Ghoul (20 page)

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 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 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 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 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 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.