Late at Night by William Schoell Page B

represented, described physically and characteristically, with such near-perfection, was simply incredible. Ernie knew it all had to be one wild, improbable, implausible, but nonetheless undeniable coincidence. That’s all that it possibly could be. The only other explanation he could think of—and it seemed senseless—was that John Everson read or wrote the book, or knew who wrote it, and for some reason gathered together people who would correspond to the characters in the novel. But that every character would have a real-life counterpart who also happened to know John or Lynn was simply unbelievable. And why bother getting them together in the first place? No, it all had to be an absurd coincidence, one of life’s bizarre happenstances, nothing more. Yet why had the book even been on the island, on that bookshelf where he could find it? He shivered— why did it have to be a horror novel? Couldn’t it have been a nice, safe romance or something? Alison Petrie and Andrew Tennington fall in love and uncover the mystery of Hargity—in the book it was called Hargity Island—while “Glenda Borrance“ (Glo Bordette) and the others have an orgy on the beach. Yes, that would have been so much nicer.
    He anxiously turned the pages, hoping to come upon obvious contradictions or fallacies that would immediately confirm that the book was an eerie coincidence and nothing more. But the more he read the more he was convinced that there was something strange and inexplicable going on. He yawned. God, he was getting tired, really tired in both body and mind, not just enervated as before. Funny, how suddenly this fatigue had come upon him. He wiped his eyes, but the blurriness wouldn’t go away. Then he read a passage that nearly brought him back to full alertness. “Why is there blood all over me?” she kept screaming. Mrs. Pelling said, “Over and over again: ‘Why is there blood all over me?’ The poor girl. But once we calmed her down and put her to bed, we looked her over and couldn’t find a single injury, not a mark upon her. Yet she was convinced she was bleeding.”
    The cook, “Mary Pelling,” was explaining to her employer and his guests why the housekeeper had had a fit earlier in the evening.
    “Says she saw something horrible in the mirror when she got out of the shower,” Mrs. Pelling said, her eyes wide and frightened.
    “Oh, this is just too much,” Ernie said out loud. He was really getting a case of the creeps. He was afraid to read the next chapter. What if it described “Andrew’s” walk down the beach with “Alison.” This was crazy! How could anyone have guessed what was going to happen? Maybe this Max Schumann was a psychic like Andrea.
    But did that mean that the bloodshed and death promised on the back cover was also going to come true?
    Ernie couldn’t shake the numb, chilling feeling in his chest. The book had taken on a macabre, sinister quality. It was the setting, too. Lammerty Island’s scary reputation made him almost willing to believe that this book was an object sent from the spirit world, the astral plane, whatever they called it, to torment him. If he had picked up a book back in New York, discovered it took place in his building, his apartment, and that the main character was himself, it would have been frightening enough. But to have it happen on this island was enough to make his blood freeze.
    Relax, Thesinger, he told himself. You’re a sensible, rational person. Don’t let it throw you. There has to be a logical, rational explanation.
    But there was nothing logical or rational about it.
    He quickly skimmed the next couple of chapters. Yep—there was Andrew and Alison walking to the ship. It was written from Andrea’s point of view, and Ernie suddenly realized what she must have been going through back there. Had she really picked up the thoughts, the terror, from drowning strangers, the agony and horror of their underwater deaths? Was that what it was like for