by Brom
CONTENTS
Prologue
Part One Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part Two Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part Three Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Part Four Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Part Five Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Part Six Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Part Seven Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Epilogue
Photos Section
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Brom
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
MORAN ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA, AUGUST 1976
The rabbit pushed beneath the iron fence and into a small cemetery. It burrowed through the tangled vines and briars growing up between the cracked and fallen stones, found a patch of tall weeds, and began to nibble on the leaves.
A boy, more shadow than not, slipped silently up and took a seat on a gravestone next to the rabbit. The boy’s name was Joshua, and if happened upon at just the right time of day, in just the right light, one could see he was very young, perhaps six or seven years of age, a bit thin, barefoot, and that his shirt and pants were threadbare.
“How you do, Mr. Rabbit?”
The rabbit’s ears twitched.
“Good to see you again. Them weeds any good?”
Joshua looked off down the hill, through the cluster of massive oaks toward the marsh, caught the sparkle of water. “Tide must be coming in. Sure would like to take me a walk down thataway. Give about anything to feel the pluff mud between my toes just one more time.” He watched the strands of Spanish moss flutter in the warm breeze as the last rays of the long summer day lit up the clouds. “That’s pretty. Mighty pretty.”
The rabbit looked up, nose twitching.
The boy smiled, then his face became sad. He shook his head. “Sometimes you can forget, y’know. Just for a second. That you’re dead. A pretty day like today will do that.” His voice turned sullen. “After all these years you’d think I wouldn’t fall for it. But I get to watching the clouds, listening to them birds, and I think I can just hop up and head on home . . . see Mama . . . see my big brother.” He was silent a long moment, staring at the back of his hands, at his skin, once as dark as the rich soil, now pale and wispy. “Only I can’t ever leave these broken old stones.” He slapped the palm of his hand against the stone; it made no sound. “But you wanna know what the worst of it is? It’s the being alone.”
Joshua reached for the rabbit, his hand hovering just above the animal’s back. He knew he couldn’t touch the living, but that fur, it looked so soft, warm, comforting. His hand passed through the animal and the rabbit kept eating without so much as a twitch.
The boy’s lower lip began to tremble, followed a moment later by the sting of tears. He wiped at his eyes. “Might as well stop that, now. Crying ain’t gonna help nothing. Seems I’d have figured that out by now as well.”
The rabbit hopped closer to the boy, began nibbling on a large dandelion. Joshua managed a smile. “I appreciate you coming to see me, Mr. Rabbit. A spot of company is right nice.”
A low moan came from somewhere off in the thicket of trees. The insects fell quiet and both the boy and the rabbit froze, their eyes wide, peering into the deep shadows. It came again, closer. The sound of pain, like a small animal caught in a snare. The rabbit stood up on its hind legs, its nose twitching.
“Settle on down,” the boy whispered. “You be okay. They can’t get’cha in here.”
A figure rose up out of the tall grass. It stood just on the other side of the fence works—black smoke in the shape of a child, dissipating and solidifying. Its yellow eyes sputtered like drowning fireflies.
Joshua started to duck out of sight round the stone, to cover his eyes and ears the way he always did when they came around, but he saw the rabbit quivering, looking ready to bolt.
“It’s all right,” he whispered, pushing the thought, putting all his will behind it. Sometimes, some rare times, if you tried hard enough, he knew the dead could connect with the living. “Stay put and you’ll be okay.”
Another of them appeared, its pinprick eyes fixed on the rabbit.
The rabbit’s breathing sped up.
There were more of them in the trees, made the woods look as though they were full of fireflies, but Joshua knew better. He knew what they were, what they wanted.
It spoke, the one closest to the fence. Its voice soft and sweet, almost musical. “Come play with us, Joshua. Come on out and pl-aay.”
Joshua tried not to look at them, tried not to hear them. He focused on the rabbit, trying to send it soothing thoughts.
The smaller one bent down peering at the rabbit. A swirling pool of blackness formed beneath its flickering eyes, widening, and a howling wind could be heard as though from far down in the earth. The sound came closer, climbing upward, slowly turning into a hiss.
The rabbit’s haunches twitched, its back legs jacked, ready to run.
“No, bunny,” Joshua said, and dropped on top of it, wrapping himself around the rabbit.
The hiss turned into a shrill whistle, closer and closer, then became a scream, then many screams, the sound of children in agony. The screams burst from the thing’s mouth along with a hot blast of air.
The rabbit bolted, Joshua’s shadowy body doing nothing to hold it back. “No!” Joshua cried,
as it sprang away through the briars, darting and dashing. It looked certain to escape, but Joshua knew better. The rabbit shot out the far side of the little cemetery and the moment it left the fence the smaller shape was there. It snagged the rabbit, held the thrashing animal up by its ears.
“If you come out and play, Joshua,” the small shape taunted, “we’ll let your bunny go. C’mon, there’s lots of other little boys and girls to play with.”
Joshua backed up against the gravestone, pulled his legs tight to his chest, pressed his face into his knees.
“Joshua,” the larger shape called, “we know a secret. Wanna know?”
Joshua tried not to listen.
“Chet’s coming home soon. You know who Chet is, don’t you?”
Joshua knew.
“Chet’s a daddy now,” the shape said. “The waiting’s over. He’ll be here soon and we can’t wait to peel his skin off. If you come on out, we’ll let you help. What d’you say?”
Joshua remained mute.
“Your blood is on their hands.” The shape’s voice turned sharp, nasty. “Y’know they owe you. Owe all of us. Join us. You can help send him to the burning place. Drag him down into the ground and make him dance for the Burning Man.”
Joshua shook his head, digging his fingers into his arms.
The smaller shape took a step closer to the fence, as close as it could without touching the iron. It opened its mouth and once again Joshua could hear that distant wind, the tormented cries of the children, far, far away. The shape’s head fell back and the swirling hole widened. It held the rabbit over the opening.
Joshua bit his lip, clasping his hands over his ears.
The rabbit kicked and clawed, frantic, then began to scream. Joshua didn’t understand what he was hearing at first, didn’t even know a rabbit could scream. It sounded almost human. The shape dropped the rabbit into the gaping hole, its scream falling away, falling and falling as though to the center of the earth. The hole swirled shut, leaving them in silence. Not a single insect or frog could be heard.
The two shapes just stood there staring at Joshua with those sputtering eyes. Finally, after an agonizing space, the smaller one nudged the larger. “This ain’t no fun. Let’s go.” The two shapes started away, heading up the hill toward the big house. “We’re gonna go wait for Chet,” the larger one called back. “Last chance to come along.”
Joshua waited until they were out of sight, then crawled over to the fence looking for the rabbit. It lay crumpled in the grass, its eyes frozen and budging from their sockets, its lips peeled back to show all its teeth.
Joshua collapsed to his knees, put his face in his hands, and began to sob.
PART ONE
The Death of Chet Moran
CHAPTER 1
JASPER, ALABAMA, AUGUST 1976
Chet Moran clicked off his headlights and backed into Judge Wilson’s winding driveway, just far enough that his Ford Pinto wouldn’t be visible from the road. He wanted to be facing out, toward the street, ready for a quick getaway should things come to that.
He shut off the engine, got out and pushed the door quietly shut, then stood a moment in the predawn darkness, staring at the Pinto. “What a piece of shit,” he said, yet he was smiling because he’d done well in the trade. Dan had really wanted his Mustang, enough to pay top dollar. Still, Chet was going to miss that car, a ’65 fastback with a 302 that he’d spent the last five years restoring from scrap. But the car, like so much, was in the past now. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a ring, a thin gold wedding band. There was no diamond, but it was real gold. Chet flipped a clump of auburn hair from his eyes—eyes so gray and pale as to almost be silver—and looked up the long drive toward the Judge’s house, hoping the ring would be enough to prove to Trish he was a changed man.
He stretched and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to work the tension from his wiry frame, trying to work up enough courage to walk up that drive. At twenty-four he’d just finished seven months in county jail for possession with intent to distribute. Trish had not visited him once.
He started up the drive, stopped, started again, stopped again, then let out a long sigh. He’d received the letter from Trish about three weeks into his sentence. It was short and to the point: “Dear Chet, I’m pregnant. I’m going to have the baby. You’re relieved of all responsibilities. I will always love you, but I’m all out of tries. I wish you the very best with your life. Love, Trish.” He’d kept that note tucked in his pocket, reading and rereading it, but was still unsure just what she’d meant by “relieved of all responsibilities.” He’d written her back at least a dozen times but hadn’t received a single letter in reply.
At first he’d been angry; after all, it was his child too. But seven months gives a man plenty of time to think things over, to see things from more than one angle. How many times had he fucked up? Too many. That wasn’t the kind of man a woman in a family way was looking for. He was going to have a child, a little boy or girl. It was a mean world out there and sitting in that cell, night after night, day after day, thinking about his child growing up without a daddy had eaten at him—to his very core. He’d left jail a different man and if selling his beloved Mustang didn’t prove that, the fact that he was here, about to walk up this drive, did.
Chet sucked in a deep breath of the crisp morning air and as the first trace of dawn warmed the sky, he once more headed up the drive, the damp pine needles muffling his long stride. A sprawling brick ranch materialized out of the gloom ahead, a few bicentennial stringers still hanging along eaves. Chet slipped up to the garage and around the side, coming to a chest-high chain-link fence. A low growl greeted him.
“Easy, Rufus,” Chet whispered, crouching to let the old basset hound sniff his hand through the fence. The hound gave him a doleful look and wagged its tale. Chet flipped the latch and let himself into the backyard. He squatted, patting the dog and rubbing its saggy jowls. “Heard tell the Judge issued a restraining order against me. You heard anything about that?”
Rufus’s eyes seemed to say, “Nope, not me, not a thing.”
“I guess it’s pretty easy to do when you’re a judge. Huh?” Chet stood up and moved on, skirting the garbage cans and a big grill, stepping through Mrs. Wilson’s flower beds, careful not to trample her prize geraniums. He crept past the back porch, making his way to a set of windows at the far end of the house.
He peeked in through the screen. The window was open, the sheers fluttering in the light breeze. He made out the curve of a woman in the glow of the night-light. She lay on her side, her back to him. His pulse quickened and he almost turned around and left, but he heard his grandmother’s voice, more of a feeling than any actual words, telling him to stay. This didn’t surprise him, he often heard her, even though she lived hundreds of miles away. It had been his grandmother’s presence comforting him on so many of those interminable nights in jail, when he felt the walls falling in on him.
“Trish,” he whispered.
She stirred, rolled over, tugging the cotton sheet tighter around her. It was only upon seeing her face that he truly realized just how much he’d missed her—her goofy smile, her quirky laugh—and he found himself fighting back tears.
“Trish,” he whispered, a little louder.
Her brow tightened and her bright green eyes half opened.
“Trish.”
She lifted her head, pushing long, curly strands of hair from her face. Her eyes grew wide and she gasped. She was going to scream, Chet knew it, but the fear on her face was quickly replaced by confusion and then, there, a smile. And for one moment, Chet felt all was going to go his way. Slowly, her smile faded.
“Chet?” She sat up, sliding over to the window. “Oh shit. What the hell are you doing here?”
Chet felt as though he’d been slugged in the chest.
She glanced back toward the door of her room, horrified. “If Daddy finds out you’re here he’s going to shoot you.”
Chet shrugged.
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“No, he will really shoot you. I don’t have to tell you that.” She didn’t, he knew well enough that the Judge would shoot him, because Judge Wilson had looked Chet in the eye and told him that himself, told him that if he ever came near his daughter again, Chet would end up at the bottom of the Sipsey Swamp. And Chet knew the Judge would get away with it too, because the Judge had lots of friends around Walker County and could get away with just about any damn thing he pleased.
“Are you hearing me?” Trish asked, then noticed him staring at the swell of her belly beneath her nightshirt.
“It’s real,” Chet said.
She let out a sigh, set her hand on her swollen belly, and gave him a sad sort of smile. “It’s real all right. One more month to go.”
Chet had rehearsed what he wanted to say next a hundred, maybe a thousand times, but here, now, all his artful words were lost. “Trish,” he blurted out. “I want you to leave with me.” He felt sure she was going to laugh in his face, but she didn’t. Instead a deep and profound sadness seeped into her eyes.
“Chet . . . I can’t.”
“You can. My car is sitting at the end of the drive. I’ve got things all worked out. I—”
“Chet.”
“Trish, just listen—”
“No, Chet, you listen.” The edge in her voice cut him off. “I can’t count on you. No matter how much I want to, I can’t.”
He started to reply.
“Stop, Chet. Just stop. Do you really expect me to run off to Timbuktu and raise a child with a man who makes his living selling weed? Whose only ambition in life is fixing up his old car? Think about that, Chet.”
“I have. A lot.” He pulled out the crumpled letter, the one she’d sent him in jail. “Every day.”
She stared at the letter.
“I’m a changed man.”
She slowly shook her head. “I’ve heard that before.”
He pulled out the ring.
Her mouth opened, but she didn’t utter a sound.
“I sold my car.”
Her eyes locked on his. “Your car? You sold the Mustang? But Chet, that car was everything to you.”
