Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Rick Hautala
I've been ... waiting here ... all this time ... just waiting .. . for you ... to come back … I knew … you would ... eventually ... I've been waiting ... a long time ... a very long time ..."
Pete took another step back, but his heel hit the bottom step, and he started to fall. He reached out to catch himself on the handrail, but instead his hand curled around something he immediately knew wasn't wood. Looking down, he saw that he was holding onto the bony wrist of an arm that was reaching up out of the darkness for him.
"... you should have ... told them … about what... you saw ... about the ... things ... the terrible things … he did ... to me ... to you and me ... before he ... killed me …"
"No! Nothing happened!" Pete blubbered through his tears as he started backing up the stairs. "I don't remember seeing anything .”
"... yes … you do ... and you ... got away...."
Something snagged Pete's shirt sleeve and pulled at him. Without looking at it, Pete knew that it was a hand … the bone-white hand of his long-dead friend.
Please let this be a dream! Pete pleaded desperately inside his mind. Please let me wake up now!
But every sensation, every feeling was much too vivid to be a dream.
Pete pulled back and heard the soft hiss of tearing cloth as his shirt sleeve ripped. Nearly blind with panic, he turned and ran up the stairs, taking them three at a time in long, awkward leaps. He waved his arms around wildly, trying to keep his balance, but he slammed into the wall on the landing, the impact knocking the wind out of him.
But he kept going.
Once he reached the top of the stairs, he gripped the handrail—sure that it was real wood, now, not dead bone—and pivoted himself around. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a rapid shifting of motion in the hall in front of him and lurched to a stop so fast his legs collapsed underneath him. Pure, blinding terror gripped him when he saw Mrs. Doyle standing there with her hands planted on her hips as she stared at him and scowled.
"... You'd better hurry up, Mister Garvey … you'll be late for class ... as usual...."
Mrs. Doyle folded her arms across her massive bosom, squirting the pale flab of her underarms out from the tight-fitting short sleeves of her faded dress. Her face was expressionless except for her eyes, which blazed like red, angry coals. Her thin, colorless lips looked like an ancient bloodless wound that hadn't healed.
Pete was transfixed by her fiery stare until he sensed a rush of motion behind him. Cold air washed over him like the murky sweep of water. He knew that Ray Makki or whoever or whatever was down there in the basement was gathering its strength to come up the stairs after him. He came close to fainting, but then a small portion of his brain told him that, if this wasn't a dream, then the apparition at the top of the stairs was just that—
An apparition .
It couldn't stop him.
"I'm comin' right now, Mrs. Doyle," he shouted in a high-pitched, trembling voice.
Clinging to the wall and shying away from her, he moved away from the second-floor landing. He looked down to the far end of the hallway and could see the door to the outside. It glowed with a bright, surreal blaze of afternoon sunlight. The sunlit, living greens of the maple leaves and their shadows vibrated with impossible intensity. He started walking toward it, slowly at first, no matter how much he wanted to break into a run.
Something was weighing him down, pulling him back and slowing his steps to a sludgy, dragging crawl.
He was halfway down the corridor when all of the doors leading into classrooms on both sides of him suddenly opened wide.
From inside each room there came the harsh scraping of chairs and the soft scuff of shoes on old floorboards. Papers and books rustled as desktops creaked open and slammed shut with dull, hollow reverberations.
Muffled voices and faint laughter drifted like heavy currents in the hot air. As Pete moved slowly past the
Pete took another step back, but his heel hit the bottom step, and he started to fall. He reached out to catch himself on the handrail, but instead his hand curled around something he immediately knew wasn't wood. Looking down, he saw that he was holding onto the bony wrist of an arm that was reaching up out of the darkness for him.
"... you should have ... told them … about what... you saw ... about the ... things ... the terrible things … he did ... to me ... to you and me ... before he ... killed me …"
"No! Nothing happened!" Pete blubbered through his tears as he started backing up the stairs. "I don't remember seeing anything .”
"... yes … you do ... and you ... got away...."
Something snagged Pete's shirt sleeve and pulled at him. Without looking at it, Pete knew that it was a hand … the bone-white hand of his long-dead friend.
Please let this be a dream! Pete pleaded desperately inside his mind. Please let me wake up now!
But every sensation, every feeling was much too vivid to be a dream.
Pete pulled back and heard the soft hiss of tearing cloth as his shirt sleeve ripped. Nearly blind with panic, he turned and ran up the stairs, taking them three at a time in long, awkward leaps. He waved his arms around wildly, trying to keep his balance, but he slammed into the wall on the landing, the impact knocking the wind out of him.
But he kept going.
Once he reached the top of the stairs, he gripped the handrail—sure that it was real wood, now, not dead bone—and pivoted himself around. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a rapid shifting of motion in the hall in front of him and lurched to a stop so fast his legs collapsed underneath him. Pure, blinding terror gripped him when he saw Mrs. Doyle standing there with her hands planted on her hips as she stared at him and scowled.
"... You'd better hurry up, Mister Garvey … you'll be late for class ... as usual...."
Mrs. Doyle folded her arms across her massive bosom, squirting the pale flab of her underarms out from the tight-fitting short sleeves of her faded dress. Her face was expressionless except for her eyes, which blazed like red, angry coals. Her thin, colorless lips looked like an ancient bloodless wound that hadn't healed.
Pete was transfixed by her fiery stare until he sensed a rush of motion behind him. Cold air washed over him like the murky sweep of water. He knew that Ray Makki or whoever or whatever was down there in the basement was gathering its strength to come up the stairs after him. He came close to fainting, but then a small portion of his brain told him that, if this wasn't a dream, then the apparition at the top of the stairs was just that—
An apparition .
It couldn't stop him.
"I'm comin' right now, Mrs. Doyle," he shouted in a high-pitched, trembling voice.
Clinging to the wall and shying away from her, he moved away from the second-floor landing. He looked down to the far end of the hallway and could see the door to the outside. It glowed with a bright, surreal blaze of afternoon sunlight. The sunlit, living greens of the maple leaves and their shadows vibrated with impossible intensity. He started walking toward it, slowly at first, no matter how much he wanted to break into a run.
Something was weighing him down, pulling him back and slowing his steps to a sludgy, dragging crawl.
He was halfway down the corridor when all of the doors leading into classrooms on both sides of him suddenly opened wide.
From inside each room there came the harsh scraping of chairs and the soft scuff of shoes on old floorboards. Papers and books rustled as desktops creaked open and slammed shut with dull, hollow reverberations.
Muffled voices and faint laughter drifted like heavy currents in the hot air. As Pete moved slowly past the
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