Ghoul (22 page)

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 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 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 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 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 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.