Page 43 of It Happened on the Lake

S cratch!

The grating sound was coming from somewhere far off.

Scratch! Scratch! Scratch!

Someone clawing . . . but how? Harper stood on the small boat in the middle of the lake, the wind snatching at her nightgown. It was dark, the stars hidden by low-hanging clouds, the surface of the water choppy with white caps.

Scratchhhhh!

Was something or someone scraping and tearing the hull?

Something large, with sharp claws or teeth, ripping at the wood?

The boat buckled on a wave, and she scrabbled to grab onto a mast with tattered sails to keep from being thrown overboard.

“Jump!” She heard someone yell at her, a faint voice over the rush of the wind. “Jump! Jump!”

Craaack! Beneath her bare feet, the wood began to splinter.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no!”

Water rushed into the craft.

“Jump!” she heard again, before realizing it was her own voice, drowned out by the loud, horrifying cry of a banshee as a giant wave rose.

As the scream continued, the boat split.

Flung into the water, she was engulfed, the dark void surrounding her.

Swim , she told herself, forcing leaden legs to kick. Up, up, up to the ever-distant surface. Swim! Kick!

She flailed upward. Past photographs that sank into the darkness.

Kick! Swim!

She rose slowly, and just as she broke the surface, she saw two great taloned beasts rise to the heavens, one was scaled, the other with smooth skin, both winged. The dragon and the devil, gargoyles come to life, teeth bared as they screamed, their wings opening in flight.

She gasped, horrified, sinking back into the water.

But she found no safety in the depths, as through the dark water a body appeared, little more than a hideous skeleton with fish and eels floating through its eye sockets and ribs.

“I love you,” it seemed to say, and in that second, she saw him as he once was, a tall athletic boy with blond hair and an easy smile.

“Chase,” she tried to whisper, but the words wouldn’t come and his visage disappeared into the rotting skeleton. She screamed then, echoing the banshee’s cry.

Harper’s eyes flew open.

She sat bolt upright on the bed in her room.

Moonlight streamed through the window, casting the crucifix in relief against the wall. It was a dream. Just a bad, bad dream. She breathed deeply, calming herself. “Get over it,” she said aloud as vestiges of the nightmare, like ashes from a dying fire, still floated in the air.

Once more, the headache that had been with her most of yesterday reappeared, and she chastised herself for having too many drinks the night before. Today—none, she vowed. She needed to be clearheaded.

But the nightmare. Wow.

She shoved her hair from her face with trembling fingers and mentally castigated herself for being such a ninny. After struggling out of the sleeping bag, Harper snapped on the bedside lamp, winced at the light, but checked her watch on the night stand. Four-thirty in the morning.

Too early to get up.

Make that way too early.

And her head was pounding.

Great.

Yawning, tamping down the memories of the dream, she walked to the bathroom, turned on the tap, and dipped her head under the sink, taking a long drink in the hope it might stave off or lessen the hangover.

But that was just wishful thinking, she knew as she splashed water over her face and felt the bandage on her chin shift.

She’d have to put on a new one as she doubted the cut had healed.

As she reached for a towel, she caught her wan image in the mirror, the slipping bandage, dark circles under her eyes.

And a tiny, evil face.

Just over her right shoulder.

What?

She bit back a scream and whirled to find Maude, wide eyes open, sitting on a shelf on the opposite side of the room.

The lifeless doll with her brush-like eyelashes and plastic face seemed to stare straight into Harper’s soul.

“You—you little freak!” Harper spat, her heart racing. She knocked the doll from its perch. It landed on the tile with a thud and a faint, “Ma-Ma.”

“Oh, shut up!” Harper kicked the doll again. It bounced against the door frame with a pitiful “Ma-Ma.”

“Sweet Jesus.” Heart knocking, head thundering, adrenaline pumping through her blood stream, Harper glowered at the inanimate toy, head drooping downward.

“What the devil?” Harper shoved her hair from her eyes and glowered at the doll.

How had it ended up here? Who the hell had put the damned thing up on the shelf positioned just so?

Maybe it was you. Maybe you did it. You locked all the doors last night. And face it, you were pretty wasted.

“No.”

No one else has a key.

Or do they?

The damned doll didn’t march up the stairs and hop up onto the shelf by herself.

Harper breathed deeply, trying to piece together the night before.

She remembered seeing all the dolls downstairs—including Maude.

Right? Her memory was fuzzy from the alcohol, but she was pretty sure .

. . and then she’d nearly stumbled up the stairs and half-tripped over that other stupid doll, the one Gram called Toodles.

Once she’d landed on the third floor, she’d flopped straight onto the bed and struggled into the sleeping bag.

Right?

No—no. She’d changed in the bathroom. To confirm, she glanced down at her KISS T-shirt and pile of clothes left near the shower.

She hadn’t seen the doll then, nor did she recall carrying it up here and placing it on the shelf.

No, no, no, she wouldn’t do that. She didn’t even like touching any of the old things.

She’d been really tired, and her headache had pounded.

Wincing against the pain building behind her eyes, she tried to think, to remember. Though the night before was a little blurry, she was certain there had been no dolls in this suite. Zero. And she didn’t remember carrying any of them up here.

No, she wouldn’t have.

No reason.

And yet, somehow, someway Maude had ended up here.

Goose pimples crawled up the back of her arms.

Hadn’t she heard the creak of a door opening last night?

Had there been footsteps? A groan of the old steps?

Hadn’t she, rusted scissors in hand, checked? And she’d looked at her reflection in the mirror and seen no evil little face in the reflection.

To confirm her memory, she went back to the bed, felt inside the sleeping bag, and sure enough the shears were where she’d placed them.

And nothing had happened.

The doll was in the wrong place, but she hadn’t been assaulted last night. So why would anyone go to the trouble of putting Maude on the shelf? It didn’t make any sense.

Now that her racing heartbeat had slowed, she was thinking more rationally. She picked up the doll. No, she didn’t remember even touching her. So . . . why? Turning it over in her hands, she heard the weak little “Ma-Ma” sound again.

“What are you doing up here, Maude?” she whispered, turning the doll over and catching sight of something red showing beneath the dingy pinafore. She lifted the once-white hem. A single word was scrawled in dark red across the doll’s belly: ICU .

“What the—?” She dropped the doll as if burned.

It hit the floor with a thud, sputtered a pathetic little “Ma-Ma,” and lay crumpled, its head twisted at an unnatural angle, its eyes wide and condemning.

“No,” Harper whispered, backing up until her hips hit the cold porcelain sink in the bathroom.

Had the red message scrawled on the doll’s belly been recently added, or was it old? Maybe Gram had loaned it to the hospital and it was marked with ICU. No, no, that didn’t make any sense. Harper was pretty sure toys weren’t allowed in Intensive Care.

So obviously the message was left for her. And obviously someone had been in here last night.

Who? Who would do this to her?

How? How did they get in?

Her blood turned to ice as she thought of someone creeping past her bed as she lay sleeping, someone pausing to watch her, someone sick.

Get a hold of yourself.

Don’t lose it.

For the love of God, Harper, do not lose it!

With trembling fingers, she picked up the doll gingerly, as if she expected it to come to life.

Pull yourself together. It’s only a child’s toy. Old and slightly creepy, but just a damned doll.

She managed to examine the message more closely.

ICU. Again, she thought of the Intensive Care Unit in a hospital. St. Catherine’s. Where Cynthia Hunt had been taken. And where she’d died.

Was this some kind of warning? Was she being blamed for Cynthia’s death?

Or . . . she read the message aloud. “I. C. U.” She paused, then came up with “I. See. You.” Well, no shit.

Anyone who had put the doll in the attached bathroom had definitely seen her.

An extremely unsettling thought. “They’re telling me I’m being watched?

” Her insides curdled at the thought. What was to say that the intruder had left?

What if he were still in the huge house, hiding in a myriad of dark corners and hidden spaces?

Her throat went dry. Swallowing back her fear, she listened. Hard. Did she hear the creak of a floorboard over the rumble of the furnace? Was that the sound of a door clicking open, or was that her overactive imagination?

Get a grip, Harper.

Every instinct on high alert, again she armed herself with the scissors. She moved quietly, carrying the disgusting doll with its disturbing message down the stairs.

No sound over the whisper of the October wind buffeting the windows.

No door softly closing.

No rushed, padded footsteps.

No open window banging against the shutters.

Everything was calm.

Too calm.

Any night wind had died in this pre-dawn hour.

Nerves stretched tight, she dropped Maude into the trash can in the kitchen and checked all of the locks on the doors, like the five-pointed star Gram had told her about when she was a girl.

Everything appeared to be locked up tight.

She felt no disturbance in the air.

There’s no one here. Not now.