the hag
the bloodletter collections
ii
Erik Henry Vick
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Book One: Wrecker
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Book Two: Black Swan
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Author’s Note
About the Author
Dedication
For Jackson W. Barnett, with my thanks, and for the residents of Lake Lida, Minnesota.
It doesn't matter what you pretend, she'll wreck it
It doesn't matter what you defend, she'll wreck it
It doesn't matter how you live your life
Doesn't matter anymore to your wife
Doesn't matter even how you die,
she'll wreck that too
—Dave Mustaine
My angel's left me, sorrows are my own
Now I'm here, with the Devil on my own
Just like a churchyard shadow, craving after me
It's only there to terrify my mind,
a black swan keeps haunting me.
—Dave Mustaine
I hope you enjoy the hag. If so, please consider joining my Readers Group—details can be found at the end of the last chapter.
book one:
wrecker
Chapter 1
1986
1
As the placid surface of Genosgwa Lake began to chop, Greg glanced over his shoulder to judge how far he was from his grandparents’ dock. He was almost halfway across the lake, and the mild gray sky had turned dark and ugly.
Greg didn’t like bad storms, even though the storms in Western New York were nothing compared to the ones in his Florida hometown. He gazed toward the shore opposite his grandparents’ lake house and tried to guess how far he’d have to travel to get there.
A small convenience store stood on that bank. Well, it wasn’t right on the shore or anything, but it was a short walk from where the waves lapped at the small beach. It was close enough that in the evenings, he could read the neon sign for the store as if it were next door.
He dithered, trying to decide whether to turn back or risk being caught out in the storm. On the one hand, he was already damp as a result of horsing around in the kayak before he set out, but storms could be freezing on the lake. Regardless of the rain, his grandfather had given him five dollars for candy.
Five whole dollars.
His parents had gone shopping for the afternoon, and they would make him give the five dollars back on their return. No question there, not without serious pleading. Not only would they want him to return the money, but they wouldn’t want him to have five dollars’ worth of candy even if they allowed him to keep the Franklin. Not in one afternoon, not in one week.
He glanced up at the sky, trying to judge whether the ugly, purple-black clouds meant business or not. In Florida, there would have been no question. In Florida, dark clouds indicated a sky-shattering thunderstorm—usually within the next fifteen minutes. But at the lake, a dark, ugly sky could mean nothing at all.
Again, he glanced over his shoulder at the yellow and white dock his grandfather maintained with precision. Some docks on the lake had faded paint or missing slats, but not his grandpa’s dock. His dock was pristine, year after year.
Greg twisted back around and looked at the far shore over the bow of his red kayak. He couldn’t tell for sure—he wasn’t good with distance—but he thought he was halfway. He glanced down at the pocket of his bathing suit, where the five-dollar bill lay nestled inside a Ziploc bag.
“What do I do?” he asked no one.
As if in answer, a cold wind gusted at him from behind, and he shivered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone swimming in Florida and had gotten cold. It was hard to understand why people would want to have a lake house in a state where you could only swim two-and-a-half months out of the year—and freeze while you did it part of that short time—but there was no figuring out adults.
If he were still in Florida, that same cold wind would mean that the coming thunderstorm would be a bad one. But up on Genosgwa Lake, the same cold wind might mean nothing at all.
The five-dollar bill seemed heavy, hot.
It’s now or never, kiddo. If you don’t go, your daddy will make you give it back, and if you have to give it back, no candy.
“Yeah, but…those clouds look like they mean business,” he muttered. The kids back home would make fun of him for talking to himself, but it was just something he did. His mom called the voice his invisible friend. Greg didn’t know about that, he seemed real—even if Greg hadn’t ever learned his name.
Do you want the candy or not?
“Of course I want the candy! Don’t be an idiot.”
Do it, Greg. Do it, do it, do it.
“But what about the storm?”
Good grief, kid. I’m telling you if you don’t go now, no candy. I’ll ask you once more: do you want the candy or not?
His imaginary friend seemed…different somehow since they’d arrived in New York. A little less understanding, a little more insistent. A little meaner. Why is that? he wondered.
He shifted his position and dipped the paddle into the water but withdrew it without taking a stroke. “I don’t even know what types of candy they have.” That sounded whiny, even to his own ears.
Come on, Greggy. Get it together. If you want candy, put that paddle in the water and get moving. Even if the storm comes, you’re halfway there already. How wet could you get?
“But it will be cold.”
Candy. Candy. Candy, candy, candy.
“Yeah, yeah. Candy.”
Look, boyo, if you turn back now, you will lose that five-dollar bill. You know it, I know it. Your mom and dad will never let you buy five dollars’ worth of candy, even if they let you keep the bill—which they won’t. Your dad will say five dollars is too much for a boy of eleven and make you give it back to your grandpa.
“I know. Trust me, I know that all too well.” Greg scratched his ear. He didn’t like his friend’s new habit of calling him things such as “boyo” or “sport” either.
So what are you waiting for? Why are you sitting here talking to me?
With a shrug, Greg dug at the water with the kayak’s paddle. He dug hard, making long strokes through the water, leaning back as he pulled. The kayak skimmed across the surface of the water like a sleek torpedo running at the surface.
He made it a game, pretending he was racing in the Olympics, and he was out front in the gold-medal race. Greg could almost hear the crowd cheering.
He kept his eyes on the far shore, which grew nearer and nearer with each pull of his arms. He wasn’t looking at the convenience store, he was looking at the line where the shore turned into someone’s lawn. That was his finish line.
The only problem was, Greg was a horrible judge of distance, and when the rain fell, he had just reached the actual center of the lake. Fat, cold raindrops slapped and splattered all over his body and made the temperature out on the lake feel colder in an instant.
Greg stopped paddling and peered over his shoulder at his grandparents’ lake house. The yellow and white building stood out as if bathed with Batman’s spotlight—as if it were the only safe place left in the world. Despite not paddling, the kayak continued to glide through the choppy water, carrying him farther and farther away from warmth and his grandmother’s cookies. Cookie
s aren’t candy, but they’re almost as good.
Greg glanced in the direction he was traveling, sure he must be almost there, but he wasn’t. It appeared each shore was the same distance away, and the rain seemed colder, wetter.
“Great idea,” he muttered. “Try to race the storm to get candy. Well, tell me something, smarty-pants. How much candy can I enjoy if I’m at the bottom of this lake?”
Aw, is little Greggy scared? Does the storm terrify you?
“Shut up! Why do I ever listen to you? You think you’re so smart, but you’re not. You’re dumb.”
Yes, I’m the dumb one… So, besides calling me names, what are you going to do, sport?
Greg rested the kayak’s paddle across his lap and lifted his shoulders. Again, he glanced over his shoulder at the yellow and white lake house, and again, he pivoted his head back toward the other shore.
Is looking back and forth helping? Because I can stop making suggestions here… You know, because I’m dumb.
Greg dithered, unsure of which direction to go. He was tired of talking to his invisible, nameless friend, but when it came right down to it, who else was he going to ask for help? The lake?
With a shake of his head, Greg sighed. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I called you dumb. Now, will you tell me which way to go?”
You remember why you listen to me? It’s okay for me to make suggestions?
“I said I was sorry. What more do you want?”
Hmmm. Let’s see…should we start with you telling me how smart I am? It seems only fair and right since you felt justified in telling me how dumb I was.
“I know you’re smart, I was frustrated.”
Hmmm. I suppose that will have to do, but we must work on your ability to apologize.
“For an invisible friend, you sure do enjoy busting a guy’s balls.”
You know this from your extensive experience with other invisible friends?
Greg sighed. The wind at his back seemed to have dropped ten degrees in temperature, and the raindrops were falling harder. He thought the sting that came with the drops was ice falling with it. “Come on! It’s summer!” he shouted.
Was that directed at me?
“You know it wasn’t! Tell me what to do, I’m cold.”
Say please.
“Please!” Greg snapped.
Say pretty please.
Greg stuck his paddle in the water again but withdrew it without taking a stroke. “Pretty please,” he grated.
That’s better.
Greg suppressed a sigh. Of all the invisible friends in the world, I had to get one who’s a smartass.
You know I can hear your thoughts, right?
A sigh gusted out of Greg despite his best efforts.
Relax, Maddie McMadhead. You’re halfway across, you might as well go to the other side and get your candy because the same amount of rain will fall on you no matter which way you go.
“But—”
Just do it, Greg. Do it, do it, do it.
Greg dipped his paddle into the water and pulled for the far shore. The rain lashed at his back, so cold and coming so hard that it felt like hail. “At least this way, the wind is helping me, right?”
You’re not as dumb as you look, kiddo.
“If you’re my imaginary friend, why aren’t you nicer to me?”
Imaginary? Who said I was imaginary? I am invisible… I suppose that much is obvious even to someone of your determined lack of smarts.
“Imaginary, invisible. What’s the difference?”
From my point of view, the difference is enormous.
“Whatever. Why can’t you be nice? You were nicer back in Florida.”
You think I’m being mean? Kids these days… You’re so soft. We need to toughen you up, chump.
Greg shook his head but kept his mouth shut. He had to tilt his face down toward the front deck of the kayak because of the stinging rain. He no longer pretended at being in the Olympics, but he pulled just as hard.
Greg Canton hated the rain, and in his effort to minimize its impact, he never saw the slimy, greenish-gray hand rising from the water in front of him.
2
Elizabet Canton looked out the large bay window as the storm broke. Greg’s red kayak shuttled up and down on the chop building out in the center of the lake. “Joe, I wish you hadn’t given the boy five dollars and told him he could row across the lake. You know his parents wouldn’t like him taking that much money from you, and, now he’s trapped out in the middle of the lake during a storm that promises to be ugly.”
Joe Canton grunted and glanced out the bay window himself. “He’ll be fine. Boys his age are always fine, and it’s only a little rain.” But as soon as he said it, a purple bolt of lightning crackled across the sky, briefly illuminating the bruise-colored clouds.
“Only a little rain? Look at that sky, Joe. Can’t you see how rough the lake is getting, and there he is, our grandson, out in the middle of it in a plastic kayak!”
Joe grunted again but knew better than to keep arguing. At any rate, there was the off chance that she might be right.
“You go out there, Joe Canton. Take the fishing boat and go get him.”
“Now, Elizabet, let’s wait a moment. You know how the storms come and go during the summer. Hell, half the time the storms blow themselves out in the first two minutes.”
She whirled to face him, and her face was all scrunched up in that way that meant he’d already lost. “Joe Canton!”
With a sigh and yet another grunt, Joe pushed himself out of his comfortable chair. Holding up a hand to forestall any other comments, Joe headed toward the door to the back porch. “Yes, dear. Just let me get on my shoes and get the boat out of the boathouse. Won’t take a moment.”
“You’d already be on the water if you had listened to me in the first place.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Can’t understand why he doesn’t start with that,” Elizabet muttered—but loud enough for Joe to hear. As he went through the door into the porch, she smiled lovingly at his back.
3
Mason Harper stood at his grandmother’s big bay window, watching the storm roll in. A grin spread across his face—the dope from next door was out on the lake in his stupid little red kayak.
He knew what came next. She came next.
“Mason, come away from that window. That storm looks to be a doozy,” called his grandmother from the kitchen.
He rolled his eyes but raised a hand to wave—indicating that he heard her, though he didn’t move a single step away from the window. His gaze tracked the Canton kid’s progress, and his grin stretched. The little red kayak would be close to the middle of the lake when the storm hit. Mason was almost sure of it.
It was all part of the trap—all arranged to give her the best opportunity to…make introductions.
“Mason Harper! Thirteen is not too old for me to take you over my knee. You listen to me now!”
“Coming, Grandma.” His gaze lingered on the red kayak cutting through the water. He wanted to watch the start of it all.
More than anything else, though, Mason wanted to see her again.
4
His little red kayak stopped dead in the water, and Greg’s momentum carried him forward, slamming him into the lip of the kayak’s cockpit. His breath exploded out of him, and he almost lost the paddle into the depths of the lake.
Tears filled his eyes, but through them, he saw something gray and slimy on the point of the kayak. He tried to draw air into his lungs, tried to gasp for breath, but he couldn’t. His stomach hurt.
I don’t know, champ. Might be that your stomach hurts now, but if you don’t get it together soon, I’ll bet a lot more of you will hurt.
With his free hand, Greg grabbed his belly, and with the other, he held onto the paddle. His lungs burned, but he still couldn’t force air into them.
The kayak lurched as if the bow were being pulled under, and Greg threw his weigh
t back, which only forced him to slide farther forward into the cockpit of the kayak until he could no longer sit up. He thrashed with the arm holding the paddle, and the other end of it clunked into the hull of the little red boat again and again. The bow continued to slant into the water, and panic gripped him.
He pressed hard with his legs, forcing himself back into a seated position, and pawed the tears out of his eyes. The kayak tilted at a stomach-wrenching angle, and the dark water of the lake lapped over the bow.
He grabbed the paddle with both hands and shoved at the water, trying to propel the boat backward—away from whatever had snagged the bow and was pulling it under the water. Fishing line, maybe, or an old boat anchor and its rope, kicked up by the storm.
I don’t think so, captain.
He didn’t have time to reply—or perhaps the will to argue with his invisible friend. He continued to chop at the water in long, panic-driven sweeps of the paddle.
The bow of the kayak continued to slide into the dark depths of the lake, and with the chop brought on by the storm, cold lake water was already pouring into the cockpit. Help me!
I’m not sure what you expect me to do, kiddo, but I will tell you that what you are doing isn’t working. You aren’t snagged on fishing line or an old abandoned anchor. Whatever is pulling you down, it has a will of its own. The harder you slap at the water with that oar, the harder it’s dragging you down.
Greg didn’t stop, though. He couldn’t, his panic would not let him. I’m getting out of this boat!
Hmmm. I wouldn’t do that. I would do something else—anything but get into the water. Trust me, kiddo.
Do what? Don’t paddle, don’t dive in the water, then do what? Greg’s eyes scanned the surrounding water, his brain supplying the image of sharks lurking under the surface, even though he knew there were no sharks in Grandma and Grandpa’s lake. Sharks don’t even live in freshwater.
Sharks? Who said anything about sharks? I don’t want to be a nag, but you’re still flailing at the water with that paddle as if it’s an ax, and the lake is a woodpile. Do you imagine it’s helping?
The Hag Page 1