This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
TREAD SOFTLY
Copyright © 1987 by Richard Laymon
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
First printing: February 1987
A TOR Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc. 49 West 24 Street New York, N.Y. 10010
Cover art by Jill Bauman
ISBN: 0-812-52108-0 CAN. ED.: 0-812-52109-9
Printed in the United States of America
0987654321
Richard Laymon as Richard Kelly. Thread Softly
For Bob, my brother,
who trekked with me
the trails of our youth
Beware on your journey,
Tread softly with care.
Beware of the hag
In her dark mountain lair.
Speak only in whispers,
Don't wander alone.
Take heed of the shadows —
Watch out for the crone.
She waits and she wants you.
She knows you are there.
Don't wander alone,
Tread softly with care.
Part One
Chapter One
Cheryl heard it again — the soft, dry crunching sound that a foot might make in leaves. This time, it was very close.
She lay rigid in her sleeping bag, barely daring to breathe, gazing straight up at the dark slanting wall of the tent and telling herself to stay calm.
It's probably just an animal. Maybe a deer. A few days ago, camped in a meadow below the pass, they'd been awakened in the night by a deer wandering near their tent. Its hooves had crashed through the foliage, snapping branches and shaking the ground. Bambi the Elephant, Danny had called it.
This was different.
This was stealthy.
She heard it again, flinched, and dug her fingertips into her bare thighs.
Maybe something falling from a tree? Pinecones? They could make sounds like that, she supposed. Plenty of wind out there to shake them loose.
That's it. That has to be it. Otherwise, somebody is standing just outside the tent, and that can't be.
They'd seen nobody for two days. They'd reached Lower Mesquite Lake early in the afternoon. Except for this small patch of woods, the glacial lake was surrounded by barren rock. They'd hiked completely around it. They'd explored the woods. They'd seen nobody.
Not even when they hiked over a small ridge to Upper Mesquite.
Nobody.
Cheryl took a deep breath, trying to calm herself.
Go to sleep, chicken-shit.
Cheryl consciously relaxed her legs and rump and back, settling down into the warmth, and turned her head to stretch her taut neck muscles. She felt like rolling over. She wanted to turn facedown and burrow deep, but she was afraid to move that much.
A monster under the bed. Just like when she was a kid and knew there was a terrible monster under the bed. If she lay absolutely still, it would leave her alone.
I'm eighteen. I'm too old for this.
Slowly, she started to turn over. Her bare skin made whispery, sliding sounds against the nylon bag, almost loud enough to mask the other sound. She went stiff. She was on her side, facing Danny. The other sound came from behind her — a quiet hissing sigh, a sound such as fingernails might make scraping along the tent's wall.
She flung herself against Danny, shook him by the shoulders. Moaning, he raised his head. "Huh? Wha — "
"Somebody's outside," she gasped.
He pushed himself up on his elbows. "Huh?"
"Outside. I heard him."
"Who?"
"Shh."
Neither of them moved.
"I don't hear anything," he said in a groggy voice.
"I did. God, he's right outside the tent. He scratched on it."
"Probably just a branch."
"Danny."
"Okay, okay, I'll go out 'n' have a look."
"I'll go with you."
"No point both of us freezing our asses. I'll go." He rose to his hands and knees, still in the double sleeping bag, letting in the cold night air as he searched through the clothes and gear at the head of the tent. He pulled his flashlight out of his boot. "Just be a minute," he said.
Cheryl scooted away. Danny climbed from the bag and crawled to the foot of the tent. Kneeling there, naked, he pulled at the zipper of the mosquito netting.
Cheryl sat up. The cold wrapped around her. Shuddering, she hugged her breasts. "Maybe you'd better not," she whispered. "Come on back."
"Nah, it's all right."
"Please?"
"I've gotta take a leak anyway," he said, and started to crawl through the flaps. He was halfway out when he stopped. He uttered a low groan. One of his feet reached backward.
Cheryl heard a wet thud. Spray rained against the tent flaps.
Danny's legs shot out from under him. He bounced up and down, knees pounding the tent floor, flopping in mad spasms that seemed to last forever. At last, he lay motionless.
Cheryl stared in horror as Danny began to slide through the flaps. His buttocks vanished. His legs dragged along as if he were being sucked slowly into a dark mouth.
Cheryl was alone in the tent.
But not for long.
Chapter Two
Meg staggered into the living room, a strap of her negligee sagging down her arm. "Good grief, hon, what time is it?"
"Nighttime," Karen said.
"Tell me. Christ, tell me. Call this a vacation?"
"I sure do."
"Yeah, guess you would." She flopped into a chair, hooked one leg over its stuffed arm, and stretched to reach for a pack of cigarettes. "What time's he picking you up?"
"Five-thirty."
"Gug. Want me to put on some coffee?"
"I don't want to be peeing."
"Shit. Car full of kids, you'll be stopping every five minutes anyway." She lit a cigarette.
"They're not exactly kids," Karen said. ''Julie's sixteen. Benny's thirteen or fourteen."
"Even worse. Christ, kiddo, you're in for it."
"They're okay." Karen propped the backpack against the sofa and shoved in the mummy bag.
"Who's this other family?"
"The Gordons. Never met them before."
"They have kids, too?"
"Three."
"Oh, you're gonna have a swell time. Hope you're not planning to screw the guy."
"We'll see." Karen buckled the leather straps of the cover, picked up the backpack, and carried it toward the front door. She leaned it against the wall.
"Sure sounds like loads of fun. Wish I was coming."
"You were invited."
"Give me a break. I need a campout like I need a third boob."
Karen dropped to the sofa and started to put on her hiking boots. They were Pivettas, scratched and scuffed. They had stood in the back of her closet, unworn since the summer she finished her M.A. four years before, but they felt comfortable and familiar, like good friends from the past — friends with stories of dusty switchbacks, the cool wind of mountain passes, desolate lakes, icy streams, and campfire smoke. She finished lacing them, and slapped her bare knees. "This is gonna be great."
"You're a masochist," Meg said, and stabbed out her cigarette.
"You don't know what you're missing."
"Sure I do. Sack time." She pushed herself off the chair, yawned, and stretched. "Well, have fun if you can."