Read Online The Drowned Forest by Kristopher Reisz - Free Book Online
Authors: Kristopher Reisz
Tags: Fiction, Horror, YA), Young Adult Fiction, Young Adult, teen fiction, ya fiction, ya novel, young adult novel, teen novel, teen lit, young adult horror
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nicer. I’ll try to be more open. For you.
Along the highway, the sun flashes through the tops of the pines like a school of fish. Then there’s the sign: Bay Hill Marina & Resort . Tyler turns in, steering past the fuel dock and floating restaurant.
“That’s his truck! There.” He jabs me in the shoulder. “You were right. You figured it out.”
“We don’t know if he knows anything about Holly. We haven’t figured anything out yet.” Still, I clasp my hands together for a quick prayer of thanks.
Tyler pulls into the spot beside your pa-paw’s pickup. Down the steep slope, the marina fans out across the water. Boats idle in and out, sending brown diesel clouds scudding across the water. Shirtless, lobster-skinned men yell back and forth, cluttering the docks with coolers, tackle boxes, coiled hoses, radios. Everything is covered in spiderwebs and bird poop.
And there’s that smell, the fetid stink of lake-bottom mud. It’s the smell of afternoons on Dad’s boat. Of swimming lessons. Of thrashing, glittering bass pulled from the water. It’s the smell the monster catfish carried up with it too. It’s the smell of Swallow’s Nest Bluff and the day you drowned. And it’s really the smell of death, isn’t it? It’s fish and plants rotting to black slime down in the drowned forest.
“There he is,” Tyler says, making me whirl around. “Mr. Alton! Hey!”
He’s lying on the dock, skinny butt in the air, beside a houseboat that needs a paint job. Seeing us, he climbs to his feet, pulling a fistful of weeds out of the water in one hand, a steak knife in the other. “Well, hey, Tyler. How are you? And Jane too.” He shoves the dripping mass of plants into a Taco Bell bag already fat with hacked-up stalks. Starting to hug me, he stops because his arms are wet. I hug him instead.
“How’ve you been, Little Bit?” he whispers.
I don’t know how to answer, so I squeeze him tighter. He’s thin, Holly. I can feel his ribs.
“What’s all that?” Tyler asks, pointing to the bag.
“Oh, this milfoil is terrible.” He drops the bag on the houseboat’s deck. Boats on this side of the marina move through thousands of feathery stalks poking out of the water. In some spots, the milfoil has turned the marina into a lawn so lush my dad would kill for it. “It gets tangled in the propellers, gets everywhere. But anyway, can you guys stay? Come aboard, come aboard.”
He offers a hand to help me onto the boat. I ask, “So, when’d you buy a boat?”
“Oh, it belongs to a friend. I’m just borrowing it for a while. Staying at the house was just … hard. I just needed to get away for a while.”
I nod. I can’t imagine what it would be like living there, alone with the silence.
We duck into the cabin, which smells like fast food grease. The houseboat’s furniture is scratched and patched, and there’s a gap under the counter where the mini-fridge used to be. The only things your pa-paw took from the house are one suitcase, his guitar case, and a bulging photo album. The album is open to some snapshots of your dad and mom and you when you were a toddler, pushing a toy lawn mower.
Tyler pulls himself into the swivel-mounted chair overlooking the piloting console. “So you doing any fishing while you’re out here?” he asks.
“Oh, sure. Caught a two-pound crappie yesterday, just off the dock there.” Your pa-paw clears the table, grabbing beer bottles, Taco Bell wrappers, and a plastic fork, balancing them on the teetering stack of garbage rising above the trash can’s rim. I slide into the booth. There’s more photos, all of your me-maw, lined up along the edge of the table so your pa-paw can stare at them while he’s eating. Still talking about the fish he caught, he scoops them up and slips them into the photo album.
He flips to another part of the album, one filled with publicity shots and newspaper clippings. Taking out a picture, he hands it to Tyler. “All right, young man, tell
Along the highway, the sun flashes through the tops of the pines like a school of fish. Then there’s the sign: Bay Hill Marina & Resort . Tyler turns in, steering past the fuel dock and floating restaurant.
“That’s his truck! There.” He jabs me in the shoulder. “You were right. You figured it out.”
“We don’t know if he knows anything about Holly. We haven’t figured anything out yet.” Still, I clasp my hands together for a quick prayer of thanks.
Tyler pulls into the spot beside your pa-paw’s pickup. Down the steep slope, the marina fans out across the water. Boats idle in and out, sending brown diesel clouds scudding across the water. Shirtless, lobster-skinned men yell back and forth, cluttering the docks with coolers, tackle boxes, coiled hoses, radios. Everything is covered in spiderwebs and bird poop.
And there’s that smell, the fetid stink of lake-bottom mud. It’s the smell of afternoons on Dad’s boat. Of swimming lessons. Of thrashing, glittering bass pulled from the water. It’s the smell the monster catfish carried up with it too. It’s the smell of Swallow’s Nest Bluff and the day you drowned. And it’s really the smell of death, isn’t it? It’s fish and plants rotting to black slime down in the drowned forest.
“There he is,” Tyler says, making me whirl around. “Mr. Alton! Hey!”
He’s lying on the dock, skinny butt in the air, beside a houseboat that needs a paint job. Seeing us, he climbs to his feet, pulling a fistful of weeds out of the water in one hand, a steak knife in the other. “Well, hey, Tyler. How are you? And Jane too.” He shoves the dripping mass of plants into a Taco Bell bag already fat with hacked-up stalks. Starting to hug me, he stops because his arms are wet. I hug him instead.
“How’ve you been, Little Bit?” he whispers.
I don’t know how to answer, so I squeeze him tighter. He’s thin, Holly. I can feel his ribs.
“What’s all that?” Tyler asks, pointing to the bag.
“Oh, this milfoil is terrible.” He drops the bag on the houseboat’s deck. Boats on this side of the marina move through thousands of feathery stalks poking out of the water. In some spots, the milfoil has turned the marina into a lawn so lush my dad would kill for it. “It gets tangled in the propellers, gets everywhere. But anyway, can you guys stay? Come aboard, come aboard.”
He offers a hand to help me onto the boat. I ask, “So, when’d you buy a boat?”
“Oh, it belongs to a friend. I’m just borrowing it for a while. Staying at the house was just … hard. I just needed to get away for a while.”
I nod. I can’t imagine what it would be like living there, alone with the silence.
We duck into the cabin, which smells like fast food grease. The houseboat’s furniture is scratched and patched, and there’s a gap under the counter where the mini-fridge used to be. The only things your pa-paw took from the house are one suitcase, his guitar case, and a bulging photo album. The album is open to some snapshots of your dad and mom and you when you were a toddler, pushing a toy lawn mower.
Tyler pulls himself into the swivel-mounted chair overlooking the piloting console. “So you doing any fishing while you’re out here?” he asks.
“Oh, sure. Caught a two-pound crappie yesterday, just off the dock there.” Your pa-paw clears the table, grabbing beer bottles, Taco Bell wrappers, and a plastic fork, balancing them on the teetering stack of garbage rising above the trash can’s rim. I slide into the booth. There’s more photos, all of your me-maw, lined up along the edge of the table so your pa-paw can stare at them while he’s eating. Still talking about the fish he caught, he scoops them up and slips them into the photo album.
He flips to another part of the album, one filled with publicity shots and newspaper clippings. Taking out a picture, he hands it to Tyler. “All right, young man, tell
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