Tales from The Lake 5 Read online

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  Ethan Harris

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  WELCOME TO ANOTHER CRYSTAL LAKE PUBLISHING CREATION.

  Thank you for supporting independent publishing and small presses. You rock, and hopefully you’ll quickly realize why we’ve become one of the world’s leading publishers of Dark and Speculative Fiction. We have some of the world’s best fans for a reason, and hopefully we’ll be able to add you to that list really soon. Be sure to sign up for our newsletter to receive three eBooks for free, as well as info on new releases, special offers, and so much more. To follow us behind the scenes while supporting independent publishing and our authors, be sure to follow us on Patreon, where you can even subscribe to all our future releases.

  Welcome to Crystal Lake Publishing—Tales from the Darkest Depths.

  OTHER ANTHOLOGIES BY CRYSTAL LAKE PUBLISHING

  Welcome to The Show, edited by Doug Murano

  Lost Highways: Dark Fictions From the Road, edited by D. Alexander Ward

  C.H.U.D. Lives!—A Tribute Anthology

  Tales from The Lake Vol.4: The Horror Anthology, edited by Ben Eads

  Behold! Oddities, Curiosities and Undefinable Wonders, edited by Doug Murano

  Twice Upon an Apocalypse: Lovecraftian Fairy Tales, edited by Rachel Kenley and Scott T. Goudsward

  Tales from The Lake Vol.3, edited by Monique Snyman

  Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories, edited by Doug Murano and D. Alexander Ward

  Tales from The Lake Vol.2, edited by Joe Mynhardt, Emma Audsley, and RJ Cavender

  Children of the Grave

  The Outsiders

  Tales from The Lake Vol.1, edited by Joe Mynhardt

  Fear the Reaper, edited by Joe Mynhardt

  For the Night is Dark, edited by Ross Warren

  TALES FROM THE DARKEST DEPTHS

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  FROM THE MOUTHS OF PLAGUE-MONGERS

  Stephanie M. Wytovich

  UMBILICUS

  Lucy Taylor

  THE WEEDS AND THE WILDNESS YET

  Robert Stahl

  THE COLOR OF LOSS AND LOVE

  Jason Sizemore

  MAGGIE

  Andi Rawson

  A DREAM MOST ANCIENT AND ALONE

  Allison Pang

  MALIGN AND CHRONIC RECREATION

  Bruce Boston

  GUARDIAN

  Paul Michael Anderson

  THE FLUTTER OF SILENT WINGS

  Gene O’Neill

  HOLLOW SKULLS

  Samuel Marzioli

  IN THE FAMILY

  Lucy A. Snyder

  DEAD BODIES DON’T SCREAM

  Michelle Ann King

  TWELVE BY NOON

  Joanna Parypinski

  THE MONSTER TOLD ME TO

  Stephanie M. Wytovich

  FINAL PASSAGE

  Bruce Boston

  STARVE A FEVER

  Jonah Buck

  VOICES LIKE BARBED WIRE

  Tim Waggoner

  NONPAREIL

  Laura Blackwell

  ALWAYS AFTER THREE

  Gemma Files

  THE MIDLAND HOTEL

  Marge Simon

  FAREWELL VALENCIA

  Craig Wallwork

  THE BOY

  Cory Cone

  THE LOUDEST SILENCE

  Meghan Arcuri

  THE FOLLOWERS

  Peter Mark May

  A BATHTUB AT THE END OF THE WORLD, OR, HOW MR. WHITTAKER ACHIEVED KNIGHTHOOD

  Lane Waldman

  AUTHOR BIOGRAPHIES

  INTRODUCTION

  Of the 715 submissions I received for this call, so many stories were of such high quality that I could have easily compiled four volumes full of exciting journeys, near and far, of dread and loss. Alas, being the editor of a single volume, I had to pick the stories I felt best worked together, those which achieved something as a whole or just plain blew me away. This meant I had to reject several stories I loved, and, each time I did, it felt like I was severing a small piece of my soul from the whole. But, rest assured, I’m confident each of those stories will find a home in coming days.

  With that said, my method for selecting stories worked very much like the process I use to create my own short story collections. When I look at a group of stories, a pattern starts to form, tiny threads interwoven upon each other to create a larger tapestry. These threads—easy to identify in some and almost imperceptible in others—work together to create my vision for this anthology, which hopefully is not lost on the reader. Ultimately, this is what I aimed to achieve. I didn’t want to just throw together a couple dozen stories; I wanted them to gel, to accomplish something together, to create a voyage. My only hope, dear readers, is that I’ve succeeded in this goal for your sake.

  It would have been impossible for me to take on an endeavor of this magnitude without some level of support from my family and friends. So, before I wrap this up, I need to thank a few people. And although I may not thank everyone, please know that your support and kindness is duly noted, and I am grateful.

  First and foremost, I’d like to thank my wife and children, who bore the brunt of this project, often playing games or watching movies, generally enjoying each other’s company while I secluded myself to read submissions. Without their love and encouragement, this would have been far more difficult. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank previous Crystal Lake Publishing editors Ben Eads and Doug Murano for their advice, as well as their support. I’d also like to thank Jacob Haddon of Lamplight Magazine, who took a moment out of his free time to offer counsel. Last but not least, I’d like to thank Joe Mynhardt for having confidence in my work as well as my ability to compile this tome.

  And with that, I’d like to introduce everyone to the writers of Tales from The Lake Vol. 5. Pleasant nightmares.

  —Kenneth W. Cain

  December 14, 2017

  FROM THE MOUTHS OF PLAGUE-MONGERS

  STEPHANIE M. WYTOVICH

  I am the additional trash amongst the plastic bags and cigarette butts,

  a malfunctioned doll in the science of reincarnation,

  a hologram of stolen parts,

  a human graveyard of misplacement

  who stews in the alleyways of hospitals and morgues

  gathering threads and body parts, needles and anesthesia

  slurping the bone marrow from blood bags to stay alive.

  Cover your eyes.

  Don’t look at me.

  A cardiac catastrophe, a female miscarriage,

  they told me I was beautiful, an extraordinary flower of rebirth,

  but they plucked off my limbs like petals,

  passed me around in a pollination orgy of stingers and honey,

  drowning me in a hive of reproduction and abandonme
nt

  only to be cast out, orphaned along with the others,

  the ripped and discarded, the stitched and disfigured.

  Leave now.

  Look away.

  There’s no help for the creatures we’ve become,

  the plague-collectors, the disease-mongers,

  we’ll take your scraps, your unwanted flesh and fat,

  we’re hungry and cold, broken and lame,

  we are the frankenwhores of society: aborted, bereaved,

  and like the monsters that created us, we cannot die.

  UMBILICUS

  LUCY TAYLOR

  I was bending my elbow at the Legal Tender with my old high school buddy, Mick Sturgis, when he blurted out something so shocking I thought I’d misheard.

  “Say what?”

  He leaned so close I choked on gin fumes and could have counted the broken capillaries in his tired eyes. “You heard me. I’m getting Paulie back.”

  My jaw must have dropped to my knees.

  Five-year-old Paulie Sturgis had gone missing on a hike with his dad in the Pecos Wilderness just shy of two years ago. No clues and no body. Everyone thought he was dead. Mick said the boy had scooted ahead to where the forested trail dropped down into a broad, sandy wash. By the time Mick got there, he was gone, vanished. Just like that. It was, Mick said later, as if Paulie were a caged dove some evil magician had erased with a wave of his wand.

  “That’s incredible, Mick! Paulie’s alive?”

  He glanced around nervously at the lunch time crowd, a mix of garishly-clad bicyclists, leathered motorcycle dudes, and a raucous table of guys off a construction crew getting an early start on the weekend. “Easy, Gary, keep it down. It’s not done ‘til it’s done.”

  I lowered my voice. “That PI you hired came through?”

  “Hell no, I fired his blundering ass. This is different, off the radar, so to speak.” He flagged a passing waiter. Ignoring my half-hearted attempt to say I’d had enough, he commanded another round. “Look, I don’t talk about this, but ever since it happened, I drive out to Pecos and walk that trail at least once a week. Sometimes I pray. Mostly I talk to Paulie. Tell him how fucking sorry I am I couldn’t protect him from whoever, whatever took him. Even put up a little shrine.” He paused to collect himself. “Hell, I guess maybe God or the devil really does answer prayers because—look, Gary, this is strictly between us—”

  “Of course.”

  “I met a guy who’s got an inside track on missing kids. It was kind of a miracle actually. He just showed up one day when I was down there in the arroyo. He can get Paulie back.”

  “How?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Illegal?”

  He held a palm out and wagged it back and forth. “Maybe.”

  “So this guy, did he see something? Was he a witness?”

  “More like a go-between. A negotiator.”

  The elation I’d felt at first started draining away. I was getting a very bad feeling.

  “I don’t know, Mick, it sounds like a trap.”

  “Easy for you to say, it’s not your kid!” His bullet gray eyes blazed and the muscles in his heavy jaw knotted, giving him the look of an aging bulldog.

  The waiter brought our fresh drinks, and I slugged mine back, forgetting for the moment why I’d planned to stop after one. Felt the wallop in my belly like a balm.

  “You’re right, I can’t even imagine what you’ve gone through. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst goddamn enemy. Just be careful”

  “I intend to.”

  “Are you paying a ransom?”

  Mick stared into his gin and tonic the way a soothsayer peers at her tealeaves. I’m no psychic, but whatever he saw wasn’t good. “I’ll worry about that later.” A shiver jostled his heavy workingman’s shoulders. “All I want now is my boy back. I don’t care what it costs.”

  A darkness came over him then, and he started to ramble: about construction jobs we’d worked on years back, before he branched out into real estate and got rich, about the play dates my then-wife Molly used to organize for Paulie and our daughter Angie, who were about the same age. We both drank too much, but Mick always did hold his liquor better than me.

  When he pulled out his wallet, I thought he was paying the tab, but he unfolded a check and handed it to me across the table. I was buzzed by then, and the number of zeros made me think I was seeing double.

  “What’s this?”

  “That kitchen remodel you and your crew did in Rio Ranchos last year. Sold the house to a famous TV chef and her wife for twice what it’s worth, all because they fell in love with the kitchen. Consider it a bonus.”

  “No, Mick, I can’t—”

  “Take it, for Chrissakes. I know you’re just scraping by, what with the alimony and child support, and it’s a long time until Angie’s eighteen. Speaking of which, isn’t her birthday coming up? Use the money to start a college fund. Or hell, take her to F.A.O. Schwarz in Paris and buy out the store.”

  If my mind hadn’t been cloudy with booze and the shock of what Mick had just told me, I might have wondered how he knew I was struggling. But before I had a chance to think about it, his mouth split in a grin and he added, “Anyway, Gary, it’s not like I don’t want anything in return. Why do you think I told you this? You’re the one’s gonna help me get Paulie back.”

  ***

  It was past four when we left the Tender, Mick rolling into a waiting Uber and me into my Jeep Cherokee, heading into Santa Fe to pick up my daughter. Molly had informed me she had a date tonight, and although the thought of my former wife entertaining a guy in my former home still rankled, I was happy for an extra evening with Angie. So I drank this morning’s cold coffee that was left in my thermos and sucked breath mints en route. Angie and her mother met me at the door, Angie in a favorite Girl Power t-shirt and purple barrettes, Molly, visibly annoyed, with half the runic alphabet scrawled across her forehead.

  “You’re late.”

  I checked my watch, feigned surprise. “Time just got away.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.” Molly’s nose did that little rabbity-twitch thing I once thought was cute and sexy. “You reek.”

  “I had a couple, that’s all. I’m fine.”

  Angie, always quick to catch wind of trouble, piped up, “Daddy, let’s go!”

  I reached for her hand. Molly stepped in between. “Drive by yourself when you’re hammered, I don’t care, but she’s not going with you.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Mol, I’m not drunk.”

  I wanted to tell her Mick’s story and how it had rattled me—not to mention that I’d agreed to be part of the plan—but he’d sworn me to secrecy, especially to Molly, adding “your ex never could keep a secret.”

  “Why can’t I go with Daddy?” Angie shouted, tears cascading.

  “You see!” Molly said, “I knew you’d ruin it,” which was Angie’s cue to run out of the room bawling. I wanted to follow her, to explain, (Daddy loves you so much, he’ll make it up to you, promise!), but I’d fucked up and I knew it, and Molly wasn’t going to miss a chance to tighten the screws.

  Frustrated and furious, I stormed out of the house. I considered going to a bar but thought better of it. I’d need my wits about me tomorrow. There was still plenty of light left. I decided to visit the spot where Paulie disappeared.

  ***

  On the thirty minute drive to the Pecos Wilderness, I considered Mick’s plan. My part was almost disappointingly tame. Maybe I’d expected firearms or fisticuffs. In reality, all he wanted me to do was head out to Rowe, a little flyspeck town east of Pecos, and kill time at Lou’s Enchilada, a folksy joint that had the advantage of being just a stone’s throw from the highway. Before we left the Tender, Mick had given me a clean cell, saying he’d call me when he and Paulie were on the way. When they arrived, I’d spirit them away to the Sun Port in Albuquerque.

  Why Mick felt it was necessary to flee or why he didn’t plan to call the
police on the kidnapper once Paulie was safe, he hadn’t explained, which made me wish I’d asked more questions before agreeing to get involved. I thought about telling him I’d changed my mind, but the truth was, I really needed that money. Besides, Mick and I had been friends since tenth grade, when we used to skip school together to score pot in Albuquerque and made bets on who’d be the first to make it with one of several sultry ‘older women’ in twelfth grade.

  How could I back out now?

  The last time I’d visited the Pecos Wilderness, it was with Molly, when we joined in the search for Paulie. Since then, the dirt road had narrowed drastically, hemmed in by ever-opportunistic underbrush, but the trailhead, when I finally found it, looked as I remembered it: signs posted with ranger warnings about bears and rattlesnakes and a map showing the various trails branching off from the main one.

  I bungled around for a while trying one fork after another before I finally found the area the searchers had spread out from. It was unmarked, but I recognized the blackened, lightning-felled pinon just off the track. Molly had pointed it out to me on the day of the search: If we get separated, that dead tree’s where we’ll meet. A portent maybe?

  There hadn’t been much rain this spring—bone-dry twigs and needles snapped under my feet. Branches jostled by the breeze clacked tunelessly.

  I don’t know what I was hoping to find, but Mick telling me he came out here every week struck a chord. The last time I was here I was part of a search party, everyone amped up and anxious as a dour-faced cop gave instructions about how far apart we should space ourselves and what to do if we found a body. Everyone was eager and earnest and praying for a happy outcome. Now a monumental silence prevailed. I felt like I was trespassing in an ancient cemetery where the graves were unmarked and all that remained was the grief and the terrible loss.

  Slowly, I followed the overgrown trail, leaving it at various points to bushwhack. About a quarter mile in, the wash Mick had described intersected the trail and I descended into a dry bed framed by coral and cream sandstone walls. Erosion had done its work here; deep niches and crevices pocked the sandstone. Miniature catacombs, defined by the paths water had taken over decades of storms, cut into the rock, an invitation for a small child to explore.