by Debra Dunbar
“I know, I know, but that doesn’t mean the guy working the case is going to believe my tales of a ghoul in a dead man’s body. They’ve linked the cases and are suspecting an occult practitioner, but with the way the bodies were chewed, they may think the killer had an attack dog with him.”
Nyalla looked down at the hound and scratched his head, more to reassure herself then him. “But the teeth marks will be human. There might be some DNA from Boomer in the house, but the techs should be able to tell the chewing wasn’t from an animal.”
Eric sat at the dining–room table, moving aside Nyalla’s beach brochures to pull the laptop toward him. “Real investigations aren’t like the television versions. We don’t have millions of dollars in labs and techs. These things need to be sent away, and it takes months. I hate to admit it, but stuff sometimes gets missed, and we have to decide which items we’re going to spend the money to analyze. There’s only so much budget.”
All the more reason to get this ghoul back to his own realm by tonight. Nyalla gave Boomer’s head another scratch and ruffled his long ears before sitting next to Eric.
The Internet didn’t yield anymore information than their morning interviews had. Searches confirmed Aunt Marie’s ideas: decapitation, or complete destruction of the body. Grave dirt was considered a good defense.
“Are you any good with a sword?” Nyalla asked, staring at a drawing of a short–legged creature with impossibly sharp teeth gnawing on an arm.
“No. Maybe we can convince it to put its head into a guillotine. Or ask it to dive into a chipper–shredder.”
“Blow it up?”
“Sorry, the department is fresh out of landmines at the moment.”
Nyalla chewed on the end of a pen in thought. “Maybe we can put a bomb into a dead body. He’ll eat it, then we can detonate the bomb and blow him up from the inside.”
Eric snapped down the lid on the laptop and glanced over toward her, a smile hovering around the corners of his mouth. “You really do watch too much TV. Illegal fireworks and kitchen–sink devices aside, explosives are not easy to come by. Add to that the fact that I don’t know how to wire up the detonation or the timers, and we can pretty much give up on the bomb idea.” He grabbed the keys from the table and stood. “Come on. We better get going. We’ve got a lot to do before night.”
Emma Mayfield was home, out behind her house weeding in her tomato garden. She stood to greet them, brushing loose dirt from her lavender gloves. “Eric Pearce. I haven’t seen you since the fire department carnival last month. And who is this young lady?”
Nyalla stared in amazement. Emma Mayfield was not what she’d expected at all. This hardly looked like a woman who accused her daughter–in–law of killing her son, who had angrily broken all ties with her son’s family, including her only grandson. Tired grooves stretched from the corner of red–rimmed eyes. In spite of her cheerful words, the woman appeared defeated. She didn’t look like she had the strength of will to bring her son back to life at any cost. She didn’t look like she had the strength to do much of anything.
“This is Nyalla. She’s … from Finland, one of Amber Lowry’s college friends.”
Mrs. Mayfield’s eyes sparkled briefly. “I remember Amber. Pretty girl. Nice manners. She really knows her way around the garden, too.”
Eric nodded. “Is there somewhere we can talk for a moment?”
The woman pulled off her gardening gloves. “I heard about the burglary at Shelly’s house. Are you here about that? As if that girl hasn’t been through enough, some hoodlums break into her house and smash her belongings. I’m glad she and Jack weren’t home.”
She cared. There was no mistaking the concern in her voice or the tears that glistened in her eyes — this woman cared about her daughter–in–law. Maybe there was hope for reconciliation.
Eric shook his head. “I’d heard about that, but it’s not my case. Actually, I need to ask you a few questions about John.”
Mrs. Mayfield’s mouth tightened, her entire face a mask of resolve. “Over there are some benches. We can talk there. Have you found his body yet? The people that did this to his gravesite?”
They walked down a mulch path to a series of stone benches surrounded by vivid, blue hydrangea. Nyalla admired the flowers as Eric and Mrs. Mayfield sat.
“I’m afraid not. I do need to ask you some questions that are going to sound really strange, though.”
“Go ahead.” The woman nodded, clasping her hands tightly in her lap.
“I know you were convinced that John would come out of the coma, given enough time, and that you and Shelly had a falling out over ending his life support. Would you or anyone you know have turned to the supernatural in an attempt to return John to the living?”
Mrs. Mayfield let out a long breath, her gaze focusing off in the distance, far beyond the hydrangeas and the house beyond. “So that’s what you think happened. One of us, in our grief, found some crazy person like that Mr. Carney over on Dollyhyde and thought it was worth a shot.”
“Yes. Eric put his hand over Mrs. Mayfield’s and squeezed gently. “We need to find this crazy person because he’s committed a crime by digging up the dead. It’s not just John’s grave that was desecrated, it was others too.”
The woman turned, meeting Eric’s eyes. “We all wished for miracle that would bring John back to us — me, Ben, Shelly, but I did not hire someone to raise him from the dead — I can assure you of that. If I had thought it would work, yes, I might have turned to such a person. But I don’t believe it’s possible. Exploring that kind of thing would have pushed my sanity to the edge. No one can raise the dead beyond God, and if He chooses not to do it, I won’t drive myself crazy pretending anyone else can.”
“Do you think Shelly might have contacted someone?” Nyalla chimed in. “She said it wasn’t her, but I’d like to know what you think.”
Mrs. Mayfield shifted on the stone bench to face Nyalla. “We had our differences, but any woman strong enough to take her husband off life support, even while I was raging against her decision — that’s not a woman who would turn to devil–magic afterward.”
There was a note of pride in the woman’s voice, and Nyalla wondered again if the rift between her and her daughter–in–law wasn’t quite so irreparable after all.
“Do you still blame her for John’s death? Do you still feel she did the wrong thing?”
The woman’s shoulders slumped. “I said vicious words that I wish I could take back. It wasn’t her fault that John left late for work that day. I still think there might have been hope for him to come around from the coma, but I understand Shelly’s decision. We were all in limbo, and we needed to move on and grieve. None of us could do that while John was still in the hospital.”
“It’s hard to give up hope,” Nyalla said softly. “He was your son. I can’t imagine being faced with that decision.”
“There are times when hope and faith are good things, and times when they’re excuses for avoiding something difficult. Shelly was strong when I wasn’t, and although I still might not agree with her decision, I respect her for it.”
“Then you should tell her that.” Nyalla brushed away a tear from her cheek. “She needs you. Your grandson needs you. You’re the only link to John that they have.”
The woman’s lips trembled. “I can’t. Not after what I said. I couldn’t even bring myself to talk to her at the funeral. I’m so ashamed.”
“Shelly thinks you’re still mad at her. Find that strength you admire so much and go to her.” Nyalla watched the indecision play across the woman’s face. “Do it for your grandson. Jack needs to know you, and he needs to grow up knowing things about his father that only you can tell him.”
Mrs. Mayfield nodded, looking down at her lap. “You should talk to Ben. Not that he would do anything evil, but he may have been desperate enough to make inquiries about people who are rumored to do this sort of thing.”
“Ben?” Eric’s face registered
disbelief. “I’m sure he loved John, but he hardly came to the hospital from what Shelly said. He didn’t even come to the funeral.”
“Ben’s like that. He’s one of those people that bottles it all up inside. He avoids anything that causes him pain. That’s why he didn’t come to the hospital or the funeral. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. John was his little brother. They were very close growing–up. I know Ben is hurting. He won’t admit it to me, but his grief is just as deep as mine and Shelly’s.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Mayfield,” Eric said, rising to his feet. “I truly appreciate you taking the time to talk to us.”
The woman stood to walk them out. “I hope you catch whoever did this. No matter how good the original intention was, this has gone horribly wrong.”
It had, in more ways than Mrs. Mayfield knew.
21
No one answered the door at Ben’s house, and a call to his cell phone only led to voice mail. The sun was slipping close to the horizon, lighting up the edge of the summer sky with pink and violet as Nyalla and Eric drove back to her house to plan for the evening. In spite of all their efforts, they hadn’t been able to find the necromancer responsible for raising the ghoul. All they could do now was prepare and hope that somehow they would live to see the dawn.
Boomer waited for them in the driveway as they pulled in, his eyes reflecting the gold of the setting sun in an eerie reminder of the glowing eyes they’d encounter later tonight.
“I’m scared, Nyalla,” Eric admitted, his hands tight on the steering wheel. “We’re running out of options, and I can’t go through another night like the last. We have nothing concrete on the necromancer who did this. I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think of a way we can decapitate or explode this thing. It’s almost nightfall, and I’ve got nothing.”
His voice was tired. Nyalla felt a familiar moment of panic. She didn’t know what to do either. Alone, helpless. Even the strong man beside her couldn’t help. But just like when she’d left Hel, she just needed get through it. She’d come a long way in the past two days. No one knew how this thing with the ghoul was going to turn out, but she had nowhere to run and hide. The only option was to keep fighting.
“We need to see if we can get more information from Boomer,” Nyalla said as she climbed from the car and stroked the dog’s velvety ears. “I can’t understand much of his communication, so we’ll need to keep it to yes and no questions.”
“You’re joking, right?” Eric replied, coming around the car to stare down at the hound. “I mean, I know he’s a hellhound and all, but he really understands everything we say? He’s capable of complex thought processes?”
Nyalla frowned, tilted her head. “Of course. All dogs are. We just don’t communicate with them in the proper way, and humans don’t seem to understand even the basics of their how they think. That’s one thing I do have to say about the elves, they certainly knew how to talk to animals.”
“So what’s up with the circling three times before lying down? And the butt–sniffing?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure he’d want to know what’s up with the kissing, and why we throw away perfectly good food. If you really want to know these things, wait until Sam gets home. She can interpret for you.”
Eric took a deep breath and shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he was about to do. “Boomer, do you think the ghoul will attack living people again tonight.”
The hound nodded.
“What time does he wake up?” Boomer replied with a complicated foot movement. Eric and Nyalla looked at each other in confusion. “Sunset?” He shook his head. “Midnight?”
The hound nodded.
“Will he eat corpses first?” Nyalla asked. At Boomer’s positive response, she continued. “Then ghosts? Then the living?”
Boomer nodded, and Nyalla turned to Eric. “We need to find out the most recently interred in the area. He’ll go for the freshest he can find, right, Boomer?”
Boomer nodded and did another complex movement with his feet.
“I wish I knew what that meant,” Eric said in frustration.
“Me too,” Nyalla replied. “Boomer, do you know where the ghoul sleeps?”
He shook his head, eyes sorrowful.
“He’s already dug up the most recently buried. I’m assuming he doesn’t stray far from his territory, and it’s not like people get buried here every day. Maybe Boomer can help us find the cemetery he’ll target.”
“Well, that’s something. We’ve got a bit of grave dirt left from last night. Maybe we can set a trap. Shoot him until he goes down, and then try and take off his head with a butcher knife or something.”
A concrete plan — what a relief. Nyalla had been dreading another night of trying to keep the ghoul’s attention on them while not getting killed. This wasn’t the most airtight plan in the world, but at least it was a plan.
“Hey! Are you Nyalla?” a voice chimed out behind them.
Nyalla jumped, and Eric spun about, his hand instinctively going toward his hip. Walking up the driveway was a woman. She had to have been barely five–feet tall and her blue and green streaked hair matched her t–shirt and canvas sneakers.
“I’m Tamika Pickens. Got a call that you had a ghost problem.”
The ghost hunter Aunt Marie had mentioned. Another wave of relief washed over Nyalla. After a frustrating day, finally, things seemed to be coming together. “It’s a ghoul problem, not a ghost. We’ve got to get rid of this thing before it kills again. Can you help us?”
The woman nodded. “Yep. Can do. A ghoul, huh? That’s exciting stuff. Don’t see that every day. Usually it’s just poltergeists and revenants. Actually, most days it’s just drafty houses and rodents that people imagine are ghosts. Doesn’t matter. I get paid all the same.”
Tamika pulled a folder and notebook from her bag and removed several sheets of paper. “Can we go inside and talk? I’ve got some terms and conditions I need to go over with you, then an interview form.”
Nyalla glanced nervously at the setting sun. “Sure. Will it take long? We only have until midnight to prepare.”
She and Eric lead the way into the house. Tamika patted Boomer on the head then plopped herself down onto the sofa, sorting through her papers.
“So this guy keeps to a timetable, does he? Nighttime only, and shows up at midnight? Well, we’ll get into the details later. Here is my standard contract — just basic stuff to make sure we’re all on the same page. Signature goes here. I take cash only.”
Nyalla glanced at the form and scrawled her signature on the bottom. None of it made sense. Why couldn’t written English be the same as spoken English? It was like trying to learn two completely separate languages. One–hundred dollars — at least that part was clear. She dug a wad of money from her pocket and peeled away a bill, handing it to Tamika. The other woman hastily pocketed it and folded her hands in her lap.
“Awesome. Now, tell me what’s going on that makes you think you have a ghoul here.”
Nyalla looked at Eric, but he motioned for her to go on. Great. This fast–talking woman might be a ghost hunter, but Nyalla still had a feeling she wouldn’t be believed.
“Well, there have been several corpses removed from their graves over the past six nights. The first two were from the same cemetery. Others are from cemeteries within five miles or so.”
“Was this apparition seen the night the first corpse went missing?” Tamika interjected.
“No, but nobody was at the graveyard that night. The next night I saw a man with raggedy clothing and glowing eyes. He chased me, and I fell over a corpse running to my car. There was mist everywhere, but when the man left, so did the mist.”
Tamika nodded, writing furiously in her notebook. “Mmm. Ectoplasm is often seen as mist. Definitely a supernatural event.”
Nyalla took a deep breath, emboldened that the ghost hunter was agreeing with her. “Two nights later, I saw it again at a different cemetery. It was digging up a g
rave and eating body parts. It spoke to me and chased me again.”
“Hmm. Did it touch you? I’m not surprised there is paranormal activity following the desecration of a cemetery, but it might not be a ghoul. A ghost may have manifested and shown you events from the robbery, or from its past. Auditory communication isn’t unheard of, especially if you’re sensitive to that sort of thing.”
“No, it’s real.” Nyalla insisted, looking to Eric to back her up. “It hasn’t touched me, but I feel the cold of the mist and its presence. I saw it fight with my hound. It threw him. It also broke the lock on Shelly’s door and threw her stuff around. It murdered a family.”
“Well, we don’t know for sure that it murdered the Findleys,” Eric admitted with a guilty look at Nyalla. “We’re linking the two crimes, but there were no witnesses.”
Tamika shut her notebook. “I’m not doubting you; I’m just trying to cover all the bases. From what you’ve described, it might be a poltergeist. Honestly, I’d rather it be a poltergeist. I’m not a cryptozoologist, but from what I’ve heard, ghouls are nasty and hard to kill.”
That was fair. Nyalla would rather it be something else, too.
“So what do you know about ghouls?” Nyalla asked.
“Plenty. They avoid their original grave after the second day of rising, so they’re hard to lure back. First night out of the ground, they won’t stray more than half a mile from their grave. Second night, they expand up to two miles. According to your timeline, you’ve got a ghoul on day seven here. So, that’s about ten miles, give or take.”
“But Aunt Marie said the dirt from their own grave hurts them. Boomer repelled the ghoul by covering himself with it. Grave dirt kept it away from the car, too.”
The woman tugged a green stripe of hair. “That first night is critical. They’re weak, and there’s a chance the little soul in the dead body will flee and they’ll die. Staying close to the grave holds the soul in place, reassures it until the ghoul can bring it under his control. Their grave dirt pains them, but they endure it the first night. Your boyfriend, Boomer, had it right.”
