Ghoul (2 page)

“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 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 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 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.

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 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 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 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 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 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 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."