car. He wouldn’t let himself go through that again.)
No matter what.
But this . . .
This was growing stranger by the minute, and for the
first time he thought he’d pick up all his gear, throw it into
the back of his Land Rover, and get the hell out of there.
“What’s a couple of thousand dollars?” he said, trying
to convince himself to give up the article.
b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s
187
After all, it’s a bit late in life to become a materialist.
He heard something outside again.
Steps, slow, tentative, coming toward his room.
Probably the late-night rummy on his appointed rounds.
Trying to get a closer look at the room numbers.
But the steps were steady, assured, until they came to
stop just outside his door.
Dan looked at the door. He half expected the doorknob
to twist back and forth ominously.
He looked over at his knife. (Easy, boy.)
The late-night visitor knocked. Once, gently. Then harder.
It felt cold in the air-conditioned room.
He went to the door and opened it.
Claire could still feel it. Lying on her bed, eyes wide open.
As if she could smell the reservoir here, touching every-
thing.
Her mother hadn’t believed her. But she understood that,
really understood that. You couldn’t have moms running
around believing in their kids’ crazy fears, now could you?
It just didn’t work that way.
Kids get scared, and the grown-ups make it all better.
Except that this was different. (She should have known
that a long time ago.) The dream had been a warning
from . . . from . . .
Somewhere. Trying to tell her about what was going to
happen.
(Her mother made a sound in her sleep, a little grunt,
and it made Claire feel weird to hear it, like she was in
charge, watching over her mother or something.)
And maybe she was.
She thought now, too, of the Benny kids—not that
she liked them; they were too spoiled for that. But still
she worried about them, in that nice new home so close to
the water—
188
m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o
(And the plants, and the funny black things growing in
the ground.)
When she closed her eyes, she could also hear them
growing, like toadstools popping out of the ground, the
grass going to seed, waving in the breeze. And the water.
God, yes, the water. Not just sitting there nice and still,
but jumping around in the moonlight.
Excited.
She pulled her blanket closer.
Didn’t anyone else hear it, she wondered, or smell the
way the air was damp and heavy? Reaching everyone as they
slept, filling their lungs with the moist air from the lake.
Everyone who slept.
But not her. She wouldn’t sleep tonight. No way. She’d
keep her eyes wide open, listening, waiting . . .
Until everyone heard it and she wasn’t alone anymore.
If only it wasn’t too late.
S I X T E E N
At first she didn’t call out his name, as if breaking the si-
lence of the night would somehow confirm that there was,
in fact, something wrong here.
She didn’t want to admit that.
Her Joshua just went outside. That’s all. Her explorer,
her adventurer, saw the moonlight (so bright tonight) and
went out . . . to see it.
But as soon as she started running across the milky
white yard down to the woods, she knew that this, her
backyard, had changed. Now it was an eerie, alien place
where she had no right to be.
So she yelled out his name, listening to her voice carry
so clearly in the night air.
“Joshua!” She heard a truck, miles away. Then a gentle
breeze pressed her thin nightgown against her skin. Leaves
rustled.
But no one answered her call.
Now she ran, full out, single-minded, into the woods.
(“Why can’t I fish there, Mommy, and why can’t I swim
190
m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o
there? And why can’t Daddy buy us a boat for the lake?
And why is there a fence around it? Why, why?”)
The lake was like a lurking stranger.
Luring her child with the promise of play and excitement.
Every few steps she yelled out his name.
Once she thought she heard his answer—or maybe it
was just the sound of her own voice echoing off the sheer
cliffs across the water.
She reached the fence, and even though the moonlight
made everything almost dazzlingly white, she didn’t see
much. The trees went right up to the fence line, arching
over it, covering it with shadows.
She looked around, confused, as if she expected Josh to
be there, standing beside the fence, wearing his mischie-
vous grin.
(“Sorry, Mommy.”)
But he wasn’t there. She went to the fence and dug her
fingers into the mesh, looking left and right.
(Now she doubted herself. Maybe he’s still at home,
maybe he opened the door, took a quick look outside, and
went back to bed or to the bathroom. Sure, I probably
missed him, and—)
Such hopeful thoughts rambled through her mind, then
she saw there was an opening, at the bottom of the fence. It
was like someone had dug at the bottom of the mesh and
yanked it out of the ground, pulling it up and out like the
flap of a cardboard box.
Could Josh have done that? Just big enough for a boy
to crawl under.
“Oh, no,” she said, moaning. And again she made a piti-
ful, hopeless sound. She knelt down.
(Ignoring the tiny popping sound of whatever was
growing on the ground.)
She crawled under the opening. It was so small, just boy-
sized, but she might just be slim-waisted enough to go un-
der it. She pulled on the mesh, gaining another few inches
b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s
191
to move, pushing away the nasty metal barbs at the base.
She stuck her head through the opening.
Now she inched forward, her bare legs digging into the
dirt, mashing down whatever was growing there while her
arms snaked their way through, her fingers digging into the
mucky soil, pulling, pulling . . .
She could see that Joshua wasn’t directly on the other
side, just opposite the opening. But the shoreline weaved in
and out, dotted with old oak and maple trees. He could be
ten feet away and she wouldn’t see him.
(The other thing she didn’t let herself think. No, despite
the noisy sound of the water sloshing nearby, she didn’t
think of Joshua walking into the water . . . falling in . . .
calling for her once, twice, before disappearing forever.)
No. He was here. Or back at the house.
She admitted no other possibilities.
She dug her knee into the
ground and moved forward with
a grunt. A strong barb caught her shoulder, digging deep.
“Ow,” she said, whimpering. She tried to lower her
body to free herself from the barb, but it seemed stuck. She
brought her left hand back and reached behind her. She
grabbed the mesh, and seeing no other choice, she pushed
it away. The metal spike pulled through her skin, tearing it.
She felt the blood trickle down her side, tiny rivulets drop-
ping to the ground.
Then forward again, until she was almost free, almost
on the other side.
She felt something move.
Below her.
A tickling sensation at first, almost pleasant. A gentle
vibration under her prone body. She heard more popping
sounds, quiet noises, like the sound summer puffballs
make when you squeeze the bulbs, releasing thousands of
spores into the daylight.
The popping seemed to pick up intensity, and she
started moving forward.
192
m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o
Then the tickling turned into a rougher movement,
something snaking out from under her. She looked at her
left hand.
It was lying flat on the ground, palm down, surrounded
by the tiny blackish fungi, ugly dotlike things. She watched
them pop open then, and after a pause snaky tendrils came
out and crawled over her hand. Then along her arm, and
her other arm. She raised her head a few inches above the
muck and looked to her left and to her right.
The ground near her was filled with thousands of them.
She watched them open up—dozens of tendrils waving in
the air, hesitating for a moment before falling onto her
face, her neck.
(And, sweet God, all along her body.)
“Please,” she prayed. She tried to move backward, out
from under the mesh. But her struggling did nothing.
The tendrils landed and pulled her down to the ground,
real close. And the popping went on, until the noise grew
horrible and the tendrils crisscrossed her face in layers, and
all her horror-struck eyes could see was a tiny chink in the
weblike lattice that now covered her face.
She moaned. She tried to scream, but the tiny vines that
covered her mouth congealed, growing into a rigid cast that
reduced her to inchoate mumblings.
One nostril was still open enough to suck in desperate
snorts of air. Then more tendrils landed, and there was
nothing.
Her muscles quivered against the ground. Her legs,
arms, chest all spasmed uncontrollably.
The tiny black threads tightened just a bit more.
Then all was still again.
Dan went to the door. The minuscule fish-eye lens gave
him a distorted fun-house view of the parking lot. Whoever
was there stood to the side, just out of sight.
b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s
193
He took a breath and opened the door. And saw Billy
Leeper.
“Hi, Dan. I hope I didn’t wake you or anything.”
Dan let his breath out. Leeper stood in the yellowish
glow of the motel’s parking-lot lamps. Big winged moths,
not deterred, darted around the doorway.
“You gave me a start, Bill. I’ll say that.” Dan opened the
door all the way. “I’ve been plowing through your note-
books. . . . I guess they’re getting me a tad edgy.”
Leeper walked past Dan into the room, looking at the
notebooks on the bed, then at Dan’s diving gear. “That’s
why I came. Believe me, I didn’t want to.”
Dan shut the door. “I was just beginning to wonder if
I’d ever get the story pieced together.”
Leeper nodded.
“Drink?” Dan asked.
Leeper smiled. “Never touch the stuff.” He tapped his
skull. “I like being aware all the time.”
“Sure,” Dan said, pouring himself another drink. “Me,
there’s plenty of times I’d prefer not being aware. Have a
seat,” he said, gesturing to an ugly green chair standing in-
congruously near his diving gear.
He saw Leeper dig into his shirt pocket and pull out a
crumpled photo. “I’d prefer to stand, thank you. It’s been a
long drive from Montauk, sitting on my behind. I found
this . . . a couple of hours after you left. Must have come
loose, slid behind the shelf.” Leeper handed him the photo.
“Maybe it was fate,” he said, laughing.
Dan unfolded it. It was a professionally done portrait of
a young man—thirty, thirty-five years old, dressed in a gray
pin-striped suit. His dark hair was slicked back, and a ciga-
rette was held for effect. The man in the picture had a confi-
dent, powerful smile as he looked right at the camera.
“Nice picture. Who is it?”
Leeper walked over to the bed and picked up one of the
notebooks. He flipped it open to a page and pointed.
194
m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o
“The photo belongs right here.” He pointed to the page
with the question mark.
“The fifth man,” Dan said. “I was wondering what hap-
pened to it.”
Leeper was nervous, pacing the room with the notebook
held tight in his hand. “The fifth man.” He smiled. “You
know, for a long time I didn’t know who the hell he was.
He covered his tracks real well. Records removed, editions
of the paper missing, but I found out, years later, of course,
who he was.”
(Once again Dan wondered about Leeper’s sanity. He
was a man obsessed, completely absorbed.)
“And?”
Leeper grinned proudly. “Why, he’s the one that got
away, Dan . . . a lawyer, wouldn’t you know it. Mr. Martin
Parks, Esquire.”
Dan sat down on the bed. “I’m afraid you’re losing me,
Bill. I’ve another eight notebooks or so to go, and although
I feel something strange going on here, I haven’t a damn
clue as to what it might be.”
“Tired?” Leeper asked.
Dan shook his head. “Not at all.”
“You know, I probably knew all along I’d end up
here . . . as much as I didn’t want to. Sometimes there are
jobs you just gotta do . . . no matter how much you want
them to go away.”
He paused and walked over to the picture window. He
pulled back the curtain.
“So that’s why I’m here. But if I’m going to tell you the
story, Dan, I’m going to tell it to you on the move. C’mon,
let’s take a drive.”
“Now? I’m not so sure I’m in any condition to—”
“I’ll drive. You just listen. But no more drinking, friend.
Your turn comes later.” Leeper walked over and pressed a
hand on Dan’s shoulder. “You see, you, too, got a job
b e n e a t h s t i l l w a t e r s
195
dropped in your lap, Dan. And I’m afraid it just won’t go
away.”
It was Thursday morning. Two a.m.
Joshua curled up tightly, pulling his Popple—half basket-
ball
and half furry alien—sleepily to his face.
For some reason the hard floor felt comfortable. He had
climbed down from his loft bed and had arranged the
sleeping bag over his body like a tent.
He hadn’t heard his mother come into his room, pat his
bed, then quickly run out. So he slept peacefully here, in
the dark, in the corner of his room, till dawn.
“It started, hard to believe, as a club.”
They were in Leeper’s jeep, a shabby-looking relic that
moved along the Taconic Parkway, heading upstate with
surprising speed.
Dan sat back in the passenger seat, his window wide
open.
“There were five of them . . . pillars of the community
and all that. I don’t know how it actually started, but they
got together to talk about the future of Gouldens Falls. At
least that’s what they did at first.”
Dan looked at Leeper, his eyes on the road, but also
looking beyond, out to something else.
“Just a bunch of town boosters they were, Dr. Samuel
Hustis, Thomas Raine, Jonathan Reynolds, Wallace Pfister,
and the fifth man—Martin Parks. Took me a while to find
him. They were sort of like the Kiwanis or something.”
“Sounds pretty harmless.” There was no real traffic on
the highway, only an occasional car heading south. The full
moon gave shape to the gentle curve of the hills.
“And it was. Until 1934. That’s when Dr. Samuel Hustis
196
m a t t h e w j . c o s t e l l o
met some doctors in Manhattan, wealthy society doctors
studying some new methods in medicine, some kind of
mental-healing mumbo jumbo. Dr. Hustis got involved with
them. And through them he met Aleister Crowley.”
“Crowley? That rings a bell. Should I know him?”
“That depends, Dan. Crowley was the world’s authority
on black magic and the occult in the twenties and thirties.
His nickname was the Great Beast.”
“Oh, brother.”
Leeper looked over to him. “He was a master of the
‘dark art,’ as Crowley called it. He was considered—still
is, actually—to be a harmless crackpot. He wrote a lot of
books, sacrificed some goats with his jaded London fol-
lowers. When he died, he was a quaint relic of a more
gullible era.”
“So how does he connect with the Club?”
“Dr. Hustis met him, read his work, and then went fur-
ther. He was a brilliant man, and he tried things Crowley
only talked about. He spent a summer in Europe research-