Yes, and there might be more up ahead. But there was no point in saying so. We had to go somewhere. I drove on, weaving in and out between those terrible tracks until they veered off the road.
That is what happened. Or nearly all—there is one final thing I’ll get to in a moment. But you mustn’t expect some neat conclusion. There is no And they escaped from the mist into the good sunshine of a new day; or When we awoke the National Guard had finally arrived; or even that great old standby: And I woke up and discovered it was all a dream.
It is, I suppose, what my father always frowningly called “an Alfred Hitchcock ending,” by which he meant a conclusion in ambiguity that allowed the reader or viewer to make up his own mind about how things ended. My father had nothing but contempt for such stories, saying they were “cheap shots.”
We got to this Howard Johnson’s near Exit 3 as dusk began to close in, making driving a suicidal chance. Before that, we took a chance on the bridge that spans the Saco River. It looked badly twisted out of shape, but in the mist it was impossible to tell if it was whole or not. That particular gamble we won.
But there’s tomorrow to think of, isn’t there?
As I write this, it is quarter of one in the morning, July the twenty-third. The storm that seemed to signal the beginning of it all was only four days ago. Billy is sleeping in the lobby on a mattress that I dragged out for him. Amanda and Mrs. Reppler are close by. I am writing by the light of a big Delco flashlight, and outside the pink bugs are ticking and thumping off the glass. Every now and then there is a louder thud as one of the birds takes one off.
The Scout has enough gas to take us maybe another ninety miles. The alternative is to try and gas up here; there is an Exxon out on the service island, and although the power is off, I believe I could siphon some up from the tank. But—
But it means being outside.
If we can get gas—and even if we can’t get it here—we’ll press on. I have a destination in mind now, you see. It’s that last thing I wanted to tell you about.
I couldn’t be sure. That is the thing, the damned thing. It might have been my imagination, nothing but wish fulfillment. And even if not, it is such a long chance. How many miles? How many bridges? How many things that would love to tear up my son and eat him even as he screamed in terror and agony?
The chances are so good that it was nothing but a daydream that I haven’t told the others… at least, not yet.
In the manager’s apartment I found a large battery-option multiband radio. From the back of it, a flat antenna wire led out through the window. I turned it on, switched over to BAT., fiddled with the tuning dial, with the SQUELCH knob, and still got nothing but static or dead silence.
And then, at the far end of the AM band, just as I was reaching for the knob to turn it off, I thought I heard, or dreamed I heard, one single word.
That word might have been Hartford.
There was no more. I listened for an hour, but there was no more. If there was that one word, it came through some minute shift in the damping mist, an infinitesimal break that immediately closed again.
Hartford.
I’ve got to get some sleep… If I can sleep and not be haunted until daybreak by the faces of Ollie Weeks and Mrs. Carmody and Norm the bag-boy… and by Steff’s face, half-shadowed by the wide brim of her sunhat.
There is a restaurant here, a typical HoJo restaurant with a dining room and a long, horseshoe-shaped lunch counter. I am going to leave these pages on the counter, and perhaps someday someone will find them and read them.
Hartford.
If I only really heard it. If only.
I’m going to bed now. But first I’m going to kiss my son and whisper two words in his ear. Against the dreams that may come, you know.
Two words that sound a bit alike.
One of them is hope.
Afterword
Kirby McCauley
I was surprised and flattered when Richard Chizmar suggested new editions of DARK FORCES for the 25th Anniversary of the Viking publication.
Some rumination on my part followed when I wondered if there is anything new to say that was not said in 1980. Is there something to add to introduce these stories now to a younger audience? I am not sure.
I have not seen a diminution of fear in the last 25 years. And we all seem to fall heir to some degree to the varying elements of it so powerfully etched in these tales.
Sadly, some of the writers in the book have left this tier of existence. I will be eternally grateful to them and to the other contributors to DARK FORCES for sustaining the interest for one more reincarnation of it.
I was deeply influenced and inspired in my early years by the production of a beautifully crafted book. The guidance of August Derleth brought out in me an appreciation for the visually compelling publication of such a book—long before I could afford to buy one.
I know Lonely Road Books will give us a book to cherish and be happy to have in our collections. I thank Rich and all of you who have bought this for remembering these stories.
Kirby McCauley
December 2005
Editor’s Notes
Kirby McCauley
The following are the Editor’s Notes from the original text about each author and his or her work.
The Late Shift
Dennis Etchison
Slowly but surely, over the last dozen years or so, Dennis Etchison has built up an impressive reputation as a distinctive stylist in the fantasy and horror field. He has brought to the form a lyric style and a sharp eye for details, especially those of Southern California, where he has lived most of his life. Etchison has been published in magazines ranging from Cavalier to Fantasy & Science Fiction to Mystery Monthly and is presently readying his first novel for publication. He is also keenly interested in screen writing and wrote the novelization of John Carpenter’s movie, The Fog. This story demonstrates his visual sense of the Southern California area and is also a scary projection one step beyond.
The Enemy
Isaac Bashevis Singer
The supernatural has long pervaded the work of Isaac Bashevis Singer, the distinguished Yiddish writer and Nobel laureate. Whether set in his native Poland or in the New World, his short stories are frequently populated with demons, departed spirits, and sinister events. The stories are deceptively simple, and though they deal almost exclusively with the ethnic group he knows best, Polish Jewry, they speak to people everywhere: their experiences become the experiences of all men. There is an earthiness in his tales, a frank acceptance of the needs of the flesh, but their chief concern is almost always with the spirit of man. Singer believes most so-called supernatural phenomena to be either lies or people believing what they want to believe, but that there are exceptions to the rule bearing out serious investigation. This Singer tale tells of an apparently innocent refugee from persecution in Europe who finds himself threatened once again.
Dark Angel
Edward Bryant
Edward Bryant, now in his mid-thirties, was born in White Plains, New York, but has
lived most of his life in the Wyoming-Colorado vicinity. He has worked at a number of jobs, including disc jockey, and has had work published in leading anthologies and magazines, including The National Lampoon. His books include Among the Dead and Cinnabar, and he won the Nebula Award in 1979 for his story “Stone.” Much of Bryant’s work is at once bitterly humorous and visually hard-hitting, and concerns the capacity of people to hurt and be hurt, not unlike his senior co-contributor to this book, Theodore Sturgeon. This story, a fine variation on a classical horror theme, is no exception.
The Crest of Thirty-Six
Davis Grubb
Davis Grubb, who has been writing short stories and novels for over thirty-five years, had his first success in 1953 with publication of The Night of the Hunter, that memorable novel of terror and pursuit in the Ohio River valley of West Virginia. Once encountered, Grubb’s creation in it of the sinister preacher, who has the words love and hate tattooed on his knuckles, is never forgotten. The author’s family has lived in West Virginia for over two hundred years and it provides the setting for most of his work, including such critically praised novels as The Watchman, Fool’s Parade, and The Voices of Glory. His outcry against prejudice and oppression is no less moving for the violence through which he feels compelled to express it. This tale, set on his beloved Ohio River and in his fictional town of Glory, West Virginia, is by turns dark and humorous, gritty and poetical.
Mark Ingestre: The Customer’s Tale
Robert Aickman
Robert Aickman, the grandson of the Edwardian novelist Richard Marsh, has published a number of collections of macabre stories in both his native England and in America. He explored with Harry Price, the late ghost hunter, Borley Rectory, once reputed to be the most haunted house in England, and served as story adviser on the classic British fantasy film of the 1940s, Dead of Night. But his ghostly stories are distinctively literary explorations: as he has remarked himself, they are a way of looking at ordinary life. Aickman rarely explains the mysterious happenings in his stories, but rather haunts his reader by a skillful blending of the supernatural with odd aspects of the modern world or allegory. One of his stories, for example, contains an eerie dust storm moving across the grounds of a British manor house about to be given over to the state. Aickman’s manifestation of the social storm in a story of the supernatural is typical of his innovational contribution to the form. This story, written more than two years before Sweeney Todd made his musical debut on Broadway, is both a variation on that famous bit of London history and, with its bizarre and erotic aspects, something quite different also.
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