Ghoul (21 page)

Randy made no move to leave. Instead, he winked and said, “So, is it anybody I know?”

“Who?” For a moment, Timmy thought his father was talking about the ghoul.

“This girl you like. Is it someone your mother and I have met?”

“Yes,” Timmy mumbled.

“Who?”

“Aw, come on, Dad. I don't want to say. It's embarrassing.”

“You can tell me. I won't say anything to your mother. Is she cute?”

Timmy took a deep breath. “It's Katie Moore.”

Grinning, his father slapped his knee in delight. The bed springs groaned from the sudden movement.

“Katie, huh? That's great. She's going to be a knockout when she gets older. Does she know you like her?”

“Yes. We're going together. We talked about it today.”

“Going steady?” Randy reached out and ruffled Timmy's hair. "Well, how about that.

My little guy is finally growing up."

Despite his embarrassment, Timmy smiled. Once he'd finally admitted it, he was surprised to find that it actually felt good to share the news with his father. Maybe his dad was right. Maybe he should talk to him about things like this more often. Like Doug had said earlier, Timmy was pretty lucky.

He had a father, unlike Doug, and his father was pretty cool most of the time, unlike Barry's.

Still grinning, Randy got to his feet. "Well, I'll let you get back to your reading.

Still wish you'd read about other stuff, for a change. Don't stay up past eleven, okay?"

Timmy decided to take a chance.

“Dad, wait. Can I talk to you about something else?”

“Sure.” Randy sat back down again. “What's up?”

“Well ... I'm not sure where to start. This may sound kind of weird.”

“Try me.”

“Okay.” Timmy swallowed. “I think I know what happened to Pat and Karen, and all the others.”

His father blinked. "Well, Timmy, I know it was traumatic finding Pat's body the way you boys did, but according to your mother, the police have cautioned against assuming the other disappearances are related."

“Do you believe that, Dad?”

"I think it's safe to assume that whoever killed Pat probably killed ... that the same thing might have happened to Karen. But we just don't know about the others yet."

“But this morning, when you warned us to stay around the house, I thought you were assuming the same thing.”

"Maybe I was. Look, Timmy, I don't have all the answers. I'm just worried about you--and your friends. Something's going on and I don't want it to affect you any more than it already has. Whatever it is that 's happened to the others, I don't want it happening to you. Let's just let the police find out who's responsible."

“But, Dad, that's just it. I know who it is! I know who's behind this.”

“Who, Timmy? And how do you know? Is there something you didn't tell the detective when he interviewed you?”

“No. I figured it out later, when I got home. That's why I'm doing all this research.”

Randy's face grew concerned. “What do you mean?”

“The person that killed Pat isn't a person at all. It's a ghoul.”

His father didn't speak, and Timmy assumed he was too shocked to reply. Gathering his courage, he pressed ahead.

“You said I could talk to you about what's going on. Well this is what's going on.”

He proceeded to tell his father about all that he suspected, blurting out a breathless, excited litany of the past month's chronological events and how they connected to facts regarding ghoul legends. Occasionally, to clarify a point or back up a position, Timmy would rifle through the stack of comics and hold one up for verification, pointing to the specific panels where he 'd gotten the information. Randy kept quiet, listening with rapt attention to all that his son had to say. He started to interrupt once, when Timmy voiced his suspicions about Clark Smeltzer, but then he fell silent again. His mouth was tight, his face grim. When Timmy had finished, he was speechless. Timmy waited expectantly for some sort of response --anything--but none was forthcoming. His father merely stared at him.

“Dad?”

Blinking, Randy shook his head slightly, as if waking up from a daydream.

“Dad,” Timmy said again, “what should we do? Do you think we should tell the police?”

“No.” His father's voice was sad and hoarse. “No, Timmy, I don't think we should call the police.”

“But why not? It could be out there right now.”

“That's enough, Tim.”

“But Dad, you said that you'd listen to me. You said I could talk to you. What's wrong? Don't you believe me?”

Randy sighed. “No, Tim. I don't.”

Timmy's heart sank.

“But... but it all makes sense. Even Grandpa's grave.”

Randy tensed. “Stop it, Timothy. Just stop this right now.”

“Don't you care? The ghoul could have tunneled into his coffin.”

“I said stop it.”

“It could have eaten Grandpa.”

“I said stop it!”

In the living room, Elizabeth heard the outburst. Gasping, she ran down the hall.

She flung the door open and stared at them, frightened. Tears rolled down her son 's face. He was sitting upright against the headboard, shrinking away from his father.

Her husband looked angrier than she'd seen him in a long time.

“What on earth is going on in here? What's wrong?”

“Tell your mother,” Randy spat. “Tell your mother the same nonsense you just told me.”

“I... I...” Timmy trailed off, stifling a sob.

Randy stood up, fists clenched at his sides. Elizabeth touched his shoulder, but he shrugged her away.

“Randy, what is going on?”

“Our son,” he said through gritted teeth, "thinks that a monster is on the loose next door in the cemetery. He says that it's in cahoots with Clark Smeltzer, and that the two of them are robbing graves. He thinks that this monster, this ghoul, is eating people. He thinks that it ate ... my father."

Elizabeth's eyes went wide with shock. Her head whipped back and forth in denial.

“Timmy,” she cried, “why would you say such horrible things?”

More tears rolled down his face. “Because it's the truth, Mom. I can prove it.”

"Honey, you know it's not the truth. There is no such thing as monsters. And Mr.

Smeltzer? I'll admit, he has problems, but Barry's father is--"

“Barry's father is a monster,” Timmy shouted. “Jesus Christ, are you both blind?”

“Don't take the Lord's name in vain.”

“Mom, don't you know what Mr. Smeltzer does to Barry and his mom? He's evil, and he's working with that thing out there. That ghoul.”

“Timothy Graco,” Elizabeth snapped. “You stop talking like that this instant. There is no monster living in the cemetery. You know that.”

"It's these funny books,“ Randy said, seizing a handful off the bed. He crumpled them in his fist. ”This garbage. I told you Reverend Moore was right. We shouldn 't be letting him read this bullshit. These comics are where he gets these ideas. They're a bad influence."

Timmy cried out as his father continued to squeeze, crumpling the comic beyond any hope of repair.

“Your father is right,” his mother said. “Like earlier, when you said that you and your friends blew up a dead animal. That type of behavior just isn't acceptable.”

“I'm sorry,” Timmy said. “We won't do it again. But I'm not lying about the ghoul.”

“No more,” Randy said. "I'll have no more of this nonsense. It's not normal, Timothy.

These things you believe in--normal people don't think about monsters and demons."

He tossed the comics on the floor and stalked out of the room. Timmy leapt out of bed and scooped them up. He flattened the comic books out on his mattress and tried to smooth them.

“Look at this,” he sobbed. “Look what he did. He ruined them.”

Elizabeth tried to soothe him. “Timmy. Calm down, sweetie. Your father is very angry right now, and he's had a long day.”

“I don't care. It isn't right.”

“Honey, did you really say that about your grandfather?”

“Yes.”

“But why? Can't you see how hurtful that is to your father? How wrong it was to make up such a horrible story?”

“It's true!” Timmy looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes. “See for yourself. His grave is sinking.”

“That's normal, Timmy. Graves settle after a few weeks, especially if it rains like it did last night. You can't make up lies like that.”

“It's not a story, and he didn't need to do this.” He continued smoothing the comics. “I hate him. I'll never forgive Dad for this.”

“Timmy, that's not true. You love your father, and he loves you very much.”

“If he loved me, then why won't he listen? Why did he do this?”

“You have to look at it from his perspective.”

“Why? Why do I have to? Because I told the truth?”

"But you didn't, Timmy. You're telling stories. Fiction. You're confused right now.

Upset with all that's happened."

“No, I'm not.”

Randy walked back into the room with a huge cardboard box in hand. He sat it down on the floor and then, without a word, he began dropping Timmy's comic collection into the box. Timmy gasped. The comics folded and bent as they were dumped inside.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

“Something I should have done a long time ago. Elizabeth, pull those long white boxes out from under his bed.”

“Randy, I--”

“I said to do it.”

She took a deep breath and complied. Not once did she look up at her son.

“What are you doing?” Timmy asked again. “What is this?”

“Follow me.”

Randy turned and stomped down the hall, hefting a box under each arm. Timmy ran after him, demanding to know what was going on. Elizabeth trailed along behind them, carrying the last box. When they reached the kitchen, Randy set down a box, opened the basement door, and motioned for Timmy to go through.

“Downstairs.”

Timmy did as he was told. His father's voice was cold and emotionless. He'd never heard it sound this way before.

His parents followed him. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Randy made Timmy sit down on a wooden stool that he pulled out from under his workbench. He sat the boxes of comics next to him. Then he pulled over a large, empty trash can and put a fresh garbage bag inside it. Only then, after he'd finished this task, did Randy finally speak.

“Elizabeth, go back upstairs.”

“Randy, don't do this. Please. You know how much he loves those books. Please? I'm sure he didn't mean it.”

Silently, Timmy prayed she'd convince his father to stop before it was too late.

Randy sighed. “Honey, do as I asked you to. Please, just this once? This is hard enough.”

They stared at one another for a moment, and then she turned and went back upstairs to the kitchen. She shut the door behind her. Randy pulled out another stool and sat down facing his son.

“Dad ...”

“Timmy, I love you. I need you to know that.”

His voice cracked. He paused, taking a moment to compose himself, and then continued.

"Sometimes it's hard, being a parent. When you have a kid, it's not like buying a new car or an appliance. There's no instruction manual, and you get so scared of making a mistake. Get scared of screwing your kid up. Your generation has it pretty easy. You don 't have Vietnam or the Depression to go through. But it's still tough, these days. We want the best for you. Your mom and I have tried very hard to give you the things we didn't have at your age. Things like good food and clothes. Your bike. That Atari in the living room. And you deserve them. I meant what I said earlier--I'm proud of you. But this lying has got to stop."

“I'm not lying, Dad.”

"You know very well that story isn't true. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. I'm going to give you one last chance, Timmy. One last chance to take it all back."

“But, Dad--I ...”

His father sighed. His shoulders slumped.

“Okay. I didn't want to do this ...”

“What?”

"I'm grounding you for disobeying me this morning. Yes, I know you boys found Pat's car, and that's a good thing for all concerned. But you still disobeyed me. You went beyond the boundaries your mother and I set for you."

“We had to. We were--”

“I don't want to hear any more lies. It doesn't matter. You're grounded for a month.”

“A month? But that's half my summer vacation!”

“I'm sorry, Timothy. You should have listened.”

“But the ghoul--”

“There is no such thing as monsters, Timmy! Stop it. Stop making up bullshit stories!”

Flinching, Timmy reared back on the stool in fright. His father's anger seemed to roll off him in waves, almost tangible.

Randy picked up the first comic book, Avengers Annual #10. His hands shook.

Timmy's eyes grew wide.

"Don't speak, Timothy. Don't say a word, because all you're doing is lying more.

I gave you a chance. And don't you dare look away. If you look away, I'll ground you for another month."

“Dad,” Timmy sobbed, “please don't do this. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!”

“I'm sorry, too, son.”

He tore it in half, slowly. A single tear rolled down his cheek.

“No,” Timmy screamed, “please, Daddy, don't. Please? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm--”

The torn halves were tossed into the trash can, followed by an issue of Man>el Two-in-One.

“Stop it, Daddy! Please, just stop.”

“It's too late for that.” An issue of Fantastic Four was next. Then a mint copy of Justice League of America that Timmy hadn't even had a chance to read.

“I hate you,” Timmy screamed. “I hate you and want you to die.”

More tears spilled from both of their eyes as Randy tore up a copy of The Defenders.

And another.

And another.

And an hour later, when the boxes were empty and his entire comic book collection--his entire childhood-- was destroyed, Timmy still had plenty of tears left.

There is no such thing as monsters, his father had said, but his father was wrong.

Timmy was looking at one, and at that moment, he hated his father far worse than he'd ever hated Barry's.

Doug pedaled down Laughman Road. The spokes on his wheels hummed quietly as the tires went round and round. His bike's white reflectors flashed in the darkness when the moonlight hit them. He sped by Catcher's driveway, but if the Doberman was awake, he didn't give chase. Breathing a big sigh of relief, Doug coasted on.

He'd woken, plastered in sweat, as his mother's mouth closed over him. Somehow, she'd already succeeded in pulling his pajamas down while he slept. Frightened and disoriented, he'd jerked away from her and glanced around his bedroom, wondering how she'd got in.

Then he saw. Though he'd invested his meager savings in a lock for the door, he 'd forgotten to lock his window. It hung open and the screen was missing. Drunk as she was, his mother had managed to remove the screen. Then she 'd crawled inside while he'd slept, exhausted from the day's traumatic events.

She reached for him again. Doug fought her off, managing to get his pajama bottoms back up while she sat on the floor and cried. Then he comforted her, holding her close and whispering consoling words until she passed out, drooling on his shoulder.

As soon as she began snoring, he'd slipped out from beneath her, got dressed, and left. It was a quarter till midnight.

With any luck, Timmy would still be awake, probably reading comic books under the covers with a flashlight. Doug could bang on his window and spend the night.

Bowman's Woods were different at night. Scary. The tree limbs seemed to reach out over the road, grasping for him. The darkness between their trunks was a solid thing, and strange noises came from within its shadowy confines. Night sounds: snapping twigs, rustling leaves, a chirping chorus of crickets, something that could have been an owl --or laughter.

Shivering, Doug pedaled faster.

To his left, another twig snapped, as if something were following him. Then another.

The faster he went, the faster the snapping sounds increased.

His mind conjured up images of Jason and Michael Myers and every other movie maniac he'd had the misfortune to see. What if Pat's killer was in the woods right now, watching him, lying in wait? After all, it had been him and Timmy that had discovered Pat's car-- and Pat himself.

He increased his speed yet again, and the wind ruffled his hair, cooling the sweat on his forehead. His pedals beat a steady rhythm, clanking against the bike's faulty kickstand. He'd been meaning to get it fixed, maybe have Timmy's father install a new one, but he hadn't yet come up with the money to get it, since most of his savings went toward candy and video games.

Eventually, the snapping sounds faded. Doug chided himself for being silly. It had probably just been a deer or a squirrel.

Somewhere deep inside the forest, a whippoorwill called out--a mournful, lonely sound.

Doug had heard the old wives' tales about them-- if you heard a whippoorwill late at night or just before dawn, it meant that somebody close to you was going to die. As the bird sang out again, Doug hoped those stories weren't true. There were enough people dead. He didn't need any more.

Sometimes he thought about dying. What it would be like. If it would hurt. If anything happened afterward, like Reverend Moore promised, or if there was nothing but oblivion.

Of the two choices, he preferred oblivion. Sleep was good. Doug enjoyed sleeping.

It was the only time he didn't have to think; didn't have to feel.

Doug reached the intersection with Anson Road and paused to catch his breath. With relief, he noticed that the Graco's living room light was on, which meant that at least one of Timmy 's parents were still awake, and maybe Timmy, as well. Both vehicles were in the driveway. Everyone was home--the whole family.

Family.

Doug wished he had one. He spent his time alone daydreaming about when his father had still been around. He often wished that he'd appreciated those times more while they lasted. His parents had seemed happy, at least to him. And they seemed to be happy with him, as well. His Dad said, “I love you.” They did stuff together. Talked about things.

His father had never called him fat boy or tub-o-lard or faggot, like the kids at school or Barry's father did.

The last month he was with them, things changed.

Subtly. Doug hadn't seen it at the time, but it was clear in hindsight. His father had seemed withdrawn.

Distant. Irritable. At first, Doug had figured it had something to do with his mother losing her job. But the uncharacteristic behavior continued. Those last few weeks, Doug and his mother ate dinner alone. His dad didn 't come home after work--didn't come home at all, sometimes. Spent the night somewhere else. He never said where, at least to Doug. He'd heard his parents arguing about it, but at the time, he hadn 't understood what was going on and was too afraid to ask. He thought maybe it was something that he'd done.

And then, one night, his father didn't come home again, and the next morning, he was still gone. He never came back. Never said good-bye. Never explained it to Doug or told him where he was going or that he loved him one last time.

He was just ... gone.

His father abandoned him for a waitress that Doug had never met. Worse, his father had left him alone with his mother, knowing full well what she was capable of.

Ever since then, Doug had felt hollow and empty. Dead.

So maybe oblivion wasn't such a bad alternative after all, if he was already dead inside anyway.

At twelve, Doug felt eighty.

He hopped off his bike and pushed it up the Graco's driveway, trying his best to be quiet. The chain rattled softly and the spokes clicked. He gently laid the bike down in the yard and then crept around back. The grass brushed against his shoes, the dew soaking his feet. The breeze picked up for a moment, and Mrs. Graco's wind chimes rang in the silence. Doug willed them to be quiet, and the wind died down again. He started toward Timmy's window, tripped over a stick, and froze, waiting to see if he'd been heard.

He noticed that Timmy's bedroom window was dark, as were the rest of the lights in the house except for the living room, its soft yellow glow peeking out from beneath the shades.

Doug paused, wondering what to do next. Somebody was obviously awake, but it probably wasn't Timmy. Even if Timmy was still up, his parents didn't know about it because his light was out. If he knocked on Timmy 's window, he risked the possibility that whoever was still awake might hear him.

If Mr. or Mrs. Graco caught him, not only would Timmy get in trouble, but they 'd also insist on either calling his mother or taking him back home themselves. No way was he going back home tonight.

He crept back around the side of the house and sneaked up to the living room's large picture window. Pressing his nose against the glass, Doug peeked through a space in the shades. Timmy's father was sitting on the couch. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the end table next to him. Doug's eyes widened with surprise. Mr. Graco rarely drank, especially on weeknights. But what shocked him the most wasn't the alcohol. It was the look of absolute anguish etched into Randy Graco 's face. Timmy's father was weeping; large, fat tears that made his cheeks shiny and wet. His eyes were red and his body shook each time he sobbed. Doug had never seen him show so much emotion --not even at Dane Graco's funeral. He looked scarred. Tortured. In a weird way, it almost looked like he was laughing instead of crying, since there was no sound. But the haunted look in his eyes was a dead giveaway that this was a man in pain.

Doug backed away from the window. It felt wrong, somehow, spying on his best friend's father at such a private and darkly intimate moment. Something was definitely wrong, but whatever it was, Doug would have to wait until tomorrow to find out. There was no way he could risk waking Timmy now. And going to Barry's house was obviously out of the question. He couldn't go home. He couldn't spend the night with friends. And so, he was left with only one option.

The Dugout.

Sighing, Doug collected his bike. He coasted down the driveway and onto Anson Road.

When he was out of earshot, he began pedaling again. He slowed as he reached the cemetery. Even though they'd played there after dark often enough, it was still spooky at night. Spookier than even Bowman's Woods. Especially when he was alone. Light wisps of mist curled around the bases of the tombstones and trees. The moon seemed frozen overhead, bright and full, offering radiance, but no warmth. Unlike Bowman's Woods and the rest of the countryside, the graveyard was quiet. No crickets chirped.

No birds sang. Not even an owl or a whippoorwill. It was weird, as if Mother Nature were holding her breath.

The cemetery felt empty.

Despite the humidity in the air, Doug shivered.

He slogged up the hill, out of breath, hot and sweating hard. The bike seemed heavier than normal, and he wished that he had the leg strength to pedal it uphill, rather than push it. He avoided going anywhere near Barry 's house, and instead, turned off the road and into the old portion of the graveyard.

Even though it was still uphill, the going seemed easier. The ground was softer, and the wet dew soaked through his sneakers and cooled his feet.

He reached the top of the hill and paused to catch his breath. Then he hopped back on the bike. To his left, the dilapidated utility shed loomed in the distance. Just the sight of it filled Doug with dread and sadness. That morning's memories were still fresh. He imagined that he could still hear Clark Smeltzer 's cruel, mocking laughter and slurred speech, as if he were nearby. It seemed very real, as if Mr. Smeltzer was still there.

And then, with a jolt of panic, Doug realized that he was.

Clark Smeltzer leaned against a tall, granite monument near the utility shed, in the newer portion of the cemetery. Despite the solid support, the drunken caretaker swayed back and forth. One arm hugged the stone. The other waved around in agitation.

He clutched a bottle in his hand, and the liquid sloshed in time with his jerky movements.

His voice was animated --loud and angry. He was talking to someone, but from his vantage point, Doug couldn't see who it was. He strained to hear. The wind shifted toward him and he picked up a snatch of conversation. The breeze carried something else, too --a foul odor, similar to the one they'd smelled wafting from the hole beneath the shed floor. Doug assumed that was where the stench was coming from.

“You leave them out of this,” Mr. Smeltzer threatened whomever he was talking to.

“That wasn't part of the deal.”

He lurched to the side, still holding onto the grave marker, and Doug caught a glimpse of the stranger. Whoever it was, they appeared to be naked and almost hairless, except between their legs. His eyes widened. Yes, the person, whoever it was, really was naked, and definitely a man. Their skin was very pale, and seemed to be... glowing?

That couldn't be right.

He squinted, trying to see clearly. His pulse raced. A lump rose in his throat. If Mr. Smeltzer turned around now or if the stranger spotted him over the caretaker's shoulder, he'd be caught. He'd already seen just what Barry's father was capable of in broad daylight. There was no telling what he'd do under the cover of night, especially as angry as he sounded right now.

Slowly, carefully, Doug turned the bike to the right and began heading for the church.

He held his breath, hoping the chain wouldn't rattle. The spokes clicked softly. He prayed they wouldn 't notice the bike's reflectors. His plan was to cut around it, letting the structure block him from their view, and then take the lower cemetery road --the one that bordered Luke Jones's pasture-- to the Dugout. If he needed to, he could even go the long way around and cut through the pasture itself. Once inside the fort, he should be safe. There was no way they could stumble across it in the dark.

Swallowing hard, he tried to calm his fears, tried to make a game out of it. He was Han Solo, sneaking around onboard the Death Star and hiding from the Imperial storm troopers. His BMX was really the Millennium Falcon, the fastest bucket of bolts in the entire galaxy. He tried to think of the film's line about the Kessel Run, but he was too scared to remember it.

Inching farther away, he climbed onto the bike, breathed a silent prayer, and coasted away. His feet slipped onto the pedals and he gently pumped them. The pedals went round in a circle --and clanged against the faulty kickstand.

Ka-chunk.

Doug whimpered.

Behind him, something squealed like a monstrous, enraged pig.

“Oh, shit.” Doug pedaled as fast as he could.

The bike picked up speed, rocketing toward the church. The tires crunched through the gravel, and the bike's chain rattled. Clark Smeltzer shouted in confusion, but Doug didn 't bother to turn around. He heard feet slapping the ground in pursuit, coming hard and fast. The horrible stench seemed to be following him as well, getting stronger.

He bent over the handlebars, gritted his teeth, and pedaled with all his might. Another terrible cry sounded from behind him, and then the sounds of pursuit faded. He rolled into the parking lot, and out onto the road, passing between Barry 's house and the church. The windows were dark inside each, reinforcing in his mind just how late it was.

I'm all alone out here, he thought. If something happens now, nobody will ever know.

Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw no sign of either Barry's father or the mysterious, howling stranger. He took a deep breath, held it, and listened.

Silence.

Who sounds like that, anyway? Not even the guy who does all those sound effects in the Police Academy movies could make a noise like that. It was more like an animal than a person.

He waited a few seconds longer, his muscles tensed, ready to flee if there was any sign of pursuit. No one came. Apparently, they'd given up. Relieved, Doug reached down and patted the bike 's crossbar.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “Got us out of that one, for sure. Need to get that kickstand fixed, though.”

He rode on into the night. He'd decided that maybe death and oblivion weren't really what he wanted after all.