Boathouse Romance by Rod Drake
	When something's dead, it should stay dead. But Clem's rotting corpse didn't know that, I guess. Moving too fast for something so long dead, his grayish, mottled hand grabbed Holly’s arm. She screamed like the devil himself had hold of her, and maybe he did. Luckily Clem had trapped us in the boathouse. It offered the only weapon that might possibly stop him. Finding the flare gun, I broke it open, dropped in a cartridge and aimed the pistol directly at Clem’s decaying chest. Holly realized my purpose and somehow twisted free of his slimy grasp for just a moment. It was all I needed. "Go back to hell," I whispered hoarsely in my best Clint Eastwood impression. I fired the charge, which exploded in bright magnesium light. Clem became a walking Roman candle, screaming and swearing like the damned soul he was. He staggered out of the boathouse, down the old dock, until his blackened, smoldering skeleton collapsed, crumbling into dust only inches from the lake. I held a shaken, stunned Holly close to me. One hell of a first date.
	Copyright © 2006 Rod Drake