Cemetery Club

by J. G. Faherty

  Rory’s cry for help turned into a gurgling, choking sound as the hole in his neck sprayed blood across Pete’s face and the front of the bar.

  Behind the bar, Lester pushed Benny Jurgen’s face into the hot, soapy water of the glass washer. He held the man under until his screams stopped and then pulled him out. Jurgen vomited up beer and dishwater as he fell to the floor, his face red and blistered from the boiling liquid. Under the cash register, Gus howled and held his hands over his ruined eyes. Blood and other liquids painted jagged red and yellow trails through the gray stubble covering his cheeks. Lester ignored him as he delivered a series of violent kicks to Benny’s head.

  Bud Grant, his fighting days more than thirty years behind him, darted around Pete and ran for the door as fast as his arthritic legs would carry him, a single thought buzzing through his beer-addled brain.

  Gotta get away. Gotta get away.

  He was ten feet from the door when Pete tackled him. The last thing he saw was the grimy, black stained wooden floor approaching his eyes.

  Lester picked up Benny Jurgen and placed him on his shoulder, much as he’d done earlier with Aimee’s body. Pete hoisted the unconscious forms of Bud Grant and Chuck Passella and he and Lester carried their loads out of the bar.

  On the jukebox the Rolling Stones song came to end. For several minutes, nothing moved, as if a magical force had turned the tavern into a 3D depiction of death. Then dark, smoky tendrils rose up from the two dead bodies on the floor. The grayish, insubstantial ropes wound themselves together over each corpse, growing vaguely humanoid in shape. As more ethereal matter emerged, the ghostly beings formed themselves into child-sized creatures. Circular mouths and burning red eyes appeared.

  The two apparitions floated towards and passed through the ceiling, leaving the bar empty except for the corpses and Gus Mellonis, who saw nothing as he clutched the remains of his eyeballs and shrieked to the heavens for someone to stop the pain.

  Chapter 4

  Cory Miles woke up just after ten, according to the digital clock radio next to his surprisingly comfortable king-size bed. The Holiday Inn on Route 9W hadn’t been there the last time he’d been to town; the fact that Rocky Point had grown large enough to even rate a hotel, let alone a four-story Holiday Inn, had surprised him.

  Usually an early riser, Cory had allowed himself the luxury of sleeping in because he’d been up until two in the morning. Every time he’d tried to close his eyes, Todd’s words – I think it’s happening again - came back to haunt him. Cory was pretty sure he knew what it was. If he’d had any doubts, Todd’s mention of the cemetery had put them to rest, hard and painfully. A chorus of police and ambulance sirens just before midnight hadn’t helped either.

  It can’t be happening again. Todd went down there, he ended it. No one died after that day.

  Even after Cory had drifted off to sleep, dreams of strange creatures, black-skinned aliens with egg-shaped heads and glowing red eyes, tormented him through the night and into the morning, leaving him feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all.

  “What I need is coffee, lots of it, followed by a long, hot shower.”

  His plan for the morning was to grab breakfast from the Dunkin’ Donuts next door, read the newspaper and then shower. Then he’d head back to the police station, hopefully to find a judge on duty who’d sign Todd’s release.

  Everything changed when, on his way through the lobby with his breakfast, he picked up a copy of the local paper from the rack by the front desk.

  ‘Bloodbath shocks Rocky Point!’

  Five minutes later he was on his way to the police station.

  Cory squeezed between the photographers and reporters crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the sergeant’s desk, only to have a uniformed cop tell him he had to wait with the rest of the press.

  “You don’t understand. I’m here on official business,” Cory said to the officer.

  “Yeah, you and all these other jerks. Now move back.”

  As he tried to find a way around the human obstacle, he spotted Chief Travers entering through a side door at the back of the station.

  “Travers! Travers, it’s Cory Miles. Tell this guy to let me through.”

  Travers looked over and frowned. For a moment Cory thought the man was going to ignore him. Then the Chief came over and tapped the desk sergeant on the shoulder.

  “Let him through,” he said, raising his voice over the cries of “Chief! Chief! Give us a statement!” from the gathered press. “He’s Randolph’s attorney.”

  Cory smiled and stepped forward but his victory was short-lived as the crowd of reporters immediately turned on him and shouted a barrage of questions.

  “What’s Mr. Randolph’s status?”

  “Is it true he ate the bodies after he killed them?”

  “What kind of defense are you preparing?”

  A series of flashes momentarily blinded him and when he opened his eyes, a bouquet of microphones had blossomed in front of his face.

  “Um, no comment. Please, I’ll provide a statement later. Right now I have to see my client.” He turned away and found Chief Travers grinning in a decidedly evil fashion.

  “You did that on purpose,” Cory said, as he and Travers entered the Chief’s office.

  “First time I’ve smiled all day.” Travers shut the door and sat down behind his desk, motioning for Cory to take one of the other chairs. “Lemme guess. You’re here to get Randolph released. Well, too bad. Judge Beckett ain’t in yet.”

  Cory took the morning newspaper from his briefcase and slammed it on the desk so that the headline faced Travers.

  “I don’t have to wait for the judge anymore. According to this, you had five more murders last night. And unless one of your boys let my client out for a midnight stroll, he’s got a rock-solid alibi. Between that and the eyewitnesses that place him at the library on the afternoon of the first murder, you don’t have enough to hold my client another minute.”

  Travers’ lips tightened until they almost disappeared. When he spoke, his tone carried a bitter edge. “It’s bullshit and you know it counselor. The time of death could be wrong for Frank Adams. Your buddy Randolph could have somebody else working for him, one of his nut house buddies. God knows they let enough loonies out of that place when it closed. And Randolph’s a convicted killer.”

  Cory leaned back and allowed himself his own malicious smile. “Not good enough and we both know it. Now let him go, and you can get to work finding the real killer.”

  “Fine.” Travers stood up so fast his chair rolled back, banging into a file cabinet. “But he’s still remanded into your custody Miles. One fuck-up and you’re both back here faster than you can say ‘habus corpus’.”

  “Whatever you say, Chief. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to take my client out the back, rather than face the press. He’s been through enough.”

  “Don’t push your luck, son.”

  “Gee, and I figured you wouldn’t want Todd’s face all over the newspapers, what with those cuts and bruises and all.”

  Travers glared at him and then called out to the desk sergeant. “Harris! Escort Mr. Miles to Randolph’s cell.”

  “Thanks Chief.” Cory headed down the hall and then stopped, turning back. “Hey Chief!”

  Travers paused by his office door.

  “It’s habeas corpus. Not habus.”

  Travers slammed the door without responding but even from twenty feet away Cory heard the man cursing.

  “Have a good day Chief,” he said as he turned back to follow Sergeant Harris.

  “I just want to say thanks again, Cory. I didn’t expect to be home so soon.” Todd Randolph stared at his house from inside Cory’s car, as if afraid he’d get beaten again if he got out.

  “Don’t thank me,” Cory said. “Travers had no choice.”

  “Anyway...” Todd’s voice trailed off into an awkward pause.

  Cory cringed inside, knowing what was coming but dreading the
words. Please don’t say it...

  “Listen. About the murders. We need to talk.”

  Dammit!

  “I know. But not today. You need to take a little time, let your mother know you’re all right and get a good night’s sleep. How ‘bout if we grab lunch tomorrow? My treat.”

  Todd shook his head. “No, I’ve got some research to finish before we get together. Let’s make it dinner. But come over here. I’ll cook. I...well, I wasn’t getting such a good reception in town before all this happened. I’d hate to have someone spit in your food just because you’re eating with me.”

  “Okay. I’m staying at the Holiday Inn, Room 306. Call me.”

  “I will.” Todd paused again and then slowly exited the car, his stiff movements and prematurely graying hair making him look like an old man. Cory waited until Todd entered the house before driving away.

  Twenty years, Cory thought as he entered his hotel room. He tossed his key card on the desk and lay down on the bed. All that time, locked up like a prisoner, just to protect us. God knows what it was like in there. I don’t think I could have handled it without going crazy.

  Memories burst open inside Cory’s head, like infected boils unable to take the pressure of the diseased fluids building under the skin.

  Todd. Marisol. John.

  The Cemetery Club.

  * * *

  Rocky Point High School, 20 years ago

  “All right. Everyone shut up and sit down.” Drexel Harrison slammed the door shut, officially beginning the day’s detention period. Harrison doubled as truant officer and detention monitor for the junior class of Rocky Point High School, a job he considered more important than teaching history or science or math. “Anyone can teach,” he liked to tell his friends and family. “But it takes someone with real dedication to make sure students obey the rules.”

  For Drexel Harrison, “obey” was the operative word when it came to the endless parade of delinquents he dealt with on a daily basis. At least once a day he wondered at the astounding number of mental rejects masquerading as parents. Parents who had no clue their children were drinking, smoking, even fucking when they were supposed to be in class.

  And, of course, the children followed right in their parents’ cognitively deficient footsteps.

  The current day’s crop was a perfect example. Two kids caught smoking behind the school, one boy who saw nothing wrong with wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with a giant marijuana leaf and three hoodlums who’d decided it would be fun to take some poor freshman and dunk his head into a toilet.

  But the worst offender was, of all people, the son of the local minister. He’d been caught selling answers to a math test.

  The man can preach to his flock every Sunday but can’t even get his son to obey the Ten Commandments. Typical.

  Harrison waited until all seven students were giving him their undivided attention, then he launched into his standard speech.

  “Listen up and listen good. For the next forty-five minutes we’ll be playing by my rules. That means no talking, no reading anything other than schoolwork and no sleeping. You want to screw around, do it on your own time. Anyone doesn’t follow the rules, you get another day with me. Now, get started on your homework. If you don’t have any, raise a hand and I’ll give you something to do.”

  No one raised a hand. Harrison watched as they opened their schoolbooks. Unlike other detention monitors, he made it a point to remain at his desk and keep a watchful eye on his charges. He knew some teachers preferred to spend the time grading papers, catching up on reading or even standing out in the hall chatting with co-workers. But in his experience, that led to talking, passing notes and general fucking around.

  None of which equated with his definition of “obey.”

  Instead, he sat statue-like behind the desk, his eyes only moving when he checked his watch.

  He sat stone still and relished the silence.

  Cory Miles jumped when the bell announced the end of detention. Next to him, the three seniors who’d been pretending to read their history texts slammed their books shut and bolted from the room the second Harrison opened the door.

  As he packed his stuff into his backpack and smiled at Marisol Flores, Cory eyed the remaining two students. He knew their names; Rocky Point wasn’t so large a school that you didn’t know all the other students in your grade. But he’d never actually had a class with either of them.

  “Let’s exit this taco stand.” Marisol slapped a hand on his arm as she went by. “I’m dying for a cigarette.”

  Knowing Harrison would be watching, they waited until they were across the street and officially off school grounds before lighting up. As he inhaled, Cory watched John Boyd and the preacher’s kid walking towards them.

  “Hey,” John said. His sandy brown hair fell across his forehead in limp strands, as if strangled by the humid warmth of the early spring day. “You guys got an extra smoke?”

  “Sure.” Cory handed him his pack of Marlboro Lights and a lighter. Boyd took one and returned the pack. Cory held it out to the preacher’s son – Todd, Todd Randolph, that’s his name. “You want one?”

  Todd smiled, a kind of sneaky grin that filled his eyes with happy mischief. “Naw. I got something better.”

  “Oh yeah?” Marisol’s eyebrows went up. “What?”

  “I stole a bottle of wine from my dad’s cabinet last night and hid it in the cemetery. You guys wanna try some?”

  Marisol, who Cory knew would look for any excuse not to go home, burst out laughing. “Hell yeah! Let’s go.”

  The two-mile walk took them almost an hour. When they got to Gates of Heaven Cemetery, Todd led them past rows of graves and up the hill to the older section, where some of the headstones had dates going back to the seventeen hundreds. He stopped at a large mausoleum whose door hung open a few inches.

  “I hid it in there.”

  Marisol’s dark eyes narrowed. “This ain’t some kind of trick, is it? I mean, you’re not planning to lock us in there are you?”

  Todd shook his head. “No, I hang out here all the time. My house is over that way.” He pointed west, where they could see the top of the First Church of Christ sticking up over some trees. “I come out here at night when I need to get out of my house.”

  “Man, I hate being home too,” Marisol said, “but isn’t this place creepy at night?”

  “Naw, it’s kind of cool. It’s quiet. You can just sit and think without anyone bothering you.” The door screeched like metal against a blackboard as he pushed it open.

  Cory looked at the others and shrugged. “What the hell.” He entered the crypt, an involuntary shudder passing through him as he crossed the line from sunny afternoon to cool, damp twilight.

  “Watch out for the floor.” Todd indicated a small hole in the center of the stone room where the cement had collapsed.

  A large concrete casket container took up a good portion of the available space but Todd had found enough room on the other side to lay out a sleeping bag. Next to it sat an over-sized flashlight, a couple of MAD magazines and a half gallon of Mogen David Chianti.

  “Fuckin’ shit. Don’t tell me you sleep here?” John asked, pointing at the sleeping bag.

  “No, but I don’t like sitting on the cement. It gets real cold, especially in the winter.”

  Marisol hugged herself and shivered. “It’s chilly now. Break open that wine so we can warm up.”

  Cory fought down a surge of jealousy as Marisol sat down next to Todd, close enough that their knees were almost touching. He’d been crazy about her for over a year, ever since he’d seen her entering his sophomore English class. Hell, he’d only started smoking ‘cause she did; it gave him an excuse to spend time with her. That had led to eating lunch together and then hanging out after school.

  The only thing he hadn’t done was get up the nerve to actually ask her out on a date.

  Not wanting Todd to get all of her attention, he took a seat on her other side. John
sat between him and Todd, completing the circle.

  “Like my dad always says, bottoms up!” Todd hefted the jug and took a big sip, then passed it to Marisol.

  “Hey, that’s not bad,” she said after swallowing her mouthful.

  Cory accepted the bottle from her and brought it to his lips. The smell was strong and acidic, like super-powered grape juice. He’d tasted alcohol before, when he’d snuck sips of his father’s beer or his mother’s Saturday night whiskey sour. But the deep red wine was something different. It burned its way down his throat and started a warm feeling in his stomach.

  “Wow,” he said, passing the wine to John, who took a long swig. “That’s nothing like the wine they have in church.”

  “That’s ‘cause churches water the wine down.” Todd took his turn and wiped his hand across his lips, which had already taken on a purple tint. “Wine’s expensive. That’s what my dad says.”

  “If people got to drink like this in church, maybe more people would go.” Marisol laughed at her own joke, sending a spray of purple droplets onto the floor.

  The bottle was beginning its fourth go-round when John, who’d been quiet up until then, reached into his pocket and pulled out a joint.

  “You guys wanna try something better than wine?”

  * * *

  Rocky Point, Present Day

  That was the defining moment, when John lit up that joint, Cory thought, rising from the bed and making his way to the bathroom. He felt more tired than when he’d laid down, his muscles stiff and his back aching. We shared more than just a high. Somehow, partying in that musty old crypt, four outcasts formed a bond. A bond Todd made official when they staggered out into the cemetery three hours later, drunk, stoned and laughing.

  “We should do this again tomorrow,” Marisol said.

  “We should do it every day,” Todd replied. “Just the four of us.”