999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [179]
Shivering wildly, he moved back to the door. After making sure the dead bolt and chain lock were unlocked, he grasped the doorknob again with both hands. The muscles in his wrists and forearms knotted like twisted wire as shivering vibrations ran up his arms to his shoulders and neck.
A pathetic whimper escaped Martin as he ratcheted the doorknob quickly back and forth. The door couldn’t have been shut tighter if it had been nailed shut. Bracing one foot against the doorjamb, he leaned back and pulled with all his strength, but the door still wouldn’t budge.
Who’s out there? Martin wanted to call out. Why are you doing this? But his throat felt flayed and raw.
His heart was thumping heavily in his ears as the knocking grew steadily louder, thundering through the dark house, keeping time with his hammering pulse.
Every muscle in Martin’s body tensed as he leaned back as far as he could, struggling to open the door. He sucked in shallow gulps of air that felt like he was sipping fire. Finally, in a high, broken voice, he forced out a whisper.
“Mother?”
The instant those words left his mouth, the knocking ceased. Leaden silence merged with the darkness and filled the air.
The silence stretched.
Then, from every door still in the house, from the hall closet, the basement, the kitchen pantry, came knocking.
Martin screamed. Waves of rising panic swept through him. He raised his arm above his head and brought it down hard against the front door.
“Let me out!”
Tears stung his eyes as he brought his fist down repeatedly against the door, knocking so hard that it wasn’t long before his hands were bruised and bloodied.
“Let … me … out!” he said between wrenching sobs. “Let me … out!”
He collapsed forward, pressing his forehead against the cold, unyielding wood as he continued to pound with both fists. His body was wrung out, burning with exhaustion. Tears gushed from his eyes.
The only sound that filled the house now was the weakening blows he made against the door.
He didn’t even hear himself ask as he continued to knock, “Who’s … there … ?”
David Morrell
RIO GRANDE GOTHIC
Yes, David Morrell wrote First Blood and created the famous character John Rambo. Yes, he’s the best-selling author of such novels as Brotherhood of the Rose and Double Image. He’s also a heck of a nice fellow, a gentleman in person, and probably pats dogs on the head when he passes them in the street. He also writes stories as good as his novels, such as the one you’re about to read.
The protagonist of “Rio Grande Gothic” is a classic Morrell hero, a man forced by circumstances to change roles from the hunter to the hunted. Like much of Morrell’s best work, the pace is fast and the action nearly continuous.
And this time, it’s also creepy as hell.
When Romero finally noticed the shoes on the road, he realized that he had actually been seeing them for several days. Driving into town along Old Pecos Trail, passing the adobe-walled Santa Fe Woman’s Club on the left, approaching the pueblo-style Baptist church on the right, he reached the crest of the hill, saw the jogging shoes on the yellow median line, and steered his police car onto the dirt shoulder of the road.
Frowning, he got out and hitched his thumbs onto his heavy gun belt, oblivious to the roar of passing traffic, focusing on the jogging shoes. They were laced together, a Nike label on the back. One was on its side, showing how worn its tread was. But they hadn’t been in the middle of the road yesterday, Romero thought. No, yesterday, it had been a pair of leather sandals. He remembered having been vaguely aware of them. And the day before yesterday? Had it been a pair of women’s high heels? His recollection wasn’t clear, but there had been some kind of shoes—of that he was certain. What the … ?
After waiting for a break in traffic, Romero