The Lake

A harsh, breathy voice. She couldn’t believe it!

If this really IS a nightmare, I gotta wake up fast.

Sliding a hand under the bedsheet, she found her thigh. She pinched it, hard.

Ouch! Shit! Okay, so I’m not dreaming. I’m awake.

Jesus. If I am awake… who is that outside my window?

A burglar?

Carrying a hatchet?

Killers carry hatchets…

Mad ax murderers!

But why pick on me?

Who’d want to kill me?

Nobody I can think of would want me dead.

Except maybe that bitch Nancy Guildenschwarz—she hates me like hell after Allan ditched her and dated me instead… Even so, Deana reminded herself, Nancy’s short, plumpish— and she’s a girl.

Not a tall, thin man.

Unless Nancy’s people put out a contract on me.

There’s a thought.

Wouldn’t put anything past that bitch. Always boasting her dad had connections…

Name like Guildenschwarz, he sure needed connections.

Like a mouse in a maze, Deana’s mind scurried through her past, searching for a tall scarecrow man who hated her enough to sneak around her house in the dead of night.

With a hatchet for company…

Nah. Nobody hates me that much. Do they?

Jeez, I hope not.

If she yelled for Mom, he might smash through the window and hack her to death before Mom could get to her.

Best stay quiet, she thought. Pretend I’m not here.

Deana shut her eyes tight, held her breath, slid down under the bedsheet, pulled it over her head, and lay there, heart racing, till she almost suffocated.

Then, peeking from under the bedsheet, she scanned the window again.

Nobody there. Only the moon, casting ghostly rays onto her bed.

Perhaps the thing with the hatchet never happened?

Oh yeah?

Deana wiped her face with a corner of the sheet.

It was awfully hot.

Hot, shitty, oppressive, and muggy.

Another summer night in Marin County.

’Cept it wasn’t just “another summer night.”

A mad axman’s out there, sneaking past my window.

Stalking me.

Looking for me. Wanting to hack me to death.

Deana listened, willing her heart to slow down.

A warm mistral rose up from nowhere, whispering into the night, tossing the leaves of the citrus outside her window. The rustling sounds should have been familiar and friendly.

Tonight, they didn’t seem that way.

In the past, she’d loved that big old tree.

At age ten, when she and Mom first came to live in this house, she’d imagined small furry creatures hiding away up there; birds, nesting in its branches. Mornings, she’d lie in bed watching it. At night, she went to sleep listening to its quiet, scurrying sounds.

Now it shivered and rustled like something in a horror movie.

It was so scary.

Her gaze switched to where she’d last seen the intruder.

Hoping she wouldn’t see him again.

Trying to convince herself the shadowy shape didn’t exist. Hadn’t really happened at all.

She waited…

But there was no Mr. Hatchet Man. Just her tree. Its leaves stirring softly in the night breeze…

Making long black shadows on her ceiling.

Raising her head off the pillow, she squinted at the clock on the nightstand.

12:10.

Past midnight.

A good time for nightmares.

And weird dreams.

She stretched, letting her tense, coiled-up limbs ease out, running her tongue over bone-dry lips.

Her eyes darted nervously to the window.

Just checking.

Fearful the same spooky sequence would start over again.

Wide-eyed, waiting, she counted to thirty… forty… fifty… sixty.

No sign of the Hatchet Man.

Swinging out of bed, she peeled off her nightgown. It was soaked with sweat. She spread it over the bedrail, grabbed her robe, and shrugged into it.

It felt soft and comforting to her damp, chilled skin.

She tied the sash tight.

Wouldn’t do for Mr. Hatchet Man to catch her naked.

Mr. who?

That was a nightmare, dummy, and don’t you forget it.

Still her breath came hard and fast.

Calm down, she told herself.

You’re safe.

The doors are locked.

Mom’s in the next room…

Everything’s okay. Honest.

In the busy flickering shadows, familiar things greeted her like old friends.

She made for the kitchen.

Opening the fridge door, she reached inside and took out a jug of lemonade.

It felt good and cold.

Mom made it only yesterday. From fresh lemons. It was her own special brew, and Deana knew it’d taste bittersweet, tart, with just a dash of honey.

The way I like it.

The glass jug clouded up. It felt deliciously cold in her hands. Licking her lips, she watched the pale liquid swish around inside it—almost tasting that first almighty swig as it hit her throat.

First, she set the jug on the table and went over to the sink. Turning on the cold faucet, she cupped her hands and splashed water over her face.

Then she grabbed a hand towel, patted herself dry.

Feeling better, safer, all the time.