The Lake

Doing her stuff and trying to keep quiet about it.

For my sake.

Hope she doesn’t decide to peek in through my bedroom door to see if I’m fast asleep.

Good thing I’m not wearing my cap yet…

Mom was in the bathroom now, humming quietly to herself.

Thinking about Mace?

You bet.

At last, Mom’s bedroom door closed.

Then opened again.

Mom wants me to know that she’s around if I should wake in the night.

Deana smiled.

Mom was so thoughtful.

Wonder what Warren’s doing now?

Probably getting ready for his nightly stroll.

With Sabre, his trusty canine friend.

Maybe I should take along some pepper, to throw in the mutt’s face if he attacks me.

Oh yeah.

That’d really impress Warren.

He’d hate me for it.

Oh well, scrub the pepper. Have to trust Warren to drag Sabre off me. If he decides to go for my throat or something…

Deana twisted her head sideways. She looked at the clock on the nightstand.

12:12.

Tomorrow already.

She held her breath, keeping quiet and still.

No sound from Mom’s room.

Okay. Let’s move it.

She swung off the bed.

Twisted up her hair and pulled a navy knit cap over it. The cap had “NY” embroidered in white on the front. She grinned a little; she always felt like a ghetto kid when she wore this one.

Looking down at her feet, her sneakers covered with the thick wool socks, she decided she looked more like a yeti.

All she needed now was a weapon.

In case Nelson was lurking out there.

Maybe the pepper’d be a good idea.

Nah.

Nelson wasn’t around last night.

Probably won’t be around tonight, either.

Mom thinks he’s snuffed it. Maybe his body’s out there at this very moment, floating in the Bay, bobbing around in the cold, dark water, being chawed by fish. Sharks even—their deadly teeth tearing off his arms and legs. Chomping on his stringy innards.

She shivered, thinking about it.

That is really gross.

Nelson was a weird guy, but he didn’t deserve a death like that.

Deana crept out into the hallway.

She stopped awhile and waited.

Bet Mom’s asleep by now.

Dreaming about Mace.

Yeah. I can see it now.

Mace and Mom. Like Bogart and Bergman in Casablanca. Staring into each other’s eyes across some crowded bar…

Play it again, Sam.

Ugghhh.

Gruesome.

She felt for her door key, caught inside her sweatshirt.

It was safe and sound.

Good.

Nothing like spending the night huddled on the stoop, Mom opening the door and saying, “Why, good morning, honey. Your own bed not comfortable enough for you?”

Now for one of Deana’s famous midnight runs.

“Gotta find Warren’s house first,” she murmured. “I reckon it’s about a block away. Up the hill. Good thing I’m fit. All this running, and tennis with Mom, keeps me in good shape.”

At the end of the driveway she looked up, then down, Del Mar. She felt a buzz of excitement; the thought of being alone in the darkness brought goose bumps scurrying up her body.

Yeah. It sure is scary.

Everybody’s asleep. Except me. I’m awake and ready for anything.

Almost.

She couldn’t see anyone around.

Staring up the street some more, her excitement took a downturn.

Del Mar. Dimly lit by too few streetlamps, making long stretches of street almost totally black. The trees were giant shadows; the houses, dark formidable places.

She suddenly felt very scared.

“Nightmare on Del Mar,” she muttered. “It’d make an awesome movie. Maybe I should write me a film script someday.”

Humming a little, she began to mark time on the spot. Shoulders back, knees pumping up and down.

Up down, up down, up down…

Usually, this exercise focused her on the run ahead.

Thank God tonight was no exception.

Feeling loose-limbed and relaxed, she began running up the incline toward Warren’s house.

A shadow stepped out before her.

She gulped, stopped, and danced back into the shadows.

The shadow came toward her.

At her.

She held her breath. Moving sideways. Backward. Any way but forward.

Every move she made, the thing blocked her path.

Weaving, dodging, dancing in front of her, stopping her from moving on.

She fought back panic, her heart hammering in her throat.

Then there was this shrunken death-head swaying before her. Its eyes gleaming at her from deep, dark sockets, its wrinkled mouth drawn into a tight black O.

Backlit by a streetlamp, wisps of hair stood out around its head like a silver halo.

Maybe it just crept out from some crypt or other…

Nah. It’s not the living dead.

It’s solid flesh and blood…

A bent, skinny old woman!

The hag grunted, then pulled up short in front of Deana. She was clinging onto an untidy bundle in her arms. The bundle poked and jerked, then out jumped a small dog. It raced across the street and disappeared down a tree-lined drive.