Johnny Gruesome (38 page)

Johnny strode forward, the door closing behind him. He wore his usual attire, Michael noted, but the clothing had deteriorated as much as his body had. His tattered black T-shirt revealed his bluish skin stretched over his collarbone and ribs.

The vicious stench of rotten meat permeated the office and caused Michael to gag. The ridges of Johnny’s eye sockets showed through his decaying flesh; his long hair hung down in ragged clumps. The right side of his face had decomposed faster than the left, and had suffered extreme trauma. Deep furrows scored his temple and cheek, as if a wild animal had clawed him. He opened and closed long, skeletal fingers with blackened nails.

“My suspension is over,” Johnny said in a hoarse voice that induced chills in Michael, who backed up against his desk.

“Get out of here! Get out!”

Johnny took a slow step forward, his watery eyes unblinking. “Can I come back to school?”

“No! Go back to wherever you came from!”

Stepping over Michael’s coat and briefcase, Johnny drew the remains of his lips into a wretched smile. “Coffins are cold in the winter, Mr. Milton. Especially when the only thing in your veins is embalming fluid.”

“Stay back!”

Johnny leaned forward, bringing his face within inches of the principal’s. Michael’s eyes filled with tears and his lower lip quivered. Johnny’s breath reeked of death.

“What’s wrong? You aren’t scared, are you? A week ago, you said you weren’t afraid of me, that my reign of terror was over.”

The muscles in Michael’s throat twitched in spasms, and he voiced a wet-sounding gasp.

Johnny jerked his hands before his face.
“Boo!”

Throwing one arm across his eyes to shield himself from the terrible visage before him, Michael tore a scream from his throat. Johnny laughed, a sinister sound that made the principal cower in helpless terror. Michael flailed his arms as clammy fingers dug into his flabby throat.

“Please—
please,
don’t hurt me!”

“Shut the fuck up.” Johnny forced the principal on top of his desk.

Michael tried to sit up, but Johnny pushed him back down. A trembling mass of corpulence, Michael stared at his former pupil with bulging eyes. “Oh, God, you’re the one who killed Todd—”

“Yeah, yeah. It always comes down to that prick, doesn’t it?”

“—and Derek and Cliff—”

“Don’t forget the Lawson clan.”

Tears streaked Michael’s cheeks, and Johnny shook his head in disgust.

“You’re pathetic, you know that?” He raised his black T-shirt with his left hand, revealing the Y incision in his torso and the staples that held his rotting flesh together. “You need some guts.”

Michael covered his mouth and nose with one hand, protecting himself from Johnny’s foul odor.

“Here—” Johnny dug his fingers into the incision, which parted like a moist vagina. His hand disappeared inside his own belly and squishing sounds leaked from the stapled slit. “—have some of mine!”

Michael gagged. Dear God Almighty, save me from this abomination!

When Johnny withdrew his hand it clutched ropy intestines covered with white paste, like rotten pasta.

Michael screamed and Johnny’s fist rocketed toward his open mouth. Teeth shattered and gums tore as Johnny shoved his entrails down the fat man’s throat.

D
ressed in rugged boots, jeans, and a black sweater, Carol prepared for war. First, she tied her hair in a ponytail. Then she slid Matt’s hunting knife inside one boot, and a can of pepper spray in the other. She didn’t know if the pepper spray would have any effect on Johnny, but she knew what the knife could do to him in her hands.

Downstairs, she unlocked the front door. Then she positioned the rocking chair before it and laid the .45 on the end table. Turning off the living room light—but leaving the upstairs lights on—she sat in the rocker, lit a cigarette, and waited.

An hour passed. The sun set. Shadows stretched across the walls, then melted in darkness. Her mind wandered. Then she heard footsteps on the front porch. Her right hand tightened around the grip of the .45, which she had moved to her lap.

A shadow filled the curtain over the window in the front door, and the footsteps stopped. Carol held her breath, waiting. The doorbell rang, and she ignored it. The shadow knocked on the door frame. She ignored that, too. The shadow leaned close to the glass, cupping its hands around its eyes, peering inside. Sweat beaded on her forehead. The shadow stepped back from the glass and the doorknob turned.

Rising from the rocker, Carol swung the .45 up with both hands, aiming at the dark shape. The door swung open, revealing a figure silhouetted by the streetlight at the curb. Her heart pounded. The silhouette stepped forward, growing larger.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

Another step brought Eric into the slash of light coming from the stairway. “Mrs. Crane—”

Carol cried out. She had almost shot Eric, one of her students! A living, breathing human being. Lowering the gun, she said, “Turn on the light, Eric. The switch is behind you.”

Sliding one hand on the wall beside the door, Eric flipped the overhead light on. Seeing Carol standing with the gun in her hands, he shut the door. “What’s going on?”

“I almost killed you!”

He raised his eyebrows.

“What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“So you just walked into my house?”

Eric’s eyes darted to the .45. “I rang the doorbell. You didn’t answer, and I knew you were home, so … I was worried.”

She locked eyes with him. “Thank you. What was so important that you had to walk into my house uninvited?”

Eric hesitated. “I lied to you this morning. Something strange did happen to me this week.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Tell me.”

“Last night, the wrestling team threw a memorial for Todd at The Bus. That’s where Derek and Cliff were coming from when they were killed. Believe me, I know how crazy this sounds, but I saw Johnny.”

“Johnny—?”

“Grissom.”

Carol tried to sound incredulous. “You know that’s impossible.”

“I know what I saw. I didn’t at first, but I do now.”

Closing her eyes, Carol exhaled.
Thank God.
She felt tears roll down her cheeks.

“Mrs. Crane—?”

Wiping her eyes, she looked at him.

“What did you want to tell me this morning?”

Now it’s your turn. “I saw him, too.”

Relief passed over Eric’s features. “I thought so. When?”

“Yesterday afternoon, after school.” The look in her eyes warned him not to probe further.

“I was just inside his house, and I found his funeral suit hanging in his closet.” He described the mud, the footprints, and the seams in the back of the suit. “I need you to go to the cemetery with me.”

“What will that accomplish?”

“We’re going to prove whether or not Johnny’s resting comfortably in his grave.”

“And if he isn’t?”

“Then we’ll both know that we really saw what we think we saw, that we’re not crazy.”

“I don’t need to see an empty coffin to know that.”

“Well, I do.”

“And what do we do if his corpse is still there—drive a wooden stake through its heart?”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

I have a better one,
she thought, squeezing the .45. “When?”

“Right now. There’s no time to spare.”

She bit her lip.

“Please, Mrs. Crane. I need your help. There’s no way I can do this alone, and no one else will believe me.”

“All right, Eric. I’ll help you.” If Johnny wouldn’t come to her, then she would go to him. And Eric would back her up.

“Are you bringing that?” Eric nodded at the gun.

“You’d better believe it.”

They loaded the trunk of Carol’s Prius with tools, and Carol drove them across town to the cemetery. She parked on Eagle Street, behind the cemetery, rather than on Morton, to be discreet. Getting out, they faced Main Street, less than a quarter of a mile away. No cars passed them, and the number of houses on the tree-lined street with dark windows equaled those with rectangles of light. College students rented most of the two-story homes.

Carol popped the trunk with her remote control, and Eric filled his arms with shovels and a pickax and led her around a house with darkened windows. Carrying two unlit flashlights, she followed him across the snowy backyard. A dog barked two fences away, and the smell of pine filled the air.

Stopping before a solid mass, Eric gazed skyward. No moonlight penetrated the treetops. “You can turn one of those on now.”

Carol thumbed the switch on her heavy-duty flashlight, and a circle of white light bounced off thick tree trunks.

“Come on.”

Weaving between trees and limbs that had fallen during the ice storm, Eric came to a sudden stop and Carol almost collided with him. Sensing they had cleared the woods, she squinted at the black bars of a wrought-iron fence, six feet tall with spikes.

“I’m not climbing over that,” she said.

“You won’t have to.” He followed the fence twenty feet to his left and disappeared.

Carol hurried forward, the flashlight beam bouncing off the trees as she searched for him. She found him facing her from the other side of the fence, outlined in silver moonlight. Aiming the flashlight at the fence, she saw where two bars had been bent in opposing directions, allowing for entry. Feeling the wind at her back, she grabbed the bars, ducked beneath the crossbar, and stepped through the space. She faced Eric, vapor trailing from their mouths as snow descended around them.

Eric turned in a circle, getting his bearings. “Over here.”

Carol aimed the flashlight in the direction he indicated and followed him. At first she sensed, rather than saw, the markers around them. Then her flashlight discovered sculpted angels, crosses, and obelisks.

“Stay on the path,” Eric said.

She hurried after him, fearing he’d disappear again.

“We’re in the right section. It’s just over that hill.”

They climbed the hill and stood silhouetted in moonlight. Below them, scores of gravestones, separated by trees and bushes and fences, rose from the snow. Descending the hill, Carol stumbled.

“We’re almost there,” Eric said. The ground leveled off and he dumped the shovels, metal clanging against wood. “Can I have the other flashlight?”

Reaching around the .45 in her pocket, she withdrew the other flashlight and handed it to him.

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t leave me.” The words came out sounding more frightened than she’d intended.

“I won’t go far.” His words failed to convince her. “I’ll stay in sight, okay?”

She nodded as he turned his back to her, chewing on the inside of her mouth. She felt foolish, but—

We came out here to prove whether or not a dead student has come back from the grave. I refuse to feel stupid or embarrassed because I’m scared shitless.

Eric marched away, shrinking within her flashlight’s halo. He vanished, and her knees weakened. The wind increased, and she felt alone and vulnerable. Shifting the flashlight to her left hand, she curled the fingers of her right hand around the grip of the .45. Eric reappeared in the same spot, walking toward her.

“It’s right over there,” he said, rejoining her and retrieving the shovels.

She followed him into the darkness, her flashlight beam bouncing from the snow on the ground to the trees ahead. She had trouble pinpointing the limbs that creaked around them.

Departing from the path, Eric led her through deeper snow, cutting a swath through a row of recent gravestones. They stopped in a clearing at the foot of another hill, and Carol recognized where Eric had slipped while serving as one of Johnny’s pallbearers. He moved forward, and she aimed her flashlight at the ground before him and joined him at a mound of exposed earth.

Eric unzipped his Windbreaker. “Ready?”

Carol nodded.

He handed one shovel to her, then carried the other to the head of the mound and set his flashlight atop a neighboring gravestone.

She positioned her flashlight on a gravestone, as well, the arcs of light intersecting at Johnny’s grave. “How do you know this is the right one? There’s no marker.”