The Lake

TWO

Wednesday, June 30

The footsteps got closer.

He, it, was almost on her now.

Her legs pumped hard. Her lungs gagged for air.

The thing followed with superhuman speed.

Christ. I can’t go fast enough—or far enough!

Heaving, panting, she drew to a halt…

A bony hand clawed her shoulder.

Hooked her throat.

NO. My God. NO… PLEASE!!!

Deana jerked awake, heart pounding, nightgown twisted up above her waist, clinging like a live thing to her sweat-soaked skin.

Her breathing evened out a little.

Puffing out a gusty sigh, she relaxed.

It was only a dream.

Dream?

Try a fucking nightmare!

She sighed again—in relief this time. Turning her head on the sodden pillow, she saw familiar shapes in the weird half-light. She relaxed some more.

Then…

What was that?

Her heart began racing again.

She could hear something.

Footfalls.

Soft, scrunching sounds on the gravel outside.

Her eyes darted to the window. The filmy curtains stirred in the breeze… Moonlight filtered pale gray beams across her bed.

She scanned the window. Saw a tall, hunched shape move across it. Shaggy hair sticking out from beneath a long floppy hat.

This is for real.

I’m not dreaming now.

The shadow paused, stiffened, and turned, looking over its shoulder like it was scared of being followed.

Then the big hook nose pointed forward again.

Like a giant bird of prey…

It carried a hatchet on its shoulder.

Oh my God!

Can this really be happening?

It’s my nightmare come true!

Deana clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling the scream rising in her throat. Her breath huffed out in ragged, hurting gasps.

“Ah’m a-comin’ to getcha, baby…”

A harsh, breathy voice. She couldn’t believe it!

If this really IS a nightmare, I gotta wake up fast.

Sliding a hand under the bedsheet, she found her thigh. She pinched it, hard.

Ouch! Shit! Okay, so I’m not dreaming. I’m awake.

Jesus. If I am awake… who is that outside my window?

A burglar?

Carrying a hatchet?

Killers carry hatchets…

Mad ax murderers!

But why pick on me?

Who’d want to kill me?

Nobody I can think of would want me dead.

Except maybe that bitch Nancy Guildenschwarz—she hates me like hell after Allan ditched her and dated me instead… Even so, Deana reminded herself, Nancy’s short, plumpish—and she’s a girl.

Not a tall, thin man.

Unless Nancy’s people put out a contract on me.

There’s a thought.

Wouldn’t put anything past that bitch. Always boasting her dad had connections…

Name like Guildenschwarz, he sure needed connections.

Like a mouse in a maze, Deana’s mind scurried through her past, searching for a tall scarecrow man who hated her enough to sneak around her house in the dead of night.

With a hatchet for company…

Nah. Nobody hates me that much. Do they?

Jeez, I hope not.

If she yelled for Mom, he might smash through the window and hack her to death before Mom could get to her.

Best stay quiet, she thought. Pretend I’m not here.

Deana shut her eyes tight, held her breath, slid down under the bedsheet, pulled it over her head, and lay there, heart racing, till she almost suffocated.

Then, peeking from under the bedsheet, she scanned the window again.

Nobody there. Only the moon, casting ghostly rays onto her bed.

Perhaps the thing with the hatchet never happened?

Oh yeah?

Deana wiped her face with a corner of the sheet.

It was awfully hot.

Hot, shitty, oppressive, and muggy.

Another summer night in Marin County.

’Cept it wasn’t just “another summer night.”

A mad axman’s out there, sneaking past my window.

Stalking me.

Looking for me. Wanting to hack me to death.

Deana listened, willing her heart to slow down.

A warm mistral rose up from nowhere, whispering into the night, tossing the leaves of the citrus outside her window. The rustling sounds should have been familiar and friendly.

Tonight, they didn’t seem that way.

In the past, she’d loved that big old tree.

At age ten, when she and Mom first came to live in this house, she’d imagined small furry creatures hiding away up there; birds, nesting in its branches. Mornings, she’d lie in bed watching it. At night, she went to sleep listening to its quiet, scurrying sounds.

Now it shivered and rustled like something in a horror movie.

It was so scary.

Her gaze switched to where she’d last seen the intruder.

Hoping she wouldn’t see him again.

Trying to convince herself the shadowy shape didn’t exist. Hadn’t really happened at all.

She waited…

But there was no Mr. Hatchet Man. Just her tree. Its leaves stirring softly in the night breeze…

Making long black shadows on her ceiling.

Raising her head off the pillow, she squinted at the clock on the nightstand.

12:10.

Past midnight.

A good time for nightmares.

And weird dreams.

She stretched, letting her tense, coiled-up limbs ease out, running her tongue over bone-dry lips.

Her eyes darted nervously to the window.

Just checking.

Fearful the same spooky sequence would start over again.

Wide-eyed, waiting, she counted to thirty… forty… fifty… sixty.

No sign of the Hatchet Man.

Swinging out of bed, she peeled off her nightgown. It was soaked with sweat. She spread it over the bedrail, grabbed her robe, and shrugged into it.

It felt soft and comforting to her damp, chilled skin.

She tied the sash tight.

Wouldn’t do for Mr. Hatchet Man to catch her naked.

Mr. who?

That was a nightmare, dummy, and don’t you forget it.

Still her breath came hard and fast.

Calm down, she told herself.

You’re safe.

The doors are locked.

Mom’s in the next room…

Everything’s okay. Honest.

In the busy flickering shadows, familiar things greeted her like old friends.

She made for the kitchen.

Opening the fridge door, she reached inside and took out a jug of lemonade.

It felt good and cold.

Mom made it only yesterday. From fresh lemons. It was her own special brew, and Deana knew it’d taste bittersweet, tart, with just a dash of honey.

The way I like it.

The glass jug clouded up. It felt deliciously cold in her hands. Licking her lips, she watched the pale liquid swish around inside it—almost tasting that first almighty swig as it hit her throat.

First, she set the jug on the table and went over to the sink. Turning on the cold faucet, she cupped her hands and splashed water over her face.

Then she grabbed a hand towel, patted herself dry.

Feeling better, safer, all the time.

It was only a nightmare, she told herself again.

Deana downed two glassfuls of juice, knowing she’d probably spend the remainder of the night in the bathroom.

Who cares? I’m awake, I’m alive, and I’m all in one piece!

Back in her bedroom, she caught that same weird figure slink past the window.

Again?

NO!

Frowning, she stared hard. But saw nothing.

Just the curtain, stirring softly.

And her tree, murmuring in the breeze.

Wonderful. I’m going crazy. My mind’s playing tricks…

She set her refilled glass on the nightstand, took off her robe, and climbed into bed.

She yawned, glad the nightmare was over.

She felt safe again.

And sleepy.

Her lips curved in a smile.

As her lids closed, she thought about the party tomorrow night…

Tomorrow night?

Tonight, she reminded herself.

Deana yawned again, going through the scenario of telling Mom how she and Allan would be going to the movies after dinner. Mom’d be furious, but she’d soon simmer down. Hey. She knew how it was; she’d been there herself, hadn’t she?

Once upon a time.

So she keeps reminding me.

Deana smiled sleepily. It felt good, touching her naked body beneath the sheet, the soft breeze wafting through the window.

Thinking about the dinner party—and afterward, when she and Allan would bunk off together.

“Mmm…,” she whispered. “Tonight, we’re gonna have the time of our lives!”