Read Online Hangman: A Novel by Stephan Talty - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephan Talty
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while she tried to fix his position from the barking, growing louder now. She’d forgotten her coat, and it was cold. The wind swept through the trees and the pines danced in rows down the middle of the yard. She didn’t like going back there too far. Once you lost sight of the house, it felt like you were in a forest.
“Rufus?”
The dog was squealing. It must have gotten its head down one of the rabbit holes and scared itself to bits. That had happened before.
Martha listened, scanning the trees. All she saw was brown on brown.
“Rufus?” she said, shakily. Then louder: “Okay, boy, here I come.”
Her phone rang again.
“
Not now
, Mom.” She wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction.
Martha wished she’d brought her coat. The wind was really cold and the branches of the scrub brush would scratch her bare arms as she followed the little trail that wild animals had cut through the yard.
She called out ahead.
“Rufus, calm down, it’s me.”
Silence.
Then, a little further on: “Where are you, boy?”
The barking went higher, the dog’s vocal cords straining in fear, and Martha turned slightly left, pushing through a dry pricker bush.
Oh God
,
don’t let him have stepped on a nail or something. Oh, Ruf—
She pushed past a shaggy, squat pine tree and there was Rufus, or at least his snout, sticking up from the ground behind some swaying grass and brush. He must have tumbled into a hole, and being the little thing he was, couldn’t get out.
Martha blew out a breath in relief. Now to get him out and into the warm house.
Rufus stopped barking and began to whine, his snout shaking.
She dropped to her knees. “Oh, Ruf, you dumb little boy. How’d you get down there?” He was in a hole, all right, behind a screen of wiry branches. He’d probably dug it on one of his expeditions, tearing through the dirt looking for God knows what.
Behind the hole was a thick bush, untrimmed like everything back here, that looked as solid as a green wall. It was too cold to go around to it and search for a way in. Martha pushed her hands into the thin mesh of branches in front of her and brought her head in just behind, trying to get a look at what was holding the dog down.
Across from her, a branch snapped.
Martha, startled, looked up. A man in a red mask was watching her. He pulled on a rope that snaked through his hands and something rose up with a ripping sound.
“Oh, God,” Martha cried and then the rope caught her throat.
She gagged, her throat closed tight. The man gave a hard tug on the rope, bending over at the waist like he was swinging a pickax, and Martha’s feet lifted in the air and she was twirling.
Twirling. Trees. Then blackness. Then the back of her house. Blackness. Different trees.
Martha tore at the rope digging into her neck. She twisted slowly and on her second turn she saw the man with the red mask tying the end of the rope to a big elm.
Spinning, slowly, around and around, the tops of the trees like one woven crown. There the house through the trees, then the green pines, then the man bending to pick up something. A bowling bag.
Around she spun, the sunlight going dark. Two more turns and the man was standing in front of her. The red mask had holes for his eyes and mouth and it was tight on his face. The man reached out and grasped her leg, stopped her twirling.
Martha gagged and kicked, stars exploding in her peripheral vision like fireworks, but it only made the rope dig deeper into her neck.
“You’re about sixteen,” a voice said. A memory like a streak of blue light came to her in the spreading darkness, a song they used to sing on the playgrounds when she was a girl.
Hangman, Hangman, what do you see?
Lights sparked in her brain and then faded out. Blue, green …
Four little girls, cute as can be
.
Brilliant red. With a gasp, the rope around her neck slackened and she fell hard to the ground. She clutched at the cord. It was still tight around her neck. Little
“Rufus?”
The dog was squealing. It must have gotten its head down one of the rabbit holes and scared itself to bits. That had happened before.
Martha listened, scanning the trees. All she saw was brown on brown.
“Rufus?” she said, shakily. Then louder: “Okay, boy, here I come.”
Her phone rang again.
“
Not now
, Mom.” She wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction.
Martha wished she’d brought her coat. The wind was really cold and the branches of the scrub brush would scratch her bare arms as she followed the little trail that wild animals had cut through the yard.
She called out ahead.
“Rufus, calm down, it’s me.”
Silence.
Then, a little further on: “Where are you, boy?”
The barking went higher, the dog’s vocal cords straining in fear, and Martha turned slightly left, pushing through a dry pricker bush.
Oh God
,
don’t let him have stepped on a nail or something. Oh, Ruf—
She pushed past a shaggy, squat pine tree and there was Rufus, or at least his snout, sticking up from the ground behind some swaying grass and brush. He must have tumbled into a hole, and being the little thing he was, couldn’t get out.
Martha blew out a breath in relief. Now to get him out and into the warm house.
Rufus stopped barking and began to whine, his snout shaking.
She dropped to her knees. “Oh, Ruf, you dumb little boy. How’d you get down there?” He was in a hole, all right, behind a screen of wiry branches. He’d probably dug it on one of his expeditions, tearing through the dirt looking for God knows what.
Behind the hole was a thick bush, untrimmed like everything back here, that looked as solid as a green wall. It was too cold to go around to it and search for a way in. Martha pushed her hands into the thin mesh of branches in front of her and brought her head in just behind, trying to get a look at what was holding the dog down.
Across from her, a branch snapped.
Martha, startled, looked up. A man in a red mask was watching her. He pulled on a rope that snaked through his hands and something rose up with a ripping sound.
“Oh, God,” Martha cried and then the rope caught her throat.
She gagged, her throat closed tight. The man gave a hard tug on the rope, bending over at the waist like he was swinging a pickax, and Martha’s feet lifted in the air and she was twirling.
Twirling. Trees. Then blackness. Then the back of her house. Blackness. Different trees.
Martha tore at the rope digging into her neck. She twisted slowly and on her second turn she saw the man with the red mask tying the end of the rope to a big elm.
Spinning, slowly, around and around, the tops of the trees like one woven crown. There the house through the trees, then the green pines, then the man bending to pick up something. A bowling bag.
Around she spun, the sunlight going dark. Two more turns and the man was standing in front of her. The red mask had holes for his eyes and mouth and it was tight on his face. The man reached out and grasped her leg, stopped her twirling.
Martha gagged and kicked, stars exploding in her peripheral vision like fireworks, but it only made the rope dig deeper into her neck.
“You’re about sixteen,” a voice said. A memory like a streak of blue light came to her in the spreading darkness, a song they used to sing on the playgrounds when she was a girl.
Hangman, Hangman, what do you see?
Lights sparked in her brain and then faded out. Blue, green …
Four little girls, cute as can be
.
Brilliant red. With a gasp, the rope around her neck slackened and she fell hard to the ground. She clutched at the cord. It was still tight around her neck. Little
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