Ghoul

Thanks to Cassandra and Sam; Don D' Auria; Tim, Brooke, and Brianna; Bob Ford and Whutta Design Agency; Kelli, Tod, Mark, and John; Kelly for the fallacies; Bob, Jim, Benjamin, and the rest of the staff at Borders Books in York, PA, for allowing me to set up temporary shop in the cafe when I lost my office; my father, Lloyd Keene, and father-in-law, Glenn Burnham, for building me a new office; Don Coscarelli, Brian Hodge, John Skipp, and Jim Moore; Pete Zedlacher and Monica Kuebler; and the message board regulars at BrianKeene.com.

Although this book takes place in the year 1984, I have taken fictional liberties with some of the pop culture of the period. So if a character is listening to a song that wasn't popular until months later, keep in mind that it 's a fictional timeline. This is 1984 as I remember it. Your memories--and mileage--may vary.

Although many of the Central Pennsylvanian locations in this novel are real, I have taken certain fictional liberties with them. So if you live there, don't look for your church or cemetery. You won't like what you find living beneath them.

x “Allah ease thee, O King of the age even as thou hast eased me of these Ghuls, whose bellies none may fill save Allah!”

--Alf Laylah wa Laylah, or The Thousand Nights and a Night Translated by Sir Richard F. Burton, 19th century

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 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 moon really was an eye--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, 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, 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-

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; 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.