Phantom (18 page)

Finally he heard Peeler and Cloudy, giggling
like a couple of school kids.

"What was
that
?" Ned
asked.

"Must of been a monster, the way you
looked," Cloudy said.

"The noekk," Peeler offered. "Darn near got
you."

"What was it, really?"

Peeler smiled and came over to pat Ned on
the back. "That was a big old turkle," he said. "A mean old
turkle."

"Biggest turkle I ever seen," Cloudy added.
"Why didn't you pull him in, boy? You had him there. Oh, my, but he
would make a gorgeous meal."

"That was a turtle?" Ned was astonished.

"Jesus, Mary and jockstrap." Peeler had
picked up Ned's line and now held the hook in the palm of his hand.
"Look at that, will you."

The steel hook, normally shaped like the
letter J, had been bent back and straightened out so that it looked
like a miniature harpoon.

"Gosh," Ned exclaimed. "A turtle did
that?"

"You seen him do it. Snapped the barb clean
off, too." "You better watch out, Mr. Tadpole. I think you got that
turkle so mad he just might come back lookin' for you."

Peeler cut the hook from the line and handed
it to Ned.

"Show that to your dad," he said. "Now you
got a real fish story of your own and the evidence to go with
it."

They talked and joked all the way home, but
Ned's mind was on the turtle. He kept seeing that powerful neck,
the black, blank eyes and those defiant jaws spitting his hook back
at him. A turtle that big and that strong—yes, maybe there were a
few big fish in that little pond. He thought again of what he had
seen moving out in the middle of the water—it must have been bigger
than Ned himself.

When Ned went into the house and held up his
catfish, his mother shrieked. His father came running, but when he
saw what it was all about he laughed and insisted on taking a
snapshot of the boy and his prize catch. Ned told them all about
the fishing expedition and his parents listened attentively. He was
pleased to see that they were both genuinely impressed by the
straightened hook. Ned put it in an empty matchbox and kept it on
the night table next to his bed. When he turned off the light to go
to sleep he thought again about that turtle. What other unknown
creatures might lurk in that pond in Old Woods? A noekk? What were
they doing now? Sleeping? No, nothing so dull. They would be
prowling around in the murky darkness, maybe even crawling up onto
dry land to hunt. Giant catfish, giant turtles, the noekk ....

Ned was glad to be home in his own bed.

* * *

17.
Straight Lines Breaking, Becoming Circles

Things happen in August. The heat is
deadening, paralyzing, enervating, but ... things happen. From one
day to the next, or even in the space of a single afternoon, whole
worlds may change decisively.

Ned crossed the lawn toward the house. He
carried his T-shirt, which had become so sticky he couldn't bear to
have it on anymore. He also had a Skippy jar full of cloudy,
stagnant water from the little frog hole out in the back meadow. It
wasn't even a pond, just a pocket of still water barely ten feet
across, but Ned had been keeping an eye on it ever since he had
arrived in Lynnhaven. Some nights, when he wasn't distracted by
other noises, Ned could hear what sounded like a large frog out
there. He had never seen it, but he was sure it dwelled in that
pool. In spite of the heat, the sun and the lack of rain, it hadn't
dried up, and Ned wondered if some underground source bubbled up
just enough fresh water to keep it going.

Linda was sunning herself on the patio and
she had a portable radio tuned to a phone-in program. A woman was
complaining about American tax dollars being wasted on foreign aid.
"We give them money, we feed them, we build dams and things for
them," she said, "and they don't even like us." "And do you know
why they don't like us, madam?" asked the program host, whose job
it was to be provocative. "They spit on us and they bum our flag,"
the woman gave as an answer. "We ought to put a stop to it, right
now." Linda appeared to be dozing through this, so Ned went into
the house without disturbing her.

He poured a tall glass of icy lemonade and
took it upstairs. The temperature in his room was only a few
degrees cooler than outside, but it still felt like a refreshing
change. Ned put the Skippy jar on his desk. While the water was
settling he got some clean slides and adjusted his microscope to a
low-power magnification. He finished the lemonade and was ready to
begin work. Using a long eyedropper, Ned carefully took samples
from the top, middle and bottom layers of the water, preparing a
separate slide of each. He smeared a bit of green slime on a fourth
slide. Ned angled the light mirror until it provided the best
illumination, and he adjusted the lens so that the focus was
sharp.

As always, he was amazed at what he saw.
There was no great difference in the four slides, at least none Ned
could detect, but each one presented the dizzy and extraordinary
kingdom of the protozoa in all its absurd beauty. Amoebas lounged
lethargically. Squads of paramecia zoomed about like manic bumper
cars. A stentor stood atilt, a tiny replica of the Leaning Tower of
Pisa with a fringe on top. Rotifera wheeled and floated, stately as
blimps. A hydra waited patiently for prey to blunder into its
deadly tentacles. A euglena whipped itself in short, spasmodic
movements, like a wandering penitent. And there—Ned's favorite: the
volvox, which was not one creature but a vast colony of them linked
together to form a whole, a perfect sphere, a shimmering green
planet unto itself. All this, in a few drops of water. All this,
invisible to the unaided human eye. It was a remarkable universe,
and one in which Ned could easily spend hours.

The microscope was his sailing ship, his
spacecraft. Ned tried to imagine what it would be like to be as
small as a protozoan. He pictured himself as an explorer whose task
was to chart a path from one side of the frog pond to the other,
through that ocean of strange and menacing creatures. It could take
a lifetime—if he survived the journey. What would he use for a
weapon—a sliver of algae? Perhaps he could train a rotifer and ride
it like a horse. Crossing the Pacific Ocean on a raft would be
child's play in comparison.

Ned made a mental note. It probably wouldn't
be like this if the water was brackish, so the pool must have a
freshwater source, however small. It was an interesting thought,
since the pool was so close to the sea. But then again, why not?
Lynnhaven Spa was on the bay too, and it had been built because of
its freshwater springs.

Ned looked up from the
microscope and cocked his head to one side.
What was that?

It might have been the
buzzing noise again, but this time it was somehow different. It
could almost be the sound of a human voice. It was far away, and
yet there was something intimate about it. And unnerving. Ned
forced himself to concentrate, to try and decipher what he was
hearing. It was like listening to a distant radio station that
faded in and out through static on a stormy night. It sounded like
crying, or shouting, and there was an urgency to it that combined
anger and sorrow in a single disturbing pitch. It
is
a voice, he thought.
But is it human?

Ned shook his head violently and rushed out
of the room.

He had to escape that awful sound. It seemed
like a taunting, terrifying proof of his unformed fears. It was the
threat which, although he couldn't define it, he knew was drawing
closer to him. In his own room again. In the middle of a sunny
afternoon.

Ned stopped in the kitchen. He was panting
and sweating, but his head was clear. The house was as quiet and
normal as on any other day. From the patio came the sounds of the
Washington radio station. Callers were now discussing the high
price of peanut butter. "The so-called shortage is a phony hoax,"
one man declared hotly. Ned went to the screen door and looked out.
His mother was in the same place on the patio, stretched out and
taking the sun. She had rolled over onto her stomach, but still
seemed to be napping. Ned watched her for a moment and then turned
away. He wondered what to do next, but he immediately knew he had
no choice. He had to go back upstairs to his room.

His
room.

Would these things be happening to him if he
had a brother, or even a little sister, to play with? No. They
never take place in front of witnesses. Could it be that he was
imagining all these sounds, that his mind was creating them to make
up for what was missing in his life? But you couldn't miss someone
who never existed, could you? Besides, if he had conjured up an
imaginary friend, that would be one thing; but vague and
threatening noises—that was something else, and it didn't make
sense. He had asked his parents once why he didn't have a brother
or sister like other children did, but he couldn't remember what
they had said. No, now that he thought about it he was sure it had
nothing to do with his being an only child. It wouldn't just
suddenly start bothering him now, when he was nearly ten years old.
It would have developed earlier, if it was ever going to develop at
all.

No, the real problem was: going crazy. Crazy
meant you were sick in the head. Crazy meant there was something
wrong with you that nobody could fix. Something haywire in the
brain. Crazy meant being locked up for the rest of your life with
other crazy people. That was the most frightening thought of all.
Am I going crazy? Ned didn't even know how to begin considering
that possibility; it was too overwhelming to bring into focus.

He hesitated at the threshold of his room
but then walked in and went directly to his microscope. He prepared
a fresh slide, extracting a drop of very cloudy water that looked
promising. As he went about this, part of his mind silently counted
the passing seconds, and each one made him feel a little better.
Blurred shapes swam before him and he was on the verge of returning
to the magic world of the protozoa when he found that he couldn't
move.

Ned's eyes refused to concentrate. His
fingers wouldn't turn the lens adjustment. His mind drifted without
thought. He couldn't do anything. He stood up, but the effort
seemed to drain away the last of his strength. He felt dizzy and
his body was tired, so very tired. He thought he might fall asleep
right there, on his feet, and he struggled feebly against it.
That's how people drown, he knew, by giving in to it. He saw
himself caught in a vast, slow whirlpool that was spinning him
down, down, toward a black pit into which he would disappear
forever. He remembered his mother, outside, just below his window,
but now it was as if she were a million miles away. He tried to
call out for help, but his voice was nothing more than a brief
whimper lost in his throat. This is it, he thought, this time
they're taking me.

When you destroyed the scarecrow you doomed
yourself.

He could feel it now: the same sensation he
had experienced in the cellar of the spa. The presence, the
phantom, was there, in this room, right behind him—only this time
it was worse. This time Ned was unable to move, let alone walk
forward. He could feel the change as hot, lifeless air swirled
around him like a shroud, and he could smell it, the foul, evil
breath of the grave. It seemed to scorch the back of his neck and
it curled around, over his face, stifling him. The thought came to
him that he might suffocate on the spot, but still he couldn't
move. It was all he could do to force a bit of air in and out of
his lungs.

What is happening to me?

Hands touched his head.

No, no ...

Hands moved through his hair, brushed over
his ears.

No, please, leave me alone.

Hands around his throat, coming up on the
smooth features of his face. Invisible fingers pressing his eyelids
shut, then allowing them to open again. The breath of the phantom
roaring in his ears. One hand clamping over his mouth, the other
pinching his nostrils shut. Nothing—there was nothing to see, but
it was happening to him. His face felt as if it were caught in a
steel press that was squeezing the life out of him. He was being
taken.

Why?

The breath hesitated for a moment, then
sighed softly, nauseatingly around him again. The grip
tightened.

—
I've missed you.

The voice was a whisper in his head, clear
but anonymous. Ned could breathe again, just barely, and the hands
continued to move over him. Everywhere they touched, his body felt
like a thin film of jelly on a skeleton of twigs.

What?

—
I've missed you.

What do you want?

—
You.

Who are you?

—
You.

The invisible hands clutched his sharply
now, the unseen arms locked around him in a crushing embrace. Ned's
breath was forced violently from his body and his eyes felt as if
they were about to shoot out of his skull. The room was vanishing
behind black spots that danced across his vision. The hands—those
fingers, like needles, lanced his chest, reached through him to
grab his heart, as if to tear it out.

Nothing, it's
nothing,
his mind screamed
desperately.
There is nothing here. You are
nothing.

The hold relaxed, but the buzzing came back,
blasting every nerve in Ned's body. He was in a cloud of
furies.

—
You will be mine
again.

No! No! NO!

Ned broke free and ran for his life. The
presence stayed with him, enveloping his body as he thrashed to get
away. It was in his mouth and his nose, and it blinded his eyes.
The buzzing had turned into laughter, howls of mocking
laughter.