Ghoul (13 page)

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 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 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 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 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.

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 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 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 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 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 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."