Todd patted his shirt pocket. “I’ve got the prescriptions right here. I’ll drop them off today. She’s still got enough for a few days.”
“You sure? I can do.” The home health aide held out her hand.
“No, that’s okay. Cory and I are going out for a few hours anyhow.”
“Okay Mister Todd.” She turned and went back upstairs.
“How’s your mom doing?” Cory asked.
Todd sighed. “Not good. The drugs keep her pretty much out of it most of the time. She doesn’t even get out of bed anymore. And my arrest didn’t help.”
“I’m sorry man. That sucks.” Cory stood by the table for a minute, coffee in hand, not knowing what else to say. Losing his own parents had been a tragedy that left a big hole in his life, but he’d always been comforted by the fact that death had been quick and painless for them. The idea of watching a loved one slowly fade away like Todd’s mother was doing, it seemed wrong somehow. He didn’t know how Todd could stand it, especially considering he’d never had the chance to spend much time with her when she was healthy.
Thanks to us.
“Yeah. It does.” Todd turned away and started cleaning the table.
Cory waited another moment, in case his friend had something else to say, then left the room when the silence began gaining the heavy weight of awkwardness.
As he walked down the hall to the study, it struck him that all four members of the Cemetery Club had lost their parents. The only ones left were Todd’s mother, clinging to life by her aged fingernails, and Marisol’s father, who’d left town - and possibly the country - not long after she’d graduated high school. She assumed he was still alive, since she’d never heard anything from Social Security about his passing away.
“Probably rotting in a jail cell somewhere,” she’d said when he’d asked her about it. The deep bitterness in her voice stopped him from pursuing the matter.
I wonder if there’s any significance to that, he thought, as he walked up the stairs. None of us are even forty yet. It sure was an odd coincidence that six out of eight of their parents were not only dead but had died young. And when it came to the Cemetery Club and Rocky Point, he had a feeling there were no coincidences.
* * *
The first surprise Cory got when they arrived at the police station was finding Chief Travers alone in his office. The second was when the Chief looked up at Cory’s knock, saw them, and still motioned for them to enter.
“Take a seat,” Travers said, gesturing towards the two uncomfortable wooden chairs by his desk. “What can I do for you?”
Cory eyed the police chief carefully, alert for some kind of trick. But try as he might, he couldn’t see any malice in the man’s square face, only a weariness expressed in gray pallor, dark bags under the eyes and hair that looked as if it hadn’t been combed that morning. Even his mustache seemed unkempt.
“You look like you could use some sleep,” Cory said, then wished he could’ve taken the words back. The last thing he wanted to do was antagonize the man.
Travers gave him a half-hearted glare, his breath escaping in a long, drawn-out sigh. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He rubbed his eyes with his fists. When he stopped, they were more bloodshot than when he’d started, but they had also regained a little of their customary fire. “I’m busy Mister Miles, as you might have guessed. I hope you didn’t just drop by to shoot the shit.”
“Actually, we wanted to talk about the murders,” Todd said.
“What about them?” Travers looked at Todd the way most people look at Jehovah’s Witnesses when they came to the front door.
“Not the current murders, the ones twenty years ago. We think there are some, uh, facts about them you might not know, facts that might be helpful with what’s been happening lately.”
Travers scowled. “Well, if anyone knows about how those poor people died it would be you, wouldn’t it?”
Todd gave a slow nod of his head. “Yes, you’re right Chief, but not in the way you think you are. I didn’t kill any of those people, just like I haven’t killed anyone the past few days. But I hold myself responsible just the same.”
“Not just him,” Cory added. “All four of us played a part.”
Travers stared at them, his gaze suddenly alert. “What do you mean?”
Cory looked at Todd, who nodded. “We agreed to tell him everything.”
“It’s like this,” Cory said. “We - Todd, myself, Marisol and John Boyd - did something twenty years ago, something we shouldn’t have done. But we were just kids, we didn’t know better.”
“We didn’t believe,” Todd interrupted.
“Believe in what?” Travers asked, his gaze darting from Todd to Cory and back again.
“The supernatural.” Todd’s face remained impassive as the Chief’s eyes went wide and then narrowed in anger.
“What the fuck are you doing, wasting my time with this bullshit? Get the fuck out of here!”
“Chief, listen to him.” Cory leaned forward. “It’s true. We were messing around in the cemetery, using a Ouija Board. We...made contact with something. It scared the shit out of us and we ran away. But the next day...”
“The next day the first murder happened,” Todd finished. “And they went on all summer long, until we stopped them.”
“You stopped them?” Travers looked from Todd to Cory and back again. “You? Not the police who worked their asses off day and night. You did it. Four teenagers who spent more time stoned than awake, from what I remember.”
Cory ignored the sarcasm. “That’s right. In fact, it was Todd who put an end to things.”
“And I suppose being found with the half-eaten bodies of the victims was part of solving the case?”
“We went into the tunnels and confronted the demons,” Todd said. “I used Holy water and the Bible. The tunnel collapsed. When they found me—”
“You mean, when they caught you,” a new voice said. “The police - the real heroes - captured a sick little bastard and put him where he belonged. In the nuthouse.”
Cory jerked around and saw Jack Smith standing in the doorway. Cory started to rebut the accusation but Smith kept talking, raising his voice over Cory’s.
“Say Chief. Did you know that while Mister Randolph was in Wood Hill, they fried his brain? Gave him the ol’ zapper-oo? Or that he allowed himself to be used as a guinea pig for experimental drugs? I’ve got copies of his medical records in my office, if you want to see them.”
“Those were confidential,” Todd said.
“Confidentiality doesn’t apply to murder suspects.”
“That’s enough!” Cory shouted. “Everyone has rights and if you violated his—” He started to get up from his chair but Todd placed a hand on his arm.
“It’s okay Cory. He’s right.”
“What?”
“When I was in the sanitarium, they did do shock treatments on me. Three times I think. And I willingly took part in several pharmaceutical protocols during my time there. The drugs were simply new types of sedatives, not narcotics or hallucinogens. And by agreeing to participate in the trials I earned special privileges, such as extra library time and a chance to work in the kitchen.”
“How ‘bout that Chief? Right from the horse’s mouth. Any wonder he’s talking about demons living under the city? He’s as nutty now as the day they took him away.” The Deputy Mayor leaned against the door frame, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.
Travers, who’d been looking back and forth between Smith and Todd as they spoke, finally opened his mouth. “Mister Randolph, I appreciate you and Mister Miles coming down here today. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”
Cory leaned forward, his hands on the Chief’s desk. “We’re telling the truth. There was something under the ground that day, something - I don’t know if it was supernatural or not - that killed all those people. And —”
“That’s enough Miles.” Travers held up o
ne hand. “It doesn’t matter what you saw. It doesn’t matter if you’re telling the truth, full of shit or just plain crazy like your friend. Fact is, I can’t trust anything either of you tell me. He’s spent the past twenty years in the loony bin and you’re too personally involved in the case, as his lawyer and the Flores woman’s lover. Neither of you are credible as witnesses in any shape or form. Now, unless you have some real hard evidence you can show me, instead of all this hearsay and crazy talk, you’re gonna have to leave me to my work.”
“Please, you’ve got to listen to us.”
“Yes, listen to him Chief. He’s got a real good team. A mental patient, a homeless drunk and a lab tech who can’t keep her pants on. Quite a crew. Maybe you should hire them.”
Travers didn’t even have the decency to cover his mouth when he laughed. “You heard me. Get out of here.”
Cory shook his head. “You’re making a big mistake. C’mon, Todd, let’s go.”
“Yes, go hunt some demons or something and leave the real work to the police,” Smith said with a snicker, as he moved aside to let Todd and Cory exit the office.
“I know why you’re doing this,” Cory said. “But just because you have a problem with me, don’t let innocent people suffer the consequences.”
Smith stepped into the hall and shut the door before replying. “Listen, Mr. Fancy-Pants lawyer. You messed with the wrong guy. I’m making it my personal mission to make life a living hell for you and your wacko friends. This is just the beginning.” He turned and walked down the hall, flashing his best campaign smile as he said hello to the police officers he passed.
Cory started after him but Todd grabbed his arm. “Don’t Cory. All you’ll do is get in more trouble. Smith runs this town, probably more so than the actual Mayor. Best thing to do is lay low and hope he gets too busy to worry about us.”
“Too busy?” Cory stared at Todd. “If he’s too busy, it’ll be because those things are killing more people.”
Todd slowly nodded. “I know. Believe me, I know.”
Chapter 3
“So what do we do now?”
They were gathered around Todd’s kitchen table. John, who’d posed the question to the group, was nursing his third soda of the day, on top of several cups of coffee. Todd didn’t say anything, figuring if the caffeine fix helped him keep the DTs away it was an acceptable solution, even if John’s hands constantly shook so much he was in danger of spilling soda all over the table.
“Maybe we should do what the Chief said and stay out of it. Serve ‘em all right,” Marisol said. She’d already informed them of the test results she’d obtained in the lab. As she’d predicted, no traces of drugs or alcohol had been found in the dead body, nor in the blood left behind by the two men who’d gotten away. Of course, Marisol knew that wouldn’t mean anything to Travers. He’d just say that maybe the tech had been straight but stealing drugs for his friends who were high on some new, undetectable kind of drug.
She’d filed her report with the ME and then gone straight to Todd’s house with him and Cory, where Todd had filled everyone in on the events in the Chief’s office.
“How can you say that?” Todd asked. “This is our town too. Just because Travers and Smith are being assholes doesn’t mean the whole town should suffer.”
“There are still some good people here,” John added.
“Good enough to sacrifice ourselves for?” Marisol looked around the table. “Good enough to risk our lives for?”
“We have to do what we can,” Cory said.
Marisol glared at him. “Why?”
“Because it’s our fault,” Todd said in a low voice.
“Exactly.” Cory pointed to each of them in turn as he spoke. “We all share the guilt for what’s happening. We started it. It’s up to us to finish it, for good this time.”
“More importantly,” Todd said, “I believe we might be the only ones who can stop it, because we started it.”
“Which brings us back to my question.” John took another sip of soda. “What do we do now?”
“We need more information,” Todd said. “We’re doing all this research, learning about aliens and demons and possession but we don’t know if we’re on the right track.”
“I do,” John interrupted. “Don’t forget, I’ve seen them.”
“We’ve seen things too John,” Marisol said. “Like the undead walking. One of them bit me, remember? I’ve heard of aliens abducting people, experimenting on them, but never possessing someone. Or trying to eat them alive.”
Cory patted her leg, a not-so-subtle hint for her to ease up. She did, mainly because deep inside she knew her anger was just camouflaging her real emotion: fear.
“Maybe the aliens turn people into zombies.”
“That’s the problem,” Todd tried to placate them. “Conflicting experiences. We need definitive proof one way or the other. So I think we should take a visit to Gates of Heaven.”
“No!” John jerked back in his chair. His soda can fell from his hand, splashing cola across the small table.
Todd shrugged. “It’s the only way to be sure of what we’re dealing with.”
“The cemetery’s a big place. Where would we start?” Cory asked, mopping up soda with some paper towels.
John shook his head. “Don’t even say it.”
“Where it all started. The crypt.”
“I knew it. This is just plain foolish. We’re all gonna end up dead, or worse.”
“John, be quiet.” Marisol touched his hand to take the sting out of her words. “Much as I hate to admit it, ‘cause it’s the last place I ever want to see again, I think I agree with Todd. If we have to get involved, we need as much information as possible. I think this is something we have to do.”
“Not you,” Cory said. “At least, not until you go home and get some sleep. Doctor’s orders, remember?”
Todd stood up. “All right. We’ll all meet here at eight o’clock tonight. That will give Marisol time to rest, while John and I gather the supplies we’ll need.”
Looking more despondent than usual, John said, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Cory tossed away the wet paper towels and took Marisol’s hand. “And on that sunny note, we’re out of here. See you all tonight.”
* * *
Gina Torelli was pouring herself a second glass of wine when her front door crashed open. She screamed, dropped her Merlot and backpedaled across the kitchen as three intruders stormed through her small living room. Only when her back hit the kitchen counter did she remember the phone she’d left next to the sink when she finished talking to her son Michael, who was spending the week with his father.
She grabbed the phone and ran for the dining room, fumbling for the redial button. Behind her, the three men - Oh God, was that blood all over their clothes? - knocked aside the kitchen table, their faces contorted and their wild hair matted to their scalp.
“Hello?” Her ex-husband’s voice, tinny and distant from the phone’s speaker. It was the first time in five years she’d actually been glad to hear it.
“Help! Jim! Someone’s here! They—”
A heavy blow struck her back and she fell, losing the phone in the process. It sailed through the air, Jim’s voice shouting - “Gina! Gina, what’s wrong? Gina—” - and then her head hit the floor and the world exploded into colored lights. She tried to cry out again but a heavy weight landed hard on top of her, driving the air from her lungs.
Daggers of pain lanced through her neck and she clawed at the ground, trying to pull herself away. The phone lay just out of reach, Jim’s impotent voice still shouting her name. Strong hands gripped the sides of her head, digging and clawing and pulling. Fresh agony detonated in her skull just as she found her breath. Before she could call out for help, something landed on the floor, directly between her and the phone.
It took her a moment to comprehend that the object was one of her own ears.
A mud-splattered foot
came down on the ear and more hands dug at her body, tearing away clothes and flesh with equal ease. She had time for one more scream before teeth clamped down on the back of her neck and all the pain disappeared.
Gina closed her eyes and tried to ignore the gravelly sound of teeth on bone.
Then there was only quiet darkness.
Jim Torelli arrived at his ex-wife’s house less than a minute after the first police car got there. He was running up the front walk when one of the officers emerged from the house, hands over his mouth and vomit spraying out from between his fingers.
“Gina!” Jim rushed past the officer, who ignored him and continued puking.
The living room and kitchen were in shambles, furniture overturned and broken, shattered glass everywhere. In the kitchen, spaghetti sauce covered the walls and floors in red splatters.
Something important tapped on his brain for attention. Gina doesn’t eat spaghetti sauce.
“What...?” The truth of it hit him just as he turned and saw the scraps of flesh, bone and clothing scattered across the room, standing out like islands in the sea of red that covered the tiles.
“Nooo!” The cry tore from Jim’s throat as if he could put things right by shouting loud enough. He fell to his knees in the tacky blood, put his head down and cried out again. And again and again, until the paramedics arrived and sedated him.
Even then his screams didn’t stop. The difference was, only Jim could hear them.
* * *
At two o’clock in the morning, the B-Line Diner was doing a typical business. Nightshift workers from the nearby machine shop, their hands tattooed with years of accumulated grease and grime, occupied four of the twelve counter seats, gulping down burgers and coffee before their lunch break ended. A group of mildly drunk college students took up two booths in the back, working their way through stacks of pancakes they hoped would soak up enough alcohol to prevent morning hangovers. A smaller booth, closer to the cash register, held two elderly men dressed in ragged, dirty clothes who cradled cups of coffee in grimy hands, as if it was winter outside instead of a warm summer night. They took only occasional sips between short bouts of conversation, doing their best to extend their stay in the relative comfort of the diner. While summer normally posed no hardships for the homeless, there’d been rumors going round lately that it wasn’t safe on the streets. The diner represented temporary safety and they were loath to leave.
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