by Clive Barker
Jason grimaces. Gotta be he’s sliced up pretty good, but that’s the least of his worries. Mr. Rose is still coming down the path, running hard. Jason stands there, waiting, trying to brace himself. There’s not much else he can do.
He closes his eyes, just for a second.
He hears Mr. Rose’s footsteps in front of him.
And Bill’s footsteps coming from behind.
He takes a deep breath.
He opens his eyes.
* * *
Bill watches as Mr. Rose barrels into Jason. The big kid doesn’t stand much of a chance. He’s unsteady on his feet to begin with, like he twisted his ankle or something, and he starts to go down as soon as Cheryl Ann’s father hits him.
At least Jason manages to grab Mr. Rose and take him down, too. They roll off the trail, into the water, and they end up in a tangle of cattails. Mr. Rose comes out on top. He’s screaming now, but Bill can’t make out a word the man’s saying.
Bill tries to run faster, tries to hurry. He’s so intent on helping his friend that he almost steps on a busted beer bottle. He jumps it and doesn’t even break stride but he’s still about twenty feet away from Jason and Mr. Rose and he’s dancing over rocks, but he can’t miss all of them, and the ones he steps on punch his heels like nasty little fists and—
Just that fast, Bill stops cold.
It’s the look on Mr. Rose’s face that stops him. The man’s smiling, his thin lips framing gritted teeth. He’s got Jason pinned in the cattails, and he’s holding the boy’s head underwater, and Jason’s exhalations are bubbling to the surface.
“You boys shouldn’t have given me an argument,” Mr. Rose says, looking at Bill. “You should have given me that dog while you still had the chance.”
Jason’s arms thrash in the muddy water, but Mr. Rose holds him firm.
Bill’s heart pounds in his chest.
He snatches up a rock.
It’s about the size of a golf ball.
He lets fly.
* * *
Bill has never heard a sound like it. It’s awful. Like a cleaver hitting a rack of beef ribs, only worse.
Bill doesn’t see where the rock goes after it hits Mr. Rose in the forehead. He expects the man to fall over, the way bad guys do on television. But Mr. Rose just stares at him from behind his sunglasses, and pretty soon Bill wonders if the rock missed the man entirely.
No, he tells himself. I know the rock hit him. I heard the sound.
The same way Mr. Rose hears his daughter calling in the night? asks a voice in Bill’s head.
No! I heard it hit him! I know I did!
And just that quick Bill knows he’s right, because just that quick he sees blood gushing from Mr. Rose’s forehead. Red streaks spill down the lenses of the man’s sunglasses. Blood washes down his nose and drips off his chin. But Mr. Rose doesn’t cry out, and he doesn’t wipe away the blood.
He releases Jason, and Bill’s friend crawls out of the muddy water coughing and gasping for air.
Mr. Rose stands up and wades out of the cattails. He climbs onto the path. And now he’s coming towards Bill. And he’s still smiling. And he pushes his sunglasses high on his nose, as if nothing has happened at all.
Bill backs off. He sees Jason gagging by the side of the lake. His friend is in no condition to help him stop Mr. Rose. So Bill dips down fast and picks up another rock. The lenses of Mr. Rose’s sunglasses are painted with blood. Bill doesn’t even know if the man can see him anymore. All he knows is that Cheryl Ann’s father is coming for him.
Mr. Rose’s Hush Puppies crunch over the same broken beer bottle that cut Jason’s foot. He opens his mouth. He’s still smiling. His teeth are red with dripping blood.
“Red Rover,” Mr. Rose says. “Red Rover. Won’t you... come...”
Mr. Rose doesn’t finish the sentence.
He finally falls.
He falls hard.
* * *
The boys move away from Mr. Rose as fast as they can. When they’re about fifty feet down the trail, Jason has to take a break. He hobbles over to a big rock by the lake’s edge, splashes water on his foot and washes the cut, which is already caked with dirt from the path. Once he gets it clean the cut doesn’t look as bad as it feels, but it’s bleeding pretty steadily.
Bill climbs up on the rock and tries to spot the place where Mr. Rose collapsed, but he can’t see the injured man—or the section of path where he fell—over the cattails.
“Don’t worry,” Jason says. “You knocked him cold. He’s not gonna move for a while.”
Bill nods, but he’s just not sure. All he knows is that he wants to get away from the lake as quickly as possible. First, he needs to get Jason to a doctor. His friend probably needs stitches in his foot. Then he needs to call the cops and tell them about Mr. Rose.
Before Bill can do any of that stuff, he and Jason have to get their shoes. They follow the trail back to the spot where they set up camp. That takes a while. Jason’s hobbling pretty bad. He practically has to hop down the trail. But Jason doesn’t complain, and he seems a little better once he gets his shoes and socks on. They’re PF Flyers. They’re almost new, and they’re white, but Bill knows they won’t be white for long. At least not the right shoe, because it’s Jason’s right foot that’s bleeding, and they’ve got a good walk ahead of them.
There’s a trail that cuts over the hills behind the lake and connects to the country road that leads back to town. It’s a little longer than the trail that runs along the shore, but neither boy wants to take that one. It would mean passing Mr. Rose, and they don’t want to take that chance.
The boys leave their camping stuff behind. They’re just about at the trailhead when they remember the dog. They haven’t seen Red Rover since Mr. Rose jumped Jason.
“We can’t just leave him here,” Bill says. “What if Mr. Rose gets hold of Red Rover before we can call the cops?”
“I don’t think the dog would go near that nut,” Jason says. “Besides, it’s getting dark. I don’t want to be around here at night.”
“What’s the matter?” Bill says. “Are you scared you’ll see Cheryl Ann’s ghost?”
Jason stops dead in his tracks. After everything that’s happened, he’s completely forgotten about the little girl’s ghost. He looks at his friend. All of a sudden Bill’s got a goofy grin on his face, like he finally figured out the biggest joke of all. Bill starts laughing, and so does Jason. The whole thing does seem pretty funny. After all, they came out here to see if they could spot a ghost, an ectoplasmic will o’ the wisp, a good old-fashioned spook. They sure didn’t see anything like that.
“I don’t even believe in ghosts anymore,” Jason says. “But I do believe in Mr. Rose.”
“Yeah,” Bill says. “I guess I believe in him, too.”
“Besides, I figure Red Rover can take care of himself. He’s probably long gone, anyhow. Let’s you and me get out of here.”
They start walking. Jason has a tough time of it. He can’t move very fast, even when he leans on Bill’s shoulder, but he doesn’t give up. He won’t cry uncle, no matter what.
A grove of eucalyptus trees separates the lake from the hill. Powdery gravel crunches under the boys’ feet as they follow an inclined path into shadows that smell clean and crisp.
At the edge of the trees, Jason stops for a break. Already, his right PF Flyer is getting red on one side, but that isn’t what’s bothering him. “Maybe we should at least try to call the little mutt,” he says. “That wouldn’t hurt, would it?”
“No,” Bill says. “That wouldn’t hurt at all.”
Both boys turn toward the lake. The sun’s gone now. The evening sky is streaked with royal purple and dark valentine red.
It’s twilight.
Bill opens his mouth to call the dog. He doesn’t even get a word out before he spots Red Rover running down the path, coming toward them like a bullet.
Below, Mr. Rose’s voice cuts through the cattails like a scythe.
“Red Rover... Red Rover... won’t you come over?”
* * *
“He’s close,” Jason says.
“Yeah,” Bill says, staring through the eucalyptus grove at the trail that leads to the hill. “Think you can run?”
Jason glances down at his bloodstained tennis shoe. He shakes his head. Then he looks toward the lake trail, watching for Mr. Rose.
“If we can’t outrun him, then we’ll have to hide,” Bill says. “Maybe we can find a good spot in the woods—“
“Maybe we don’t have to,” Jason says. Because he’s seen something that Bill missed. There’s a blackberry thicket at the juncture of the lake and hill trails. A deer run cuts into the blackberries. Both Bill and Jason have spent time in there during the last three picking seasons, only to emerge with scratched arms and snagged T-shirts and lips purple with the sweetest berries you ever tasted. Which is another way of saying that the blackberry thicket isn’t exactly easy going, but it is a great place to hide.
Bill and Jason disappear into the thicket.
Red Rover follows the boys.
* * *
It’s dark now.
No more royal purple or dark valentine red in the sky. Bill, Jason, and Red Rover are nested in a blackberry burrow that some animal—or some bum—must have abandoned. They stare up through a crosshatched roof of blackberry brambles, and the only thing they see that isn’t black is a ripe melon slice of moon.
The moon doesn’t provide much light, but it’s enough to reveal tangled vine shadows on Bill and Jason’s faces, enough to expose the terror in Red Rover’s gleaming eyes each time Mr. Rose calls his name.
So far the little terrier has been quiet. Just as quiet as the boys. So far...
But Mr. Rose is coming closer now.
“Red Rover... Red Rover... won’t you come over?’
The dog whines and Bill pulls him to his chest. Mr. Rose’s voice cuts through the blackberries the same way it cut through the cattails—high and keening, like a scythe. Forget Carol Ann’s ghost. Her dad’s voice is all it takes to frighten Bill more than he’s ever been frightened in his life.
Bill closes his eyes, but there’s no escape. He pictures Mr. Rose wandering around out there beneath the slivered moon, his face a mask of drying blood, his eyes hidden behind those blood-splattered sunglasses even in the dark of the night.
“Red Rover... Red Rover... won’t you come over...”
Bill’s eyes flash open. The dog whines. Bill grabs Red Rover’s muzzle. The little mutt’s shaking, his heart thudding against the crook of Bill’s elbow. The boy holds Red Rover tight and doesn’t let go, but he can’t stop the dog from whining.
“That mutt’s gonna give us away,” Jason says.
Bill knows that Jason is right, but there’s nothing he can do about it. Jason can’t run on his sliced-up foot. Bill can’t leave his friend behind. He can’t leave the dog, either. So all they can do is sit tight and hope that Mr. Rose doesn’t find them.
“Red Rover... Red Rover...”
The dog squirms away from Bill.
Red Rover barks.
Not far from the burrow, Mr. Rose laughs.
“That’s a good doggy,” he says.
* * *
Ten or fifteen feet away, something hits the blackberry vines. Bill figures that Mr. Rose probably has a broken branch or something. He’s literally beating the bushes, trying to flush them out.
“Red Rover!” Mr. Rose says. “C’mon, boy! Cheryl Ann’s waiting for you! You want to see her, don’t you?”
Red Rover whines again, and Bill’s hand tightens around the dog’s muzzle. Bill doesn’t feel like a detective anymore. He doesn’t want to solve any mysteries. In the dark under a melon slice of moon, he’s suddenly scared of everything, because everything he imagines seems thoroughly plausible and undisputedly real. Mr. Rose. Cheryl Ann’s ghost. His own shadow, hidden somewhere in a dark pocket of night. All of it boils up in his brain in a hundred wild imaginings, each one real enough to hurt him, each one real enough to kill him if he just sits there waiting—
Mr. Rose calls again. The branch hits another tangle of blackberry vines. Every fiber of Bill’s being tells him that he should run, get out of here as fast as he can, run as fast as his legs will carry him and never look back... but he can’t do that. Not with Jason the way he is... and not with the dog trembling in his arms.
So he doesn’t move a muscle and he peers through the vines, watching the deer run for a sign of Mr. Rose. Shadows creep out there in the night, and one of them might be Cheryl Ann’s father gripping a twisted branch in his hands, but Bill can’t be sure.
“Red Rover... Red Rover...”
This time, the voice comes from behind. Bill turns and stares at the back of the burrow, but the only thing he sees through the brambles is that ripe melon slice of a moon, and all he can think of is a scythe because that’s what Mr. Rose’s voice sounds like. He’s coming for them. He’s gonna get them. Kill them, just like they’re a couple of characters in Clue. And the cops’ll come out and find their bodies, the same way they found Cheryl Ann’s body. It was Mr. Rose in the blackberry thicket with a scythe, they’ll say, but none of it will matter because Bill and Jason will be dead—
Again, the cutting voice, but this time different words.
“I see you!”
Red Rover explodes from Bill’s arms. Toward the back of the burrow, a shadow darts through the brambles. It brushes Bill’s head, tries to grab a handful of hair, but Bill pulls away and rolls toward the burrow’s entrance where he bumps up against Red Rover, who’s barking his little head off.
“Let’s go!” Jason says, and he shoots out of the burrow, so scared he’s hardly limping at all.
Red Rover follows.
So does Bill.
* * *
Bill figures it’s just dumb luck that gets them out of the blackberries before Mr. Rose. Must have been that he was on another path that snaked around the backside of the burrow when he tried to grab Bill through the brambles. That path didn’t connect up with the deer run, so they managed to give Cheryl Ann’s dad the slip.
They take the lake trail. Bill and Jason and Red Rover. Soon they’re about halfway to the little scab of a beach. Bill can smell the lake, hear frogs croaking out in the cattails. He also hears Mr. Rose swearing as he thrashes around back there in the blackberry thicket, trying to find a way out.
Let him swear, Bill thinks. He almost wants to laugh. His arms are scratched and his T-shirt is torn courtesy of his stay in the blackberries, but suddenly he’s not afraid anymore. Not of Mr. Rose. Not of the lake, with its cold black water and blankets of water lilies. Not of Cheryl Ann Rose’s ghost—
And now Bill does laugh. If he’s learned anything tonight, it’s that he shouldn’t be afraid of ghosts. No. It’s the living he should fear. The rest of it’s just make-believe. The rest of it’s not real.
Mr. Rose is real. Bill understands that now. The real ghosts are men like Cheryl Ann’s father. Men who can never bury their dead little girls. Men who are forever haunted by tragedy and tortured by regret and—
Up ahead, Jason trips and goes down hard. Bill sees a dark mound in the moonlight. There must be a big rock in the middle of the trail.
Only Bill doesn’t remember there being a rock in this place. He stops short of the mound. Red Rover heels at his side. Jason’s already getting up, dusting himself off.
Together, they look down. Neither one of them says a word, because there on the ground, exactly where he fell after being hit in the head by the rock that Bill threw, lies Mr. Rose.
He’s as still as the grave.
He doesn’t move a muscle.
His lips don’t part for a breath or a word.
Not even when his voice rings out from the blackberry thicket, cutting through the night like a scythe.
“Red Rover... Red Rover... won’t you come over?”
“Oh, God,” Jason says as he gapes at the dead man.
“Oh... Jesus!”
And then another voice rises in the distance. It comes from the lake, soughing through the cattails like a cool evening breeze.
It’s a voice that once belonged to a little girl.
“Red Rover... Red Rover... won’t you come over?”
The little dog whines, shivering in the moonlight as the voices join in a duet.
“Red Rover... Red Rover...”
The boys stare down at the dead man.
Mr. Rose doesn’t move at all.
But he comes for them just the same.
Breakbone
Bill Pronzini
The dashboard clock read 7:30 when I pulled into the truck stop west of Tucumcari, New Mexico—and there he was, sitting on a bench outside the café. It was a hot July evening and I’d been on the road for nine hours and nearly seven hundred miles, but after dinner I figured I could make another hundred or more before I packed it in for the day. Pushing it because of the job with Burnside Chemicals but mainly because Karen was waiting in L.A. I hadn’t seen her in two weeks and I was hungry for her and she would be for me, too.
Right now it was food I was hungry for; I hadn’t eaten since an early breakfast. I filled the Audi’s tank and then pulled over into one of the parking slots near the café. On the walk from there to the entrance I had to pass by the guy sitting slumped on the bench.
He was the biggest man I’d ever seen outside a basketball arena. Close to seven feet tall, lean but not skinny; huge hands like a couple of fur-backed catcher’s mitts, the fingers gnarled and scarred from manual labor. Wearing a sweat-stained shirt, dusty Levi’s, and old, heavily scuffed boots. He was bent forward with the hands hanging down between his knees, his chin tipped toward his chest, his gaze on the small, battered duffel between his feet. He had a kind of heavy, bland face, and he looked hot and tired and forlorn, like a kid nobody wanted to have anything to do with. But he wasn’t a kid, exactly. Late twenties, I thought, a few years younger than me.
I went past him by a couple of steps, then stopped and turned back. There was just something about him. That forlorn look, I guess. Karen says I’m a sucker for strays, the lost and lonely in human and animal kingdoms both. I don’t deny it. Better that kind of person than the one who doesn’t give a damn.