Read Online Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala by Rick Hautala - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rick Hautala
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into his arms and held her close. “I love you, Beth.”
She clung to him and whispered, “And I love you.”
They sat together silently in the living room as twilight deepened, and the world all around them hummed.
* * *
What would normally have been a nine-hour ride to Little Sebago Lake took more than twenty-four hours because Dave wanted to stay off the interstates. The latest news reports indicated that truckers were chasing down and crushing unlucky drivers who pissed them off. Dave had seen the movie “Duel,” and he had no intention of reenacting it.
As they headed north into New England, the sound became more discordant. Dave noticed a mechanical chunking quality to it that was or at least seemed to be getting more pronounced. The endless, irregular rhythm ground away at his nerves like fine sandpaper, but they finally made it to the cabin on Sebago Lake without incident.
The camp was on the east side of Sebago, small and shabby, but a welcome sight after such an ordeal. The lake stretched out before them—a flat, blue expanse of water with New Hampshire’s White Mountains far off in the distance, to the west. When they arrived, the sun was setting. It tipped the lake’s surface with sparkles of gold light and streaked the sky with wide slashes of red and purple.
It was beautiful, and when Dave and Beth looked at each other, the good feelings drowned out the hum, if only for a moment. They embraced and kissed with genuine passion.
Then the day was over. The sun dropped behind the mountains, and the humming noise became more pronounced. After unpacking the car, they ate a cold supper of baked beans straight out of the can. Beth set about making the bed upstairs and straightening up while Dave took a walk down to the lake’s edge.
The night was perfectly still except for the hum. All the usual sounds—night birds and crickets and frogs—were silent. The lake looked like a large pane of smoky glass. Stars twinkled in the velvety sky above. It was all so serene as Dave sat down on a weather-stripped tree trunk that had washed ashore. He sighed as he looked up at the night sky.
The noise was changing again.
Now, there was an undertone of a long, drawn-out, squeaky sound that reminded him of fingernails raking down a chalkboard. At least it was the only sound. No blaring TVs … no pounding stereos … no gun shots.
How long can this go on? he wondered. How long can any of us handle this before we all go mad and exterminate ourselves?
He heaved a sigh as he looked up at the night sky. The constellations spread across the sky like salt on black velvet. At first, he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing when he noticed something falling from the sky. A few dark flakes drifted down onto the lake’s surface like soot from a bonfire.
Like a child in a snowstorm, Dave reached up and tried to catch some of the falling flakes.
Funny , he thought, I don’t smell smoke.
He looked at his hand. The flakes lay in the cup of his palm, but they weren’t soft and crumbly like ash. They were hard and thin, with a dark, brittle surface. They crunched like fragile glass when he poked them with his index finger. They were falling all around him, now, dusting his upturned face and shoulders.
Jesus Christ he thought. It looks like paint chips .
Curious, he looked up again. By now the flakes were sifting down rapidly from the sky. As he watched, he became aware of the low, steady vibration beneath his feet and all around him. It felt like a mild electrical current making the forest vibrate like a tuning fork. As he watched the sky, irregular yellow splotches began to appear overhead as more and more black paint fell away, exposing a dull, cracked surface behind. After a time, silver and yellow flakes began to fall, too. Dave watched in amazement, his mouth dry, his mind numb.
A crescent moon was rising in the east behind him. He turned to see if it, too, was peeling away from the sky like an old sticker on a
She clung to him and whispered, “And I love you.”
They sat together silently in the living room as twilight deepened, and the world all around them hummed.
* * *
What would normally have been a nine-hour ride to Little Sebago Lake took more than twenty-four hours because Dave wanted to stay off the interstates. The latest news reports indicated that truckers were chasing down and crushing unlucky drivers who pissed them off. Dave had seen the movie “Duel,” and he had no intention of reenacting it.
As they headed north into New England, the sound became more discordant. Dave noticed a mechanical chunking quality to it that was or at least seemed to be getting more pronounced. The endless, irregular rhythm ground away at his nerves like fine sandpaper, but they finally made it to the cabin on Sebago Lake without incident.
The camp was on the east side of Sebago, small and shabby, but a welcome sight after such an ordeal. The lake stretched out before them—a flat, blue expanse of water with New Hampshire’s White Mountains far off in the distance, to the west. When they arrived, the sun was setting. It tipped the lake’s surface with sparkles of gold light and streaked the sky with wide slashes of red and purple.
It was beautiful, and when Dave and Beth looked at each other, the good feelings drowned out the hum, if only for a moment. They embraced and kissed with genuine passion.
Then the day was over. The sun dropped behind the mountains, and the humming noise became more pronounced. After unpacking the car, they ate a cold supper of baked beans straight out of the can. Beth set about making the bed upstairs and straightening up while Dave took a walk down to the lake’s edge.
The night was perfectly still except for the hum. All the usual sounds—night birds and crickets and frogs—were silent. The lake looked like a large pane of smoky glass. Stars twinkled in the velvety sky above. It was all so serene as Dave sat down on a weather-stripped tree trunk that had washed ashore. He sighed as he looked up at the night sky.
The noise was changing again.
Now, there was an undertone of a long, drawn-out, squeaky sound that reminded him of fingernails raking down a chalkboard. At least it was the only sound. No blaring TVs … no pounding stereos … no gun shots.
How long can this go on? he wondered. How long can any of us handle this before we all go mad and exterminate ourselves?
He heaved a sigh as he looked up at the night sky. The constellations spread across the sky like salt on black velvet. At first, he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing when he noticed something falling from the sky. A few dark flakes drifted down onto the lake’s surface like soot from a bonfire.
Like a child in a snowstorm, Dave reached up and tried to catch some of the falling flakes.
Funny , he thought, I don’t smell smoke.
He looked at his hand. The flakes lay in the cup of his palm, but they weren’t soft and crumbly like ash. They were hard and thin, with a dark, brittle surface. They crunched like fragile glass when he poked them with his index finger. They were falling all around him, now, dusting his upturned face and shoulders.
Jesus Christ he thought. It looks like paint chips .
Curious, he looked up again. By now the flakes were sifting down rapidly from the sky. As he watched, he became aware of the low, steady vibration beneath his feet and all around him. It felt like a mild electrical current making the forest vibrate like a tuning fork. As he watched the sky, irregular yellow splotches began to appear overhead as more and more black paint fell away, exposing a dull, cracked surface behind. After a time, silver and yellow flakes began to fall, too. Dave watched in amazement, his mouth dry, his mind numb.
A crescent moon was rising in the east behind him. He turned to see if it, too, was peeling away from the sky like an old sticker on a
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