The Boogens Page 15

  “Oh, my God,” Chris breathed.

  “Anyhow, this whole thing has gone too far, and I’m goin’ to put a stop to it. I gotta go in there now and tell Charlie about his boy. Then I’m gonna send somebody to try and get through to the fire department in Pineglen. In the meantime, we’ll go up and see what we can do. Last night Charlie mentioned something about there being an entrance to the mine from that old Myer house. He thinks one of the closets has a trap door goin’ down into the old shaft. If that don’t work out, maybe you and me and Charlie, along with those kids at the Myer house, can dig through that cave-in.”

  Chris closed her eyes and tried not to think about those monstrous creatures she had seen in the lake. When she heard the door of the patrol car slam shut, she took a deep breath and started praying.

  Mark pulled his pickup truck in as close to the porch steps as he could. “I’m gonna see if there are any shovels out in the garage,” he said as he slid out of the truck. “I’ll be right back.”

  Trish started to get out, but she hesitated, hoping the heavy downpour would let up for a minute before she ran to the steps.

  Mark slithered and slipped across the mud to the garage, quickly undid the latch and threw the door open. He moved inside, then stopped abruptly and stared at the red Mustang convertible standing in the darkness.

  It was Roger’s car—there was no doubt about that. It had the same patched top he had seen in the parking lot of the restaurant last night.

  Had Roger come back this morning while he and Trish were out having breakfast? Mark moved closer and touched the canvas top. It was dry. It had been raining steadily since early this morning, but there wasn’t a drop of water anywhere on the car. Mark felt his heart thud heavily in his chest. Roger had not driven down to Denver last night! So where was he?

  Two nights ago Ken had mysteriously disappeared from the house. Now it looked as if the same thing had happened to Roger. Mark opened the door of the Mustang and looked in both seats. Then he moved around to the other side and looked underneath. There was nothing. Mark had an ominous feeling as he straightened and gazed through the open garage door toward the house. Whatever was going on, it had to have something to do with that house. He glanced around and spotted an old shovel standing near the door. As he crossed to get it, he saw Trish get out of the truck and run up the steps, her hand covering her head.

  “Trish!”

  She didn’t hear him. Mark grabbed the shovel and ran, slipping dangerously on the mud. “Trish!” he shouted again.

  Her frightened scream came piercingly through the drone of rain. She was standing just inside the door, both hands at her face. Then she whirled, a look of terror in her eyes. “Mark!!”

  Mark took the steps three at a time. At the door, he pushed Trish aside, the shovel ready.

  He didn’t see them at first. He expected to find himself facing a man or some wild animal ready to pounce. But there was no such obvious threat. Then he looked at the floor and took a half step back.

  There were about ten of them, small octopuslike creatures with little puffy bodies. Some were no wider than a foot across; others were twice that size. One was in the center of the carpet, coming slowly toward them, moving along on a trail of yellow gelatin. Four others were bunched together by the kitchen door, sliding over each other as if struggling to be the first one into the kitchen. The others were coming out of the hall into the living room.

  “My God, what are they?” Trish gasped.

  Mark shook his head. Watching them, with their probing tentacles, he had a sick realization of what must have happened to Ken. And maybe Roger. “Where’s Jessica?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Trish said.

  “Jess!!”

  The only response was a soft gurgling from somewhere in the back of the house and the faint wheezing that came from the creatures in front of them. Mark moved cautiously forward.

  “Don’t!” Trish cried. “Please don’t go in there, Mark!”

  “It’s all right,” Mark said.

  He reached the shovel toward the small animal on the carpet. Two tentacles snapped out in an effort to grab the blade. Mark pulled the shovel back. He lifted it to the side and swung it like an extended golf club. The blade scraped across the carpet and caught the animal squarely on its side, sending it tumbling across to the couch. A mass of yellow liquid oozed out of the thing’s body and formed a huge puddle. All eight of the animal’s tentacles writhed and slapped at the wet carpet. It shivered for a moment and stopped moving. Trish put her hands over her face and turned away.

  “Stay here,” Mark said and moved forward again.

  He scooped one and then another of the things away from the entrance to the hall. Then he leaped over the rest of them and moved down to the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar. He reached out and pushed it all the way open. He caught his breath and stared.

  Both of the spigots were running. The water was up to the bathtub drain, two or three inches from the top. Three of the octopuslike creatures were floating in the water. A much larger one was spread across the floor, two of its tentacles draped over the side of the tub. The big one twisted its body as Mark looked at it. One of the tentacles rose out of the tub and lashed out in Mark’s direction.

  Mark drew back for an instant. Then he reached quickly forward and pulled the door shut. His heart pounding, he moved on to the bedroom.

  The door was open, but he approached cautiously, the shovel ready. “Oh, my God,” he breathed as he looked inside.

  There were dozens of them covering the floor on the far side of the room. More of them were pouring through the open vent near the bed. He reached in and grabbed the doorknob, then gasped as something wrapped itself around his leg.

  It was a small one, about a foot and a half across. Mark could see the yellow trail from where it had followed him down the hall. Five or six of the tentacles had wrapped themselves around his leg just above the ankle. The others were reaching toward his kneecap. Mark pulled the bedroom door shut and slammed his leg against the wall.

  The animal didn’t budge. The two orange eyes gazed stupidly up at him, and the other tentacles whipped around his leg as if the thing were determined not to be shaken loose. Mark lifted the shovel and jammed it downward into the thing’s body. Yellow liquid spurted out and ran down his boot. He hit it again and again, chopping the small, four-inch body to shreds. But still the tentacles held on.

  Then he felt the burning sensation as the liquid soaked through the fabric of his pants. It was like concentrated acid eating into his flesh. There was nothing left of the animal’s body but a fibrous membrane, but still the tentacles held on. He reached down and tried to pull one of the tentacles away, but it was like a steel clamp around his leg.

  “Mark!” Trish cried.

  She was standing at the entrance to the hallway, and four more of the animals were scuttling rapidly toward him. He jammed the shovel blade into the first one, immobilizing it, and chopped at the second and third. “Get out of here!” he screamed at Trish. At the same time, he leaped over the last of the creatures and limped down the hall.

  Trish didn’t move. He grabbed her arm and hustled her toward the front door but stopped short. Three of the creatures were now stationed at the door, as if they knew it was the only escape route. A larger one, four or five feet across, suddenly appeared, moving toward the door from behind the couch. “Christ,” Mark said. A sharp bang came from behind them, and Mark whirled.

  The closet door was standing open; more of the creatures were spilling out, spreading into the hallway. Mark gaped incredulously as one and then another huge tentacle flopped into sight. A gigantic creature came sliding out of the closet on a sea of yellow ooze and smaller creatures. The tiny orange eyes immediately fixed themselves on Mark and Trish. An instant later, one of the tentacles whipped out in their direction, slapping violently into the floor within three feet of them.

  “The kitchen,” Mark cried and shoved Trish toward the door
. Two feet inside, they stopped short and Mark pulled her back against the wall. There were creatures all over the sink and drainboards. More of them were climbing up on the table. A large one, six or eight feet across, was wedged against the back door, its tentacles moving upward as if reaching for the doorknob. “Mark . . .” Trish whimpered and buried her face in his shoulder.

  The creatures all seemed to sense their presence. Their tentacles stopped moving and they shifted around, the orange eyes settling dully on them. The larger animal started sliding toward them from the door, two of its tentacles reaching out, swiping at the air.

  Mark stared at it, then at the door to the utility room only three feet away. Were there more of them in there? They had no choice but to risk it. The tentacles were less than six feet from them now. He stepped across and yanked the door open, pushing Trish into the darkness. He closed the door and held Trish firmly in his grasp, listening.

  There were no gurgling sounds and no orange eyes staring at them. He found an old matchbook in his pocket, leaned the shovel against the wall and struck a light.

  The room was no more than six by eight feet, a musty chamber with an old washing machine, a laundry tub and a collection of mops, brooms and buckets. Overhead, a bare light bulb dangled from a frayed cord. Mark shook out the match and switched on the light.

  Trish had both hands at her mouth, gazing desperately at him. “What can we do?”

  Mark took her in his arms and held her tightly against him. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “The sheriff’ll be here soon. When he doesn’t find us at the mine shaft, he’ll come looking for us.”

  Mark closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He wasn’t so sure that was true. And even if the sheriff came, there wasn’t much he could do against these monsters. He would have to get help, and help would be a long time coming.

  As if to punctuate his gloomy thoughts, something heavy slammed against the door. He winced and held Trish more tightly. It wouldn’t take long for those creatures to smash the thin veneer of the door. Then it would be a matter of seconds.

  He wondered what had brought on the sudden invasion. Was it the thunder and lightning, and maybe that explosion in the mine this morning? Or did it have something to do with that drain hole where he had seen Tippy? Was water pouring into the mine, flooding the creatures out? He smiled ruefully to himself. It really didn’t matter.

  His leg felt as if the acid had now burned all the way in to the bone. He kissed Trish on the top of her head and moved to the side. He sat down and used the blade of the shovel to pry the tentacles loose. The ooze was beginning to dry now, turning a darker yellow. Trish held a mop under the spigot at the laundry tub and used it to scrub at the sticky substance.

  A second and then a third crash sounded against the door, rattling the hinges. Trish rose from her knees and moved closer to Mark. She put her arms around him and held him tightly. “I love you, Mark,” she said.

  He kissed her. “I love you, too. I love you very much, Trish.” After he said it, he closed his eyes and held her tight. He had never said that to anybody in his life before. Now he wished he had.

  The water was now up to their waists. The shaft had broadened slightly, and they had come across two or three minor cave-ins. Brian no longer had any doubts about this being the shaft that led to the house.

  The first sign of water had appeared fifty feet into the old shaft, a shallow pool that seemed to be rising and working its way deeper into the mine. Brian had a good idea what was causing it. Years ago, miners used to dig shafts with a very slight upward angle to insure against water running in from the outside. Now the entrance was probably plugged, and water was running in from some crevice on the surface of the mountain. He hoped to God they reached the end of it before the water level rose to the ceiling. Curled forward under the low ceiling, he felt his back beginning to stiffen with pain.

  “How much farther do you think, Mr. Lockett?” Tim asked. He was leading the way now, his flashlight in one hand, a shovel in the other.

  “It couldn’t be too far,” Brian said, trying to sound optimistic. He wished to hell he had been able to find a map of the mine last week. This old shaft would have been noted on it, and he would at least have a vague idea how long it was.

  Where was Chris? he wondered. If she had gotten out, would the sheriff help her? Or did those phony reports about Hitchings and Thomas going to Arizona mean he was part of the whole scheme to get the gold?

  The shaft suddenly turned slightly to the right and dropped ten or twelve inches. Tim paused for a minute, then went on, the water reaching close to his armpits now. It made progress more difficult and left little room for them to hold their flashlights and shovels above the surface.

  “Look, Mr. Lockett!”

  Tim had stopped. He was holding his flashlight steady, casting a faint light on the shaft a hundred feet ahead of them. A heavy gush of water was pouring into the shaft from above. It eased off for a moment, then gushed again, repeating the process every five or six seconds.

  “We couldn’t be too far from the surface,” Brian said.

  They moved past the pulsing waterfall. Twenty feet farther on, the shaft suddenly broadened into a large chamber and stopped. They could straighten to their full height now, but the water was still up to their armpits. They both swung their lights around, searching for an opening.

  “Look at that, Mr. Lockett! It’s a stairway!”

  Brian looked, then breathed a sigh of relief. They were in a basement—probably the basement of that old house. He could see the top of the furnace now and all the heating vents rising into the floor. The water in the mine shaft must have broken through a retaining wall. There was a mass of debris floating around, most of it old lumber. Brian turned his flashlight toward the staircase as Tim sloshed across the room. There was a strange, gray-black mass under the steps. Brian shifted his position for a better angle, then caught his breath. There was no mistaking the two orange, luminescent dots; it was the same kind of creature they had seen in the main shaft. “Tim!” he shouted.

  The warning came too late. At the same instant he shouted, a long tentacle lifted from the water and shot across the bannister, wrapping itself around Tim’s arm.

  “Holy—!” Tim’s cry was abruptly cut off. In one movement he was jerked from the stairs into the water and pulled beneath the surface.

  Brian sloshed forward, the shovel lifted. “Tim!” he shouted. He brought the shovel blade down with all his strength, slamming it into the body of the animal. The crusted skin of the pillowlike pod did nothing more than sag two or three inches where the blow struck. He lifted the shovel and struck again, this time aiming for the eyes. Again the blow seemed to have no effect. Brian moved to the side and reached under the water where Tim had disappeared, hurriedly moving his hand in one direction and the other.

  He felt fabric and then Tim’s arm. He yanked as hard as he could, throwing his entire weight backward. The arm gave no more than an inch. Then a hard jerk pulled it from Brian’s grasp. He tried the shovel again, slamming the blade down at a forty-five-degree angle from the side. This time a slight cut appeared on the animal. A bubble of yellow liquid immediately rose above it.

  Brian raised the shovel again, this time aiming it like a spear. He thrust it forward with all his strength. The blade sliced through one of the eyes, opening a three-inch flap in the crusty skin. At the same instant, another tentacle whipped out of the water and lashed across in front of him, snapping the wooden handle of the shovel as if it were a toothpick. Brian backed away as the tentacle curled and whipped out again. It fell six inches short.

  He moved quickly to the staircase and bounded up three steps at a time, pulling himself along the bannister. Near the top, he pushed the door open and stumbled forward. He tried to scramble up the last two steps, but a grip of steel suddenly clamped around his ankle.

  He grabbed at the molding on the edge of the door, but his fingers couldn’t hold. As he slid backward he wrapped both
arms around the second step from the top. The strength of the animal was still too great. When his arms broke loose he went flying under the bannister and plunged into the murky water. He tried to thrust himself upward, but a second and then a third tentacle locked themselves around his legs and arms. His scream emptied his lungs and came to the surface in a brief flurry of bubbles.

  If Brian had been able to hold on for another half minute, he might have heard the two shots that were fired less than ten feet above him. He also might have heard Chris’ scream as she and Charlie Lucas whirled away from the back door and tried to run.

  Sheriff Tolivar had gone up the front steps and knocked heavily at the door. Then all three of them had walked around to the back of the house and knocked again. When nobody answered, Tolivar pushed open the door and stepped inside. Almost as quickly as he did so, he took a step backward and fumbled his revolver from its holster. He managed to fire only two shots before the tentacle whipped across and encircled his neck.

  Outside the door, Chris and Charlie Lucas were grabbed from behind. Neither of them had noticed the creature sliding across the mud at the back of the house, and neither was able to put up much of a fight. Within thirty seconds they were both dead, and the creature was pulling their bodies in beneath its pulsing pod, its luminescent eyes staring vacantly off toward the forest.

  Twenty minutes later, Otis Blanchard’s Cadillac came to a quiet stop behind Tolivar’s patrol car. The rain had eased somewhat, but it was still falling steadily. Blanchard leaned forward from the back seat, his face close to the window, and studied the silent house.

  “I think they’re all dead,” Victor said.

  “Probably,” Blanchard agreed. He watched as a long tentacle slid through a broken window pane and probed the outside wall. Finding nothing of interest, the long arm drew back and disappeared. Blanchard felt a chill go down his spine and he settled back in the seat. “I think you can go ahead, Victor. Be sure to bring back the empty cans.”