GHOUL

BRIAN KEENE

Prologue 

Pat Kemp had his T-shirt off before he'd even closed the car door behind him. The night's breeze brushed against his back. He tossed the shirt onto the car' s still hot hood. By the time they reached a good, flat, secluded spot, Karen had slipped hers off, too. Pat ' s eyes were drawn to her again and again. She spread the blanket out on the wet grass, right between the tombstones, while Pat pulled another beer off the dwindling six-pack of Old Milwaukee pounders. The cans were starting to get warm in the muggy June heat.
He popped the tab. It sounded loud in the darkness. White foam bubbled around the rim. Pat took a sip and sighed in frustration.
"This place gives me the creeps. I still don't see why we can't just do it in the car."
Giggling, Karen gracefully stepped out of her sandals and lay down on the blanket.
She arched her back, thrusting her breasts forward. They swelled against the 2 fabric of her bra. She stretched like a cat, crossing and then uncrossing her long, slender legs.
"Because I like-being outside. I like the stars, and the dark. It's romantic."
The moon hung full in the sky like a watchful yellow eye. It reflected off the stained glass windows of Karen's father' s church. Each window bore a scene from the New Testament; the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus walking on water, bathing someone s feet, riding on a donkey, the crucifixion and the resurrection. Hell, maybe the His eye, the Almighty Peeping tom. Doing it in the shadow of those windows, it felt like the Lord really was watching (not that Pat believed in Him); secretly, he thought that same impression might have more to do with Karen s insistence that they do it here, in the shadow of the church, than her romantic notions ever had. This was one way of getting back at her preacher daddy --by getting back at his God. Not that she' d ever admit it. Pat wondered if she was even aware of the secret reason for her compulsion. Probably not. Afternoon Phil Donahue talk show psychology aside, she was also just as horny as he was.
But why did it have to be in the graveyard? Irritated, he glanced around at the tombstones.
It seemed wrong, somehow, fucking on top of dead people. Hell of a way to spend a Friday night.
Karen licked her lips. They glistened in the darkness, red and inviting.
Pat took another sip of beer, eyeing her breasts, concealed only by her skimpy bra, and the way her long, blond hair spilled over her bare shoulders. She didn' t tease her hair way up high, as most of the other girls in school were doing now, and Pat liked that. Her skin looked pale, almost milky, in the light of the moon, 3 and that made her full lips seem even redder. Karen's nipples stiffened beneath the fabric as he watched, and despite his annoyance with her, he grew hard.
It was in his nature. Pat was eighteen.
"Besides," Karen continued, slowly unfastening her bra and tossing it aside, "we do it all the time in your car. There' s not enough room. I get cramps in my neck and hips."
He glanced back at the Nova, paid for with his college money (the savings bonds his grandparents had bought for him every birthday since he was two years old), because there was no way Pat was ever going to make it to college. His dad worked at the paper mill, like most of the men (and many of the women) in town, and the union had been on strike most of last year. They were still recovering financially from that.
Money was tight, and his parents couldn t afford the cost. His grades were mediocre, and so was his athletic ability too much smoking, tobacco and otherwise. That black Chevy Nova with the chrome magnum wheels represented all he had in the world. Pat worked part-time at the hardware store, after school and on weekends, to pay for the insurance and gas. He figured he' d probably work there after graduation, too, maybe even go full-time. In fact, he was certain of it. Graduation was next week. The Spring Grove Area High School' s Class of 1984 was about to be unleashed on the world. School was over, except for finals. The junior high, intermediate, and elementary schools had all finished up that day. Summer had arrived. Might as well enjoy it while he could. Pat had no illusions.
He 'd get a brief respite, and then it was work, work, work-- until retirement or alcohol 's soft middle age, whichever came first, made him old before his time.
Just like his dad. Or dead, like Pat's older brother, 4 who'd been killed in Vietnam two weeks before America finally pulled out the troops.
Next week, after they graduated, many of Pat's friends would head for Ocean City, Maryland, for their senior trip. They' d get drunk and stoned and laid for a week, then come home to do more of the same before college. A few of the preppie kids were going to Fort Lauderdale (he supposed the preppies would also be partying), and Dave McCormick and Jeremy Statler were going to boot camp. Hell, even some of the underclassmen were heading for the beach to party, including his friend Nick Wagner, who wouldn 't graduate until next year--but even he was going. While everybody else was having fun, doing something exciting, going through the ritual passage from high school into young adulthood, Pat was staying home to work. This moonlit tryst with Karen in the middle of the Golgotha Lutheran Church Cemetery was the extent of his senior trip.
And when Karen peeled off her shorts and he saw those white panties, and the soft tuft of blond hair sticking out from beneath them, he didn't care.
Karen noticed his sharp intake of breath. She smiled.
"You want me?"
Pat nodded. "You know I do."
"Only because you can sleep with me," she teased. "You don't really love me."
"Yes I do," he lied. In truth, he didn't love her, or at least he didn't think he did. Pat wasn't sure he'd ever been in love. Maybe in fifth grade, when he' d stared at Marsha Morrell all day long because she was so pretty, but that was more puppy love than the romance he ' d seen in the movies and heard others talk about. Pat and Karen had been dating since their junior year. They 'd gone to the prom together (at her insistence- 5 and oh how his buddies from shop class had laughed at him for it), and homecoming, and saw each other every weekend, but despite all that, he didn' t love her. Pat stayed with Karen because she liked to have sex as much as he did.
Pat pulled off his shoes (black and white Vans with a skull and crossbones pattern) and gym socks, and stood barefoot in the wet grass. Prince's Purple Rain cassette played softly on the Nova' s tape deck, drifting through the night. Personally, Pat fucking hated Prince, almost as much as he hated Duran Duran and Culture Club. But right now, Prince was hot.
Smoking hot. He was all over the radio and MTV (Pat didn ' t have cable yet, but one of his friends did, and they spent a lot of time getting stoned and watching MTV). Karen loved Prince. She 'd made him take her to see the movie three weeks earlier, and he' d almost fallen asleep (except during the part when Apollonia got naked and the segments with that bad-ass purple motorcycle). He was into Iron Maiden and Judas Priest and Quiet Riot and his brother ' s old Deep Purple and Black Sabbath albums. Those albums were all Pat had left of him. But if you lived in the suburbs, you were practically issued a copy of Purple Rain or 1999, and besides, the chicks dug Prince, especially Karen, and especially Purple Rain, so he kept a copy hidden under his dash. Nothing put Karen in the mood quite like beer, a little weed, and "Darling Nikki."
Just like now.
"Come here. Lay down with me."
Smiling, she reached up and took his hand. Her fingers were cool. Sensuous. The light touch of her fingernails tickled his skin. He felt himself stiffen in response. Karen began to sing along with the song, something about masturbating with a magazine.
Draining the beer and tossing the can aside, he let Karen pull him down next to her on the blanket. They embraced, lying side by side, legs entwining around each other, arms and hands exploring, mapping, and pleasing. She kissed him hungrily, her mouth open and wet, her tongue gliding across his. Her hands slid down to his jeans, while Pat gently cupped her breasts, feeling her nipples stiffen between his thumbs and forefingers. Karen unbuckled his pants, unzipped his fly, and Pat arched his hips so that she could remove his jeans all together. His penis poked out of his boxer shorts, and Karen 's eyes sparkled.
Jesus, he thought. She gets hornier every time we do it.
She removed her panties, then lay back and spread her legs. Her wetness glistened in the moonlight. Hastily, Pat fished a condom out of his discarded pants and tore at the wrapper. He couldn 't get it open. Frantic, he ripped the cellophane with his teeth.
Karen giggled, her hand stroking him, keeping him hard.
Pat put on the condom and moved between her legs, then slid inside and sighed. He closed his eyes as her warmth surrounded him.
Did he love her? No. But he loved this. Loved being inside her. And if these really were the best days of his life (as his boss at the hardware store kept insisting they were), then this was a fine way to end them.
On the Nova's tape deck, "Darling Nikki" blurred into "When Doves Cry."
Karen watched him as he slowly thrust in and out of her in time with the music (though she doubted he realized it). Pat never looked at her when they made love. Oh, he kissed her, held her close, whispered her name. When he came, he 'd squeeze her so tightly that she couldn't breathe. Occasionally, he'd talk to her; 7 breathless, nonsensical promises and praise, all uttered in the heat of the moment.
Pillow talk, her girlfriends called it, though Karen had always thought it sounded more like baby talk.
But when he made her feel the way she felt now, Karen didn't mind--even if the act itself turned him into a child, rather than a man-- because this was when she felt alive. Her best friend, Becky Schrum, had asked her several times over the past year why she dated Pat. Karen could have her pick of any guy in school. Why stay with this shop class loser whose main activities involved smoking marijuana behind the shop class and listening to Motley Crue tapes all night long? It was because of the way she felt when he touched her. Pat ' s fingers were electric. His eyes drank her in, worshiped her. Let her know she existed, was the center of his attention.
Karen Moore was a middle child. Her older sister, Kathy, was in her third year at Boston College, much to the delight of Karen' s mother. Her younger sister, Katie, eleven years old, was heavily involved in the church youth group, which pleased Karen 's father, the Golgotha Lutheran Church's minister. Karen' s interests and activities excited neither of her parents. Her good grades were met with casual disinterest rather than enthusiasm. The school plays she participated in (A Midsummer Night 's Dream this year and Dracula the year before) were not attended by either of her parents, who always cited previous obligations with their other two daughters.
Have a nice time dear, and break a leg.
The only time her father took an interest in her was when he cautioned her, frequently, against the perils of premarital sex and taking drugs, and how listening to Madonna and Prince was a fast track to hell. They ' d had an argument about those very things earlier that evening.
Pat paid attention to her, and more, he provided the very same things that her father warned against--sex and drugs. She knew he didn' t love her, but that was okay, because Karen didn ' t love Pat, either. He was a means to an end, a stopgap measure. Someone to hold her over until she left for college in the fall (no Boston for her -- Karen was attending York Community College). Between now and then, she hoped to get an apartment in York and move out from under her sisters ' shadows. Eventually, she hoped to meet someone else in college, someone who really loved her and who she really loved, someone who could take her away from all of her indifference once and for all.
Becky's boyfriend, Adam Senit, had jokingly asked Karen the other day if she felt like an adult (Becky and Adam wouldn' t graduate until next year). Karen had said no, that she didn 't feel any different. No different at all.
And she didn' t, except now, when Pat tensed, muscles coiled as he approached orgasm. It was times like this that she felt something. Felt noticed. Needed. Wanted. That she was valued and important. It was that emotion, that sense of worth, that urged her own orgasm along.
A rock dug into her back from beneath the blanket. She barely felt it.
Karen closed her eyes and held her breath as she came.
Pat opened his own eyes, his head thrown back against the night sky, his breathing harsh, his moans drowning out Prince.
Karen's hips bucked beneath him as she felt him explode. Pat' s body went limp, sagging against her. Karen lay still, panting. She nuzzled his chest. Pat flipped his sweaty bangs away from his eyes and sighed.
"That was all right."
She giggled into his chest hair.
Pat wondered where he'd left his cigarettes. Still lying on top of Karen, he glanced around--and froze.
Somebody was watching them.
A figure crouched atop a tombstone twenty yards away. The darkness hid its features.
Pat couldn' t tell if it was male or female, young or old. It sat still, frozen like stone. Despite the shadows surrounding it, the voyeur seemed to give off a pale, faint glow.
Karen felt Pat's entire body stiffen, but this time, it was very different than when they' d been making love. Pat pulled out of her and she gasped. She hated that sudden empty feeling.
"What's wrong?"
"Someone's watching us. Spying."
"Where?"
"Over there."
He peered into the darkness, trying to discern a face, even just the eyes, but the figure was still concealed in shadow. Again he noticed the muted glow. It seemed to be coming from the figure itself.
"Hey," Pat shouted at the voyeur. "What the hell you doing, man?"
The figure didn't respond, didn't move.
Karen sat up and grabbed her shirt, trying to cover herself with it.
Pat jumped to his feet, his hands curled into fists. "What's your problem, pal? You looking to get your ass kicked?"
Somewhere in the forest bordering the cemetery, an owl called out. The chirping insects fell silent.
Karen looked at what Pat was shouting at. Then she began to laugh. She slapped the blanket with one palm and howled.
"You think this is funny?" Exasperated, he glanced down at her.
Laughing louder, Karen pulled on her panties and fastened her bra. Pat' s penis was already going limp, and the condom drooped the end. The sight brought a fresh round of giggles.
"What's wrong with you?"
"It's a statue, dummy." She pointed. "I saw it when we came in. One of those stone angels that people put on top of their tombstones. A life-sized one."
On the tape deck, Prince's "When Doves Cry" segued into "I Would Die For You."
"A statue?" Embarrassed, Pat looked back at the carved figure.
It was gone.
"It's not there anymore."
Not looking up, Karen said, "Quit messing around. I'm losing my buzz."
"I ain't--"
Then the stench hit him.
When he was ten years old, Pat rode his bike to the Colonial Valley Flea Market one Sunday afternoon, where he bought Bucky Dent and Rick Dempsey rookie cards for five cents each. On his way home, the cards slipped out of his bag. He ' d stopped to gather them, and noticed a soda bottle along the side of the road. A mouse, attracted by the sweetness inside, had crawled into the bottle, but was unable to get out. Eventually, it died in there, and the hot sun had cooked it along the side of the road. When Pat experimentally tipped the bottle upside down, the mouse turned to liquid and oozed out of the opening. The stench was incredible, strong enough to make his eyes water. He 'd picked up his cards and rode home, sick to 11 his stomach for the rest of the day. He'd never smelled anything more revolting in his life.
Until now, and this was much worse.
It smelled like something rotting in an open grave.
Karen's eyes grew wide, staring at something behind him. She screamed.
Before Pat could turn around, something slammed into him from behind, knocking him to the ground. A crushing weight bore down on his back, pressing the air from his lungs. He struggled, but couldn ' t move. The stench was overpowering now. A massive, clawed hand closed around his head and smashed his face into the ground. Before the dirt obscured his vision, he caught a glimpse of wicked black talons, long and curved and caked with dirt. Mud filled Pat ' s ears and nose as his face was pressed deeper into the earth.
Karen's screams grew frantic.
Pat managed to get his head free. He opened his mouth, drew a breath, and tried to shout at Karen, to tell her to run, to head for the caretaker' s house and call the cops, but before he could, the hand returned. It was cold against his cheek; the flesh felt like cottage cheese. The hand was also coated with translucent slime.
His attacker bashed Pat's head against a tombstone, once, twice. Hard. His face went numb and his vision blurred. It didn' t hurt, really, which surprised him. On the third strike, Pat heard a cracking sound, and wondered what it was. The sound was very loud. He felt warm -- and sleepy. And then he knew no more, and the best days of Pat Kemp 's life became his last.
Karen screamed in terror, watching her boyfriend's brains drip off the bloody tombstone.
The bloated figure laughed, looming over her, naked flesh pale and 12 white in the moonlight. Slime dripped from its malformed limbs. Something monstrous dangled between its legs, bobbing and swaying like a hairy serpent. The attacker was human in shape --two arms, two legs, a head. But that was where all similarities ended. Its smell assailed her senses.
"P-please..."
The thing between the creature's legs stiffened, pointing toward her like a magnet.
Whimpering, Karen shrank away, scampering backward like a crab.
She did not get far.
In the darkness, Prince sang, but only the dead were around to hear it.
An hour later, another figure crept through the cemetery, carrying a flashlight.
The auto-reverse feature on the car' s stereo had recycled the Prince cassette back to side two again. The title track ' s mournful guitar solo wailed at full volume, reaching its thunderous crescendo.
Grumbling, the figure turned the stereo off. The cemetery was silent once more. The figure searched the tops of the tombstones until it found what it was looking for:  jewelry -- most belonging to the two teenagers, and some to others. Pocketing the loot, the figure turned to the task at hand.
A cloud passed over the moon, and the night grew darker. The figure glanced upward and shivered.
Then the figure collected their gore-covered clothing and blanket, empty beer cans, cigarette butts, and other belongings, and put it all in the trunk of the car. The few remains of Pat 's body were tossed on top of the pile, and the figure slammed the trunk. Then it scrubbed Pat' s blood and brains off the tombstone. Its stomach churned as it completed the grisly task. Red water turned pink, then clear. Finished, the figure emptied the 13 bucket far away from the crime scene. Returning, it got behind the wheel of the Nova, started the vehicle, and drove away. The headlights were off. The driver went slowly, so that there would be no need for the brakes, and therefore no telltale flashing brake lights, which might be glimpsed by a late-night passerby --somebody coming home from a late shift at the paper mill, or last call at the Whistle Stop, or kids sneaking around when they should be in bed.
Darkness swallowed the car. The only sign that it had ever been there were two deep tire ruts in the grass. The graveyard was deserted again, and when the owl hooted a second time, there was nobody around to hear it.
Not even the dead.
Chapter One It was the first day of summer vacation, and Timmy Graco' s mind swam with the possibilities. Excitement and fun and really cool adventures awaited him for the next three months. There were miles of forest yet to be explored, bike rides to make down to the newsstand to buy his weekly fix of comic books, fishing to do at the local pond, camping out and telling ghost stories --and especially hanging out in the clubhouse.
And it all started with this--Saturday morning cartoons.
The milk in his bowl had turned into sugary, multicolored sludge. Timmy ate another spoonful of Fruity Pebbles, stared at the television with rapt attention, and tried to ignore his father.
"Timothy, did you hear me?" Randy Graco raised his voice, competing with the television's volume.
Timmy nodded, pushing his dark bangs out of his 15 eyes. "Yes, Dad. Weed the garden. I'll do it when Thundarr is over."
Thundarr the Barbarian was Timmy's favorite Saturday morning show, having replaced The Herculoids and Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle before them, and Land of the Lost before that. (The Bugs Bunny and Daffy Show, of course, remained his all-time reigning champion, however.) Two of his favorite comic book creators, Steve Gerber and Jack Kirby, worked on Thundarr, and Timmy was addicted to the program. Many of the kids at school argued that He-Man and the Masters of the Universe was better, but Timmy merely laughed at them. They were novices. He was a cartoon connoisseur.
"No," his father argued, his tone still patient, but bordering on something else.
"You'll do it now. No arguments."
"Dad ..." It was very hard to hear the TV.
"If you want an allowance to buy comic books and play those stupid video games, then you' re going to have to work outside and around the house. Those are the rules."
Timmy's grandfather, who sat next to him on the couch, sighed.
"Oh, why don't you lay off him, Randy? It' s the first day of summer vacation. Thundarr and Ookla the Mok are fighting the Rat People. He can weed the garden later."
"You stay out of this. I'll decide what's best for my boy."
"I can't stay out of it," the old man said. "You're doing it in here while I'm trying to watch my cartoons. I can't hear anything with you talking."
A commercial came on for a toy Timmy didn't want.
He watched it anyway, feigning interest. He felt the tension in the air. His father and grandfather glared at one another. Then his grandfather coughed and looked back at the television.
Timmy's father spoke slowly, the same way he did to Timmy when he was in trouble.
"Dad, I really wish you wouldn' t undermine my authority around the house. We agreed that if you were going to live here with us, that you 'd respect Elizabeth's and my--"
"Shush." Timmy's grandfather cut him off. "How many times do I have to tell you?
We can't hear this with you talking."
Timmy suppressed a smile.
"Never mind," Randy Graco grumbled. "I'll do it myself." He glared at them both and stomped to the door. "But this isn't over. I' m not putting up with this all summer."
After he was gone, Timmy and his grandfather glanced at one another and laughed.
In the kitchen, Timmy's mother' s radio played softly, a song by Dolly Parton, one of Elizabeth Graco 's favorites. Outside, they heard Randy open the garage door.
"Thanks, Grandpa."
"Don't mention it. Besides, this is more important. Wish they'd had stuff like this when I was your age."
"What did you watch on TV?"
"Watch? We didn't watch anything--didn't even own a television. We listened to the radio. We had programs, too, but not like this."
Timmy frowned, trying to imagine listening to Thunder on the radio, rather than the stuff they usually played-- Michael Jackson and Cyndi Lauper and Huey Lewis and the News and Journey and "Come On Eileen" by Dexy ' s Midnight Runners. Timmy was just starting to discover music. Iron Maiden. Twisted Sister. Sugar Hill 17
Gang. Duran Duran. The Eurythmics. Van Halen. And new underground metal bands like Metallica, Slayer, and Anthrax, which some kids from shop class had turned him on to. Older stuff like Rush 's 2112 and Black Sabbath's Mob Rules and Dio' s solo material. One of the kids at school had shown him that if you turned Dio 's album cover upside-down, it spelled out "Devil." Timmy wasn't sure what particular type of music he liked yet, but he knew it wasn' t "Come On Eileen." That song was only good for dirty jokes on the playground.
"Nope," his grandfather repeated, "no shows like this."
"What kind of programs did you have?" Timmy asked.
His grandfather frowned. "Well, let's see. There was The Shadow. You would have liked it. Green Hornet and Lights Out. The Lone Ranger. Amos and Andy.
Oh, and Superman, of course."
"Superman was around then?"
"He was indeed. No Thundarr, though."
"You like him better?"
"Oh, yeah." His grandfather's voice dropped to a whisper. "Superman's a pussy."
The two laughed at the forbidden word.
Timmy's grandmother had passed away five years earlier. Although he didn' t admit it out loud, Timmy sometimes had trouble remembering her, especially her voice, and that made him sad. Dane Graco, father of Randy and grandfather to Timmy, had been living with them for the past nine months. A misstep on a ladder while hanging Christmas lights had led to a broken hip, followed by a near fatal bout of pneumonia.
Compounded with his heart condition and general waning health, Timmy 's parents had moved him into their house rather than having him live by himself, or 18 worse, putting him in an old folk's home. He'd taken the spare room at the end of the hall, right next to his grandson's.
Timmy loved his grandfather and enjoyed spending time with him. He seemed so cool, so different than other adults, especially other old people. He didn' t talk down to Timmy or treat him like a kid. His grandfather still had a sense of humor. He spoke to Timmy as an equal, and was genuinely interested in the things Timmy liked. Watching Saturday morning cartoons together was just one of their weekly rituals.
Timmy' s father, Randy, worked seven days a week shift work at the paper mill, the same place most of the men in town found employment. Mr. Messinger, who owned the newsstand where Timmy and his two best friends, Doug Keiser and Barry Smeltzer, bought their weekly fix of comic books, had once told them that if the paper mill went out of business, the entire town would dry up and blow away. All of the other businesses in town, the dry cleaners, the bars, Genova ' s Pizza, the grocery store, the post office, the hardware store, Old Forge Service Station, and even the churches, lived and died on how well the mill was doing. If it had a bad quarter, the town itself had a bad quarter. The union had gone on strike last year, and when management hadn ' t budged, the walkout had stretched on for ten months. Timmy remembered riding his bike through town and seeing his father walking the picket line. He ' d seemed tired and beaten; shuffling along like the zombies in a movie Timmy had watched late one night on Channel 43, Dawn of the Dead. Timmy remembered his father complaining about scabs, and how he' d thought it funny at the time, until they explained to him what scabs actually were.
Timmy still wasn't sure he understood it all. The scabs had families, too, and needed to work to support them.
When the strike was finally over, the Gracos' savings, like the savings of so many others, had dwindled down to nothing. As a result, for the past year his father had been working the extended shift, eagerly taking all the time and a half he could get (while still working seven days a week) in an effort to earn back the money they ' d lost. His father was only home a few hours a day, and then he was either sleeping, working outside in the garden, mowing the lawn, or taking care of their chickens and other livestock. (Randy Graco played at being a part-time farmer and beekeeper.)
As a result, Timmy didn ' t see much of him. His mother, Elizabeth, was usually busy with housework, playing Bridge with her friends, or participating with the Spring Grove Ladies Auxiliary.
As a result, he spent more time with his grandfathe r than his parents. Despite Dane Graco' s flagging health and how quickly he grew tired, his grandfather took him fishing along Codorus Creek, for walks in nearby Bowman 's woods, and played Pitfall, Asteroids, and other video games on the Atari video game console.
Occasionally, when he was feeling up to it, Dane would drive the two of them into town and treat for two slices of pepperoni pizza at Genova's, where they' d feed quarter after quarter into the Galaga, Paperboy, and Mappy arcade machines until his grandfather ran out of change-- usually after ten dollars or so. Once, when his father was in a particularly good mood and had a rare day off, the four of them had driven to Baltimore to watch the Orioles play the Yankees. He and his grandfather had jeered the opposing team until his mother had made them both hush. On the way 20 home, the two of them had fallen asleep in the back of his parent's Aries K car.
When Timmy looked back on these moments, he smiled. He hoped that he never forgot them, the way he' d forgotten his grandmother. Forgetfulness seemed to be something that came with adulthood. Sometimes, when Timmy asked his parents about certain things from when they were growing up, they ' d say that they couldn 't remember. He'd noticed that other adults did this, too-- except for his grandfather. Timmy wanted to be just like him, and never forget. Not remembering his grandmother was bad enough. He couldn 't imagine forgetting the times spent with his grandfather, too.
Timmy knew how lucky he was. Yes, his father was stressed-out over his job, and that made him grumpy. And yes, his mother probably conceded to his father a little too much, especially when it came to decisions that affected Timmy -- decisions with which she often disagreed. But Timmy knew they loved him, just as his grandfather loved him. Things could be worse. At least his parents were still there, and at least they paid attention to him. His friend Doug Keiser ' s father had run off three years ago, vanishing from the Whistle Stop bar one night with a waitress in tow, as well as the family car and the contents of their checking and savings accounts. Doug 's mother had started drinking after that, and these days, that's all she seemed to do. She didn't work, just collected welfare checks-- and newspapers. And magazines. Soda cans. Junk mail. Coupons. Empty bottles. Like a pack rat, she stacked them up in ever increasing piles all over the house. The towering, precarious walls of debris formed pathways through the living room, dining room, and hallway. Except for Doug 's bedroom, their entire home smelled 21 like booze and mildew, and she kept the windows and shades closed all day, preferring the darkness. If Doug' s mother still loved her son, she had a funny way of showing it. She barely registered his presence most days, unless it was to holler at him for something. Doug was able to come and go as he pleased, simply because his mother didn 't notice he was missing. Worse, she paid more attention to Timmy and Barry-- too much attention. Sometimes, the way she touched them, or the way she smiled, or the things she said -- Timmy knew it was wrong. Fingers lingering on their arms just a little too long or licking her lips when she talked to them, arching her back to push her sagging breasts out. It was like the beginning to one of those letters in the Penthouse magazines they sometimes read. Probably their imagination. They knew that. And Doug certainly hadn 't noticed (or if he had, he' d never mentioned it). But still, sometimes it seemed like Carol Keiser was hitting on them. And that was just weird, because Carol Keiser was a grown-up.
Any time Timmy got mad at his parents, all he had to do to put things in perspective was think of Doug' s mother. That made things better, made him grateful for what he had. And if that didn 't work, there was always Barry's mom and dad to consider.
But none of the boys talked about what went on inside Barry' s house. Especially Barry. Timmy and Doug both knew, or could guess. If Timmy thought about it too long, he wanted to cry. But the facts themselves remained unspoken between them, just like Doug 's mom's odd behavior when drunk.
It was better that way. Some things were better left unsaid.
Doug and Timmy pretended they didn't see the bruises and cuts.
"And now back to ... Thundarr the Barbarian!"
The music swelled. With the commercials finally over, they turned their attention back to the screen.
"Haven't seen this one before," his grandfather grunted.
"I have. It's a rerun. The Rat People live down under the ground."
"Kind of like that underground clubhouse you boys built up there in the cemetery?"
Timmy was too startled to reply. Nobody, especially grown-ups, was supposed to know about the Dugout. It belonged to him, Barry, and Doug. They' d spent most of last summer building it; digging a hole deep enough to stand in and wide enough to give them all elbow room, covering the hole with thick wooden planks, designing the trap door, putting in an old stovepipe so that they 'd have air, and then covering the planks up with canvas they'd swiped from the Bowman' s barn and laying sod over the planks and canvas so that it was hidden from view.
Someone walking by wouldn 't have known it was there. They' d worked on it every day, from early in the morning until sundown. The boys were proud of their engineering marvel, agreed that it was the finest clubhouse ever built, and had spent their weekends last fall and this spring sitting inside it, reading comic books and back issues of Hustler and Gallery that Barry had stolen from his dad. Nobody else was supposed to know it existed.
His grandfather winked. "Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. I won't tell anybody."
"But how did you know about it?"
"Been taking my evening walk around the graveyard, cause that' s what the doctor said to do, and mostly to give your mom and dad a little time to themselves while you 're doing homework. Few weeks back, 23
I saw a covered stovepipe sticking out of the ground, right between the cemetery and Luke Jones' s pasture. Wondered to myself, what was that doing there? When I walked up to it, I noticed the ground seemed kind of springy under my feet. You can hear those planks thud, even with the sod on top of them. So I poked around some more and found that leather strap sticking out of the dirt. Pulled on it, and low and behold, there 's a secret hideout down under the ground."
"Man," Timmy whispered. "We thought nobody knew about it."
"They don't. Just me. Far as I know. And like I said, I won't tell. Left you boys a present. Didn't you wonder where the card table came from?"
He had, now that his grandfather mentioned it. Timmy had assumed that Barry or Doug rescued it from the town dump, another of their favorite hangouts. Unbeknownst to Timmy, they ' d assumed the same thing about him. None of them had mentioned it, accepting the new addition with the disregard common to all twelve-year-old boys.
"Thanks, Grandpa! That's awesome."
"Don't mention it. Though, if you don' t mind, I might stop in from time to time and take a peek at those dirty magazines you boys keep in that box. The ladies never looked like that back in my day."
They both laughed at this, and when Timmy' s mom came into the living room and asked them what was so funny, they laughed harder.
She walked away shaking her head.
"Listen," his grandfather said. "Don't be too hard on your old man, He means well."
Timmy frowned. "I know. But weeding the garden sucks."
"It does, indeed. But I used to make him do the 24 same thing when he was your age. He's just trying to do what he thinks is right.
Trying to be a father. That's hard work. And meanwhile, you' re trying to be a boy, and do what you think is right. That 's hard work, too. And those two things, being a father and being a son, they never seem to agree. Certainly didn' t when your father was twelve."
Timmy tried to imagine his father at his age, or his grandfather at his father's age, and found that he couldn't.
They watched Thundarr, Ookla, and Princess Ariel kick mutant butt, and both grinned.
Outside, they heard Elizabeth calling for Randy.
"Orwell was wrong," his grandfather said.
"Who's that?"
"George Orwell. He was a famous writer. You'll probably learn about him when you get a little older. He wrote a book called 1984.
Took place now, but back then, it was the future, of course. Society was supposed to be a bad place by the year 1984. Not a good time to be alive. But he was wrong.
These are the best times of them all."
Ten minutes after Thundarr ended, there was a knock at the front door. Timmy answered it. Doug stood in the doorway, panting and out of breath. His white, mud-splattered BMX Mongoose bike lay on its side in the yard. At twelve, Doug had boobies, just like a girl, the result of too many Kit-Kat bars and bowls of Turkey Hill ice cream. They jiggled as he shuffled his feet. There were dark circles under the armpits of his T-shirt. His thick glasses were fogged, and his forehead covered with sweat. His freckle-covered face looked splotchy.
Doug held up a long, black plastic tube, waving it around with excitement.
"I finished it," he gasped. "Worked on it all night long. You gotta see!"
"Well," Timmy said, "take it out."
Still trying to catch his breath, Doug shook his head. "At the Dugout. Let's get Barry and look at it there."
Timmy glanced back inside. His grandfather was still on the couch, but there was no sign of his parents.
"I can't right now," he whispered. "Dad says I've gotta weed the garden. He's already up there doing it. If I don't help, he's gonna be mad."
"Go ahead," his grandfather said. "This sounds more important. I'll handle your father."
Timmy smiled. "Are you sure? I thought you said he was doing what he thought was best."
His grandfather waved his hand. "Sure I'm sure. Just because he thinks it's for the best doesn't necessarily mean it is. Hell, it' s the first day of summer vacation. Boys your age should be out playing and discovering.
You shouldn 't be working. There'll be enough of that when you're older. You boys don' t know it, but these are the happiest days of your lives. Enjoy them while you can."
He paused, coughed, and flexed his fingers as if his left hand had gone to sleep.
Shaking his head, he continued. His voice sounded weaker.
"And besides, your mom always says you should be outside anyway, instead of sitting in front of the television watching cartoons and playing Atari. Right?"
"Right!"
"Go on, now. You boys have fun. Later on, I'll whip your butts at Pitfall. I finally figured out how to get past those darn scorpions."
"Thanks, Grandpa!" Timmy started out the door, and then, on impulse, he did something he didn't do much anymore since turning twelve. He turned around, 26 ran over to his grandfather, and gave him a sudden, fierce hug. His grandfather groaned in mock surprise and squeezed back with one arm. He was still flexing his free hand.
"I love you, Grandpa."
"I love you, too, kiddo."
He kissed Timmy's forehead, and Timmy caught a whiff of pipe smoke--another one of Grandpa's secrets, since the doctor and Timmy' s parents had forbidden him to smoke.
"Are you okay?" Timmy asked.
"Sure," he wheezed. "Just a little short of breath this morning. Might lie down and take a nap while you boys are gone. Run on now, before your mom and dad come back inside. And make sure your dad don 't see you leaving."
He ruffled his grandson's hair, which was cut just like Kevin Bacon's in Footloose, which Timmy and his family had seen just a few months before.
"Looks like a porcupine died on top of your head."
"At least my hair is still brown instead of silver."
"Wait till you're my age." His grandfather flexed his hand again. He made a face like he had indigestion.
"You sure you're okay, Grandpa?"
"Positive. Now go on. Get out of here."
"Love you," Timmy called again over his shoulder.
"Love you, too."
Timmy followed Doug outside into the front yard. Timmy' s own BMX Mongoose was parked next to the sidewalk, its kickstand sinking into the grass. The boys hopped on their bikes and sped down the driveway.
"Did anybody else see it?" Timmy asked.
Doug shook his head. "My mom's still passed out."
"Why are you so out of breath?"
"Catcher was waiting for me when I went by. He came flying out of the driveway and almost bit my ankle."
Catcher, the bane of their existence (along with the occasional hazing from the neighborhood bullies Ronny, Jason and Steve), was a black Doberman pinscher that belonged to the Sawyer family. The Sawyers owned a dairy farm along the road between Doug 's house and Timmy's. Bowman' s Woods bordered the other side of the road. The boys had to pass through Catcher 's territory any time they went to Doug' s house or vice versa. The dog was usually near the farmhouse, but when they rode their bikes by, no matter how quietly, some sixth sense alerted him to their presence.
If he was untied --which was often--he' d charge down the driveway, barking and growling. Each of the boys had ripped sneakers and torn socks as a result, and Barry had a scar on his calf from when the dog had latched onto him almost two years ago.
It was one of the few scars on Barry of which the other boys could actually identify the source.
"I hate that dog," Timmy mumbled as they reached the end of the driveway.
"Yeah. One of these days we'll teach him a lesson."
Timmy nodded. Over the last few weeks, he'd been formulating a plan to do just that, but he hadn't yet told the other boys about it.
The Graco home, a one-story, three-bedroom rancher with two acres of land, was built on the side of a hill. The garden was at the rear of the property, near the top of the hill, bordering Barry 's parent's home and Bill and Karen Wahl's house-- an elderly couple with no children left at home. Normally, Timmy and Doug would have just gone through the backyard and up the hill to Barry 's. But with Timmy's dad in the garden, 28 pulling weeds that Timmy was supposed to pull, they followed his grandfather's advice and took the long way around.
Pedaling out into the road, they turned right onto Anson Road, a narrow two-lane stretch of blacktop that cut through the countryside, giving drivers a back road shortcut from Route 516 to Route 116. They followed that to the edge of the Graco ' s property, past the acre lot his father had turned into a hillside pasture, complete with a small, two-stall barn for their one cow and two sheep. To the left was Laughman Road, which led to Doug 's house--if you made it past Catcher-- and on their right was a narrow strip of woods. "Our woods," the boys called it, though technically, it belonged to the church. Passing these, they turned right again onto Golgotha Church Road, an even narrower road that went straight uphill. On their left stretched the cemetery. The bottom of the hill was filled with old graves and crumbling crypts from the 1800s. The upper portion of the hill and beyond was covered with newer, more durable monuments. On their right lay the woods and Timmy 's parents' property. The trees kept them hidden from Randy Graco's sight.
This was their playground-- the woods, the cemetery, the Dugout. Occasionally, they made an excursion to the town dump to find treasures or shoot at the rats with their BB guns, or went over into Bowman ' s Woods to catch minnows and crayfish in the creek and shoot water snakes, and once a week they rode their bikes into Spring Grove to buy comic books at Mr. Messinger ' s newsstand (they left their BB guns at home, then), but for the most part, they were content to not stray from the cemetery and surrounding forest. Over the years, this area had served as everything from the Death Star to a pirate ship to Amazonian jungles - 29 complete with imaginary dinosaurs--to the battlefields of World War Two.
This was their world, and they ruled it; three kings who would never grow old, but remain twelve forever. Summer was just beginning, and the days were long and endless, and their cares and fears seemed like small things when cast against the backdrop of the deep blue sky overhead.
Doug wiped the sweat from his eyes. "You know the Frogger machine down at the Laundromat?"
"Yeah."
"I got the high score yesterday. But then Ronny Nace unplugged it and erased everything."
"Ronny's a dick."
"Yeah. He was pissed because I played that new Toto song on the jukebox."
They hopped off their bikes and walked them to the top of the hill. Timmy could have pedaled it, but Doug was obviously tired.
Their noses crinkled as they passed by a dead groundhog, its midsection ruptured by a car tire, its fly-infested innards exposed to the sunlight and open air. Maggots squirmed through rotten meat. Though it was a disgusting sight, neither one of them could help but study it closely.
"God," Doug panted. "That stinks."
They hurried past the road kill.
"You know what's weird?" Timmy fanned the air with his hand. "That's the only one we've seen in a week. Usually, there's two or three per day-- possums, skunks, groundhogs, squirrels, cats, snakes. Now, there aren 't any at all, other than that fresh one."
"Maybe the state is cleaning them up. Sending a road crew around or something."
"Yeah, maybe."
And though the boys wouldn't notice, the dead groundhog they' d just passed by would be missing the next day as well. Rotted and putrescent, it was food for something. Fodder.
"Glad my grandpa let us sneak out," Timmy said.
"Your grandpa is so cool," Doug said. "I wish mine was like that."
"Isn't he?"
Doug made a sour face. "No. When we go to visit him, all he does is preach to us about the Bible and fart a lot. My dad used to say that' s because he was full of hot air."
Timmy laughed obligingly.
Doug talked about his father all the time, and it made Timmy sad. Doug seemed to believe that his dad was coming back for him, any day now, and that they' d go live in California together. According to Doug, his father called or wrote to him every week, told him stories about Hollywood, how he ' d gotten a job as a stunt man, the movies he 'd worked on, the famous actors he'd met, the things he' d seen; but none of it was true. Last fall, Barry and Timmy had discovered that their friend was lying. His mother had let it slip when she was drunk. Taunted Doug with it. There were no letters or long distance phone calls. They hadn ' t heard from Doug 's father since he' d left town. Too embarrassed for their friend, Timmy and Barry never brought it up, allowing the charade to continue. No sense confronting him with the truth. If it made Doug feel better to believe that his father had found a career as a stunt man and that he would one day return, then that was good enough for them.
Timmy was about to ask Doug if he'd gotten any new letters when something in the cemetery caught his attention. Near one of the cracked, mossy crypts, two 31 of the older tombstones had sunken into the earth. Only their lichen-covered tops were sticking out. The ground around them was also depressed, as if a giant groundhog had burrowed under the grass.
Weird, he thought. Had they been like that yesterday? He didn't think so.
"I don't know," Doug whispered. "Sometimes I think about what it would be like if my grandpa died, and when I do, I don't feel sad."
"What do you feel?"
He shrugged. "Nothing. I don't feel anything. Is that weird?"
"Yeah, but that's okay, 'cause everybody knows you're weird anyway."
Scowling, Doug punched Timmy in the arm. Timmy laughed.
As the road leveled out, they hopped back onto their bikes. The Golgotha Lutheran Church sat to their left, and Barry's house was on the right-- a redbrick, one-story home with a white garage off to one side and a rusted swing set in the backyard, facing Timmy ' s house on the hill below. The church parking lot served as its driveway. Barry 's father, Clark Smeltzer, was the church caretaker and groundskeeper for the cemetery.
"Besides," Timmy continued, his laughter drying up, "at least your grandpa's not as bad as ..."
He didn't finish, and instead, just nodded his head in the direction of Barry's house.
"Yeah," Doug agreed. "Nobody's as bad as that."
They wheeled into the parking lot and dismounted, propping their bikes against the side of the Smeltzer' s white garage. Doug still clutched the plastic tube. They approached the house, making sure to avoid the side of the garage closest to Timmy 's house, lest his 32 father, still working in the garden, looked up over the hill and saw them.
As he knocked on the door, Timmy wondered who would greet them this morning--their friend, his mother, or the monster that lived with them.
It opened, and Barry' s mother, Rhonda, smiled at them through the screen door. The boys cringed as they always did when she smiled. One of her front teeth had been missing for the past year. They heard the soft sounds of a Barbara Mandrel song coming from the radio in the kitchen.
"Hi, Mrs. Smeltzer."
"Good morning, b--"
The radio shut off.
"Who is it?" Clark Smeltzer barked from behind her.
Rhonda' s smile instantly crumbled, her happiness melting as quickly as a popsicle on a summer sidewalk. Timmy noticed something odd; diamond earrings sparkled on her ears. The Smeltzers didn 't have a lot of money, and Timmy had never seen her wear something like that.
She scrambled out of the way and Barry' s father replaced her in the doorway. He glowered at them, obviously suffering from a hangover. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was something dried and crusty in his mustache and beard. He wore yellow-stained boxer shorts and an olive work shirt, unbuttoned. Black lint poked out of his swollen belly button. Despite his slovenly appearance, a gold watch adorned his wrist, replacing the Timex he usually wore.
Timmy frowned, backing away a few steps. Mr. Smeltzer stank of sour sweat, booze, and despair. Timmy wondered if he was still drunk.
"What the hell do you two want? Ain't you got jobs this summer?"
Timmy shook his head, his spirits sinking. Clark Smeltzer's slurred speech answered his question.
"No, sir. We were just looking for Barry."
"You woke me up. Didn't go to bed but an hour ago."
"We're sorry," Timmy apologized. "We didn't know."
"Banging on the door this early in the morning. The hell's wrong with you? Ain't you got nothing better to do?"
"We just wanted to show Barry something," Doug explained, holding up the black tube.
Clark Smeltzer eyed it and frowned. "What's that? Poster?"
"A map," Doug said. "I made it."
"Should be playing baseball or football, instead of drawing. That's queer shit. You a fag? Ain't no wonder your old man took off."
There was a shocked gasp of dismay behind him. "Clark! Don't say such things to that boy."
"Get the fuck back in the kitchen, Rhonda, if you know what's good for you!"
Timmy started to turn away. Doug looked like he was ready to cry. His bottom lip quivered, and his ears and cheeks had turned scarlet. The color made his freckles seem more numerous than ever.
"Where the fuck you going?"
"Sorry we woke you up, Mr. Smeltzer," Timmy apologized again. "Can you tell Barry we stopped by?"
"He ain't here. He's over in the cemetery, working. Same way you boys should. Kids today are lazy. Don't know how good you got it. Ought to get a damn job."
Timmy froze. "If we're so lazy, how come Barry's out doing your job, while you're sleeping off last night's bottle?" The words left Timmy' s mouth before he could stop them.
Clark Smeltzer stared at him in angry surprise. His eyebrows narrowed. Both Doug and Barry's mother groaned.
"You know what your problem is, Graco? You're a fucking smart-ass. Got a real attitude problem."
Timmy didn't respond.
"I've got a good mind to tan your hide."
Mr. Smeltzer shoved the screen door open and stepped out onto the porch, towering over the boys. His hand curled into a fist. Doug retreated into the yard. Timmy held his ground.
"Go ahead," Timmy challenged. "You lay one hand on me and I promise you'll regret it."
Barry's dad charged. Timmy stood his ground.
"Clark!"
Barry's mother rushed outside and grabbed her husband' s arm, wrestling him away from the boys. He shook her off and grinned humorlessly.
His flashing gray teeth reminded Timmy of a shark 's.
"Bet your father will want to hear about this, Graco. He won't be too goddamned happy when I tell him how his son is smarting off to adults."
"Go ahead and tell him. He's right down over the hill, working in the garden. In fact, I'll go with you."
Timmy knew that his father despised Clark Smeltzer as an abusive, bullying drunk, but furthermore, Clark Smeltzer knew it, too. Timmy wasn't worried.
"Come on, Doug." He turned his back on Barry's parents.
"You get out of here," Mr. Smeltzer hollered. "And don't go bothering Barry, either.
He's got work to do!"
The boys ignored him.
"And stay out of that cemetery. You hear me? I don't want to see you playing there no more."
Doug stopped. "But we always play there, Mr. Smeltzer."
"Not no more you don't. Stay clear of it. I've told Barry the same thing. He's not to be there except for when he' s helping me, and never after sundown. Those are the new rules. Gonna put up signs this week saying so."
"You don't own the cemetery," Timmy said. "You're just the caretaker."
"Don't matter. You mind me, boy. I catch you there and it'll be your ass. That's a promise."
Without glancing back or responding, the boys hopped on their bikes and pedaled away, still careful to stay out of Randy Graco' s line of sight. Timmy wondered if his father had heard Mr. Smeltzer 's outburst, and then decided that he didn't care.
"Jesus," Doug panted as they reached the end of the parking lot. "You're crazy, Timmy.
You know that?"
"Why?"
"Mouthing off the way you did? Being a smart-ass? I thought he was gonna lay you out cold, man. One of these days you' re going to get smart with the wrong person."
"You sound like my mom."
"I'm just saying, is all."
"It's bullshit, and I'm not going to take it. He's not gonna push me around the way he does Barry."
Doug stopped pedaling and slammed on his brakes. His back tire skidded on the pavement.
Balancing the plastic tube, he cleaned his glasses on his shirt.
"You okay?" Timmy asked.
"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"
"Well, what he said about your old man ..."
Doug shrugged. "Oh, I don't care about that. I
36 i mean, it's not true. You know? My dad loves me. When he comes back from California, everyone will see."
"Yeah."
Timmy glanced back at the house. Barry's parents had gone back inside. He wondered what price Barry' s mother would pay behind that closed door, perhaps right now, for stopping her husband from hitting him. Then he wondered why she didn 't do the same when he hit Barry. If she'd stuck up for her son' s friends, couldn 't she stick up for her own son as well?
Doug put his glasses back on and smiled. It looked false. Strained. They coasted into the road. Timmy's handlebars were sweaty. So was Doug' s shirt, especially around his armpits.
"What are you thinking about, Timmy?"
"Did you notice that both of Barry's parents had new jewelry on? It looked really expensive."
Doug shook his head. "No, I didn't see it. But big deal. As bad as he treats Barry and his mother sometimes, we should be happy he' s spending money on them at all."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. I don't know. Just seemed weird. He never does stuff like that. Barry has to bum money from us for lunch at school sometimes."
"Maybe Mr. Smeltzer got a raise."
Timmy shrugged. "Yeah, maybe."
"It's not really any of our business."
"I guess not."
"So what now?" Doug asked.
"Let's go find Barry."
"You heard Mr. Smeltzer. He said we weren't supposed to play over there anymore.
Said he'd kick our ass."
"The heck with him. He ain't watching us right now.
Probably went back to bed by now. Let's find Barry. I want to see this map you made."
"But what if someone else spots us?"
"Who's gonna see? Other than Barry, there's nobody out there this morning."
"Except for the dead people."
Timmy grinned. "Well, yeah, except for the dead people. They're always there. Wouldn't be a cemetery without them."
"Yeah," Doug agreed. "It would just be a bunch of empty holes in the ground."
Chapter Two After making sure Barry's parents weren' t watching them from the windows, the boys crossed Golgotha Church Road and wheeled around the church and into the cemetery. To their left, down over the sloping hill, were the old graves. Timmy noted again how two of them had sunk into the ground.
In front of them, sprawling out behind the church, was the more modern portion of the graveyard. This part stretched nearly a quarter-mile to the west. It was split into three large sections by narrow, cracked blacktop roadways, each barely wide enough for a single car to drive on.
The first road, off to their left, separated the older graveyard at the bottom of the hill from the more modern cemetery above. Halfway along this path was an old yellow clapboard utility shed with a rusty tin roof that was covered with fallen tree branches and leaves. Beyond the shed was another stretch of woods. The boys often played inside the old shed, gaining access, 39 when they didn't have Barry's dad' s keys, through a boarded up window at the rear, half hidden by a massive pile of dirt left over from new graves. Inside was a small backhoe, a riding mower, two push mowers, a grass catcher, winch, shovels, rakes, pickaxes, hoes, wooden planks and plywood to cover up open graves, canvas tarps, stone markers, plastic flowers and wreaths, vases for the graves, and little flags for Veteran ' s and Memorial Days. Because of the dirt floor, it always smelled musty inside. Barry, Doug, and Timmy often waited with their pump-action BB and pellet guns until a rat or groundhog burrowed up through the floor. Then they ' d nail it. Barry especially enjoyed this activity since it was one of the few times his father seemed genuinely pleased with him; they were taking care of the rodents that plagued the graveyard. This morning, the shed 's doors hung open, swaying slightly in the breeze, and the tractor was missing-- both signs that Barry had been there earlier.
The path to their right bordered the northern end of the cemetery. On one side were gray and brown tombstones carved from granite and marble. On the other side was a long, sloping pasture in which beef cattle grazed. An electric fence kept the cows from wandering into the graveyard. Last summer, Barry and Doug had dared Timmy to pee on the fence, offering up back issues of Man-Thing, Defenders, Captain America, and Kamando from their collections, as well as one of Doug 's Micronauts action figures (a blue Time Traveler) and some of Barry's extra Wacky Packages cards. It was a hard deal to turn down, especially because Timmy collected Defenders and it was an issue he didn't have-- the one where Hulk, Dr. Strange, Valkyrie, Nighthawk and the rest of the team fought a villain called Nebulon, and Chondu the Mystic 40 possessed the Hulk's pet fawn. So, steeling himself, he' d peed on the fence, got the shock of his life, and had endured two days of not being able to sit down comfortably along with the jeers of his two best friends. His testicles had turned black and blue, and after returning from the doctor ' s office, his parents had grounded him for two weeks. By that time, it didn 't matter. Admitting to his parents what he' d done had been, until that point, the most mortifyingly embarrassing moment of Timmy Graco 's life.
And it had totally been worth it.
At the bottom of the hill, beyond the lush, rolling pasture, was a small hollow with a thin stream running through it' s center, emptying into a deep pond, complete with diving board, boat dock, and a tire swing hanging from a drooping willow tree. Next to the pond stood Luke Jones ' s three-story farmhouse and a long barn, both white with green tiled roofs. Several other outbuildings sat clustered around the two larger structures. The view beyond the farm was clear for miles and miles --the paper mill' s stacks belching white smoke into the sky, the twin towns of Colonial Valley and Spring Grove, and in the distance, on the horizon, the forested tops of Pigeon Hills and the radio transmitter tower for 98YCR nestled among them. On a quiet day, visitors to the cemetery could hear the distant whine of traffic on Route 116, which cut through Spring Grove and passed by Colonial Valley on its way to Hanover and Gettysburg.
The far end of the cemetery was bordered by a cornfield, which bridged the pasture to the side with the older graveyard, shed, and vast forest beyond them. It was at the intersection of the cemetery, cornfield, and the electric fence that the boys had built the Dugout. It sat only a few feet away from the blacktopped 41 cemetery path, invisible to passersby (except, apparently, Timmy's grandfather), and the electric fence skirted the fort's far edge. They weren' t sure whose property it was on, the churches or Mr. Jones 's--and in truth, they' d never stopped to consider it. At twelve, they saw all of the area as theirs, and begrudged the adults their usage of it. Had Timmy been able to figure out a way to tax all the grownups for their usage of the surrounding countryside, he 'd have happily done it.
They rode down the pathway, searching for Barry. The smell of fresh cut grass hung thick in the air. A bird chirped happily overhead. White and yellow butterflies hovered over a puddle leftover from the rainstorm two days before. Honeybees buzzed in a patch of clover.
As he pedaled, Timmy watched the gravestones flash past; sarah myers 1900-1929; abby lucken- BAUGH 1922-1923; BRITNEY RODGERS, AGE 5; BRETT SOWERS 1913-1983, WWII VETERAN; KENNETH
L. RUDIS- ill 1923-1976. He' d spent so much time amongst these markers that the names and dates were as familiar as the kids in his class. A lot of the people buried here were children, many of them infants, many more around his age. That had always disturbed him. Timmy normally felt immortal, like the Eternals, another of his favorite comic books. He didn 't like to think about the alternative-- that somebody his age could die. But here was proof, carved in stone, that it happened all the time --that kids his age died. His grandmother was buried in this section as well. Timmy didn' t remember her very well, just vague impressions. Her perfume, the way she 'd always tried to get him to eat more when they visited, how she' d squeezed him when they hugged. He often had to look at photographs just to remember her face. Next to her 42 gravestone was a matching marker for his grandfather; Dane Graco' s name and date of birth were already engraved in the marble, just waiting on his death to complete the inscription. Timmy didn 't like to think about that either, and as a result, he avoided his grandmother' s grave whenever possible. Seeing his grandfather 's name along with that blank date, as if the stone were just waiting for Dane Graco, gave Timmy the creeps.
Behind them, five arch-shaped stained glass windows on the rear of the church stared out, overseeing the cemetery. They' d also always given Timmy the creeps. Often on Sunday mornings, when the sermon was especially boring, he ' d stare at the windows and make up spooky stories about the scenes depicted in them.
Sometimes he even wrote them down in the margins of his church bulletin, much to his mother ' s chagrin. She told him it was disrespectful, bordering on blasphemous. Timmy didn 't understand that. The Bible was full of scary stories and characters-- witches and black magic, zombies and demons, giants and sea monsters, murder, even cannibalism. Why were his little tales any worse? Why wouldn 't God like them? He told some of the stories to Barry and Doug, and they' d asked him for more. Their eagerness had inspired something inside Timmy. He thought that when he grew up, he might like to write comic books. Not draw them, of course.
He was lucky if he could draw stick figures. Doug was the artist in their group.
He 'd been working on the map for the last four months, and couldn' t wait to unveil it. Timmy couldn ' t wait, either. Doug was much more talented at drawing than Timmy, but Timmy could write, and comic books needed writers to tell the artists what to draw. Maybe 43 he'd grow up to be like Steve Gerber or J. M. DeMatteis or even Stan "the Man" Lee.
At twelve, Timmy's entire world pretty much revolved around comic books. His father had bought him his first two when he was six--an issue of The Incredible Hulk, in which the jade-jawed giant fought a group of villains called the U-Foes (before that, Timmy' s only exposure to the Hulk was the television program on Friday nights, and the Hulk hadn 't been able to talk in that) and an issue of Star Wars that featured a blaster-toting, man-sized, talking bunny rabbit named Jax who had helped Han Solo and Chewbacca ward off a bounty hunter.
After finishing these comics, he was hooked. Like any other young boy's hobby, it soon became an obsession.
Each week, he rode his bike down to the newsstand and bought his weekly fix of comics.
His selections varied, but his favorites were Transformers, The Incredible Hulk, Sgt. Rock, Marvel Two-In-One, The Amazing Spider-Man, Moon Knight, The Defenders and Captain America.
He supplemented his newsstand purchases with mail-order comics from a company called Bud Plant. He preferred underground books like The First Kingdom and Elfquest, and wished he could figure out a way to get their X-rated, adults-only material like Omaha the Cat Dancer and Cherry Poptart without his mother' s knowledge. In addition to the new monthly issues, he bought every back issue he could find. Sometimes he saw advertisements in the backs of comics for comic book stores, but the closest one was Geppi 's Comic World in Baltimore, and he' d only been there twice (but the visits were enough to impress upon him that the proprietor, Steve Geppi, was a god among men). The next closest was in New 44
York City, four hours away. Instead, Timmy scrounged back issues at yard sales and the Colonial Valley flea market. On Sundays, he' d ride his bike there and buy old back issues for fifty cents each. The woman who ran the flea market had roughly 5,000 comic books at home ranging from the 1950s to the mid-1970s. According to popular rumor, they 'd belonged to her son, who was killed in Vietnam. Timmy didn' t know much about Vietnam, other than that both his father and Barry 's had fought there. Timmy' s dad had been in the Airborne and Clark Smeltzer served on a riverboat. Timmy was sorry her son had died, but he liked to think that whoever the guy was, he 'd appreciate his comic collection now being enjoyed by kids like he once was. Every Sunday, she' d bring in a new box. She was beloved by all the neighborhood children, and loathed by their parents, whom the kids begged for more money.
Last Christmas, his grandfather had bought him a copy of the Overstreet Comic Book Price Guide.
When Timmy saw what some of his comics were worth, it fueled his obsession even more.
Needless to say, Timmy had amassed quite a comic book collection. His father often groused about getting rid of them, that they took up too much space, and that a boy his age should be more interested in sports than reading "funny books," which is what Randy Graco insisted on calling them. But Timmy had no interest in playing professional sports. Anybody could throw a football or baseball, but making up a story about how the Devil had taken over Earth, like J. M. DeMatteis had done in The Defenders #100--that took real talent.
Riding beside him, Doug panted, out of breath. His bike's spokes flashed in the sunlight.
"You need to lay off those Twinkles," Timmy teased.
"Screw you."
"Your Calvin Klein's are sticking to your thighs, man. Gross."
"Least I got designer jeans. You're wearing those same old Levis from last year."
"Only reason you got Calvins is because your mom bought them at the thrift store.
It's not like she shops at Chess King."
"Bite me."
Laughing, they punched at each other, almost crashing their bikes in the process.
They found Barry near the end of the cemetery, right on the border between the graveyard and the budding cornfield. Over the next three months, the stalks would go from ankle-high to towering over their heads. Barry was raking two car tire tracks out of the grass, smoothing out the damage. He waved as they approached, and flipped his long blond hair out of his face. Even at twelve, his lean muscles flexed beneath his black Twisted Sister T-shirt, the result of many days of hard labor. Although they ' d never admit it, both Timmy and Doug often felt self-conscious when standing next to their blue-eyed friend. The girls at school paid attention to Barry, and ignored them, for the most part.
As they got closer, Timmy could hear the tinny strains of Def Leppard's "Die Hard the Hunter" coming from the earphones around Barry's head.
"Hey guys." Barry stopped his Walkman and removed the earphones, letting them dangle around his neck.
Timmy and Doug skidded to a stop.
"What happened here?" Timmy stared at the rutted ground.
"My dad says some teenagers must have drove through here last night. Went off the road and through 46 this section of grass where there aren't any tombstones, and then kept on going right on through the corn."
"Mr. Jones is gonna be mad when he sees that," Doug said, eyeing the bent and broken stalks. "They messed his field up."
"Nan. Corn grows back so fast, he won't even notice it. By this time next week, the stalks will be twice the height they are now.
Timmy and Doug agreed that he was right.
"How'd you guys know I was here?" Barry asked.
Timmy nodded back toward the church. "Your dad told us."
Barry's face darkened. "Oh. Did he say anything else?"
"Yeah."
"How bad?"
"Well, he was pretty angry ..."
"He was up late," Barry apologized. "I went to bed after that special Friday night Family Ties was off, but I couldn' t sleep. I was in bed listening to Doctor Demento on the radio. I heard Dad get up around midnight and leave the house. He didn 't come back till early this morning. Said he' d chased some kids out of the cemetery. Same kids that did this, I guess."
Timmy shrugged. "Was he drinking?"
"I don't know. He stayed awake long enough to tell me what he wanted me to do today.
Then he went to bed."
Barry refused to meet his stare, and Timmy knew then that he was lying.
"He was pretty pissed off," Timmy repeated. "More than usual."
"I don't want him anymore pissed than he already is," Barry said. "My birthday's coming up, and he said I could get a Yamaha Eighty dirt bike if I listened."
Timmy frowned. Since when did the Smeltzers have the money for a dirt bike?
"Was he angry at you guys for waking him up, or just angry in general?"
"Both," Doug said. "He called me a fag, because I don't play baseball and stuff.
Said that's why my dad left."
"I'm sorry, man. You know that's not true."
"I know," Doug said softly, "but it still hurts sometimes. Just cause I don't play sports, that's no reason to say mean things like that."
Barry squeezed his friend's shoulder. "I feel bad. He was probably just really tired."
"He was acting weird." Timmy refused to let Barry make excuses for his father's behavior.
"Said we weren't allowed to play here anymore, and you weren' t allowed here, either, after sundown."
"That' s true," Barry confirmed. "Some new rule about trespassing. Guess these teenagers were the last straw. Nobody is allowed in here after dark. He called the church board this morning, right before he went back to bed. Sounds like they were in agreement.
He got permission to get some signs made up and everything."
Doug dismounted. "What about during the day?"
"Well," Barry said, finished with the raking, "he told me we weren't allowed to play around here anymore, especially not after dark. The way it sounded, he didn' t want me here at all, except to work. No bike riding. No skateboarding."
"That sucks," Timmy spat. "What's the big deal?"
Barry shrugged.
Timmy felt his summer slipping away, and it angered him.
"Where are we supposed to hang out instead?"
"The dump?" Doug suggested. "Or over in Bowman's Woods? I bet Mr. Bowman wouldn't care. Or Mr. Jones's pond?"
"No way." Timmy slid off his bike and flicked a bug off the front mag wheel. "Only thing we can do at the pond is fish. We can' t swim in it with all those snapping turtles and water snakes." He shuddered at the mere thought of snakes, then continued. "And too many other people go through Bowman 's Woods-- hunters, hikers, older kids. Besides, it 's too far to go every day. The Dugout is right here. We're just going to abandon it?"
"We could build a new one. A better fort." Doug segued into the introduction from The Six Million Dollar Man.
"We can rebuild it. We can make it better than it was before. Better. Stronger. Fas --"
"Shut up," Barry said, rolling his eyes. "Retard."
Doug pouted. "Then how about a tree house?"
Timmy scoffed. "A tree house? Get real, man. Those are for pussies. It' s too easy for other kids to raid. You guys want Ronny, Jason, and Steve stealing our stuff when we 're not around?"
Ronny Nace, Jason Glatfelter, and Steve Laughman, each a year older and a grade higher than the boys, were the town bullies-- and their sworn enemies. They lived beyond the Jones farm, along Route 116, but often road their bikes up the hill and into Timmy, Doug, and Barry ' s territory. Presently, an uneasy truce existed between the two trios, but all of them knew that before the summer was over, because of slights real or imagined, a new war would break out. The last time, it had been because Ronny and Jason had thrown rocks at Doug and called him fat boy when he rode by their homes on his way to the Colonial Valley Flea Market.
The time before that, it had started because Barry shot Steve in the butt with his BB gun.
Although none of the boys would have admitted it out loud, they looked forward to the yearly wars. The familiarity was comforting.
Barry wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. "Look. If we're inside the Dugout, then my dad can't see us, anyway. He'll never even know that we' re over here. I don 't see the point in moving. And besides, when we sneak out at night, it ain't like nobody knows. We can play over here then."
All three of them were experts at sneaking out, crawling through their bedroom windows after their parents had gone to sleep and getting into midnight mischief; or at least Barry and Timmy were. Doug often used the front door rather than the window, since his mother never seemed to care if he was home or not.
Agreeing that Barry was right, they turned toward more pressing matters. Timmy decided to keep quiet about the fact that his grandfather was aware of the Dugout 's existence. He wasn't sure how the guys would react.
"Is that the map?" Barry asked, pointing at the tube in Doug's hands. "You done with it?
Grinning proudly, Doug nodded.
"Let's see it."
Doug glanced around furtively, as if expecting Barry's father, or perhaps one of their archenemies, to be lurking behind a tombstone.
"Let's take it to the Dugout first. Safer there."
With Barry perched atop Timmy' s handlebars, they rode over to the fort, and stowed their bikes in the tall weeds, obscuring them from view. They made sure no one was in sight, and then pulled up the trapdoor, 50 quickly climbing down the ladder and disappearing into the hole. Once they were settled, Timmy pulled the trapdoor shut, plunging them into darkness. Barry clicked on the flashlight and shined the beam around until Timmy struck a match and lit the rusty kerosene lamp they ' d salvaged from the dump. The soft glow filled the underground space, flickering off the moldering centerfolds of naked women and posters torn from the pages of Fangoria and Heavy Metal hanging from the tan-colored wood paneling, which had been rescued from the dump and pinned to the soil with twelve-penny nails, clothesline, and generous amounts of duct tape. (The most important thing that Timmy 's father had ever taught him was that duct tape could be used for anything-- from battlefield triage to plumbing to hanging pictures.)
Doug moved a stack of comic books, Hustler, and Cracked magazines off the card table and pulled the cap off the plastic tube, while Timmy and Barry fished cans of Pepsi out of an old Styrofoam cooler. With something bordering on reverence, Doug took out the map, unrolled it, and spread it across the table.
"Wow," Timmy exclaimed after a moment's pause.
Barry whistled in appreciation.
"You guys like it?"
"Totally." Barry's attention was glued to the map.
"You did good, man." Timmy clapped Doug on the back. "It's amazing."
Spread out before them was a scale depiction of their world, their domain. Doug had captured everything in loving detail: their homes and the roads between them, the surrounding forests, the cemetery, the homes of their enemies, and the location of the Dugout. The area devoted to Bowman ' s Woods was filled with hand-drawn trees, each one meticulously 51 rendered. The graveyard had hundreds of tiny tombstones. Catcher's driveway had an illustration of a growling dog along with the words, Here There Be Monsters.
"How long did this take you?" Barry asked. "You must have worked on it, like, forever."
Smiling, Doug shrugged. "It was easy. I did a lot at night, after my mom had gone to sleep or was watching TV. I stayed up late. It was fun. Used a whole box of colored pencils."
Timmy's eyes shone. "This is so cool. We can mark off stuff as we discover it. And you even left room around the edges."
"Yeah. I figured when we explore those places, we can add it to the map."
Timmy's index finger traced the roads. "Cool. You even added Ronny, Jason, and Steve's forts."
"The one's we know about, at least."
"We can use this to plan our strategy before we raid them. Make sure we have escape routes and stuff like that."
"That's what I figured," Doug agreed. "We can hang it up, and you can mark stuff on it, just like a real general would."
Timmy smiled. "General Graco. I like the sound of that."
"How come you get to be the general?" Barry flicked Timmy's ear with his thumb and index finger. "I didn't vote for you."
"You don't vote for generals," Doug said.
"Yeah, well, I outrank you, even if Timmy's the general."
"No way."
Timmy turned their attention back to the map. "Hey, we could even--"
"Listen," Barry whispered, interrupting. "You guys hear that?"
"What?" Doug asked.
They tilted their heads upward, straining to listen.
"Timmmmmyyyyyyy!"
The voice was faint, but drawing closer. It was his mother.
"Timmy? Where are you?"
"Oh, man," Timmy moaned, "if she finds out about this place, she'll never let me play here again."
Barry rolled up the map. "Why not?"
"Because she'll freak out and worry that it will collapse on us or something."
"What do you think she wants?" Barry stuffed the map back in its protective tube.
"It ain't lunch time."
"Probably wants me to help my dad. Let's just stay down here till she's gone."
"Timmmmyyyy? Timmy, answer me!"
Barry slapped his forehead. "Oh shit. The bikes are up there, man. If she sees them, she'll know we're around here somewhere."
"So? We're underground. She can't find us."
"Yeah, but if she's looking in this spot, she might notice the stovepipe, and figure it out."
"Shit. You're right." Timmy thought of his grandfather. The stovepipe had given the fort's location away to him as well.
Quickly, they blew out the lantern and clambered up the ladder again, scrambling for the bikes. Timmy's mother stood about fifty yards away on the cemetery' s lower road. Her back was turned to them as they approached. She called out again, hands cupped around her mouth.
Timmy pedaled towards her before acknowledging her cries.
"I'm here, Mom."
Elizabeth Graco spun around, and Timmy was surprised to see that she was crying.
Black mascara ran down her cheeks. Her eyes were red and puffy. Her expression was frantic and worried.
"Timmy, where were you? We've been looking all over!"
His spirits sank. He was in trouble now. It appeared that his grandfather had been unsuccessful in convincing his father to let Timmy have the day off.
"I--I was just..."
"Come home, now. Your father's on his way to the Hanover Hospital."
Timmy's pulse accelerated. "The hospital? What happened? Is he okay?"
"It's your grandfather." She took a deep breath. "He ... he had a heart attack."
"Grandpa?"
Sobbing, his mother nodded.
"What's wrong with Grandpa?"
"The paramedics think it was a heart attack," she repeated.
"Is he going to be okay?"
She began sobbing again.
"Mom? Is he all right?"
"No ... He's gone, Timmy. He passed away."
Chapter Three Dane Graco had suffered a massive heart attack just after Timmy and Doug left the house. He was dead before the paramedics arrived. Timmy' s mother had found him slumped over on the couch when she came into the living room to tell Timmy to go help his father in the garden.
Although the next morning was Sunday, the Graco's didn't go to church, the first time since winter of the previous year when they' d all had the flu. Elizabeth went to church every Sunday because she believed. Her belief was sincere. Randy went out of deferment to his wife. His belief was one of convenience. Timmy went because he wasn 't offered a choice. He didn't know what he believed yet.
For the next few days, they moped around the too-quiet house. It seemed empty without Dane Graco' s lively presence. Randy and Timmy were too stunned to do more than stare at the walls. Both cried off and on, 55 and Elizabeth did her best to console them, trying to stay strong for her husband and son. It wasn' t enough. Randy took a few days off work from the paper mill, contacted his father 's friends and distant relatives; he made the funeral preparations and tried to keep busy. It wasn' t enough. Timmy stayed in his bedroom a lot, consoling himself with comic books, trying to escape his grief by escaping into stories of men in brightly colored costumes so that he wouldn ' t have to think about his own reality. It wasn 't enough.
The funeral was held the following Tuesday at the Golgotha Lutheran Church. The weather was chilly for summer. The sky was gray and overcast, and a cold light drizzle fell all morning long. It suited Timmy ' s mood. When he walked inside the church for the viewing, Timmy heard muted voices.
He followed his parents through the vestibule doors and into the church itself, and stopped in the doorway. He was stunned by the turnout, and for a few moments, the crowd ' s size took his mind off the fact that his grandfather was lying in a casket at the front of the church. Everybody was there. Barry and his parents. Clark Smeltzer appeared sober and sincere, and offered his condolences to the Gracos, shaking Timmy ' s hand as if nothing had happened between them the Saturday before. Timmy noticed that in addition to his new gold watch, Barry ' s father was also sporting an antique-looking solid gold tie clip. Doug and his mother, Carol, who wore a skirt several inches too short and dark sunglasses to hide what were no doubt even darker circles beneath her eyes, were there, as were Bill and Kathryn Wahl, the elderly couple who lived next door to the Smeltzers. There were several distant relatives of his grandfather whom Timmy had either never met or barely recalled. He hadn 't even known his grandfather had cousins 56 until now-- his grandfather had never mentioned them. Others in attendance included Luke Jones, who owned the farm bordering the cemetery and the Dugout, and some fellow Freemasons from his grandfather ' s lodge. Dane had achieved the rank of a fourth-degree mark master in life. There were friends of his grandfather 's from within the community, church members, and the LeHorn family, who attended the Brethren church in Seven Valleys. Mr. LeHorn' s father had been a good friend of Dane Graco ' s. Even Mr. Messinger, who ran the newsstand in town and sold the boys their comic books and cards, was on hand, looking both solemn and uncomfortable in his suit and tie.
Reverend Moore was there, too, along with his wife, Sylvia, and their youngest daughter, Katie. She looked pretty. She always did in Timmy' s eyes. Her flowing brown hair was hanging down over the back of her long black dress; not what she normally wore to school, or even to church. Katie was one year younger than the boys, and though she didn 't hang out with them, Timmy had started to notice her more and more often, and found himself thinking about her when she wasn' t around. Surprisingly, he also found himself attending more and more youth group functions lately, just so he could spend time with her. Timmy didn ' t see Karen, the Moore 's older daughter (whom he, Doug, and Barry had spied on from the bushes with Doug' s binoculars last summer while she was sunbathing topless). The Moores seemed sad --not just solemn, but genuinely depressed, as if affected by something more than just one of their parishioner's death.
Katie caught his stare, smiled, and quickly looked away. Her cheeks turned red. Timmy blushed and felt his ears begin to burn.
Spotting Timmy when he entered with his parents, 57
Barry and Doug walked over to him, and the three boys moved to the rear corner of the church. They made small talk, each uncomfortable with mentioning why they were there. Curious, Timmy asked them about Karen Moore 's whereabouts.
"You didn't hear?" Barry sounded surprised.
"No. What?"
"She skipped town with Pat Kemp. Nobody's seen them since Friday night. Took off together in his Nova. People are saying maybe they eloped."
"No way. Seriously?"
Doug nodded. "Reverend Moore called the cops and everything."
Timmy was mildly surprised, but not shocked. Pat Kemp was about the coolest older kid they knew, and Karen had a wild reputation as the stereotypical preacher 's daughter. He could easily see the two of them running off together.
"Where did they go?" he asked.
"Nobody knows for sure," Doug whispered. "California, maybe?"
Timmy wondered if his friend was basing that on something he'd heard, or on his own wish fulfillment regarding his father.
Somebody sobbed loudly near the front of the church. The boys fell quiet.
"Sorry about your grandpa, man," Barry finally said, staring at the floor.
Doug nodded. "Me, too. He was cool."
Timmy mumbled his thanks, and then glanced around the church for his parents. They were near the front, shaking hands with mourners. His father was dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief. As he watched, the crowd parted, and Timmy got his first real glimpse of his grandfather 's casket. He bit his lip, drawing 58 blood, and his hands clenched into fists. The thing inside the coffin didn't look like the man he remembered. That man had been full of life, even in old age. He' d been funny, always smiling or telling jokes. The pale, waxy figure lying in the coffin wasn ' t smiling. It looked like a department store mannequin. Even his grandfather 's hair was combed differently. His Freemason' s ring adorned his hand, the stone glinting under the lights. He was dressed in a suit. When had his grandfather ever worn a suit? Never, at least as far as Timmy could remember. He wore slacks and buttoned shirts with the sleeves rolled up. Even when he went to church, his grandfather had preferred sweaters to suits.
Doug sensed his friend's discomfort. "You gonna go up there? Your dad looks really upset."
"I don't want to. Guess I should, though."
His mother caught his eye and smiled sadly. Her expression alone beckoned him, a unique form of telepathy shared only by parents and their children. Reluctantly obeying the command, Timmy stood up.
"I'll see you guys later."
He shuffled forward, weaving his way through the adults. They offered condolences as he passed by them, along with condescending pats on the head, as if he were six years old rather than twelve. Timmy did his best to be polite to them, but inside, he barely acknowledged their presence. His attention was fixed on the figure in the coffin, the thing that was supposed to be his grandfather.
Barry and Doug watched him go. Barry tugged at his tie. His collar felt like it was choking him, and even with the air conditioning turned on, the church was still hot inside.
Doug leaned over and whispered in Barry's ear.
"This sucks. I feel bad for him, but I don't know what to say."
"Me neither. I've helped my old man with dozens of these. It's always weird, and you feel bad for the people, but there's not really anything to say. 'Sorry' just doesn 't seem to cover it. Especially this time."
"Why now more than the others?"
"Because Timmy's our friend. And because his grandpa was pretty cool."
"Yeah," Doug agreed. "He was. I liked him."
"Sometimes," Barry said, "I think he was the only cool grown-up I knew."
When they looked up again, the crowd of adults had swallowed Timmy whole.
Timmy had walked the red-carpeted church aisle hundreds of times. He' d walked it for communion and on Youth Sunday when it was his turn to take the offering and when the youth group put on the annual Christmas pageant. Last year, he ' d been Joseph and Katie had played the part of Mary and all of the adults had remarked how cute they looked together. Timmy had thought he might die of embarrassment, and die all over again when Katie squeezed his hand while they took their bow as the parishioners applauded. He knew the aisle like he knew the cemetery outside, but the aisle had never seemed longer or more crowded than it did at that moment. The heat was cloying, made worse by the crowd, and his suit felt like it was stuck to his skin. The air was a mixture of cologne and perfume and candle smoke. He pushed his way through and emerged at the front.
He stood in front of the coffin, looked down at his grandfather's corpse, and did his best not to cry. It was even worse up close.
Timmy closed his eyes, trying in vain to get rid of 60 the image. The thing in the casket even smelled different. His grandfather had always smelled like Old Spice aftershave. This still figure had no smell. He opened his eyes again and glanced at the corpse 's hands, folded neatly across its chest. His grandfather' s skin had always felt rough and warm his hands deeply callused from years of hard labor. He wondered how they ' d feel now. Shuddering, Timmy took a deep breath and held it. His ears rang, a high-pitched, constant tone, and his mouth felt dry. His heart thudded in his chest. He let the air out of his lungs with a sigh.
His mother put her arm around him and kissed his head. She smelled of lilac soap and hairspray.
"You okay, sweetie?"
He nodded.
"They did a real good job. It looks like Grandpa's just sleeping, doesn't it?"
Timmy wanted to scream at her. No, it did not look like Grandpa was sleeping. It looked nothing like that at all. In fact, it didn't even look like Grandpa.
At twelve, Timmy was well aware of the fallacies adults sometimes used. "Do as I say, not as I do" was a big one. Many times, he' d overheard Mr. Smeltzer promising Barry that he ' d tan his hide should he ever catch Barry and his friends drinking or smoking cigarettes, yet Clark Smeltzer started and ended each day drunk as a skunk and smoked two and a half packs before nightfall.
"It's for your own good" was another. When he was younger, Timmy used to believe that he had an invisible accomplice named U' rown Goode who only his parents could see. Timmy had once shot a dove with his BB gun, and his father had grounded him and confiscated the weapon as a result (shooting doves without a license was illegal in the state of Pennsylvania).
Two days later, his father had left to go deer hunting in Potter County. He'd returned home bragging about how he' d shot three deer, one over the legal limit, and had given the third to a friend.
Why was Timmy grounded for shooting the dove without a license while his father had basically done the same thing? It was for U
'rown Goode. Had his invisible friend actually fired the fatal shot?
Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny were adult fallacies, as well.
Grown-ups encouraged their kids to believe in them, only to yank the wool from their eyes and chuckle over the joke when they got older, killing whatever belief in magic the child still clung to. Killing their innocence. Sometimes, Timmy wondered if maybe God was just another fallacy, too. After all, his parents insisted that He was real, just like Santa Claus. Both of them lived at the top of the world and kept track of everybody, judging the populace on whether or not they ' d been good or bad. The only Santa Timmy had ever seen was at the North Hanover Mall, and that guy was a phony. The only God he 'd ever seen was the one that hung from the cross at the front of the church. He' d never seen God, but was expected to believe in Him just the same. As he got older, would they tell him that God didn 't really exist either, and that it really didn' t matter if he wrote scary stories during church service? Part of him expected just this. Of course, he never said it out loud, not even to Doug or Barry, because if God was real, then thinking something like that was a sure way to get on His bad side. Timmy was more afraid of God than anything else in life, with the possible exception of snakes and Catcher. You could shoot a snake or a neighborhood bully or a mean dog with a BB gun.
But not God ...
And now, there was a new fallacy. "It looks like Grandpa's just sleeping." The biggest fallacy of them all, because Grampa wasn' t sleeping, he was dead. He was never going to wake up again. There would be no more walks or games or Saturday morning cartoons or long talks about things that mattered to Timmy, things his grandfather seemed interested in, too, because they were important to his grandson. His grandfather was dead, so why couldn ' t his mother just say it out loud? Why did she treat Timmy like he was a little kid?
Next, would she tell him, "Guess what, it turns out Santa Claus is real after all"?
Of course she wouldn ' t, because it wasn 't true. Santa Claus wasn't real, U'rown Goode was actually Timmy's own good, and...
Grandpa wasn't coming back again.
Timmy opened his eyes. Tears rolled down his face. He balled his fists at his sides and wept, and his mother and father held him between them, crying as well.
He cast one last glance at his grandfather's body, and then looked no more. He didn't have to. The image was burned into his retinas.
Grandpa wasn't sleeping.
After the viewing, there was a short break before the funeral service. Timmy' s parents and some of the distant family members stayed at the casket, saying their final good-byes before the lid was closed. Timmy elected not to join them, and slipped away through the crowd. The other adults went outside to smoke, or mingled between the pews, talking softly. Timmy, Doug, and Barry wandered aimlessly around the church, ending up downstairs in one of the Sunday school rooms. Barry sat on top of the table, his legs hanging over the side. Timmy stood in the corner. Doug had found a Hot Wheels car, left behind by a 63 younger child, and was running it aimlessly back and forth over the tabletop.
"You guys want to do something after this ... is over?" Timmy asked. "I really need to get my mind off things."
"Sorry, man, but I can't," Doug apologized. "My mom drove, and my bike's at home."
"So? You could walk back to your house. It's not that far."
Doug shuddered. "And go by Catcher's driveway? No thanks, man. It's bad enough when he chases me on my bike. No way I'm letting him go after me when I' m on foot. He 'd kill me. Besides, it's raining outside. I'd get wet and catch a cold. Nothing worse than a summer cold."
"Wimp." Timmy turned to Barry. "How about you?"
"I can't either, man. I've got to ... well, you know."
"What?"
"I've got to help my dad with your Grandpa, after everyone else leaves."
"Oh ..." He' d forgotten about that. It seemed weird, somehow, that his best friend would help to bury his grandfather. Fresh grief welled up inside him, and Timmy sighed.
Behind them, someone cleared her throat. The boys turned around. Katie Moore stood in the doorway to the Sunday school room. Timmy' s heart beat a little faster, the way it always did when Katie was around. Sometimes, Timmy hated the way Katie made him feel. It was exciting, but scary, too. On Sundays, during the sermon, he found his gaze invariably drawn to her. Next year, she ' d be starting sixth grade, and would go to the junior high school with them. He wondered what that would be like, and if they 'd see more of each 64 other then, and if so, if the possibilities of them hanging out together more often would increase. Thinking about it made his stomach hurt.
"Hey Katie," Barry said.
"Hey." She smiled sadly. "Hi Timmy."
Timmy responded with what could only be described as a garbled squawk.
"What's up, Katie?" Doug asked.
"They sent me down here to find you guys," she explained. "The funeral is getting ready to start."
"Oh."
Timmy's apprehension returned at the thought of sitting in the front pew, staring at his grandfather's not-sleeping corpse while Katie' s father droned on about ashes and dust and walking through the valley of the shadow of death. "We 'll be right up."
"I'm sorry about your Grandpa, Timmy. He was a nice man."
Doug's Hot Wheels car made scratching noises in the background. Barry cleared his throat and loosened his tie.
Timmy realized Katie was staring at him, and that he hadn't responded.
"Thanks." He searched for something else to say to her before she left, anxious to keep the conversation going for just a little longer. "I' m sorry to hear about your sister. I hope she 's okay."
"Yeah, me too. I miss her."
"Do you guys know where she went?"
Katie's voice grew quieter. "No. Mom and Dad are really worried. She got in a fight with Dad before she left the house. He didn' t want her going out with Pat. She did anyway. The township and state police said they 'd tell us when they heard something, but that's about all."
"Well, I'm sorry," Timmy said again, and meant it.
"So am I." She smiled again, but this time it wasn' t quite so sad. Their eyes lingered for a moment. Then Katie blushed and turned away.
They heard her shoes clomping up the stairs two at a time.
Timmy's face and ears were scarlet.
"You like her," Barry teased, shoving him playfully.
Grinning, Timmy pushed him back. "Screw you. I do not."
"Why not? She's cute, man."
Timmy's stomach sank. Did Barry like Katie, too? He' d said hi to her first, while Timmy was still struggling to talk. And if so, did Katie like Barry more than she liked him?
"Not as cute as her sister, though," Barry added quickly, as if sensing his friend's thoughts.
Doug stood up and slipped the toy car into his pants pocket. "I guess we better go upstairs."
"Yeah," Timmy sighed. "I guess we better."
Then he thought of his grandpa again, and started crying.
It was starting to sink in that he'd never see him, talk to him, or hear his voice again. Timmy remembered the last time he' d seen him, Saturday morning when they 'd been watching cartoons together. He'd hugged him good-bye and then gone out to play with Doug. He' d been anxious to go outside and enjoy his summer vacation. If only he 'd known then what he knew now. He would have stayed behind.
Summers were endless. Life was not.
He was still weeping when he took a seat between his parents in the front pew, and when Reverend Moore began the service.
"Friends, would you please bow your heads in prayer." The preacher's voice was soft, and the sobs echoed over it.
The tears kept falling, and Timmy wondered if they'd ever stop.
They did stop, though, after the service, when the coffin was carried to the hearse.
The sudden lack of tears surprised him, and for a moment, Timmy felt guilty. The emotions drained from his body as the tears dried up. Timmy felt empty. Hollow. He watched the pallbearers -- his father among them, tears streaming down his face --load his grandfather's casket into the back of the hearse and experienced only a numb sense of finality.
The rain had stopped, too. Beams of sunlight peeked through the dissipating cloud cover. White and yellow butterflies played in the puddles. Sluggish earthworms, forced topside by the rains, crawled and squirmed on the blacktop.
The mourners walked slowly along behind the hearse, following it down the cemetery' s middle road. They talked softly among themselves, murmuring gossip that had nothing to do with the deceased; President Reagan and William Casey and Ed Meese, the godless Communists, the godly Pat Robertson, who was going to see the Charlie Daniels Band at this year 's York Fair, what had happened on last week's episode of Hill Street Blues, how Charlie Pitts had been able to afford that big new satellite television dish when he was still on disability, and the twelve point buck that Elliott Ramsey had poached out of season in Mr. Brown ' s orchard, and whether or not the Orioles would make it to the World Series (even though they lived in Pennsylvania, Southern York County was close enough to the Maryland state border that most of the residents rooted for Baltimore 's teams). Timmy felt like hollering at everybody to shut up, but he didn't. Instead, he 67 tried to ignore the whispers, and looked down over the hill. Far below, in the old part of the cemetery, he noticed again that another gravestone had sunken down into the ground. He 'd seen two more like that the day Doug unveiled the map-- a day that seemed like an eternity ago, even though it had been less than a week.
It was hard to tell through the drizzle, but it looked like in addition to the sinking grave markers, a few more headstones might have fallen over onto the grass, too.
Barry 's dad was letting the cemetery fall into disrepair. Despite the man's misgivings, it was unlike him. Even if he was laid up drunk somewhere, he' d crack the whip, making sure his son covered for him. Maybe he just didn 't have enough time to keep up with the sinking tombstones.
The funeral procession halted. The coffin was unloaded from the hearse while the crowd circled the open grave. Timmy's breath caught in his throat.
Barry and his father had dug the grave that morning. The top of the hole was framed with a brass rail and covered with a white cloth. A mound of fresh, reddish, clay-like dirt lay piled to one side, along with squares of sod. Deep backhoe tracks marked the grass, but Clark Smeltzer had moved the machine back into the utility shed so that it wouldn 't loom over the service.
This was it, his grandfather's final resting place-- a long, rectangular hole in the ground, right next to his grandmother. Now, every time Timmy came here to play, they 'd both be nearby. The morbid strangeness of it all was not lost on him. This was both his playground and his grandparents' burial ground. If not for the Dugout and the fierce pride he took in its construction, he 'd have suggested to Barry and Doug that they'd been right before, and maybe they should play in Bowman' s Woods more often, or settle for a tree house somewhere else.
After the graveside portion of the service, Timmy trudged home with his parents.
They walked in silence, not speaking, emotionally and physically exhausted.
For the first time in his life, Timmy felt two new sensations.
He felt old.
And he felt mortal--even more now than when he did playing among the graves of kids his own age.
He didn't at all like feeling either one.
Grandpa wasn't sleeping. He was dead. That was that. Sooner or later, everybody died.
And one day, it would be his turn.
The cemetery had a new permanent resident.
After everyone else went home, Barry and his father went back to their house, changed from their suits into work clothes, and then returned to the grave. Slowly, they lowered Dane Graco 's coffin into the hole via a winch rope and pulley system. The casket was heavy, and Barry' s arms and back ached afterward. His father didn ' t allow him to take a break once the coffin rested at the bottom of the grave. Instead, Barry began shoveling dirt back into the hole while his father retrieved the backhoe.
The clouds had finally cleared, and the temperature rose. It was hard, sweaty work, and Barry was glad that evening was drawing closer. It would have been even hotter had the sun been in the sky, rather than setting on the horizon. His calloused hands blistered beneath his leather work gloves.
Barry hated this; hated working for his father, slaving away every day, mowing and digging and raking while his friends enjoyed the summer. Nobody else' s fathers made them work like this. Randy Graco didn 't force Timmy to go to the paper mill with him every day. Why should he be stuck doing this stuff all 69 summer long, just because his father was a drunk? Chores, his father called them.
Barry knew about chores, and this wasn' t it. Timmy had chores; weeding the garden and sweeping out the basement, stuff that took him an hour or so to complete. Timmy bitched and complained about it, but Barry could only laugh. Timmy had no idea how lucky he was. He didn 't have to bust his rear just to cover for his old man's laziness.
Barry didn't know what he wanted to be when he grew up, but it certainly wasn't his father.
Buzzing gnats flew in front of his face, darting for his eyes and ears. He waved them away and dropped another shovel full of dirt onto the coffin, listening to it hit the wood and trickle down the sides.
Minutes later, another sound echoed across the graveyard, the roar of the backhoe' s powerful diesel engine as it sputtered to life. Slowly, his father backed it out of the utility shed and drove over to the grave, carefully weaving the big machine through the tombstones. Barry backed out of the way, grateful for the short break, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Using the scoop, his father quickly filled the hole with dirt. Then he shut off the backhoe, hopped down, and lit a cigarette. Smoke curled into the sky. The tip glowed.
Barry thought his father seemed nervous.
The sun edged closer to the horizon.
"No screwing around now," Clark grumbled. "Let's get this done quick. Your mom's got dinner waiting."
"Yes, sir."
Barry tensed. His father' s tone was all too familiar. It meant trouble tonight. For him, for his mother, for anybody who did anything to piss him off. Barry wondered whose turn it would be this time.
He hated his father. Sometimes, late at night when everyone was asleep, Barry imagined what it would be 70 like to kill him. He thought about it again now. To hit him over the head with the shovel, dig up the dirt and throw him down on top of Dane Graco' s coffin, then fill it all in again, burying his old man alive. He grinned, even as sour bile rose in his throat. He knew it wasn ' t right, thinking that way. He knew that God could see inside his heart, just like Reverend Moore said. But he couldn 't help it. Besides, if God really cared, then why didn' t He step in and help them? Why did He allow Barry and his mother to continue living this way? He imagined his father in the hole, gasping and sputtering as the dirt hit him in the face. His smile grew broader.
"What are you grinning about?" Clark grunted. "You laughing at me?"
"No."
"Then what you grinning about?"
"Nothing."
"Wipe that damn smirk off your face and keep working."
"Yeah ..."
"Yeah? Yeah what?"
Barry lowered his eyes. "Yes, sir."
They replanted the squares of sod on top of the grave, as they' d done so many times before, and neither said a word to the other as they worked.
Barry watched his father out of the corner of his eye, trying to determine if he was drunk yet. He knew that his father kept a bottle of Wild Turkey hidden in the shed, and it was very likely he 'd taken a few swigs while getting the backhoe. Barry hadn' t told Timmy and Doug about the secret stash. They might want to try some, the way they had last summer when they ' d found a six pack of Old Milwaukee beer that Pat Kemp had left in the creek to stay cold (the oversized pounder cans). Secretly, Barry was 71 terrified of alcohol and its effects. He' d seen firsthand what it did to his father, turning him into someone else, into a monster, and he had no desire to do the same. Barry 's biggest fear was of becoming his father. He'd heard other adults say that happened--as you got older, you became your parents. He' d vowed that in his case, he 'd make sure that didn't happen. Never. He hated it when some well-meaning adult patted him on the head and said, 'Why, you look just like your father.'
His father was an abusive drunk, and Barry had the scars, both physical and mental, to prove it.
But his father didn' t seem drunk now. He seemed ... apprehensive. And as the sun sank lower, his agitation increased. He kept glancing around the cemetery, as if looking for something ... or someone.
"You okay, Dad?"
Clark frowned. "Course I'm okay. Why? You saying I don't look okay?"
"No. It's nothing."
"Well, then quit dicking around."
"Yes, sir."
Finished with the job, they tamped the sod down firmly, and then stepped back.
Clark Smeltzer mopped his forehead with a red bandanna. "Let's get home."
"Don't we need to water the sod first?"
"No." He glanced up at the advancing twilight. "We'll do it tomorrow. Been a long day."
"But--"
"None of your lip." A vein throbbed on his father's forehead. "I said we're leaving.
Now."
"Sorry."
"Shut up."
They went home. Barry's mother had fixed pork chops, green beans, and mashed potatoes.
Barry did 72 his best to eat, but he had no appetite. When his mother asked him what was wrong, he didn't reply. The look on his father's face halted further discussion.
After dinner, Barry tried to watch television. He couldn't focus on the show.
Later on, his father got very drunk, split Barry' s lip open with a backhand slap, and chased his mother around the house with a belt, laughing and shouting. Barry fled for the safety of his bedroom, and put his fingers in his ears to block out the sounds of leather meeting flesh, and of his mother 's screams, and his father's curses. He' d tried to help her once before, and as a result, had been out of school for a week until the bruises faded. Afterward, his mother had made him promise never to do it again.
And he hadn't. Not because of his promise, but because he was afraid.
Afraid of what his father would do the next time.
So he did nothing.
Under his pillow was a BB pistol, powered by a CO2 cartridge. It looked just like the gun Clint Eastwood used in his Dirty Harry movies. Barry often wished it were the real thing. Sometimes, when his father was passed out drunk and there was no danger of waking him up, Barry would creep up beside him in the darkness and point the BB pistol at his head.
But not tonight.
Barry cried himself to sleep; hot tears, full of shame and anger and hopelessness.
He dreamed of monsters.
Doug cowered in bed; dirty flannel Spider-Man sheets pulled up over his head, he listened to his mother pawing at his doorknob, pleading drunkenly, her speech 73 slurred by vodka, whispering the things she wanted to do to him, things Doug had read about in Hustler. Dirty things. He' d never told Barry or Timmy, but those things filled him with dread. The same pictures of naked women that his friends drooled and snickered over made him feel queasy.
He ' d seen those private feminine parts in real life, and it was horrible. The thing his mother had between her legs looked nothing like the women in the pictures. It didn ' t offer the same promise. It was a dark place, full of shame and guilt and nausea.
"Doug? Dougie? Come on, baby, open the door for Mommy."
"Go away," Doug whispered. "Please, go away."
Over his bed were three movie posters from Friday the 13th, Parts 2, 3, and 4. Though none of the boys were old enough to see the films at the theater, they all knew the story. Doug stared at the sinister image --the killer, Jason, with his bloody machete. It was preferable to what waited outside his door.
"Doug? I know you're awake. Open up."
"Go away and leave me alone."
"I've got a present for you. It's a surprise."
He bit his lip and fought back tears.
"Can you guess what it is? I'm wearing it. Let me in and we'll do some new things."
He stayed silent.
"Doug? Open this door. Quit being a baby. I've told you before. You're not Mommy's little boy anymore. You're Mommy' s man. And Mommy needs a man. Mommy needs a man bad."
She shoved against the door with all her weight, but the deadbolt he'd installed held firm. He'd purchased the lock at the hardware store; paid for it with money 74 he'd earned raking the neighbor's yards last fall. Timmy and Barry had teased him about it, not knowing its real purpose.
"Douglas Elmore Keiser, you open this door right fucking now."
She hammered on the door with her fists. Doug heard a glass bottle roll across the floor. He stifled his sobs so that she wouldn' t hear. He plucked a tiny yellow Lego block from the floor and squeezed it until his knuckles turned white. The hard plastic contours dug into his palm.
Eventually, she stumbled back into the living room, but not before telling Doug through the closed door that he was just as worthless as his no-good, limp-dick father.
Doug knew why his father had left, knew why he'd run off with that waitress. It didn't matter what he told his friends; he told himself the same lies during the day.
At night, he understood the real reason.
He fell asleep, crying and nauseated.
He also dreamed of monsters.
Timmy lay in bed with his headphones on, tuned in to 98YCR out of Hanover, but they were playing "Pass the Dutchy" by Musical Youth, which he hated, so he switched over to 98Rock out of Baltimore, and listened to "Yeah, Yeah, Yeah" by Kix instead. That was much better. His parents didn ' t like him listening to that type of music, especially Ozzy Osbourne (whom Reverend Moore had deemed a Satanist)
--so, of course, Timmy listened to it every chance he got. Kix had played at the York Fairgrounds the year before. He' d begged his parents to let him go, and of course, they hadn 't.
Earlier, he'd been watching a movie on his little black-and-white television, The Car, which had been corny but sort of cool, too. At least it had taken his mind off things for a while. But then his mother had told him to turn it off and go to sleep. He 'd obeyed the first command, but found the second one impossible.
He was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, but Timmy couldn't sleep. His mind kept running through the day' s events, playing back the funeral. When he closed his eyes, he saw his grandfather lying in his coffin. His mother 's voice echoed in his mind. "It looks like he's sleeping."
Timmy turned on his flashlight, careful not to let the beam shine under the crack of his door, which would alert his parents to the fact that he was still awake. He shined it around the room.
G.I. Joe and Star Wars action figures stared back at him. A toy motorcycle and his baseball glove stuck out from under the bed. Posters adorned the wall; Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan and The Empire Strikes Back, Madonna lying on her back, pouting for the camera; Joan Jett, sexy with a guitar; the album covers for Iron Maiden 's Powerslave and Dio's The Last In Line (much to his mother' s chagrin); all of the heroes and villains that populated the Marvel Comics Universe, as depicted by John Romita, Jr.; dinosaurs pulled from the pages of National Geographic.
His bookshelves overflowed with books, magazines, and comics; Hardy Boys hardcovers, Paul Zindel paperbacks (Zindel was the boys' version of Judy Blume), back issues of Boys Life, Mad, Crazy, and others. Other treasures sat atop his dresser-- a model of Spider-Man fighting Kraven the Hunter that his father had helped him build, his piggy bank that doubled as a globe, a blue glass race car that had once held Avon aftershave, 76 and a small wooden box that his grandfather had given him. Inside were his most secret possessions: a wooden nickel and pocketknife (also both given to him by his grandfather), a rubber whoopee cushion, faux-gold collector 's coin featuring the Hulk, the rattle from a rattlesnake his grandfather had killed while hunting, marbles, some of his father' s old fly lures from when he was a boy, and buried in the bottom, a dried dandelion and a note. Katie Moore had given him the last two items at a church picnic when they were much younger --first and second grades, respectively. The note simply said, in a childish scrawl, I like you Timmy. He' d been embarrassed by it at the time, still under the firm belief that girls were infected with cooties. Despite that, he 'd never thrown it out, nor shown it to anyone else.
In the darkness, he reread the latest issue of G.I. Combat with a flashlight, until his eyes finally drooped, then closed. The flashlight slipped from his limp hand and rolled onto the floor. Eventually, the batteries died.
Timmy's breathing grew shallow. Tears soaked his pillow as he slept. He dreamed about his grandfather, and in the dream, Dane Graco' s grave was an empty hole in the ground. In the distance, he heard a woman screaming.
Closer to him, something growled.
Although he didn't want to, Timmy shuffled closer to his grandfather's empty grave.
When he looked closer, he saw that it wasn't empty after all.
The hole was full of monsters.
Chapter Four The dead slept, too, but did not dream.
James Sawyer was forty-three when he died of complications from Hodgkin's lymphoma.
Before that, he' d worked second shift at the paper mill, where he operated a forklift in the shipping and receiving department. In his spare time, he enjoyed going deer hunting and putting model cars and airplanes together with his sons, Howard and Carl. He ' d met his wife, Marcia, in high school, fell in love with her instantly, and had never been with another woman. Never even considered it. He was active in the Golgotha Lutheran Church, and in the local Lion ' s Club. He never smoked and rarely drank. James was a man of gentle humor, and his spirits remained high, even in the final stages when the cancer ravaged his body.
He passed away in a sterile, bland room at the Hanover General Hospital. James and Marcia were holding hands when it happened. He gave her one last squeeze, whispered that 78 he loved her, and then he was gone. His family laid him to rest in the cemetery; he was buried in a gorgeous mahogany casket, beneath a black marble stone with gold lettering that proclaimed him a loving husband and father.
George Stevens' s death was more sudden and less peaceful. He drowned in the old abandoned quarry located halfway between Spring Grove and Hanover on the summer of his fourteenth birthday. He 'd been swimming there with friends, and earlier, they'd shared their first beer-- piss-warm Michelob, stolen from one of their older brothers. There were rumors that the old quarry was haunted; that the remains of a mining town still stood at the dark, murky bottom, and the spirits of the townspeople still lurked in the waters, waiting to drag unsuspecting swimmers beneath the surface. Will Marks, his voice slurred by the beer, had told them about how he 'd seen a figure under the water once-- a boy their age, pale and bloated. George didn ' t believe the story, so when Will Marks dared him to dive down and see for himself; he did it, egged on by his friends and the warm, fuzzy feeling with which the beer had left him. He leapt from the tire swing and into the inky depths, unable to see anything, plummeting ten feet before striking his head on an old refrigerator that someone had thrown into the quarry. Even underwater, he heard his own neck snap.
It was the last thing he heard. His friends pulled him out of the water, but he was already dead, and they never found out if George saw the ghostly aquatic townspeople or not.
Cathy Luckenbaugh, a bright, cheerful twenty-one year old who was loved by everyone who knew her, had spent the Christmas holidays with her  family and was on her way back to the Penn State campus when a 79 drunk driver crossed the yellow lines on Route 30 and hit her head on at seventy miles per hour. Part of her went through the windshield. The  other half, everything from the abdomen down, remained inside the car.  Her death was quick and relatively painless, despite the severe trauma.  Cathy had been studying English literature, and hoped after college to    get a job as a teacher, and to marry her boyfriend, Ken Bannister, whom  she ' d met the previous semester. Her family buried her in the Golgotha Lutheran Church Cemetery, near her aunt and grandparents. Ken married    another girl he met after college. Many years later, Cathy ' s image was used in a television commercial for Mothers Against Drunk Driving.
Damon Bouchard started stealing when he was eight. His first heist was a pack of baseball cards from the Spring Grove newsstand. By the time he    was twelve, he 'd been busted twice for shoplifting. Two times being caught versus the hundreds of times he' d done it? Damon was happy with those odds. He graduated to breaking and entering, did a brief stint in York County Prison, and died two nights after his release. He ' d just come from a meeting with his parole officer, returned to his third floor apartment, passed his neighbors on the way up the stairs, watched them   pull away from his kitchen window, and broke into their apartment. In  the dark, he 'd tripped over the cat and fell face first into a glass coffee table, slicing his head and throat to shreds. He' d felt the blood gush from his wounds, as well as his mouth and ears, and his last impression was one of anger, wishing he 'd had time to kill the stupid cat. Damon' s long-suffering parents buried him next to their plots. They rarely visited his grave.
Britney Rodgers was five when her father started 80 climbing into her bed at night, and seven when he smothered her with a pillow to keep his awful secret. Her mother had died while giving birth    to her, and her only friend had been her stuffed rabbit, Mr. Bun. Her     father said it was her duty. At night, while he grunted and sweated  above her, reeking of booze and sour sweat, Britney would hide Mr. Bun 's face beneath the pillow so the rabbit wouldn't have to see. Britney' s father buried her body in the woods behind their house, and the police     found her four days later. She was given a proper burial next to her  mother. A police detective made sure that Mr. Bun accompanied her into the ground. Her father was killed during the Camp Hill prison riots, and was buried in a potter ' s field near Harrisburg. The detective who arrested him visited his grave every year on the anniversary of Britney 's death--and pissed on it.
Raymond Burke lived a long, full life and died in his sleep at the ripe old age of eighty-seven. His wife of sixty-two years, Sally, had passed away three months earlier, and as far as Raymond was concerned, he died with her on that day. They 'd never had children, or even a pet, and he felt totally abandoned. He' d never been by himself, and didn 't know what to do. The house was too quiet, and the silence amplified his loneliness.
After Sally's funeral, he' d gone home to wait to die, cursing each morning when he woke up alone instead of finding himself with her, until the morning when she finally was. They were buried side by side.
Stephen Clarke was thirteen when he first had sex with the family dog, Trixie, and fourteen when his older brother Alan found out about it. Their parents had been gone for the day, dining with another couple at the Haufbrau Haus in Abbotstown. Alan walked 81 into his brother' s room without knocking, only to find Stephen sitting naked on the floor, his back against the bed and his legs spread. Trixie was between them, busily licking peanut butter off Stephen ' s erect penis. Disgusted, embarrassed, and enraged, Alan had threatened to tell their parents as soon as they got home. Stephen pleaded with him, but Alan refused to listen.
As his parents pulled into the driveway, Stephen ran to his parent 's bedroom, unlocked his father' s gun cabinet, pulled out a Winchester 30.06, loaded one round into the weapon, put his mouth over the barrel, and squeezed the trigger. He was buried in the cemetery, and in the years immediately following his death, his family visited his grave with a mixture of grief and unspoken shame. Eventually, they stopped visiting. A car ran over Trixie two years after his death.
The moon shined down upon their graves.
The dead kept their silence; kept their secrets. Young and old, good and bad, innocent or guilty, loved or unloved, it didn't matter what they' d done in life, how they 'd lived it, or how they'd ended. In death, they were the same. In death, they found rest beneath the newer portion of Golgotha Lutheran Church Cemetery.
Something else was in the ground, too. Something that was not dead, yet not really alive. For years, it had slept beneath the soil in the old portion of the cemetery at the bottom of the hill, the section where the names and dates on the cracked tombstones were faded and covered with moss. The forgotten area, where the dead received no visitors (other than the caretaker), because all those that remembered them were dead, as well. The creature slumbered beneath an old granite marker with an even older symbol carved into the stone. Both the symbol and the creature were ancient.
The creature in the ground had no name, at least none that it could remember. None of its kind did. They were low things, cursed by the Creator long ago to dwell beneath the surface; white and wiggling like carrion worms. Not the Great Wurms, like Behemoth and his ilk, but low things; condemned to dirt and shadow, condemned to walk and breed in darkness, condemned not even to feast off the rich lifeblood or the warm, still-living flesh of the Creator ' s beloved children (the way the others, the Vamphyir and the Siqqusim, did), or to act as the planet ' s antibodies like the ancient race of subterranean swine-things had done during times of world strife. His race was not smiled upon by Him like the angels and small gods were, nor did they enjoy the autonomy and freedom from His gaze the way the Thirteen did. No. His kind were condemned to feed on the cold, rotting corpses of the dead --the scraps from the Creator' s table. Warm flesh was forbidden to them, and they could only shred it with their claws, empty it of blood and organs and wait for it to turn rancid. The Creator ' s commandment was that they not taste warm blood or flesh. They could slay, of course, in self-defense or just sheer malice. But they could not feast upon the living. They were cursed to eat carrion, commanded to clean up after death.
There was no air in the subterranean prison, but the creature did not need to breathe.
It wished, at times, for death, but death would not come. Its kind were impervious to the weapons of man. Guns and knives meant nothing to it, other than a temporary wound, which would soon heal. It could have slashed its own throat with its claws, but that would not have ushered in oblivion. Only the sun 's rays could destroy it, and the 83 sigil kept it from reaching the light--kept it from doing anything but lying there.
The thing was a ghoul, and quite possibly, as far as it knew, the last of its race.
It had been nearly two centuries since it had encountered another of its kind, and that had been on another, faraway continent. Its loneliness simmered inside its clammy breast.
The ghoul had no idea how long it had lain there, imprisoned and unable to move or to feed, bound by the symbol on the gravestone above it, trapped by magicks now forgotten, by sigils borrowed from books of power like The Daemonolateria and The Long, Lost Friend, mystic symbols copied and etched by men long dead, men who 'd lain moldering, turning to dust and bones in nearby graves, rotting in peace while it half-slumbered in boredom and despair-- and suffered from an overwhelming hunger. Realistically, the imprisonment hadn 't been long, not by the ghoul' s standards. One hundred years. Maybe a handful more. A blink of the eye for its kind, but the hunger had made it seem longer.
It was lonely.
It was angry.
And above all else, it was ravenous.
That hunger gnawed at the ghoul's empty belly, a cold, hollow craving that it had no means of satisfying.
Until two weeks ago, when it was finally freed.
Then it had made up for lost time, and at long last, satisfied its appetite.
That night, after the sigil was accidentally broken, after the gravestone had cracked and fallen to the earth, it awoke fully and became aware. Aware of the human standing above it. The creature could smell him --the stink of his man-sweat, the alcohol oozing 84 from his pores, the fear in his heart, the anger in his head. The ghoul could smell it all, and more, smell the dead in the cemetery. The creature growled along with its stomach.
The man's head was like a hive of enraged bees, and the ghoul could sense it.
Above the grave, the man moved. Mumbled something angry and unintelligible, voice slurred by alcohol. Cursed the fallen tombstone, even though he' d been the one to knock it over. Lit a cigarette.
The ground shifted.
The ghoul surged toward the surface, cleaving the soil like a shark through water.
Its long, bony fingers erupted from the earth. The filthy, curved talons on the tips of its fingers were cracked and peeling. Its arms thrust forward, white and cold.
Its thick, fleshy hide was hard and greasy. The ghoul ' s hands curled around the startled man 's ankles, gripping him tight, holding him in place. Then the thing' s hairless, pointed head emerged from the rippling dirt like a pale, rotten, oversized gourd. Its yellow eyes bulged. Sharp teeth, blackened with decay in some spots, flashed in the moonlight, wicked incisors glinting beneath black, rubbery lips.
The man screamed, cigarette falling from his mouth. His cries echoed through the empty graveyard with no one else to hear them.
Laughing, the ghoul pulled itself from the grave and rose to its full height. It was completely naked, its body almost entirely devoid of hair except for a tangle between its legs and a few wayward strands along its body. The man was too frightened to flee. A wet stain spread across the crotch of his pants. A half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey slipped from his grasp and rolled across the wet grass. He trembled as the creature shook the dirt from its body. It was thin, almost 85 emaciated. Its bones were visible beneath the hairless skin. The ghoul licked its lips, the tongue slithering across its face like a gray snake.
Despite his terror, the man gagged and coughed, recoiling from the creature' s stench. It smelled like strong cheese, left out in the summer sun for too long.
Pungent. Spoiled. Bad milk spilled inside a Jiffy John.
"Oh, Jesus ... Somebody help! Help me!"
He backed away, his foot colliding with the bottle.
The creature hissed, its breath like a sewer.
"Help!"
The ghoul paused, studying the terrified man's dialect. Though it knew most of the languages of men, it had been some time since it had spoken them.
"What is your name, human?"
"Christ. It's a flashback. Agent Orange or something--"
"Silence. I am no vision or dream."
The man flinched. "Y-you're real?"
"Of course I am real. Again, what is your name? What are you called?"
"C-Clark S-S-Smeltzer."
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm the c-caretaker. I was drinking, and I-I was mad. Angry. I kicked the tombstone.
I'm s-sorry. Was it yours?"
The ghoul glanced down at the shattered fragments. The marker had cracked in half, the sigil cracking with it; thus, freedom.
The man's eyes grew wider. "It w-was, wasn't it? Oh God ..."
The ghoul grinned. The caretaker began to sob.
"Puh-please ..." Clark started coughing again.
"Please, what?"
"I'm sorry. P-please don't k-kill me. ..."
The ghoul's laughter was like a hissing steam kettle. "Kill you? I am not going to kill you. I can see inside your mind. You will be useful."
Clark nodded furiously. "Yeah, that's right. I-I am useful. I can f-fix your tombstone good as new."
"You misunderstand. I am hungry."
"Oh, shit..."
"You bury the dead?"
Clark nodded, recoiling from the ghoul's stench.
"Tell me, son of Adam. Have you ever seen the fruits of your labor? Have you ever viewed a corpse after it has ripened beneath the soil? Seen the earthworms and millipedes crawling over and through it? Smelled the aroma of grave mold, or warmed yourself in its luminous glow? Wallowed in the rich, fatty stew of decomposition?"
Clark retched. "No."
The ghoul patted its stomach. "It is a treat. My kind was not supposed to enjoy it.
It was our curse, to eat the dead. But in time-- in time, we grew to relish it. Savor it."
"Y-you eat dead people?"
"Yes, and you are going to feed me."
Clark Smeltzer's bladder let go again, further soaking his pants. "B-but you said you weren't gonna k-kill me!"
"I am not. I will allow you to live, so that you can continue to do your job. You will bury the dead, so that I can feed. You will also keep my existence a secret.
For this, you will be richly rewarded. And there is something else you will do for me, as well. I require something else, in addition to sustenance. I am lonely."
Swallowing hard, Clark stared in horror, listening as the creature spoke.
It talked for a long time, and when Clark returned home, it was almost morning. The ghoul returned to 87 the grave, hiding beneath the soil, sheltering itself from the sun. Waiting. No longer imprisoned, but free to come and go under the shelter of darkness.
When it was night again, it began to dig. And to plan. First, it satisfied its hunger.
That was an immediate need. It devoured the nearby dead, eating whatever flesh remained on the bones, and then the bones themselves, leaving nothing behind but whatever they 'd been buried in-- jewelry and scraps of moldering clothing. Sated, the ghoul focused on fulfilling its longing for others of its kind --a family.
The caretaker was supposed to find it a mate, for its kind could mate with human females and had done so in the past. But the caretaker had not yet procured one.
So when the boy and girl mated in the darkness, lying together on a blanket spread out between the tombstones, the ghoul had watched them from the shadows, and saw its chance. It had killed the boy, obeying the commandment and not partaking in the pumping blood or still-warm flesh, and had taken the girl below. She was ripe and fertile. The creature could smell it on her. The ghoul wasted no time.
Over the last two weeks it had created quite a den. The warren was centered in its original grave, but it had tunneled out in all directions, a spiraling labyrinth that grew larger and more complex. The girl was kept in the main chamber, in a nest the ghoul had built for her. It didn 't have to worry about her fleeing-- her mind was too far gone for that, and even if she had been able to reason, she wouldn 't have been able to navigate the pitch-black maze of tunnels.
It ate every night. At first, it had feasted in the nearby older graves, devouring the few human remains still left after one hundred years of interment, and snacking at night on nearby road kill, left to rot in the sun along the 88 roads that bordered that portion of the cemetery. Then it had branched forward, burrowing up the hill to where the new graves lay. There, night after night, it had eaten its fill, rooting through the graves of James Sawyer and George Stevens, Cathy Luckenbaugh and Damon Bouchard and Britney Rodgers, Raymond and Sally Burke, Stephen Clarke, and many others.
The dead could not scream.
This night was no different. Dane Graco' s corpse was devoured within ten hours of its interment. The ghoul was displeased at the chemicals in the body, embalming fluid and the like. It longed for the old days. But food was food, and it was hungry.
The next day, after the Gracos had buried their dearly departed and tried to move on with their lives, Clark Smeltzer checked a preappointed spot and found a new collection of graft, including Dane Graco 's Freemason ring. He started thinking again about all his newfound wealth. He wasn't doing anything wrong, he reasoned. He wasn' t digging up corpses and robbing them. And it wasn 't like the dead needed that stuff anymore. Why shouldn' t he be able to turn it into money at the pawnshops? Even so, he had to be careful.
Something like this ring, he couldn 't sell it locally. He'd have to drive to Harrisburg or Baltimore to unload it.
Beneath the small pile of jewelry and coins was a note, scrawled on a scrap of white cloth--cloth ripped from someone' s burial clothes. The note was brief, only seventeen words, but Clark had to struggle to read the handwriting.
Continue to tell noone of my existence. Bring me more women. You will continue to be rewarded.
He put the items in his pockets and his pants sagged from the weight of the coins and jewelry. Clark pulled them up, readjusted his belt, and walked away.
He tried very hard to ignore the faint female screams he heard coming from beneath the ground.
By noon he was drunk again, and nothing else mattered.
Chapter Five Two weeks had passed since Dane Graco's death, and life went on for everyone else.
Timmy's grief subsided, Barry's bruises healed, and Doug' s guilt faded. The boy ' s fears seemed to dry up, if only temporarily, in the warmth of the summer sun. They were twelve, after all, and resilient, still able to employ the defense mechanisms of childhood. Timmy still thought about his grandfather every day, especially if he passed by his grave, and he still experienced moments of deep heartache and bouts of crying. But the two weeks of summer vacation ' s start were like a new lease on life; afternoons spent fishing at the pond (Barry and Timmy caught sunfish and blue gills, while Doug usually caught sticks, and once, a turtle), hanging out together inside the Dugout, reading comics and girlie magazines, playing with Timmy 's Star Wars Death Star play set, complete with foam garbage for the trash compactor.
They'd walk the railroad tracks and finding 91 iron spikes, which they carried back to the Dugout. They spent time shooting rats at the town dump with their BB guns, and retaliating to the opening volley of a new war with their archrivals. Ronny and Jason had stumbled across Doug on the far side of Bowman ' s Woods and had tried to beat him up, chasing him all the way to Barry 's house; the boys had retaliated by stealing Ronny' s bike and hiding it on the railroad tracks behind the paper mill. They waited and watched with a giddy mixture of excitement and dread as the coal train ran it over.
During the mornings, Barry helped his father, mowing the grass in the cemetery and cleaning the inside of the church. Timmy helped out at home, doing his daily chores without complaint. His father had been nicer and more patient during the past two weeks, telling Timmy that he loved him more often, and actually taking the time to talk to him about things. He was working more hours at the paper mill again, but when he got home, he made an effort to spend time with his son. Timmy wondered if maybe all the overtime his father was working stemmed from a desire to not think about his own father 's death. But he didn' t ask. Instead, he weeded the garden and mowed their yard. He was glad that his father had taken an interest in him again.
With no chores to perform or a father to please, Doug spent his mornings by himself, or helped Timmy with his own duties. As in previous summers, when they' d finished, they 'd ride their bikes over to the cemetery and give Barry a hand (if his father wasn' t around) so that the three of them could hang out sooner. It was during one of these moments when the three boys were clearing the dead floral displays from the graves that they discovered the first hole.
Clark Smeltzer was working in the lower section of the graveyard, at the bottom of the hill where the older tombstones were located, fixing the sunken grave markers.
He was out of sight and out of earshot when it happened.
Barry had hooked a small wagon up to the back of the riding tractor. He drove it between the rows, humming a Billy Idol tune and thinking of maybe asking his mother if he could cut his hair short and spiky to match the singer ' s, while Doug and Timmy gathered the dead plants and tossed them into the back of the wagon. When they were finished, they would dump the debris in the mulch pile behind the shed.
"Han Solo is a pussy," Doug said, clutching a handful of withered flowers. "The Doctor would totally kick his butt. You guys are high."
"The Doctor doesn't even have a real spaceship," Timmy said. "He flies around in a telephone booth."
They were arguing about who would win in a fight, Doctor Who or Han Solo from Star Wars. Barry revved the tractor, drowning him out in midsentence.
Then Doug shouted in fright.
They didn't hear his cries at first, over the roar of the tractor' s engine. Doug shouted louder. Barry engaged the parking brake and leapt off the tractor, and Timmy whirled around, expecting to see Ronny and the others giving Doug an atomic wedgie or something. Instead, their overweight friend had cast his dead flowers aside and was pawing at the ground. His left leg had disappeared into the earth from the knee down. His screech echoed across the graveyard.
"Relax, man." Barry ran over to him and extended a hand, while Timmy turned off the tractor. "My old man will hear you."
"Get me out of here. Something's got my ankle!"
"It's just a groundhog hole."
"Something's biting me!"
Timmy and Barry suppressed their laughter. The entire scene looked pretty comical, Doug floundering, his arms flailing wildly, his glasses sliding off his sweaty nose, and his leg deep inside the ground.
"It's not funny, guys. It hurts!"
"Take my hand."
Doug grasped Barry' s outstretched hand desperately, and Barry pulled him up. Fresh soil clung to his pants leg and sock. His sneaker had come off, and remained beneath the surface. There was blood on his sock.
From deep inside the hole, something squealed. It sounded angry.
"Jesus Christ!" Doug collapsed onto the grass and drew his wounded leg up, slowly peeling off the tattered sock. Five shallow but ragged scratches marked the flesh around his ankle and calf, as if he 'd been raked with long fingernails or claws.
"Are you okay?" Timmy asked, concerned.
"No, I'm not okay. I fell in a hole and something bit me. Look at my foot, man. Does it look okay? I'm bleeding."
Barry and Timmy glanced at each other, ashamed of their initial reaction.
"Didn't you see the hole?" Barry asked.
"There wasn't one," Doug said. "The ground just caved in. Like it was a trap or something."
Timmy and Barry examined the hole. It didn't look like a groundhog' s den. The size was wrong. It was too big for a mole, but too small for any other type of burrowing mammal. Furthermore, it didn ' t look like it had been dug from above the ground. There was no dirt piled off to the side of the hole. It appeared to have been dug from beneath the earth, as if something 94 had tunneled up from below, and this small portion had then collapsed. Timmy knelt by the hole. A subtle breeze blew against his cheek. He wrinkled his nose.
"There's air down there. I can feel it on my face. But it stinks."
"Who cares?" Doug rocked back and forth. "Look at my ankle. I could get rabies."
"Your ankle is fine, man. Just put some Bactine on it or something."
"But that won't stop rabies. That kills you. You foam at the mouth and stuff."
Tuning him out, Timmy focused on the strange opening. The odor was terrible, but he couldn't look away.
"You guys heard that noise, right? It didn't sound like a groundhog. I wonder what this is?"
"Sinkhole," Barry said. "Graveyard's been full of them lately. My dad says there must be a cave or something below. We' ve had little holes like this opening all over the place. Sunken tombstones, too.
They fall right down halfway into the ground. That squeal was probably just air rushing out."
"Air?" Doug sighed in exasperation. "Then what bit me, you moron?"
Timmy ignored them both. His mind swam with the possibilities. An underground cavern!
Maybe even a whole network of them. If they could get inside and explore, there was no telling what they 'd find. They'd be famous. Last winter, he' d read a book about caverns, and had become enamored of the idea of finding a cave near their homes. It would be even cooler than the Dugout.
He leaned closer, winced at the stench wafting up from the hole, and fanned his nose.
"It doesn't smell like a cave. Smells like a sewer."
"We're in a cemetery," Barry reminded him. "It's probably someone's body, decomposing and stuff."
Timmy bolted away from the hole in disgust. For a second, he thought of his grandfather.
Was that what was happening to him right now? He closed his eyes and tried not to think about it.
"Oh, man," Doug moaned. "If it was a sewer or a dead person, I could get infected."
"Look," Timmy said, "just go home and get it fixed up. If you take care of it now, you're not gonna get infected."
"I can't go home now. Not with my foot like this. I won't be able to pedal my bike fast enough to get past Catcher."
"Catcher." Timmy curled his fingers into fists. "Always something with Catcher. Things would be a lot easier without him."
"Aren't you sick of that dog?" Barry asked Doug.
"Well, sure I am. But what can I do? I told Mr. Sawyer that Catcher had been chasing me, and my mom has called him a bunch of times, and he still won' t tie him up. The dogcatcher hasn 't done anything, either. Mom says that's because he's friends with Mr. Sawyer. They hang out together down at the VFW."
Timmy smiled. "I think it's time we took care of Catcher on our own. I'm tired of him chasing me every time I go to your house."
"What?" Doug's eyes grew wide, his injury forgotten. "You talking about bumping him off? I don't know if I could do that."
"No, I'm not talking about killing him. We'd get in trouble for that, man, and I don' t feel like spending the rest of the summer being grounded. But we can get even.
I
've been thinking about this for a while now, 96 and I know how to take care of him. We can make sure he thinks twice before messing with any of us again."
Doug stopped sniffling, put his sock back on, and stared at Timmy with interest.
"How?"
"Squirt guns."
Barry snorted. "Squirt guns? Are you nuts? You nail him with water and you're just gonna piss him off even more. This is Catcher we're talking about, not a cat."
"Yeah," Doug said. "I don't know, Timmy. I don't think Catcher is scared of a little water."
"No." Timmy's smile grew broader. "Probably not. But I bet he's scared of vinegar."
"Vinegar?"
Timmy nodded. "Vinegar. Lemon juice. Stuff like that. We can get some from my mom' s kitchen, put it into the guns, and nail him when he comes after Doug. He gets it in his eyes, and he 'll never chase us again. Guarantee it."
"Gasoline," Doug said. "That would do the trick."
Barry shook his head. "No, that would eat through the plastic. And besides, we don't want to kill him. Just teach him a lesson. It' s got to be lemon juice or something. Maybe mix it with vinegar."
"So you guys up for this?" Timmy asked.
Barry and Doug agreed that it was a good plan. They usually did, no matter what Timmy proposed. He could summon them to the Dugout and state his desire for them to travel to Mars by the end of the summer, and the boys would agree that it was a solid plan.
Timmy had read Tom Sawyer when he was younger, for a fifth grade book report assignment, and the character ' s ability to sway others was not lost on him. He found a familiar poignancy to many of the scenes, especially the whitewashing of the fence and Tom 's ability to convince his friends to take part in his adventures, 97 no matter how dangerous or ill-advised. Timmy often secretly fancied himself a modern Tom Sawyer, with Barry and Doug as his Huckleberry Finn and Joe Harper. (Barry 's dad even fit the role of Huck' s own abusive father.) Some of the older kids listened to a band called Rush, and they had a song called "Tom Sawyer" that made him feel the same way. He didn 't understand all the lyrics, but he knew enough of them to know that it echoed his own thoughts.
"What are you going to do about your shoe?" Barry asked Doug. "You can't limp around with just one."
"I don't know, but I'm not putting my hand back down in that hole. Whatever it was that bit me is probably still inside."
Timmy got down on his hands and knees and peered inside the hole. It was pitch black inside, and he couldn' t see anything but dirt. He got the impression that the crevice was deeper than it looked. Another gust of foul air drifted out, and he cringed.
"I don't see it, man. Want to borrow a pair of mine instead?"
"That would be cool. Thanks."
"Sure. While we're there, we'll get my mom to fix you up. She'll probably insist on it anyway--she freaks out over infection and stuff. Just like you."
Barry laughed. "Why do moms do that, anyway? Mine would do the same thing."
"Mine wouldn't," Doug whispered. "I'd be lucky if she noticed."
Timmy wondered if maybe that was why Doug had reacted the way he did to his own injury--because he knew his mother wouldn't.
"Come on," he said, trying to cheer Doug up. "Today's the day Catcher bites off more than he can chew. You should be happy."
"Hate to be a downer," Barry reminded them, "but I can't go anywhere until I finish up here. My dad will have a fit if I leave in the middle of this."
"We'll help you," Timmy said. "We're almost done, anyway."
Doug glanced down at his shoeless foot. "Better let me drive the tractor. The bleeding's stopped, but I don't think I should walk on my foot for a bit."
Barry double-checked, making sure his father was still occupied in the lower portion of the cemetery. Then they hurriedly finished the job at hand, emptied the wagon onto the mulch pile behind the utility shed, and headed for Timmy 's house, taking the long way around the cemetery to avoid Barry' s dad. They stopped at the Dugout and collected their bikes. Doug slowed them down, unable to pedal his bike without hurting his foot. He coasted along, instead. As they rode past his grandfather 's grave, Timmy skidded to a halt. His back tire fishtailed, and he almost wrecked.
Barry slid to a halt behind him. "What's wrong, man?"
Gasping, Timmy pointed at his grandfather's grave.
The grass on top of the fresh sod had withered and turned brown, and the soil had sunken almost a foot, leaving a deep, rectangular depression.
Barry glanced at his friend, then to the grave, then back to Timmy.
"The dirt settles after a week or so. Happens all the time."
"Yeah, but not that much. Look at it! It's caving in."
Barry shrugged. "Well, like I said, my dad thinks there might be a sinkhole."
"That's a big cave, man." Doug shook his head in disbelief.
"Underneath the entire graveyard?" Timmy exclaimed. "This is bullshit, Barry."
"Hey, don't get mad at me! It's not my fault."
"Sorry." Timmy's voice grew softer. "I was just shocked, is all. What's your dad gonna do about it?"
"I don't know," Barry admitted. "There' s not much he can do, except to add extra dirt to the sinking areas, and straighten up the headstones. If it keeps happening, I guess the church board will have to do something."
They crossed the road and cut through Barry's yard and over the hill into Timmy's backyard, all so that Clark Smeltzer wouldn' t see them and find something else for Barry to do. Then they went inside Timmy 's house. His mother made a big production over Doug' s injuries, and made him sit down while she attended to him with cotton swabs and disinfectant. Doug beamed at the attention and concern, happier than his friends had seen him in weeks. They shook their heads, saddened and bemused. The simple attention of a mother --any mother--changed his entire mood.
"What in the world did you do?" Elizabeth asked him. "How did you cut it like this?"
"I don't know, Mrs. Graco. I think it was a rock or something."
"You think? These scratches look like claw marks, Doug."
"It was a bunch of sticks. I cut it when I fell. Sticks or a rock. I didn't really look to see."
While Elizabeth was distracted with Doug, Barry and Timmy snuck into the kitchen and borrowed a bottle of vinegar and a plastic container of lemon juice. They turned up his mother 's radio to cover the noise--Olivia Newton John moaned about getting 100 physical. Quickly, they filled up their squirt guns, laid the plastic weapons out on the patio, and then returned the items just as Elizabeth and Doug were finishing up. They walked into the kitchen. Doug was wearing Timmy 's old pair of Vans, from last year when he'd gone through a skateboard craze. They barely fit, and the laces were undone.
Timmy's mother sniffed the air. Her nose wrinkled.
"It smells like vinegar in here."
The boys glanced at one another. Doug's smile vanished.
"Really?" Timmy's voice cracked. "I don't smell anything. You guys smell anything?"
Barry and Doug shook their heads.
Shaking her head, Elizabeth turned down the radio. "You guys want to stay for dinner?
We're having hamburgers and French fries. Randy's grilling when he gets home from work."
Doug grew excited. "Sure, Mrs. Graco. That would be great."
"I'd better not." Barry's eyes fell to the floor. "Don't want to leave my mom home alone."
Elizabeth frowned at the odd statement, but said nothing. She winced again at the sharp tang of vinegar in the air. Motherly instinct told her that Timmy and his friends were up to something, but it also told her that it probably wasn ' t something that would get them hurt or killed or in trouble, and therefore, she decided to let go. Letting go was something she struggled with. No matter how old Timmy got, she still thought of him as her little boy, and she still worried. She supposed she always would, even when he was an adult.
"Hamburgers and French fries," Doug said. "That'll hit the spot. What's for dessert, Mrs. Graco?"
"Blueberry pie." She patted Doug's head. "I'll call your mother and make sure it's okay."
"You don't have to," Doug said. "She's probably not there to answer, anyway."
"Oh?" Elizabeth arched her eyebrows. "Did she start back to work? Good for her!"
"No, she just spends a lot of time sleeping."
"Oh ..."
"Mom," Timmy interrupted, sparing his friend further embarrassment, "we'll be back in time for dinner. Right now we've got to go do something."
"What?"
"Can't tell you. It's top secret."
His mother smiled. "Be back by four. Your father will be hungry, and if you're not here to eat, you'll make him grumpy."
"Will do."
The three ran outside, collected their armament, and walked down Timmy's driveway, heading in the direction of Doug's house.
Barry glanced behind them. "Won't your mom wonder why we left our bikes behind?"
"No," Timmy said. "She knows Doug can't pedal with his foot like that. She'll just think we headed for the creek or something."
At the edge of Timmy' s property, they turned left and started up Laughman Road, which climbed steadily uphill before leveling off after a half-mile. Thick forest bordered both sides of the road, with Bowman 's Woods on their right. If Timmy's mother were indeed watching them from the window, she' d assume they were going to the creek, just as he 'd planned. But instead of following the thin footpath into the woods, they continued up the hill and passed from his mother's 102 view. The road grew darker, shadowed on both sides by the tall, arching trees. They seemed to loom directly overhead, as if trying to block out the sunlight. It was cooler in their shade, but unsettling, as well.
Doug limped, slightly dragging his injured foot.
"You okay?" Timmy asked.
Smiling, Doug flashed him a thumbs-up. "Never been better. Your mom fixed me up good.
She's so nice."
"You say that now," Timmy scoffed. "But I bet you'd change your tune when she made broccoli for dinner and told you that you couldn't watch The A-Team until you'd finished."
"The A-Team is stupid. Ever notice they fire like ten thousand frigging bullets at the bad guys, but never manage to hit anything? Nobody ever gets killed or wounded."
"So? I like it."
"Well, I like broccoli--and I like your mom."
"Want to trade?"
Doug's smile disappeared. "I don't think you'd want to do that, Timmy."
"Why not?" Timmy teased. "You change your mind?"
"No. I just don't think you'd like my mother very much. ..."
"Yeah." Timmy's voice grew softer. "I guess you're right."
They walked on in silence.
At the top of the hill, Laughman Road leveled out, providing a straight shot to Doug's house. To their left, the forest disappeared, giving way to acres of fenced in pasture.
They' d yet to climb the fence and explore the territory, due to Catcher. Mr. Sawyer ' s dairy cows roamed and grazed among the fields. Several of them stood close to the road, staring at the boys on the other 103 side of the fence with wide, unblinking eyes. Timmy had once heard his father say that cows had the stupidest expression of all God' s creatures, but Timmy disagreed with that. He thought the cows looked sad. To him, their eyes held longing, a wish that they could go beyond the fence and graze on the other side of the road. The grass of Bowman 's Woods must have looked greener to them.
"Moo," Doug called out, his spirits lifting again. "Mooooooooo!"
"Knock it off," Timmy warned him. "If Catcher hears us, he'll come running."
"But don't we want that this time?"
"Yes. But I also want to be ready for him. This is a sneak attack. Don't holler for him until we're all set."
Nodding, Doug moved away from the cows and began quietly humming a song by Morris Day and The Time. His limp grew more pronounced and his pace slowed as they neared the Sawyer 's home.
"Maybe we should wait," he suggested. "Come back another day."
"Screw that," Barry said. "We've got the squirt guns, and we've come this far. What are you--scared?"
"No."
"Yes, you are. Admit it. You're scared of Catcher."
"Screw you, dipshit." Doug's face grew red. "You're scared of him, too."
Barry held his hands up in mock surrender. "Yeah, okay. Guess I am."
The Sawyer' s farm grew visible in the distance, sitting far back from the road and connected to the world by a narrow, winding lane. The boys knew that lane well, and viewed it as the gateway to hell. A grain silo and the top of a red barn jutted above the rolling hilltops.
"Okay," Timmy muttered. "This is it."
They lined up side by side at the entrance to the lane.
"Okay," Doug whispered. "I admit it. I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"Catcher! What if we miss?"
Barry grinned. "Don't."
"Wait until you see the whites of his eyes," Timmy advised them. Then he placed his feet squarely apart, cupped one hand to his mouth, and shouted for the dog.
"Oh shit," Doug whimpered. "I'm not ready. You said we'd wait until we were ready."
Timmy stared straight ahead. "Too late."
His cries for the dog did not go unheeded. Within seconds, the three boys heard an all too familiar snarling coming from the distant farmhouse. A flash of black fur appeared at the end of the lane and rocketed toward them. Catcher 's growls split the air like artillery shells. As the dog drew closer, Doug took a step backward.
"Don't you move," Timmy warned.
"But--"
"Come on, Catcher," Barry taunted the enraged Doberman. "We've got something for you!"
Foam and spittle flew from the dog' s jaws as he closed the distance between them. Catcher paused for a moment, as if surprised to see his rivals on foot and standing their ground rather than on bikes and fleeing. Surveying them with his dark eyes, the dog lowered his head and growled again, deep and menacing. He bared his white teeth. The boys trembled. Warily, he took another step forward. His hackles were raised.
"Come on," Timmy shouted, his voice cracking. "Come take a bite out of Doug."
Doug shot a terrified look at his friend. "W-what?"
Still suspicious, Catcher barked. His muscles rippled as he flexed his haunches.
Timmy stomped his foot at the dog.
Doug's eyes grew wide. "Oh, Jesus ..."
Suddenly, Catcher darted forward, open jaws pointed directly at Doug's crotch.
Doug screamed.
Catcher moved quickly, but Timmy was quicker.
"Now--fire!"
They did. All three aimed their squirt guns directly at the charging Doberman' s eyes and unleashed a stream of vinegar and lemon juice. The effects were instantaneous.
Catcher stopped in midcharge and spun around, trying to avoid the stinging barrage.
Yelping, he darted away, weaving back and forth as if he were drunk.
"It worked," Barry hollered. "Holy shit, it worked!"
Laughing with triumphant glee, the boys continued their assault, squeezing their triggers again and again, releasing all of the squirt guns' potent contents. Catcher' s tortured whining grew louder. Fleeing, he ran onto the grass and rolled onto his back. He squirmed, yelping and snapping at the air. Flipping over onto his belly, the dog pawed at his eyes.
Still firing, Timmy inched closer. Barry and Doug followed along with him. Their bravery grew with each step until they stood over the thrashing canine. Catcher looked up at them, unseeing.
All three boys continued laughing.
"Eat shit." Doug leaned over and fired directly into the dog's left eye at point blank range.
Catcher let out one long, mournful howl, and then Barry kicked him.
"Take that, dickhead."
Timmy and Doug's laughter dried up. They stared in shock and surprise.
Barry kicked The dog again. The tip of his sneaker drove into Catcher' s side, right between his ribs. Catcher snapped at his foot, but Barry easily sidestepped him and lashed out a third time.
Timmy's heart sank. Catcher, their personal demon, the dog that had terrorized them for all these years, that had made the simple act of going to each other' s homes a living hell, suddenly seemed pitiful. Timmy was horrified. He felt sorry for the dog, and ashamed at what they were doing. This had been his idea. The guilt was overwhelming.
Barry kicked him again. Blood trickled out of Catcher's nose.
"Stop it, man," Timmy cried. "You'll kill him!"
"So?" Grimacing, Barry wiped the sweat from his eyes. "We won't have to worry about him chasing us ..."
Kick.
"... ever ..."
KICK.
"... again."
Catcher wailed. Not yelped--wailed. Timmy had never heard a dog--or anything else--make that noise before. The sound filled him with dread. Catcher' s nose and muzzle were covered with blood now. The dog 's bladder let go, flooding the ground with urine.
"Bite me now, fucker! Cocksucker. Son of a bitch."
Timmy had never heard so many curse words come out of his friend's mouth at once.
"Barry," Doug pleaded. "Stop. You'll get us in trouble."
Timmy grabbed his friend's arm, but he was no 107 match for Barry's superior strength and size. Grunting, Barry pushed him to the ground.
"Get off me, Graco, unless you want some, too. This was your idea!"
"Not like this ..."
Taking advantage of the distraction, the wounded dog jumped to his feet and fled across the fields, his tail tucked firmly between his legs. He was limping badly, and dog shit ran down his hindquarters.
Out of breath, the three boys stood there looking at each other. Each of them was exhausted. Timmy felt sick to his stomach. The strength seemed to drain from his limbs. What had just happened? And how had it happened? He 'd daydreamed about this plan a dozen times, but never with these results.
He shook his head at Barry. "What got into you, man?"
"My father," Barry panted, his hands on his knees. "Oh Jesus, just like my old man ..."
Misunderstanding, Doug pointed back toward Timmy's house. "Let's go. If we leave now, your dad will never find out."
Barry stared at him and said nothing.
Timmy picked up the fallen squirt guns. "He' s right. We need to get the hell out of here before Mr. Sawyer finds out what happened to his dog. If he sees us standing down here, we 're screwed. He'll tell our parents for sure."
"Sorry I shoved you," Barry apologized. His cheeks were wet with tears.
"Don't worry about it. Let's just go, okay?"
The three of them cut across the road into Bowman's Woods, far enough inside the treeline so that they couldn't be seen. They wound their way through 108 the forest, pushing aside low-hanging limbs and slashing the clinging vines and poison ivy out of the way with long sticks. When they reached the creek, they stopped to rest and catch their breath. Doug kneaded his sore ankle and swatted at the swarming gnats. Timmy washed the squirt guns out in the cold water to get rid of the evidence, the lingering smell of vinegar. Barry was silent and morose.
"I don't know what happened," he said after a few minutes. "I just... snapped."
Timmy picked up a pebble and threw it into the creek. "It's okay, man. We all kinda did. We could have blinded him."
"Seriously?" Doug asked.
Timmy shrugged. "Sure. He was certainly acting like we had. Guess I didn't think about that when I came up with this plan."
He'd heard the expression, "Things can change on a dime" before. His grandfather had said it all the time, but until today, Timmy had never really understood it.
"Well," Doug said, "we shouldn' t be too hard on ourselves. Remember all those times he chased us? Remember in school, when we were studying mythology? That dog that guards the afterlife? Cerebus? He was a monster, and so was Catcher."
A monster, Timmy thought. Was he really?
He tossed another stone into the water and watched the ripples spread. The concentric rings lapped against the creek bank.
Is Catcher the real monster, or are we?
Chapter Six "Shit." Barry stopped suddenly in the middle of the trail and threw his hands up in despair.
They'd been following a winding deer path through the middle of Bowman' s Woods, taking the long way back home so nobody would see them. Timmy and Doug halted and turned. Barry was frantic, his expression one of sick fear.
"What's wrong?" Timmy asked.
"My watch..."
"You break it?"
"No. I think I lost it."
Timmy felt a surge of panic. "Back at Sawyer's place? Oh man, if they find it ..."
"I know." Barry finished his thought. "Then we're screwed. My name's engraved on the bottom. Mom got it for me for my birthday last year. God damn it, I don' t believe this."
"We've got to go back and get it," Timmy said. "We can't just leave it lying there."
"Are you crazy?" Doug swatted a mosquito. "We can't go back there. Mr. Sawyer probably already called the cops."
"Well, I can't go home without it," Barry said. He sounded terrified. "My old man will have a cow if he finds out I lost that watch."
"You took it off while we were working," Doug told him.
"Are you sure?" Barry asked, sounding hopeful.
Doug shrugged. "Pretty sure. Kind of. Well, maybe ..."
Timmy thought for a moment. "You know, now that he mentioned it, I don't remember seeing it on your wrist after that. Did you take it off in the graveyard?"
"I don't know. I can't remember. Sometimes I do, because my arms get sweaty and the band slips off. So, maybe."
"Well, if you did take it off, where would you have left it?"
Barry sounded very close to tears. "On one of the tombstones, or maybe inside the shed."
Timmy turned to Doug. "How's your ankle?"
"It feels better. Burns a little, but I'm okay."
"Good." Timmy was surprised. The fact that Doug hadn' t taken the opportunity to complain about his injury and make it out to be worse than it really was meant that he understood the gravity of the situation. "Okay, Barry, don 't worry. We'll help you look for it. It's got to be around there somewhere."
"I hope so. Otherwise ..."
He trailed off, but they heard the fear in his voice.
Timmy thought again of Barry's outburst during their attack on Catcher. Despite the fact that Barry had 111 a scar on his calf from when the dog had latched onto him almost two years ago, what had happened today hadn't been Barry's fault. It had been his father' s. Barry 's body had plenty of scars and bruises, and only one of them was from the dog. Sometimes in the afternoon, Timmy' s mother watched talk shows (more often now that they ' d just installed the new cable television with nineteen channels); on the talk shows, they talked about abused kids and how they lashed out at others as a result. It was their way of dealing with it, of feeling powerful instead of helpless. Sometimes, they turned into school bullies. Other times, serial killers. Barry wasn 't either of those, but his actions that afternoon had definitely been a warning sign. They' d never discussed it, but Timmy and Doug both knew what Clark Smeltzer did behind closed doors. And what they didn 't know, they could guess.
And Doug's mom--something was up with her, too. Timmy wasn' t sure what, but he had his suspicions, and they turned his stomach. Certainly, it was more than just ignoring her son. Indeed, he was pretty sure that when she was drunk, Carol Keiser paid too much attention to her son, the kind only hinted at in the stack of Penthouse Forum's that lay hidden inside the Dugout. There was a word for it, and that word was incest. He'd seen that on the talk shows as well.
Monsters? They weren't monsters. And Catcher wasn' t a monster, either. For all they knew, Mr. Sawyer beat the dog. Trained him to be mean, to attack. It wasn 't like the dog's behavior was anything new. He' d been chasing them, chasing anyone who passed by the lane, for years, and Mr. Sawyer had been told about it repeatedly. He 'd done nothing, refusing to tie the dog up or install a pen or fence. Was that Catcher's fault? No, Catcher wasn't a monster. Neither were they.
Adults were the real monsters. Maybe not his own parents, and maybe not Reverend Moore or some of the others, but still, there were a lot of them around. He saw them every time he watched the news (unlike most twelve-year-olds, Timmy ' s mother had instilled in him an appreciation and interest in current events, and encouraged him to watch the evening news and read her weekly copies of Time magazine, which he did.) He saw them, too, in his comic books and Hardy Boys mysteries.
Saw them when he looked into his two best friend's haunted eyes.
"We better get going," Doug said. "It's getting late."
They continued along the narrow, winding trail, ducking under tree limbs and pushing past thorns and vines until they reached the edge of Bowman' s Woods. Then they crossed Anson Road and made their way through the lower portion of the cemetery. Barry 's father was nowhere in sight, but there were signs he' d been there. The gravestones had been returned to their upright positions and fresh earth had filled in the holes. A careless cigarette butt, one of Clark Smeltzer ' s brand, lay nearby.
"Looks like my old man's done for the day," Barry observed. "Hope he's not in the shed."
Silently, Timmy and Doug both wished for the same thing.
The boys crossed the cemetery and cautiously approached the dilapidated yellow utility shed. It was deserted; there was no sign of Clark Smeltzer. The doors were shut, and Barry ' s father had the key to the padlock, so they went around to the back. There, half hidden by a pile of red clay leftover from the new graves (the same dirt Clark Smeltzer had used earlier to shore up the sinking tombstones) was a boarded up window.
Unbeknownst to Barry's father, two of the boards were loose, and had been further loosened by the three boys with the help of a claw hammer and crowbar.
In the woods beyond the shed, a twig snapped. Their heads swiveled toward the sound.
"Just a squirrel," Timmy guessed.
Turning back to the window, Barry pulled the boards away. The rusty nails screeched as they parted the wood. He pulled himself through and crawled inside. Timmy followed right behind him. Then they pulled Doug, who couldn ' t squeeze into the narrow space by himself, through the window as well. With a great effort, he clambered inside, gasping for breath and complaining about his injured foot. His friends disregarded it. Had his foot not been injured, Doug would have complained about his nonexistent asthma, or his back, or anything else that could be aggravated by the physical act of climbing.
There were no lights inside the shed, and the only illumination came from the paltry light filtering through the missing boards, cracks in the wall, and a second dirty window. The tin roof sagged in places, and water leaked down onto the rotten timbers when it rained. Clark Smeltzer had twice petitioned the church board for a new, sturdier, prefabricated shed, but they 'd told him the funds weren't currently available. He' d grumbled about how maybe the congregation should start chipping in more when Sunday 's offering plates were passed around. Sure, it was God's money, but the church was God's house, and God' s house needed a new shed. They 'd smiled politely and moved on to other business.
The floor was hard-packed dirt, pocked here and there with groundhog and rat holes.
In the center of the floor lay a pile of lumber, mostly plywood and 114 two-by-fours, and several lengths of rusted pipe. The shed was crammed full of equipment:  the small backhoe, riding mower, wagon, two push mowers (one relatively new and the other one in even worse shape than the shed), a grass catcher, winch, various shovels, rakes, pickaxes, hoes, and some canvas tarps. Several dozen stone markers were stacked in the corner, and the other corners held plastic flowers and wreaths, cheap plastic vases, and little flags for Veteran' s and Memorial Days.
A few sparse clumps of mold clung to some of the walls and scrap wood. Because of the dirt floor, it always smelled damp and musty inside the shed, but as they stood there, letting their eyes adjust to the gloom, Timmy smelled something different --the same stench he' d noticed earlier, coming from the hole Doug had slipped into.
"Whew." Doug fanned his nose. "Which one of you farted?"
"You smell that, too?" Barry asked. "I thought maybe a possum had crawled up your ass and died."
"Eat me."
"Something did die in here, though." Barry crept forward. "Smells horrible. Must be a rat or a groundhog or something. Probably lying underneath this wood."
He stepped onto a piece of plywood that was covering the dirt floor and the board sagged under his weight. Barry jumped backward, clearly startled.
"What's wrong?" Timmy asked.
"The floor--it ain't there!"
Doug frowned. "Say what?"
Barry bent over and grabbed the edge of the plywood sheet. "Give me a hand with this."
Physically stronger than either of them, Barry clearly 115 didn't need their help. Timmy thought that perhaps the real reason was that he was scared. And that scared Timmy.
He gave his friend a hand while Doug hung back and watched.
"Watch out for snakes," he cautioned.
Ignoring him, they slowly lifted the plywood, and then heaved it forward, sending it crashing onto the rest of the woodpile.
All three boys gasped at what was revealed.
There was a hole underneath, tunneling right through the center of the utility shed' s floor. Judging from the way the soil was scattered, it looked as if it had been dug from beneath the ground, as if something had burrowed upward. But this was no mole or other rodent. The hole was far too big for that, much bigger than even the hole Doug 's leg had slipped into earlier. The opening was large enough for a full-grown man to easily fall inside. The stench wafted up from the chasm.
"What the heck?" Timmy asked. "Did your dad do this?"
Barry shook his head, perplexed. "No way. My old man would be pissed as shit if he saw this. I don't know what this is."
"It stinks," Doug croaked, pinching his nose. "That's where the smell is coming from, all right. Just like that other hole earlier, out there in the graveyard."
Timmy's eyes sparkled. "It's the caves you were talking about. Has to be! Another sinkhole opened up right here, and you and your dad didn' t know about it because it was underneath the woodpile."
Barry looked doubtful. "You think?"
"Sure I do. No animal dug this, and like you said, your dad wouldn't have, either.
It's got to be a cave entrance."
"But they're made out of rock, not dirt."
"Not always," Timmy disagreed, even though he wasn't sure himself. He wasn' t about to let science get in the way of what could be their coolest summer adventure ever. "We 've got to explore it, guys. Claim it before anyone else finds out. We could be on TV, man!"
He searched the floor, found an old rusty nail, tossed it down into the hole, and listened.
"We can't explore it now," Doug reminded him. "It's almost dinnertime. You know what your mom said."
"Yeah," Barry added, "and we still haven't found my watch."
In his excitement, Timmy had forgotten about both. Disappointed, he reluctantly conceded that they were right.
"We'll come back tonight," he said. "Sneak out after our folks are asleep. Doug, you're staying for dinner, anyway. Might as well spend the night. We' ll wait till like one o 'clock, and then meet up here. We'll have to remember to get the flashlights and lantern from the Dugout, and maybe the map, too."
"What do we need the map for?" Doug asked.
"So we can outline this tunnel on the back of it. If we've got the surface mapped out, we ought to do the same for below."
"Then we'll need some clothespins, too."
Timmy frowned. "For what?"
"To cover our noses with," Doug replied. "I'm not breathing in whatever that is if we go down there."
Chuckling, Timmy turned to Barry. "You gonna be able to get out tonight?"
"Yeah, I guess. If I don't get killed for losing my watch first."
"Well, then let's find it before your father finds us."
They covered the tunnel entrance back up, making 117 sure the plywood concealed the entire opening, and then searched the rest of the shed for the missing watch. Doug' s suspicions proved to be correct. They found the silver watch hanging from the riding mower 's gearshift. Sighing with relief, Barry fastened it around his wrist.
"All's well that ends well." He grinned.
"Sure is," Doug agreed.
They noticed that Timmy hadn't responded, and when they turned, they found him staring down at the plywood.
Barry groaned. "Come on, man. Let it go for now. We'll see it tonight. And since you're so eager, you can go first."
Timmy looked up at them, smiling. "Sounds like a plan."
In truth, he'd have had it no other way. He was eager to be the first one to step inside the subterranean chamber.
"I still don't think it's a sinkhole," Doug said. "It looks dug, not sunken. And that smell--God!"
They crawled back out the window and fastened the boards back into place, tapping the rusty nails into the rotten wood with a rock. Over the sounds of pounding, they didn 't notice when another twig snapped in the nearby tree line.
"Okay," Timmy said, "so we meet at the Dugout after our parents are asleep, and then we'll explore the underground. Lets say one o'clock in the morning."
Doug and Barry agreed. Then they went their separate ways, Barry to his house and Timmy and Doug to the Graco home.
On the way back, Timmy wondered what they'd find inside the tunnel, deep below the earth.
After the boys had departed, a slender figure emerged from the shadows of the trees behind the shed. It had been watching them the entire time. Now that they were gone, it crept forward and investigated the loose boards around the window. Then it crawled inside the shed.
Rustling sounds drifted out of the building--wood sliding across wood. Then came a gasp of surprise.
Minutes later, the figure re-emerged into the sunlight. Blinking, it let its eyes adjust again. Then it ran across the cemetery as fast as it could. Its expression was one of satisfied determination.
Chapter Seven "It' s gonna rain," Steve Laughman complained as they trudged across the field. The tall grass swished against their blue jeans. "The weatherman on Channel Eight was calling for it tonight."
"Quit fucking whining," Ronny Nace said. "Christ, you're like a little girl, man."
"They said there was a severe thunderstorm warning until six in the morning. Gonna rain buckets."
"So? A little rain never hurt nobody."
"We could catch pneumonia," Steve said. "I don't want to be sick in the summer."
"Shut up."
"Or maybe even a tornado could blow through. Wouldn't want to be out here if that happened."
"If you don't shut the fuck up," Ronny warned, "I'll shut you up for good."
Steve's open mouth snapped shut. He knew better than to cross his friend.
"We finally got a chance to get even with those shitheads," Ronny said, "and you want to cancel all because of the weather."
They continued walking through Luke Jones's pasture, cloaked in darkness and keeping a wary eye out for the farmer' s two bulls. Luckily, the cows were all lying down, clustered together on the far side of the field. Thick, obsidian clouds blanketed the night sky, blocking out the moon and stars, and even muting the floodlights on the paper mill ' s smokestacks and the blinking, red airplane warning lights on the distant radio tower. They lit their way with a flashlight stolen from a drawer in the kitchen of Steve 's house.
"You know what's weird?" Jason Glatfelter asked. "Ever notice how people will run through the rain, instead of just walking? Like if they' re coming out of a store or something, and it 's raining, they'll run to their car instead of just walking like normal. Why do they do that? It ain't like they' re gonna get any less wet. Same amount of rain is gonna hit you either way."
Ronny stepped over a groundhog hole. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Think about it. Whether you walk or whether you run, you're still gonna get wet.
So why run? In fact, I bet more raindrops hit you that way."
"Dude," Ronny snorted, "you've been hitting the bong way too fucking much."
They neared the fence line, and spotted the graveyard beyond it.
"Well," Steve said, "I'll tell you guys one thing. If it starts raining, I'm running my ass home. I'll be in enough trouble if my mom finds out I snuck out. It' ll be ten times worse if I come home soaking wet."
"Pussy." Sneering, Ronny flipped his long bangs out of his eyes. "We should have just left you at home."
"Easy for you to say," Steve replied.
"What's that supposed to mean?" There was an edge to Ronny's voice that hadn't been there a moment before.
"Nothing." But secretly, Steve knew exactly what he'd meant. He' d wanted to say that it was easy for Ronny not to worry about his mother catching him sneaking out, because his mother worked the eleven-to-six shift at the shoe factory in Hanover and wouldn 't be home until seven the next morning; since Ronny' s dad had died from complications of Agent Orange five years before, there was nobody else there to worry about Ronny. This was what he ' d meant, but of course, he didn 't say it. The last two people that had mentioned Ronny's father were Andy Staub and Alan Crone, and Ronny had split both their lips and fractured Andy' s nose.
On the other side of the pasture, a bullfrog croaked in the darkness, letting all know that it ruled the Jones pond. Nothing challenged in reply. Then the night was still again.
"Fucking pussy," Ronny said again, apparently dissatisfied with Steve's silence.
"Guess we shouldn't expect any less from a guy that listens to Hall and Oates."
"I don't listen to Hall and Oates."
Jason grinned. "And Michael Jackson. You gonna do the moonwalk, Steve?"
"Screw you both."
Jason began singing Jackson's "Thriller" in a screeching falsetto, disturbing a flock of crows that had roosted for the night. They took flight, squawking in irritation.
"Go on home if you want to," Ronny said, nodding his head back across the field.
"Fly like those birds.
Jason and I will do it by ourselves. Those shitheads stole my bike and left it on the train tracks. It's payback time, man."
"Don't forget," Steve reminded him, "I'm the one who found out about this in the first place. Wasn't for me, we wouldn't even know about it."
Ronny and Jason didn' t reply. Secretly, Ronny knew that Steve was right, and that pissed him off, because he hated it when he was shown to be wrong about something. He was the leader, damn it, and they should listen to him without question. And Jason stayed silent because he knew better than to go against Ronny, even when it came to something as innocuous as agreeing with Steve in this case. Last time he 'd done that had been last Christmas, when the three had vandalized the widow Rudisill' s front yard nativity scene. Even though she ' d lived alone, her son came over every November and decorated the outside of her house for Christmas. He hung lights from the gutters and shrubbery and set up a small plywood nativity scene, complete with plastic light-up statues of Joseph, Mary, the Wise Men and the shepherds, several animals, and the baby Jesus himself, lying safe in a wooden manger stuffed with straw from Luke Jones 's farm. People would slow down in their cars as they drove by, stopping to gawk in appreciation at the display-- until the three boys had put a stop to it once and for all. To this day, Jason couldn 't have told you why they did it or what sparked the idea. They' d been sitting around in their fort in the woods behind Ronny 's house, smoking weed and snickering over a crude cartoon in a Hustler magazine, when Ronny had suddenly suggested it. They' d waited until after dark and then raided the nativity, smashing Joseph and a plastic lamb, tossing Mary and one of the Wise Men 123 out into the road, and stealing the baby Jesus, which they' d later hung from a tree along Route 116. During the rampage, right about the time Ronny was heaving the statue of Mary over his head, Jason had suggested that it was wrong, and that Mrs. Rudisill had never done anything to them, and that maybe they should stop. That little mutinous outburst had resulted in Jason being frozen out of the group for almost a month. Ronny and Steve were his only friends, and while it sometimes felt as if Ronny was the general and he and Steve were merely soldiers, he didn 't like being lonely, being an outcast.
So now he said nothing. Like tonight, for example. Yes, Steve had been the one to overhear Graco and his buddies. He' d been out hunting squirrels with his old man 's Mossberg .22 (illegally and out of season, of course) in the woods bordering the graveyard when he' d come across Timmy Graco, Doug Keiser, and Barry Smeltzer. Steve had hid behind a tree and eavesdropped on their three adversaries, and after they 'd left, he' d looked inside the shed for himself, confirming what they suspected. They 'd first heard the rumor about the three boy's underground clubhouse last winter, but so far, they' d been unable to confirm its location, or even its existence.
But while Steve had finally done that, he' d delivered the information to Ronny and then conceded. Ronny called the shots. This raid was his idea. Steal their stuff. Trash the rest, including the fort.
Jason's mother had once asked him (after he, Ronny, and Steve had gotten in trouble for throwing rocks at cars) if he' d jump off a bridge if Ronny told him to do it. "No" had been his sulking answer.
But the truth was something different.
Yes, if Ronny ordered him to jump off a bridge, 124
Jason probably would, if reluctantly, do it. What he wouldn't do was talk back or disagree with him until they were on the way down.
"So are you going home or what?" Ronny asked Steve.
"No, I'm staying. I want to see this fort, too."
"Gotta tell you," Ronny admitted, "I thought the whole thing was bullshit. Keiser told Andy Staub, who told Erica Altland, who told Ramona Gerling, and she told Linda Paloma, who told me when we were making out behind the shop class."
Jason interrupted. "Linda's hot. You made out with her?"
Ronny nodded. "Yeah. She's got nice tits. Let me feel them. But I didn't really believe it when she told me. Didn't think those three had it in them. Graco's a runt, and Keiser' s a fat sack of shit. Only one of them with any meat on his bones is Smeltzer."
"The hole is huge," Steve said. "Wait till you see it. Fucking massive, man! Must have taken them forever to dig it, though. Keiser' s titties must have been jiggling like Jell-O while he worked that shovel."
"Well, after tonight, they'll have to dig another one."
He laughed, and Steve and Jason dutifully joined him.
They reached the fence line and climbed over it. In the darkness, they didn' t notice the old stovepipe jutting from the ground less than ten feet away. Had they seen it, they might have investigated and learned of the underground fort 's true location. Instead, they crept through the cemetery toward the utility shed.
They weaved between the tombstones, keeping an eye out for headlights or anyone else, but the graveyard was empty. An owl hooted from somewhere to their left. Crickets chirped in the grass. A tractor trailer 125 rumbled by in the distance, rocketing down Route 116 to parts unknown.
Jason suddenly stopped.
"You guys hear that?" he whispered.
"What?" Ronny turned around, annoyed.
"Sounded like ... sounded like a woman screaming."
"It was a fucking owl, dipshit."
Jason shrugged. "Maybe. Yeah, I guess you're right. Just sounded weird, is all. Like it was coming from under the ground or something."
Ronny started walking again. "Dude, you need to listen to Nancy Reagan."
"Nancy Reagan?"
"Yeah. President's wife."
"I know who she is. But what did she say?"
" 'Just say no to drugs.'"
Steve laughed at Ronny' s joke, eager to score some points over Jason. When their backs were turned, Jason shot them both the finger. Then he hurried to catch up, trotting along behind them.
He noticed that several of the graves had a sunken look, as if the dirt were collapsing in upon the coffins beneath the surface.
"Smeltzer's old man is really letting this place fall apart," Jason observed. "Frigging shame."
"What do you care? You ain' t got no family buried here." Ronnie plucked a fistful of wilting flowers from a graveside vase and threw them into the air, scattering them. "You don 't even go to this church--any church, for that matter. And besides, Mr. Smeltzer's a drunk. Everyone knows that. He's a loser, just like his son."
Chuckling, he grabbed the vase and flung it skyward as well. It soared over their heads and then plummeted back to the ground, shattering on a bronze memorial plaque.
"Dude," Steve whispered. "We're gonna get caught, you keep making noise like that."
"Nobody's gonna catch us. It's after midnight. Everyone's asleep."
"You never know. Someone could be watching."
"What--you worried God is gonna get pissed?"
"It just don't feel right."
"Shut up. Let's go." Ronny kicked a plastic wreath like it was a football and then stalked forward again, leaving destruction in his wake-- uprooted flags, scattered floral arrangements, broken glass. Jason and Steve nervously followed. But when Ronny stopped at a sagging tombstone and began to push against it, they quickly joined him despite their misgivings. It was easier that way. The three managed to push it over, and then jumped out of the way.
"Look at that," Ronny said. "Damn thing sank right into the ground. Spot must be muddy."
Steve shined the flashlight on the spot. "It looks dry."
"Then why'd the ground give in so much?"
"Maybe their tunnel goes all the way out here."
"No way." Ronny shook his head. "There's no fucking way those three wimps dug all the way out here. Reiser' s a fat piece of shit. Graco might weigh a buck oh five, soaking wet. The two of them couldn 't do ten pushups if their lives depended on it. And Smeltzer didn't dig it himself.
I'm telling you, the ground must be soft from rain or something."
Afraid to disagree, Steve cast a nervous glance upward and noticed that the storm clouds were growing denser and darker. They looked swollen, heavy, as if they were about to fall out of the sky. He kept it to himself, rather than risk another round of ridicule from his friends.
Ronny started humming Judas Priest's "Breaking the 127
Law" and Jason accompanied him on air guitar. Both of them whipped their heads back and forth, their long hair flying like wind-tossed straw.
They reached the rear of the shed and made sure they were still alone. Satisfied that they were the cemetery' s only occupants, Ronny motioned to Steve. All three of them were excited now at the prospect of getting back at their three enemies, and any individual misgivings they had vanished. Steve showed them the loose boards. Quickly and as quietly as possible, they worked the nails free and then clambered inside. Steve shined the flashlight around the interior. All three wrinkled their noses in disgust.
"Jesus Christ," Ronny whispered. "What the hell is that?"
"I don't know," Steve said, "but it's worse now than it was today. I noticed it when I found the hole, but it's stronger now."
Jason gagged. "Smells like something died. Man, that's foul."
"So where's the entrance?" Ronny pinched his nose shut and his voice sounded funny.
Steve trained the flashlight's beam over the pile of wood. "Under there."
"Give me the light," Ronny ordered. Then, after Steve complied, "You guys pull those boards up."
Steve and Jason did as commanded, grunting with the effort. Then they stepped back from the edge. With the plywood out of the way, the nauseating stench grew even thicker.
Ronny shined the light down into the hole. Darkness stared back at them.
"How deep is it?" he asked.
Steve shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't go down inside."
"Well, go now, stupid. We ain't got all night. Gotta 128 make sure you're home before it rains. Don't want you melting or anything."
Moving with obvious reluctance, Steve stepped toward the tunnel entrance, leaned out over the opening, and looked down inside. He snorted, and then spit. The wad of phlegm and saliva vanished into the darkness.
"Didn't hear it hit bottom." He grinned. "Maybe it's a bottomless pit, like in Raiders of the Lost Ark."
Ronny didn' t say anything. His glare was enough to prod Steve into action. Steve turned around, knelt on the dirt floor, and lowered his legs into the hole. Then he inched himself backward. His waist was even with the floor, then his chest. His fingers clutched at the ground, clawing for purchase. Then his chin was even with the ground and still his feet hadn 't touched bottom.
Ronnie shined the light directly into his eyes. "Anything?"
"No ..." Blinking, Steve raised a hand to shield his face from the bright beam, forgetting that both his hands were digging into the dirt, holding him aloft. With a yelp, he slipped. His fingers left deep trenches in the floor. He vanished from sight. His screams were followed by a muffled thump.
"Holy shit." Jason ran to the edge and peered over. Chuckling, Ronny joined him.
Steve stared back up at them from approximately ten feet below. His face and hands were covered in dirt. He brushed soil from his hair.
"You asshole, Ronny. Why'd you do that?"
"I'm gonna kick your ass when I get down there if you call me an asshole again."
"Sorry, dude. But that wasn't right, man. I could have broken my leg or something."
"Fuck you, crybaby. What do you see?"
Steve shook the rest of the dirt from his hair and then peered into the darkness.
"Not much. Looks like it goes both ways. The smell is definitely coming from down here, though. God, it makes me want to puke."
"Maybe they're pissing down there," Jason suggested. "Shitting, so they ain't got to run home when they need to go."
"The walls are slimy," Steve called. "There's some kind of... goo. What is this shit?
It's sick."
Ronny shook his head in disgust. "Do you see their stash or anything?"
"No. You've got the flashlight, man."
Without warning, Ronny tossed the flashlight down to him. Instead of catching it, Steve threw his hands over his head to protect himself. The flashlight thudded onto the tunnel floor. The beam went out.
"Shit! Pick it up, man."
Plunged into total darkness, Steve knelt and frantically felt around for the flashlight.
The hard-packed dirt on the tunnel' s floor felt slimy, too. His fingers brushed across the flashlight and he turned it back on, but nothing happened.
"It's broke," he called. "Get me out of here. I can't see shit, and it stinks."
"Because you're under a graveyard." Jason giggled.
"Come on, dudes. Pull me up."
They heard his hand flailing around in the darkness, slapping at the moist, earthen sides of the pit.
"Goddamn it," Ronny muttered. "Do I have to do everything myself? All we're supposed to do is trash three geeks' stupid clubhouse. Get them back for what they did to my bike. That ' s it. And now look at us. You guys would fuck up a wet dream. I swear to fucking Christ, sometimes I feel like Boss Hawg, surrounded by a bunch of idiots." He reached into his pocket and 130 pulled out a cigarette lighter. Handing it to Jason, he said, "Go help him."
Swallowing Hard, Jason turned and lowered himself into the pit.
"Look out below."
Steve called up, "What? It's hard to hear down here."
"Move out of the way, dipshit."
Feet dangling into empty space, Jason let go and dropped to the bottom, landing in a crouch. He sprang to his feet, brushed himself off, and then thumbed the lighter wheel. He sighed in relief at the sight of the orange flame. The brief darkness had seemed like a solid thing. Next to him, Steve was visibly grateful as well.
"Coming down."
Ronny landed with a grunt. The floor squelched beneath his feet. The flame on the lighter wavered, then resumed. The three teens glanced around. They stood in the center of a tunnel, running roughly in the direction of the cemetery 's lower half, where the older graves were, and in the direction they'd come from, towards Farmer Jones' s pasture. The walls were smooth. The floor was smooth, too, although piles of soil lay scattered along it -- debris left behind from the digging. The passage was roughly circular, wide enough to walk single file, and varied in height. Their heads brushed against the ceiling, but none of them had to crouch or slump forward.
"This is fucking disgusting." Ronny wiped slime from his hair with his fingers, then flung it away. It dripped from his fingertips like translucent mucous. "What the hell is this shit?"
"Snail snot?" Jason suggested.
Steve and Ronny blinked at him.
"Snail snot?" Ronny snickered. "That would have to be one big fucking snail."
Steve covered his mouth and nose with his hand, trying in vain to block out the stench.
He immediately pulled it away. The traces of slime left on his hand smelled even worse than the air. "So what now?"
The lighter was growing hot. Wincing, Jason switched it to his other hand and sucked the tip of his burned thumb.
"Well," Ronny said, no longer bothering to whisper. His voice echoed in the subterranean chamber. "Their clubhouse has to be in one of these two directions. You go that way," he pointed toward the old graveyard, "and Jason, you go the other way."
"What about you?" Jason asked.
"Somebody's got to stay here and be on the lookout. What if Old Man Smeltzer shows up? Or the cops? Who's gonna warn you? Now get going. Time' s a wastin '."
"Fuck that," Steve said, taking a rare stand. "I ain't going anywhere without a light."
"Yeah, Ronny," Jason dared to agree, bolstered by Steve's bravery. "In fact, maybe we ought to bag this whole thing. We don' t know what this slime is. Could be toxic, like that chemical dump they found in Seven Valleys, with all the illegal waste. And these walls and roof don 't look too sturdy. There' s no beams or supports or nothing. Could come crashing down like that." He snapped the fingers on his free hand.
Ronny sighed. "Nothing's gonna happen. Quit worrying."
Steve stared at his sleeve, coated with slime from brushing up against the tunnel wall. "You really think this shit could be toxic?"
Ronny's patience wore thin. "If you'd get to it, we wouldn' t be down here long enough for it to bother us, even if it was poisonous or something.
Look, if you need your little night-light, both of you go in one direction, then.
Fucking pussies."
They glanced at one another, sighed, then set off into the darkness. Jason led the way, Steve slinking along behind him.
"Stinks worse back here," Ronny heard Jason mumble. "It's like a cloud."
Steve coughed. "Bet we're heading toward the old part of the graveyard. Maybe it's bodies we're smelling."
The lighter's flame got dimmer as they kept moving forward. Their voices grew faint, and Ronny had to strain to hear them. One of them, he couldn' t tell if it was Steve or Jason, said something. The dirt walls seemed to swallow the words up.
"Can't be that far," Ronny called. "Look for their shit. Comics. Porno mags. Stuff like that. If it ain't there, then it's down the other way."
The flame was a distant pinprick now, and the shadows closed in on Ronny, surrounding him. In his mind, it felt like the darkness was pushing against his body-- a tangible thing. The air inside the tunnel grew colder.
"Guys? Hey, Steve! Jason! Did you hear me, fuckers? It must be this way."
The tiny flame disappeared completely. Ronny gasped, and closed his eyes for a second.
When he opened them again, it was like they were still shut. He wiggled his fingers in front of his face, but couldn 't see them.
"Hey, dickheads! Get back here with the goddamn lighter! I can't see shit."
The darkness became a wall. A cocoon. Something cold and wet dripped on his head.
"Jesus Christ ... hey, Jason? Get the fuck back here now, you son of a bitch! This shit ain't funny, man. Not one fucking bit."
There was no response.
"Steve?"
His annoyance turned to anger, then fright. Not fear. Not terror. Not yet. But he was frightened. He was shivering and it had nothing to do with the chill in the air.
No way he wanted to stay down there in the dark, especially not when the whole place smelled like shit. He couldn ' t go find them. Without a light, he could trip or stumble into a wall or something and knock the whole tunnel down on top of them, burying them alive.
"Jason? Steve? Come on, you guys, answer me."
"me... me... me..."
His voice echoed back to him, taking on an odd, muffled quality. The stench, that open sewer smell, grew stronger. "Quit fucking around, goddamn it! I know you can hear me. You ain 't gone that far."
"far... far... far..."
"I'm gonna beat the living shit out of you both if you don't get back here with that lighter right fucking now."
"now ... now ... now ..."
The echo died, and was followed by a new sound. A grunt.
"The fuck was that?"
He wondered if there could be an animal down there with them. Maybe a fox or a skunk, maybe with rabies. Ronny shivered, then got pissed off all over again. He shifted his weight, and his foot collided with the discarded flashlight, knocking it farther into the 134 darkness. He bit back a yelp. Enraged, he took a deep breath, preparing to shout at the top of his lungs, to yell and holler at them like never before, to put the fear of Ronny Nace into them.
That was when the screams started.
"Oh shit ..."
Muffled. Faint. But despite the distance, there was no mistaking the terror in them.
Or the pain. No illusions; they weren' t just fucking around or playing a joke. Something was wrong.
"Jason?" Ronny's voice became a hoarse whisper. "S-Steve? Please come back. Please ..."
"Ronny, run! R--arrggh ..."
"Guys? What's happening?"
"Ronnnnyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy ..."
He couldn't tell if it was Steve or Jason, or maybe both of them. It was too high-pitched, too feminine. He'd never heard either of them scream like that before. He'd never heard anyone scream like that.
" . . yyyyyyyyyyyyyy..."
"Guys," he sobbed. "I-I can't see you ..."
"... yyyyyyyyyyyyy. . ."
The scream had turned into one long, warbling wail. Then, almost lost beneath it, was another grunt-- a raspy sort of snuffling sound, like a cross between a bear and a pig. Abruptly, the screaming stopped. The tunnel was silent for a brief second, and then footsteps pounded toward him. The stench grew even more overpowering. Ronny glanced up at the top of the hole, but could barely see the outline. Something hissed in the darkness, a teakettle set to boil or a locomotive building up to full steam.
The running footsteps drew closer. Ronny peered into the darkness, trying to determine if it was Steve or Jason.
It was neither.
Whatever it was, its laugh was guttural, like gravel. Both the hissing sound and the stench were all around Ronny now. Suddenly, even as his stomach churned and his nose burned from the acrid odor, Ronny realized what the sound reminded him of. Several years before, when he was younger, Ronny ' s favorite Saturday morning show had been Sid and Marty Krofft 's Land of the Lost. In it, there had been an alien race of lizard-like beings called the Sleestak. They' d terrified him; equipped with huge, black, bulbous eyes, clawlike pincers for hands, scaly green bodies, and pointed heads and tails. But the worst part, the scariest part of all, was the sound they 'd made: a reptilian hissing that went on and on with no pause.
That was the sound he heard racing down the tunnel. Racing toward him.
Then the figure became discernable. Human-sized; two arms and legs, and alabaster skin-- white almost to the point of albinism. Ronny blinked, then realized why he could see it. Whatever this thing was, it gave off its own luminescence. Not much, but enough to make out its features. He willed himself to move, but his feet disobeyed him.
The creature drew closer, swinging long, dangling arms that hung down past its waist.
On the ends of those monstrous appendages were oversized hands with talon-tipped, bony fingers. The thing seemed to be entirely hairless, and in the middle of its pointed, head was a tiny face; yellow pinprick eyes, a slit for a nose, nonexistent chin, all dominated by a huge, grinning mouth full of yellow and black teeth. Slime --the same slime that covered the tunnel--dripped from its pores.
It was the stench of the creature that broke Ronny's 136 paralysis, a smell so brutally strong and rancid that his eyes watered and burned.
Cringing, he leapt upward, hands grasping the sides of the wall, clutching the slimy dirt. He slid back down. Felt the creature 's breath on the back of his neck. It was close enough to bite him, but for some reason, it didn' t. Instead, it raised its clawed hands and swiped. Dodging the razor-sharp talons, Ronny jumped again. This time he found purchase. He managed to get both arms out of the tunnel, grabbed a piece of wood on the shed floor, and pulled himself up.
His head emerged from the chasm, then one shoulder, then both.
Suddenly, pain ripped through his ankle. He looked down. The creature's claws were flaying through the skin, and his white sock and shoe had both turned red. It burned-- a white-hot, searing agony. The monster looked up at him and grinned. Its small eyes grew larger, bulging from its head. Screeching, Ronny slid backward, his fingers slipping in the dirt.
"No, no, no, no ..."
The creature lashed out again, slicing through the denim and into his calf. Despite the burning sensation in his leg, the monster' s grasp was ice cold. Gritting his teeth, Ronny pulled himself up higher, kicking out with both feet, freeing himself again. The thing in the tunnel grunted, then roared in anger. Ronny kept pulling. His fingers burrowed deep into the dirt, trying to maintain his grip. His chest lay on the shed floor now, followed by his waist.
Blood dripped from his wounded leg in bright red ribbons.
And then the thing spoke, and somehow, that was more terrifying than its appearance.
"You have invaded my home. Forced me to break the commandment."
Ronny tried to answer, but found that he couldn't.
There was a jingling sound from outside the shed. Keys. The lock jiggled. The doors swung open and a bright flare of brilliance temporarily blinded the screaming teen.
A figure stood in the open doorway, a silhouette clutching a powerful Mag light -- the kind used by cops and firemen. Then the light shifted away and Ronny saw who it was.
Clark Smeltzer.
"Oh, God," he babbled, a mixture of terror and relief. "Mr. Smeltzer, pull me up.
There's something down there!"
The caretaker crossed the shed floor in four quick strides and glowered down at Ron.
His face seemed drawn and haggard, and his eyes were red.
"Hey, man," Ronny pleaded. "Pull me up! Please?"
"I know you. You're the one that beat up my boy a few times. Made me whip him myself, just so he'd go back out and whip you."
Ronny clutched the dirt floor, holding on for dear life. "Pull me up, man."
"You're trespassing."
"Mr. Smeltzer, there's something down here. Pull--"
"You shouldn't a come here, boy."
"What--"
Clark raised one booted foot and stamped on Ronny's left hand. Bones snapped beneath his heel. The horrified teenager screamed. Then he stamped on the boy' s other hand, pulverizing his fingers.
Ronny fell into the darkness, a look of disbelief in his eyes. He landed with a thud.
The ghoul roared in triumph. Its claws descended. It tore into the teenager like a buzz saw through wood.
Clark turned away from the ripping and tearing sounds, and threw up on a pile of tiny American flags. While the screaming continued, he fetched his bottle 138 of Wild Turkey from its hiding place and washed the taste of puke from his mouth.
The screaming stopped, but the sounds of slaughter continued.
Clark tipped the bottle up and drained it, gasping as alcohol dribbled down his whiskered cheeks and chin. He tried to pretend he wasn' t crying, and told himself the tears were from guilt rather than just fear.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity (a cliche Clark heard people use in movies all the time, but in this case, it happened to be true) the sounds stopped, and the ghoul crawled out of the charnel pit. Its white skin was streaked with blood and gore, and bits of skin and fabric hung from its claws.
Clark silently wished for another bottle, if only to wash the image from his mind.
He' d drunk more than ever these last few weeks, walking around as if with alcohol-induced amnesia. Another lie he told himself, because deep down inside, he remembered everything.
Every detail. Every scream.
The ghoul handed him three wallets. Two were made of black leather; one with the initials vh and the other with kill ' em all. The third wallet was red plastic and stamped made in Taiwan. He didn 't even bother to look inside them; just stuffed them in his pockets.
"That it?"
"They had no other valuables. No trinkets or baubles. Such things are wasted on the youth. Did you know the boy?"
Clark shrugged. "Seen him around. He tussled with my own boy a time or two."
"Indeed?"
"Yeah." Clark ran a hand through his greasy hair. "Him and his two friends. The three of them against my boy and his two pals. They down there, too?"
The ghoul nodded. "You hold their coin purses in your hand."
"What about the bodies? You need me to, uh ... get rid of them?"
"No need for you to dispose of their corpses. Let them ripen. In a few days they will be like sweet fruit on the vine. Then I can feast, in accordance with the Law set forth by Him."
"What do you mean?"
"My kind is forbidden to eat warm flesh or drink hot blood. We must wait."
The creature wiped its mouth with the back of its hand.
"However," it continued, "I had a little taste just now. Just a little, as I killed them. Something to whet my appetite."
Clark gagged, and fought to keep from throwing up again.
"You did well," the ghoul said. "What brings you here at night? Were you attracted by these trespassers, or do you have another for me?"
Clark swallowed the lump in his throat. The creature's raspy voice gave him the creeps.
Hell, the whole damn thing gave him the creeps.
"I got another. Outside. We got to be quick. I don't want anyone to see me. Would be hard pressed to explain what I'm doing out here this time of night."
"But you are the caretaker. You are in charge of this necropolis. Who better to stalk its grounds late at night?"
"Necro what?"
"Never mind." The ghoul dismissed the question with a wave of its hand. "Show me what you have brought. I can smell it from here."
They walked outside. Clark had parked his car next 140 to the utility shed. The lights and motor were off. A muffled thump echoed from inside the trunk. He fumbled for his keys, realized they were still hanging from the shed door, and retrieved them. His hands shook so badly that he had trouble sliding the key into the trunk lock. On the third try, the key slipped in. He turned it, and the trunk sprang open.
The ghoul sighed with rapture. "Excellent. You have done well."
A terrified young woman stared up at them, eyes bulging from her sockets, big hair plastered to her scalp in a mix of sweat and blood. She screamed around the dirty rag that had been stuffed into her mouth and then secured with a strip of duct tape.
More silver duct tape bound her wrists and ankles together.
The ghoul cocked its head and studied the woman with obvious appreciation. Its long black tongue slithered across its lips. "She is a pretty one, like a fresh plucked flower. Do you know her?"
Clark nodded reluctantly. "Deb Lentz. Her aunt's buried here. Found her earlier, on my way home from the bar. She had a flat tire, on the back road down near the Porter' s Siding Sawmill. I gave her a ride. Nobody saw. There 's nobody else on the road this time of night."
"You have done well, indeed. Tomorrow, you shall find more spoils."
"More than the normal stuff, right? I mean, this is kidnapping. Ain't like I'm just covering up for you anymore. Shit's getting hairy."
The ghoul laughed. "Yes, yes. More than your usual payment. These grounds are rich in plunder. I shall see to it that you are paid handsomely. Now, away with you. I must take my new bride below."
Clark hesitated, his reactions slowed by the alcohol in his system.
The ghoul reached for the woman in the trunk, and she cringed. She tried to scream again, but all that came out around the gag were choking sounds. Snot bubbled from her nose. Her eyes were so wide that Clark thought they might pop. Hissing, the creature traced one talon along her creased forehead. She shuddered at the hideous caress, and then her bladder failed. Clark winced at the stench.
"Goddamn it," he slurred. "Now I got to clean the trunk out, or else somebody will smell it and start wondering what happened."
The ghoul ignored him. It reached into the trunk again and extracted the squirming woman. Flinging her over one shoulder, it started back toward the shed. The terrified woman made squealing sounds.
"There now," it whispered almost lovingly. "You will not be harmed. I have other intentions for you. I fear that I may be the last of my kind. You will aid me with that, just as my other wife has been."
Deb Lentz went limp and slumped over his shoulder, mercifully unconscious.
Clark didn' t watch it return to the tunnels. After it was gone, he shut the shed door and locked it tight. The breeze rustled through the tree limbs over the building. Dead leaves danced in the wind, forming mini dervishes. The air felt electric and held the sharp tang of ozone. The hair on his arms and what little remained on his head both stood up. Static crackled. A storm was coming, that much was for sure.
Clark had done some bad things in his life. He knew that he wasn't going to win any awards for Father or Husband of the Year. He' d done bad things. Killed people in Vietnam --some who'd deserved it and some who hadn't. He'd cheated folks, stolen money. Lied.
Been unfaithful to his wife. But he'd never done 142 anything like he had tonight. Kidnapping a woman from the roadside and handing her over to that... thing.
He needed a drink.
Leaving the car parked where it was, so as not to risk drawing attention, he walked back over to his house, crept into the garage, and collected a bucket, rags, soap, and a new stainless steel combination lock that he 'd bought for a different task-- but now had a new, more urgent use for it. He also took one of his emergency bottles of Wild Turkey, which he 'd stashed in the garage's rafters for safekeeping. He took a long pull on the bottle, but barely tasted the alcohol.
Then he returned to the cemetery. He drank as he worked, and the bottle' s contents quickly disappeared. He washed out the trunk as the first rumble of thunder rolled overhead. By the time he was finished, the rain had started to fall, sporadic, but promising much more to follow. Lightning flashed across the night sky. Not wanting to get caught out in the storm, Clark hurried. He drained the last drop of Wild Turkey, dumped the soapy water from the bucket, threw the pail and the empty liquor bottle into the trunk, and slammed the lid. Then he ran over to the shed, removed the old lock, and snapped the combination lock on instead.
How'd those kids get inside? he wondered. Ain't like they picked the lock.
He walked around the outside of the building, investigating all the walls, until he found the loose boards over the window. He grimaced.
Got to fix that first thing tomorrow. Wouldn't do for Barry or one of his bratty friends to find it.
Then something else occurred to him. He' d rarely seen the three boys who were killed tonight in the cemetery. Maybe once or twice before, and both times had been when they were mixing it up with Barry and 143 his friends. But his son, along with that smart-mouthed Graco and the fat kid--they were in the cemetery almost every day.
He looked back at the window and his fists clenched.
Another blast of thunder shook the sky, and then the rain began to pour. Cold droplets pelted his skin, bouncing off like lead pellets. Clark Smeltzer ran to his car, got behind the wheel, and wept. Then he drove back home, sneaked inside the house, and collapsed into bed. Rhonda stirred next to him, and he glowered at her. One of her eyes was swollen shut from when he 'd hit her earlier in the evening, when she' d asked him why he had to go out again. She mumbled something as he slipped beneath the covers, but Clark didn 't answer. Seconds later, he passed out.
Outside, the storm began to rage.
Chapter Eight Timmy and Doug stared out Timmy' s bedroom window, watching the torrential downpour. Rain fell in sheets and the winds whipped the tops of the trees back and forth like springs. They listened to his mother ' s wind chimes, ringing and spinning uncontrollably as the roaring winds battered them about. Tomorrow morning the ground would be littered with fallen branches and leaves. Both of them wondered if the power would go out, but so far it had stayed on. Timmy ' s digital clock glowed in the darkness. The raindrops beat against the roof like hailstones.
The thunderstorm had blown in just after one in the morning, forceful and angry and demanding attention. Despite this, it hadn' t woken Randy or Elizabeth, who slept right through the cacophonous explosions, nor had it woken the boys, because they 'd already been awake. Indeed, they'd yet to fall asleep. They' d read comic books and played a game of Monopoly (arguing 145 over who got to be the banker and who got to use the car as his playing piece), and had watched Phantasm on the late night movie. The film appealed to them both, not only because it was a horror movie, but because of the protagonist. He was a mirror image of them, complete with a cemetery to play in. Doug had been pretty freaked out by the flying silver spheres, which sliced and diced their victims, and the gruesome, hooded dwarves, and the film ' s ghoulish main antagonist, an otherworldly funeral director known as the Tali Man.
Timmy had just been mad that all of the good stuff was cut out, and wished again for a VCR so he could watch movies unedited. He didn 't understand why Loni Anderson could parade around in a swimsuit on WKRP in Cincinnati, but blood and guts weren' t allowed to be shown.
When Elizabeth peeked her head in at eleven and told them lights out, they'd obeyed the letter of the law, if not the spirit. They'd retired--somewhat reluctantly-- to their beds and spent the last two hours talking in hushed tones over a flashlight beam, until the storm interrupted them.
"Well," Timmy said, disappointed, "so much for exploring the tunnel tonight."
"You think Barry will still sneak out?"
"Not in this. Guess we'll have to explore it tomorrow. How's your ankle feeling?"
"Better. I think it will be okay. Still like to know what the hell bit me, though."
"Ah, it wasn't anything to worry about, I'm sure."
Timmy was sitting cross-legged in his bed, wearing a pair of plaid pajamas. Doug was stretched out on the floor, in the bed Timmy' s mother had made up for him, clad in his boxers and one of Randy Graco 's ratty old T-shirts, since Timmy's shirts wouldn't fit him. The 146 shirt proudly proclaimed ipw local 1407 and on the back it said, American made is union made. He propped himself up on his elbows and stared out the window again.
"Boy," Doug whispered so as not to wake Timmy's parents, "it's really coming down out there. Look at it bouncing off the yard."
"Yeah. This keeps up, the Codorus Creek will flood for sure. We can go inner-tubing tomorrow."
"What about the tunnel?"
"We can still explore it tomorrow night. It's probably better to wait for night, anyway. Less chance of getting caught."
"Where will we get the tubes from?"
"Barry's dad has some in their garage. I saw them when Barry and I were looking for his football. Four tire tubes off a tractor--big ones, like you'd get at a construction site."
"Where did he get them?"
"I don't know." Timmy paused. "Speaking of which, you noticed anything about Barry's dad lately?"
"Other than the fact that he's meaner than usual? No."
"He's had a lot of stuff that they didn't have before."
"What do you mean?"
"It's like he has more money or something. Mrs. Smeltzer's been wearing new jewelry.
Barry's supposed to be getting a Yamaha Eighty dirt bike. The way Barry talks, they' ve been going out to eat and stuff a lot more often."
"You mentioned it before. The day your grandpa ... well, that day."
Timmy felt a twinge of sadness at the mention of his grandfather. "Yeah, but I've noticed a lot more of it since then."
"Maybe his dad's just trying to make up for some of the crap he's pulled. Trying to buy them off."
"Yeah," Timmy said. "Maybe. But that still doesn't explain where he' s getting all this money. They were never poor, but he was always bitching about how the church didn 't pay him enough."
A flash of lightning reflected off Doug's face. "Maybe he got a raise."
"I guess. But you'd think Barry would have said something about it. Last time the union got my dad a raise, we went to Chuck E. Cheese to celebrate."
"Never mind all that," Doug said. "How he got the inner-tubes doesn't matter. How are we going to get them out of the garage without him knowing?"
"If we think he'll have a problem with it, we'll just wait till he's busy working--or until he' s passed out inside. Then, all we gotta do is inflate them, and we can use the air pump down at the Old Forge service station for that."
Doug's face brightened. "I can get some Hershey's bars while we're there. And they've got Sinistar and Golden Axe and Spy Hunter.
And those cool old pinball machines like our dad 's used to play when they were kids."
"Your dad played pinball?"
Doug shrugged, and then started humming the theme to Spy Hunter.
Timmy shook his head. "Dude, forget about all that. You want to play video games all day, or do you want to go tubing? We can float all the way from Bowman' s Woods down through Colonial Valley and into the paper mill 's pond. Then we can just walk home. Just have to make sure we don't go by Ronny or Jason' s houses. It 'll be fun. We could even take our fishing rods, and catch carp and suckers while we're floating downstream."
"What about snapping turtles? Creek's full of them. And water snakes. You don't like snakes."
"I'll take my 1& gun. If we see one, I'll shoot it before it even gets close."
"If your mom lets you, that is."
Timmy shrugged. "What she doesn't know won't hurt her. I don't see why I should have to report every little thing I do during the day. This ain't Russia."
"Sometimes I wish my mom would ask me where I was going and what I was doing. It would be nice to know she cared."
Timmy wasn't sure what to say. "She cares, man. She just ... has a funny way of showing it."
Right away, he realized how insincere he sounded.
Doug didn't reply. He stared out at the falling rain, watching it run down the windows and pour off the roof of the Graco's shed.
"Seriously," Timmy said, even though he didn't believe it, "you know she loves you, right?"
Slowly, Doug looked at him. His bottom lip quivered and there was a haunted, feral look in his eyes that Timmy had never seen before. His face had gone pale.
"That's just it. She loves me too much. She ..."
He sobbed, unable to finish. Sniffling, he turned away. His hands curled into fists, and he slammed them into his legs again and again.
Timmy reached out his hand. "Hey."
Doug's entire body began to tremble. He made a sound like a wounded animal.
"She ..."
"Doug, what is it?"
Part of Timmy was already afraid he knew the answer, and another part of him was even more afraid-- afraid of having those suspicions confirmed, afraid of what it might mean for his friend, and for them all. A
149 loss of innocence, a dark passage from boyhood into the beginnings of manhood. He couldn' t articulate it, not even to himself, but the emotions were there, deep down inside, bubbling to the surface and now spilling out over the brim.
"Whatever it is, you can tell me."
"She ... oh, God."
Tears rolled down both of Doug' s cheeks. When he spoke, he started slowly, each word, each syllable, choked out with an agonizing slowness. But the more he talked, the faster the rhythm --and the confirmation of everything that Timmy dreaded--became.
"She ... she comes to me at night. In my room. When I'm sleeping. She t-touches me.
Down there. And I don't want to like it. I don't want to, you know-- get hard. But I do anyway. Deep down inside, a part of me does want to. I can 't help it. Can't control it. She puts her mouth on my ... on my thing ... and I can' t stop her. And then things start happening. I don 't like the way it feels, but I let her do it anyway."
Doug shuddered at the memories, and Timmy found himself doing the same.
"How long?"
Doug looked at him in confusion. "How long is what?"
"How long has it been going on?"
"It started after my dad left. Seems like forever. Sometimes it' s all a blur. You know? She lost her nursing job at the private school. Dad left around the same time. Instead of getting a job as a school nurse somewhere else, Mom just stayed home and started drinking. She ' d sit there in front of the TV, just staring and crying, or lock herself inside her bedroom for twelve hours at a time. Eventually, she started staying awake all night, usually drunk, and then sleeping all day. And 150 that was when she started coming in my room at night. Timmy--the things she says.
The things she does. They sort of feel good, and that' s the worst part of all, because they shouldn 't. You and Barry joke about them when we're in the Dugout, reading those magazine letters and stuff, but in real life... In real life, those things are horrible. You don' t want to hear those things. Not from your mother. Not from ..."
Tears eradicated the rest. He hung his head and sobbed into his chest. After a moment, Timmy slid out of bed and padded over to him. He sat down, hesitated, and then put his arm around his best friend. Doug stiffened, but didn 't move. They sat like that for a long time. Occasionally, Timmy would squeeze his shoulder.
Outside, the thunder rolled. Another ominous blast rattled the windows. Both boys jumped at the noise, and then were still again.
"That's why I put a lock on my door from the inside," Doug said, wiping his nose with his shirt. "That deadbolt? You and Barry laughed at me about it, but you didn' t understand. You didn 't know. It was to keep her out. She'd come in when I was sleeping. I'd wake up and she' d be standing there in the moonlight. Naked, sometimes. A few times she had on stuff like the centerfolds wear. Or worse, she 'd already be in the bed with me. Under the covers ... doing stuff."
Timmy nodded, sick to his stomach. He pictured Carol Keiser doing the things Doug was describing, and then immediately wished he hadn't.
"She always made me promise not to tell. Said it was our secret, that no one else would understand, and that if I told anybody, my dad might never come back, or that they' d take her away from me, too."
"So what did you do?"
"What could I do? I didn't do anything. I just laid there and ... took it."
"Jesus."
"When it was over, sometimes she'd go back to her room or out into the living room.
A few times she passed out. Right there in my bed. That' s how drunk she was. Couple times, she called me by my dad 's name, and once, she called me by someone else's."
"Who?"
"Someone I don't know. Some guy. Harry. Who knows? Could have been an old boyfriend of hers, or maybe she was running around on my dad."
Or maybe, Timmy thought, it was another kid. Someone just like you, Doug. After all, she was a school nurse at a private boy's school.
Doug got to his feet and pulled a tissue out of the box on Timmy' s dresser. He blew his nose, then sat back down again. His hands kneaded the crumpled tissue, rolling it, then balling it up, and then rolling it again.
"A few times," he continued, "she said I should have you guys spend the night more often. You and Barry. Said if I convinced you, and you promised not to tell, that she ' d let you guys do things to her, too. Let you touch her, and ... stuff. I never told you guys, because I was afraid you might tell somebody, or that you might..." He paused, and shook his head.
"Might what, Doug?"
"Nothing."
"Come on, man. You can tell me. You told me this much already."
"And I shouldn't have. You can't tell anyone, Timmy. Not a soul."
"I'm not going to say anything. You thought Barry and I might what?"
"Promise you won't get mad?"
"Sure. I promise."
"You've got to swear it, Timmy. You've got to cross your heart and hope to die."
Despite his friend's traumatic confession, Timmy found himself chuckling at this.
"And stick a needle in my eye while I' m at it? Come on, Doug. What are we, back in Mrs. Trimmer 's fourth grade class? I swear it already. Cross my heart... and hope to die."
Doug licked his lips, nervous. "I... I was afraid you guys might do it."
"Oh, dude! You thought we'd do your mom? Man, that's sick."
"Lower your voice." Doug reached out and clamped a sweaty hand over Timmy's mouth.
"You'll wake up your parents."
He removed his hand, and put his finger to his lips as a reminder. Outside the window, blue lightning flashed across the sky, making it daylight for a brief instant.
"Sorry," Timmy said. "But man, dude, I mean ... how could you think something like that about us? We'd never do that to you. It' s disgusting. It would be like doing that Jane Fonda chick that Mr. Messinger down at the newsstand thinks is so hot. Yeah, like maybe thirty years ago she was. Gross!
Your Mom 's like ... old. And she's your mom, for Christ 's sake."
"I know, I know," Doug whispered, ashamed. "But I was ... jealous, I guess. I know that sounds weird, I mean, what with all she was doing to me. But despite all that, she' s still my mother. I still want her to love me. Just not in that way. I thought that if you guys did it with her, that she might not love me at all anymore."
He started to cry again. Timmy sat there in stunned, silent disbelief--and despair.
There was a word for what Doug had been forced to do with his mother, and 153 that word was incest.
Timmy had read about it. It was disgusting. But as sick and as wrong as it was, some part of Doug still loved his mother. He was more worried about her leaving him than he was about the vile things she was doing to him.
"It was nice," Doug said. "Being here tonight, with your mom and your dad. Eating hamburgers and playing games and watching movies-- it felt so real. It felt like a regular family must feel, you know? I wish I had that."
Timmy nodded.
"You're a lucky guy, Timmy. I know you're still sad about your grandpa, and I know you argue with your parents sometimes, but you don't know how good you' ve got it. You should be grateful, man."
"I am," Timmy said. "Believe me, I am."
"I don't want to go home tomorrow. I wish I could stay here."
"Well, look. When we get up in the morning, let's talk to my parents about it. Maybe we can--"
"No!" Doug's shout was lost beneath the thunder, but both of them paused anyway, listening to see if it had awoken Timmy's parents.
"No," Doug said again, whispering this time. "You promised that you wouldn't tell anybody. You can't. Nobody else can know. Not even Barry."
Timmy felt torn. On the one hand, he wanted to tell his parents. This was too big for him to try and keep it bottled up inside. His parents would be able to help.
He was worried about Doug, worried about what this would do to him emotionally. Obviously, it had already had some effect. Maybe his parents would let Doug stay with them.
But on the other hand, he 'd made a promise to his friend, and he couldn't just break it. He didn't want Doug to be mad at him.
While he struggled with these conflicting emotions, Doug excused himself and crept down the hall to the bathroom. Timmy heard him running water in the sink. His mother snored softly and his father farted in his sleep. The lightning flashed again, but the storm ' s power seemed to be lessening. The rain slowed to a drizzle, and the thunder was distant now, muted.
Doug came back into the room and tried to smile. He shut the door behind him.
"Sorry. I'm done crying now."
He sat back down, and Timmy squeezed his shoulder one more time.
"It'll be okay, Doug. You'll see. It'll all be okay."
But in his heart, Timmy knew that nothing would ever be okay again.
It was a long time before dawn arrived, and Timmy was still awake when the first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon.
Chapter Nine When they got up for breakfast the next morning, they were surprised to learn that Timmy's father hadn' t yet left for work. His truck was still in the driveway, and they heard him talking to Timmy 's mother in hushed, serious tones. Timmy' s first thought was that someone else in their family had died, maybe one of his aunts or uncles. His second thought was that maybe his father was sick. If that were so, it would have to be something very serious. Randy Graco had gone to work with the flu and a high fever before. He 'd even gone in every day when he broke his leg while out deer hunting four years ago. Things like illness didn' t stop him when it came to putting food on the table.
"Wonder what's happening?" Timmy said.
Doug didn't respond. He' d woken taciturn and withdrawn, and Timmy wondered if perhaps he was regretting telling the truth about what was happening between him and his mother.
"You okay, Doug?"
"Didn't sleep too good."
"Yeah, me either." Timmy pulled a clean pair of socks from his top dresser drawer.
"Listen, about last night--"
"Let's not talk about it right now."
After getting dressed, the boys walked into the living room, and immediately, Timmy noticed the grim expression on both his parent' s faces. His father looked shocked, and his mother was pale. At first he was afraid they 'd overheard Doug' s late-night confession, but then he realized that they were both staring at the television, which was tuned to the local news. They hadn 't even looked up to acknowledge the boys' presence.
"What's going on?" Timmy asked. "What's wrong?"
Randy looked up from the newscast and blinked in surprise. "Hey guys. Good morning."
"Don't you have to work today, Dad?"
"I'm going in late. Wanted to talk to you guys first."
"Did you boys sleep okay?" Elizabeth sipped from a coffee mug. "Or did the storm wake you up last night?"
"We heard it," Timmy said. "Sounded pretty bad. Is that what's on the news?"
"No," she said quickly, glancing at her husband. "It's just ..."
She shook her head and took another sip of coffee.
"Just what?"
"Maybe you two better sit down," Randy said, waving his hand at the couch.
Shit, Timmy thought. They did overhear us last night.
Doug shuffled his feet. "Um, are we in trouble, Mr. Graco?"
"No, Doug. Not at all." He gave a short, uncomfortable laugh. "But we do need to talk."
Timmy and Doug took seats on opposite ends of the couch. Timmy glanced at the television.
A reporter was standing alongside a road. There were woods behind him, and a car parked along the side next to the trees. The entire area had been roped off with yellow police tape. Timmy frowned.
"What's going on, Dad?"
Randy stood up and turned off the television. Then he turned to his wife. "Hon, can you get me some more coffee?"
"Sure." Elizabeth got his mug and disappeared into the kitchen.
Randy leaned forward in his chair, folded his hands together, and stared at them both without speaking. He seemed to be considering something. Timmy and Doug both twitched nervously. Randy opened his mouth to speak, but the phone rang, interrupting him. In the kitchen, Timmy heard his mother answer it.
"Hello? ... Oh, hi Brenda Yes, Randy and I were just watching it on the news... . Terrible."
Randy cleared his throat. Timmy and Doug turned their attention back to him.
"Boys," he said, "I don't know how to say this, so I'm just going to say it. I know you' ve had some trouble in the past with Ronny Nace and Jason Glatfelter and Steve Laughman.
I know they 're not exactly friends of yours, but--well, there's been some bad news."
Timmy twitched, wondering if his parents had found out about Ronny's stolen bike, and what they'd done with it.
Doug looked relieved. "Are they finally in jail for something?"
"No. They're missing."
In the kitchen, Elizabeth told Brenda good-bye and then hung up the phone.
"Missing?" Timmy glanced at the blank television screen. "Like they ran away?"
His father shook his head. "I guess it's a possibility, but the police don' t seem to think so. Their parents reported them missing this morning. Another woman is missing, too. An adult. Deb Lentz. They found her car abandoned out near Porter 's Sawmill. And there's even speculation that maybe Karen Moore and her boyfriend didn't run off, either."
"A serial killer?"
"I don't know, Timmy." Randy Graco scowled. "That's a little extreme, don't you think?
Ask me, you've been reading too many comic books."
"But it could be."
"Yeah, sure it could. I guess. But they don't know that yet. All they know is that there are a lot of people missing all of the sudden. That doesn't mean it' s a serial killer. Where do you get this stuff? I wasn 't thinking about serial killers and monsters when I was twelve. I was busy playing football."
That's because you didn't get clobbered every time you played, Timmy thought to himself.
And you didn' t live next door to a monster or down the road from one, either. The bad people aren 't just in my comics. They're in the real world, too.
Elizabeth returned with two fresh mugs of coffee for Randy and herself. Then she sat back down in the rocking chair.
"That was Brenda," she told her husband. "She and Larry are going to do the same thing with their kids."
Nodding, Randy sipped coffee.
"Do what with us?" Timmy didn't like the sound of this--whatever it was.
"Well," his mother said, picking up where Randy had left off, "the reason your father stayed home this 159 morning was because we wanted to talk to you about this. We' ve discussed it, and came to a decision. Your father and I think it might be best if you stick close to home for the next few days. You too, Doug."
"But it's summer," Timmy said. "We've got stuff to do. Important stuff. We're not babies. We can watch out for ourselves."
"Even still," Elizabeth insisted, "you're not to go anywhere by yourself from now on--until the police find out what' s happened. No going off to the woods or the dump or the pond, and no riding down to the newsstand, either."
"But I've got to go to the newsstand every Wednesday, or I'll miss the new comics."
"You've got enough comics," Randy said. "Won't hurt you to miss a few. You should save your money, anyway. In four more years you' re going to want a car and --"
Timmy cut him off. "If I miss the new issues, then I'll have gaps in my collection, and won't find out what happens next."
"I'm not going to argue with you, Timmy. We've all been under a strain lately since--well, since Grandpa's death, and I've tried to take it easy on you. But don' t fight me on this."
"It isn't fair." Timmy crossed his arms over his chest and sank back into the cushions.
"Why should we be punished just because some other people are missing?"
"You're not being punished," Elizabeth said. "We're just worried about your safety, is all. We're worried, about you--both of you. I bet Doug' s mother will say the same thing. Try to see it our way. It 's for your own good."
Timmy stifled a laugh. There was his old friend, his invisible accomplice, U'rown Goode, making another appearance.
"I've got to ride my bike past Bowman's Woods to get here," Doug said. "What should I do?"
"Well," ElizaBeth said, "for the time being, maybe your mom can drive you over here when you want to visit?"
"I don't think so, Mrs. Graco. My mom doesn't leave the house much."
"Oh. Well, maybe Timmy's father can pick you up and take you back."
"Wait a second," Randy said. "I've got to work."
"Well then, you can make special trips when you're home."
Randy started to protest, but Timmy cut him off again.
"This sucks."
"Language," his mother warned.
"Well," Timmy said, "it does suck. Our whole summer is ruined because of Ronny, Jason, and Steve."
"Timothy Edward Graco!" Elizabeth's voice boomed across the living room. "Those boys are missing, and Lord only knows what' s happened to them. You should try to be a little more understanding and sympathetic.
We raised you better than that."
"Sorry," he said, feeling anything but.
"You should be."
He forged ahead. "Well, what about Barry? Can we still hang out at his house? He's right over the hill, and we only have to go through our backyard to get there."
"You can still play with Barry," Randy said. "But no further until we say otherwise.
I mean it."
"And we can help him work in the cemetery?"
Randy sighed. "Yes, as long as you're not by yourself. But no further. Understand me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Doug? How about you?"
"Yes, Mr. Graco. You don't have to worry about me. If some sick perv tries to snatch me, I'll kick him in the balls and run!"
Elizabeth gasped. Randy struggled to suppress his laughter. A moment later, all four of them started laughing. Privately, Timmy wondered why he got hollered at for saying "sucks" but Doug could get away with "balls." But he didn 't ask. It was good to hear Doug laughing, especially after last night.
"What do you boys want for breakfast," Elizabeth asked when she'd regained her composure.
"There's Count Chocula or Trix, or oatmeal."
Both boys made a face at the mention of oatmeal.
"Or, I guess I could make pancakes."
"Pancakes," Doug said. "Yes, please. That would be great. Can you put blueberries in them, too?"
She smiled. "I think we can do that. It just so happens I bought some at the store this week."
"Awesome."
Timmy raised his hand without much enthusiasm. "Me too, I guess. With bacon."
"That makes three of us," Randy said. "With eggs."
While she cooked, Timmy and Doug watched The Transformers while Randy got ready for work. They ate, and Timmy listened to his parents talk without really hearing them, and his mother ' s blueberry pancakes, usually his favorite, had no taste. The new set of rules and boundaries really chafed at him. Sure, unbeknownst to his parents, they still had the Dugout to play in, but that somehow wasn ' t enough. The most desirable horizons were the ones you were forbidden to reach, and the thrill of exploration was what lay beyond those known borders. He thought about Doug ' s map, useless for all intents and purposes now. The blank space all around the edges would stay blank now.
Doug chatted with Randy and Elizabeth, and ate three helpings of pancakes.
Timmy sulked. He tried very hard to ignore the fact that his best friend' s mom was having sex with him, and that people were missing, probably abducted by some serial killer, and that his summer vacation was not turning out to be a vacation at all, but a prison sentence. It was like one of the storm clouds from the previous night had settled over him, dark and foreboding.
It felt like he was in a tunnel and the walls were closing in.
He shivered.
After breakfast, Randy left for work and the boys went outside to play. They grew bored after an hour and decided to go to Barry's house and see what he was doing-- after assuring Elizabeth that they ' d stray no farther and come straight home when they were done. They left their bikes behind, and doing so filled them both with sadness. What good was a BMX with mag wheels and thick tires and racing stripes if you couldn ' t ride it anywhere and show it off? It was like Batman without a Batmobile or Han Solo without a Millennium Falcon.
As they trudged through the backyard and up the hill toward Barry' s, Timmy picked up a stick, left over from the storm, and in a fit of anger snapped it in half and tossed the pieces aside.
"So much for going tubing. This bites. This whole summer just keeps getting worse and worse."
"Could be much worse," Doug said. He was still wearing Randy's old shirt, and had put on his jeans from the day before, along with a pair of Timmy's socks.
"How could it be any worse?"
"The police could be trying to find out who beat Catcher, instead."
"True. I guess they've got more important things to worry about now."
"Or it could be us that was missing."
"Yeah ..."
"I just hope Ronny and those guys are okay," Doug said. "I'm a little worried about what could have happened to them."
Timmy stopped walking. "Are you crazy?"
"What? I'm concerned, is all."
"Doug, how can you say that? Are you forgetting about everything they' ve done to you? The pink bellies and the wedgies and swirlies? How they made you wear girl 's underwear on your head that time on the school bus? Or how Ronny used to squeeze your ... well, your tits, until you cried?"
"I don't have tits," Doug said. "And I cried because it hurt. And no, I haven't forgotten about any of those things. How could I?"
"Exactly. So why worry about them?"
"I don't know. I just do."
"Those guys are jerks. They picked on you constantly."
"Yeah, they're jerks, but that doesn't mean I want some crazy guy to kidnap them and do stuff to them. That's wrong, man. Nobody deserves that."
They started walking again. The wet grass soaked through their sneakers. They passed by Randy Graco' s grapevines, which had been flattened by the storm. To their right, at the top of the hill, the Wahl 's cherry tree was spilt in half, the unfortunate victim of a lightning strike.
"I just hope they come home safe." Doug stepped over the drooping vines. "That's all I'm saying."
"They deserve whatever happens to them," Timmy said. "Serves them right. I don't care."
"Yes you do," Doug said. "You're just pissed off right now."
"So? I'm serious. Why should I care what happens to those assholes?"
"You cared about Catcher when Barry started beating on him, and he was just as mean to us as Ronny and those guys were."
"Catcher didn't know any better. He's just a dog, and he was just doing what all Dobermans do. They're attack dogs. It's instinct."
"Not necessarily. The guy that lives next door to me used to have a Doberman, and it was nice, because he'd trained it to be nice. Catcher was mean because Mr. Sawyer didn' t teach him any different."
"So Ronny, Jason, and Steve's parents taught them to be assholes?"
"Maybe." Doug paused, choosing his words carefully. "Look, with everything I told you last night, I know I' ve got problems. But when Barry started kicking Catcher the other day, who did he remind you of?"
He shrugged, and then mumbled, "His father." Timmy wondered how his friend could be so nice, how he could keep such a positive attitude with all that had happened to him. But even so, Doug was right. He was about to admit that he 'd been thinking the same thing, that maybe grown-ups were the real monsters, when they reached Barry' s house. Timmy decided to wait until later.
They slowly approached the front door. The window shades were still closed, and the house looked dark.
"Go ahead," Doug whispered. "Knock."
"You knock. It's your turn. I knocked last time."
Doug rapped on the door twice. They heard shuffling sounds inside. Then the door opened, the rusty 165 hinges squeaking. Mrs. Smeltzer peered out at them through one good eye. The other one was swollen shut and looked black and purple. Timmy and  Doug gasped in surprise, but she just smiled.
"Hi, boys."
Timmy thought she sounded sad--and maybe a little relieved as well.
"Um, hi Mrs. Smeltzer. Is Barry home?"
She nodded toward the cemetery. When she tilted her head, Timmy noticed that another pair of new earrings sparkled in her ears.
"He's out helping his dad. You might not want to go over there this morning, though."
"Why not?" Timmy stared at her black eye.
"Well, Mr. Smeltzer didn't get much sleep last night. He was out late. He's a little grumpy."
Neither of them replied. Doug stared at his feet. Timmy couldn't look away.
"You okay, Timmy?"
Am I okay? he thought. You're the one with the black eye, lady.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Didn't sleep much last night, either. The storm kept me awake."
She smiled at them again. "Well, I'll tell Barry that you stopped by."
"Thanks, Mrs. Smeltzer."
She closed the door, and they turned away and started back down the sidewalk.
"Jesus," Timmy whispered. "Did you see that shiner?"
"See it? How could I miss it? The whole side of her face is swollen up. What do we do?"
Timmy sighed. "Nothing we can do, except maybe tell my parents, and if we do that, Barry might get pissed at us, or they might say we can' t hang out with him anymore. Let 's just not think about it. We'll go 166 find Barry. Make sure he's okay. If he doesn't have to work, then maybe we can explore the tunnel today after all. If not, tKen we'll just hang around inside the Dugout until he' s finished."
"Maybe we better not. Mrs. Smeltzer said Barry's dad was in a bad mood. The way her face looked, I'd say she was right."
"Screw him. I'm in a bad mood, too."
He crossed the road. Doug followed after a moment's hesitation. They passed by the newly installed no trespassing sign and went around the side of the church.
"I noticed something else," Timmy said. "She had on another new pair of earrings.
I'm telling you, man, something weird's going on. Something more than just him hitting them."
"But, like you said, there's nothing we can do. Barry's dad is a grown-up. We're kids."
Timmy kicked a stone. It shot across the church parking lot, careened off a telephone pole, and rolled away.
"He's no adult. He's a monster. Barry should tell somebody."
"Maybe he's afraid to."
They reached the rear of the church and started down the cemetery's center road.
There was no sign of Barry or his father, and they didn' t hear the sound of lawnmowers or anything else. This morning, even the birds and insects seemed silent. It was almost as if all the wildlife had abandoned the grounds.
"Why would Barry be afraid to tell?" Timmy lowered his voice, in case Mr. Smeltzer or Barry were within earshot. "He' d be safe. Him and his mom both. The cops would lock his old man up in a heartbeat."
"Maybe he's embarrassed--like I was." Doug sighed. "I still can't believe I told you last night."
"Are you sorry that you did?"
"No." Doug hesitated. "But I am afraid that you'll tell somebody. Your parents, or Reverend Moore."
Timmy clapped him on the shoulder. "I promised that I wouldn't tell, and I won't.
But you've gotta do something, man. You can' t just stay there and let her keep doing this to you. It 's not right. She's no better than Barry's dad."
"I know, I know. It's just--she's all I have left, Timmy. I can't just leave her."
"But you have to. You have to get out of there."
"I can't. I know it's wrong. I know it' s doing something bad, like the time we put the shotgun shell on the railroad tracks to see what would happen when the train ran over it."
Timmy shook his head. "It's a little worse than that, Doug."
"I know. All I'm saying is that I know it's wrong, but I can't stop it, other than locking my door."
"Do you like it? Do you want it to keep happening?"
Doug looked horrified. "No. Of course I don't like it. I hate it. I told you that."
"Then get some help."
"I can't. It wouldn't be--"
"She's a monster."
"She's also my mother!"
He shoved Timmy, hard. Timmy stumbled backward, almost tripping over a low gravestone.
Doug advanced on him, meaty fists raised in defiance.
"She's my mother and don't you dare call her that, you jerk. Don't you dare!"
"Hey--"
"Shut up. It's not for you to say."
Timmy held his hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay. Take it easy. I'm sorry. Seriously.
I shouldn't have said anything."
Doug' s face had turned reddish purple, and the veins stood out in his neck. Another one throbbed on his forehead, pulsing beneath the skin. He dropped his fists to his sides, clenching and unclenching his fingers. His jaw hung slack. His breath came in rapid, labored gasps. He turned his back and walked away.
"You okay?" Timmy asked.
Without looking back, he nodded, still hyperventilating. His shoulders sagged.
"Where you going? You're not going home, are you?"
Shaking his head, Doug bent over, hands on his knees, and threw up. Timmy didn' t know if he should help him or just give him some space, so he just stood there, watching.
"Don't bring it up any more, Timmy."
He took a few more steps and then vomited again.
"Doug," Timmy said, "I really am sorry, man. I didn't mean to piss you off."
"I'm sorry, too." Doug stood back up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Just let me deal with it. Okay? It's my problem and I'll deal with it. I don' t want people finding out. They pick on me already. Can you imagine what they 'll say if they find out about this? Can you imagine what they' d do to me? To my mom? I don 't have anything. My dad's gone. All I have left is her, and even if she is ... disgusting, I still don't want to lose her. Can you understand that?"
Timmy nodded, somewhat reluctantly.
"So let me handle it my way, okay?"
"Okay."
"You promise? You won't say any more?"
"Yeah, man. Sure."
They walked on in silence, past the debris left behind in the wake of two storms--the thunderstorm from the night before, and the emotional storm 169 brewing between them. They passed earthworms wiggling helplessly at the bottom of rain puddles, and graveside floral arrangements that had been blown over by the storm, their petals and stems scattered across the cemetery. A green Styrofoam wreath lay in the middle of the road. Timmy picked it up, examined it, then tossed it aside like a Frisbee.
They avoided two mourners, who were gathered around a single gray stone, and nodded hello to a jogger, Mrs. Nelson, who lived on the other side of the Wahls and gave out the best candy on Halloween. Apparently, Mrs. Nelson had ignored the no trespassing sign as well. Timmy wondered aloud if Mr. Smeltzer had hollered at her about it.
But other than the graveside visitors and the jogging woman, the cemetery was deserted.
Finally, they spotted Barry and his father. They were using a chain hoist to lift a fallen tombstone.
"Wow," Doug said, speaking for the first time since their argument. "The storm must have been even stronger than we thought."
Timmy nodded, only half-listening. He was studying Clark Smeltzer' s posture, looking for clues to his demeanor. All signs pointed to bad. Barry moved like a whipped dog, and even from this distance, they could hear Clark shouting orders at him.
"We can' t get to the Dugout with them working down there." Timmy picked a blade of grass and put it in his mouth, chewing the tip. "Mr. Smeltzer would see us for sure."
Neither Barry nor his father had spotted them yet. They were too absorbed in their task. The mourners had gotten back into their car and left, and Mrs. Nelson was all the way on the other side of the cemetery now.
"Come on," Timmy said. "Let's sneak over to the shed while they're busy. We'll take a look at the cave entrance."
"What if he catches us? If we're down inside the tunnel, we might not hear him coming."
"We'll hear him. Besides, it's not like we can actually go inside it right now, anyway.
We promised Barry that we' d wait for him. I just want to check it out a little more."
"Okay," Doug agreed, still sounding unsure.
They cut through the grass, ducking behind tombstones and monuments, trying to stay out of Clark Smeltzer' s line of sight. Timmy noticed more sunken graves, and when they passed by his grandfather ' s plot, he was dismayed to see that the dirt had fallen in even more. For a moment, he imagined himself exploring the caverns below, and stumbling across his grandfather 's coffin--or even a body. A hideous image, but one he'd seen a thousand times before in the pages of House of Secrets and The Witching Hour.
They were almost to the shed when Mrs. Nelson circled round again, this time on the road that ran between the old portion of the cemetery and the new one. They hid behind a monument until she 'd passed by, and then darted out and crossed the path. They ducked behind the shed and knelt at the window.
"What the hell?" Timmy pounded his fist against the new boards that had been nailed up overnight. "Barry' s old man must have found out. No wonder Mrs. Smeltzer said he was pissed off."
Doug slapped at a mosquito. The squished insect left a red smear on his palm. "Oh, man. Wonder how much trouble Barry got into?"
"God," Timmy said. "I don't even want to think about it. Depends on whether or not his dad figured 171 out we were the ones climbing through there when he wasn't around." Timmy paused to lace up his Converse All-Stars, which had come undone, while Doug inspected the window. "I don't see what the big deal is. Barry's allowed in there when he has his old man' s keys." "Yeah, but nobody 's supposed to be in there when he isn't around--especially us. And besides, when have any of Mr. Smeltzer' s rules made sense? He makes a big deal out of everything." "If he does know, you think he 'll tell our parents?" "I don't know," Timmy said. "I doubt it. He knows that my dad doesn' t think much of him." Doug poked the dirt with a stick.  "You don 't think ... you don't suppose he'd hit us? The way he does Barry?" "I'd like to see him try," Timmy said. "I' d kick his drunken ass."
From behind them, Clark Smeltzer said, "Is that so?" Timmy and Doug both jumped, and Doug let out a frightened squawk and dropped his stick. Mr. Smeltzer seized them by the ears, pinching and twisting the cartilage. The boys shouted for help as he yanked them to their feet and spun them around. He grinned. "Kick my ass, will you?"
"Let go," Timmy demanded. "You 're hurting us." Doug started to whimper. Timmy silently willed him not to cry, not to give Barry' s father the satisfaction. "You 're hurting us," Timmy repeated. "You' re goddamn right I am, you little brat." He released them both and took a menacing step forward. Crying out, Doug scrambled backward, tripped, and tumbled over onto the dirt pile, landing flat on his back. Timmy shrank against the wall of the shed.
Clark Smeltzer glared at them both. His eyes were red and rheumy, and an unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth. He chomped the filter furiously. Barry stood behind him, lingering in the background, looking at his friends in dismay. His eyes were wide.
He said nothing.
Timmy glanced around in fright, hoping that Mrs. Nelson would jog by again, see what was happening, and rescue them. But Mrs. Nelson was nowhere in sight, apparently done exercising for the day. The cemetery was deserted. Somewhere in the distance, one of the neighbors started a lawnmower, and he heard the faint drone of it, but as far as Timmy was concerned, the lawnmower and its owner might as well have been on the moon.
Clark spat out the cigarette. "I figured it was you two that was sneaking in here, as well. 'Couldn't just be them other boys,'
I thought. Looks like I was right. Thought I told you two that I didn 't want you playing in this graveyard no more."
The boys said nothing. Doug was too busy fighting back tears and Timmy was afraid his voice would betray him. His legs trembled and his face was flushed. His lips felt heavy. Swollen. His heartbeat throbbed inside his head.
Barry took a timid step forward. "Dad ..."
Clark whirled on him. "You shut your goddamned mouth, boy. I don't want to hear a thing from you. You were probably breaking in here with them, weren' t you? What 'd I tell you about being out here without me? Huh?"
He raised his hand and Barry cringed. Timmy stepped forward.
"Why don't you just leave him alone, you son of a bitch?"
Clark turned, slowly, his mouth hanging open in disbelief.
"What'd you just say?"
Timmy swallowed. "You heard me, asshole. You're good at hitting women and little kids. Why can't you beat on somebody your own size?"
The color drained from Mr. Smeltzer's face. His open hand curled into a fist.
"I've warned you before, Graco. Somebody needs to do something about that mouth of yours."
"Go ahead," Timmy challenged. "Hit me."
"Timmy," Barry said, "Shut up. Don't--"
Clark lunged. Timmy tried to dodge him, but the angered man was quicker. He seized Timmy' s T-shirt with both fists and lifted him off the ground, slamming him into the wall of the shed. Timmy 's feet dangled off the ground. The boy was too terrified to speak. Timmy's anger vanished, replaced with fear.
"Dad," Barry pleaded, "put him down."
"P-please," Doug said, "please Mr. Smeltzer, don't--"
"Barry, I told you to shut your fucking mouth. You too, fat boy."
He turned back to Timmy, his leering face only inches away. Despite his terror, Timmy winced at the man's foul breath-- a miasma of cigarette smoke, coffee, booze, rotting teeth, and bleeding gums.
I won't cry, Timmy thought. I won't cry, I won't cry, I won't.
And then he did.
"Now, Graco," Clark snarled, "you listen up and you listen good. If I see you or your tubby friend in this cemetery again, I will tan both your goddamned hides so bloody that your mommas won 't recognize either one of you. And you know what? I'll get away with it, 174 too. You're trespassing, and that's against the law. It ain't like I didn't warn you before."
As if to emphasize, he slammed Timmy against the wall, hard enough that his teeth clacked together. Then he let him drop.
"There's a new lock on this shed, and I'm the only one that can open it. It's all boarded up nice and tight. Anybody else gets in, I'll know about it. Don' t let me catch you here again. And as for you," he turned to Barry, "you ain 't to hang out with these two no more. They're trouble. Up to no good. You think they' re your friends now? Just you wait. Get a few years older, they 'll want nothing to do with you anymore. They'll think they're better than you. Their kind always does. Just like Graco's daddy. Ol' Randy thinks he' s better than me cuz ' he's got that high-paying union job down at the mill and all I do is dig graves and mow grass."
Timmy stirred. "That's not true."
"Shut your face. Now you mind me, Barry. You see these two riding down the street, you go the other way. They come to the house, you don' t answer the door. I catch you playing with them again, you know what will happen."
"Yes, sir ..."
While Mr. Smeltzer was distracted, Timmy crawled over to Doug's side. The two boys squeezed each other's hands. Timmy thought he might throw up.
"No more," Clark said. "Am I understood?"
Tears filled Barry's blue eyes. "But Dad--"
"No 'buts' about it."
"But they're my best friends. I don't have anybody else."
Clark lashed out, slapping him across the face with the back of his hand. Timmy and Doug gasped. Barry's cheek turned red.
"Go ahead," Clark said, his hand still raised. "You go ahead and back talk me again, you little punk. I dare you."
Weeping, Barry stared at the ground. Clark turned back to the others.
"Wipe your noses and run home to your mothers. I don't want to see you here again."
"Barry?" Timmy reached for their friend.
"I said go!" Clark kicked out. His heavy, steel-toed work boot slammed into Timmy's tailbone. "Get the fuck out of here."
The boys' last bit of resolve shattered. Both Timmy and Doug fled. They couldn't go in the direction of Timmy' s house, because the utility shed and Mr. Smeltzer both blocked their way. He stood there, hands on his hips, the look on his face just daring them to pass. So instead, they ran in the other direction, toward the cornfield at the far end of the graveyard.
A rock bounced off Doug's shoulder blade. He cried out, but didn't look back.
"That's right," Clark Smeltzer shouted, "Just keep on running. If I see you here again, it'll be both your asses!"
His laughter hounded them as they reached the edge of the cemetery and stumbled into the cornfield, heedless of the damage their pounding feet were doing to Luke Jones 's crop. Halfway through the field, Doug paused, gasping for breath.
"Let's stop a minute," Timmy suggested, wiping the remaining tears from his eyes.
Sweat poured down his forehead.
Doug nodded, unable to speak. He sank to his knees and closed his eyes.
"That ... jerk ..." He gulped air. He can't... do that. Barry's our friend. He can't ..."
Timmy stripped off his T-shirt and mopped his 176 brow. "Save your breath. He just did. And we let him."
"We could have stopped him. We could have fought back."
"No we couldn't have. Come on, Doug, who are we kidding? We' re two kids, man. When it came down to it, and he literally had us backed up against the wall, we did everything but piss our pants, we were so scared."
Doug's face, already purple from a combination of crying and running, now turned violet. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. "Too late."
"Oh no. Please tell me you didn't."
"I did. Just a little bit. When I fell. Some squirted out."
Timmy snickered, then chuckled, then turned his face to the sky and howled. He pointed at his friend, tried to speak, and only laughed harder. He stretched out on his back and giggled.
"It's not funny," Doug said, but he was smiling, and a second later, he started laughing as well. "Look at us," he said. "We almost get beat up by our best friend' s dad, and then, just a little while later, we 're sitting in a cornfield laughing because I peed myself."
Timmy sat up. "It's a defense mechanism. Like Spider-Man. Ever notice when he's fighting Doc Ock or Hobgoblin, how he cracks jokes all the time? That' s because he 's scared. It's how he deals with being afraid. It helps him face the monsters."
"Too bad we couldn't do the same back at the shed."
"Yeah." Timmy took off his Converses and shook dirt and pebbles from them.
"I mean, why did we have to be so chicken?" Doug shook his head in shame. "We weren't afraid of Catcher. Well, maybe a little. But that didn' t stop us from standing up to him."
Timmy slid his shoes back on. "And look at what happened when we did."
"That wasn't really our fault, though. Barry was the one who snapped."
"I read this issue of The Defenders once. Nighthawk, Gargoyle, Dr. Strange, and Son of Satan had to travel to this other dimension to rescue Valkyrie and Hellcat. There was a line in it that said, 'When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.' I didn' t understand what it meant, so I asked my grandpa. He told me it was from some philosopher.
I can 't remember the guy's name. Nacho or something. He was German, I think."
"Nacho doesn't sound very German."
"It doesn' t matter. Anyway, Grandpa explained it to me and then told me a few other things this guy had said. I always remembered the one, because I thought it sounded cool."
"What was it?"
"When you battle monsters, you have to be careful or else you'll turn into a monster yourself."
Doug mouthed the words, silently repeating them to himself. Then he frowned. "I don't get it. What's it mean?"
"Think about it. We fought Catcher and what happened? For a few seconds, Barry acted just like his father. And me, earlier. What I said about Ronny and those guys. You 're right--it was a stupid thing to say. The kind of thing you'd expect them to say, rather than one of us. Maybe it's better that we don' t fight our own monsters. Maybe we 're better than them."
"Maybe," Doug agreed. "I don't know. I still wish we'd have done something. Poor Barry. I'm worried about what's gonna happen to him now."
"We'll still see him. Dude, he's our friend. I don't care what his old man says.
He can't stop the three of us from hanging out together. We'll sneak out tonight 178 and then all three of us can hang out in the Dugout-- or look for another way into the cave, since we can't get into the shed."
Doug looked frightened again. "No way. After what just happened? I'm not setting foot in that cemetery anymore. And besides, that's not what I mean."
"Well, what do you mean, then?"
"I'm worried about what his dad is going to do to him after all that."
"Yeah." Timmy sighed. "Me too, man. Me too."
"Mr. Smeltzer was always kind of weird, but he' s really starting to lose it. Who knows what he could do? And did you notice something else? When we were at the shed, he said, 'I figured it was you two that was sneaking in here, as well. Couldn't just be them other boys.' Who do you think he was talking about?"
"I don't know," Timmy said. "I can't even think about that right now. I still feel like I'm going to throw up."
"What if it was Ronny, Jason, and Steve? What if Mr. Smeltzer knows what happened to them?"
"Barry's dad is a serial killer?"
"Well, no--probably not. But you saw what he did to us today. How he acted. Sure, he' s hollered before, but he never laid a finger on us. Not like this. Today was different, and the way Barry 's mother talked, he was like this last night, too. Maybe he caught them trying to sneak in the shed and ... lost control?"
"You think he killed them?"
Doug didn't reply.
"He wouldn't have done that," Timmy said. "He's crazy, but killing them? That seems a little far-fetched. He' s just an abusive jerk, not some psycho. Much as I hate the guy, and as much as I think my dad 's wrong, and that there really is a serial killer running around, I don't think it's Barry's old man."
"Yeah," Doug said, nodding. "I guess you're right. I hope you are, anyway. So what do you want to do now? We can't go back to the cemetery and we can' t go anywhere else, either. We can 't even get our stuff out of the Dugout."
"Let's finish catching our breath first. My stomach and my head still hurt."
"Did he hurt you when he slammed you against the shed?"
Timmy shook his head. "No. Not really. I think it's more nerves than anything else."
Timmy lay back on the ground, careful not to squash the budding corn stalks. Clouds drifted slowly by above them, and he wished that he could hop on one and ride away.
He 'd always been mystified by clouds. They looked like solid things-- islands floating above the earth. Meanwhile, Doug reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic egg of Silly Putty. He began playing with it, rolling it in his hands and then flattening it out, while Timmy watched the sky and tried to figure out what they could do. The sun felt good on his face. He wished they could just stay there in the field for the rest of the day. He turned to his friend.
Doug found an anthill and began picking up the scurrying insects with his wad of Silly Putty, pretending it was the Blob and that the ants were frightened townspeople.
He 'd always been able to entertain himself like that. One summer, he'd enlisted Timmy and Barry' s help in collecting empty locust shells from the trees and shrubs. They ' d spent an entire day gathering the bug-eyed, creepy looking husks. Then, overnight, Doug had set them all up on top of a train table in his basement. He 'd placed his green plastic army men in the diorama as well. The next day, the boys had reenacted a fantastic 180 battle between the U.S. Army and some alien bugs from outer space. Watching him now, as Doug transformed his Silly Putty into yet another alien menace, Timmy grinned.
Then the memory of Clark Smeltzer's voice--and the look on Barry's face--made his grin vanish as quickly as it had appeared.
Timmy stood up and brushed the dirt off his pants. "Let's walk over to the woods.
Maybe we can find a hornet's nest or something cool."
"But we're not supposed to. Your parents said."
"Yeah, but they didn't know that Mr. Smeltzer was going to chase us out of the boundaries anyway. I mean, we' re already beyond where my mom and dad said we could be. Might as well make the best of it. It 's not like we'll get caught or anything."
Doug put his ball of Silly Putty, now embedded with ants, back in the plastic egg and slipped it into his pocket. Timmy gave him a hand and helped him to his feet.
Then the two of them set off for the tree line. As they neared the edge of the forest, they noticed four turkey buzzards circling in the sky. The carrion birds were hovering over a specific spot in the woods.
"Something must have died in there," Timmy said, nodding toward the birds. "Maybe a deer or a pheasant. We should check it out."
"What do you want to see an old dead deer for? That's gross."
"I don't think so," Timmy said. "Sometimes, it's kind of cool."
They pushed through the thick tangle of thorns and branches growing around the edges of the forest, and stepped beneath the leafy canopy.
The temperature was cooler in the woods, and rainwater from the previous night's storm still dripped off 181 the limbs overhead. It was darker under the trees. The woods were alive with sound, birds and insects, squirrels barking at one another, dead leaves and pinecones crunching under their feet. Flowers burst from the dark soil, lining the trail with different colors and fragrances. A chipmunk sat on a mossy stump and watched them go by. A plane passed overhead, invisible beyond the treetops. Timmy glanced upward, but he could no longer see the circling buzzards.
They didn't often come to this section of forest and hadn't fully explored it, and despite that morning' s terror, their spirits lifted slightly at the opportunity to do so now. They ' d only gone a few yards in, and were still standing in an area where the undergrowth was sparse and the trees were spaced far apart, when Doug spied the raspberry bushes.
"Awesome!"
He ran over to the thick stand of bushes and began picking raspberries, greedily popping them into his mouth and relishing the taste. Juice dripped from his lips.
Timmy heard the unmistakable squawk of a turkey buzzard overhead, but the leaves still hid them from sight. He sniffed the air, but didn't smell anything dead.
Doug groaned with delight. "My mom never buys these at the grocery store. Says they're too expensive."
"My mom says the same thing. I was surprised she actually had blueberries on hand this morning for the pancakes."
"Try some." Doug held out a handful of berries.
Timmy strolled over, but before he could join in, something behind the bushes caught his eye. The sun shined down through a break in the trees, and the sunlight glinted off of something bright and metallic.
He tapped Doug's shoulder. "What's that?"
Doug looked up. His face and fingers were stained red from berry juice. "What?"
"There," Timmy said, pointing. "On the other side of the bushes. The sun is reflecting off something. See it?"
"Metal ..."
"Sure looks like it."
"What do you think it is?"
"Could be anything," Timmy said. "A tree stand left behind by a hunter, or someone else's fort, or an old junked refrigerator or something."
Or a crashed UFO, he thought, or maybe the hatch to a secret underground government base. Or what those birds are looking for ...
He glanced down at the forest floor, found a long, straight stick, and picked it up.
"Let's find out."
Swinging the stick like a scythe, Timmy slashed at the clinging berry branches, cutting a path through the thicket. Doug followed along behind him, still picking raspberries and stuffing them into his mouth. They waded through the undergrowth and reached the object. Standing in front of it, the boys saw obvious signs that someone had gone through an awful lot of trouble to conceal it. Tree branches had been cut and laid over it, and dead leaves had been heaped on top of those, all in an effort to camouflage the mysterious object.
Doug's nose wrinkled. "Smells like something died around here all right. Those turkey buzzards must be right overhead."
Timmy had noticed the stench as well. It wasn't like what he' d smelled coming from beneath the graveyard. This was sharper. Muskier. Fresher, the way a dead groundhog smelled after lying in the middle of the road for several days. This was the aroma of death and decay.
Ignoring the foul odor, Doug grabbed another handful of berries. He stepped to the left, spotted a patch of poison ivy, and quickly jumped behind Timmy again.
Timmy grasped a pine branch. Sap still leaked from the end of it, and the bark stuck to his hand. He pulled the limb away, revealing a glimpse of what lay beneath.
"Is that ... ?"
Doug nodded, his berries forgotten. "Yeah. I think it is."
Without another word, both boys stepped forward and began clearing away the debris.
Beneath it lay Pat Kemp' s black Chevy Nova. Enamored of Pat as they were, the boys would have recognized it anywhere. Chrome mag wheels; big tires, shiny and black; the Thrush high-powered muffler sticker on the back window; a chrome blower sticking up through the hood like some space-age coffee maker; an AC/DC bumper sticker, complete with a cannon and the slogan, for those about to rock; and the waxed, flawless body -- so dark that the viewer was left with the impression that it absorbed light. The paint was now dirty and sticky with sap, and some of the branches had left long scratches.
Timmy leaned forward and peered through the driver's side window. Cassette tapes lay scattered on the seat-- Ratt, Motorhead, Ozzy Osbourne, Dio, Dead Kennedy 's, Black Flag, Iron Maiden, Autograph, Suicidal Tendencies, and curiously out of place (in his opinion), Prince's Purple Rain.
A crumpled pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a pair of black sunglasses sat on the red vinyl dashboard. Empty beer cans littered the floor. Each one had been crushed.
Timmy breathed through his mouth. This close to the car, the stench grew stronger.
Doug pushed up beside him and peeked through as well.
"Why would Pat have a Prince tape?" he asked. "I thought he was a metal head."
"You like Prince," Timmy reminded him.
"Yeah, but I'm not cool like Pat. What do you think his car's doing here?"
"I don't know, but it ain't good. Whoever put it here went through a lot of trouble to hide it."
"Do you think he's okay?"
Timmy shrugged, then straightened up and looked around. "I don' t see any sign of him. Or Karen. But look over there." He pointed to another section of the forest where the undergrowth was sparse and the trees were spaced far apart.
"If you look carefully, you can see tire tracks going back up to Mr. Jones 's cornfield."
"You remember the morning after Pat and Karen ran away, Barry was smoothing out tire tracks? They went off into the cornfield."
"Yep. So somebody drove it from the cemetery to here."
Both of them heard the sound of buzzing flies.
Doug peered back inside the car. "So maybe Pat and Karen were parking in the graveyard.
Somebody found them, did something to them, and then hid the car here."
"Could be," Timmy said, "or maybe they hid the car so people wouldn't find it, and then walked out."
"You don't really believe that, do you?"
"No," Timmy admitted, remembering the circling carrion birds. "There' s no way Pat would have ever left his car behind. He loved this thing. But a good detective considers all possibilities before coming to conclusions. That 's what the world's greatest detective would do."
Doug seemed puzzled. "Who's the world's greatest detective? Sherlock Holmes?"
"No, you idiot. It's Batman."
Doug wiped the window with his sleeve. "Well, I don' t think they ran away. Ronny, Jason, and Steve. That lady on the news this morning.
Now we find Pat and Karen 's car? I think it all adds up."
Timmy didn't reply. Secretly, he was thinking about Katie Moore, wondering how she'd react to this news regarding her sister' s disappearance. He walked around the car, studying it, looking for clues. The smell got stronger as he neared the abandoned Nova 's rear. The buzzing flies grew louder.
"You think I'm wrong? You think Pat and Karen are alive, and that they really did run away together?"
Timmy staggered backward, his hand over his mouth.
"Timmy? What's wrong? What is it?"
Unable to speak, Timmy raised his hand and pointed. Doug hurried around to the back of the car, and gagged. They' d discovered the source of the stench. A thick, viscous liquid leaked from the trunk and pooled onto the forest floor, sticking to the leaves and pine needles. Maggots and other small insects wallowed in the slop. It was dark in color, and there were tiny bits of pink matter floating in it. The smell was incredibly strong, almost overpowering. Bloated, black flies swarmed over the trunk, crawling into the car through the same small crevice the slime was dripping out of. Whatever was inside had rotted to soup and was now spilling out of the trunk.
"No," Timmy said. "I don't think you're wrong. I think that's them. I think they're inside the trunk."
Then he leaned over and threw up.
Chapter Ten They fled from the woods, not bothering to mark their location so they could find the car again. The buzzards, still swooping around above the trees, would do that for them. Not wanting to risk encountering Mr. Smeltzer, they cut through the woods and followed Anson Road, avoiding the cemetery. Then they walked along the side of the road the whole way back to Timmy 's house. Timmy had puke on his shirt and jeans, and Doug's face was stark white.
They burst through the door, and at first, Elizabeth assumed that one of them had been injured. She flew out of the kitchen, where she' d been balancing the checkbook, her pulse racing. The boys weren ' t hurt, not physically at least. But they appeared absolutely terrified. At first, Timmy was too shocked to speak, and all Doug would say was, "It was spilling out."
He kept repeating it over and over, and each time he said it, Timmy looked like he was about to vomit.
When they finally calmed down and told her of their discovery, she immediately called Reverend Moore and informed him. Then she called the police. She was so upset and concerned for the boys that she didn 't even question what they were doing in the woods after having been forbidden to go that far just hours before.
The township police arrived at the Golgotha Lutheran Church, and the boys were there to meet them, along with Timmy' s mother, Reverend Moore, Sylvia Moore, and Katie. Mr. Smeltzer, spying the adults with the boys and assuming they were there for what had happened earlier, made Barry go inside. Warily, he walked over to them as the police got out of their vehicles.
"I done told them boys several times not to be playing here. Even posted these signs.
It ain't my fault what happened."
"What in heaven's name are you talking about, Clark?" Reverend Moore frowned. "The boys discovered something in the woods, on Luke Jones's property."
"Oh." He shut up after that. Timmy thought he would have been relieved, but instead, he seemed even more nervous than before. The township police walked over to the group.
Clark excused himself, saying he had to go wash up for lunch.
Reverend Moore watched him go, and muttered, "That's odd."
Soon after, the state police and a team of paramedics arrived on the scene. Then Timmy and Doug led the township officers, the state police, and the paramedics to the car. The boys were nervous, but their excitement at being involved in a police investigation --at being the ones to discover the car-- overrode all other emotions. Timmy was thrilled, and he found himself comparing the events to Tom Sawyer 188 again. This was just like when Tom solved the mystery as to the whereabouts of escaped murderer Injun Joe.
First, they stopped in the cemetery, and the boys showed them where the tracks had originated. The investigators found remnants of tire tracks in Luke Jones' s cornfield, as well. Finally, the boys led them to the woods. The birds were still circling. Once they ' d arrived, the police sealed it off as a crime scene. They dusted the Nova for fingerprints, meticulously took photos of both the car and the surrounding area, and combed through the leaves and detritus on the forest floor for clues. Timmy and Doug watched with rapt attention, and basked in the reciprocal attention showered on them by the police.
Despite the morning ' s bad start, they were surprised to find themselves having fun.
Then a bulky state trooper opened the trunk and the fun stopped.
Pat Kemp's half-liquefied remains splashed out onto the ground, splattering across the trooper's boots. The man' s face turned white. Everyone else scrambled backward. The stench was revolting.
Doug screamed, and almost fainted. Timmy bit his thumb to keep from vomiting again.
This was their hero. The cool older kid who was always willing to stop and talk to them, who treated them like little brothers, gave them advice on girls and bullies and turned them on to good music. The guy they ' d all wanted to be when they reached high school. The cool kid who smoked and drank and had the fastest car in town and was dating a fox like Karen Moore --that cool kid was now a waxy, congealing, rancid stew of tissue and bone and squirming maggots.
A state police detective led the boys out of the 189 woods, back to the edge of the cornfield, right next to the cemetery, where Timmy' s mother and the Moores had been interviewed by another officer while they were waiting.
The farmer, Luke Jones, had also arrived after being contacted by the officers when it was determined that the car was on his property. There was no sign of Barry or his father.
Timmy noticed the sad, fearful look in Katie's eyes, and wanted to talk to her, wanted to tell her that it was only her sister's boyfriend' s body that had been found, and maybe Karen was still alive, but before he could, the detective asked Elizabeth ' s permission to question the boys, then took them aside and did so, one at a time.
When they were finished, the detective took them back over to the other adults and told them they were free to go. He asked Timmy 's mother if she' d be willing to let them contact her son later if they had any more questions, and she agreed.
While they were talking, Timmy glanced over at the Moores again. Both Reverend Moore and his wife, Sylvia, were crying. She clung to her husband, his shirt balled up in her fists, her black mascara staining the material. Great, uncontrollable sobs racked her body. Reverend Moore ' s tears were more controlled, but no less heartbreaking. He looked like he 'd aged ten years in the last three weeks. Katie stood beside them, alone, frightened, and seemingly forgotten.
"I don't feel so good," Doug said, clutching his stomach. "When they opened the trunk ..."
Elizabeth put her arm around the shaken youth. "I'll take you home, sweetheart. Can you make it back to our house?"
Doug nodded. "Yes, Mrs.
Graco I think so. But maybe I could stay at your house for a little bit longer? Maybe spend the night again."
"I don't think that's a good idea, Doug. We'd love to have you stay, but I' m sure your mother is already worried about you. And we need to tell her about what happened. She 'll need to contact the detective. He gave me a business card to give to her."
"Please, Mrs. Graco? Pretty please? Just one more night?"
Timmy noticed the desperate pleading in his voice, but his mother did not.
"I'm sorry, Doug, but I just don't think you'd better tonight."
He can't go home, Timmy felt like shouting. Don't you understand, Mom? What' s waiting for him at home is ten times worse than what we found in the woods.
But she was already offering her condolences and prayers to the distraught Moores.
The adults exchanged hugs, and once again, Timmy' s eyes were drawn to Katie. Summoning up his courage, he smiled at her. She smiled back. Sadly.
A tow truck from Old Forge service station arrived, and Mr. Jones got into an argument with the driver about the man tearing up his cornfield, until one of the officers intervened.
Elizabeth returned to the boys. "You guys ready to go home?"
"Mom," Timmy lowered his voice to a whisper. "Maybe I should stay here and talk to Katie for a little bit. You know, cheer her up?"
Elizabeth glanced over at the girl, then back at her son. She smiled knowingly.
"I think that's a very nice gesture, Timmy. As long as Doug doesn't mind?"
"No." Doug spoke with the air of a condemned man 191 who knows he can't escape his fate and is resigned to it. "I guess not."
Elizabeth turned to leave. Timmy quickly pulled Doug aside.
"If you need me--if anything starts to happen--call our house. I'll come up right away."
"You can't. Your dad said you weren't supposed to go that far by yourself. Your curfew--"
"Screw my curfew. This is more important. If I have to, I'll sneak out."
"Doug," Elizabeth called, "you ready to go, hon?"
"Coming, Mrs. Graco."
Timmy grabbed his arm. "Remember. If you need me, I'll be there."
"I will." He tried to smile, but it came off as a grimace. His eyes were tired and haunted. "Gotta go. Your mom's waiting."
"See you later, man."
"Not if I see you first."
They both chuckled, and then Doug ran to catch up with Elizabeth. Timmy turned back to Katie. He willed himself to walk over to her. Slowly, his feet obeyed.
"Hey." He tried to say more, but his tongue suddenly felt like cement.
"Hey."
"I'm, uh ... I'm sorry about... well, you know."
"They said there's no sign of my sister. She might have been abducted. Like in the movies. She might be ..."
Katie trailed off, fighting back tears.
Timmy nodded, unsure of how to respond.
A white news van arrived, and  rolled across the field. Luke Jones shook his fist at them and ran 192 toward the vehicle. His cornfield was beginning to resemble a parking lot.
Katie moved closer to Timmy. "Thank you for what you did today."
He felt his cheeks begin to burn. "Oh, well... I didn't do anything, really. All we did was tell our parents."
"You found Pat's car. That might help the police find Karen. And it's not just that.
You were nice to me at your grandfather' s funeral. Even though you were sad, you still made time for me."
Timmy's voice betrayed him. He opened his mouth to thank her, and "Would you like to go for a walk?" came tumbling out instead.
Katie smiled, and this time, it was genuine. Some of her sadness seemed to lift.
"I'd love to go for a walk. That would be fun."
"Cool."
They heard voices, raised in anger. Luke Jones shoved the cameraman. The cameraman pushed back. Both men were cursing. A township officer ran to break it up, shouting at them to knock it off or he 'd arrest them both.
Katie tugged on her mother's sleeve and asked for permission to go for a walk. Sylvia Moore turned to her husband, seeking his approval as well.
"Sure," Reverend Moore told them. He looked over at the arguing men and frowned at their language in disapproval. "Go ahead. That might be for the best. They 're getting ready to tow the car out. I'll come get you when we're ready to go, so don't stray too far."
Katie and Timmy strolled off together, walking between the tombstones. He glanced around for Clark Smeltzer, worried that he might spot them, and then decided it didn 't matter. Let him try to keep them out of the cemetery with their parents and all the cops 193 around. Timmy noticed that many more of the graves had now sunk the way his grandfather' s grave had done. It was almost as if a giant groundhog had burrowed beneath the graveyard, tunneling off in every direction. He wondered just how big the cavern beneath the cemetery actually was. He felt a pang of regret. With everything that had happened, he ' d probably never get a chance to explore it now. He started thinking about Tom Sawyer again, and how Becky and Tom had gotten lost in the cave. He glanced over at Katie.
She smiled. Her teeth were white and perfect.
He smiled back.
And when she reached out and touched his hand, he thought he might die. His feet stumbled, his heart pounded, and he began to sweat. He was speechless-- and the feeling got worse when her fingers wrapped around his and squeezed. She did not let go, and his discomfort grew.
It was the most wonderful thing he'd ever felt in his life.
And then Katie started to cry. She was still holding his hand, clutching it now, squeezing his fingers tight. Timmy wasn't sure what to do, so he squeezed back.
"It'll be okay," he said.
"I miss her." Katie sniffed. "At first, I told myself she just ran away. That she was tired of living with our dad' s rules. He never liked Pat. But three weeks later, we hadn 't heard from her. She would have called. Karen wasn't mean. She wouldn't let us keep worrying. She would have called."
Timmy nodded.
"Something bad has happened," Katie continued. "I know it. She's not coming back."
"She could still be okay," Timmy said, trying to sound 194 hopeful. "Maybe she got away from whoever did that to Pat. Maybe she's lost or has amnesia or something."
Katie sniffed again, and then wiped her eyes with her free hand. She gave him another squeeze.
"Thank you, Timmy. I don't believe it, but thank you for trying. Nobody else has paid much attention to me during this whole thing."
He was surprised. He'd always thought the Moores doted on their youngest daughter.
"Not your parents?"
She shook her head. "Nope. Too worried about Karen, I guess. It's like I'm invisible."
Timmy was speechless, and Katie misinterpreted his silence as disapproval.
"I'm sorry. That probably sounds horrible, doesn't it? I don't mean it to be."
"I don't think it sounds horrible at all."
"I'm just hurt, you know? It's like I don't exist. They miss Karen, and want her to come home, but they forget that I' m feeling those things, too. Your parents are supposed to make you feel better. They 're supposed to tell you everything's going to be all right. The only person that's told me it would be okay is you."
"Yeah, parents are weird sometimes. I'm learning that more and more."
They walked on, still holding hands and a little closer together. Katie smelled good, like strawberries and shampoo, and Timmy shivered a little. He wondered what he could do to cheer her up.
"Karen used to play Easy-Bake Oven with me," Katie said. "We'd make cupcakes and little pizzas and stuff. I keep making things now, hoping she' ll come back. Isn 't that stupid?"
"I don't think so," Timmy said.
They started down the cemetery's rear pathway. Farmer Jones' s cows stood grazing in the field. As they passed by, the cows raised their heads and stared at them blankly. Timmy noticed that none of the animals would come near the fence line, which was unusual. Most days, they ' d stick their head under or through the fence, trying to feed on the cemetery 's greener grass. Now, it was as if they were afraid to draw near.
Timmy spotted the Dugout's stovepipe sticking up out of the ground, and suddenly, he had an idea of how to cheer Katie up.
"Want to see something cool?"
She smiled. "Sure."
"Okay. But it's a secret, so you've gotta promise not to tell anybody. And you have to close your eyes, too."
"Is it your clubhouse?" Her voice was innocent but her eyes glinted mischievously.
Timmy gasped. "How do you know about that?"
"Everybody knows about your fort." Katie shrugged. "Erica Altland told me about it at school."
"Erica--how does she know? It's supposed to be top secret!"
Katie giggled. "I think Doug let the secret slip."
"Oh, man." Timmy groaned. "That dipshit."
Immediately, he felt his ears burning, and worried that he'd offended her. But Katie was laughing.
"I'm sorry," Timmy apologized. "I shouldn't have said that."
"That's okay. I don't mind."
He smiled, relieved. "So ... you want to see it?"
"I better not." She squeezed his hand reassuringly. "Not today, at least. If what Erica said is true, your clubhouse is underground, and if my dad comes 196 looking for me and can't find me, he'll be mad. Maybe you could show it to me during church some Sunday?"
"Sure. But won't he be looking for you then, too?"
"Not if we play hooky from Sunday school."
She shoved him playfully, and then dashed off through the graveyard.
"Hey," Timmy shouted. "Where are you going?"
"To show you something else that's top secret. Catch me if you can."
Curious, Timmy ran after her. She led him on a chase around the graves, weaving around tombstones and darting behind statues. When they reached the older portion of the cemetery, she slowed down. Timmy caught up with her, winded, but trying hard not to show it. He reached out and tapped her shoulder.
"Tag. You're it."
"You're out of breath," Katie teased. "What took you so long? Can't keep up with a girl?"
"No. Just didn't want to make you look bad."
Laughing, she took his hand again and led him forward. Their fingers entwined. No longer stunned by the display of affection, this time he was able to enjoy it more.
It was quite possibly the best thing he ' d ever experienced. He liked how soft her skin was, and how tiny her fingers felt next to his, and the way her red fingernails brushed against his skin when she moved.
They came to a circular depression, almost thirty feet in circumference, where the ground had collapsed-- tapering from several inches on its outer edge to three or four feet in the center.
The grass in the circle was wilted and brown.
"Wow," Katie said, "what is this?"
"Sinkhole," Timmy said. "Haven't you noticed how some of the graves are sinking?"
"Yeah. My dad was complaining about it earlier. He said he needed to talk to Mr.
Smeltzer about it. What's making it happen?"
"We think there's a cave underneath the cemetery. Barry, Doug, and me found a tunnel."
"Really?"
"Uh-huh. We were gonna explore it, but then ..."
"What?"
"Well, some other stuff came up."
Sensing his sudden sadness, she led him onward, skirting around the edge of the sinkhole.
"So, what's this big secret?" Timmy asked. "Don't tell me you've got a clubhouse down here, too."
Katie giggled. "Not quite. My clubhouse is in our garage. But there is something cool that I've always wanted to show you."
She stopped in front of two old gravestones, which had also begun to sink. The lichen-covered limestone surfaces were pitted and worn by time and exposure to the elements. The dates of births and deaths were faded and unreadable, but the names and epitaphs were still apparent.
"Timothy Rebert," Timmy read out loud, "and Katie Rebert. Beloved husband and wife."
He scratched his head.
"Don't you see?" Katie said. "They have the same names as us."
"Kind of creepy."
"I think it's sweet."
"If you say so."
"I do. It's sweet--just like you."
Timmy fumbled for words. "So, does this mean ... like ... you want to ..."
Katie laughed. "It doesn't mean anything, other than 198
I noticed the names a long time ago, and I always thought it was nice. They were married and they had the same names as we do."
"So why didn't you ever tell me before?"
"I was afraid you didn't like me. You never talk when I'm around. Barry always talks more."
Timmy blushed. "I didn't talk because I was afraid you didn't like me. I figured you liked Barry more."
"I don't. I like you."
Timmy swallowed, and his stomach fluttered. "You do?"
Katie nodded.
"Um ..."
"Well," she tapped her foot, "is that all you can say?"
"No," he blurted. "I... I like you, too. I have for a long time."
"Good."
"It's kind of like that note you made for me when we were little."
He blushed, immediately regretting saying it. She probably didn't even remember what he was talking about.
Katie smiled. "I was in first grade and you were in second. It said 'I like you, Timmy,' right?"
"Yeah. Wow, I'm surprised you remember it."
"I'm surprised you do, too."
"I still have it, actually. In my room."
Now it was Katie's turn to blush. "Well, I meant it then and I still do. I like you, Timmy."
They both stood silently, staring into each other's eyes.
"So," Timmy stuttered, "does this mean we're going together?"
Now it was Katie's turn to blush. "If you want to."
"I'd like that."
"I'd like it, too."
Timmy wanted to kiss her, and it seemed like Katie was waiting for him to. She looked at him expectantly; her face turned upward, lips slightly parted. But he couldn 't bring himself to do it. Pat Kemp would have done it in a heartbeat, so why couldn't he?
An image of Pat's corpse--what had remained of it--flashed through his mind, and Timmy scowled. Katie noticed it and asked what was wrong.
"I'm sorry," he said. "For a second there, I was just thinking about Pat. And your sister."
"Yeah." Katie nodded. "I've been trying not to. Being with you helps."
"Good. I'm glad."
And he was. He was glad being with him helped her, and he was glad to just be with her. Ecstatic. What had started out as the worst day of his life since his grandfather 's death was now turning into something special--something he'd longed for for quite a while.
They strolled on together, hand in hand, and easier with one another than they' d been before. Timmy picked a full, yellow dandelion and gave it to her. She clutched it to her chest and smiled.
"I'll keep it forever."
"Well, not forever," Timmy said. "Nothing lasts forever."
"Flowers do, if you press them in a book. My mom showed me how."
"Cool."
They continued on their way. Timmy wondered how much longer their parents and the police would be. He didn't want the day to end.
Katie looked up into the treetops. "You know what's weird?"
"Hmm?"
"There aren't any birds around. I haven't seen or 200 heard a single one since we left my parents. No squirrels, either."
Timmy thought again of the cows in the field, and how they' d been reluctant to approach the border with the cemetery. Could they sense the cave somehow? Did they know the ground was weakening, and they avoided it? He ' d read in school about how some animals could predict earthquakes and tornadoes.
Maybe this was something similar.
They passed by a broken tombstone. It had fallen to the ground and cracked in half, its marred surface so worn with age that most of the writing was illegible. The only thing they could still make out on it was an odd symbol -- one half of it on each section of broken stone. Playing in the graveyard, Timmy had seen plenty of symbols on the stones before --crosses and hands clasped in prayer and lambs and open bibles. But he' d never seen one like this. It looked like the sun, rising over a hill. In the middle of the sun were two crosses, one upright and the other upside down. The image, shattered as it was, filled him with dread, but he didn ' t understand why. Katie must have noticed it too, because she shivered against him.
"Never seen one like that before," Timmy said. "Wonder what it is?"
"It's ugly. I don't like it."
"Why not?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. I just don't. It makes me feel ... weird."
"Yeah," he admitted. "Me too."
There was some faint writing carved directly beneath both halves of the symbol, barely discernible beneath the clinging green lichen. Timmy brushed the crumbling moss aside, pushed the two pieces of limestone together, and tried to read it.
I. N. I. R.
I.
SANCTUS SPIRITUS
I. N. I. R.
I.
"What's it mean?" he asked.
"How should I know?" Katie teased. "You're a grade ahead of me. Have you studied Latin yet?"
"No. We don't get Latin. Just Spanish, French, and German--and I' m not taking any of those. I just figured you might know, your dad being a preacher and everything. It looks religious."
Katie studied the faded letters, tracing them with her fingers. "I-N-I-R-I... that's what's on the pulpit at the front of the church, right?"
Timmy nodded. "I think so. Something like that. Do you know what it stands for?"
"No. I guess we learn that in catechism class, and we don't take that until we're fourteen. I wonder what knocked the tombstone over?"
"Oh, it happens a lot, especially in this section. They get old and fall over, or people push them."
"People knock them over on purpose?" She sounded surprised.
Timmy nodded. "Sure. Ronny and those guys knocked a bunch over last Halloween. It took Barry' s old man a week to put them all back up again. Some of them couldn 't be fixed. The church had to pay for new ones."
"Why didn't they make Ronny, Jason, and Steve pay?"
"Couldn't prove it was them, I guess. But we knew. They bragged about it one day when they cornered us while we were sledding. Anyway, these things fall over 202 all the time. Could have been the way the ground's settling, too. Might have shifted and knocked it over."
Then they heard Reverend Moore's voice, calling for Katie. They looked up and saw him at the top of the hill, near the utility shed. Timmy' s heart sank, knowing that their time together was at an end. Spotting the two of them, Katie 's father walked down the hill toward them. Immediately, Katie let go of Timmy' s hand. He felt an immediate longing for contact again, but restrained himself. He 'd already been in enough trouble today. He didn' t need Reverend Moore getting mad at him, as well.
"There you are," the preacher said as he drew closer. He looked tired and beaten.
His face was puffy and sweat poured off his forehead and cheeks. His thinning hair was plastered against his scalp. "You ready to go, sweetheart? Your mom is in the car already. She 's pretty tired."
"Yeah, I'm ready, I guess." She glanced at Timmy and smiled. "Thanks again, Timmy.
For everything."
He returned the smile, and tried to keep his feet on the ground.
"Yes, Timothy," Reverend Moore said, sticking out his hand, "thanks for taking care of my little girl. You're a fine boy. Your parents should be proud."
Timmy shook his hand, trying to keep a firm grip. "Thanks, sir."
The preacher noticed the broken tombstone. "Good Lord. That's the third stone I' ve seen like that today. Not to mention how the ground is sinking. Have you noticed it?"
Timmy nodded. "Yeah, it's happening all over the cemetery. We think there's a cave underneath."
Reverend Moore arched his eyebrows. "Really? Well, it wouldn't surprise me. This whole area is 203 riddled with limestone. But I would think Mr. Smeltzer would have let the church board know. To be honest, I'm disappointed in the cemetery' s general appearance lately. After all, it 's not only a place for our loved ones, but a reflection of the church, and of God himself."
Timmy wasn't sure of how to respond, so he tried to look thoughtful and concerned.
Laughing, Reverend Moore gripped his shoulder and squeezed. "I' m sorry, Tim. These are matters for adults, not for you. There will be plenty of time to worry about things like this when you 're older."
"Reverend Moore, can I ask you something before you leave?"
"Of course you can. What is it, son?"
Timmy pointed at the broken tombstone. "Well, Katie and I were wondering what that meant. It's weird looking."
The preacher knelt beside the marker and studied the faded symbol and writing. "Why, it's an old powwow charm. I didn' t even realize we had anything like it here on the grounds. You don 't see many of these anymore."
"Powwow?" Timmy had visions of Indians dancing in a circle to the beat of drums.
"I suppose they don' t teach you about that in school," Reverend Moore said. "Powwow is something our ancestors believed in. I guess some of the older folks in the county still believe in it today, too. This part of Pennsylvania was mostly settled by the Germans, English, and Irish. When they came here, they brought their own customs and folklore and beliefs.
They were all good Christians, of course. But in many cases, they had no place of worship, and no minister to see to their faith. Some towns had a preacher like myself travel through once a month, but he had many other towns to see too, and so the settlers were pretty much left to their own devices.
Sometimes they strayed from the Lord's teachings. That' s how powwow came about. It was a mix of Christianity and their own folklore. Some folks call it white magic, but you know what the Bible says about that."
Timmy, who spent most sermons writing stories in the margins of the church bulletin, didn' t know what the Bible said about white magic, but he nodded as if he understood because he wanted Katie ' s father to like him. It had never mattered to him before, but now that they were officially going together, it seemed very important.
"Thou shall not suffer a witch to live. Of course, powwow isn't really witchcraft, at least not by my definition. It' s more superstition than anything. I only know of one person in the area who supposedly still practices it, and that 's Nelson LeHorn over in Seven Valleys. And he seems like a nice gentleman. Doesn' t attend our church, of course, but we can hardly cast doubt on him just for that.
My interactions with him have always been pleasant. He seems to know God 's love."
Timmy shifted uncomfortably, and the preacher seemed to realize he'd gotten off subject.
"Anyway, there's an old wives' tale about our churchyard. The old gate over there, the one you boys play on, is all that remains of the original Golgotha Church. Ours was built after the first one burned to the ground." He chuckled to himself. "I haven 't thought of this story in years. Supposedly, our ancestors--Golgotha' s first congregation --were bedeviled by a demon that had followed them here from the Old World. They' d called upon the Lord to help them defeat the beast, and buried it in a chamber somewhere behind the church, which, of course, would be somewhere in this portion of the cemetery. A tombstone was erected on the site, so that no one would disturb the earth, and it had powwow 205 symbols carved on it to keep the ghoul trapped. Like I said, it's just a story. There's no such thing as monsters. They' re make-believe, unlike the very real evils in this world."
Timmy stared at the cracked marker with renewed interest. He thought the story was just about the coolest thing he' d ever heard from Reverend Moore, and wondered why he didn 't talk about things like that during his Sunday morning sermons. If he had, Timmy would have paid more attention.
"Well, Katie, we'd better be going. Your mother is still waiting. She's very tired.
We all are, I guess."
"Okay, Daddy." She cast one more glance at Timmy, and her expression was a mixture of sadness and excitement. "Bye, Timmy. See you on Sunday?"
"You bet. Wouldn't miss it for the world."
Her father gave them both an odd, puzzled look. His stare lingered on Timmy a moment longer. He seemed perplexed. Then, without a word, he led Katie back up the hill.
The shadows grew longer as the sun moved toward the horizon.
Timmy walked home, and though the day had been long and unsettling, his step was lighter. He was heartsick about Barry and worried about Doug and furious with Mr.
Smeltzer and shocked over Pat Kemp 's fate, and the possible fates of the other missing people-- but he was also exuberant. Katie liked him. Katie had said they were going together.
Katie had held his hand. Somehow, the other things paled in comparison.
Life was not endless. He knew that now. But summers were. Or, at least it seemed that way.
Fear was a strong emotion, but so was love.
He looked at his open hand, and marveled over how, just a short time ago, it had been holding Katie Moore's.
Chapter Eleven When Doug got home and went inside, his mother was sprawled out in her recliner, watching a syndicated rerun of Three's Company.
The volume was turned up loud and the sound of a canned laugh track filled the house.
She barely acknowledged him as he walked into the living room. Carol Keiser wore the same nightgown she ' d had on two days before, and her hair was tangled and unwashed. An empty bag of Utz potato chips lay beside her, and crumbs dotted her lap. A bottle of vodka sat on the floor, snug against the chair.
"I'm home," Doug said.
Her eyes flicked toward him. "Where you been? I hollered for you earlier. I wanted you to ride your bike down to Spring Grove and pick me up some things."
Her speech was slurred, her movements jerky. Doug glanced down at the bottle and saw that it was almost empty. He knew from experience that it would join the 207 other empty bottles tossed about all over the house, and then she'd start a new one.
"I wasn't here, Mom. I spent the night over at Timmy's."
"You were gone last night?"
"Yeah." Then he thought to himself, Did you miss me?
Grunting, she turned her attention back to the television.
Doug cleared his throat. "Have you watched the news?"
"No," she said. "Why? Are you on it?"
He sighed. "Maybe. I'm not sure, really. Some bad stuff happened."
"What did you do? You steal something?"
"No. Some kids from my school are missing. A few other people, too. The police might call here. They might need to talk to me some more."
Now he had her attention. She picked up the massive remote control and turned the volume down. Then she studied him with drooping, bloodshot eyes.
"Why do they need to talk to you? Are you involved, Dougie?"
"No. I didn't do anything. But Timmy and I found something today. Pat Kemp's car.
Out past the graveyard, in that little stretch of woods next to Mr. Jones' s cornfield. It was ... pretty gross. The police think --"
"Are you in trouble? Are the police coming here?"
"No, Mom. I told you--"
"Then don't worry about it. You don't tell the police anything."
"But--"
"No arguments. I don't want yoo talking to policemen. They might trick you. Make you tell them things that aren't true or say things you don't mean. And I
208 especially don't want them coming here. You understand me?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good boy. You know I love you, Dougie. I only want what's best for my little boy."
He nodded.
She smiled. "You hungry?"
Doug paused. He wanted to talk about his day, about what they'd found. Seeing Pat' s remains had disturbed him deeply. Mrs. Graco had listened to him on the way home, and talked to him in soft, reassuring tones. She 'd cared. He wanted the same thing from his own mother.
He opened his mouth, intent on telling her that, but instead, he said, "I'm a little hungry, I guess."
"There's chicken in the fridge. Stay out of trouble with the police. Remember, I don't want them coming here, and I don't want you talking to them."
She turned her attention back to the television and fumbled for the remote.
Doug' s shoulders slumped; he walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The aroma of cold chicken wafted out of the door. His stomach churned. He thought again of Pat --what he'd looked like, how he' d smelled. Deciding he had no appetite after all, Doug closed the door and walked back down the hall to his room.
"Maybe you and your friends should play here for a few days," his mother called after him. "I'll keep the three of you out of trouble."
"Yeah, maybe." Sour stomach acid burned the back of his throat.
"Barry and Timmy don't come over here much anymore."
"They've been busy, Mom."
"You should invite them over. They can spend the night."
He unlocked his bedroom door and slipped inside, closing and locking it behind him.
Then, still dressed and without even bothering to remove his muddy shoes, he lay down on the bed, curled into a ball, and stared at nothing.
Sometimes he felt very old--much older than twelve.
And sometimes, he felt like dying.
Timmy was in his room when his mother returned from dropping Doug off. He sat cross-legged on the floor, listening to a Cheap Trick cassette that Pat Kemp had once given him.
"You 'll like it," the older boy had promised, and he'd been right. Now, Timmy let the music wash over him and thought about the day' s events. It seemed a fitting tribute.
"Mommy's all right. Daddy's all right. They just seem a little weird..."
He chuckled. "Boy, ain't that the truth."
There was a knock on his bedroom door. Timmy turned his stereo down until it was barely audible.
"Come in."
The door opened and his mom peeked her head inside. She smiled.
"You okay, hon?"
He nodded. "Yeah, I think so."
"Can I come in?"
"Sure."
She walked into the room and sat down on his bed. "What you doing, kiddo?"
"Just listening to some tapes. Pat gave this one to me. I was just thinking about that. I mean, we weren't 210 exactly friends or anything, because he was older than us. But he was always nice to us. He treated us like little brothers, I guess."
"I see." She paused. "Do you want to talk about what happened today?"
Timmy shrugged. "I think I'm okay, Mom. I mean, it just sucks. Pat was a cool guy, and I feel bad for the Moores,"--especially Katie, he thought-- "but what can I do?"
"Doug said it was pretty bad, when the police opened the car's trunk. Did you see much?"
His face paled at the memory. "Yeah."
"Do you want to talk about that?"
He breathed a heavy sigh. "It... it wasn't like in comic books and movies. The smell was the worst. The sound of flies. And the ... maggots. I' ve seen maggots before, like when there ' s a dead groundhog on the road. One time, we were riding our bikes down to the dump and Barry stuck an M-Eighty in a dead groundhog and blew it up and there were maggots everywhere. That was kinda cool. But this was ... different."
She frowned. "You boys blew up a dead animal?"
"It was cool, Mom. But that wasn't anything like this. This was ..."
Still frowning, she nodded with tentative encouragement.
"I know that' s just a part of the process," Timmy continued, "the maggots and stuff. But it made me think about Grandpa, and about what really happens to us after we die. And that freaked me out. You think about dead people going to heaven, but not about what happens under the ground. Like I said, it freaked me out for a little while. But Katie ..."
He trailed off, suddenly nervous and uncomfortable.
He was embarrassed to tell his mother anything about Katie.
Elizabeth waited patiently. "Yes? Katie what?"
"She cheered me up. I'm okay, now."
"Well, good." His mother rose, and patted him gently on the head. "I'll leave you alone. If you want to talk about it though, I' m here. Your father is working late, since he went in late this morning. Are you hungry?"
"Not really."
"Well, if you get hungry, let me know and I'll put a pizza in the oven or something."
"Okay, Mom. Thanks."
She started to leave, then turned. "Timmy? You know we love you, right? Your father and I?"
"Sure. I know."
"It' s been a really hard summer so far, what with your grandfather and the extra hours your father is putting in at the mill. But you seem ... different, the last few weeks.
Withdrawn, like something 's on your mind. Is there anything else that's bothering you? Something else that you want to talk about?"
Sure, Mom. I'm going with Katie Moore now, and I can hardly believe it because it seems like a dream, and meanwhile, Barry' s dad is an abusive asshole and I think he 's up to something and he has forbidden us to hang out with Barry anymore and Doug's mom is having sex with him.
"No, Mom. Honestly, I'm okay. Like you said, it's just been a weird summer. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'll be kind of glad when it' s over and school starts again."
"Okay. Well, I'll leave you alone. Your father will probably want to talk to you when he gets home. Be patient with him. He' s tired and stressed. I guess we all are."
"Yeah."
"You and Doug might be on the evening news. Want to see?"
"No. I think I've seen enough for one day." "Love you. Try to get some rest, okay?"
Timmy nodded, and she closed the door. His mother' s footsteps faded down the hall. He reached over and turned the stereo back up. Cheap Trick was still playing.
"... but don't give yourself away ... away ... away ..."
He sat there for a few more minutes, remembering Pat and thinking about the day's events. Over and over again, his mind was drawn to Katie-- the smell of her hair and the touch of her hand, and the way her eyes had sparkled in the sunlight. He missed her already and couldn 't believe he' d have to wait until Sunday to see her again.
After a while, he pulled a box of comic books out from under his bed and began flipping through them. His nostrils flared as he breathed in the comforting, familiar smell of old paper. He came across a tattered issue of House of Secrets that he hadn' t read in a long time. The bottom section of the cover was missing and the paper around the staples was brown with age. He leaned back against the bed and began reading it.
On the top of what was left of the ragged cover was the title, along with the logo:  There's No Escape From ... THE HOUSE OF SECRETS.
In the left hand corner was the circular DC logo, as opposed to Marvel's. In the right hand corner was the 213 issue number--135, along with the price of thirty-five cents. It was a late seventies back issue that he' d picked up at the flea market. Timmy grinned, nostalgic. In 1978, comics had cost a measly thirty-five cents. Now, in 1984, they cost fifty cents, or sometimes more.
It was a shame. On the cover, a man in a cape stood atop a coffin. A group of men were gathered around him. "In one minute," the man told them (via a word balloon), "I
' ll prove my power and bring Jennifer back to life!" The ghost of a blond woman, supposedly Jennifer, floated behind him.
Timmy opened the comic. The cartoonish host (named Abel), talked directly to the reader from the first page, introducing each gruesome tale (his brother Cain was the host of DCs sister publication, House of Mystery).
The first story was called "The Resurrection Business" and pretty much followed the events depicted on the front cover. The second story, "Don 't Look Now," was about some underground cave explorers fighting a group of monsters called Cypors. Timmy wasn' t impressed with either the writing or the artwork, and figured he and Doug could do better. Tempted to return the comic to the box and select something different, he flipped to the last story, "Down With the Dead Men." It took place in a cemetery, which piqued his flagging interest. A ghoul was on the loose; eating the bodies of the dead and hording the gold and jewelry with which they ' d been buried. In the comic, a group of villagers trapped the creature in a crypt and destroyed it by waiting for the sun to rise, then allowing the sunlight to shine through the crypt 's small window.
Timmy bolted upright against the bed and stared at the last panel. He shut the comic book with trembling hands.
Earlier, Reverend Moore had said that the church' s original founders had imprisoned a demon in the cemetery. The demon had supposedly followed them from the Old World and had been causing trouble. What if the demon had actually been a ghoul, just like in the comic book? What if they ' d imprisoned it in the grave, and bound it in place with the magic powwow symbol?
And then, when the grave and the symbol were destroyed, the ghoul had been freed?
Timmy had always been fascinated by the supernatural, and believed a lot of it. When they were six, he and Doug had thought they saw Bigfoot near the creek in Bowman ' s Woods. It had turned out just to be a tree, but Timmy still believed it was possible, and that perhaps one day they would come across Bigfoot in the forest.
He believed in Bigfoot. He believed in ghosts. He believed in flying saucers and sea serpents and demonic possession. Timmy believed that people really did disappear inside the Bermuda Triangle and that some dinosaurs probably escaped the Ice Age and were still alive in the deep, dark corners of the world -- in places like Loch Ness and Lake Champlain. He believed in pyrokinesis, telekinesis, extrasensory perception, and remote viewing. He didn ' t know where these beliefs came from, just that he had always had them. The bookshelves in his room were full of books on the topics. He ' d always viewed the world with wide-eyed fascination. He 'd noticed over the last few years that many of his friends at school--friends who had once believed just as fervently as him-- no longer considered the possible existence of ghosts or monsters. Perhaps they viewed them as fallacies, the same way he viewed Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. But while Timmy no longer fell for those 215 parental inventions, he still believed in the supernatural. He believed in monsters.
Maybe it was because he' d retained that sense of wonder that so many others his age seemed to be losing.
Or maybe it was because of what he read and what he wrote.
The monsters were real, and not all of them were adults or attack dogs.
Just because he couldn't see them, it didn't mean that they didn't exist.
Timmy believed because he wanted to believe, and if growing up meant that time dulled your perceptions and eradicated that belief, erased the possibility of magic and monsters, then he wanted to stay twelve forever.
He thought over everything he' d ever read about ghouls, both from this particular comic book and others. They lived in tunnels and warrens beneath cemeteries and burial grounds. They were nocturnal and hated sunlight. In this particular story, the ghoul had been destroyed by direct exposure to sunlight. It was that way in most of the other comics, too. On a few occasions, they ' d been destroyed by fire, and once by being dropped into a vat of acid, but daylight seemed to be the only sure bet. Ghouls ate the dead, which was why they dug beneath graveyards.
The Golgotha Lutheran Church cemetery was collapsing in spots. The ground was sinking.
There was a tunnel entrance inside the utility shed. Supposedly, according to Clark Smelter, there was a cave running beneath the grounds. But what if it wasn 't a cave? What if it was the ghoul' s tunnels, as it burrowed from grave to grave devouring the dead? Somehow, the sigil keeping it imprisoned had been shattered? It had begun feasting on the dead, first in the old part of the cemetery and then up into the new section. That would 216 explain the steadily sinking ground, and why they'd first noticed it around the older graves.
He thought about his grandfather's sinking grave. Could it have ... ?
Timmy shuddered, unable to complete the thought.
Ghouls ate the dead. All of the stories agreed on this. In some of them, they ate living humans as well. That would explain some of the recent disappearances. Maybe not the woman on the news, Deb Lentz (her car had been discovered all the way over in Porters), but possibly Ronny, Jason, and Steve --maybe they' d been partying in the graveyard. And it certainly fit with Pat and Karen 's disappearance. It seemed pretty certain they' d been parked in the graveyard. Maybe the ghoul had eaten Karen and stuck Pat 's body in the trunk for safekeeping, intending to eat him later.
There was only one problem with that theory. Could ghouls drive cars? Timmy looked at the comic again. If they had long claws in real life like they did in fiction, then probably not. Which meant that someone else had hidden the Nova.
In some of the comics, the ghouls had used human helpers, sort of like Dracula' s assistant, Renfield. They worked for the creatures, did their bidding, helped to conceal their existence, and were paid with money and jewelry stolen from the dead --extra baubles from the creatures' treasure hoard. In one back issue of Vault of Evil, the villagers had hung the ghoul's human familiar from an old tree in the graveyard.
If there was a ghoul beneath the cemetery, did it have an assistant, and if so, who was it?
It didn't take him long to come up with an answer. It was Barry's father who'd suddenly forbid them to play in the cemetery, who'd put up the no trespassing signs 217 and had blown off the sinking graves by suggesting there were sinkholes. He' d had more money than normal, and Mrs. Smeltzer was wearing lots of new jewelry -- some of which seemed really old, like the antiques at the flea market. He was angrier and more violent than ever, like he was suffering from stress or guilt or something.
And Barry had mentioned several times that his father was out late at night.
So if he was right, then how could he go about proving it? If Barry' s father found out he suspected, there was no telling what could happen. But if Timmy could prove there was a ghoul, if he could get evidence without Mr. Smeltzer finding out, then maybe people would believe him. He ' d have to tell Doug and Barry his suspicions. If he was right, they couldn 't just waltz down into the tunnel beneath the utility shed. That would be suicide.
They' d have to be better prepared than that. He thought of Doug 's map. Tomorrow morning, if Mr. Smeltzer wasn't around, he' d get the map from the Dugout and try to figure out exactly how far the ghoul 's tunnels reached, based on where the graves were sinking. That was the first step.
When his mother knocked on the door and told him to take a shower, brush his teeth, and get ready for bed, Timmy was so preoccupied with planning that he barely heard her.
He rushed through the bathroom, barely allowing the water to hit his body before he was out of the shower and toweling off. He made quick work of putting on his pajamas and ran the toothbrush across his teeth once or twice. Then he went out into the living room.
His mother was curled up on the couch watching a sitcom. She looked up from the television.
"You ready for bed?"
Timmy nodded.
"You want to watch TV with me until your dad gets home?"
"No, that's okay. I thought I might read for a while."
"Alright." She paused, studying him. "You sure you're okay, Tim?"
He smiled. "Positive. Everything's going to be just fine."
"May I be excused?"
Rhonda Smeltzer glanced over at her son's plate. His food--pork chops, mashed potatoes, and lima beans-- had barely been touched. Barry had taken a few bites and then pushed the rest around with his fork. He hadn 't spoken during the entire meal. Indeed, he hadn' t spoken since returning home from the cemetery. When the police had shown up and questioned Clark, Barry had stayed in his room. His face was pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes.
They matched the circles beneath her own eyes.
"Aren't you going to eat, sweetie?"
"No." Barry shook his head. "I'm not that hungry."
"Eat your supper." Clark shoveled a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.
"I don't feel good."
"None of your lip. Eat your goddamn food. When I was in Vietnam, I saw a hundred starving kids that would have given their left arm to have just a mouthful of what you got on that plate."
Barry put his fork down. "That's a shame. Why don't you send mine over to them?"
Clark choked on his food. He grabbed his glass, took a quick drink, and then slammed it back down on the table. Milk sloshed out.
"What did you say?"
Barry sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest in defiance. "I said why don't you send my dinner over to them. Then they won' t be starving anymore."
Clark started to rise, but Rhonda reached out and placed her hand atop his clenched fist.
"Dear," she pleaded, "he's just upset. We all are. The police were here for so long, and it's been--"
Clark tore his hand free of hers, picked up his glass, and threw the milk in her face. Rhonda gasped in surprise. Milk dripped from her nose and chin.
"That's where he gets it from," he said. "Boy talks back and doesn't listen. Acts like a smart-ass because his bitch of a mother is the same way."
"You motherfucker." Barry jumped to his feet, sending his chair crashing backward to the floor.
Fists clenched, his father rose to meet his challenge.
"You sit the hell down, shut the hell up, and eat your goddamned supper, or so help me God, you won't sit down for another week."
"Fuck you, you son of a bitch. I hate you. I hate you and I wish you were dead!"
Barry's hands curled into fists, just like his father' s. Hot tears of anger, not shame, coursed down his face. He shook with rage. Clark studied him for a moment. Then he stepped around the kitchen table.
"Reckon you're a man now, huh? All grown up and cursing like an adult. Figure you can kick my ass?"
"I would love to."
His mother jumped to her feet, hands flailing like frightened birds. Her wet bangs were plastered to her forehead and milk still dripped from her face.
"Barry, no. Clark! Please!"
Ignoring her, Clark swung around to Barry's side and stood right in front of him.
Barry resisted the urge 220 to step backward, and held his ground. His father leaned down and thrust his chin out.
"Go ahead, boy. Take your best shot. Better make it a good one."
Trembling, Barry said, "Why are you like this? Why can't you be like Timmy's dad?"
Clark laughed. "That what you want? Randy Graco don't know the first thing about being a father."
"He's better than you'll ever be. You're a drunk and an asshole. You don't let Mom or me have any friends. You don't let us go anywhere. I can' t even be next door anymore unless you 're with me."
"I told you," Clark said. "It's for your own good. Nobody is allowed in the cemetery after--"
"Shut up," Barry shouted. "I'm tired of your shit. Tired of the way you treat us."
"Barry," his mother cried. "Please, stop this now. Sit back down."
His father smiled. "Then like I said, take your best shot."
Barry stared at him. His entire body quivered. The anger felt like a solid thing, deep down inside him. His pulse throbbed in his ears, and his lips felt swollen and full.
"Pussy," his father teased. "I knew you didn't have it in--"
Barry swung. Swung with all his might. His fist plowed forward with the weight of twelve years of abuse and cruelty behind it, twelve years of anger and tears and frustration. Twelve years of hell. It rocketed toward his father ' s stubbly, unshaven chin and he felt a surge of vindication. Importance. A fiery, testosterone-driven right of passage into manhood. In that brief second, he understood the magnitude of his actions, and how they 'd change the course of his life.
And then he missed.
Arm extended, body swerving with the thrust, stepping into the punch just like Luke Cage-Power Man did in the comics-- and yet, despite all this, and despite the poetic justice he felt flowing through his veins --his fist sailed by his father's jaw and clipped the older man's shoulder.
His father didn't even blink.
Still grinning, Clark swung his own fist. It smashed into Barry' s mouth, and immediately, the boy tasted blood. His lips were crushed against his teeth, splitting open. Blood flowed. The warmth squirted over his tongue, and Barry ' s stomach rolled. He spat blood, and the simple act of doing so left his mouth in agony. In the background, his mother was screaming. He stared at the bright red spot, and didn 't notice the second blow coming. Clark' s other fist clobbered the side of his head. Barry became woozy. His vision dimmed on the sides and it seemed as if he were looking down a tunnel. Stunned, he kept staring at the blood, even as more of it filled his mouth.
He noticed something else. A flash of color, glinting off his father's ring finger.
It had just left an imprint on his face--a ring. A Freemason' s ring. Barry had only seen one like it before, and that was buried with Timmy 's grandfather.
"That's what you get," his father said. "I told you before to not talk back to me.
This time, you ain't gonna forget it."
His fist--and the ring--came down again, but Barry' s knees gave out before it could connect. The blows followed him all the way to the floor, and continued as he wavered on the edge of consciousness. Blood --his blood, he realized--flowed into his eyes. The last thing he heard were his mother's screams.
Barry tried to speak, and then he passed out. Mercifully, he did not feel the next punch.
When Timmy' s father arrived home at a quarter past ten, Timmy was sequestered in his room, lying in bed, surrounded by books and comics. He had his Trapper Keeper notebook in his lap. He-Man 's arch-nemesis Skeletor graced the front cover. Timmy was taking notes on ghouls.
He' d pulled out every reference he could find, from the House of Secrets comic to his Dungeons and Dragons Monster Manual. He wasn' t sure the latter was entirely accurate, because it dealt more with the game than it did mythology or legend.
He heard his father's pickup truck pull into the driveway. Glen Campbell's "Wichita Lineman" drifted softly from the cab' s radio. Then he heard the garage door opening. Moments later, his father came inside.
The television snapped off. In the living room, his parents talked in hushed tones, and though Timmy strained to hear them, he couldn 't make out their words. Instead, he turned back to his research.
A few minutes later, there was a knock on his door.
Timmy?"
He closed the notebook. "Come on in, Dad. I'm awake."
His father entered the room, looking exhausted and smelling of sweat. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and patted his son's knee through the blankets.
"You okay? Your mom says you and Doug had quite the day."
"Yeah, it was something, all right. But I'm fine."
"Well, it must have been pretty scary, I guess."
Timmy shrugged. "Kind of. It's scary to know that somebody did this. When you see it on TV, it's always 223 in faraway places like Los Angeles and New York. And I'm sad about Pat and the others."
"I shouldn't have hollered at you this morning, about the serial killer thing. I'm sorry about that. Looks like you may have been right."
"That's okay."
Randy glanced down at the books spread out all over the bed. "So what's all this?
You working on a D&D game for your friends?"
"No," Timmy said. "Just doing some research."
"On what?"
"Ghouls."
Frowning, his father picked up the Monster Manual and began flipping through it.
"Ghouls, huh? You know, Reverend Moore says that some kids get too wrapped up in this game. Can' t tell fantasy from reality anymore. A couple college kids supposedly died ..."
He trailed off, put the book down, and nodded at the Iron Maiden poster on the wall.
"That, too. The Number of the Beast? That's satanic, Timmy. Don' t you think?"
"Isn't that what they used to say about the Beatles when you and Mom were kids? And Elvis?"
Randy nodded, obviously reluctant. "Yes, you' re right. Some people did say that. Especially when John Lennon joked that the Beatles were more popular than Jesus Christ. But that ' s different, Timmy. Elvis and the Beatles never sang songs about the devil. They certainly never had album covers like that. My parents would have kicked me out if I
'd had something like that hanging on my wall. It's just evil looking."
"Come on, Dad. You know I don't worship the devil."
"I know. You're a good kid, Timmy, and I'm very 224 proud of you. I just worry sometimes. Your attraction to stuff like this and your infatuation with monsters and things--it just isn' t normal for a boy your age. You should be playing sports --"
"I hate sports."
"--and be more interested in girls than you are little green men."
"I am interested in girls," Timmy said, feeling defensive.
Randy paused, surprise and relief both clearly visible in his expression.
"You are? Well, that's good. That's very good."
"You sound surprised, Dad."
"No. Don't think that way. I just didn't know. See, we need to talk more, kiddo.
You need to know that you can tell me things like that."
"Okay," Timmy said. Secretly, he wished his father would just kiss him good night and go to bed, so that he could get on with his research. It had been a long day and he still had lots to do.
Randy made no move to leave. Instead, he winked and said, "So, is it anybody I know?"
"Who?" For a moment, Timmy thought his father was talking about the ghoul.
"This girl you like. Is it someone your mother and I have met?"
"Yes," Timmy mumbled.
"Who?"
"Aw, come on, Dad. I don't want to say. It's embarrassing."
"You can tell me. I won't say anything to your mother. Is she cute?"
Timmy took a deep breath. "It's Katie Moore."
Grinning, his father slapped his knee in delight. The bed springs groaned from the sudden movement.
"Katie, huh? That's great. She's going to be a knockout when she gets older. Does she know you like her?"
"Yes. We're going together. We talked about it today."
"Going steady?" Randy reached out and ruffled Timmy's hair. "Well, how about that.
My little guy is finally growing up."
Despite his embarrassment, Timmy smiled. Once he' d finally admitted it, he was surprised to find that it actually felt good to share the news with his father. Maybe his dad was right. Maybe he should talk to him about things like this more often. Like Doug had said earlier, Timmy was pretty lucky.
He had a father, unlike Doug, and his father was pretty cool most of the time, unlike Barry 's.
Still grinning, Randy got to his feet. "Well, I'll let you get back to your reading.
Still wish you'd read about other stuff, for a change. Don' t stay up past eleven, okay?"
Timmy decided to take a chance.
"Dad, wait. Can I talk to you about something else?"
"Sure." Randy sat back down again. "What's up?"
"Well ... I'm not sure where to start. This may sound kind of weird."
"Try me."
"Okay." Timmy swallowed. "I think I know what happened to Pat and Karen, and all the others."
His father blinked. "Well, Timmy, I know it was traumatic finding Pat' s body the way you boys did, but according to your mother, the police have cautioned against assuming the other disappearances are related."
"Do you believe that, Dad?"
"I think it's safe to assume that whoever killed Pat probably killed ... that the same thing might have happened to Karen. But we just don' t know about the others yet."
"But this morning, when you warned us to stay around the house, I thought you were assuming the same thing."
"Maybe I was. Look, Timmy, I don't have all the answers. I'm just worried about you--and your friends. Something's going on and I don' t want it to affect you any more than it already has. Whatever it is that 's happened to the others, I don't want it happening to you. Let's just let the police find out who's responsible."
"But, Dad, that's just it. I know who it is! I know who's behind this."
"Who, Timmy? And how do you know? Is there something you didn't tell the detective when he interviewed you?"
"No. I figured it out later, when I got home. That's why I'm doing all this research."
Randy's face grew concerned. "What do you mean?"
"The person that killed Pat isn't a person at all. It's a ghoul."
His father didn't speak, and Timmy assumed he was too shocked to reply. Gathering his courage, he pressed ahead.
"You said I could talk to you about what's going on. Well this is what's going on."
He proceeded to tell his father about all that he suspected, blurting out a breathless, excited litany of the past month' s chronological events and how they connected to facts regarding ghoul legends. Occasionally, to clarify a point or back up a position, Timmy would rifle through the stack of comics and hold one up for verification, pointing to the specific panels where he ' d gotten the information. Randy kept quiet, listening with rapt attention to all that his son had to say. He started to interrupt once, when Timmy voiced his 227 suspicions about Clark Smeltzer, but then he fell silent again. His mouth was tight, his face grim. When Timmy had finished, he was speechless. Timmy waited expectantly for some sort of response --anything--but none was forthcoming. His father merely stared at him.
"Dad?"
Blinking, Randy shook his head slightly, as if waking up from a daydream.
"Dad," Timmy said again, "what should we do? Do you think we should tell the police?"
"No." His father's voice was sad and hoarse. "No, Timmy, I don't think we should call the police."
"But why not? It could be out there right now."
"That's enough, Tim."
"But Dad, you said that you'd listen to me. You said I could talk to you. What's wrong? Don't you believe me?"
Randy sighed. "No, Tim. I don't."
Timmy's heart sank.
"But... but it all makes sense. Even Grandpa's grave."
Randy tensed. "Stop it, Timothy. Just stop this right now."
"Don't you care? The ghoul could have tunneled into his coffin."
"I said stop it."
"It could have eaten Grandpa."
"I said stop it!"
In the living room, Elizabeth heard the outburst. Gasping, she ran down the hall.
She flung the door open and stared at them, frightened. Tears rolled down her son 's face. He was sitting upright against the headboard, shrinking away from his father.
Her husband looked angrier than she'd seen him in a long time.
"What on earth is going on in here? What's wrong?"
"Tell your mother," Randy spat. "Tell your mother the same nonsense you just told me."
"I... I..." Timmy trailed off, stifling a sob.
Randy stood up, fists clenched at his sides. Elizabeth touched his shoulder, but he shrugged her away.
"Randy, what is going on?"
"Our son," he said through gritted teeth, "thinks that a monster is on the loose next door in the cemetery. He says that it' s in cahoots with Clark Smeltzer, and that the two of them are robbing graves. He thinks that this monster, this ghoul, is eating people. He thinks that it ate ... my father."
Elizabeth's eyes went wide with shock. Her head whipped back and forth in denial.
"Timmy," she cried, "why would you say such horrible things?"
More tears rolled down his face. "Because it's the truth, Mom. I can prove it."
"Honey, you know it's not the truth. There is no such thing as monsters. And Mr.
Smeltzer? I'll admit, he has problems, but Barry's father is--"
"Barry's father is a monster," Timmy shouted. "Jesus Christ, are you both blind?"
"Don't take the Lord's name in vain."
"Mom, don't you know what Mr. Smeltzer does to Barry and his mom? He's evil, and he's working with that thing out there. That ghoul."
"Timothy Graco," Elizabeth snapped. "You stop talking like that this instant. There is no monster living in the cemetery. You know that."
"It' s these funny books," Randy said, seizing a handful off the bed. He crumpled them in his fist. "This garbage. I told you Reverend Moore was right. We shouldn 't be letting him read this bullshit. These 229 comics are where he gets these ideas. They're a bad influence."
Timmy cried out as his father continued to squeeze, crumpling the comic beyond any hope of repair.
"Your father is right," his mother said. "Like earlier, when you said that you and your friends blew up a dead animal. That type of behavior just isn't acceptable."
"I'm sorry," Timmy said. "We won't do it again. But I'm not lying about the ghoul."
"No more," Randy said. "I'll have no more of this nonsense. It's not normal, Timothy.
These things you believe in--normal people don' t think about monsters and demons."
He tossed the comics on the floor and stalked out of the room. Timmy leapt out of bed and scooped them up. He flattened the comic books out on his mattress and tried to smooth them.
"Look at this," he sobbed. "Look what he did. He ruined them."
Elizabeth tried to soothe him. "Timmy. Calm down, sweetie. Your father is very angry right now, and he's had a long day."
"I don't care. It isn't right."
"Honey, did you really say that about your grandfather?"
"Yes."
"But why? Can't you see how hurtful that is to your father? How wrong it was to make up such a horrible story?"
"It's true!" Timmy looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes. "See for yourself. His grave is sinking."
"That's normal, Timmy. Graves settle after a few weeks, especially if it rains like it did last night. You can't make up lies like that."
"It's not a story, and he didn't need to do this." He 230 continued smoothing the comics. "I hate him. I'll never forgive Dad for this."
"Timmy, that's not true. You love your father, and he loves you very much."
"If he loved me, then why won't he listen? Why did he do this?"
"You have to look at it from his perspective."
"Why? Why do I have to? Because I told the truth?"
"But you didn't, Timmy. You're telling stories. Fiction. You're confused right now.
Upset with all that's happened."
"No, I'm not."
Randy walked back into the room with a huge cardboard box in hand. He sat it down on the floor and then, without a word, he began dropping Timmy' s comic collection into the box. Timmy gasped. The comics folded and bent as they were dumped inside.
"Dad, what are you doing?"
"Something I should have done a long time ago. Elizabeth, pull those long white boxes out from under his bed."
"Randy, I--"
"I said to do it."
She took a deep breath and complied. Not once did she look up at her son.
"What are you doing?" Timmy asked again. "What is this?"
"Follow me."
Randy turned and stomped down the hall, hefting a box under each arm. Timmy ran after him, demanding to know what was going on. Elizabeth trailed along behind them, carrying the last box. When they reached the kitchen, Randy set down a box, opened the basement door, and motioned for Timmy to go through.
"Downstairs."
Timmy did as he was told. His father's voice was cold and emotionless. He'd never heard it sound this way before.
His parents followed him. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Randy made Timmy sit down on a wooden stool that he pulled out from under his workbench. He sat the boxes of comics next to him. Then he pulled over a large, empty trash can and put a fresh garbage bag inside it. Only then, after he' d finished this task, did Randy finally speak.
"Elizabeth, go back upstairs."
"Randy, don't do this. Please. You know how much he loves those books. Please? I'm sure he didn't mean it."
Silently, Timmy prayed she'd convince his father to stop before it was too late.
Randy sighed. "Honey, do as I asked you to. Please, just this once? This is hard enough."
They stared at one another for a moment, and then she turned and went back upstairs to the kitchen. She shut the door behind her. Randy pulled out another stool and sat down facing his son.
"Dad ..."
"Timmy, I love you. I need you to know that."
His voice cracked. He paused, taking a moment to compose himself, and then continued.
"Sometimes it's hard, being a parent. When you have a kid, it's not like buying a new car or an appliance. There' s no instruction manual, and you get so scared of making a mistake. Get scared of screwing your kid up. Your generation has it pretty easy. You don 't have Vietnam or the Depression to go through. But it' s still tough, these days. We want the best for you. Your mom and I have tried very hard to give you the things we didn ' t have at your age. Things like good food and clothes. Your bike. That Atari in the living 232 room. And you deserve them. I meant what I said earlier--I'm proud of you. But this lying has got to stop."
"I'm not lying, Dad."
"You know very well that story isn't true. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. I' m going to give you one last chance, Timmy. One last chance to take it all back."
"But, Dad--I ..."
His father sighed. His shoulders slumped.
"Okay. I didn't want to do this ..."
"What?"
"I'm grounding you for disobeying me this morning. Yes, I know you boys found Pat's car, and that' s a good thing for all concerned. But you still disobeyed me. You went beyond the boundaries your mother and I set for you."
"We had to. We were--"
"I don't want to hear any more lies. It doesn't matter. You're grounded for a month."
"A month? But that's half my summer vacation!"
"I'm sorry, Timothy. You should have listened."
"But the ghoul--"
"There is no such thing as monsters, Timmy! Stop it. Stop making up bullshit stories!"
Flinching, Timmy reared back on the stool in fright. His father's anger seemed to roll off him in waves, almost tangible.
Randy picked up the first comic book, Avengers Annual #10. His hands shook.
Timmy's eyes grew wide.
"Don't speak, Timothy. Don't say a word, because all you're doing is lying more.
I gave you a chance. And don't you dare look away. If you look away, I' ll ground you for another month."
"Dad," Timmy sobbed, "please don't do this. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"
"I'm sorry, too, son."
He tore it in half, slowly. A single tear rolled down his cheek.
"No," Timmy screamed, "please, Daddy, don't. Please? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm--"
The torn halves were tossed into the trash can, followed by an issue of Man>el Two-in-One.
"Stop it, Daddy! Please, just stop."
"It's too late for that." An issue of Fantastic Four was next. Then a mint copy of Justice League of America that Timmy hadn't even had a chance to read.
"I hate you," Timmy screamed. "I hate you and want you to die."
More tears spilled from both of their eyes as Randy tore up a copy of The Defenders.
And another.
And another.
And an hour later, when the boxes were empty and his entire comic book collection--his entire childhood-- was destroyed, Timmy still had plenty of tears left.
There is no such thing as monsters, his father had said, but his father was wrong.
Timmy was looking at one, and at that moment, he hated his father far worse than he'd ever hated Barry's.
Chapter Twelve Doug pedaled down Laughman Road. The spokes on his wheels hummed quietly as the tires went round and round. His bike' s white reflectors flashed in the darkness when the moonlight hit them. He sped by Catcher 's driveway, but if the Doberman was awake, he didn' t give chase. Breathing a big sigh of relief, Doug coasted on.
He'd woken, plastered in sweat, as his mother's mouth closed over him. Somehow, she' d already succeeded in pulling his pajamas down while he slept. Frightened and disoriented, he 'd jerked away from her and glanced around his bedroom, wondering how she'd got in.
Then he saw. Though he' d invested his meager savings in a lock for the door, he ' d forgotten to lock his window. It hung open and the screen was missing. Drunk as she was, his mother had managed to remove the screen. Then she 'd crawled inside while he'd slept, exhausted from the day's traumatic events.
She reached for him again. Doug fought her off, managing to get his pajama bottoms back up while she sat on the floor and cried. Then he comforted her, holding her close and whispering consoling words until she passed out, drooling on his shoulder.
As soon as she began snoring, he ' d slipped out from beneath her, got dressed, and left. It was a quarter till midnight.
With any luck, Timmy would still be awake, probably reading comic books under the covers with a flashlight. Doug could bang on his window and spend the night.
Bowman' s Woods were different at night. Scary. The tree limbs seemed to reach out over the road, grasping for him. The darkness between their trunks was a solid thing, and strange noises came from within its shadowy confines. Night sounds: snapping twigs, rustling leaves, a chirping chorus of crickets, something that could have been an owl --or laughter.
Shivering, Doug pedaled faster.
To his left, another twig snapped, as if something were following him. Then another.
The faster he went, the faster the snapping sounds increased.
His mind conjured up images of Jason and Michael Myers and every other movie maniac he'd had the misfortune to see. What if Pat' s killer was in the woods right now, watching him, lying in wait? After all, it had been him and Timmy that had discovered Pat 's car-- and Pat himself.
He increased his speed yet again, and the wind ruffled his hair, cooling the sweat on his forehead. His pedals beat a steady rhythm, clanking against the bike' s faulty kickstand. He 'd been meaning to get it fixed, maybe have Timmy's father install a new one, but he hadn' t yet come up with the money to get it, since most of his savings went toward candy and video games.
Eventually, the snapping sounds faded. Doug chided himself for being silly. It had probably just been a deer or a squirrel.
Somewhere deep inside the forest, a whippoorwill called out--a mournful, lonely sound.
Doug had heard the old wives' tales about them-- if you heard a whippoorwill late at night or just before dawn, it meant that somebody close to you was going to die. As the bird sang out again, Doug hoped those stories weren' t true. There were enough people dead. He didn 't need any more.
Sometimes he thought about dying. What it would be like. If it would hurt. If anything happened afterward, like Reverend Moore promised, or if there was nothing but oblivion.
Of the two choices, he preferred oblivion. Sleep was good. Doug enjoyed sleeping.
It was the only time he didn 't have to think; didn't have to feel.
Doug reached the intersection with Anson Road and paused to catch his breath. With relief, he noticed that the Graco' s living room light was on, which meant that at least one of Timmy 's parents were still awake, and maybe Timmy, as well. Both vehicles were in the driveway. Everyone was home--the whole family.
Family.
Doug wished he had one. He spent his time alone daydreaming about when his father had still been around. He often wished that he' d appreciated those times more while they lasted. His parents had seemed happy, at least to him. And they seemed to be happy with him, as well. His Dad said, "I love you." They did stuff together. Talked about things.
His father had never called him fat boy or tub-o-lard or faggot, like the kids at school or Barry 's father did.
The last month he was with them, things changed.
Subtly. Doug hadn' t seen it at the time, but it was clear in hindsight. His father had seemed withdrawn.
Distant. Irritable. At first, Doug had figured it had something to do with his mother losing her job. But the uncharacteristic behavior continued. Those last few weeks, Doug and his mother ate dinner alone. His dad didn 't come home after work--didn't come home at all, sometimes. Spent the night somewhere else. He never said where, at least to Doug. He' d heard his parents arguing about it, but at the time, he hadn 't understood what was going on and was too afraid to ask. He thought maybe it was something that he'd done.
And then, one night, his father didn' t come home again, and the next morning, he was still gone. He never came back. Never said good-bye. Never explained it to Doug or told him where he was going or that he loved him one last time.
He was just ... gone.
His father abandoned him for a waitress that Doug had never met. Worse, his father had left him alone with his mother, knowing full well what she was capable of.
Ever since then, Doug had felt hollow and empty. Dead.
So maybe oblivion wasn't such a bad alternative after all, if he was already dead inside anyway.
At twelve, Doug felt eighty.
He hopped off his bike and pushed it up the Graco' s driveway, trying his best to be quiet. The chain rattled softly and the spokes clicked. He gently laid the bike down in the yard and then crept around back. The grass brushed against his shoes, the dew soaking his feet. The breeze picked up for a moment, and Mrs. Graco 's wind chimes rang in the silence. Doug willed them to be quiet, and the wind died down again. He started toward 238
Timmy's window, tripped over a stick, and froze, waiting to see if he'd been heard.
He noticed that Timmy' s bedroom window was dark, as were the rest of the lights in the house except for the living room, its soft yellow glow peeking out from beneath the shades.
Doug paused, wondering what to do next. Somebody was obviously awake, but it probably wasn't Timmy. Even if Timmy was still up, his parents didn' t know about it because his light was out. If he knocked on Timmy ' s window, he risked the possibility that whoever was still awake might hear him.
If Mr. or Mrs. Graco caught him, not only would Timmy get in trouble, but they ' d also insist on either calling his mother or taking him back home themselves. No way was he going back home tonight.
He crept back around the side of the house and sneaked up to the living room' s large picture window. Pressing his nose against the glass, Doug peeked through a space in the shades. Timmy 's father was sitting on the couch. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the end table next to him. Doug' s eyes widened with surprise. Mr. Graco rarely drank, especially on weeknights. But what shocked him the most wasn ' t the alcohol. It was the look of absolute anguish etched into Randy Graco 's face. Timmy' s father was weeping; large, fat tears that made his cheeks shiny and wet. His eyes were red and his body shook each time he sobbed. Doug had never seen him show so much emotion --not even at Dane Graco' s funeral. He looked scarred. Tortured. In a weird way, it almost looked like he was laughing instead of crying, since there was no sound. But the haunted look in his eyes was a dead giveaway that this was a man in pain.
Doug backed away from the window. It felt wrong, somehow, spying on his best friend's father at such a 239 private and darkly intimate moment. Something was definitely wrong, but whatever it was, Doug would have to wait until tomorrow to find out. There was no way he could risk waking Timmy now. And going to Barry 's house was obviously out of the question. He couldn't go home. He couldn' t spend the night with friends. And so, he was left with only one option.
The Dugout.
Sighing, Doug collected his bike. He coasted down the driveway and onto Anson Road.
When he was out of earshot, he began pedaling again. He slowed as he reached the cemetery. Even though they 'd played there after dark often enough, it was still spooky at night. Spookier than even Bowman' s Woods. Especially when he was alone. Light wisps of mist curled around the bases of the tombstones and trees. The moon seemed frozen overhead, bright and full, offering radiance, but no warmth. Unlike Bowman ' s Woods and the rest of the countryside, the graveyard was quiet. No crickets chirped.
No birds sang. Not even an owl or a whippoorwill. It was weird, as if Mother Nature were holding her breath.
The cemetery felt empty.
Despite the humidity in the air, Doug shivered.
He slogged up the hill, out of breath, hot and sweating hard. The bike seemed heavier than normal, and he wished that he had the leg strength to pedal it uphill, rather than push it. He avoided going anywhere near Barry ' s house, and instead, turned off the road and into the old portion of the graveyard.
Even though it was still uphill, the going seemed easier. The ground was softer, and the wet dew soaked through his sneakers and cooled his feet.
He reached the top of the hill and paused to catch his breath. Then he hopped back on the bike. To his 240 left, the dilapidated utility shed loomed in the distance. Just the sight of it filled Doug with dread and sadness. That morning' s memories were still fresh. He imagined that he could still hear Clark Smeltzer ' s cruel, mocking laughter and slurred speech, as if he were nearby. It seemed very real, as if Mr. Smeltzer was still there.
And then, with a jolt of panic, Doug realized that he was.
Clark Smeltzer leaned against a tall, granite monument near the utility shed, in the newer portion of the cemetery. Despite the solid support, the drunken caretaker swayed back and forth. One arm hugged the stone. The other waved around in agitation.
He clutched a bottle in his hand, and the liquid sloshed in time with his jerky movements.
His voice was animated --loud and angry. He was talking to someone, but from his vantage point, Doug couldn' t see who it was. He strained to hear. The wind shifted toward him and he picked up a snatch of conversation. The breeze carried something else, too --a foul odor, similar to the one they' d smelled wafting from the hole beneath the shed floor. Doug assumed that was where the stench was coming from.
"You leave them out of this," Mr. Smeltzer threatened whomever he was talking to.
"That wasn't part of the deal."
He lurched to the side, still holding onto the grave marker, and Doug caught a glimpse of the stranger. Whoever it was, they appeared to be naked and almost hairless, except between their legs. His eyes widened. Yes, the person, whoever it was, really was naked, and definitely a man. Their skin was very pale, and seemed to be... glowing?
That couldn't be right.
He squinted, trying to see clearly. His pulse raced. A lump rose in his throat. If Mr. Smeltzer turned around now or if the stranger spotted him over the caretaker' s shoulder, he 'd be caught. He'd already seen just what Barry's father was capable of in broad daylight. There was no telling what he' d do under the cover of night, especially as angry as he sounded right now.
Slowly, carefully, Doug turned the bike to the right and began heading for the church.
He held his breath, hoping the chain wouldn' t rattle. The spokes clicked softly. He prayed they wouldn 't notice the bike' s reflectors. His plan was to cut around it, letting the structure block him from their view, and then take the lower cemetery road --the one that bordered Luke Jones's pasture-- to the Dugout. If he needed to, he could even go the long way around and cut through the pasture itself. Once inside the fort, he should be safe. There was no way they could stumble across it in the dark.
Swallowing hard, he tried to calm his fears, tried to make a game out of it. He was Han Solo, sneaking around onboard the Death Star and hiding from the Imperial storm troopers. His BMX was really the Millennium Falcon, the fastest bucket of bolts in the entire galaxy. He tried to think of the film ' s line about the Kessel Run, but he was too scared to remember it.
Inching farther away, he climbed onto the bike, breathed a silent prayer, and coasted away. His feet slipped onto the pedals and he gently pumped them. The pedals went round in a circle --and clanged against the faulty kickstand.
Ka-chunk.
Doug whimpered.
Behind him, something squealed like a monstrous, enraged pig.
"Oh, shit." Doug pedaled as fast as he could.
The bike picked up speed, rocketing toward the church. The tires crunched through the gravel, and the bike' s chain rattled. Clark Smeltzer shouted in confusion, but Doug didn ' t bother to turn around. He heard feet slapping the ground in pursuit, coming hard and fast. The horrible stench seemed to be following him as well, getting stronger.
He bent over the handlebars, gritted his teeth, and pedaled with all his might. Another terrible cry sounded from behind him, and then the sounds of pursuit faded. He rolled into the parking lot, and out onto the road, passing between Barry ' s house and the church. The windows were dark inside each, reinforcing in his mind just how late it was.
I'm all alone out here, he thought. If something happens now, nobody will ever know.
Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw no sign of either Barry's father or the mysterious, howling stranger. He took a deep breath, held it, and listened.
Silence.
Who sounds like that, anyway? Not even the guy who does all those sound effects in the Police Academy movies could make a noise like that. It was more like an animal than a person.
He waited a few seconds longer, his muscles tensed, ready to flee if there was any sign of pursuit. No one came. Apparently, they' d given up. Relieved, Doug reached down and patted the bike 's crossbar.
"Good girl," he whispered. "Got us out of that one, for sure. Need to get that kickstand fixed, though."
He rode on into the night. He'd decided that maybe death and oblivion weren't really what he wanted after all.
Smeltzer had become a problem. Angered, the caretaker was suddenly making demands, and refusing to follow the ghoul' s commands. He was inebriated almost to the point of incoherency, and threatening to expose the ghoul 's underground warren--breeding pit and all. There was dried blood on the caretaker' s fists, and it had belonged to the man ' s whelp, judging by the scent. In this drunken, unreasonable state, Smeltzer was no longer useful. The ghoul had been about to kill him when the child interrupted them.
The creature had commanded Smeltzer to bring it more females, and warned him that if he didn't, it would have no choice but to take Smeltzer' s own woman, as well as the women living in the homes nearby. Despite this, the gravedigger had refused. Finding courage from his bottle, he 'd grown belligerent. He' d complained about the police presence, and how the law was asking questions. The ghoul had known nothing of this, having spent the daylight hours asleep deep beneath the graveyard. It was displeased to learn that its first victim --the youth whose mate he'd stolen-- had been found, and even angrier to learn that Smeltzer had not properly disposed of the youth 's body. Once again, the ghoul gnashed its teeth in annoyance at the Creator's commandment-- not to taste living blood, nor to eat living flesh.
It grinned, remembering the child whose foot had fallen through the tunnel roof.
The ghoul had only clawed him, but it had heard the child on the surface above, telling his companions that he 'd been bitten. The ghoul wasn't positive, but he thought that it might have been the same child who' d interrupted them tonight. The scent was similar. It should have bitten him. It hadn 't broken the commandment until the 244 three young men had invaded its underground home. Even then, it hadn' t consumed their bodies immediately. It had enjoyed merely a small taste. But that was in the process of defending its lair, and the ghoul felt justified.
In hindsight, it should have done the same when this drunken fool, Smeltzer, first freed it from its prison. It should have ignored the Creator' s law when it came across the young couple rutting in the cemetery. When it slaughtered the male and took the female as its first mate, it should have devoured the youth ' s carcass. It hadn ' t, and because of that, because it had left the matter of disposing of the body in the hands of a human accomplice, its home and security were now threatened. Its family --the ghoul's new family--was now endangered.
Or maybe this was all happening as a result of the ghoul's breaking of the commandment in the first place. Maybe the Creator was displaying His displeasure.
It had intended to kill its human accomplice, to rip Smeltzer' s head from his body and bathe in the warm, red fountain, but the child had interrupted those plans. And now the child had escaped, and could tell others. Soon men would come, armed not with torches and magic. Not this time. But armed nevertheless. It did not fear their guns and ammunition. It feared discovery before it had the chance to become a parent. Relocation would delay those plans.
The ghoul stopped in its musings, pausing in front of a black marble gravestone, the ornate lettering gilded in gold. A cross symbol dominated the stone' s center. It had been carved with obvious craftsmanship and care. Beneath the engraving were the words, He is Risen.
Snarling, the creature lifted one leg and urinated on the symbol. The pungent stream splattered over the tombstone and ran down onto the grass, steaming in the darkness.
"There is what I think of your commandment. He is risen?
Bah. He would not have risen, had one of my kind been in the tomb with him. He would have been another meal. Nothing more. Then where would your great plan be?"
The ghoul gnashed its teeth in frustration. The child was gone, vanished into the night. But his scent was familiar. The ghoul was positive now. It had smelled this scent several times before: the day the boy 's foot had fallen through the tunnel, and most strongly from a separate warren on the graveyard's edge-- a den manufactured by children 's hands. Smeltzer' s son, the child from this evening, and one other. It had discovered the hole during the previous evening when it was foraging in a nearby grave, but had thought nothing of it at the time. Now, it knew better.
Snorting, it leapt over the tombstones and bounded back to Smeltzer. The man had slumped over to the ground, his back propped up against a statue. His eyes were slits, his breathing troubled. The bottle was still clutched firmly in his hand. The caretaker muttered something under his breath.
The ghoul knelt beside him and took his chin in its clawed hands. The long, black talons dimpled Clark' s grizzled cheeks, drawing small beads of blood. He tilted his face upward.
"Tell me who that child was."
Clark winced. The creature's breath woke him up; it stunk like rancid meat, and there were bits of decayed flesh between its teeth.
"Who?"
The ghoul squeezed, impatient. "The child. The boy I just pursued. What is he called?"
"Doug," Clark slurred. "Doug Keiser. Faggoty ... 's fat kid. 'S nuttin' to worry about."
"I will be the judge of that. Twice today my safe haven has been compromised. I cannot allow this to stand. It is important that I see my race live again. All that matters is my children."
"Kids ain't ... shit." Clark belched directly into the beast's face, and then took a drink of Wild Turkey. His breath reeked almost as bad as the ghoul itself.
"You test my patience, grave digger."
Ignoring the creature, Clark continued. "Kids jus' don' lishen. Got to show 'em who's ... boss. Knock 'em around a bit."
The ghoul released his chin. "Does this Keiser child dwell nearby?"
Shrugging, Clark lifted the bottle to his lips again. With a low, rumbling growl, the ghoul smacked it away. The bottle shattered against a tombstone. Clark pouted at the loss.
"My patience wears very thin. Listen carefully. Does the child live nearby?"
"Yeah, up past Sawyer's place. He comes and goes. Shumtimes ... sometimes he stays wit' my boy and the Graco kid. Livsh down over t' hill."
Pausing, the ghoul sniffed the air.
"Ain't enough," Clark stammered. "Whatchu giving me, it ain't enough. At night... when I try t' sleep ... I hear those women screamin'. In my head."
"Silence."
The ghoul's nostrils flared, catching a scent. The boy was back. Not close by, but still near enough for the wind to carry his scent. Perhaps sneaking into the 247 graveyard from the other side, intent on cowering inside his little den. Grinning, it turned back to the caretaker.
"You are displeased with our arrangement? Then rejoice."
"Why? Ain't got nuthin' to be happy 'bout."
"Indeed you do. It is time for our dealings to come to an end, as you wished."
"What'sh that mean?"
In answer, the ghoul uttered a savage growl and lashed out. Its talons ripped through Clark Smeltzer' s face, flaying the skin on his cheek, nose, chin, and throat. Red-hot pain overwhelmed the muting effects of the alcohol. Shrieking, Clark brought his hands to his ruined flesh. His fingers brushed against the ragged flaps of skin. He pulled his hands away and stared in disbelief at his dripping red fingers, wondering whose blood it was.
By the time he collapsed, slipping into unconsciousness, the ghoul was already speeding toward the tunnels.
Commandments be damned. It was weary of feasting on the dead.
It wanted blood.
Inside the Dugout, Doug pulled out his neon green Duncan Imperial yo-yo and did a few tricks while he tried to calm down. Eventually, he got his breathing and heart rate back under control. He was safe now. No way could Barry 's father or that weird guy (thing?) he' d been hanging around with find him down here. The stranger had actually scared him worse than Mr. Smeltzer had. That horrible squeal, the way his naked skin had looked in the moonlight, the sounds he made when he 'd given chase. None of those things were normal.
So what the heck was he?
He wished Timmy were there with him. Timmy was smart. He knew everything there was to know about monsters and stuff.
Monsters. Could the guy have actually been a monster? That was just silly.
Doug put away the yo-yo. He unwrapped a Kit-Kat bar and turned up the lantern. He tried to laugh. It sounded more like a sob.
"It wasn' t a monster," he whispered aloud, the sound of his voice soothing his frazzled nerves.
"More like a molester. Just some guy painted up so his skin would glow or something.
A nut. Likes to run around naked at night. Mr. Smeltzer 's crazy. Figures he'd have crazy friends."
Munching his crispy chocolate bar, Doug flipped through an issue of Boy's Life magazine, skimming an article about model rockets, but he found it hard to concentrate.
Instead, he reached for the rusted coffee can in which they kept all sorts of assorted junk, and plucked out a sharpened pencil. He spread the map out before him and felt a sense of pride. It didn ' t matter what people said about him. None of them could make something like this.
He began to work on it some more, adding the section of forest where he and Timmy had discovered Pat Kemp 's Nova-- and what was left of Pat. He drew it by memory, and hoped he was getting the details right. He wanted to finish it by morning. Then he could show it to Timmy. That might cheer his friend up. He didn ' t know when Barry would have a chance to see it. Sneaking out to see him at night seemed awfully risky, especially since his father apparently hung around the graveyard with a naked, glowing man all night long.
Doug breathed a heavy sigh. The three of them had 249 been hanging out together since the first grade. It seemed inconceivable that Barry was no longer allowed to see them. There had to be something they could do other than clandestine late-night meetings in the Dugout. In a way, Doug was actually looking forward to school starting again in September. They could hang out together at school without Clark Smeltzer 's watchful eye knowing about it. And besides, this summer had been kind of a bust, anyway. He'd be glad to see it end.
His chocolate-covered thumb left a smudge on the corner of the map, but Doug didn' t acknowledge it. He drew the outline of a pine tree, then another. He clenched the tip of his tongue between his teeth, focusing on the task at hand. Content, he hummed quietly to himself -- the chorus from a John Cougar song. He drew another tree, and then filled it in.
"Life goes on," he sang softly, "long after the thrill of living is gone."
The only time Doug was ever truly happy, other than when he was hanging out with Timmy and Barry, was when he was drawing something. The simple act of sketching, then adding detail, bringing something to life on paper, calmed his mind like nothing else. It was a form of escape. When he was drawing, his mind went into hibernation.
He didn ' t think about his parents or his troubles at school or the things people said about him. None of those things mattered, or even existed. He was consumed with creation, blocking out everything other than the picture in his head. In a way, it was much like the oblivion he craved. He became totally absorbed in it and tuned out the rest of the world.
Which was why when a few small pebbles and loose soil on the Dugout's floor began to quiver, it didn't register with him. He barely noticed when the card table 250 began to wiggle. He just assumed he'd accidentally bumped against it with his knee.
Until it wiggled again, this time more noticeably.
Doug dropped the pencil and sat back, moving his knees away from the card table's legs.
It shook again, more violently this time. The pencil rolled across the map and fell to the dirt floor.
"What the heck?"
Still seated, Doug bent over to retrieve the pencil and noticed that it had rolled to the center of the floor. So had several other objects-- a marble, a Matchbox car, several loose BBs that had fallen out of someone ' s gun, a dud M-80 that Timmy had told them he wanted to take apart, but had apparently forgotten about. As he watched, all of these and more slid to the middle of the Dugout 's floor, as if the floor itself were caving in--just like the graves in the cemetery above.
"Oh, man. The sinkhole!"
Doug heard a muffled rustling sound from somewhere beneath his feet. He jumped out of the chair and sprang for the hatch door. The sound grew louder. Closer. A small hole appeared in the center of the floor, and the soil began tumbling into it, like sand through a sieve. Eyes bulging, Doug fumbled with the door ' s pull-rope. His fingers were slicked with sweat and chocolate, and the rope slipped out of his grasp. Behind him, the card table toppled over, spilling the lantern and the map. The light went out, plunging him into darkness. Terrified, Doug began to cry.
He smelled the now all-too-familiar stench. It burned his nostrils. He heard more dirt falling into the hole. The entire floor was caving in.
"Please," he prayed aloud, "I don't want to die. I really don't."
The darkness was replaced by a faint, eerie 251 luminescence. Not enough to really see by, but still noticeable. The glow was coming from the hole. The foul odor grew stronger.
Something hissed.
This wasn't some underground crevice opening up. Something was alive down there, beneath the Dugout, and it was tunneling up from below.
Desperate, Doug reached for the trapdoor again. Behind him, the hissing was replaced with cruel, wicked laughter. Crying now, he closed his  eyes. When he' d been little, Doug used to lie in bed at night, fearful of the monster he was convinced lived in his closet. When he thought the    monster was near, he ' d close his eyes. He was pretty sure that if he couldn 't see the monster, then it couldn't see him.
"Daddy," he whispered. "Come back now. Please? Come back and save me from the monster."
He opened his eyes.
The floor exploded upward, showering him with dirt and rocks. The card table and a stack of comics and porno magazines tumbled into the crevice. A long pair of pale, sinewy arms thrust toward him, barely  visible in the gloom. Hands grasped his legs, just as his mother had   done earlier in the evening. Doug beat at the clawed hands, but they  held firm. The monster pulled him into the hole. He didn 't even get a chance to scream.
Plunging downward into darkness, Doug thought about his father, and wondered if he still loved him.
Just like before, his father hadn't shown up to save him from the monster.
Chapter Thirteen Barry waited until his mother was asleep before he got up. His alarm clock showed that it was 2:23 in the morning. He reached above him and  turned on the small lamp sitting precariously on his headboard. Just this simple movement caused new agony, and the light hurt his eyes. He groaned, and that hurt his mouth.
His body was sore and battered. It hurt just to breathe. If he moved too quickly, he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his side. His father' s fury had left no part of his body untouched. His bottom lip was split wide open in the middle, and simply touching it brought tears to his eyes. One eye was swollen, the other blackened, and Dane Graco 's Freemason ring--which had somehow ended up on his father's hand--had left ugly, purple indentations on Barry' s cheek and forehead. The ring had gouged a ragged furrow in his other cheek. The deep cut would leave a permanent scar; just one more scar to add to all of those left by his father. His 253 shoulders and kidneys ached, and his stomach, back, and sides were covered with welts and bruises. Portions of Barry' s scalp were raw and bleeding, where his father had pulled his hair out. His left forearm had five finger-shaped bruises on it. The other had been burned with a cigarette, and the open wound wept. He dimly remembered that --it had been the burn that brought him back to consciousness. Even his groin throbbed.
His father' s last act had been to kick him there, after he was already down and about to pass out a second time. Barry was covered in dried blood, all of it his.
He eased himself off the bed, went to the door, and listened. The house was quiet.
His father had left many hours before, stomping out into the night without a word.
His mother had either cried or drank herself to sleep. Probably a combination of both. After his father was gone, she ' d tried to help Barry, wept over him and tried to soothe his pain, but Barry had pushed her away. Now he felt guilty about that. He ' d shouted at her, told her he hated her. The look in her eyes had been the same one she gave his father, when the old man was hitting her. Feeling a savage twist of vindication, Barry had said it again. But it wasn ' t true. He didn ' t hate his mother. He just no longer cared. Not about her or his father or anything else. Not after tonight. His physical pain was immense, but inside, Barry felt emotionally numb.
His mother had taken a beating as well, after Clark was finished with Barry. At one point, Rhonda had scrambled for the phone, threatening to call the police. Clark ripped it out of the wall, and then did the same with the one in the bedroom. He 'd put his foot through both jacks, so that the phones couldn' t be plugged back in. Then he 'd laughed, hands on hips, defiantly daring them to run for help.
Slowly, Barry opened his bedroom door and peered 254 out into the hallway. The house was still silent. He crept into the bathroom, turned on the light, and shut the door behind him. Bending over to lift the toilet seat caused fresh pain. He whimpered while he relieved himself. The act made his kidneys and groin ache even worse. Alarmed, he saw that his urine was dark in color. He wondered if that meant there was blood in it, and if so, what he should do about it. He realized there wasn ' t really anything he could do. If he went to the doctor, there would be questions.
He might get placed in foster care. That would be just as bad as this. It would interfere with what he 'd decided to do.
Finished, he left the seat up and didn' t flush, afraid that the sound would wake his mother. Then he opened the medicine cabinet. The door squeaked, but his mother slept on. He dry swallowed two Tylenol caplets to help ease his pain. Then Barry doctored his wounds as best he could, wincing when the hydrogen peroxide hit his cuts, and nearly screaming when he put it on his split lip. The disinfectant bubbled and fizzed like acid. Pain coursed through him like liquid fire. But this pain was different. Good, somehow. Better. Because this was the last time he ' d ever allow himself to feel pain like this, and knowing that strengthened his resolve for what was to come.
Several months ago, Pat Kemp and some of the other older kids had gone to see Quiet Riot and Slade opening for Loverboy at the York Fairgrounds. They' d been there for the opening acts and left when Loverboy took the stage. A few days later, Pat had told Barry, Doug, and Timmy all about it when they ran into him at Genova ' s Pizza. As a result, Barry had picked up a Slade cassette. Experience had taught him that if Pat Kemp liked a band, he probably would, too. Slade had been no exception.
Now, as he bandaged his 255 cuts, his favorite song by them ran through his head. He sang it softly, whispering the chorus. It hurt his mouth, but he did it anyway.
"See the chameleon lying there in the sun ... Run, run away. Run, run away ..."
He'd overheard the cops when they' d come to the door and questioned his father earlier. He knew what had happened to Pat. Barry had always looked up to him --wanted to be him. The whole thing sucked.
"Run, run away."
He grinned, and doing so reopened the gash in his bottom lip. Fresh blood dribbled down his chin. Despite the searing pain, his smile didn' t fade. He liked the way it looked.
"Run, run away ... Run, run awayyyyy ..."
That was what he was doing. Running away. He' d made up his mind. Never again would he allow this to happen. Never again would his father lay a hand on him. Because if he stayed around, and it did happen, Barry was sure he ' d kill the son of a bitch. His fateful punch earlier in the evening had missed. Next time, he wouldn 't. He could get a gun, easily. He knew where his father kept his pistol. Timmy' s father had a gun cabinet full of hunting rifles, and the boys could get access to the key. If he stuck around, next time his father came after him, he ' d squeeze a trigger rather than his fist. And that would be murder, and they put people in jail for that. Put people to death for it, too.
Barry did not want to die, especially now. He felt reborn. He wasn't sure where he'd go next, or what he' d do, but it felt like the whole wide world was open before him. Anywhere was better than here. He never wanted to see this house or his parents or the cemetery and church again.
After the worst of the pain had subsided, Barry 256 turned off the light and tiptoed back out into the hall. He peeked in on his mother.
She lay on her back, mouth open, snoring softly. He felt the urge to go to her, to kiss her forehead and tell her he was sorry, but he squashed it down. Pulling her bedroom door shut behind him, he made his way back to his room and rummaged through the closet until he found his book bag. His bare foot came down on a Star Wars action figure--Greedo, complete with blaster-- and he bit his lip to keep from hollering, which hurt him even more. Fresh blood flowed. He wadded a tissue against it.
Barry slipped on his shoes and went into the kitchen. He began gathering items he' d need. The combination can and bottle opener from the utensil drawer, along with a single fork, knife, and spoon. Then he raided the cupboard. He stuffed his backpack with potato chips, Twinkies, Hershey ' s kisses, and Fruit Roll-Ups, along with canned goods --peas, corn, baked beans, succotash, tuna fish, sauerkraut, Vienna sausages-- and some Ritz crackers. He tested the weight and was surprised to find that the backpack was still relatively light. He added some more Twinkies, then closed the cupboard door and moved on to the fruit bowl, which was sitting out on the counter. He selected a few small apples and dropped them into the book bag. He avoided any of the citrus fruit, worried that it might go bad before he had a chance to eat it.
Finished with scavenging the kitchen, he moved on to the living room. It was littered with empty beer cans, dirty coffee mugs and overflowing ashtrays. His mother had never been much of a housekeeper, and it had only gotten worse as his father got worse. Barry found just over ten dollars in quarters, dimes, and nickels in the large dolphin-shaped ceramic ashtray his parents used to hold loose change. He remembered the day they 'd 257 bought the souvenir, during a family trip to the National Aquarium in Baltimore.
He' d had a good time. Thought the day might turn out okay. Then, on the way home, his father had backhanded him for talking while he was trying to drive. Frowning at the memory, Barry dropped the coins into his pockets. His jeans sagged a bit from the weight. His parents wouldn 't miss the money. Lately, his father had seemed to have more cash than usual. After seeing Dane Graco's Freemason' s ring on his father 's hand tonight, Barry suspected he knew how his father had gained these new riches.
Grave robbing.
Barry returned to his bedroom and closed the door behind him. He opened his Baltimore Orioles bank and dumped out his life savings-- twenty-two dollars and ten cents --then added the bills to his pockets. Combined with the money he'd stolen from the living room, he assumed he' d have enough to live off of for a while. If money and food ran out, it was summer, and he could always eat by raiding people ' s gardens at night. He debated on whether or not to bring his fishing pole, but decided it would be too cumbersome.
He also grabbed his flashlight, a pocketknife, his BB pistol, extra COj cartridges and BBs for the pistol, and his jean jacket from the closet. It was warm outside, but he didn ' t know where he was going, and he might need it sooner or later. Plus, he could use the jacket as a pillow or blanket. He tied the jacket around his waist and stuffed the pistol behind his back, making sure it was snug inside his waistband. Then he dropped the other items into his book bag. Finally, he opened his dresser drawers and grabbed several pairs of underwear, socks, shirts, and another ' pair of jeans, and crammed those into the book bag as well. Stuffed to the brim, the bag 's fabric bulged at the seams, and he 258 had a hard time zipping it shut. When he slipped the straps over his bruised shoulders, the extra weight pulled at him, magnifying his pain all over again.
He patted his jingling pockets and glanced around his bedroom, trying to decide if there was anything else he was forgetting. Barry wondered if he should feel sad or nostalgic. After all, this was the last time he 's see his room and all of his stuff. But he didn't feel sad. He didn' t feel anything, other than an urgency to leave. The stuff was just that -- stuff. Bought for him by two parents who smiled when they handed it to him, despite the nightmares that would follow. None of it meant anything to him. Shaking his head, he closed the door behind him.
He left no note. He had no good-byes to say.
Except for two.
He couldn' t run away without saying good-bye to Timmy and Doug. They were his best friends, the only good things that had ever happened to him. What had happened today, out behind the shed, had broken his heart. He had to see them one more time.
Taking as deep a breath as he could without hurting his sides, Barry crept to the front door and slipped outside. There was no need to go out his bedroom window, the way he usually did when he snuck out at night. His father was gone, his mother was passed out, and he was in too much pain to crawl through the window, anyway.
A chorus of crickets greeted him. The stars sparkled overhead, and the yard was bathed in moonlight. The church loomed across the street-- dark, gloomy and menacing. Beyond it, the cemetery sprawled out into the darkness.
Barry wondered if his father was in there somewhere, beyond the shadows, even now looting another grave as he 'd done with Timmy's grandfather's. Barry thought it over. Dane Graco had been buried with the ring on his finger. He'd seen it before 259 they closed the casket. The funeral procession went out into the graveyard. The casket was lowered into the ground. The mourners tossed in flowers and the first few handfuls of dirt. Everybody left. Barry and his father had gone home, changed clothes, and then returned to fill in the grave. They ' d been together the whole time, so there was no way his dad could have stolen the ring then. His father had been in a hurry to leave. He remembered thinking it was as if the old man didn ' t want to be in the graveyard after dark. But maybe it had been something else. Maybe he ' d just been anxious for the sun to go down, eager for night to fall, so that he could dig Timmy 's grandfather back up under the cover of darkness. Barry had noticed other trinkets and baubles--new jewelry, much to his mother' s delight, and the extra cash in his father 's pockets. Now he knew where it was all coming from.
The thought filled him with dread. It was horrible. Sick.
But so was his father.
All he had to do was look in the mirror to see the proof of that.
"Good riddance," he whispered. His busted lip throbbed. Barry winced.
He walked through his backyard and started down over the hill to Timmy's house. The lights were out, but he figured he'd just knock on Timmy' s window and wake him. He went slowly, his body still aching. He pulled the bloody tissue from his lip and tossed it onto the ground. He readjusted the book bag so that his bruised shoulders wouldn 't chafe more from the straps. He was carrying a lot of weight.
But the heaviest burden of all lay behind him.
Barry did not turn around.
He smiled again, and this time, it didn't hurt as much.
Timmy lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. His alarm clock said it was a quarter till three in the morning, and he still couldn' t sleep. His father had finally gone to bed about an hour ago, after sitting in the living room by himself, crying his eyes out. Timmy had heard him through the walls, weeping and talking to God, but he hadn' t cared. Let his father cry. Timmy was finally out of tears. He ' d shed enough. He would shed no more. He was emotionally spent. Nothing mattered now. His grandfather 's death, Katie Moore, Pat's body, what had happened to the others, the ghoul, Mr.
Smeltzer, Barry and Doug's problems-- all seemed to pale in comparison to what had happened down in the basement that evening.
His childhood, his fondest memories, the very things he loved the most, were ripped to shreds and lying in a cardboard box. And he still didn' t understand the reason for it. Timmy had seen enough afternoon talk shows to know that this would scar him for the rest of his life. He wasn ' t being melodramatic. It was the simple truth. Surely his parents must have known that, too. They knew how much those comic books meant to him. So why mete out such an unjust punishment? Why punish him at all? He 'd told the truth. Instead of disregarding what he' d had to say, they should have investigated his claims. After all, these were the two people who had always told him he could come to them with any problem. That he could tell them anything. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. Whatever the problem, they ' d assured him time and time again that they would listen to him. Be there for him.
That he didn 't need to be afraid of talking about it.
But they'd lied.
Lying there in the dark, he was no longer filled with sadness. He was consumed with rage.
After the very last comic book, an old Classics Illustrated adaptation of Ivanhoe, was destroyed, Timmy's father had sent him to his room. As he' d slunk through the living room, Timmy looked at his mother for support, for a condemnation of what her husband had just done, for some inkling that she disagreed or felt sorry for her son. But instead, his mother had merely dabbed her eyes with a tissue and turned her head away.
He interlaced his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling. Go ahead and cry, he thought. Both of you. Just wait until I prove you wrong. I' ll show you. I
'll prove I wasn't lying. Then you'll really have something to feel bad about. He' d show them all. He might be grounded now, but when that was over, he 'd get the proof he needed.
If it wasn't too late by then. ...
He thought about it some more. It probably would be too late by then. He couldn't wait. He' d have to sneak out at night, after his parents were asleep, and get the proof he needed. Maybe he could get a picture of the ghoul. That should be enough to shut everyone up. But not tonight. It was too late, now. He ' d have to wait one more day. And besides, he couldn 't do it alone. He'd at least need Doug with him, and preferably Barry as well, especially since his father was involved.
His thoughts focused on Barry. Timmy closed his eyes. He was wondering how his friend was doing, and how he was coping with everything, when there was a light tap at his window. Timmy 's legs jerked in surprise, and his eyes popped open. The tap came again, still light, but more urgent.
He slipped out of bed, went to the window, and opened the shades.
Something that looked like Barry stared back at him, but it couldn't actually be Barry, unless he'd just 262 gone ten rounds with the X-Men's Juggernaut. His friend's face resembled a package of hamburger--raw and pink and bloody. Despite this, Barry smiled.
Timmy put a finger to his lips, advising his friend to be quiet. Then he opened the window and the screen.
"What happened," he whispered. "Are you okay?"
"Do I look okay?" Barry's voice sounded funny. Slurred. "I've had better days."
"Your dad did this." It wasn't a question.
Barry nodded. It looked like he was about to start crying.
"Jesus Christ, man." Timmy ran a hand through his hair. "You need to go to the hospital."
"No way." Barry shook his head. "No doctors. No adults. I'm out of here, dude."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm leaving. Running away."
"You're hurt. You can't just run away."
"Well, I am. I can't take any more of this shit."
And then Barry did start crying, and somehow, that scared Timmy worse than his appearance did. His split lip quivered and tears spilled from his swollen eyes.
Timmy sighed. "Hang on. I'll be right out. Just stay quiet. If my parents wake up, we're both screwed."
Sobbing, Barry nodded again, and then slipped off his book bag and crouched down by the side of the house.
As quickly and silently as possible, Timmy changed out of his pajamas and into some clothes. He checked on his parents, making sure that they were both asleep and their door was shut. Satisfied that they were, he grabbed a flashlight and then climbed out the window. He left the screen and the window open a crack so that he could sneak back in.
He stared at Barry. Barry stared at him.
Then they hugged. Spontaneously. Uncharacteristically.
But the gesture was real all the same. Timmy patted his friend's back, and Barry winced, and then pulled away.
"Ouch."
"Sorry," Timmy apologized. "He messed up your back, too?"
"He messed up my whole body. Even my bruises have bruises."
"You really should see a doctor, man."
"No. That would just be one more delay, one more excuse. And then I'd be stuck here again tomorrow night. If I don't leave now, I might not ever."
"But your face ..."
"I'll be okay. It's not as bad as it looks."
Timmy disagreed with his friend's diagnosis, but didn't argue.
"What set him off? Was it what happened earlier, at the shed? If so, I'm really sorry.
I shouldn't have gotten smart with him."
"No, it wasn't that. Who knows? It started because I didn't want to finish my dinner, but if it hadn't been that it would have just been something else."
Despite his friend' s obvious suffering, Timmy felt an immense surge of relief. Finally, after all these years, they were actually talking about the abuse. It was out in the open. No more excuses. No more pretending that it wasn 't going on. Now, maybe they could finally get Barry some help.
"Can I ask you something?"
Barry nodded. "Sure. What's up?"
"How long? How long has this been going on?"
Barry looked at the ground. "As long as I can remember."
"Shit."
"Yeah."
"Why didn't you ever tell somebody?"
"Who would I tell?"
Timmy shrugged. "Well, on those after school specials, kids tell their teachers.
You could have told Mrs. Trimmer."
"Mrs. Trimmer hates us. No way I was telling her."
"You could have told me and Doug. We kinda knew about it anyway."
"You guys couldn't have done anything. Not really. It just didn't seem fair to get you involved. And besides, Doug's got his own problems."
They sat in silence, huddled together against the side of the house. Elizabeth' s wind chimes rang softly. The notes seemed melancholy. A dog barked, far away into the night.
After a few minutes, Barry said, "You know what the first thing I remember is? I mean my very first memory? I was like two or three years old. I was sitting on the kitchen floor, underneath the table, playing with one of those plastic telephones.
Remember the ones with wheels on the bottom, and the smiley face and eyes that moved when you pulled it on the string?"
Timmy nodded, smiling at the memory. He'd owned one, too.
"Well, I'm sitting there playing with that thing, calling Daddy on the telephone and pretending to talk to him. And then my old man comes home. He' d been working all day. Back then, I was too little to understand that he just worked across the street. All I knew was that I missed him. So he comes in and sits down at the kitchen table, and he 's talking to my mom. I think they were arguing. I'm not sure, but they probably were. And meanwhile, I' m trying to get his attention. Trying to get him to pay attention to me, because I
'd missed him all day. I'm still under the 265 table, tugging on his leg, and he's just ignoring me. So I bit him."
"You bit him?"
"Yeah. Like I said, I was just little. I don't remember why I did it. Just seemed like a good way to get his attention, to let him know I was down there. It wasn' t hard. I mean, I just had baby teeth, right?"
"And what did your old man do?"
"He kicked me across the room. I can still see that very clearly. He hollered something and then kicked me across the room. And that's my very first memory."
"That's messed up."
"Yeah, it is. And every day since then has been the same. I'm not putting up with it anymore. I can't."
"And you're really planning on running away?"
Barry pointed at the overstuffed book bag. "Not planning. I'm doing it. Tonight.
I just wanted to tell you first, you know? I didn' t want to leave without saying good-bye. But now that I
'm here ... well, goodbye sucks, doesn't it?"
"Then don't say good-bye." Timmy's voice cracked. "Stay. We'll figure something out."
Barry began to cry, softly. "How?"
"I don't know. But we will." Timmy's eyes filled with tears. "We'll figure it out together. Me, you, and Doug-- the Three Musketeers. We' re like Luke, Han, and Chewie, man. You can 't break up a good team like that."
"Only if I get to be Han."
Timmy smiled. "Sure. I'd rather be Luke, anyway, and Doug's obviously a good pick for Chewbacca."
Both of them wiped their eyes and then laughed.
"Jesus Christ." Barry groaned. "It hurts to laugh. But it feels good, too."
Timmy appraised his friend's face. "He really cut up your cheek. What did that? A knife or something?"
Barry's expression darkened. "No. It was a ring."
"A ring?"
"Yeah." He paused, unsure of how to continue. "Timmy, I need to tell you something.
It might make you angry."
"Dude, I couldn't be any more pissed off at your old man than I am right now."
"Don't be so sure." He took a deep breath, kneaded his ribs, and then continued.
"Your grandfather had his Freemason's ring on when he was buried, right?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Because that was what cut my cheek up tonight. My old man was wearing it."
To Barry's chagrin, Timmy seemed only mildly surprised.
"Aren't you pissed off?" Barry asked. "He stole your grandpa's ring, man!"
"I've got something I need to tell you, too," Timmy said. "I suspect that your dad's taken a lot more than just the ring."
Barry was shocked. "What are you talking about? You mean you knew he was robbing dead people? You didn't say anything?"
Timmy stood up, peered through his window, and made sure his parents were still asleep.
He didn' t hear them moving around, and there were no lights on. Assured they were safe, he knelt back down and told Barry everything he suspected and everything that had transpired since their fight with Barry ' s father behind the utility shed. He started with the legend that Reverend Moore had related to Katie and him, and then worked his way chronologically through the past month ' s events, lying out the supporting evidence and bolstering it with his research.
Finally, Timmy voiced his suspicions regarding Mr. Smeltzer 's compliance, 267 and added Barry's admission that his father had stolen Timmy's grandfather's ring as further proof. He left out his suspicions that it had also been Barry' s own father who hid Pat kemp 's body, because he wasn't sure how Barry would react to that. Grave robbing was one thing. Accessory to murder was another.
When he was finished, Timmy braced himself, expecting Barry to scoff just like his parents had. But he'd forgotten something. Barry was his friend-- and Barry believed him without question.
"I knew about the old church," he said. "My old man told me about it once. If you look carefully, you can still see some of the foundation stones. The grass has pretty much grown over them, though. There are pictures of it down at the library. Never heard about the ghoul, though."
"Well, for whatever reason, they imprisoned it, rather than just killing the thing.
I don't know why. But now it's loose again."
"Okay," Barry said. "What are you going to do about it? Have you told your parents about the ghoul?"
"Yeah." Timmy's voice grew sullen. "They didn't believe me. Dad grounded me and ... ripped up my comic collection."
Barry gasped. "Holy shit! All of them?"
Timmy nodded. "Every last one."
"Oh, man. That's ... I don't know what to say. My old man, I could see him doing that. But your dad? Never in a million years."
"Well, believe it. The proofs sitting in the basement right now."
"I'm sorry about that, man. What are you going to do?"
Timmy shrugged. "Nothing I can do. And it's not like I can run away with you. Not now. Not after ..."
"Katie?"
"Yeah. You can understand that, right?"
Barry spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. "I guess. I mean, she's cute and all. I don' t know. Just seems like me, you, and Doug have been hanging out longer. I
'd think we would come first."
Timmy's temper flared. "I'm putting everybody first. If I don't do something about this ghoul, then everyone's in danger. Katie. Doug--"
"Not me," Barry interrupted. "I'm out of here, man. Tonight."
"What about Doug?"
"I'm stopping at his house next. It's on my way. Who knows? He might want to go with me, crazy as his mom is."
Timmy's spirits sank even lower. He hadn't considered the possibility that both of his friends might want to leave.
"Doug won't go. He'd chicken out."
"Probably," Barry agreed, "but I at least want to tell him bye."
"Then what?"
"Figured I'd walk to Porters or Jefferson and hop a freight train. They're both close enough that I could make it before dawn. Then I' ll just hide out in the woods along the tracks until a train comes by. I don ' t want to grab one here in town because all of the ones that come into the paper mill are either coal trains or log carriers, and it would be too hard to hide on one of those. Dangerous to hop, too."
"So you'll hop a train. And go where?"
"Wherever it takes me. Hanover is too close, but maybe Westminster or Baltimore or down into West Virginia or Ohio. Wherever. As long as it' s away from here, I really don 't care."
"Barry, you just had the shit beat out of you, man. You can barely talk. You're moving like you're eighty years old. There's no way you can hop a train tonight."
"Well, then what do you suggest I do, Timmy? Hitchhike? Get picked up by some psycho, and dumped alongside Interstate Eighty-three? No thanks. Or maybe busted by the cops and then brought back home to my old man?"
"Stick around for another day. Rest up a little bit. Recuperate. Doug and I will hide you. When your mom reports you missing, we'll say we don' t know anything about it. At least get better before you leave."
"Where are you gonna hide me? The Dugout? No way I'm staying there. Not if there really is a ghoul on the loose. And I can' t stay here. Your parents would want to call the cops and stuff."
"And then your dad would go to jail."
"Probably not. This isn' t TV. And even if the cops did put him in jail, what if they took me away from Mom and stuck me in a foster home? That would be just as bad."
"How about you hide at Doug's house?"
Barry snorted in derision. "Yeah, right. With his mom? Get real. Would you spend the night there?"
"No."
"I'm sorry, Timmy. I really am. But this is the way it's got to be. I can't stay around here another night. If I do, I'll never escape. I don't want that."
They fell quiet again. Somewhere in the night, out on the main road, a car backfired.
An owl hooted closer to them. The crickets had grown quiet.
Barry slowly stood up. "Well, I guess this is it."
He stuck out his hand. Timmy stared at it. After a moment, he took it. Their grips were firm. Then Barry pulled him to his feet.
"See," Barry said. "I'm feeling better already. Told you it wasn't as bad as it looks."
Timmy didn't respond.
"You gonna be okay?" Barry asked.
Timmy nodded. He was afraid to speak, afraid that he might start crying again.
"Seriously, the pain isn't as bad now," Barry said. "My lip still hurts, and my cheek.
But the aches and stuff are going away."
"That's good. Maybe you can take another break when you get to Doug's."
"Yeah."
They stood there, neither one knowing what to say, and neither one wanting to be the first to turn away from the other. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Barry spoke.
"I'm gonna miss you, man."
"Yeah ..." The lump rising in his throat cut off the rest of Timmy's reply.
They hugged, quick and hard this time. When they disengaged from one another, Timmy stared at the ground and Barry looked into the night sky. Then, shuffling his feet in reluctance, Barry picked up the book bag and sighed.
"Take it easy, Timmy."
"You too. You got my address, right?"
"Sure do. I'll write to you."
"Okay. Be careful, dude."
"I will. Nothing out there can be any worse than what we've got right here. I'll be all right."
"Well..." Timmy paused, and then looked him in the eyes. "You're the best friend I've ever had. You and Doug. Never thought we' d leave each other. I love you, man."
Barry smiled, sadly. "I love you, too. And I will 271 always be your friend. Even when you do grow up and become a rich and famous comic book writer."
He smiled. Timmy tried his best to return the gesture, but found that he couldn't.
It was more of a grimace than a grin.
Then Barry turned to walk away.
Timmy watched him go. His fists balled at his sides.
Barry kept walking. His shoulders were slumped. He stared at the ground.
Suddenly, Timmy lurched forward and grabbed his arm.
"Look. I can't do this without you, man. You' re my best friend in the world and I need you. Please stay. Just long enough to help me beat this thing in the cemetery? Please? I need your help."
Barry grinned. "It's hard being your friend sometimes, Graco. You always have to be the one in charge."
"Yeah, but this time I mean it. I need your help. I can't do this by myself."
"Well, since you're admitting that you can't do it without me, then I guess I have to, don't I?"
Timmy gasped, relieved. Then he laughed with joy.
Barry set the book bag down. "So, what's the plan, oh fearless leader?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
"Squirt guns with lemon juice again?"
"Nope. Something better. Let me take a leak real quick and I'll tell you all about it."
Chapter Fourteen "Are you insane?" Barry shouted. "It will never work."
"Yes, it will," Timmy said. "And keep your voice down. You want somebody to hear us?"
"Yeah, if only to stop us before we get killed. This is a dumb idea."
"As long as you guys listen to me, there's no way we can fail. What's the worse that could happen?"
Sputtering, Barry raised his arms to the night sky. "Didn't you just hear what I said? We could get killed! What' s the worse that could happen? How about the ghoul eats us for breakfast, man? How about all three of us end up like Pat? You don 't think that's bad?"
"None of that is going to happen. You've got to trust me."
"Last time we trusted you was with Catcher, and look what happened."
Timmy stopped walking. "That was your fault."
Barry grew sullen. "Okay. You made your point."
They continued on, crossing from Timmy's yard into the Wahl's. The first part of Timmy' s plan was simple. They intended to go the long way around to the Dugout, avoiding Barry 's house and the church and the cemetery. Instead, they'd cut through the Wahl's, cross the road, and then walk through Luke Jones' s pasture. Hopefully, the bulls were penned up for the night. When they were near the Dugout, they ' d come back up to the fence line. Timmy insisted that they needed the map for his plan to work, and that they couldn 't wait until daylight to get it because Barry's dad might see them-- not to mention that Timmy was grounded and Barry would soon be listed as a runaway.
Timmy had tried one more time to convince his friend to go back home for the evening, but Barry refused. Instead, he would hide out in Bowman 's Woods for the day, while Timmy plotted their next course of action.
Timmy's intent was simple. Tomorrow, he would use the map to chart out the possible locations for the ghoul's network of tunnels. He' d start with what they knew --the hole in the utility shed and the places where the ground was sinking, and mark those on the map. Then he' d connect the dots, and that should give them an idea of where the tunnels lay. While he was doing this, Barry would sneak off to Doug ' s house and inform him of the plan, then go back into hiding in the woods. Tomorrow night, the three of them would sneak into the cemetery and, utilizing Mr. Smeltzer ' s picks and shovels, would dig up the tunnels in various locations, flooding them with daylight when the sun rose.
They crept through the Wahl's yard, skirting around their swimming pool. Inside the house, the elderly couple's miniature Schnauzer yipped in alarm.
"Shit." Timmy urged his friend on. "Pookie's awake. Go!"
They hurried on, crossing the road and jumping the fence. Barry, normally much stronger than Timmy, had trouble keeping up. Once they were safely out of sight and in the pasture, they stopped to take a rest.
Barry sighed. "Wish I'd left this book bag back at your place. It's getting heavy."
"Leave it here. We'll get it on the way back."
"Good idea." He unzipped the bag and ruffled around inside it. He pulled out the flashlight and his pocketknife and then zipped it back up.
"You ready?" Timmy asked.
Barry nodded.
They walked on. Almost an hour had passed since Barry had first shown up at Timmy' s bedroom window, and it was now well after three, the longest part of the night, yet neither one of them were tired. They should have been. They knew this. Both boys had been through more that day than the combined events of the summer so far. Yet they weren ' t fatigued. Far from it. They were both excited and angry and a little bit scared, and the adrenalin kept them moving. Especially Barry, battered as he was.
"So, tomorrow night," Barry said, "what if the ghoul shows up while we're digging?
What happens then? You said daylight was the only thing that would kill him."
"Don't worry about that. I'll take care of it."
"You've got a plan for that?"
Timmy paused. "No. But I will by tomorrow night. I'm sure there's something in one of my comic--"
He stopped, jarred by the knowledge that his comic book collection no longer existed.
"I'll come up with something."
They continued through the pasture and then turned toward the fence, coming up behind the Dugout. They 275 carefully scanned the cemetery beyond, but there was no sign of monsters-- parents or otherwise. Everything was silent. They approached the Dugout. The clubhouse lay hidden in shadows, invisible from their vantage point. They checked again to make sure the coast was clear, then opened the trap door. Timmy turned on his flashlight and swung around, preparing to climb down the ladder.
Barry grabbed his arm. "Wait a second."
Timmy paused. "What?"
"Thought I saw something in your flashlight beam."
Barry turned on his own flashlight and shined it down into the hole. Both boys gasped aloud.
The Dugout was gone. The roof was still there, still concealing it from the outside world. The stovepipe still jutted from the ground, providing fresh air below. But the ladder led down into darkness. The fort was now a gaping chasm. The entire floor had disappeared, and all of their belongings had apparently gone with it. The tunnel dropped straight down for about five feet before sloping away into parts unknown.
It looked like it ran in the direction of the cemetery, but they couldn ' t be sure from where they stood.
At the same time, they both said, "Oh shit..."
Perched on the ladder, Timmy shined his flashlight around, studying the damage. He noticed a few random items at the mouth of the crevice, caught at the tunnel' s bend --an issue of Cracked, a plastic SpiderMan cup from 7-11, an old shotgun shell they'd found in the woods.
A discarded Kit-Kat wrapper.
The map.
"Shine your light down there," Timmy told Barry. He set his own flashlight on the ground and then started down the ladder.
"Are you nuts? What are you doing?"
"I'm going in."
"No you're not. This isn't a comic book, dude. You and I both know what did this.
You were right. This is our proof. Let' s get the hell out of here and call the cops."
"You didn't want to call the cops before."
"That was about my old man. And besides, we didn't have any hard proof before. We do now. They can't ignore this."
"I'm going down there," Timmy insisted. "You just stand guard for me."
"Timmy!"
Ignoring his protests, Timmy started down the ladder. Without even thinking about it, Barry pulled the BB pistol out of his waistband with his free hand and pointed it down the hole. Just holding the weapon made him feel better.
When Timmy reached the bottom, he dangled his legs over the hole and glanced around, unsure of what to do next. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out Barry 's alarmed whispers. Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes and let go of the rungs.
Barry gripped the flashlight and BB pistol and watched in terrified amazement.
Timmy plummeted downward and landed with a smack, sending a cloud of dirt into the air. Immediately, he began to slide down into the tunnel. He scrabbled, grasping at the soil, trying to arrest his fall. Above him, Barry struggled to see. The swirling dust blocked his flashlight beam. When Timmy reached the curve, he stopped sliding.
Inching forward, he grabbed the map and the candy wrapper. Then he crawled back to the ladder. He slipped a few times, and each time he did, his heart leapt into his throat. When his hand 277 closed around the rung, both boys breathed a sigh of relief. Timmy stuffed the rescued items in his waistband and then climbed back up.
"You okay?"
Timmy nodded, out of breath.
"That was really stupid, man."
"I know. But we need the map."
"Let's get the hell out of here now. Okay? This whole thing gives me the creeps.
It's too quiet, like in a movie."
"Hang on one second. I just want to make sure the map is okay."
Timmy unrolled the map and spread it out on the ground. He paused, his fingers tracing over the topography. Then he looked up at Barry. His eyes were wide.
"What's wrong?"
Timmy pointed. "There's some new stuff on here that wasn't on it before."
"Where?"
Timmy showed him, pointing out the section of woods where they'd found Pat Kemp' s abandoned Nova. The area around the edge, which had been left blank before, was now partially filled in. The illustrations were obviously made by Doug 's hand, and it looked as if he'd stopped drawing mid-tree.
"So Doug stopped by and worked on it," Barry said. "Good. Now let's get out of here."
"Don't you see? The only time he could have done this was earlier tonight. Look at this thumbprint. That' s chocolate." He scraped at the smudge with his fingernail. "And it 's fresh."
Agitated, Timmy pulled out the candy wrapper and sniffed. "This is fresh, too. There are still crumbs inside."
Barry turned pale. "You don't think ... Doug was in there when ... ?"
Timmy swooned. The Kit-Kat wrapper slipped from his hand, fluttering to the ground.
He knelt, his face in his hands.
"My mom took him home when the cops were done. He'd spent the night before, so he didn' t have his bike. That was around dinnertime. He would have had to come back here between then and now."
"And he would have rode his bike," Barry said. "I don't see it here. Maybe he'd already left when this happened."
"Maybe." Timmy sounded unsure.
"Look, we need to get out of here, man. This is too close to the cemetery. If that thing is still around, or even if my old man is out here, we're sitting ducks. Let' s at least go down into the pasture or something."
Nodding in agreement, Timmy stood up and brushed himself off. His jeans and T-shirt were filthy.
"My mom is gonna freak out if she sees this."
"Why? It's just dirt. You get dirty all the time."
"Yeah, but if she sees these tomorrow, she'll know I snuck out. I'll have to hide them in the bottom of the hamper."
Timmy turned his flashlight back on, and the two of them started toward the field.
Barry's light beam flashed off something white, hidden in the weeds.
"What's that?"
He trained the flashlight on the object and it shined back in his eyes.
A reflector.
Both boys ran over to the weeds and pushed them aside. Doug's bike lay on its side, abandoned.
Timmy moaned. "Oh, no."
"This doesn't mean he was here," Barry said. "Not Doug. He wasn't here. He just wasn't."
Timmy's voice was barely a whisper. "Yeah. He 279 was. He was in the Dugout, eating a candy bar and working on the map when that thing came up out of the ground and got him."
"Not Doug. We don't know that for sure."
"Stop it," Timmy cried. "Just stop it, Barry. I know you're scared. I'm scared, too."
"What are we going to do?"
Taking a deep breath, Timmy strode back to the trapdoor.
"You're going to get your old man's keys, get the backhoe out of the shed, and then start digging this whole place up."
"I am?" Barry scoffed. "And what are you going to do?"
"I'm going down there. I'm going after Doug."
"Yeah, right!"
"I'm serious, dude. Go get your dad's keys and start the backhoe up."
"I'm not going back to my house. What if my old man is there?"
"Then make sure he doesn't see you."
"No way. No freaking way, Timmy. Not on your life."
"Barry, we've got no choice."
"If I got the keys and if my old man didn't see me, I still can't start the backhoe.
It' s nuts. Running that thing in the middle of the night? Somebody will hear us for sure, and call the cops."
"Good," Timmy argued. "Let them. The more the merrier."
"But a few minutes ago, you didn't want the cops here."
"I don't care anymore. Doug is gone, man. Don't you see? Can't you get it through that thick head of yours? He' s down there, right now, with that thing, and he could be hurt. For all we know, he could be 280 dead. We can't wait any more. We don't have time to make a plan. We can't rely on the grown-ups. We have to do something now. You promised that you' d help me, so help me goddamn it."
Scowling, Barry kicked the ground. His mouth was a thin, tight line, and his bottom lip had started bleeding again. The red gash on his cheek stood out in stark contrast to his pale, moonlit skin.
"Okay. I'll do it. But you're insane, Graco."
"No, I'm not, and neither are you. We're not the crazy ones."
"Then who is?"
Timmy didn't respond. He simply stared at Barry, impatient.
After a moment, Barry understood what he was implying. "Oh, yeah. Them."
"Get going," Timmy said. "Once you get the backhoe running, just start digging everything up between here and the shed. Any place where the ground is sinking --that's where you'll want to dig. It's got to be close to four o' clock now, if not a little after that. Sun usually comes up around five-thirty. That gives us like an hour and a half or so."
"Yeah, but the sunlight isn't really shining bright until around six-thirty or seven.
What if the light isn't enough?"
Then we'll just have to go with Plan B."
"And what is Plan B?"
"Just get going." Timmy pointed in the direction of Barry's house.
Barry stayed put. "You don't have a Plan B, do you?"
"No," Timmy admitted. "I don't."
Timmy stepped to the ladder's edge and peered nervously into the darkness. He took several deep breaths and then said, "Okay. Here I go."
He didn't move. Neither did Barry. They stared at each other.
"Aren't you going?" Barry asked.
"Aren't you?"
"Yeah. I will. I just wanted to make sure you made it down safely."
"I'll be fine," Timmy said. "You be careful."
"You too."
They both continued standing still.
"You scared?" Barry asked.
Timmy nodded. "I' ve never been more scared in my life. But Doug is down there somewhere. We owe it to him. We owe it to ourselves. I... I need to prove to my dad that he was wrong.
Does that make sense?"
Barry glanced off into the distance. "It makes perfect sense. More than you know."
"I'll try to keep the ghoul distracted while you open the tunnels up. Don't let me down, okay?"
Barry turned back to him. His expression was grim. His fingers tightened around the BB pistol.
"I told you, man. We're friends for life. You can count on me."
"Okay. Seriously, let's do this. Before it's too late."
"Here." Barry held out his pocketknife. "You might need this."
"Thanks." Timmy stuffed the knife in his pocket and then stepped onto the ladder.
"Be careful," Barry called.
Nodding, Timmy climbed down the rickety ladder.
"Here I come, Doug," he whispered. "Just hang on man, and please be all right."
He went slowly, carefully watching his footing. When he reached the bottom, he let' go of the rungs and tumbled once more into the darkness. Barry watched the hole swallow him up, until he could see 282 him no more. Even his flashlight beam had vanished. Timmy was gone, into the monster's lair.
"Be careful," he whispered. He didn't know if Timmy heard him or not.
Barry turned toward home--a monster's lair of its own--and wondered if either one of them would actually still be alive come dawn.
Chapter Fifteen The first thing Timmy noticed was the stench. It hung thick in the air, like an invisible fog, and he could taste it in his mouth when he breathed. It was just like what they ' d smelled before; coming out of the holes around the cemetery, but it was much stronger now; highly concentrated. It burned his nose the way the smell of bleach did when his mother was doing laundry.
Make it a game, he thought. I'm Luke Skywalker, sneaking through the Death Star, trying to rescue the Princess.
He stumbled over a thick tree root jutting up from the soil and reached his hand out to steady himself. The tunnel' s walls were cold and damp, and covered with some type of slime. Timmy jerked his hand away and shined the flashlight on it. His fingers were webbed with something that resembled milky snot. Disgusted, he wiped them on his jeans before continuing.
The passageway wound into the darkness, and his 284 meager flashlight beam did little to penetrate the gloom. And yet, Timmy had the distinct impression that he could actually see farther than he should be able to.
As his eyes adjusted, he realized why. It was the slime. The stuff was glowing -- barely noticeable, but giving off a faint, eerie radiance all the same. He wondered what it was. Living within twenty miles of both the Three Mile Island and Peachbottom nuclear power plants, Timmy was very conscious of radioactive waste, even at twelve.
Several times over the last five years, there had been news stories about barrels of waste found dumped in creeks and streams, or off dirt logging roads way out in the wilderness. But this wasn 't anything like that. The substance coated everything-- walls, ceiling, and the parts of the floor not covered up with piles of loose soil.
It had to be the ghoul. Maybe the creature exuded the slime from its pores. Maybe the stuff aided the ghoul in digging, or allowed it to see much better below ground.
And maybe, the thought occurred to him, he didn't know nearly as much about ghouls as he' d assumed, and perhaps he should just turn around right now and go call the police.
But then he thought of Doug, who 'd been let down by everyone in his life, except for Timmy and Barry. He couldn' t just abandon his friend down here. As scared as he was, he had no choice.
Timmy pressed ahead, feeling less like Tom Sawyer or Luke Skywalker and more like the very frightened twelve-year-old boy that he was. He pulled out Barry' s pocketknife and opened the blade. He clutched it with one hand and held the flashlight in the other. Neither item made him feel more courageous. He wished his father were here with him. Timmy 's hate and anger were forgotten. He wanted the safety net he'd grown 285 accustomed to over the years-- knowing that no matter how bad the danger was, his parents were always standing by, ready to take care of him. Shelter him. Keep him safe from the monsters. He remembered when he was little, and had been convinced there was a monster under his bed. He ' d cry out at night, and his father was always there, turning on the light and checking the closets and beneath the bed.
And now his father wasn't there.
Timmy went on. He'd never felt more alone. Even thinking of Katie didn't help.
The passage was roughly circular, and varied in height and width. At some points, he had to duck his head or pull his arms tight against his sides to avoid brushing up against the walls. Other stretches were wide enough to walk comfortably in. He tried to guess in which direction he was traveling, but it was impossible to tell.
Eventually, other tunnels began branching off the main passageway. He decided not to venture down them, for fear of becoming lost. His progress was slow. He kept the light trained on the floor, looking for signs of where Doug might be --footprints, candy wrappers, blood, anything. He found nothing.
The maze of tunnels was silent. The only thing Timmy heard was the sound of his own panicked breathing. His mouth felt dry, and his pulse throbbed in his neck and temples.
He felt a momentary urge to call out, to shout for Doug, just to break the stillness, and the thought frightened him even more.
Where are you, Doug? Please be okay. Just hang on a little bit longer.
Biting his lip, Timmy forced himself not to cry.
The passage sloped downward, and Timmy followed it, deeper into the earth. The spoiled milk stench grew 286 stronger--and now there was another smell mixed with it. Rot. Decay. Death.
Barry rushed through the field. His wounds and pain were forgotten, and he urged himself on. Dew-covered weeds whipped at his legs, soaking his jeans and shoes. The crickets and other insects grew louder, disturbed by his passage. He went by the spot where he 'd left his book bag, but didn' t bother stopping to retrieve it. When he reached the road, he crouched close to the ground and stared at his house. All of the lights were still off, which meant anyone inside was probably sleeping. The car was still in the driveway, but that meant nothing. When his father had left earlier, he ' d departed on foot. Which meant he was probably in the cemetery somewhere.
He hoped.
Swallowing nervously, Barry rushed across the road and into the yard, moving as quickly but silently as possible. He opened the screen door, silently willing the hinges not to creak, and then slowly turned the doorknob. Meeting no resistance, he stepped inside.
The house was quiet. He paused, listening. After a moment, he heard his mother's soft snoring coming from his parent' s bedroom. He was tempted to creep down the hall and peek, see if his father was lying next to her, but he decided not to chance it. Timmy was counting on him. He had to hurry.
He moved over to the hat rack hanging above the kitchen door. His father only had one hat, a faded, weather-beaten Skoal cap that he sometimes wore. The rest of the rack was used for keys and umbrellas. Both the hat and the umbrellas were there, hanging 287 from their pegs, as were his mother's keys. But his father's key ring was missing.
"Shit." His voice was louder than he'd intended, and Barry jumped, frightening himself.
It made sense, of course, and he cursed himself for being so stupid. His father would have taken the keys with him when he left, even if only to get inside the utility shed where he stored his emergency bottles of Wild Turkey. He should have thought of that when Timmy came up with this stupid plan.
Frustrated, Barry checked his parent's room after all. His mother slept soundly.
His father' s side of the bed was still made up. Untouched. And with the car still sitting next to the garage, that meant there was only one possibility: his father was still in the graveyard, probably drunk, and Barry would have to find him, face him, and somehow get his keys.
He ran out of the house and prayed he could do it all in time. The horizon was tinged with a faint trace of bluish-white. Not a lot--just a hint of the dawn' s impending arrival.
"Hang on, Timmy," he panted. "I'm coming."
Timmy traveled steadily downward. At times, the tunnel sloped so steeply that his feet slipped and he had to struggle to maintain his balance. In addition, the maze had become more bewildering than ever. When Timmy was seven, he 'd had a pet hamster named Milo that he'd won at the York Fair. He' d kept the hamster in his room and set up a Habitrail for him. Timmy had assumed that Milo would love running around inside the multiple plastic tubes and paths, but the hamster had seemed terrified of them. Now, he understood how Milo had felt.
Soon, the purpose of the branching passageways and multiple crossroads became clear.
Each new path led upward to a grave. The further he went, the more of them he encountered.
The tunnel was littered with empty coffins, smashed into kindling and tossed aside, along with scraps of clothing and other unwanted items that had held no value to either the ghoul or his human assistant -- teeth, toupees, and something that Timmy realized with dread was a pacemaker. In some areas, the main tunnel was so clogged with discarded coffins that he had to crawl over the wreckage. At one point, teetering on the edge of a silk-lined casket, he dropped both the flashlight and the pocketknife. The beam went out and the flashlight rolled away, plunging Timmy into total darkness. Frantically, he dropped from the coffin and felt around for them. Tears welled up in his eyes. His breathing came in short, quick gasps. Then his fingers closed over the flashlight. Mouthing a prayer, he turned it on. It still worked. After a few moments, he recovered the pocketknife as well, and then continued on his way.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. Now just let Doug be all right and let us get out of here and let Barry get the backhoe and everything will be okay."
Timmy stopped in the middle of the passage. He suddenly felt as if someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over him. He remembered Clark Smeltzer, standing over him behind the utility shed, bragging.
"There's a new lock on this shed, and I'm the only one that can open it."
Both Timmy and Barry had heard him say that. How could they have been so stupid?
How was Barry supposed to get inside the shed if he didn' t know the combination? His father 's keys were useless.
So, he thought, Barry will just have to bust the window in or something. He won't let us down.
Eventually, after a long, descending walk, the tunnel evened out again. At the same time, it grew wider and taller. He noticed that the surface was more smoothed and rounded, as if extra care had been taken in finishing this part. The side-tunnels became nonexistent. Timmy wondered why at first, and then figured it out. He must be getting close to the older portion of the cemetery. There was an area between the two sections, right along the hill separating them, where there were no graves --ancient or modern. He must be beneath that now. Just today he'd been there with Katie, walking hand in hand, when they' d seen the big depression in the earth. He closed his eyes, remembering the way she ' d smelled. It already seemed like a million years ago, and he wanted very badly to see her again at that moment. He felt that if he could hold her hand again, everything would be okay.
He paused and listened, but heard nothing. If his suspicions were correct, and he was nearing the older part of the graveyard, then he must be very close to where the ghoul had originally been imprisoned. The smell was at its strongest now. He ' d grown used to it during his journey, been almost able to ignore it, but now he noticed it again. His fears, which he ' d managed to set aside, came creeping back now. Every bit of him wanted to turn around and flee, but the thought of Doug, trapped in this impenetrable darkness, rooted his feet to the ground.
As if in response to his mounting terror, something grunted in the darkness. An animalistic sound, like a boar or a bear would make. Timmy let out a frightened yelp and spun around. It was impossible to tell for sure where the sound had come from, how near or far, but 290 he thought it might have been behind him. He shined the light back the way he' d come, terrified of what it might reveal, but the tunnel was empty. He waited for the noise to be repeated, but the silence returned.
"Oh, Jesus ..."
He resisted the urge to run, and hurried ahead instead.
From its hidden nook in a side tunnel, the ghoul listened to the boy go by. The child was heading deeper into its warren, nearing the main lair, which was exactly what it wanted. Once there, the intruder would be cut off. The boy would have to come back through this same tunnel to exit the burrows, and the ghoul could catch him unawares.
Its initial urge had been to kill the boy as soon as it had caught his scent and then heard him coming. But it had waited, intrigued that such a young human could display a courage and determination not found in many of his elders (at least, from the ghoul ' s experience with humans). It had let the child pass simply because he might provide good sport. As an afterthought, it had let out one short grunt, simply to spur the child onward and intensify his fear.
Meat was much sweeter when it had been marinnated in fear.
And besides, it was still consuming the first one.
Grinning, the ghoul returned to its meal. The still-warm flesh felt solid--real--between its teeth-- not disintegrating or turning to mush the way decaying flesh did. The ghoul relished every bite. It sighed with delight as its incisors sank into a thigh. The blood was sweet and thick, and it eagerly lapped it up. The boy had been blessed with an extra layer of fat, and the ghoul greedily dug into the yellow curds with both hands.
It cracked open a bone and sucked out the marrow, and wondered if this new child intruder had been a friend of its current meal. The new boy' s scent was familiar, possibly from the children ' s clubhouse it had ransacked earlier. What was it that Smeltzer had said? The Keiser child, who currently lay spread out and open before it, had played with the gravedigger 's son, and one other. The ghoul searched its memory for the name. Draco? Mako?
Graco.
The ghoul raised its hands to its face. Its long, black tongue flicked, licking bits of flesh from its gore-encrusted talons. It burrowed its snout into the boy' s stomach, and even as it did, the creature 's stomach growled at the promise of more to come. And it didn' t even have to move or hunt. It could wait here, finish this appetizer, and then trap the main course before the boy escaped.
Barry found his father beneath a marble monument-- a tall, monolithic spire nearly eight feet high. His father sat propped up against it, eyes shut, reeking of booze. Shattered glass lay nearby, the remains of a Wild Turkey bottle. At first, Barry thought he might be dead. He was covered in blood and his face and neck were sliced open pretty bad. He didn 't stir when Barry prodded him with one foot. Hands trembling, Barry brought out the BB pistol and fired one round at his father' s unmoving body. The projectile bounced off his shirt. Still he didn 't move.
"Shit."
Barry wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel. He was no stranger to grief. He saw it all the time, whenever there was a funeral at the church. He' d seen every reaction imaginable, from sadness to dark gallows 292 humor. He guessed perhaps he should feel sad, although that seemed stupid, considering all his father had put him through.
The only emotion Barry felt was an overwhelming surge of relief.
It quickly turned to anger--and fear--when his father opened one eye and stared at him in surprise.
"B-Barry? Wha..."
That was all. He closed his eye. Barry stepped backward, making sure he was out of reach, and then he shot him again. This time, his father' s hand twitched feebly. Barry sat the flashlight on a tombstone and approached him cautiously, ready to run if the old man showed any sign of moving more than he had.
He didn' t. His chest rose and fell very slightly, but that was all. Barry shoved the barrel of the BB pistol in his face, just inches from his eye. He knelt in the grass, careful to avoid the shards of broken glass. Slowly, he reached into his father ' s pocket with his free hand and retrieved the keys. They jingled. His father groaned, but lay still. Barry stood up and hurried away. He grabbed the flashlight and headed for the utility shed.
The faint glow on the horizon was spreading.
Barry reached the shed doors and fumbled for the right key. He held it up to the lock and then cursed out loud. In their panic, in their hurry to rescue Doug, both he and Timmy had forgotten about the new lock.
He threw the keys at the shed. They bounced off the wall and landed in the grass.
Barry ran back over to his father and knelt beside him. He grabbed his father' s face in his hands, careful not to touch the wounds, and shook him.
"Dad, what's the combination to the shed?"
His father didn't reply. His eyes twitched, but he made no sound.
"Dad! Wake up. What's the combination?"
Clark mumbled, "S'
'nother bottle inshide."
"Goddamn it!"
Barry stood up, stalked back over to the shed, and surveyed his father' s repair job. The old window had been boarded up, and the plywood sheeting looked thick and strong. He glanced around for something to pry it with, but the ground was barren. His eyes settied on a metal plate stuck into the ground at the foot of a grave. The plate informed him that the man who was buried there, Mick Wagner, had died in service to his country in Korea. Barry ripped the plate from the ground.
The edges were blunt and narrow. He wedged it between the boards and pushed. The nails creaked. The board moved. Spirits rising, Barry dropped the sign, stood back, and kicked the plywood. The sole of his sneaker absorbed most of the impact, but his foot throbbed. The pain was nothing compared to how the rest of his body felt.
Clenching his teeth, he kicked the board again. The plywood clattered to the floor inside.
Barry grabbed the flashlight, clicked it on, and cautiously crawled through the window.
He' d been inside the utility shed thousands of times, but it had never scared him until now. In the darkness, once familiar shapes now became something sinister lurking in the corner.
He stood overtop the hole in the center of the floor and listened, hoping to hear an indication that his friends were still down there-- and alive. Instead, he was greeted by silence.
He found the crowbar, went back outside, and pried the hasp off the doors, lock and all. The doors swung open. Barry retrieved his father' s keys, climbed up onto the backhoe, and crossed his fingers. Taking a 294 deep breath, he inserted the key into the ignition and turned it.
The backhoe roared to life.
Exhaling, Barry turned on the headlights and drove it out into the graveyard. Awoken by the rumbling engine, his father stirred, glancing about slowly.
Shit, Barry thought, If he regains consciousness he could screw this whole thing up.
Leaving the engine running, he put the backhoe in park and hopped down. He ran back into the shed, found some long black bungee cords, and wrapped them around his father 's chest, abdomen, and shoulders, tying him to the monument. After making sure they were tight, Barry stood back and smiled.
His old man had fallen unconscious again.
Barry spit in his face.
The sky grew lighter.
The tunnel broadened and all at once, Timmy found himself stepping into a large, roughly circular chamber. He gasped, not so much from fright, but from the scene before him. The dirt floor was littered with bones and other body fragments. A shattered skull stared back at him. His flashlight beam disappeared into its hollow eyes. The ceiling was high, much higher than in the network of tunnels, and Timmy got the impression that he was deep below the cemetery now. It felt like the earth itself was pressing down on him. But neither the bones nor the atmosphere were what made him gasp.
It was the women.
There were two of them. Katie's older sister, Karen, and another woman whom Timmy didn't recognize. He assumed that she was the missing woman he' d heard about on the news. Both of them were dressed in rags, 295 their clothing soiled and torn to shreds. Despite his overwhelming dread, Timmy felt a dark thrill go through him at the sight of Karen Moore' s breasts. He immediately felt guilty, but his eyes were drawn back to them again.
They were covered with red scratches. Both women ' s hands and feet were bound with thick roots and vines, tied together in crude knots, and then looped around large, heavy logs, insuring that they wouldn ' t escape. A corner of the chamber was covered with feces; most of it theirs, he assumed.
The larger piles probably belonged to the ghoul itself. The two women huddled together on a pile of straw and grass, staring at Timmy with wide, horrified eyes.
"Um." He wasn't sure what to say.
"I... know you ..." Karen spoke haltingly, hesitant, as if she'd forgotten how to talk--or was afraid to. Her voice was hoarse and scratchy. "From ... church?"
Swallowing, Timmy nodded. "Yeah, you do. I'm Timmy Graco, Randy and Elizabeth Graco's son. I'm your sister's ..."-- he started to say boyfriend, but caught himself --"... friend."
The other woman said nothing. She simply stared at him, that frozen, horrified expression never leaving her face.
Timmy smiled, trying to reassure them.
"Are you okay?" he asked Karen.
She nodded slowly, as if unsure what the word meant. "I... we--it hurt us. Did ... things."
Karen began to make clicking sounds in her throat. She looked as if she might start screaming. Slowly, Timmy stepped toward them. The other woman shrank away, pressing her back against the dirt wall.
"Look," Timmy said, keeping his voice calm and soft, "I've come to rescue you. I'll get you out of here."
Both women whimpered. Tears rolled down Karen's 296 dirty face. The other woman fixated on the knife in Timmy's hand.
"It's okay," he whispered. "I'm just going to use it to cut you free."
She shook her head, trembling harder.
"Her name is ... Deb," Karen rasped. "Her first night here ... all she did was scream.
She ... hasn't said anything since."
Timmy sawed at Karen's bonds first, so that with any luck, Deb would see he didn' t mean them any harm. This close to them, he tried to ignore their nudity. It was easier than he 'd imagined. Both captives stank of unwashed bodies and something else-- something fishy, almost like almonds or ammonia. He was afraid to ask what it was.
Their pale skin was covered with cuts and scratches and a fine sheen of dried blood and the ghoul ' s slime. When he was finished freeing her, Karen rubbed her wrists and ankles. Both had red circles where the vines had rubbed the flesh raw. As her circulation returned, he moved over to the other woman. She cowered, moving as far away from him as she could.
"It's okay," Timmy said. "I promise. I'm just going to get you loose, like I did her."
She shook her head and turned away from him, squeezing her eyes shut.
Timmy sighed in exasperation. "Why doesn't she believe me?"
"Because," Karen said, "she thinks you're going to ... do what he's been doing to us."
"Who?"
Karen frowned. "That thing."
"The ghoul?"
She nodded. "Is that what it is?"
Rather than answering, Timmy tried again to free the frightened woman.
"Don't scream," he told her. "I'm not going to hurt you."
He raised the knife, and she whined, the start of a shriek building in her throat.
"Okay," he said, and dropped the knife again. "Shhh. Don't scream. It's okay. I put it down."
Her scream turned into a fearful sigh.
Timmy turned to Karen. "Do you know where it is now?"
"It feeds at night. Usually comes back just before dawn. That's when it... that's when it happens. After that, it sleeps."
Timmy paused, listening for the sounds of the backhoe. He didn't hear anything. He wondered if he'd even be able to hear it this far below the surface.
"The sun will be up soon," he told Karen. "We' ve got to get you both out of here before the ghoul comes back. See if you can help me cut her loose. Then the two of you head straight down that tunnel. It goes for a long way, but keep following it."
"What about you?"
"I've got to find my friend, Doug Keiser. Do you know him?"
She paused; then nodded. "Fat kid? Yeah, I know him. Hangs around with you and the Smeltzer kid. I remember now. All three of you guys used to talk to Pat... he liked you. I
'd forgotten. Forgot about... Pat."
Her face blanched, and Timmy thought she might scream. Instead she swooned. He propped her up while she shook against him, her entire body quivering.
"Is he okay?" she asked. "Pat--is he alive?"
"Yeah," Timmy lied. "Sure. Help me get Deb loose and we'll go see him, okay?"
She nodded. Steadying herself, she rose to her feet.
Timmy shined the flashlight back to Deb. This time she met his gaze. Her lower lip trembled.
"Please," Timmy said. "I need to help my friend. Let me help you first, okay?"
Her nod was barely perceptible, but she consented in silence. Timmy began cutting her bonds.
"Hurry," Karen urged.
"I'm going as fast as I can. This knife wouldn't cut a wet monkey."
Karen frowned at the odd statement. Timmy grinned, and tried to squelch the sudden sadness that overcame him. It had been a long-time private joke between him, Barry, and Doug. Doug had first uttered it one night when they were camping out, and the phrase had never failed to make all three of them laugh.
Now, it just made Timmy want to cry.
"Have you seen Doug down here? I can't leave without him."
The vines and roots around Deb' s wrists and ankles fell away. She still looked afraid. Trying to ease her fears, Timmy sat the pocketknife down and backed away from it, still crouched at eye level with the frightened woman.
"We haven't seen him," Karen said. "But why would he have been down here in the first place? Was he helping you?"
Before Timmy could respond, there was a rustling sound behind them. Deb screamed-- a hoarse, wretched sound, like gargling with glass. She clawed at the dirt and stared over Timmy 's shoulder. At the same time, Timmy became aware of a faint illumination spreading throughout the chamber. It wasn't much, but it was 299 definitely noticeable-- a pale, flickering luminescence, much like the light cast by the slime. The foul stench that permeated the entire tunnel network suddenly became stronger.
And then something hissed. It sounded like air rushing from a punctured tire.
Karen shrieked. Deb pressed against the wall. The hairs on the back of Timmy' s neck prickled. He was afraid to turn around, afraid that if he did, he might pee his pants.
But he did anyway, and came face to face with Doug.
His best friend's disembodied head swung back and forth like a pendulum, dangling from the ghoul's left hand. Its long, curved talons gripped Doug' s hair. The creature stood in the entranceway to the chamber, blocking their escape.
It looked nothing like the monsters depicted in Timmy ' s comic books. Naked, its body was almost completely devoid of hair, except for between its legs and a few long strands along its body. It was thin, but its limbs were knotted with corded muscles and its stomach bulged considerably, as if it were pregnant.
Its white skin was covered in filth, and yet still shone with an eerie incandescence.
It had yellow, baleful eyes, a pointed head, and thick black lips that resembled two pieces of raw liver. Its mouth and face were slicked with fresh blood. The ghoul ' s gray tongue flicked out and licked some away. Then it grinned, revealing pointed teeth. They looked very sharp.
"Are you looking for this, child?" Its voice was like sandpaper.
Timmy couldn't speak.
The ghoul held Doug' s head aloft. "A friend of yours, yes? He was succulent. A fine repast, indeed. The fat melted in my mouth. For too long I have fed on carrion. I wonder how you will taste."
Timmy shouted at Karen to run, but even as he did, he realized there was nowhere to run to. His voice sounded very small and afraid. He couldn' t take his eyes off Doug 's head.
"You are trespassing in my home," the ghoul said. "Disturbing my mates, and threatening discord amongst my tribe. You should not have come here."
Growling, the ghoul flung Doug' s head at them and then leapt. Timmy flung his hands up in front of his face and dodged right. Karen jumped to the left. The head bounced off the wall, knocking soil loose, and then rolled across the floor. The ghoul followed behind it, landing in front of Deb. Teeth snapping, it whirled toward Timmy.
With a frantic, shrill scream, Deb seized the pocketknife with both hands and plunged the blade into the creature' s groin. The ghoul shuddered, then howled. Its hands cradled its wounded testicles.
Blood spilled through its fingers. Timmy stared at it in horror, then glanced back down at Doug ' s head. His dead, sightless eyes seemed to be staring right at Timmy.
"Run!" Karen grabbed his arm and led him toward the exit.
As they fled, Timmy glanced over his shoulder. Bellowing with pain and rage, the ghoul ripped the knife free. Still on her knees, Deb lashed out with her bare hands, striking at the creature. It struck back, knocking her to the floor with one swipe of its massive hand. Then it turned and faced them.
"I will kill you slowly, boy."
Timmy ran.
The backhoe's front scoop gouged at the earth. The engine coughed, but kept running.
Barry dropped the dirt to the side and then dug up another scoop full. A
301 yawning crevice appeared beneath the soil--a tunnel, sloping downward at a sharp incline. He' d decided to use the front scoop rather than the back scoop to save time, and the results were worth it. Behind him, the cemetery looked like it had been infested with giant groundhogs. Holes and collapsed graves dotted the landscape. He drove on a few more yards, his progress slowed by weaving the big machine around the tombstones, and then started digging again.
Barry glanced at the sky and saw that it was getting brighter. The first true rays of sunlight crept over the horizon. But here on the ground, it was still dark. He tried to go faster. The backhoe ' s oversized tires ran overtop a small gravestone. He began digging again, dragging the scoop through the dirt, making trenches instead of holes.
The back end lurched and Barry glanced around. The left rear tire had fallen into the earth. The dirt had collapsed beneath it, and Barry saw that he was sitting on top of a tunnel. Trying to maneuver away before the entire thing caved in, he gunned the engine. The motor thrummed.
When his father began shouting, Barry didn't hear him.
Timmy and Karen plunged through the darkness, running as fast as they could. The flashlight beam bounced off the walls and floor, jostled by the exertion. Timmy let Karen lead the way, but her captivity had left her weak, and she kept stumbling and slowing down. Timmy urged her on. Behind them, he heard the sounds of pursuit. The ghoul howled, sputtering curses and threats. Its feet pounded on the dirt floor.
The tunnels echoed with its harsh, ragged breathing. Karen clambered over the splintered wood from a 302 broken casket, and Timmy urged her to move faster. He cast a terrified glance over his shoulder and saw the ghoul narrowing the distance between them. It ran hunched over, one hand still cradling its wounded groin. It looked like a ghost, the phosphorescent slime glowing all around it as it neared them.
"Hurry." Timmy pushed her legs.
"I'm trying."
They cleared the barrier and kept running. Karen stumbled over a rock, but regained her balance. She gasped for air. Timmy was tiring as well. Despite days spent riding bikes and hiking through the woods, he was at the limits of his physical endurance.
His lungs burned, and his leg muscles were beginning to cramp. A sharp pain jolted through his ribs. Clenching his teeth, he rubbed the side-stitch and tried to keep moving.
"Wife," the ghoul screeched. "Return to me, now. You cannot forsake me. My kind must live."
Karen sobbed, but didn't look back. Behind them, they heard their pursuer crash into the pile of shattered timbers.
"Woman, I will not warn you again."
Desperate to put more distance between themselves and the creature, Timmy and Karen pushed on while the ghoul clambered through the wreckage. They reached a crossroads, with side tunnels branching out in three different directions. Over the ghoul 's enraged shouts, Timmy heard a new sound-- the muffled rumble of a diesel engine. It was the backhoe. It had to be. Sure enough, farther up the tunnel, dirt showered down from the surface. Confused by the falling debris, Karen weaved right and darted into one of the side tunnels.
"No," Timmy shouted. "That's the wrong way!"
If she heard him, she gave no indication. She passed 303 beyond the reach of his flashlight beam. He paused for just a moment, unsure of what to do. The ghoul growled, and then surged forward. It reached for him, talons clicking together. Timmy ran after Karen. Bones crunched under his feet. The tunnels began to shake.
The first thing Clark Smeltzer was aware of was the noise-- a loud, steady rumble that made his head throb and his teeth ache. It thrummed through the very earth and cleaved the air around him. A machine, by the sound -- maybe a motor. The second thing he noticed was that the pain in his head was minor compared to the rest of him. Each breath brought fresh jabs of agony in his chest and sides. His face and throat felt like they ' d been burned. He tried to move and found he couldn 't. He' d been tied up with bungee cords. Clark took a few shallow breaths and then leaned forward, trying to loosen his bonds. His muscles screamed, and so did he. His voice was lost beneath the din of the machine.
The bungee cords tightened, then went slack, tightened and slacked, as he slowly rocked back and forth. The rubber bands squeaked against the tombstone' s marble surface. Finally, they slipped down his body. He pulled his arms free and unfastened the cords.
Clark squinted at his hands through crusted eyes, saw half-dried blood, and then touched his cheek. He shivered. The action brought more pain. His fingers came away red, fresh blood coating the already dried blood.
Fucked me up, he thought. Damn thing fucked me up good.
He shuddered. It was very cold. But that couldn't be right, could it? Cold--in the middle of June? His teeth wouldn't stop chattering.
He forced his eyes open further. Only one of them obeyed. The other stayed shut.
He turned his head slowly, seeking the source of the rumbling noise, and more pain ripped through him, causing his entire body to spasm. Clark clenched his hands into fists and forced his head to turn. His remaining good eye widened in surprise.
Somehow, Barry had gotten inside the utility shed. The little bastard had picked the lock and hijacked the backhoe. As Clark watched, the scoop threw another clod of earth into the sky. He was digging up the cemetery --obviously taking revenge for the beating Clark had handed down to him earlier.
"Hey!" he shouted. "You little fuck. What are you doing?"
Barry ignored him.
"Don't pretend you can't hear me, you son of a bitch. Get off that fucking backhoe!
I mean it."
The engine revved higher. The machine rolled forward, the front end bouncing over a tombstone.
"Barry! You mind me, boy."
Fists still clenched, Clark stumbled to his feet. So his worthless son was pissed off about getting his ass beat? He' d teach him now. This was vandalism, plain and simple. Barry was about to get a beating he 'd never, ever forget.
"Okay. I warned you. You still ain't learned. This time, you don't get another chance."
Clark staggered forward, grinning through the pain. Blood ran into his one good eye, and he saw red.
Karen moaned.
Timmy turned around and pointed the flashlight back the way they'd come.
"Oh God ... Oh God ..."
Karen kept repeating it over and over. Timmy wasn' t sure if she was praying or just going into shock. If it was a prayer, it had gone unanswered. They had reached a dead end -- a mound of dirt and rock sealed the side tunnel off from the surface. An ash-gray bone protruded from the center of the pile. All around them, the walls trembled.
Timmy could hear the backhoe very clearly now, and it was easy to figure out what had happened. This tunnel had led to a grave. With Barry digging above them, the soil around the grave had collapsed, sinking down into the chasm below. Now they were trapped.
Timmy stared back down the tunnel. It curved away into the darkness, sloping downward.
He wondered if there was time to run back out to the main passage and find another route. But even as he considered this the pale luminescence thrown off by the ghoul ' s body lit up the tunnel walls beyond the bend. Timmy shrank away, placing himself between Karen and their pursuer. She reached out and took his hand. Numb with terror, he barely felt it when she squeezed.
He thought of Katie, and how her hand had felt in his. He thought of his parents, and wished he could see them again, one more time, if only to tell them that he was sorry. He thought of Doug.
"I don't want to die," Timmy whispered. "Please."
The walls around them shook and rumbled. Dirt spilled down on them, showering their hair and shoulders. Coughing, they brushed it off. A cloud of dust filled the narrow passageway, obscuring the flashlight beam. Their hands squeezed tighter. When the dust cleared, the ghoul had rounded the corner and stood several yards away. The creature cocked its pointed head and laughed.
"There is nowhere left for you to flee. You have 306 offered good sport, boy, and for that I am grateful. But it is time to end this charade.
I will make your death quick, not out of kindness or pity. Believe me, I would relish the chance to flay your skin slowly for your transgressions. But I must still deal with what is transpiring on the surface. Did you and the grave digger ' s son really think to shake the foundations of my kingdom?"
Timmy licked his lips, too frightened to respond. His nostrils and the back of his throat tasted like dirt. His mouth was dry.
"Never mind," the ghoul said. "Tonight, you shall both feed me. And feed my wives, as well."
Karen squeezed Timmy's hand so hard that his knuckles popped.
The ghoul raised its claws and took a menacing step forward. Timmy's eyes were drawn to the knife wound-- or where the knife wound should have been. It had healed already, and the only sign that Deb had even stabbed the creature was the dried blood on its thighs and legs.
The tunnel shook again and the ceiling rustled. More dirt showered down upon them all. The ghoul stumbled backward. Timmy and Karen pressed themselves against the wall, holding their breath so they wouldn 't choke. The sound of the backhoe's engine swelled, filling the tunnels.
You were right, Barry, Timmy thought. We shouldn't have tried to do this ourselves.
We should have just told the adults. We can't fight a monster. ...
The cloud of dust dissipated, and the ghoul lunged for him.
Barry struggled with the gearshift. It vibrated in his hand, refusing to budge. The backhoe rocked back and forth, the front end swaying precariously several feet 307 off the ground. He'd spotted a fresh sinkhole and had tried to back up so he wouldn' t drive over the depression. He was afraid the ground might give way. In the process of turning around, he ' d driven up over a tombstone and was now stuck. He pushed harder on the stick. The gears made an awful grinding sound. Black smoke belched from the exhaust pipe.
The sunrise grew brighter on the horizon, the glowing orb now peeking over the treetops of Bowman's Woods.
Grunting, Barry tried again. As he wrestled with the gearshift, something tugged at his arm. Barry glanced down, saw a bloody hand clenching his wrist, and screamed.
His father clung to the side of the backhoe. The old man was grinning. Blood coursed down his face. It looked like he could barely stand, let alone hang on to the bucking vehicle, yet his grip tightened.
"That's it for you, boy." Clark spat blood. "Time to take your medicine, once and for all."
"Get off me." Barry jerked his arm away, breaking his father's grip. Arms flailing, Clark teetered backward, and then fell forward and grabbed the backhoe' s sides. He swiped at Barry ' s head with one fist, but in his weakened state, his aim was off. Barry easily dodged the blow, and then struck back. This time he connected. His fist plowed into his father 's already mangled mouth. Clark's lips exploded beneath his son's knuckles. More blood splattered them both. Barry' s other hand slipped off the steering wheel. The backhoe careened atop the tombstone, leaning forward at a dangerous angle. Both father and son grabbed on tight, struggling to keep their balance. Pain lashed through Barry 's hand. He glanced down and saw a piece of his father' s tooth jutting from the knuckle of his middle finger.
Clark's hand shot forward and closed around Barry's throat. Barry tried to breathe, but couldn' t. His tongue and eyes bulged. Grunting, his father squeezed tighter, his fingers digging into Barry 's flesh.
"Look at this shit," Clark wheezed. "All this damage. You did this, you little punk."
Barry could barely hear him over the ringing in his ears. His head began to pound.
He tried again to take a breath, but his father's grip was firm. Barry' s lips started bleeding again. He reached up with both hands and clawed at his father ' s wrist and forearm, trying to dislodge him. He pried at the thick fingers, but his father was too strong.
"You ain't no son of mine."
Barry's legs thrashed. The ringing in his ears grew louder. His hands fell away, weakening. Clark's grip tightened.
"You ain't no son of mine," he repeated.
Metal shrieked against stone. The backhoe tilted forward, then plunged over. The motor sputtered and died. All around them, the ground collapsed, falling down into the earth with a deafening roar. The sinkhole yawned wide like an eager mouth, waiting to devour them all. The front scoop disappeared into the earth, followed by the grille, headlights, and front tires. Barry slammed against the roll cage. Wire mesh pressed against his cheek. His father ' s grip slipped from his throat as Clark struggled to avoid falling.
Gasping for breath, Barry held on tight as the backhoe again lurched forward. His stomach felt sick. His fingers clutched the wire mesh. His father scrabbled for purchase, clinging to the steering wheel. The backhoe tipped forward and plunged headlong into the chasm.
As the ghoul approached, Timmy tried to scream. Instead, all that came out was a muffled whine. Clouds of dust swirled in the air. The creature loomed before him, its stink filling the tunnel. Slime dripped from its pores, pooling at its feet.
It raised its claws to strike -- And the tunnel collapsed behind them. Tons of dirt filled the passageway, sealing off the other end. The flashlight slipped from Timmy' s grasp. He dropped to his knees, pulling Karen down with him. Both of them covered their mouths and noses as more dust filled the air. Timmy closed his eyes. A great roaring sound filled his ears, and then faded.
He opened his eyes again.
Despite the debris in the air, he could see. The ceiling was gone. Dim sunlight spilled through the chasm. The backhoe filled the tunnel, surrounded by piles of dirt, broken tombstones, and splintered coffins. Barry knelt in the dirt, coughing and gagging.
The wound on his cheek had opened up again, and there were fresh cuts and scratches on his face and arms. His neck was bruised. The purple blotches looked like finger marks. There was no sign of the ghoul. Next to him, Karen threw up.
Timmy patted her back, unsure of what to do. "You okay?"
Gasping, she nodded. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Timmy crawled over to Barry. Despite his injuries, Barry smiled.
"You're rescued."
"What happened?"
Groaning, Barry struggled to his feet. "The ground caved in. I couldn't jump off because my old man--"
His eyes grew wide. He turned around quickly; then looked back to Timmy.
"Where is he?"
Timmy frowned. "The ghoul? I don't know. He must have took off when you came crashing through."
"No," Barry shook his head. "My old man. He was on the backhoe when it fell."
They searched through the wreckage. The backhoe had landed on its front, and the scoop was imbedded in the tunnel floor. The dirt had piled up around it, burying the entire front end. The rear scoop jutted through the crevice in the ceiling and out to the surface. They clambered over the mounds of earth, searching.
Timmy gasped. "Is that..."
Barry knelt in the dirt. His father's hand jutted from the soil. Dane Graco' s freemason ring was still on his finger. Without a word, Barry pulled the ring free and tossed it to Timmy.
"There. You should have this."
"Thanks." Timmy put the ring in his pocket. "Are you gonna be all right?"
Barry shrugged, his eyes not leaving the hand. "Yeah. I mean, maybe I should be sad, because he was my father, but I'm not. I don't even feel happy. I' m just ... empty. Does that make sense?"
Timmy nodded.
Barry ran his hands through his hair, shaking out the dirt. "He said I wasn't any son of his. Right before we fell."
"That's not true."
"Yeah, it is. He may have been my old man, biologically, but I ain't his son. No way. I'm nothing like him, and I'm never gonna be. I swear it."
Karen stepped forward. "Can we go?"
"What about the other woman?" Timmy asked. "Deb? We can't just leave her down here."
"Where is she?" Barry stared at Karen's breasts, then quickly looked away.
"Back there somewhere." Timmy pointed past the pile of dirt choking the tunnel. "We'll have to dig through that."
"With what," Barry snorted. "Our bare hands?"
Karen climbed up the backhoe. "We'll get help. They can send a rescue squad in to dig her out, just like they do when a mine collapses. I' m not waiting for that thing to come back. She might not even be alive anymore. She was pretty ... out of it. I think her mind went after the first time the ghoul..."
Rather than finishing the sentence, she turned her face skyward.
Timmy and Barry watched her climb. Barry leaned close and whispered in his ear.
"Do you think the ghoul is dead?"
"I don't know," Timmy said. "My eyes were shut. I didn't see where it went."
"What about Doug? Did you find him?"
Timmy lowered his head. His lip quivered. "Yeah. He's ... I don't want to talk about it right now."
"Shit."
"Yeah."
Karen shimmied up the rear scoop's arm. When she reached the ceiling, she looked back down at them.
"You guys coming?"
Nodding, the boys climbed onto the backhoe. Barry started up first, followed by Timmy.
Timmy had only ascended a few feet when he heard a soft rustling noise. He glanced down at the mound of debris. It was moving.
"Shit. Go, go, go!"
"What is it?" Barry stopped, looking down in concern.
"Just go," Timmy screamed. "Hurry!"
A clawed hand erupted from the dirt, followed by another. Several of the ghoul' s talons had been ripped away, and its fingers were bleeding. Its arms thrust forward, followed by its pointed, oversized head. Its yellow eyes smoldered with rage.
Screaming, Barry began climbing again. Timmy pushed on his feet, urging him to go faster.
The ghoul sprang from the mound and shook off the dirt. Then it rose to its full height.
"My bride!" It beckoned to Karen. "Return now, and I shall not hurt you."
With a shriek, Karen pulled herself up to the surface and out into the light. Barry and Timmy climbed higher.
"No," the ghoul roared. "No, no, no, no, no. I will not allow this. My kind must live again. You will not take away my chance at parentage."
It leaped onto the backhoe. The scoop arm rocked back and forth, and both boys had to cling tight to keep from falling. Like a spider, the ghoul raced up the side of the machine, its long arms and legs scrabbling for purchase. Barry reached the top and heaved himself over the side onto solid ground. He extended his hand down into the hole and Timmy grasped it.
"Hurry," Barry shouted. "It's almost on you."
Timmy pushed with his legs and reached the top. The ghoul was directly beneath him.
He could feel its breath on his ankles; hear it hissing with rage. Then it howled --but this time, the sound was different.
Timmy crawled out of the hole and glanced back down. The dim sunlight had touched the ghoul' s arm, and the pale flesh sizzled. The slime coating the appendage bubbled and popped, and a thin line of smoke curled upward.
"Come on." Barry grabbed Timmy's arm and pulled him to his feet.
Timmy shrugged him off and stared in horrified fascination, absolutely transfixed as the ghoul's arm continued to smolder.
"Timmy, let's go!"
Barry shoved him forward. Timmy stumbled, and then followed. They ran between the tombstones. Karen sprinted ahead of them, heading for the church. The sun 's upper half had cleared the treetops now, and the blue light of predawn had given way to the red glow of sunrise.
"No. My family..." The ghoul emerged from the crevice. Smoke billowed from its body as the light touched its flesh. Even as they ran, the boys heard it sizzling behind them. Still, it pursued them with determination, screaming for Karen to come back.
As they neared the church, the creature 's shouts faded.
Timmy turned and stared.
The ghoul writhed in the grass, its body contorted with pain. Timmy had once found a slug on his parent' s sidewalk, and had poured salt over the unfortunate creature. He was reminded of that now. The ghoul ' s pale flesh sloughed away each time the monster moved. The muscles and tissue beneath bubbled and burned. A layer of white foam covered everything. Timmy expected the ghoul to explode, like in the movies and comic books, but instead, it simply pawed at the earth, making pathetic mewling sounds and watching Karen race away. Even after its eyes had melted and run out onto the ground, its head remained upright and pointed in her direction.
"My ... family ..."
The boys watched until there was nothing left but a bubbling puddle.
And then Timmy began to cry. He thought about their attack on Catcher, the guilt and shame he'd felt after the fact. Like Doug had said, the dog wasn' t a monster. It was just doing what it was supposed to do. What it had been bred to do. Protecting it 's home. When they' d attacked, and Catcher had run around in a circle, yelping and whining and pawing at his eyes, he hadn 't looked like a monster. He'd looked pitiful.
Timmy stared at the stewing remains of the ghoul. It didn't look like a monster anymore.
"Didn't it realize? Didn't it know what the sunlight would do?"
"It must have wanted Karen that bad," Barry said. "Nothing else mattered."
"Family," Timmy whispered. "It was trying to save its family."
"Come on," Barry said. He put his arm around Timmy's shoulder and led him away.
Behind them, the sun rose into the sky. A new day had begun.
Epilogue The black Toyota SUV wheeled into the church parking lot and slowed to a halt. A satellite radio antenna was magnetically affixed to the roof, and the muffled sounds of a children 's program drifted from inside the vehicle. A man sat in the driver' s seat, gripping the wheel tightly. A woman sat next to him. After a moment, the Toyota slowly made its way down the graveyard ' s middle road. The path was wider than the man remembered it being, and looked as if it had recently been given a fresh coat of blacktop.
"Is this it, Daddy?"
The man nodded. "Yep. This is it. This used to be my playground."
He shivered. His wife noticed and turned down the air conditioning. The man said nothing.
The SUV crawled past the graves, slowed again, and then stopped.
The man got out, and smoothed his suit. His tie fluttered in the warm June breeze.
He took a deep breath. He hadn' t been there in a long time. He glanced around. The old utility shed was gone, replaced with a more modern structure. Farmer Jones ' s pasture now held duplex housing instead of cattle. Things were different. He closed his eyes for a moment and heard the sound of children 's laughter. Old ghosts. They'd been good ghosts, once upon a time.
Not anymore.
As an adult, the man was reminded of how children laughing often sounded like children screaming.
He opened his eyes and moved on.
Inside the vehicle, his wife and kids watched him approach the grave. Then the woman made a call on her cell phone.
The man stood in front of the grave-- a fresh, open hole in the earth. A wound. It would be filled later that day, and then covered back over with sod. A brandnew tombstone sat at the head of the hole.
It said that Randy Graco was a loving husband and father. Dane Graco 's tombstone stood a few feet away.
"Hey, Timmy."
Tim jumped in surprise. He'd thought he was alone. He looked up. The cemetery' s caretaker stepped out from behind a tall monument. A bashful young boy, around the same age as Tim ' s oldest son, crept out behind him, watching with curiosity. Both were dressed in work clothes, their jeans soiled with grass stains and dirt.
"Timmy?"
The caretaker pulled off his work gloves and walked toward him.
Tim frowned. Nobody had called him Timmy since he'd graduated college. Not even his parents. He didn't 317 recognize the caretaker at first. He was bald, and his skin looked weathered from too much sun or stress-- or both. There were dark circles under his eyes that most men didn ' t get until much later in life. But the scar was what gave his identity away: a narrow, pale line running up his cheek, carved years ago with a stolen ring --a ring that was now on Tim' s right hand. The scar had happened on a night neither man would ever forget. The scar, like the memories, had faded over time, but was still there.
Smiling in disbelief, Tim stepped forward. "Barry? Jesus Christ..."
"Good to see you, too, man." Barry laughed. "Thought maybe you didn't recognize me."
"I didn't. At first, anyway. Took me a second. It's been a while."
"Yes, it has. Twenty years, give or take."
Still surprised, Tim was speechless.
"I keep up on you," Barry said, his voice filled with pride. "The Hanover Evening Sun and the York Dispatch both had articles on you. I hear you' re a famous comic book writer now."
Tim chuckled. "Well, I wouldn't say I'm famous or anything. But I do all right."
"You and your funny books." Barry pulled out a can of Husky tobacco and loaded some into his lip. "I remember you were crazy about those things when we were kids."
"You were, too."
Barry's brow furrowed. "Yeah, I guess maybe I was. I'd forgotten about that. I don' t read much of anything these days, except the paper. But man, I remember how pissed you were when your dad ripped yours up."
"I remember, too," Timmy whispered. "I don't think we'll ever forget."
"No," Barry agreed. "We won't. But shit, I didn't mean to bring up your old man.
I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
Barry pointed at the grave. "I was sorry to hear about what happened. He was a good neighbor. Hell, I've been living next to him my whole life. It' ll be weird not seeing him down over the hill."
Tim nodded sadly. "Yeah. It was pretty sudden. The heart attack hit him while he was watching the game. Happened quick. Mom' s still in shock, I think. But at least he didn 't suffer."
"Well, that's good."
"Yeah."
They stared at each other in silence, neither one knowing what to say.
Barry spat a wad of brown tobacco juice onto the grass. "That your family?"
"Yeah." Tim turned back to the SUV. "That's my wife, Mara, and my sons, Dane and Doug."
Barry paused. "Doug, huh? That's good. He'd have liked that."
"I think so."
"Wife's good-looking," Barry said, staring at the Toyota. "You done good."
"Yeah, I can't complain."
"Ever hear from Katie Moore?"
"Not since graduation. I went to college. She had another year in school. You know how it is."
"I always figured you two would get hitched. Young love and all that."
"That only happens in songs, I guess."
Barry nodded, and they fell silent again.
"That's my kid back there." Barry turned, pointing at the shy boy, who'd crept back behind the monument again. "Richie. Get your ass out here and say hello."
Tim frowned. Barry' s voice had taken on a rough, unpleasant tone. The boy, Richie, slunk out from behind the marker, eyes cast to the ground, shoulders slumped. Tim finally got a good look at the kid. He was skinny, and his arms stuck out of his T-shirt like twigs. Both of them were bruised, and his right forearm had a nasty circular mark. Tim tried to keep a straight face, but inside he was shocked. It looked like a cigarette burn.
"Get over here," Barry shouted.
The boy jumped at the sound of his father's voice, and dutifully shuffled over to them. As he got closer, Tim noticed the scars.
"This here is Timmy Graco," Barry said, introducing him. "We was best friends when we were your age."
"Hi." Tim stuck out his hand.
Richie shook it. His grip was weak, his palms sweaty. He mumbled under his breath.
Barry slapped the back of his head. "Speak up. I told you before, nobody can understand shit when you mumble like that."
"Sorry," the boy apologized. "Nice to meet you."
He didn't look into Tim's eyes, but kept his gaze focused on the ground.
"Get on back to work," Barry commanded.
He prodded Richie with his boot. The boy ran off.
Barry grinned, looking sheepish.
"He don't listen sometimes. Got to teach him manners. Guess we did the same thing when we were kids."
"Looks like he got hurt recently." Tim kept his voice calm.
Shrugging, Barry looked away. "He's careless. Clumsy, like I was at that age. You know how it is. Boys have scars."
Timmy nodded, unable to speak around the lump in his throat. He stared at the faded scar on Barry's cheek.
Boys have scars, he thought. Some of them fade-- and others don't. Some scars stay with us for life.
"Listen, Barry... I should get going. The kids are restless, and I want to check in on my mom. It's been a long drive."
"Sure." Barry met his gaze again, and smiled. His face was sad. "Funeral's tomorrow.
You gonna stay in town long?"
"A few days, probably."
"Well, let's get together. Have a few beers. I'll have to show you how I fixed up the house, since the last time you saw it."
"That sounds good. It will depend on Mara and the kids, of course. And Mom. I want to be there for her."
"You can make time for a beer with your old bud."
Timmy nodded.
Barry wiped the sweat from his brow. "Good seeing you, Timmy."
"You too, man."
Tim started to turn away, but Barry called out to him, his voice soft and sad. For a brief moment, he sounded like the old Barry, the Barry Tim had known from childhood.
"What happened to us, Timmy?"
"What do you mean?"
"We were supposed to be best friends. Remember? We promised ourselves that we wouldn't let each other down. Best friends for life."
"I remember."
"So what happened?"
Tim shook his head. "I don't know, Barry. Life happened, I guess. We grew up. Grew apart. I think of you a lot, though. You and Doug."
"Yeah." Barry wiped his eyes. "Me, too."
They said good-bye again, and Tim headed back to the Toyota. He hadn' t lied. He did think of Barry and Doug, and Katie, too. Almost every day, in fact.
But in his memories, they were twelve -- and immortal. And they would be twelve forever, living out the happiest days of their lives over and over again. They were who they 'd been at twelve and not who they were now.
He'd come to the cemetery and found new old ghosts. The happiest days of their lives had been nothing more than a defense mechanism.
Tim opened the door and slid into the driver's seat.
"Who was that?" Mara asked. "Old friend?"
"Yeah." Tim turned the key. "An old friend. My best friend, actually."
"What's his name?"
"Barry. We used to run around together. Me, him, and our friend Doug."
In the backseat, Dane pressed buttons on his handheld video game, oblivious to the conversation. But Doug leaned forward in the seat. "You mean you had a friend named Doug, just like my name?"
Tim smiled. "I sure did."
"And the three of you were best friends, just like me and Joey and Jesse?"
Tim nodded. He blinked the tears away so his family wouldn't see them. Mara noticed, reached out, and patted his leg.
"Sit back, honey, so Daddy can pull out."
Doug complied. As he fastened his seat belt, he said, "I miss Joey and Jesse. It's summer. I want to get back home and play."
"You will soon," Mara said. "You've got the whole summer ahead of you."
"I guess you're right," Doug said. "Summer's last a 322 long time. And me, Joey, and Jesse are best friends forever, so they'll be there when I get back."
Tim sighed. He wanted to promise his son that yes, summers were endless and that his best friends would be his best friends forever, but the truth was, life didn' t work out that way. When he was twelve, he had believed that summers were endless and so was life. But he knew better now. Nothing was endless. Nothing lasted forever.
Nothing was eternal. Not life. Not summer. Not friendship. Not even love. Because the ghouls would gnaw away at those things until there was nothing left.
The only things that lasted forever were scars--and monsters.
Turn the page for an advance look at Brian Keene's next terrifying novel...
DEAD SEA
Brian Keene 325
I didn't shoot the bitch until she started eating Alan's face. Before this whole thing began, I' d never shot anyone in my life. Not once. Never held a gun until a few weeks before Hamelin 's Revenge started. Hell, I never even referred to women as bitches. But that's what she was. And I had the pistol in my hand.
And I shot her.
"Hey Joe" by Jimi Hendrix.
This thing ... this plague; it changed people. Not just the dead ones, either. It changed everyone. Changed me. I' m a different person now. Listen ... you never know what you 'll do until you find yourself in an impossible situation, so don' t ever say never. Survival instinct is a real motherfucker, and when your back is against the wall, everything changes.
Everything. I know. It did for me.
My name is Lamar Reed and this is the way the world ended.
It started with the rats. They swarmed out of the sewers about a month ago. Well, maybe swarmed isn' t the right word. Swarm indicates speed, and the rats were anything but fast. The first attacks took place in New York City during the evening rush hour. Imagine it.
Sidewalks bustling with activity, the crowds of people rushing to catch subways and trains and buses; streets choked with gridlock, taxicabs weaving in and out of traffic, horns blaring, manhole covers clanging as trucks drive over them. And then, in the middle of all this chaos, the rats slowly crawled out of a sewer grate on Thirty-first Street and attacked people -- climbed up legs, raked at stomachs with their sharp little claws, sank their yellowed incisors into cheeks and thighs and necks; anywhere they could find a soft morsel.
The rats fed.
And the rats were dead. I should mention that. Wasn't weird enough that rats attacked commuters en masse. They were dead rats; guts hanging out, limbs and tails falling off, and big, ulcerated wounds on their sides, infested with maggots. Rotting meat on the run.
Oh, we didn' t know it at first. I remember watching it on the news that evening. Sitting on my couch in East Baltimore, eating bologna straight from the package and ignoring the stack of overdue bills. Watching the news, wondering when the cable would get shut off for nonpayment. Wondering where the hell my unemployment check was. The mail lady hadn 't brought it yet, and things were tight. I' d come up with some cash a few weeks before, but it all went to my mortgage. Like sticking one finger in the dam while three dozen more leaks sprang up.
The news caught my attention because of the fucked-up factor. Rats attacking pedestrians?
Crazy shit. But when the first reports started trickling in that 327 they were dead rats--not dead as in some frantic stockbroker flung one to the ground and stomped it-- but dead as in the living dead? That shit was off the hook. People scoffed, the media ' s pundits argued, and the authorities refused comment. The cable news channels carried live footage. MSNBC called it a riot. CNN speculated about a possible terrorist attack.
I don ' t know what Fox News called it because nobody I know watched Fox News. One thing that appeared clear was that nobody knew what the fuck was going on. New York ' s hospitals filled up with wounded pedestrians. Most of them suffered bites, and others had been injured in the chaos that followed --trampled on as people fled. A few suffered heart attacks, brought on by the stress.
The people who' d been bitten got real sick. Then died. Then came back. Just like the rats.
They were dead, but they still came back.
Hamelin's Revenge, the media called it. They came up with the name almost immediately.
Hamelin' s Revenge: the return of the rats the Pied Piper was hired to get rid of. But in that old story, when the mayor refused to pay, Hamelin --the Pied Piper--came up with another plan. Hamelin' s Revenge was when the Piper decided to get even. He took all the kids away and returned the rats to the village. Now the fairy tale had come true. The rats returned all right. And hell followed with them. Just like the Bible verse or the song. Hell.
By midnight, New York City' s hospitals became slaughterhouses. Like I said, the infected died, and then came back. And they came back hungry, man. Zombies. The White House press secretary actually used the word during a news conference. Until then, the media were calling the attackers cannibals. But after the government confirmed it, zombies was the 328 buzzword. They attacked the living just like the rats had done. They bit and clawed and fed, gorging themselves on the flesh of the living. The victims who managed to escape got sick with Hamelin ' s Revenge a few hours later, just like their attacker had. Then they died and came back. And the ones who got ripped to pieces, the ones who ended up (for the most part) inside the zombie 's bellies? What was left of them came back, too. They didn' t need arms or legs or internal organs. As long as there was a brain left attached, something to control the motor functions and impulses, the remains came back. A CNN anchor actually walked away from the news desk after they showed footage of an armless corpse wandering the streets, trailing intestines behind it like a dog leash. You could hear her sobbing off camera, and some producer or technician begging her to go back on the air. She never did.
The chaos spread throughout the five boroughs. By dawn, the National Guard locked down New York City and quarantined everything. Blockaded the bridges and tunnels and left folks to die. A few soldiers even fired on civilians as they were trying to escape -- gunned them down in the dawn' s early light. It was for the good of the country, the media assured us. New York was a biohazard area. Nobody could get in or out. But Hamelin 's Revenge managed to escape. Hamelin' s Revenge said "Fuck you" to the barricades and armed guardsmen and quarantine signs.
The disease raced like a California brushfire. Cases popped up in Newark, Delaware; then Trenton, New Jersey; and then on to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. By the next evening, it had arrived here in Baltimore. Martial law was declared nationwide and the army was mobilized. That was like pouring perfume on a pig. The troops were good at killing zombies, but they couldn 't shoot a 329 disease. All it took was one bite from an infected mouth. And you could get it even if you weren't bitten. One drop of blood, sprayed from a bullet' s exit wound. Pus from an open sore, splattering on you as a zombie attacked. Inhale it or ingest it; get it on your lips or in your eye and that was it. Say good-bye.
You got sick. You died. You returned. Folks that died from heart attacks or cancer or stabbings or car wrecks -- they stayed dead. But anyone who came into direct contact with the zombies --anyone who managed to get infected-- they joined the ranks of the living dead.
And those ranks swelled quickly. First the rats. Then people. The disease jumped to dogs and cats in the second week. A few other animals, too. They said on television that a cow attacked an Amish farmer in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. It sounds kind of funny until you think about it for too long. Then it just becomes a mind-fuck. Zombie cattle ... this time, the hamburger eats you. A pack of undead coyotes ripped a mother and her baby to shreds in the Hollywood hills. Gruesome shit. At least it didn 't spread to the birds. If it had, well... for years we'd worried about the avian flu. The idea of birds spreading Hamelin' s Revenge was terrifying, because birds are everywhere. Ain 't nowhere you can run where a bird can't find you. The birds didn't catch it, at least that we' d seen, but many other animals did. Not all of them, but enough. Sheep caught it, but not pigs. Horses were immune, but cattle were not. Apes --death equaled zombie. Deer-- their deaths were old school.
And of course, some species that seemed immune at first later became vulnerable.
Squirrels didn't seem affected at first, which was weird, since they' re just rats with fluffy tails. But later, they caught it, too. With all the cross-species jumps, there was no stopping the 330 disease. It happened very quickly. America fell. South America. Canada. Then Hamelin' s Revenge made it overseas and infected Europe and Asia and Africa. Last thing I saw before the power went out for good was grainy footage of a million zombie rats swarming over a million humans in Bombay.
Suddenly, I didn' t have to worry about past due utility bills or if the cops had figured out that I was the one who robbed the Ford dealership during that test-drive. I didn ' t have to think about whether or not I had the balls to do it again. I had more important things to focus on, like staying alive and not getting eaten by my neighbors --or shot by some stupid motherfucker.
See, it wasn' t just the zombies we had to watch out for. If it was, and if the president and Homeland Security and the Centers for Disease Control and the rest of our government had acted quickly, maybe none of this would have happened. But they didn ' t. Just like Pearl Harbor and 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina and all the other national disasters; when faced with an unimaginable crisis, they failed to respond in an accurate and timely manner. Maybe they couldn 't. I mean, there' s probably no FEMA playbook for what to do when dead folks start running around eating people. Not the sort of thing the government plans for.
In the weeks that followed there were dangers other than just the zombies. Looters and gangs of armed thugs roamed the streets. Cops and National Guardsmen who 'd gone off the deep end shot the dead and living indiscriminately. America returned to the glory days of the Old West. Things like innocence and guilt didn' t matter. The only law that mattered was the law of the gun. They evacuated Washington DC, and sent the president and his cabinet and all of the king ' s horses and men who worked in the House and the Senate off to secure 331 underground bunkers in Virginia and Maryland and Pennsylvania. They were supposed to be able to run the country from there. They didn't. Things fell apart.
Our cities and towns resembled Somalia or Beirut. Well, to be honest, my neighborhood had been like that even before Hamelin' s Revenge. Only difference was now the rest of the country got a taste of what it was like to live in the ghetto. Instead of drug gangs and tweaked-out freaks on crystal meth or crack, we now had vigilantes and zombies. Not much of a change, and in either case, the cops didn 't show up when you called them.
I remember a press conference with the secretary of state. He was sweating like a pig. Looked nervous. He assured the reporters that President Tyler, the vice president, and cabinet members were all fine -- and that the crisis was passing. Things would soon be under control, and society would return to normal. Until then, martial law would remain in effect as a cautionary measure.
Except that nobody was calling the shots. The person in charge was the guy with the most firepower, and that changed from moment to moment. People didn' t aspire to cure the disease or stop it from spreading. They only aspired to not get eaten by a zombie. They ' d always worried about their careers and homes and favorite television shows and what their most-loved Hollywood starlet had done. Now, the only thing they worried about was staying alive. And the worst part was, if you 'd asked people, they probably couldn' t tell you why they bothered resisting. Did it matter? What was the point? The zombies outnumbered the living. Why not surrender, or eat a bullet? Like I said earlier, survival instinct is a motherfucker.
Some people had higher aspirations, of course.
When there's blood on the streets, there's money to be made. That' s an eternal law in the ghetto, and the rest of the world learned it soon enough.
Stocks, bonds, shit like that -- worthless. Cold hard cash ruled the day, and price gouging was common. Twenty bucks for a gallon of gas or a bottle of water. And when the cash became as worthless as the paper it was printed on, the barter system took over.
The madness continued. Last bit of the news I saw, in Pennsylvania, a National Guard officer had reportedly ordered the death of civilians by firing squad. They were accused of looting. In Miami, zombies overran the airport. A popular television preacher committed suicide, believing that the Rapture had occurred and he' d missed it. In China, a nuclear reactor went into meltdown. Chicago and Phoenix were on fire. The military finally retreated from New York City after losing control and admitting defeat.
More people died every day. Then they came back. And every day there were less of us.
I stayed inside. Didn't have any family. My mama died years ago. Breast cancer. Our health insurance sucked. There wasn' t much they could do, in any case. Found a lump during a routine exam. Three months later, she was gone. I never knew my old man. Heard he was useless. That ' s all I knew of him. "Mama, tell me about my dad." "He was useless." I had a brother, Marcus, who lived in California. Hadn ' t seen him in years, and when the phones went down, I had no way of contacting him.
I hadn 't been in a serious relationship in a long time-- not since my last partner, Louis, moved to New Orleans. I had no one to worry about.
So I hid. I was safe inside my home, and had no reason to leave.
The big thing I had to deal with was time. Trapped 333 inside the house all day and all night with no television or Xbox or stuff like that.
I had to find things to occupy my mind, because otherwise, I' d get very depressed and start thinking about walking outside, finding the nearest zombie, and letting them have a bite. The loneliness was the worst part, and that ' s why I was glad when I found out Alan was alive and he joined me (even if he was hopelessly straight). Alan was my neighbor. Nice enough guy. He ' d worked at the plant, too, and got laid off the same time as me. Alan took a gig with a temp agency. Did odd jobs like flagging traffic and loading trucks. Some days they had work for him, some days they didn 't. He barely scraped by, but he'd never once let his spirits get down. He was a funny, jovial person. After he' d moved in (because his house wasn 't as secure) my loneliness vanished.
But eventually, with his added presence, supplies went quicker than I' d imagined. With the power out, the food in the fridge had spoiled and the kitchen smelled like the zombies. I still had plenty of beer, canned goods, and packaged foods. Had plenty of water, too. We pissed in empty beer bottles so that the toilet water would remain untainted. I figured we could drink from the commode if necessary.
When we ran out of food, we had to venture out.
We showed up at the Safeway' s parking lot in the middle of the night and found a dozen other well-armed people with the same plan. We grabbed two shopping carts and joined in before the shelves were picked clean. The cops weren ' t around, and neither were the zombies. The other looters ignored us, busy making due for themselves. Four of them Worked together in a group. The others appeared to be loners. The  meat  department  and the  produce  aisles 334 smelled like an open sewer. The stench of rotting vegetation and spoiled meat hung thick in the air. I heard a droning buzz, and noticed that the butcher' s display cases were covered with fat, sluggish flies. Thousands of tiny white worms burrowed through rancid steaks and hamburger and pork chops. I remember wondering as I watched them if Hamelin 's Revenge could spread to insects-- mosquitoes, ticks, or other bloodsuckers. I hoped not. If it could spread to them or to the birds, then we were pretty much fucked.
But then again, we were pretty much fucked anyway.
The fruit and vegetables in the produce department were covered with fuzz and slime and more flies. We held our breath when we passed through the aisle, and again when we cut through the dairy products section. Exploded cardboard milk cartons were thick with green-blue mold, and the stench was overwhelming. A fat man in a soiled T-shirt sat on the floor, his back against one of the coolers, and ate spoiled milk with a spoon, scooping it from the carton like cottage cheese.
"Hey," Alan said, "you're gonna get sick, dude. That shit will kill you."
The man smiled sadly. "I hope so. I ain't got the guts to shoot myself, or to let one of those things bite me."
"Suicide?" I frowned. "Why die at all?"
The man shoveled another spoonful of sludge into his mouth. It dribbled down his chin as he replied. "Don' t you guys see? We only got two options. We can join them or we can feed them. Either way, we 're dead."
A tear slid down his cheek. We walked away without another word.
"He's just given up," Alan said when we were out of earshot.
"Fuck that," I said. "I'm going to fight."
"You ever wonder why?"
"Why what?"
"Why we fight? Why we sit in your house going stir crazy? I mean, what's the alternative?
Shit ain't gonna get better. It's just gonna get worse. Why bother?"
I didn't have an answer for him.
Alan and I filled our carts with bottled water; canned vegetables, fruit, and meat; dry goods like cereal and oatmeal; batteries; aspirin; hydrogen peroxide; antibacterial cream; bandages; vitamins; cigarette lighters; matches; and other things we could use. He grabbed a few small propane cylinders for my grill, but I made him put them back. Even if we 'd had fresh meat or veggies to put on the grill, the smell of cooking would attract predators--living and otherwise.
A fly landed on Alan' s forearm as he reached for a box of granola bars. He gave a small, disgusted cry and slapped at it. When he took his hand away, the insect was squashed all over his arm. He let it fall to the floor, and then wiped his arm on his shirt. I wondered if he 'd been thinking the same thing I had about the bugs.
"You ready, Lamar?" He shoved his cart forward.
"Yeah," I said. "Let's go home."
"Home?" He snorted. "Is that what it is these days?"
I didn't answer.
We now had enough goods in our two carts to last us a month. Maybe more if we rationed.
I figured we' d hunker down and stay barricaded inside my house and wait to see what happened next.
On our way to the exit, I added a case of warm beer almost as an afterthought. We passed by the cash registers. It felt weird, not paying. Then we got the hell out of there. Our 336 fellow looters weren't arguing with each other, but the whole place had an underlying mood of fear. It felt like any moment, the whole store could explode.
Or the zombies could show up.
We were on our way back home. The streets were deserted, except for abandoned vehicles; most of them wrecked or shot up. The damp pavement shined; it had rained earlier in the day. With the power out, there were no lights to mark our way, but the moon was full and round. Its dull glow was strangely comforting. Broken glass crunched under our feet. The wheel on Alan ' s cart squeaked. Somewhere, a dog barked. A distant gunshot echoed off the buildings.
A plane passed overhead, red and blue lights blinking in the darkness. I wondered who was on it and where they were going. The wind shifted, bringing the smell of decay. It was early August and the days were sweltering, the nights barely tolerable.
The heat really compounded the stench of the dead, but that was a good thing. You could smell them coming before you saw them. We sped up our pace.
An undead cat lay twitching in the road, unable to move. Its spine had been crushed and a fresh tire tread stood out in its burst stomach. On the sidewalk, something that might have been a dead crow had congealed into a puddle of tissue. Nose wrinkling, Alan steered his shopping cart around the mess, and the squeaky wheel squealed in protest. I glanced at the worms squirming in the bird 's remains and wondered again if they were alive or dead.
The short breeze died down and the heat returned-- as did the stench. We stayed aware, and kept looking over our shoulders. The wheel on my shopping cart kept going crooked, making it a real pain in the ass to push.
Every time I hit a stone or piece of broken glass, 337
I had to shove extra hard. When we came across a cracked and rutted section of sidewalk, I wheeled the cart into the street. As we passed by a sewer drain, I noticed a severed head lying against the curb, right over the grating. A few flaps of flesh hung below the chin, but that was it. Water swirled past the head, trickling down into the drain.
As we watched, a black tongue slithered from its mouth like a slug. The blue eyes turned up to watch us pass.
"Should we kill it?" Alan asked.
"It's already dead."
"You know what I mean."
I shrugged. "Why bother. It can't hurt anybody. It's just a head."
"Fucking creepy."
"Yeah."
"How long you figure it can survive like that?"
"Until it rots away, I guess. It doesn' t have a stomach or anything, but look at it. I bet if we stuck our fingers down there, it would snap at us. Whatever this disease does, these things operate on instinct.
Kind of like a shark. All a shark does is swim and eat. All these things do is walk and eat. It can ' t walk anymore. But it 's still hungry. Bet it stays hungry until its brain dissolves."
Alan stared down at the head. "Wonder if they think."
I didn't reply, because I didn' t know. Alan cocked his foot back and kicked the head like a football. It sailed off into the night. There was a wet splat as it bounced off the hood of an abandoned car.
"Field goal." Alan grinned. "I should play for the Ravens."
"Come on," I said. "Let's get this stuff home while the coast is still clear."
We'd gone two more blocks when it happened. Alan 338 was armed with a sword. He'd picked it up during a vacation in Tijuana. It was a cheap piece of junk, but he' d sharpened the blade and practiced with it in my kitchen. He was pretty good at slicing cantaloupes in half, but he hadn 't had the opportunity to try it on a zombie. I was carrying a pistol. I don' t know what kind. As I said, I was never much of a gun aficionado. During the dealership robbery, I
' d used a Ruger .22 pistol, purchased hot downtown. Bought a box of ammo to go with it. I
'd thrown both into the harbor afterward. When things broke down a few weeks later, I' d wished I still had it. This new gun was a revolver. I knew that much. Didn 't know anything else, except that if I pulled the trigger, I'd shoot something.
I' d picked it up off a dead guy lying in the middle of the intersection. We 'd come across him on our way to the grocery store. After some experimentation, I figured out how to get the cylinder open. There were four bullets inside.
Like Alan and his sword, I hadn't had to use them yet.
Until that zombie bitch shuffled out of the bushes ...
Here's the thing about zombies. You can get the fuck away from them easily enough.
They're usually quiet, but they' re also slow and stupid. You see them coming, so it 's real easy to run away. And like I said earlier, even if you don't see them, you can usually smell the fuckers. Ever smell roadkill? It' s the same thing, except mobile. But that night, the breeze kept shifting. First, it would blow off the Chesapeake Bay and away from us. Then it would switch, but that was no better, because the stench of decay would get so strong you couldn 't tell if it was a zombie approaching you or just the city itself-- a giant graveyard full of rotting corpses.
We passed by a small row house with a withered, brown hedge out front. The windows were broken. The aluminum siding was splattered with gore. The zombie must have come from behind the hedge, because that was the only spot to hide. We didn 't see her, didn't smell her, until she'd latched on to Alan.
He was behind me, talking in hushed tones about getting out of the city and heading for the wilderness-- the woods in Pennsylvania or southern Maryland or maybe down to Ocean City. I was against it. Thought we should just stay inside my place. We didn ' t know shit about what was going on elsewhere. What if the woods were full of infected animals? I waited for Alan to reply. His shopping cart coasted past me and out into the street. At the same time, he started screaming.
I let go of my cart and whipped around. The zombie clung to Alan, scratching and biting. This close, her stench made me gag. She wrapped her swollen, rotting arms around Alan like an exuberant lover and then clambered onto his back. She held on tightly. He buckled under her weight, but managed to maintain his footing. Her feet dangled off the ground. She wore no shoes or socks and her toes were caked with filth.
Alan dropped his sword. It clanged onto the pavement. Panicked, I could only watch as he hunched over, beating at the harpy clinging to his back. The zombie moaned and he shrieked. Her cracked fingernails raked at his arm and neck, ripping his skin.
She leaned forward and her teeth snapped shut on his cheek. The zombie jerked her head back and Alan ' s flesh stretched like soft taffy. Alan screamed again, and even in the darkness, I could see the blood welling up inside his mouth. His skin stretched even farther, pulled taught, and then tore. His flapping cheek 340 dangled from the zombie's clenched teeth. His screams turned into a gurgle. The entire time, the zombie didn't make a sound.
It was then that I remembered the gun. It had been clenched in my hand the whole time, but I'd been so fucking overwhelmed with shock and fear that I' d forgotten about it. The zombie 's head was thrown back away from Alan' s left shoulder. She was chewing the piece of meat while he thrashed and spun. Blood streamed down his neck, soaking his clothing. His skin looked garish and pale, and I saw his teeth and his tongue flopping around in the ragged hole. Amazingly, he didn 't collapse. He kept beating at her, making gobbling sounds in his throat. When he spun around again, I raised the pistol. The zombie' s head darted forward for another bite.
I stepped close, put the gun against her forehead and pulled the trigger. At the same time, I turned my face away, closed my eyes and kept my mouth shut tight, pursing my lips together so that no blood would splatter into my mouth. The pistol jumped in my grip. There was an explosion. Over the zombie ' s stench, I smelled burned hair and gun smoke.
The zombie went limp, slumped, and then slid to the asphalt like a sack of cement.
Alan collapsed to his knees. He tried to scream again, but the sound was garbled.
He sounded like a wild animal. His eyes rolled up at me, wide and horrified. Sweat and blood covered what was left of his face. He tried to speak, but I could barely understand him.
"Shloo emee ..."
"Oh, fuck." I backed away from him. Alan was dead. Even if I managed to stop the bleeding and somehow   patch   up   his   face,   he'd   been bitten.
Hamelin's Revenge was already coursing through his veins.
I heard the sound of tinkling glass from a nearby alley. The zombies were on the move, attracted by the gunshot.
"Laarr," Alan slurred. "Shloo eeee."
Lamar, shoot me. ...
I raised the gun. My hands trembled.
"I'm sorry, man. I am so fucking sorry."
I did as he asked. I shot him.
Like I said, things have changed. People have changed. Me included. I didn' t even look away. The gunshot echoed into the night. Somewhere, another dog barked.
Another zombie shuffled into sight. When it saw me, it grinned and made a low moaning noise. Blinking away tears, I raised the pistol, and then lowered it again. The zombie was too far away to shoot with accuracy and I didn 't want to waste bullets.
I forgot about the shopping carts and ran home. I saw more zombies, but stayed out of their reach. They lurched out of alleyways and stumbled out of houses. I didn 't see anybody else who was still alive. When a rat skittered by me and disappeared behind a parked car, I nearly screamed. I didn' t know if it was dead or alive. I wondered if I should consider myself lucky to be alive, or cursed because I wasn 't dead yet. Of course, if I were dead, then I' d be a zombie. I wondered if they knew --remembered--who they'd been.
Then I decided that I wasn't ready to find out yet.
I ran on; racing death.
