Tales from the Lake: Volume 5: Tales from the Lake

By Gemma Files, Lucy A. Snyder, Tim Waggonner and 20 more

The Legend Continues…

In the spirit of popular Dark Fiction and Horror anthologies such as Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories and Behold: Oddities, Curiosities and Undefinable Wonders, and the best of Stephen King's short fiction, comes the Tales from The Lake anthologies.

This 5th and final volume includes:

• "Always After Three" by Gemma Files - A young couple discovers that in a downtown condo you almost never know who your neighbours are, or what they might be doing.
• "In the Family" by Lucy A. Snyder - A former child actress reveals dark family secrets to her long-lost niece.
• "Voices Like Barbed Wire" by Tim Waggoner - Sometimes forgetting is more painful than remembering.
• "The Flutter of Silent Wings" by Gene O'Neill - A heartbreaking tribute to a Shirley Jackson classic.
• "Guardian" by Paul Michael Anderson - Even creatures beyond time and space need friendship.
• "Farewell Valencia" by Craig Wallwork - When you've got no reason to live, there's a hotel that can give you every reason to die. So book in, unpack, and prepare to be checked out, forever.
• "A Dream Most Ancient and Alone" by Allison Pang - A lake mermaid with a penchant for eating children forms a tenuous friendship with an abused girl trying to escape her past.
• "The Monster Told Me To" by Stephanie M. Wytovich - In order for Bria to deal with her past, she must confront the ghosts of her present.
• "Dead Bodies Don't Scream" by Michelle Ann King - If the universe won't give her a miracle, Allie will make one for herself. But dark magic has a price.
• "The Boy" by Cory Cone - Grief-stricken from the loss of her husband, a young woman fears she may lose her son as well, if she hasn't already.
• "Starve a Fever" by Jonah Buck - Fleeing down a bayou highway with a sick criminal in the backseat, a getaway driver must sate his passenger's horrifying needs while evading the police.
• And much more.

Edited by Kenneth W. Cain and represented by Crystal Lake Publishing – Tales from The Darkest Depths.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crystal Lake Publishing
• Release date: Nov 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9798223814429

Book preview

TABLE OF CONTENTS

FROM THE MOUTHS OF PLAGUE-MONGERS

Stephanie M. Wytovich

UMBILICUS

Lucy Taylor

THE WEEDS AND THE WILDNESS YET

Robert Stahl

THE COLOR OF LOSS AND LOVE

Jason Sizemore

MAGGIE

Andi Rawson

A DREAM MOST ANCIENT AND ALONE

Allison Pang

MALIGN AND CHRONIC RECREATION

Bruce Boston

GUARDIAN

Paul Michael Anderson

THE FLUTTER OF SILENT WINGS

Gene O’Neill

HOLLOW SKULLS

Samuel Marzioli

IN THE FAMILY

Lucy A. Snyder

DEAD BODIES DON’T SCREAM

Michelle Ann King

TWELVE BY NOON

Joanna Parypinski

THE MONSTER TOLD ME TO

Stephanie M. Wytovich

FINAL PASSAGE

Bruce Boston

STARVE A FEVER

Jonah Buck

VOICES LIKE BARBED WIRE

Tim Waggoner

NONPAREIL

Laura Blackwell

ALWAYS AFTER THREE

Gemma Files

THE MIDLAND HOTEL

Marge Simon

FAREWELL VALENCIA

Craig Wallwork

THE BOY

Cory Cone

THE LOUDEST SILENCE

Meghan Arcuri

THE FOLLOWERS

Peter Mark May

A BATHTUB AT THE END OF THE WORLD, OR, HOW MR. WHITTAKER ACHIEVED KNIGHTHOOD

Lane Waldman

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHIES

INTRODUCTION

Of the 715 submissions I received for this call, so many stories were of such high quality that I could have easily compiled four volumes full of exciting journeys, near and far, of dread and loss. Alas, being the editor of a single volume, I had to pick the stories I felt best worked together, those which achieved something as a whole or just plain blew me away. This meant I had to reject several stories I loved, and, each time I did, it felt like I was severing a small piece of my soul from the whole. But, rest assured, I’m confident each of those stories will find a home in coming days.

With that said, my method for selecting stories worked very much like the process I use to create my own short story collections. When I look at a group of stories, a pattern starts to form, tiny threads interwoven upon each other to create a larger tapestry. These threads—easy to identify in some and almost imperceptible in others—work together to create my vision for this anthology, which hopefully is not lost on the reader. Ultimately, this is what I aimed to achieve. I didn’t want to just throw together a couple dozen stories; I wanted them to gel, to accomplish something together, to create a voyage. My only hope, dear readers, is that I’ve succeeded in this goal for your sake.

It would have been impossible for me to take on an endeavor of this magnitude without some level of support from my family and friends. So, before I wrap this up, I need to thank a few people. And although I may not thank everyone, please know that your support and kindness is duly noted, and I am grateful.

First and foremost, I’d like to thank my wife and children, who bore the brunt of this project, often playing games or watching movies, generally enjoying each other’s company while I secluded myself to read submissions. Without their love and encouragement, this would have been far more difficult. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank previous Crystal Lake Publishing editors Ben Eads and Doug Murano for their advice, as well as their support. I’d also like to thank Jacob Haddon of Lamplight Magazine, who took a moment out of his free time to offer counsel. Last but not least, I’d like to thank Joe Mynhardt for having confidence in my work as well as my ability to compile this tome.

And with that, I’d like to introduce everyone to the writers of Tales from The Lake Vol. 5. Pleasant nightmares.

—Kenneth W. Cain

December 14, 2017

FROM THE MOUTHS OF PLAGUE-MONGERS

STEPHANIE M. WYTOVICH

I am the additional trash amongst the plastic bags and cigarette butts,

a malfunctioned doll in the science of reincarnation,

a hologram of stolen parts,

a human graveyard of misplacement

who stews in the alleyways of hospitals and morgues

gathering threads and body parts, needles and anesthesia

slurping the bone marrow from blood bags to stay alive.

Cover your eyes.

Don’t look at me.

A cardiac catastrophe, a female miscarriage,

they told me I was beautiful, an extraordinary flower of rebirth,

but they plucked off my limbs like petals,

passed me around in a pollination orgy of stingers and honey,

drowning me in a hive of reproduction and abandonment

only to be cast out, orphaned along with the others,

the ripped and discarded, the stitched and disfigured.

Leave now.

Look away.

There’s no help for the creatures we’ve become,

the plague-collectors, the disease-mongers,

we’ll take your scraps, your unwanted flesh and fat,

we’re hungry and cold, broken and lame,

we are the frankenwhores of society: aborted, bereaved,

and like the monsters that created us, we cannot die.

UMBILICUS

LUCY TAYLOR

I was bending my elbow at the Legal Tender with my old high school buddy, Mick Sturgis, when he blurted out something so shocking I thought I’d misheard.

Say what?

He leaned so close I choked on gin fumes and could have counted the broken capillaries in his tired eyes. You heard me. I’m getting Paulie back.

My jaw must have dropped to my knees.

Five-year-old Paulie Sturgis had gone missing on a hike with his dad in the Pecos Wilderness just shy of two years ago. No clues and no body. Everyone thought he was dead. Mick said the boy had scooted ahead to where the forested trail dropped down into a broad, sandy wash. By the time Mick got there, he was gone, vanished. Just like that. It was, Mick said later, as if Paulie were a caged dove some evil magician had erased with a wave of his wand.

That’s incredible, Mick! Paulie’s alive?

He glanced around nervously at the lunch time crowd, a mix of garishly-clad bicyclists, leathered motorcycle dudes, and a raucous table of guys off a construction crew getting an early start on the weekend. Easy, Gary, keep it down. It’s not done ‘til it’s done.

I lowered my voice. That PI you hired came through?

Hell no, I fired his blundering ass. This is different, off the radar, so to speak. He flagged a passing waiter. Ignoring my half-hearted attempt to say I’d had enough, he commanded another round. Look, I don’t talk about this, but ever since it happened, I drive out to Pecos and walk that trail at least once a week. Sometimes I pray. Mostly I talk to Paulie. Tell him how fucking sorry I am I couldn’t protect him from whoever, whatever took him. Even put up a little shrine. He paused to collect himself. Hell, I guess maybe God or the devil really does answer prayers because—look, Gary, this is strictly between us—

Of course.

I met a guy who’s got an inside track on missing kids. It was kind of a miracle actually. He just showed up one day when I was down there in the arroyo. He can get Paulie back.

How?

It’s complicated.

Illegal?

He held a palm out and wagged it back and forth. Maybe.

So this guy, did he see something? Was he a witness?

More like a go-between. A negotiator.

The elation I’d felt at first started draining away. I was getting a very bad feeling.

I don’t know, Mick, it sounds like a trap.

Easy for you to say, it’s not your kid! His bullet gray eyes blazed and the muscles in his heavy jaw knotted, giving him the look of an aging bulldog.

The waiter brought our fresh drinks, and I slugged mine back, forgetting for the moment why I’d planned to stop after one. Felt the wallop in my belly like a balm.

You’re right, I can’t even imagine what you’ve gone through. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst goddamn enemy. Just be careful

I intend to.

Are you paying a ransom?

Mick stared into his gin and tonic the way a soothsayer peers at her tealeaves. I’m no psychic, but whatever he saw wasn’t good. I’ll worry about that later. A shiver jostled his heavy workingman’s shoulders. All I want now is my boy back. I don’t care what it costs.

A darkness came over him then, and he started to ramble: about construction jobs we’d worked on years back, before he branched out into real estate and got rich, about the play dates my then-wife Molly used to organize for Paulie and our daughter Angie, who were about the same age. We both drank too much, but Mick always did hold his liquor better than me.

When he pulled out his wallet, I thought he was paying the tab, but he unfolded a check and handed it to me across the table. I was buzzed by then, and the number of zeros made me think I was seeing double.

What’s this?

That kitchen remodel you and your crew did in Rio Ranchos last year. Sold the house to a famous TV chef and her wife for twice what it’s worth, all because they fell in love with the kitchen. Consider it a bonus.

No, Mick, I can’t—

Take it, for Chrissakes. I know you’re just scraping by, what with the alimony and child support, and it’s a long time until Angie’s eighteen. Speaking of which, isn’t her birthday coming up? Use the money to start a college fund. Or hell, take her to F.A.O. Schwarz in Paris and buy out the store.

If my mind hadn’t been cloudy with booze and the shock of what Mick had just told me, I might have wondered how he knew I was struggling. But before I had a chance to think about it, his mouth split in a grin and he added, Anyway, Gary, it’s not like I don’t want anything in return. Why do you think I told you this? You’re the one’s gonna help me get Paulie back.

***

It was past four when we left the Tender, Mick rolling into a waiting Uber and me into my Jeep Cherokee, heading into Santa Fe to pick up my daughter. Molly had informed me she had a date tonight, and although the thought of my former wife entertaining a guy in my former home still rankled, I was happy for an extra evening with Angie. So I drank this morning’s cold coffee that was left in my thermos and sucked breath mints en route. Angie and her mother met me at the door, Angie in a favorite Girl Power t-shirt and purple barrettes, Molly, visibly annoyed, with half the runic alphabet scrawled across her forehead.

You’re late.

I checked my watch, feigned surprise. Time just got away.

Yeah, I’ll bet. Molly’s nose did that little rabbity-twitch thing I once thought was cute and sexy. You reek.

I had a couple, that’s all. I’m fine.

Angie, always quick to catch wind of trouble, piped up, Daddy, let’s go!

I reached for her hand. Molly stepped in between. Drive by yourself when you’re hammered, I don’t care, but she’s not going with you.

For Christ’s sake, Mol, I’m not drunk.

I wanted to tell her Mick’s story and how it had rattled me—not to mention that I’d agreed to be part of the plan—but he’d sworn me to secrecy, especially to Molly, adding your ex never could keep a secret.

Why can’t I go with Daddy? Angie shouted, tears cascading.

You see! Molly said, I knew you’d ruin it, which was Angie’s cue to run out of the room bawling. I wanted to follow her, to explain, (Daddy loves you so much, he’ll make it up to you, promise!), but I’d fucked up and I knew it, and Molly wasn’t going to miss a chance to tighten the screws.

Frustrated and furious, I stormed out of the house. I considered going to a bar but thought better of it. I’d need my wits about me tomorrow. There was still plenty of light left. I decided to visit the spot where Paulie disappeared.

***

On the thirty minute drive to the Pecos Wilderness, I considered Mick’s plan. My part was almost disappointingly tame. Maybe I’d expected firearms or fisticuffs. In reality, all he wanted me to do was head out to Rowe, a little flyspeck town east of Pecos, and kill time at Lou’s Enchilada, a folksy joint that had the advantage of being just a stone’s throw from the highway. Before we left the Tender, Mick had given me a clean cell, saying he’d call me when he and Paulie were on the way. When they arrived, I’d spirit them away to the Sun Port in Albuquerque.

Why Mick felt it was necessary to flee or why he didn’t plan to call the police on the kidnapper once Paulie was safe, he hadn’t explained, which made me wish I’d asked more questions before agreeing to get involved. I thought about telling him I’d changed my mind, but the truth was, I really needed that money. Besides, Mick and I had been friends since tenth grade, when we used to skip school together to score pot in Albuquerque and made bets on who’d be the first to make it with one of several sultry ‘older women’ in twelfth grade.

How could I back out now?

The last time I’d visited the Pecos Wilderness, it was with Molly, when we joined in the search for Paulie. Since then, the dirt road had narrowed drastically, hemmed in by ever-opportunistic underbrush, but the trailhead, when I finally found it, looked as I remembered it: signs posted with ranger warnings about bears and rattlesnakes and a map showing the various trails branching off from the main one.

I bungled around for a while trying one fork after another before I finally found the area the searchers had spread out from. It was unmarked, but I recognized the blackened, lightning-felled pinon just off the track. Molly had pointed it out to me on the day of the search: If we get separated, that dead tree’s where we’ll meet. A portent maybe?

There hadn’t been much rain this spring—bone-dry twigs and needles snapped under my feet. Branches jostled by the breeze clacked tunelessly.

I don’t know what I was hoping to find, but Mick telling me he came out here every week struck a chord. The last time I was here I was part of a search party, everyone amped up and anxious as a dour-faced cop gave instructions about how far apart we should space ourselves and what to do if we found a body. Everyone was eager and earnest and praying for a happy outcome. Now a monumental silence prevailed. I felt like I was trespassing in an ancient cemetery where the graves were unmarked and all that remained was the grief and the terrible loss.

Slowly, I followed the overgrown trail, leaving it at various points to bushwhack. About a quarter mile in, the wash Mick had described intersected the trail and I descended into a dry bed framed by coral and cream sandstone walls. Erosion had done its work here; deep niches and crevices pocked the sandstone. Miniature catacombs, defined by the paths water had taken over decades of storms, cut into the rock, an invitation for a small child to explore.

At one point, a section of sandstone had collapsed, taking along with it a huge juniper that now jutted out horizontally, the fibrous branches of its root system clawing the air like dead fingers grasping for purchase.

Behind the tree, I spied a pair of small cairns tucked inside a cranny in the sandstone. Getting down on my hands and knees, I crawled under the roots until I reached the shrine. Buttressed with bramble-like tumbleweed and roofed with braided branches of sage, the small structure formed a primitive shelter for a photo of Paulie. In the picture, which Mick had encased in a plastic sleeve, the boy hugged the furry haunch of an enormous stuffed bear, while grinning out at the camera.

I felt a hitch in my throat as I gazed into the face of the little boy who’d once played with my daughter. I wondered if Mick really had a hope in hell of getting him back or if this was the quest of a heartsick, delusional father.

Close behind me, a voice said, I see you found Paulie.

Startled, I tried to stand up and was immediately entangled in dead, dangling roots that scraped my face and snagged in my hair and my clothes.

Cursing, feeling ridiculous, I freed myself the only way I could, by dropping to the ground again and squirming out butt first, until I was able to see the man who was the cause of my embarrassment.

He was fit and deeply tanned with a thin, solemn face, a salt and pepper goatee, and pale, intense eyes set in a face corrugated with crinkles. Impractically dressed for a hike, he wore creased jeans, a blue silk shirt and studded boots so well-shined they might never have touched the soil. On his fingers and wrists, heavy rings and thick silver cuffs, trapped the light and seemed to bathe him in radiance.

Chusco Jones, he said, extending a hand. I shook it, even though a handshake between strangers in the middle of the woods seemed mildly ludicrous, as though we were about to walk in opposite directions, turn and fire pistols at each other.

Nodding toward the shrine, he said, I remember when that young boy went missing. His parents crying, all those good people who came to look for him.

Yeah, my wife and I searched. You?

He looked mildly amused. I was elsewhere.

There was a lilt to his voice that suggested southern roots or even Caribbean origins, the vowels elongated, sweet and stretchy as taffy. I wondered if he was an actor or entertainer of some sort. Or a snatcher of children.

A sweet soul, that little boy, he said.

I guess all kids are sweet souls at that age.

It was a random remark, but he latched onto it. You’re wrong there. It’s a myth that all children are pure and innocent. Something adults believe in order to feel better about themselves.

His voice was musical, lulling. Easy to get lost in the cadence and not hear the words.

He flashed a glittering smile and continued. Let me tell you about children, my friend. Most of them, when they enter this world, the midwife cuts the cord and off they go to make mischief and grief. But a few, the ones born with bright, shiny souls, they’re the keepers, the true treasures. For them, the cord’s never really severed. An attachment remains between them and the world of light and laughter they left behind. If a door opens, they’re keen to come back. His long face grew grave. Especially if there are difficulties at home. If all is not what it should be.

My scalp was prickling. You’re the guy who’s got Mick convinced you can find his boy.

His response was a rich expulsion of laughter. Oh, I can find him. It’s a question of getting him back again. Tricky business, that. Not always easy, no.

You always talk in riddles? What the hell does that even mean?

His face remained impassive, but his squinty eyes mocked me.

Watch yourself on your way out, my friend. He looked up at the arroyo’s steep walls as though seeing them for the first time. Easy to get lost here. Every path looks the same.

I watched him scale the bank effortlessly. Even as he disappeared out of sight, I could still see comets of sunlight flashing off his silver jewelry.

I wanted to follow him, tackle him, maybe even call the police, but I did none of those things. Instead I lingered at the shrine, as though believing some harm might come to it if I were to leave too soon.

***

Mick called the next morning, rousing me from an unsound sleep to remind me this was the day. As if being the getaway driver for a missing boy and his father might have somehow slipped my mind.

I quelled my mounting apprehension by telling myself Mick knew what he was doing. Besides, he’d be the one dealing with Jones.

Mick checked in for the last time around one. By this time, I was already seated at a booth at Lou’s, forking tine dents in the crust of a slab of blackberry pie I hadn’t touched while downing cup after cup of black coffee. Just sit tight, Mick said, I’ll call you as soon as we’re on the way. Won’t be long now.

His voice cracked like a geezer of ninety. I’d heard three pack a day smokers sound better.

Hang in there, I said, but he’d already cut off the call.

After that, no word.

My own cell was on mute, but I glanced at it and saw Molly had called, not just once, but every ten or fifteen minutes for the past hour. Before I could listen to the messages, a text scrolled across the top of the screen: Wtf Gary? Where are you? And PS thanks for not inviting me to the party. Asshole.

Party?

When I called her back, she picked up right away and started in on me. Could you just once be responsible? You were supposed to have Angie back here at three. Now it’s a quarter to five. Where are you?

What are you talking about? Angie’s with you! Answer me, Molly! Isn’t she?

The silence that followed was the most clamorous I’ve ever endured. For the first time in months, maybe ever, I knew Molly and I were in perfect sync in the most appalling way possible, that our hearts, like two panicked horses, had begun racing as one.

Mick said you were having a birthday party for her at some restaurant in Albuquerque, and after you and I argued, you didn’t want to see me, so you asked him to pick her up. A sob shook her. And I yelled at him for doing your dirty work, but he was so kind, so understanding. I let him take her . . . God, what have I done?

A ball of barbed wire that had lodged in my gut since this morning began to unspool.

How did Mick know you and I argued? And why the hell would you let him take Angie?

Except, of course, I already knew. How long have you been fucking him?

I didn’t wait for an answer and didn’t want one. I threw bills on the table and ran out of the restaurant, not knowing if Molly was still on the line, but yelling out anyway. I’ll find her. I’ll get her. I know where she is.

***

I drove like a madman, mind racing. In my panic, I couldn’t find the right trailhead, and wasted precious time before I spotted Mick’s Escalade partially hidden in a grove of trees, motor running. After blocking him as best I could with my truck, I sprinted into the woods.

My best bet, I thought, was to go back to where I’d encountered Jones.

Loose rock slid away under my feet and dust churned around me as I skidded down into the wash, yelling for Angie. I was about to climb the far wall, when I saw the thick tangle of exposed roots I’d crawled under before and realized something was different. The root system protruded farther and behind it, an entire section of the sandstone had folded in on itself, collapsed. I could see the shrine Mick had built more clearly now. Paulie’s picture was gone. In its place was the photo of Angie that Molly kept on a table in the hallway.

I didn’t know what kind of evil magic the picture might have been designed to invoke, but I grabbed it and tore it to pieces, seeing my daughter’s face reduced to smaller and smaller bits of paper. Then I knocked down the cairns and scattered the stones, tried to make it as though the vile thing had never existed.

When I looked up, I saw Mick gazing down at me like he was God, and I knew it was too late. And maybe right then, Mick really was God, because hadn’t he pulled off a miracle? In his arms he held Paulie, who made small mewling noises and was shivering in spite of the heat. His head was nestled on his father’s chest and his red hair, once so electric and vibrant, now looked like a faded photocopy. I wondered if Mick saw the change. Wondered if it mattered to him.

I had no choice, Gary. He hugged Paulie fiercely, kissed the boy’s cheek and buried his face in that once-bright red hair. You’d’ve done the same. His voice broke and his eyes were those of someone I’d never met before in my life, a man delirious with feverish joy and utter self-loathing.

Where’s my daughter? What have you done with her?

He turned to run, and I lunged up the embankment, the unstable sandstone crumbling away under my feet. I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d caught him, but I never got the chance to find out. Chusco Jones saw to that.

His arms clamped around me from behind, pinning my arms in an iron grip while he crooned in my ear like a pedophile priest, Leave him be, and I’ll let you see your daughter.

He nudged me toward the downed juniper, whose hollow trunk had begun to emit a pale, pulsing light, by turns concave and convex. At its widest, the light formed a dome a few feet across, before inverting and shrinking to the size of a small bowl. I found myself speeding up my breathing to match