The Tent, 1971, pt. 5

We ran pell-mell towards Riverside, making for the edge of the ravine leading down to the creek, to the relative safety of the bushes and trees – exactly where we would be expected to go. As we charged towards the edge, I noticed a nearby house surrounded by a tall dark green hedge. I gestured towards it and as I was in the lead, the rest followed without the usual argument.

We cut through a narrow gap and collapsed into the shadows, trying desperately to get our breathing under control. I could dimly see the road through the slight opening and lay peering into the darkness, waiting for it to happen.

And it did. 

After two, maybe three minutes tops, I noticed a white, spherical object appear around a curve in the road, slowing moving in our direction. I knew what it was before I could make it out clearly and as it drew closer, I saw that it was indeed a human head, a Floater.

“What’s happening,” Rickie wanted to know, but I silenced him with a noiseless smack to the side of his hard head.

The man’s face was thin, almost cadaverous; the pale skin was pock-marked and he needed a shave. The bulging eyes had a reddish-glint, his mop of black hair flowing out behind him as he moved through the warm, night air. I had seen him before, on more than one occasion and the thought that he might know me, know me by sight, know who I was, was terrifying. 

As I watched in petrified silence, I could see his small nose flaring, as if he was sniffing the air and I wondered, in sheer horror, if he could scent us (and I was sure we had probably left a pretty ripe trail). He coasted along the edge of the ravine and I saw I was right, that he had figured we would have taken to the creek and its many trails -- where he could attack at will. A car drove by and he floated into the shadows, only to emerge once the street was clear.

He was heading inexorably in our direction, his movements reminding me vaguely of a nightmare or bad dream I had had many, many years ago.

We were trapped.

Photo credit: scp-wiki

An sky blue 68 Cougar pulled up in front of one of the houses across from the ravine; it looked like there were a couple of guys sitting in the front seats; sitting and talking and not in any hurry to move from their position. I couldn’t hear what they were talking about, just voices, but I could hear the car radio and even recognized the song that was playing: “Black Magic Woman” by Santana.

The floater had completely disappeared into the shadows, although I thought I caught a glimpse of something white flash through the trees near the curve.

“C’mon,” I whispered, pushing my way back through the hedge, heading in the opposite direction from that taken by our pursuer. We ran lightly, along the grass at the edge of the lawns rather than on the hard asphalt, in an effort to keep the noise down. We looked for cars constantly, but now we were not just wary of Ford Galaxies but were also on the lookout for vintage Buicks.

We made it back without incident and didn’t leave the tent for the rest of the night, sleeping instead of talking.

Talking might attract things.

Things we didn't want to meet.

Ever.