Ghoul (26 page)

“I'll try to keep the ghoul distracted while you open the tunnels up. Don't let me down, okay?”

Barry turned back to him. His expression was grim. His fingers tightened around the BB pistol.

“I told you, man. We're friends for life. You can count on me.”

“Okay. Seriously, let's do this. Before it's too late.”

“Here.” Barry held out his pocketknife. “You might need this.”

“Thanks.” Timmy stuffed the knife in his pocket and then stepped onto the ladder.

“Be careful,” Barry called.

Nodding, Timmy climbed down the rickety ladder.

“Here I come, Doug,” he whispered. “Just hang on man, and please be all right.”

He went slowly, carefully watching his footing. When he reached the bottom, he let'go of the rungs and tumbled once more into the darkness. Barry watched the hole swallow him up, until he could see him no more. Even his flashlight beam had vanished. Timmy was gone, into the monster's lair.

“Be careful,” he whispered. He didn't know if Timmy heard him or not.

Barry turned toward home--a monster's lair of its own--and wondered if either one of them would actually still be alive come dawn.

The first thing Timmy noticed was the stench. It hung thick in the air, like an invisible fog, and he could taste it in his mouth when he breathed. It was just like what they 'd smelled before; coming out of the holes around the cemetery, but it was much stronger now; highly concentrated. It burned his nose the way the smell of bleach did when his mother was doing laundry.

Make it a game, he thought. I'm Luke Skywalker, sneaking through the Death Star, trying to rescue the Princess.

He stumbled over a thick tree root jutting up from the soil and reached his hand out to steady himself. The tunnel's walls were cold and damp, and covered with some type of slime. Timmy jerked his hand away and shined the flashlight on it. His fingers were webbed with something that resembled milky snot. Disgusted, he wiped them on his jeans before continuing.

The passageway wound into the darkness, and his meager flashlight beam did little to penetrate the gloom. And yet, Timmy had the distinct impression that he could actually see farther than he should be able to.

As his eyes adjusted, he realized why. It was the slime. The stuff was glowing -- barely noticeable, but giving off a faint, eerie radiance all the same. He wondered what it was. Living within twenty miles of both the Three Mile Island and Peachbottom nuclear power plants, Timmy was very conscious of radioactive waste, even at twelve.

Several times over the last five years, there had been news stories about barrels of waste found dumped in creeks and streams, or off dirt logging roads way out in the wilderness. But this wasn't anything like that. The substance coated everything-- walls, ceiling, and the parts of the floor not covered up with piles of loose soil.

It had to be the ghoul. Maybe the creature exuded the slime from its pores. Maybe the stuff aided the ghoul in digging, or allowed it to see much better below ground.

And maybe, the thought occurred to him, he didn't know nearly as much about ghouls as he'd assumed, and perhaps he should just turn around right now and go call the police.

But then he thought of Doug, who'd been let down by everyone in his life, except for Timmy and Barry. He couldn't just abandon his friend down here. As scared as he was, he had no choice.

Timmy pressed ahead, feeling less like Tom Sawyer or Luke Skywalker and more like the very frightened twelve-year-old boy that he was. He pulled out Barry's pocketknife and opened the blade. He clutched it with one hand and held the flashlight in the other. Neither item made him feel more courageous. He wished his father were here with him. Timmy's hate and anger were forgotten. He wanted the safety net he'd grown accustomed to over the years-- knowing that no matter how bad the danger was, his parents were always standing by, ready to take care of him. Shelter him. Keep him safe from the monsters. He remembered when he was little, and had been convinced there was a monster under his bed. He 'd cry out at night, and his father was always there, turning on the light and checking the closets and beneath the bed.

And now his father wasn't there.

Timmy went on. He'd never felt more alone. Even thinking of Katie didn't help.

The passage was roughly circular, and varied in height and width. At some points, he had to duck his head or pull his arms tight against his sides to avoid brushing up against the walls. Other stretches were wide enough to walk comfortably in. He tried to guess in which direction he was traveling, but it was impossible to tell.

Eventually, other tunnels began branching off the main passageway. He decided not to venture down them, for fear of becoming lost. His progress was slow. He kept the light trained on the floor, looking for signs of where Doug might be --footprints, candy wrappers, blood, anything. He found nothing.

The maze of tunnels was silent. The only thing Timmy heard was the sound of his own panicked breathing. His mouth felt dry, and his pulse throbbed in his neck and temples.

He felt a momentary urge to call out, to shout for Doug, just to break the stillness, and the thought frightened him even more.

Where are you, Doug? Please be okay. Just hang on a little bit longer.

Biting his lip, Timmy forced himself not to cry.

The passage sloped downward, and Timmy followed it, deeper into the earth. The spoiled milk stench grew stronger--and now there was another smell mixed with it. Rot. Decay. Death.

Barry rushed through the field. His wounds and pain were forgotten, and he urged himself on. Dew-covered weeds whipped at his legs, soaking his jeans and shoes. The crickets and other insects grew louder, disturbed by his passage. He went by the spot where he'd left his book bag, but didn't bother stopping to retrieve it. When he reached the road, he crouched close to the ground and stared at his house. All of the lights were still off, which meant anyone inside was probably sleeping. The car was still in the driveway, but that meant nothing. When his father had left earlier, he 'd departed on foot. Which meant he was probably in the cemetery somewhere.

He hoped.

Swallowing nervously, Barry rushed across the road and into the yard, moving as quickly but silently as possible. He opened the screen door, silently willing the hinges not to creak, and then slowly turned the doorknob. Meeting no resistance, he stepped inside.

The house was quiet. He paused, listening. After a moment, he heard his mother's soft snoring coming from his parent's bedroom. He was tempted to creep down the hall and peek, see if his father was lying next to her, but he decided not to chance it. Timmy was counting on him. He had to hurry.

He moved over to the hat rack hanging above the kitchen door. His father only had one hat, a faded, weather-beaten Skoal cap that he sometimes wore. The rest of the rack was used for keys and umbrellas. Both the hat and the umbrellas were there, hanging from their pegs, as were his mother's keys. But his father's key ring was missing.

“Shit.” His voice was louder than he'd intended, and Barry jumped, frightening himself.

It made sense, of course, and he cursed himself for being so stupid. His father would have taken the keys with him when he left, even if only to get inside the utility shed where he stored his emergency bottles of Wild Turkey. He should have thought of that when Timmy came up with this stupid plan.

Frustrated, Barry checked his parent's room after all. His mother slept soundly.

His father's side of the bed was still made up. Untouched. And with the car still sitting next to the garage, that meant there was only one possibility: his father was still in the graveyard, probably drunk, and Barry would have to find him, face him, and somehow get his keys.

He ran out of the house and prayed he could do it all in time. The horizon was tinged with a faint trace of bluish-white. Not a lot--just a hint of the dawn's impending arrival.

“Hang on, Timmy,” he panted. “I'm coming.”

Timmy traveled steadily downward. At times, the tunnel sloped so steeply that his feet slipped and he had to struggle to maintain his balance. In addition, the maze had become more bewildering than ever. When Timmy was seven, he 'd had a pet hamster named Milo that he'd won at the York Fair. He'd kept the hamster in his room and set up a Habitrail for him. Timmy had assumed that Milo would love running around inside the multiple plastic tubes and paths, but the hamster had seemed terrified of them. Now, he understood how Milo had felt.

Soon, the purpose of the branching passageways and multiple crossroads became clear.

Each new path led upward to a grave. The further he went, the more of them he encountered.

The tunnel was littered with empty coffins, smashed into kindling and tossed aside, along with scraps of clothing and other unwanted items that had held no value to either the ghoul or his human assistant--teeth, toupees, and something that Timmy realized with dread was a pacemaker. In some areas, the main tunnel was so clogged with discarded coffins that he had to crawl over the wreckage. At one point, teetering on the edge of a silk-lined casket, he dropped both the flashlight and the pocketknife. The beam went out and the flashlight rolled away, plunging Timmy into total darkness. Frantically, he dropped from the coffin and felt around for them. Tears welled up in his eyes. His breathing came in short, quick gasps. Then his fingers closed over the flashlight. Mouthing a prayer, he turned it on. It still worked. After a few moments, he recovered the pocketknife as well, and then continued on his way.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. Now just let Doug be all right and let us get out of here and let Barry get the backhoe and everything will be okay.”

Timmy stopped in the middle of the passage. He suddenly felt as if someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over him. He remembered Clark Smeltzer, standing over him behind the utility shed, bragging.

“There's a new lock on this shed, and I'm the only one that can open it.”

Both Timmy and Barry had heard him say that. How could they have been so stupid?

How was Barry supposed to get inside the shed if he didn't know the combination? His father's keys were useless.

So, he thought, Barry will just have to bust the window in or something. He won't let us down.

Eventually, after a long, descending walk, the tunnel evened out again. At the same time, it grew wider and taller. He noticed that the surface was more smoothed and rounded, as if extra care had been taken in finishing this part. The side-tunnels became nonexistent. Timmy wondered why at first, and then figured it out. He must be getting close to the older portion of the cemetery. There was an area between the two sections, right along the hill separating them, where there were no graves --ancient or modern. He must be beneath that now. Just today he'd been there with Katie, walking hand in hand, when they'd seen the big depression in the earth. He closed his eyes, remembering the way she 'd smelled. It already seemed like a million years ago, and he wanted very badly to see her again at that moment. He felt that if he could hold her hand again, everything would be okay.

He paused and listened, but heard nothing. If his suspicions were correct, and he was nearing the older part of the graveyard, then he must be very close to where the ghoul had originally been imprisoned. The smell was at its strongest now. He 'd grown used to it during his journey, been almost able to ignore it, but now he noticed it again. His fears, which he'd managed to set aside, came creeping back now. Every bit of him wanted to turn around and flee, but the thought of Doug, trapped in this impenetrable darkness, rooted his feet to the ground.

As if in response to his mounting terror, something grunted in the darkness. An animalistic sound, like a boar or a bear would make. Timmy let out a frightened yelp and spun around. It was impossible to tell for sure where the sound had come from, how near or far, but he thought it might have been behind him. He shined the light back the way he'd come, terrified of what it might reveal, but the tunnel was empty. He waited for the noise to be repeated, but the silence returned.

“Oh, Jesus ...”

He resisted the urge to run, and hurried ahead instead.

From its hidden nook in a side tunnel, the ghoul listened to the boy go by. The child was heading deeper into its warren, nearing the main lair, which was exactly what it wanted. Once there, the intruder would be cut off. The boy would have to come back through this same tunnel to exit the burrows, and the ghoul could catch him unawares.

Its initial urge had been to kill the boy as soon as it had caught his scent and then heard him coming. But it had waited, intrigued that such a young human could display a courage and determination not found in many of his elders (at least, from the ghoul's experience with humans). It had let the child pass simply because he might provide good sport. As an afterthought, it had let out one short grunt, simply to spur the child onward and intensify his fear.

Meat was much sweeter when it had been marinnated in fear.

And besides, it was still consuming the first one.

Grinning, the ghoul returned to its meal. The still-warm flesh felt solid--real--between its teeth-- not disintegrating or turning to mush the way decaying flesh did. The ghoul relished every bite. It sighed with delight as its incisors sank into a thigh. The blood was sweet and thick, and it eagerly lapped it up. The boy had been blessed with an extra layer of fat, and the ghoul greedily dug into the yellow curds with both hands.

It cracked open a bone and sucked out the marrow, and wondered if this new child intruder had been a friend of its current meal. The new boy's scent was familiar, possibly from the children's clubhouse it had ransacked earlier. What was it that Smeltzer had said? The Keiser child, who currently lay spread out and open before it, had played with the gravedigger 's son, and one other. The ghoul searched its memory for the name. Draco? Mako?

Graco.

The ghoul raised its hands to its face. Its long, black tongue flicked, licking bits of flesh from its gore-encrusted talons. It burrowed its snout into the boy's stomach, and even as it did, the creature's stomach growled at the promise of more to come. And it didn't even have to move or hunt. It could wait here, finish this appetizer, and then trap the main course before the boy escaped.

Barry found his father beneath a marble monument-- a tall, monolithic spire nearly eight feet high. His father sat propped up against it, eyes shut, reeking of booze. Shattered glass lay nearby, the remains of a Wild Turkey bottle. At first, Barry thought he might be dead. He was covered in blood and his face and neck were sliced open pretty bad. He didn 't stir when Barry prodded him with one foot. Hands trembling, Barry brought out the BB pistol and fired one round at his father's unmoving body. The projectile bounced off his shirt. Still he didn 't move.

“Shit.”

Barry wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel. He was no stranger to grief. He saw it all the time, whenever there was a funeral at the church. He'd seen every reaction imaginable, from sadness to dark gallows humor. He guessed perhaps he should feel sad, although that seemed stupid, considering all his father had put him through.