Pyrophobia

by Jack Lance

  But still he did not give up – he could not give up.

  He kept struggling to get himself loose, not wanting to think about how bloody and raw his wrists had to be by now.

  It was dark outside, maybe night-time already.

  And still Doug kept on driving.

  Finally, the van stopped. Doug slid from the driver seat, and then Jason heard the familiar fumbling at the back door. It slid open with a clatter. Jason lay gazing up at the black night sky. What time was it? He had no idea.

  Doug reappeared behind the bright light of a flashlight he was holding in his hand.

  Jason coughed. His throat was parched. He yearned for water, anything liquid.

  Doug pulled him out of the van by his legs. He slid from the edge and clenched his teeth, anticipating a painful slam on to the hard ground. Barely a second later, a torturous ache exploded in his pelvis. Although he had resolved not to give Mitch the satisfaction of watching him suffer, he couldn’t help crying out and cursing.

  Doug leaned over him, peeled off a strip of duct tape, and placed it firmly over his mouth.

  Jason was on his back on the hard ground, stifling his pain in forced silence.

  Doug took a brown burlap bag from the back of the van and placed it beside Jason. As he did that, Mitch hoisted himself up from his wheelchair and awkwardly shuffled over.

  ‘Give us a hand here,’ he said to Doug, who caught Mitch beneath the armpits and lifted him up as if he were as light as a feather and planted him on the ground behind the van.

  ‘Do you need your wheelchair?’

  ‘No,’ Mitch said. ‘I won’t be able to move around with it in this terrain. You take care of him. I’ll manage.’

  Doug nodded. He wrapped his arms around Jason, underneath his armpits, and started dragging him away from the van. Mitch followed, shining the flashlight. Doug was manhandling him roughly, and Jason worried that his arms might become dislocated. He screamed, but there was no one to hear him. Even if it hadn’t just been the three of them, no one could have heard his cries, smothered as they were by the duct tape.

  Shatz pulled him along as if he were a corpse already. His heels made tracks in the sand. Then, despite the darkness, he recognized his surroundings. He could see the bars of a high, dark gate. Familiar oaks stood on either side of it like towering sentinels.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  This was North Gate, at St James Cemetery.

  Why had they brought him here?

  Mitch’s lilting voice echoed through his mind.

  I want satisfaction.

  Mitch had the blood of Steve Silverstein, Chris Campbell and Kayla Evans on his hands. What was he planning for Jason? His options for escaping were rapidly expiring, if he had any to begin with. Again he tried to loosen his bonds, and again it felt like a sharp knife was cutting into his flesh. His wrists felt wet, which could only mean that blood was seeping from his raw wounds.

  Doug dragged him past hundreds of graves wrapped in dark shadows. The moon emitted a silvery glow. Jason estimated it would have to be two or three o’clock in the morning. It was a fair guess, if they had left Los Angeles around five or six o’clock.

  Doug set him down in front of a grave. Mitch shone a light on the headstone.

  It was the Chawkins’ grave. In the circle of snow-white light, the names of Robert, Amanda and Mike appeared.

  ‘Keep an eye on him,’ Doug said. ‘I’ll get the rest of the stuff.’

  He walked off, leaving Jason alone with his brother.

  ‘What do you think happens next?’ Mitch asked.

  Why don’t you go ahead and tell me, Jason thought.

  Mitch grinned. ‘Start saying your goodbyes. This is where you are going to meet your end. Your name is already on the headstone. All that’s missing is you.’

  Jason’s eyes widened.

  Was he going to bury him? In … his own grave?

  Mitch made the cackling noise again. It rose up into the night sky like the howls of a wolf. No, of a demon.

  Doug returned with the burlap sack with its protruding sticks, and the bale of hay. The sticks turned out to be tools: a pickaxe and a spade. He spit on his hands, rubbed them together, and started yanking the sods from above the burial site.

  Mitch also was busy. From the sack he took a shorter stick, planted it in the ground beside the grave, took a step back, and carefully touched it with a burning match. The head of the stick caught fire. It was a Tiki torch. In its glow, Jason could see Mitch’s scars moving and twitching, as if worms were crawling beneath his skin. Mitch was just as afraid of fire as Jason was. But he at the moment was more worried about what Doug was doing.

  He was opening the Chawkins’ grave, and it was obvious who would be laid to rest there.

  I’m dead.

  No, not yet. But time was running out. Mitch and Doug would want to be out of here before dawn. The grave needed to be closed by then, with him in it, and they would not want to leave traces.

  Like a madman, he yanked at the ropes binding him. It did no good; the flaring pain just kept on getting worse. Mitch looked back and grinned at his useless struggles.

  Jason pulled, tore, wrenched. Then it felt as if a real knife was cutting his flesh. He cried out in hopeless despair. A black mist rose up in front of his eyes. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

  Doug picked up the spade and started deepening the hole. He worked quickly, ruthlessly. Heaps of sand appeared beside the hole, piling higher and higher. About five or six feet down he would strike the moldy coffins of his parents. Doug would probably not go that deep, but then he didn’t have to. Four feet would be deep enough to ensure that Jason’s body would never be found.

  When Doug finished digging, he climbed up from the shallow pit. Then he tore open the bale of hay and spread it out on the sandy bottom of the pit. What for, Jason wondered.

  Mitch gripped the Tiki torch. He gazed fearfully at the flames and then at Jason. But his voice was firm.

  ‘Almost thirty-two years ago, they dug a grave for you that so far you’ve been able to cheat. But no longer.’

  The torch lent his eyes a barbaric glow.

  ‘It is written that you burned to death and were buried in this grave. That’s how it is written, and that’s how it shall be.’

  Doug Shatz stood there with his sleeves rolled up. His face was black from sweat and sand. Mitch lifted the torch over his head and seemed to be murmuring a prayer.

  It was clear to Jason what was going to happen. He pushed himself back on his heels, like a caged animal that flings itself at the bars of its prison in desperation when the butchers arrive. It was useless. He was going to die a horrible death, the same death as in his nightmares.

  Mitch lowered the torch, having recited his prayer or whatever it had been, and pointed the burning end at him.

  He was going to set Jason on fire.

  A hellish scream, a primal roar, pushed forward. In his own ears, the duct tape did nothing to stifle the sound. Like a madman, with every last ounce of strength he could muster, he tried to wriggle free. His upper body and legs were bucking wildly; sweat oozed from every pore.

  Mitch waved his rod of flaming death around like a burning flag. His cheeks were puffed up with excitement, but his eyes were empty, void of any trace of humanity. Jason could clearly see all this in the glow of the wafting fire that made Mitch’s appearance seem even more devilish.

  Jason roared, bucked, wriggled. Sweat stung in his eyes. Maybe he was breaking his own teeth, because he heard grating, bone-splintering noises in his ears.

  ‘Put him in there,’ Mitch said to Doug, indicating the grave.

  Doug leaned over Jason and dragged him toward the hole. He was shoved into the freshly dug grave, on to the fresh hay. Doug climbed back out of the grave, leaving Jason a foot or so above the bones of his mother and father.

  Jason stared at the night sky as tendrils of fog appeared in front of his eyes. He kept screaming, wrestling, fighting. Beneath
him, skeletal hands burst from the ground; cold finger bones touched his bare skin.

  Even now he was tearing at the ropes. He no longer felt pain. Memories flashed in front of his mind’s eye. Kayla’s smile. Her pearly teeth, sparkling eyes, sweet scent. She caressed him and said she loved him. Their first kiss, on Sunset Boulevard under the soft light of a harvest moon. The time she said he meant the world to her, in the fractured red glow of the morning sun over the foaming surf at Venice Beach. And further back. Edward playing with him, tossing him a ball, him jumping to catch it. Still further back and …

  He is a baby again. Donna is standing in the desert, near a car with black clouds of smoke and flames leaping from broken windows. Her face is smudged with soot and tears, her hands are pressing against her mouth, her eyes are bulging; she is in shock. Then she turns around, toward him. He is close to her on the sand, and underneath her pain he also sees relief and happiness that he at least is still there; and he sees her love, the love that has blossomed already. He wants to crawl to her, touch her, but he can’t. He is unable to, something is holding him back. But he wants to touch her so very much.

  I helped you then, because I could, she says. Now I can’t. You have to do this yourself. And you can do it.

  No! he yells, I can’t. I’m going to die!

  Yes, she says, forcefully. You can do it. It’ll hurt, it’ll hurt a lot, but don’t you think it hurt me when I rescued you from that car?

  Of course. Rescuing him from the flames ravaging the car must have caused her unimaginable pain.

  You were strong back then, you have to be strong now, are the last words Donna whispers to him. She smiles through her tears, her lips move, and he understands that she loves him, that he will forever be her child.

  Then she fades away from his view. Along with the burning car, the desert. He realizes where he is …

  The night returned.

  Mitch stood over him, on the edge of the grave, holding the burning torch.

  ‘Hurry up!’ Doug yelled beside him. His voice sounded strangely hollow, far away. ‘Set him on fire!’

  He still felt Donna, but fading, less there.

  A flame broke from Mitch’s torch. No, there were more, as if drops of fire sparks were raining down into the grave. Jason pushed himself away from them, but when the glowing droplets hit the hay beneath him, smoke spiraled up in a ghastly array of newly born flames.

  Jason turned on his side, his back to the gently crackling fire. He moved his wrists toward the glowing heat. Then the heat hit the rope – and his flesh – and he bit his tongue to stifle a bellowing cry of anguish.

  Fire licked his skin, seared it, cooked it. Jason clenched his teeth, shut his eyes. He yanked the rope with a furious rage he didn’t think he had in him. The rope held, but it was getting hotter and hotter. How long could he stand the pain? How long before—

  Jason gave one final God Almighty yank. And suddenly the burning rope did loosen.

  Jason stripped it off his wrists with a few jerks of his fingers and thumbs. Maybe his very skin was burning, he didn’t know. And he didn’t care.

  He threw himself on his back and rubbed his wrists in the sand beneath the hay. Then he pushed himself upright again and clawed like a madman at the rope around his ankles.

  He felt no pain; he was beyond pain. He just did what he had to do.

  When he had freed his legs, he tore the duct tape from his mouth.

  Mitch was staring at him, as if not believing what he was seeing. Doug too. Even in Doug’s eyes he now saw fear. Immobilized, Mitch glanced at the dancing flames in the grave, and then at Jason.

  Doug grabbed for the torch in Mitch’s hand. In the same instant Jason rolled over on his hands and feet, his shoulders hunched up like a wild animal in a tight spot. Shouting a raw cry of rage, he jumped up from the pit.

  Doug lunged for the pickaxe, but Jason was quicker and seized the handle. Beset with insane rage, Jason looked into Doug’s eyes a moment before swinging the pickaxe at him. The blade dove into Doug’s stomach. He grabbed at the jagged wound, and stared in amazement at the blood spurting out of him. His knees buckled and he fell face down on the grass.

  Sparks of fire narrowly missed Jason’s face. Mitch had swung at him with the torch. Another primeval growl erupted from Jason’s throat. He drew back his lips and exposed his teeth like a jungle animal smelling blood.

  Mitch swung the torch at him yet again, but Jason easily sidestepped it. He then lunged at Mitch and lifted him off the ground.

  In his arms, dangling above the ground, the torch in one hand and its flaming head down, Mitch snapped at him with his lipless teeth, as if trying to bite him.

  ‘Mike …’ The word came out low, guttural.

  ‘Mitch,’ Mike heard a throaty sound he didn’t recognize, even though he had made it.

  The brothers had been reunited by fire.

  Mike lifted Mitch higher. Then he slammed him into the open grave on top of the guttering torch.

  More smoke started spiraling up from the hay and bigger flames rose up, burrowing themselves free from beneath Mitch, whose body jerked and convulsed as though he were receiving electrical shocks.

  He screamed. He screeched. The sound was deafening.

  Mike fell down. Only now did he feel intense pain. A scream bubbled up from his throat. He held out his hands and looked at them. His scorched wrists were raw, bleeding badly. He could smell his own burned flesh. His fingertips felt as if there were needles in them. Most of his fingernails had been torn off. More blood was seeping from open wounds.

  A bestial cry erupted from his mouth. He screamed until he had no voice left.

  Mike crawled away from Doug Shatz, lying there with the sharp edge of the pickaxe sticking out of his abdomen. His eyes and mouth sagged open, as though in utter amazement of what had just happened. His chipped tooth was red, just like the rest of his teeth, lips and face. Blood clots matted even his hair.

  Reeling, Mike stood up. He smelled burning meat and heard a crackling fire.

  Inside the open grave was his now forever silent brother, face-down in the earth, within a fire that was devouring a leg, an arm and his bald head.

  More orange-yellow flames erupted in a ghostly dance of death.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Return

  Weeks had elapsed since the horror at St James Cemetery. Every day, Jason relived fond memories of Kayla. They offered an album full of unforgettable events, scenes and gestures. The day they met at The Duchess. Their dates afterward, their first kiss. Moving in together and decorating their house. Trips to Utah, Arizona and Nevada. Their wedding day. As they stood before the altar and Reverend Jeremy Hofmeister had asked him whether Jason would take Kayla to be his wedded wife, he had been the happiest man on the planet; this amazing woman was willing to be his wife.

  At first, when he talked about anything, it was mostly about Kayla. Brian Anderson came to see him and turned out to possess unexpected paternal traits. His vacation came up and ended, and he went back to work. Barbara didn’t nag him and Carol didn’t trouble him with her problems. Even Tony was a bit more talkative than usual. Everyone in the office closed ranks around him, to protect him.

  Gradually Jason noticed that everyone’s interest in his plight was waning. Life was returning back to normal. People got on with their daily lives.

  He couldn’t blame them, of course; it was the way of the world, and he reminded himself that he ought to be moving on as well. And he would, although he knew his life would never be the same again.

  There was, however, one change that had surprised him. A lot.

  When he had finally come home after that night in St James Cemetery, he hadn’t crawled into bed. Even though he felt as tired as a human could feel, he had taken a long shower despite his bandaged hands.

  Then he had gone in search of a candle.

  Jason knew there were candles in the attic. Kayla had never wanted to get rid of her collection because she hated wasti
ng money, which throwing out perfectly good, expensive candles came down to. These were Kayla’s prettiest ones, the ones she had bought to create a festive mood during the holiday season but had then stored away in the attic, wrapped in a piece of cloth.

  They had been lying there for at least three years.

  That night Jason had taken the candles downstairs.

  And he had lit one.

  As he stared at the flame, he remained perfectly calm, without a trace of distress in his mind or heart. He had kept looking at the flame, and it hadn’t bothered him to do so.

  Even his pyrophobia no longer seemed to matter. It was one more thing that belonged in the past. He had sat there, silently gazing into the flame.

  Then he had closed his eyes and prayed.

  September sixth. Another Sunday. He got out of bed at seven, showered, and rolled new medic bandages over his wrists and the burned areas on his skin that doctors had told him would never completely heal; scars would always be visible, but at least the pain was gone. Then he made himself some breakfast and went out for a short walk. By eight thirty he was inside his LaCrosse, fixed up and good as new, taking his usual route. On weekdays the drive took him an hour; on quiet Sunday mornings it was about forty-five minutes. And so it was only twenty past nine when he parked outside the Thurber Institute.

  The building was large and dreary. A squat, tan-painted block of concrete. The only thing worth noticing was the garden. In it he had noticed apple, mango, guava, hydrangeas, rhododendrons and any number of other plants and trees.

  Jason went inside and crossed the familiar hallways toward the familiar room. He opened the door and there she was, in her wheelchair by the window. She saw him, put down her paperback book – she had started Stephen King’s Duma Key – and greeted him with a faint smile.

  ‘Mornin’,’ he said as he kissed her.

  ‘Morning.’

  She still looked frail, and she was. Her physical injuries were healing slowly. In itself this was a miracle, given how serious they had been. In the first few hours after Doug had slashed her with his knife, the doctors had not given her much hope. When Jason was fighting for his own life several hours later, he was convinced that Kayla must have died in the meantime. He had told Mitch she was dead, because otherwise Mitch would have sent Doug after her again.