behind. Bill turns and stares at the back of the burrow, but the only thing he sees through the brambles is that ripe melon slice of a moon, and all he can think of is a scythe because that’s what Mr. Rose’s voice sounds like. He’s coming for them. He’s gonna get them. Kill them, just like they’re a couple of characters in Clue. And the cops’ll come out and find their bodies, the same way they found Cheryl Ann’s body. It was Mr. Rose in the blackberry thicket with a scythe, they’ll say, but none of it will matter because Bill and Jason will be dead—
Again, the cutting voice, but this time different words.
“I see you!”
Red Rover explodes from Bill’s arms. Toward the back of the burrow, a shadow darts through the brambles. It brushes Bill’s head, tries to grab a handful of hair, but Bill pulls away and rolls toward the burrow’s entrance where he bumps up against Red Rover, who’s barking his little head off.
“Let’s go!” Jason says, and he shoots out of the burrow, so scared he’s hardly limping at all.
Red Rover follows.
So does Bill.
* * *
Bill figures it’s just dumb luck that gets them out of the blackberries before Mr. Rose. Must have been that he was on another path that snaked around the backside of the burrow when he tried to grab Bill through the brambles. That path didn’t connect up with the deer run, so they managed to give Cheryl Ann’s dad the slip.
They take the lake trail. Bill and Jason and Red Rover. Soon they’re about halfway to the little scab of a beach. Bill can smell the lake, hear frogs croaking out in the cattails. He also hears Mr. Rose swearing as he thrashes around back there in the blackberry thicket, trying to find a way out.
Let him swear , Bill thinks. He almost wants to laugh. His arms are scratched and his T-shirt is torn courtesy of his stay in the blackberries, but suddenly he’s not afraid anymore. Not of Mr. Rose. Not of the lake, with its cold black water and blankets of water lilies. Not of Cheryl Ann Rose’s ghost—
And now Bill does laugh. If he’s learned anything tonight, it’s that he shouldn’t be afraid of ghosts. No. It’s the living he should fear. The rest of it’s just make-believe. The rest of it’s not real.
Mr. Rose is real. Bill understands that now. The real ghosts are men like Cheryl Ann’s father. Men who can never bury their dead little girls. Men who are forever haunted by tragedy and tortured by regret and—
Up ahead, Jason trips and goes down hard. Bill sees a dark mound in the moonlight. There must be a big rock in the middle of the trail.
Only Bill doesn’t remember there being a rock in this place. He stops short of the mound. Red Rover heels at his side. Jason’s already getting up, dusting himself off.
Together, they look down. Neither one of them says a word, because there on the ground, exactly where he fell after being hit in the head by the rock that Bill threw, lies Mr. Rose.
He’s as still as the grave.
He doesn’t move a muscle.
His lips don’t part for a breath or a word.
Not even when his voice rings out from the blackberry thicket, cutting through the night like a scythe.
“Red Rover... Red Rover... won’t you come over?”
“Oh, God,” Jason says as he gapes at the dead man. “Oh... Jesus!”
And then another voice rises in the distance. It comes from the lake, soughing through the cattails like a cool evening breeze.
It’s a voice that once belonged to a little girl.
“Red Rover... Red Rover... won’t you come over?”
The little dog whines, shivering in the moonlight as the voices join in a duet.
“Red Rover... Red Rover...”
The boys stare down at the dead man.
Mr. Rose doesn’t move at all.
But he comes for them just the same.
Breakbone
Bill Pronzini
The dashboard clock read 7:30 when I pulled into the truck stop west of Tucumcari, New Mexico—and there he was, sitting on a bench outside the café. It was a hot July evening and I’d been on the
Again, the cutting voice, but this time different words.
“I see you!”
Red Rover explodes from Bill’s arms. Toward the back of the burrow, a shadow darts through the brambles. It brushes Bill’s head, tries to grab a handful of hair, but Bill pulls away and rolls toward the burrow’s entrance where he bumps up against Red Rover, who’s barking his little head off.
“Let’s go!” Jason says, and he shoots out of the burrow, so scared he’s hardly limping at all.
Red Rover follows.
So does Bill.
* * *
Bill figures it’s just dumb luck that gets them out of the blackberries before Mr. Rose. Must have been that he was on another path that snaked around the backside of the burrow when he tried to grab Bill through the brambles. That path didn’t connect up with the deer run, so they managed to give Cheryl Ann’s dad the slip.
They take the lake trail. Bill and Jason and Red Rover. Soon they’re about halfway to the little scab of a beach. Bill can smell the lake, hear frogs croaking out in the cattails. He also hears Mr. Rose swearing as he thrashes around back there in the blackberry thicket, trying to find a way out.
Let him swear , Bill thinks. He almost wants to laugh. His arms are scratched and his T-shirt is torn courtesy of his stay in the blackberries, but suddenly he’s not afraid anymore. Not of Mr. Rose. Not of the lake, with its cold black water and blankets of water lilies. Not of Cheryl Ann Rose’s ghost—
And now Bill does laugh. If he’s learned anything tonight, it’s that he shouldn’t be afraid of ghosts. No. It’s the living he should fear. The rest of it’s just make-believe. The rest of it’s not real.
Mr. Rose is real. Bill understands that now. The real ghosts are men like Cheryl Ann’s father. Men who can never bury their dead little girls. Men who are forever haunted by tragedy and tortured by regret and—
Up ahead, Jason trips and goes down hard. Bill sees a dark mound in the moonlight. There must be a big rock in the middle of the trail.
Only Bill doesn’t remember there being a rock in this place. He stops short of the mound. Red Rover heels at his side. Jason’s already getting up, dusting himself off.
Together, they look down. Neither one of them says a word, because there on the ground, exactly where he fell after being hit in the head by the rock that Bill threw, lies Mr. Rose.
He’s as still as the grave.
He doesn’t move a muscle.
His lips don’t part for a breath or a word.
Not even when his voice rings out from the blackberry thicket, cutting through the night like a scythe.
“Red Rover... Red Rover... won’t you come over?”
“Oh, God,” Jason says as he gapes at the dead man. “Oh... Jesus!”
And then another voice rises in the distance. It comes from the lake, soughing through the cattails like a cool evening breeze.
It’s a voice that once belonged to a little girl.
“Red Rover... Red Rover... won’t you come over?”
The little dog whines, shivering in the moonlight as the voices join in a duet.
“Red Rover... Red Rover...”
The boys stare down at the dead man.
Mr. Rose doesn’t move at all.
But he comes for them just the same.
Breakbone
Bill Pronzini
The dashboard clock read 7:30 when I pulled into the truck stop west of Tucumcari, New Mexico—and there he was, sitting on a bench outside the café. It was a hot July evening and I’d been on the
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