Free Black Stump Ridge by John Manning; Forrest Hedrick

read to her and listened to her read.
    Amanda choked down the lump that the nostalgia raised in her throat. Instead, she smiled at the parts of Fred’s story about the drive through the mountains. It was obviously a happy time. There was no hint of trouble, except maybe with the brooding Charlie Dobbs. What Fred had said about Charlie was no great surprise. It was all in the news before they’d heard about the outcome of the hunting trip and her father’s death.
    The parts he told about the locals hinted at something darker. What really happened up there? What was the secret that Fred was so afraid to discuss? She thought about Fred and how he’d degenerated from the cheerful, happy-go-lucky man she still saw in her teen-age memories. What could have caused such a radical change? Could it all be laid to that weekend trip?
    She looked at her supper as if seeing it for the first time. Salad, fish, vegetables, scalloped potatoes. Fred was in his room with only half of a bottle of Jim Beam for supper. Did he have any food in that room? Suddenly, she was no longer hungry. She pushed her chair back from the table.
    •
    Amanda stood at the top of the steps facing the door to Fred’s room. The hot, greasy aroma of hamburgers and French fries rose from the bag in her left hand and filled her nostrils. What seemed like a great idea when she was in her room now seemed foolish or worse. She debated knocking on the door. From the other side she could hear the TV. It sounded like some kind of police drama.
    She raised her hand, hesitated for a moment, and then knocked. She waited, but there was no response. She knocked again, this time harder. Still nothing. She sighed and started to turn away. Without thinking about it, she grasped the doorknob and turned. The door opened slightly. What little view it gave was of a room lit only by a glowing TV screen.
    “Mr. Kyle?” She pushed on the door, opening it a little more. Still no answer. She opened the door further and stepped inside.
    “What do you think this is?”
    Startled, she looked up at the television. CSI: Miami was on the screen. Horatio Cane, the show’s lead detective, pointed at something on a body lying on a gurney. Amanda turned her attention to the one lying on the bed.
    Fred lay tightly curled in a fetal position. The whiskey bottle lay open on the floor. A thin layer of amber liquid barely covered the bottom pane of the square bottle. The cap stood upright on the tile near the bathroom door. The room smelled of bourbon and bed farts. It was too late to bring him solid food.
    She closed the door behind her and walked softly across the room. She opened the refrigerator. The shelves were filled with packaged sandwiches, fruit, half-eaten fast food, and some things whose identity she could only guess. She cleared a space on a shelf, set the bag inside, and then closed the door. She turned, trying to decide what to do next.
    “Hnnmm. No. Don’t say that, Mama. No. How can you say that? It’s not true. It can’t be true. No.”
    Fred had uncurled and now lay on his back. His head turned slowly to and fro.
    “Mr. Kyle? Are you all right?”
    “Dave! What did you do?”
    Amanda took two steps closer to the bed, unsure of what to do. Fred was obviously having a nightmare. Should she wake him? Didn’t people said it was bad to wake someone from a nightmare; that it was dangerous? Or, was that warning just for sleepwalkers?
    “Can’t you see him?” Fred sat bolt upright on the bed, eyes wide, as he stared at someone beyond the room where he lay. “Goddammit! Can’t you see him?”
    “See who, Mr. Kyle?” Amanda knelt beside the bed. The next utterance chilled her to her core. “See who?”
    “The tentacles! The dammed tentacles! It’s not Michael, Johnny! Watch out!” A pause. Then, “Oh, God, Johnny. What has he done to you?”
    She watched as Fred, his cheeks shiny with silent tears, settled back into a fetal position on the bed. She knelt there for a long