The Camaro Murders

by Ian Lewis

  The next shovel-full reveals what I don’t want to see—the edge of a rotting garment. I dig with care now, easing and skimming around the little body that starts to form out of the dirt. In a minute I’m looking at the remains of a little girl. It’s clear from what’s left of her dress, tattered blue with a dingy white collar.

  I step back. What if this is Starla Jenkins—the girl who went missing that fall? The shovel drops to my side with a dull smack, the damp earth a simple answer to my question. We should have been after Mendelssohn. He killed that girl—or some girl…but why?

  I’ve got to call this in. I grab my flashlight and hustle back up the stairs. New questions pop into my head with each stride. If the body is Starla Jenkins, how does the Crisp boy fit into this? How is the Camaro involved? And if Mendelssohn killed Starla, who’s driving the Camaro?

  I reach the barn door. The fresh air is welcome but doesn’t help to clear my head. Outside, I half-jog toward the house, thinking about how I’ll explain what I found. Then as I come up alongside the house, I hear a motor running out front. Who could be here? Someone must have seen my car in the drive…

  Rounding the corner, I stop dead. It’s the Camaro, idling alongside the road. The sight of it makes my throat stick, and my knees wobble like a schoolboy’s—but that’s the least of it.

  The damnable thing, the thing that halts the flow of blood and pushes my eyes to the limits of their sockets, is the small girl in the passenger seat. Her blond hair peeks over the door as she smiles and waves at me.

  Habit kicks in and I reach for my holstered sidearm, but I catch myself, hand wavering. The Camaro and I stand each other down for a few agonizing seconds. Then it takes off down the road, rubber screaming and its motor pummeling out the howl I know too well.

  Stepping back, my head is swimming as I all but collapse on the porch’s bottom step. For a minute or two I’m in a fog, and I don’t know what to think. How did I get here? How did I end up on this very porch thirteen years later?

  A missing girl—that’s how this started. Then there was the boy who drew the pictures, and then Mendelssohn’s death. All bound by that phantom car—I fear it’s going to haunt me forever.

  The late afternoon shadows fall long across the porch. I’d like it very much if someone would tear this place down, and take some of this insanity with it.

  Still, peace of mind may be too much to ask for. All I know for sure is the past doesn’t always stay put. Maybe that’s one of life’s hard-knock lessons. Or maybe it’s just bad luck.

  The Sore Road

  February 10th, 1999

  August Burroughs somewhere in the Upper Territory

  A few twigs scrape across my face as Halfacre and I move through the forest, but they don’t hurt. It’s just an annoying tick. I’m getting used to not being able to feel the same things I did when I was alive.

  Every so often we stop on the trail and look behind, but all I see are flecks of moonlight and the early morning sky. Still, I know Tickseed is following us.

  We were a few hours into our trek when I first spotted him. He’s kept his distance since then, skulkin’ behind trees and grinning like he knows something I don’t. He hasn’t tried to stop us, but I’m waiting for him to.

  Halfacre stays close by my side and keeps a watchful eye. The trail isn’t well-travelled or well-marked. I expect stiff joints or achy legs after awhile, but there’s nothing like that at all…just stone and dirt.

  The Driver wanted us to use the trail since we’d be on foot, and because it’s a good distance from the commune. It’s supposed to take us to the drop-off point where we’ll cross over to the real world.

  I keep calling it that—“the real world.” I guess this place is just as real, but I have problems looking at it that way. With only half my senses, I feel like I’m dreaming most of the time.

  Now with Tickseed following, I wonder if this is a mistake. I was ready to leave both him and the Driver behind. Getting involved was never part of the plan, but in the end I had a gut-check. I didn’t want it hanging over my conscience that I was partly to blame for whatever bad things Tickseed was going to do.

  So I met the Driver at the end of town like he said. He was creepy as always, staring off into the distance a lot. And I didn’t expect the bruiser he brought with him.

  This guy was a big dude…probably weighing about three bills. He never said anything; he just stroked his beard while the Driver explained what would happen next.

  I didn’t think I could weasel my way out of anything with that guy standing there, so I had no choice but to go along. Even with Halfacre’s size, we somehow piled into the Driver’s Camaro and drove to where we picked up the trail.

  The bruiser didn’t come with us. He stayed behind to make sure no one followed. I didn’t see how, because it’s not like there’s only one way to get around the Territory, but the Driver said the bruiser would have help. My guess is he meant the wanderlings.

  The conversation during the drive was mostly one-sided with the Driver telling me what to expect. He built it up, but when we got to the beginning of the trail, I saw it was only a gravel road.

  When the Driver let us out of the car, he said we might run into wanderlings along the way but didn’t expect we’d see anyone else between there and the drop-off point. “Just stick to the road and follow it as far as it goes,” he said. “And remember what we talked about.”

  Then he left. No “Good luck,” or “See ya later.”

  Well, I’ve been thinking about everything we talked about and I’m still trying to make sense of it. The first thing the Driver explained was how Halfacre and I would cross over. This was confusing as all get out—supposedly we’ll run into one of those patches of fog at the end of the road.

  Somewhere in that fog, it will get real dark, and we’ll hit what the Driver called a “sleeve.” He said it will feel like squeezing through a narrow opening, almost too narrow to fit; but so long as we keep stepping into it, it will eventually catch, and we’ll cross over.

  The important part is that I have a clear picture of our destination in mind as we go through. Otherwise, we won’t end up in Graehling Station, which is where we need to be. The other important thing is that I make sure I have a firm hold of Halfacre.

  Getting to Culver’s soul will be even harder. It’s not like I can just ask him for it. I’ll either have to convince him to give it up, which isn’t likely, or I’ll have to take it by force.

  The Driver suggested trying to convince him first, but not to waste much time if that doesn’t work. I’m supposed to spend two nights in his dreams to try and make headway; otherwise, it’s go time. Take no prisoners.

  I decided that after this is over, I’m done. I’m going as far away from here as I can, whether I find my ghost or not. Part of me doesn’t want to find it anyway, because then I’ll have to leave Halfacre behind—maybe to die. If it’s even possible to die again…

  Reaching out, I grab a handful of Halfacre’s fur and give it a good scratching. I’m still thinking about dying when there’s a rustle in the trees a good distance back.

  Halfacre stops and looks up to me, uneasy.

  “I know, pal. We’ve got to keep moving.” I give him another tousle and we start off again, ignoring what’s behind.

  The threat of Tickseed making a move is always gnawing at the back of my mind. And I really don’t know what I’ll do when we cross over. The Driver made it sound easy, but something tells me it won’t be.

  I’m ready to curse the Driver when up ahead, the trail begins to brighten. A few hundred feet further and I can see a clearing and traces of mist. We pick up our pace.

  At the edge of the clearing, the forest opens up to a field so wide I can’t see where it ends. The fog is just beyond, hovering over dead weeds and grass.

  Again there’s rustling behind us, but closer this time. It’s only a few feet away. Halfacre and I both stiffen. There’s breathing, thick as gravel.

  Halfa
cre spins around with a growl. The hair on his neck is bunched up and his head hangs low. Teeth barred, he looks ready to lunge.

  I turn the rest of the way to see Tickseed, or who I think is Tickseed. I barely recognize him.

  His skin is brindled like fur, and he’s even taller and skinnier than before. There’s something wrong with his face too; it’s like he has a snout, but something’s missing.

  I’d give anything to be back at Grandma’s right now. All her carrying on wouldn’t bother me none. Instead I’m going to find out whether I can die again.

  All wiry and black, Tickseed hunches over. “You will rot,” he says.

  Then something breaks the surface underneath Tickseed’s feet. Crawling bodies reach up out of the dirt and grab hold of his ankles and legs.

  I can tell it’s a group of wanderlings by their weird little kid bodies, but they look different somehow. Their skin is like charcoal and their bodies bend at funny angles. One second they move in slow motion, groping for a hold on Tickseed; next they’re twisting around him lightning-fast.

  I take a step forward as they start to pull pieces from Tickseed, tossing them aside like scraps of paper. Soon they’ve completely covered him.

  Tickseed’s scream stops me in my curious tracks. He can’t seem to swat away the wanderlings. Falling to his knees, he twists back and forth.

  Barking, Halfacre dances around the mess of bodies like he’s egging on the wanderlings. He circles, stops, circles, stops.

  One of the wanderlings falls behind and starts to head in my direction, and then like fast-forward, it’s standing directly in front of me before I can react.

  It’s all sooty, like it’s been crawling around in a chimney. There’s a slash above the chin where it speaks from. “Run,” it whispers.

  I stumble backwards, wide-eyed and numb. Halfacre barks and races back to my side. We turn and run into the fog, and I can still hear the nightmare whisper to me. “Run. Run. Run.”

  Last Night on Earth

  February 20th, 1999

  Culver Crisp inside his childhood home

  Outside the Manor Restaurant, I collapsed into a snow bank. It was the shock of cold against my cheeks that snapped me out of whatever stupor I fell into.

  I stumbled away from there, feeling old and empty. My bones resonated with a dull ache my heart could barely counter. Each step lacked motive, and I didn’t understand why I felt so hollow.

  All afternoon I rested, alternating between the couch and the patch of carpet in front of the fireplace. I’m back on the couch now, and I think I must be coming down with something. Worse, I’ve sunk into a deeper mental rift than before.

  I’ve wasted my life, waiting for things to get better. There was never a guarantee they would; I only bought into the idea that the next phase of growing up would bring satisfaction.

  I now see that’s elusive. The family will break down, friendships will die, and love will dissolve into loathing. This certainty is because of men who’ve forgotten decency, and little boys who are cowards. I am of this lot and am as much to blame as any.

  Now I’m left to play out my heart’s petty schemes, useless in their own right. There’s nothing worse than the taste of regret. It burns in my stomach, poisoning me. If I could go back and do different…maybe I could have saved her.

  What would Starla be like today, if she were still here…if she were still alive? I know she’s dead but I never want to believe it. Somehow I hoped she would come back one day, like nothing ever happened.

  Would she be the same person I knew at seven? The girl who wanted a big fuzzy dog? No, we would’ve gone our separate ways. It’s only idealism fooling me into thinking there would be anything lasting between us. Reality is waiting for me to choke it down along with the rest of the lies fed to boys in small towns. I don’t know if I can keep it from coming back up.

  In the last two days, the house has started to look more and more like I remember it, even though it’s nearly empty. Who knew I’d sit here someday by myself and wonder how I got here?

  The little version of me played with matchbox cars on this floor, watched T.V from this couch. I’ve lost so much of me since then. It’s like my soul leaks. Every day a little more dribbles out. I wonder when there will be nothing left…

  Huddling deeper into my jacket, I cringe at how morose I’ve become. It scares me. What would someone else say if they could read my thoughts? Would they be shocked and disgusted? How fast would they recoil? The thing I want the most—to let someone in—is what I fear most.

  In the morning, I’ll walk to the bus stop and catch a ride back to school. Once there, the numbing aspects of student life will deaden this part of my brain, and the longing won’t be so acute. Class, research papers, the noise in the hallway, they all medicate.

  Unfortunately it’s short-lived. I’ll get sick of that medicine and want to leave. I feel out of place at school, but I know I don’t belong here in this house—in this town. Again, it’s the impatience of the here and now, the lie of thinking things will sort themselves out after I move on to whatever I’m supposed to do with my life.

  Then there’s always a nagging fear: there isn’t anything I’m supposed to do with my life. I’m not supposed to be here. This fear is like any other sobering reality, the constants in life I can’t ignore. My misplacement in this world is as certain as my reflection in the mirror.

  I move to the floor and slide closer to the ebbing fire. Knees drawn to my chest, I listen to the wind begin to pick up outside, swirling inside the chimney. The fire needs stoking though I’m not motivated to gather more wood from the garage. I waver for several minutes, watching the licking flames fizzle into glowing embers.

  Standing is like staggering under a heavy load. The chill in the room is more piercing now that my limbs aren’t drawn against my body. Dizzy, I stumble to the window to see if it’s snowing yet.

  I draw back the shades and I’m struck with the sense that I’m dreaming. The yard is featureless under a layer of white; its dull glow cast by a clear sky and moonlight. There is no movement save for giant flakes falling in slow motion. It’s as if I can hear the silence through the foggy glass.

  The most striking feature is near the lone pine tree—the outline of a man and a large dog facing me. They’re just shadows, really, but I’m transfixed. Should I be more concerned that my dreams and reality have now blurred?

  There’s an odd calm about the scene—the blistering cold, harsh and foreboding, and the two figures on the lawn, resolute. Somehow I know they’re waiting for me—waiting to grant safe passage. But to where?

  I decide this doesn’t matter yet. I’m not afraid of them. My questions will be answered soon. I reach out to the window sill to steady myself because I’m feeling less coherent. Slipping, I stop short of total collapse and lean against the freezing glass. Breathing comes and goes at intervals, fogging up my view. I grope with a clumsy hand to wipe away the moisture.

  The man and the dog are still there. “I’m ready to go,” I say in a parched voice. Why did I say this? It just came out, the first thing that came to mind. At this, my legs give way and I fall to my knees. I take one more breath. “I’m ready to go.”

  The Wicked and Despair

  January 16th, 1987

  The Driver somewhere in the Upper Territory

  From the hood of the Camaro, I hear a low rumble further up the road. The mechanical whirring begins to slow as I see the outline of an old school bus coming around the bend. Its orange lights are afloat.

  Another twenty feet and it takes full form, creaking to a stop where I’ve pulled the car off along the shoulder. Tiny faces peek out of the dirty windows. They regard me with a playful curiosity as I slide from the hood and approach the door.

  It opens to reveal Jasper behind the wheel. One massive forearm comes to rest on the seatback as he turns to face me. “They were looking for you,” he says, gesturing towards the bus full of wanderlings.

  I nod and step onb
oard, but I can’t find anything to say. Jasper knows what I’m going to do.

  “Let it go,” he says. His eyes are searching.

  “I can’t.” I refuse to meet them and instead look at the floorboard. There’s a tug at my shirt sleeve, and I turn to find Conrad at my feet, looking earnest.

  I take him by the hand, and lead him off the bus. We step away toward the car and watch the other wanderlings follow. Soon they are all huddled around us.

  Jasper reaches for the door and says, “Bury it here, son. Bury all of it.” Then the door folds shut and the bus lumbers away, disappearing in the night.

  I turn to the children and repeat something Jasper once said to me. “We fall away from our best selves from time to time. That’s the price we pay for our free will.” I don’t expect a response and feel stupid for saying it.

  The wanderlings are silent before stepping towards each other, crowding together. It appears as if they’re stepping into a single-file line behind Conrad, but they are really intertwining their bodies, condensing into one.

  When they have finished, I hold the passenger side door open and help them into the car. They smile a collective smile which I struggle to return. Am I using them?

  I question the role I will play in this madness, and if it will eventually consume me. I’m going back to the farm, drawn by a sick sense of duty. The urge to file down the rough-hewn edges of unfinished work is the only thing left.

  I start the motor and then we’re moving, the car hammering out its endless drone. Every time I look over to the passenger seat, the wanderlings have a new face—sometimes a little boy, sometimes a girl. There are probably fifty of them in there. This is some strange game to them, child’s play with grown-up consequences.

  They understand grief; there’s no questioning that. Does that make them vengeful? I’ve never asked, and won’t ask now. I’m content to leave them be as the car pulls us along dimly lit stretches of asphalt.