Popcorn Thief

by Cutter, Leah

  “I figure Lexine felt the same way, chose that spot because it amplified her power, and wouldn’t have ever moved from it,” Franklin said.

  “Still, Earl wouldn’t have killed her for it. He would have found other land, some other way to make the money,” Ray said.

  “The cops believe something human killed her. Left his handprint around her neck,” Franklin said.

  “Do you think Earl found her that way, and was trapped there? That his death was circumstantial? What exactly killed him?” Adrianna asked.

  “I don’t know,” Franklin said, frowning. “Maybe the same human killed both of them.”

  “So maybe the creature is under the control of something living,” Ray said. “He kills, then it feeds.”

  Franklin rolled his eyes. “That’s far too complicated. No, I think the spirit is exactly what it is, an evil spirit. It views us—people who are special—as rival predators.” He explained catching a glimpse of the thing when he and Darryl had been hunting it, along with how it had killed Billy.

  “So it has killed,” Ray said thoughtfully. He looked with worry over at Adrianna.

  “Now stop,” Adrianna said, patting Ray’s thigh affectionately. “It can’t get to us here.”

  Ray looked around the garden, then, with longing, back at the house.

  “Darryl can track this thing,” Franklin said. “We just have to figure out what to do with it, once we find it. Then you two should be able to go back to normal.”

  Now Adrianna looked worried. “Excuse me,” she said, standing and walking over to the trunk of one of her tree men, petting it and crooning to it.

  The tree branches moved in a wind that Franklin couldn’t feel.

  Adrianna’s power was growing.

  He looked over at Ray, who looked resigned. “Wanna go take a walk through the garden? Show me everything else?” Franklin asked.

  “Sure,” Ray said. They walked over to the far side of the fish pond, close to the house.

  “Adrianna’s always been—artistic,” Ray started. “We moved here when it got too hard for her in LA.”

  “You miss the city?” Franklin asked.

  “God, yes. No offense, but this town was never my idea of a retirement destination, you know?” Ray sighed. “But Adrianna needed someplace slow, and quiet, and she insisted on here. Never quite knew what she saw in this place. Until now.”

  “What’s wrong, Ray?” Franklin asked.

  “I’m afraid I’m losing her. To it. To them.” He gestured at the tree creatures she’d created. “She says her power’s growing—maybe it is, maybe it isn’t—but her strangeness sure is. She’s different, now.”

  “I’m sorry,” Franklin said. He wasn’t sure what he could do to help.

  “We weren’t able to have kids,” Ray continued. “Now, these things—they’re like children and grandkids, salvation and savior, all rolled up into one.”

  Franklin looked back at Adrianna. She stood holding the hand of one of the tree men, swaying and singing softly. The branches above her swayed as well.

  If it came to a choice, if the creature came again, would she choose to save Ray? To sacrifice one of her creations for his life?

  Franklin just didn’t know.

  * * *

  Franklin wearily rode his bike home through the cooling evening. How come dealing with Karl and Adrianna and the sheriff make him feel as though he’d worked really hard all day, hauling bags of rocks or fertilizer or something? Maybe he’d just go home and straight to bed. Once he left town and rode down Stevens Street the temperature dropped even further away from the buildings and into the fields, while the call of the cicadas cycled up higher.

  No police car or cousin’s truck waited for Franklin in the driveway of his house that evening.

  No, what waited for him was much, much worse.

  The spirit of Sweet Bess had found her way back to his home. Franklin didn’t know why he could see her—he’d only ever been able to see her at Lexine’s place. He couldn’t normally see spirits.

  But Sweet Bess stood there, like a demented guard dog. If she could have made noise, Franklin knew she’d be grunting and snorting at him. Her tiny pig eyes glared red at him, out of her ghostly white skin. She pawed the ground, a sure sign she was about to attack.

  Shit. Where could he go? Franklin really wanted to go inside. He was too tired to deal with this mess. However, Sweet Bess stood between him and the door, and didn’t look like she was likely to let him pass.

  Franklin got off his bike and kept it between him and the glaring sow. At least he wasn’t carrying any of her lard.

  That led Franklin to a plan. The root cellar had its own entrance, to the side. It would take some time to get the lock open, but so would unlocking the front door, if Sweet Bess was charging him. Maybe if he rode around the house, she’d follow him. Even in death, she couldn’t run as fast as he could ride. He could get around the house, maybe go around twice, and leave himself enough time to get through the root cellar door.

  Franklin got back on his bike and started peddling around the house. The front wheel bumped over a hose that he hadn’t wound back up, across the rocks leading away from the house gutter, onto the thick grass patch that made up the backyard, around the house, then back onto the front gravel driveway.

  Sweet Bess followed, but she’d never been fast alive, and death hadn’t speeded her up any. By the time Franklin circled the house twice and was back to the root cellar, she was about halfway around the house, still struggling to catch up.

  Franklin ditched his bike and fumbled out his keys, reaching for the lock on the cellar door.

  Sweet Bess came around the corner, saw what he was doing, and doubled her pace.

  It was really gonna hurt when she hit. Franklin jammed the key into the lock, twisted, and pulled. Fortunately, he kept the lock well oiled, and it slid open easily.

  With Sweet Bess breathing down his back, Franklin wrenched open one of the cellar doors and leapt down the stairs, panting and sweating.

  The sow passed above him. The wooden door groaned loudly as the spirit passed through it, as if had suddenly aged. Franklin shivered. What the hell was Sweet Bess up to? He hoped she wouldn’t try to come in the house—she’d never done so when she’d been alive, and he certainly couldn’t stop her if she was dead.

  What the hell did she want? Why was she bothering him?

  Thump. Crash.

  What was that? It came from directly above Franklin’s head.

  Something was in the house.

  Cautiously, Franklin poked his head back out the root cellar door. Sweet Bess stood not two feet away, pawing the ground, about to make another run at him. Franklin heaved himself up out of the root cellar, grabbed the door and pulled it shut, the galloping sow on the other side.

  He didn’t know if it would help, but he put the wooden beam across the doors to lock them. He wouldn’t be able to come and go as easily, but hopefully, he wouldn’t need to.

  Franklin turned back to the dark of the cellar. There wasn’t a flashlight in the root cellar, so he got out his phone, using the tiny screen to light his way. Though the floor was clear, he still didn’t want to run into one of the walls.

  Slowly, Franklin made his way up the basement stairs. “Mama?” Franklin called out.

  Thump. Tinkle.

  “Gloria?”

  Whump.

  What the hell was going on? Was that a burglar in his kitchen? Were Ray’s crazy theories about a human controlling the spirit actually true?

  Franklin turned the doorknob to the kitchen slowly and opened the door a crack.

  Chaos reigned in his kitchen.

  The creature was there. It whirled like something possessed, snatching up everything not put away and smashing it against the walls, the ceiling, and the ground. It even managed to get into the cupboard holding Franklin’s glassware, and was gleefully smashing that as well.

  What the hell did that thing want? Just to destroy things
? Or was it here to kill Franklin?

  Franklin opened the door just a bit more.

  For the first time in over a year, Mama wasn’t sitting at the kitchen table.

  “What the hell?”

  The thing paused in its destruction.

  Shit. Franklin realized he’d spoken out loud.

  Had this spirit killed Mama? She’d been special, too. Did it have the power to kill ghosts?

  Before Franklin could go back down the stairs, the spirit grabbed him with its sticky vines.

  Franklin cried out—they stung like nettles, cutting into his skin like barbed wire.

  The thing threw Franklin up toward the ceiling, then let him fall. Sharp pieces of broken bowls jammed into Franklin’s back, while the fall itself pushed all the air from his lungs.

  Franklin still scrambled to his feet. Shit. He had to get out of here, or this thing would kill him. Where could he go? What would save him? Maybe he could get out the front door.

  However, the thing reached for Franklin again before he could get more than two steps, slicing open his arms and slamming him against the wall. Shaken, Franklin pushed away, trying again for the door.

  He had to get out of there. Or he was a goner.

  Suddenly, Mama was in the kitchen. She stood between the thing and her boy, her intent clear: It was going to have to go through her first before it could get at her boy.

  The thing obliged. It flayed her with its whips, tearing into her ghostly flesh.

  Mama didn’t cry out in pain—the dead couldn’t make a sound. She stood steady and firm as the mountain of Abraham, bleeding ghostly blood; little trickles of light flowing from her arms.

  “Mama!” Franklin cried.

  Mama turned and glared at him. Run, you fool.

  Franklin ran, stumbling out the front door.

  Was Mama okay? Would she survive?

  He looked around the yard. Sweet Bess was nowhere to be seen.

  But Sheriff Thompson’s Crown Vic, with the blue and red squad lights on, was pulling into the drive.

  Chapter Seven

  “WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOU?” Sheriff Thompson asked as he hopped out of his car.

  “A fight?” Franklin said. He didn’t know what else he could say. He couldn’t lie and say that nothing had happened. He looked down, his back twinging. Shit. He probably had glass embedded all up and down his spine. His arms had deep gouges in them, bleeding heavily. His shirt was ripped around his torso, and had provided little protection. Now, it stuck to his sides. Damn it. He was gonna have to buy another uniform shirt.

  Something clattered inside the house.

  “Who’s in there, Franklin?” Sheriff Thompson asked. He flicked off the safety on his weapon but didn’t pull it out of his holster as he walked up the front porch stairs.

  “No one’s there,” Franklin said, hurrying up behind him.

  Would it be better if the sheriff saw the spirit destroying Franklin’s kitchen? Or just the aftermath? The sheriff wouldn’t believe his eyes if he saw the spirit. But maybe Franklin could explain the destruction.

  The sheriff pushed open the door and called out, “Hello?”

  Nothing replied.

  Sheriff Thompson walked through the hallway into the kitchen.

  The spirit was gone, having thrown its fit. Broken dishes and glasses lay scattered in a spiral pattern across the floor. Two of the kitchen chairs were turned over, and the table itself had been shoved into the corner.

  Why had that thing attacked Franklin like that? Had it been trying to kill him? That hadn’t felt like its intent—it had just wanted to hurt Franklin as much as it could. And where was Mama?

  The sheriff looked around the kitchen. “You got some explaining to do,” he said darkly.

  “You won’t believe me,” Franklin said with a sigh.

  Sheriff Thompson glanced over at Franklin, his hard eyes dark in the dim light. “You’re right. I probably wouldn’t. But I do believe you’ve been in a pretty bad fight, and you need some stitches.”

  “I’ll be all right,” Franklin said. He just needed someone to clean out the glass in his back. He could take care of the rest.

  “Franklin, son, I don’t think you will be,” the sheriff said. “I’d feel much better about doing my civic duty if you’d let me drive you to the hospital.”

  “That’s all the way across the county,” Franklin protested.

  “All right. How about urgent care, then? There’s the country doctor’s office in town.”

  “I’ll bleed on your seats. Stain your car,” Franklin said, though he knew his protests were getting weaker.

  “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll let you clean it up later.”

  Franklin looked around the ruins of his kitchen. He couldn’t do anything more here. Mama would either come back or not. And where the hell was Gloria? Had the thing already attacked her and driven her off?

  “Come on.” The sheriff had Franklin’s arm where it wasn’t bleeding and was leading him out of the kitchen.

  Everything seemed distant suddenly, like there was a bale of cotton between Franklin and the world. “Why’s it all so far away?” he asked.

  “I think it’s shock,” the sheriff said. He got a silver emergency blanket—the kind Darryl had put in their backpacks when they’d been hunting—and got Franklin folded into his car. He’d even had to help Franklin pull his legs up. Why weren’t they moving right? He worked to find a comfortable way to sit, where he wasn’t putting any pressure on his back, and ended up twisted, so his shoulder rested on the seat, while his legs were stretched out to balance him.

  “It’ll be okay, son,” Sheriff Thompson said.

  Why did the sheriff sound so worried?

  “Don’t you be going to sleep on me,” the sheriff growled, brushing his hand against Franklin’s arm.

  Pain spiked through Franklin’s system. “Why’d you do that for?” he asked.

  “’Cause you can’t pass out on me. Not yet,” the sheriff insisted.

  “Why was you coming out to see me?” Franklin shouted over the wailing sirens the sheriff had turned on. Why were they in such a hurry?

  “Karl was mad as a hornet. Insisted I come arrest you. He’d shot something in his field, filled it full of rock salt. Said it must have been someone you’d hired, to ruin his crop.”

  “Ah—that’s why it was so angry,” Franklin said. No wonder the spirit had attacked him. But—damn it. That meant rock salt didn’t work.

  “It?” the sheriff asked.

  “Another thing you don’t believe in,” Franklin said. So much was closed to the sheriff. It was so sad.

  But at least since the sheriff was normal, he didn’t have to worry about that damn spirit coming after him.

  They stopped in short order, or maybe time was a bit funny, in front of the hospital. “You said we’d go to urgent care,” Franklin accused the sheriff.

  “I lied,” Sheriff Thompson said with a grin. “Besides, you really need to be here.”

  Emergency technicians bundled Franklin out of the car. He tried to answer their questions but the sheriff talked over him, describing his injuries in clinical terms that Franklin couldn’t quite hold onto, as well as talking about him going into shock.

  As the sheriff passed him off to the technicians, he also instructed them to check for rock salt, just in case.

  * * *

  Franklin woke, stiff and sore, in a strange room that was all white. Shit. Had he died?

  No, he remembered now. He was in the hospital. Thick padded bandages covered the gouges on his arms, and he couldn’t feel his back: It was like someone had shot it full of Novocain. Something was stuck into his bandaged left hand, a needle leading to a tube leading to a bag of some clear fluid—saline, maybe.

  Damn it. How the hell was he going to afford this? The room smelled like sour medicine and stinky bleach. A white curtain hung along one side, blocking Franklin’s view of the rest of the room. A TV hung on the wall a
t the foot of the bed.

  Franklin pressed the call button, hoping that he wasn’t going to have to pay for every nurse’s visit.

  A young white girl poked her head into the room. “Good to see you awake,” she said, stepping further into the room. “I’m Julie. You’re at Wesley County hospital.” She had brown, shoulder-length hair that looked as though it’d be soft to touch, and big hazel eyes over a tiny nose dusted with freckles.

  “When can I get out?” Franklin asked as he sat up.

  Okay, sitting up maybe was a bit of a mistake, as the room swam. But Franklin stubbornly stayed sitting, not supported by the pillows, even though the pretty nurse came quickly over to his side and pushed gently on his shoulder.

  “You should just rest, sir,” she insisted. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  “You should’ve seen the other guy,” Franklin weakly joked. He resisted Nurse Julie for another few moments before he finally lay back. Then he remembered. “Why don’t my back hurt?” he asked.

  “You’re on morphine,” Julie told him. “As well as antibiotics. Whatever attacked you left a nasty infection behind.”

  “When can I get out?” Franklin asked again. “Not that I want to leave a pretty girl like you,” he added. “But I gotta get back home.” He had such a mess to clean up there. Plus, a funeral to go to. And he somehow had to stop anyone else from being attacked.

  “I understand,” the nurse said with a smile. “You got a wife at home to get to, right?”

  Franklin chuckled. “No, ma’am. Just family and a farm.”

  “Speaking of family and friends, is there anyone you want to call? The phone’s right here.”

  “I’d like to be able to tell them when they can come and get me,” Franklin hinted.

  “I’ll go get the doctor, and we’ll see about getting you released,” Nurse Julie said. “Then I’ll come back in and give you instructions on how to clean and change your bandages. You’ll need help,” she added. “Backs are tricky, and it’s difficult to do arms, too, sometimes.”

  “One of my cousins will help,” Franklin said, though he wasn’t sure which one.

  “That’s so nice to have family,” Julie said.