Ash Wednesday

by Chet Williamson

  "Jesus!" he said in disgust when he saw Kaylor's face peering through the glass in the coming light of dawn. "You scared the life outta me, Frank." Then his eyes narrowed and he looked around suspiciously, as if something were creeping up on them. "You wanta come in here?"

  "Why don't you come out here?" Kaylor answered. "You think it's safe?"

  "You see them moving? Besides, I have a gun."

  "Don't know what good that'll do," the mayor grumbled, but he slid back over to the driver's side and opened the door quietly, as though he didn't want to be heard. A haze of cigarette smoke followed him as he left the car and he lit another immediately. He fixed Frank Kaylor with a bulldog stare, although he had to look up to do it, and coughed as the smoke leaked out of him. Have a stroke in another year, Kaylor thought as he stared into the lumpy, florid face. Mayor Tom Markley smoked two packs a day and was only five pounds short of being fat. Not, Kaylor had decided, a good prognosis for longevity. "Well?" Markley said.

  "Well what?"

  "C'mon, Pastor," Markley called softly to Craven, who was just getting out through his passenger door, and turned back to Kaylor. "Well, what have you done about all this?"

  "What's to do?" He shrugged. "Staters are on their way."

  "Staters!" Markley barked. "We got a town full of spooks and people scared shitless about 'em—including me. And you tell me the staters are coming. Frank, there are people leaving town—actually packing up and going."

  Kaylor looked at Markley's eyes and read the near-panic in them. "You want me to calm folks down?" he asked.

  "Yes. Damn right I do!"

  Kaylor walked back to the police car, opened the trunk, and took out a bullhorn. Flicking it on, he aimed it down South Market Street and spoke into it. "Attention. May I have your attention, please. This is Police Chief Kaylor speaking. There is nothing to fear from the"—he paused—"the things that we are all seeing on the streets and perhaps in your homes. They can't harm you. There's no need for panic or to leave town. The mayor and Pastor Craven are here with me now and we assure you that these creatures are harmless. We don't know as yet what they are, but an investigation is under way. Please remain calm and continue with what you would normally be doing." Kaylor switched off the bullhorn and looked at Markley. "Happy?"

  "What did you tell them that for?"

  "You wanted me to calm them down."

  "We don't know these things are harmless!"

  In answer Kaylor walked over to the figure of an old woman ten yards away and swung his arm through the space she occupied. "She's not hitting back," he said grimly, returning to Markley's side.

  "I think Frank is right," said Pastor Craven in his deep baritone. "They seem too ethereal to do us any harm.”

  “Well, what about this investigation then?" Markley went on.

  "I'm investigating," Kaylor replied, "right now."

  Craven smiled. "Aren't we all?"

  "What do you think, Pastor?" Kaylor asked. "This is more in your line than in mine."

  "Tom and I have been discussing it, and from what I can make out, as crazy as it sounds, we've got a town full of ghosts here. I don't recognize them all, but I do a lot of them. And they're all dead. With some it looks like they're positioned right where they died—at the moment of death. With others it seems they show up where they lived, or where they spent much of their time."

  "Jesus Christ," moaned Markley. "Excuse me, Pastor;" he added, "but I feel like I'm still sleeping, like this can't really be happening."

  "It does feel like a dream," Craven agreed, "but I'm fairly certain I'm awake."

  "What about hallucinations?" Kaylor suggested. "Mass hallucinations."

  Craven pointed to a blue shape visible through the window of the Bar-Kay Dress Shop. "You see that woman?" Kaylor nodded. "Describe her to me."

  Kaylor did, noting the woman's bobbed, antiquated hairstyle, her thin lips, heavy frame, large pendulous breasts to which her stubby fingers were pressed.

  "You've just described Grace Moyer," Craven said when Kaylor had finished. "She died of a heart attack when I was ten, years before you were born, Frank. My mother used to take me in her shop. So how could you hallucinate something that's in my memory?"

  Kaylor shook his head, thinking that it did seem like a dream, and feeling grateful for that. If he could just keep that idea in his mind until he could accept what had happened as reality, he thought he'd be all right.

  "They're really here then," said Markley. "Holy shit . . .” He gave a half-laugh. "I wonder . . .”

  "What?" Kaylor asked.

  "I can't help but wonder if . . . if Eddie Karl's been telling the truth all along."

  Neither the minister nor the police chief made any comment, but they wondered too.

  The state troopers arrived with the sun twenty minutes later. As always, they seemed cool, withdrawn, dryly professional, at least at first. Once they learned exactly what they were dealing with, many of them seemed as jumpy as Tom Markley. The mere act of filling them in did wonders for Kaylor, and he felt almost in control once more.

  People were starting to come out on the street at last, most in pairs, hurrying to the comforting-looking group of living men gathered in the square. Most people, however, stayed in their houses, closing the doors of rooms where the figures, glowing softer in the light of day, were stationed.

  Some were not frightened, but were touched in other ways by the reappearance of those dear to them. Joe Longsdorff sat all morning on the couch next to the apparition of his wife, Judy, who had died very quickly of leukemia three years before. Though her face was expressionless, her eyes were open, and her naked body still looked firm, youthful, appealing. As Joe told her what had happened in the years she was gone, he gradually put an arm around the space she occupied, and ultimately piled up pillows that he rested his head upon, positioned so that his cheek seemed to be lying on her breast.

  On Locust Street, Thorne and Evelyn Beech sat in their cold backyard under the willow tree, where the swing set had been thirty years before. "Can I get you anything?" Thorne said. "Coffee?"

  "Coffee would be nice."

  "You can't stay here forever, Evelyn," he said gently.

  "She has," the woman replied, never taking her eyes off the little girl who lay arms akimbo, neck cocked at an angle several degrees past awkward.

  Throughout the town grown men and women became children once more in the presence of their returned parents, and trembled at the impossibility of it all. They had gone to sleep alone and had awakened in the presence of their ancestors. Mothers saw sons returned from the battlefields, snatched from flaming accidents, just as they had been at the second when death had claimed them. Widows and widowers, most finally used to their lot, now found themselves married once again.

  In nearly every house with a living occupant, both radio and television were turned on. However, KMRA, Merridale's local radio station, was the only media source that as of 8:00 A.M. had mentioned what had occurred in the town. The morning DJ, Hal Drake, was playing his usual "Mellow Morning Music," but between each record he cut the commercials and instead said what Chief Kaylor had requested: "Okay, this is Hal Drake for the Drake Wake on KMRA Merridale, and if you're a Merridale resident and a bit upset by what's happening in the town, Police Chief Frank Kaylor has asked me to say that we should all stay cool, and that whatever this phenomenon is, it seems to be completely harmless. We got state police in here now, and other government agencies have been contacted, so go easy on the panic button, all right? Stay in your houses if you like, or go to work, or if you're really bugged and want to leave town and visit the folks for a bit, hey, feel free. But drive carefully, okay? And remember, there's nothing to worry about." Drake hoped to hell there wasn't—he didn't like the way the station's former owner was staring at him from where he hovered, gauntly thin, three feet above the tile floor. "Now let's get back to some music—Mr. Vic Damone singing 'Come Back to Me.'”

  Fifteen miles away the news m
anager for WLMA, Lansford's CBS affiliate, hooted in laughter and turned off the radio. " 'Come Back to Me!' Jesus H., what a choice."

  WLMA's morning news anchor grinned and puffed on a cigarette that sprinkled ash over his blue uniform blazer. "We go with it or not?"

  The news manager scratched his head. "It is so fucking wacky I can't believe it. But something's doing up there. You got the story?"

  "Right here." The anchor held up a typed sheet.

  "Okay, let's do this. Don't lead with it. Rhoda started up there twenty minutes ago and we ought to hear from her any second. We'll get the dope by the first commercial, guaranteed. Then we'll know."

  Twelve minutes into the show, Rhoda, called and verified the story in a trembling voice. The manager gave the anchor the high sign, and WLMA became the first TV station to report on what would become known as the Ghost Town. Before the half hour was up, the news manager had sent a two-man camera crew to join Rhoda in Merridale, and also called the CBS regional office, who said they would send their own crew as soon as possible.

  By noon, when the crew arrived, Merridale was in no mood to welcome them. The square was filled with people, and Kaylor had ordered detour signs put up directing traffic up Park, across Spruce, and down Lincoln to bypass it. The square had become the kraal of the town, the place of safety from which the natives would face the dangers of their particular jungle. Although it was a Friday, most of the husbands had remained home from work in order to be with their families, and now a good majority of those families occupied the several thousand square feet that were formed by the meeting of High and Market streets. At first glance it looked almost festive, as though a town fair or Oktoberfest were in progress. The sun was shining, and although the day had started off chilly, it had become quite warm for late October. People sat in clusters on lawn chairs, mothers and fathers with children on their laps. But there was no trace of festivity in the faces. They were solemn, concerned, filled with a dark fear. There had been over two dozen bodies visible in the square itself, but once people started gathering there early that morning, Henry Zeller and his son Buck set cardboard partitions around the grisly figures, concocting them from the refrigerator and washer/dryer boxes in the basement of their hardware and appliance store. There were still visible apparitions up and down the streets, but the square at least was secured as well as possible. Too, daylight weakened the effect of the things. The sun seemed friendly, and although it did not diminish the forms completely, it was enough for people to feel perplexity rather than sheer terror, as they had in the dark.

  So they sat and stood and crouched, heads together, some whispering, an occasional out-of-place laugh breaking the silence along with the cries of babies and the whining of children. Photographers took pictures, reporters scribbled on pads, a few looking nervously over their shoulders as if expecting the makeshift boxes to split apart or the hollow-eyed living people to suddenly erupt into madness. The CBS crew moved into the square warily for all their experience. They had seen the ethereal shapes on their way in, and so were prepared for the expressions on the faces of the townspeople. "They look like refugees," muttered a cameraman as they walked in front of Zeller's Hardware. "Look dead themselves." None of his colleagues disagreed.

  While one reporter talked to the mayor, another walked through the crowd, which looked at him sullenly, until he spotted a face with just the right combination of tension, fear, and aggression. "Sir?" he said. "Would you mind if we talked to you for a while and taped it?"

  The man was overweight, somewhat shabby, and in his early sixties. His crew-cut head was hatless, and a black-gray beard ran from ear to chin to ear without detouring for a moustache, as though it had been hurriedly painted on rather than grown. He gestured at the cameraman with a stubby finger. "We on TV now?"

  "Not yet. We'll tape it now, air it later. With your permission. "

  The man nodded gruffly. " 'S'okay."

  "Gimme a sound check."

  "What's your name, sir?" the reporter asked.

  "Uh . . . Fred Hibbs."

  "And do you live here in Merridale?"

  The man nodded.

  "All right, Mr. Hibbs, you can look at the camera if you like, or at me if that's more comfortable. Ready, Kevin? Okay." The reporter's casual air dropped away and his face grew stern and tight as the red eye of the camera winked on.

  "I'm talking with Mr. Fred Hibbs, a Merridale resident, just one of thousands who have been stunned by the overnight phenomenon that's taken place in this quiet Pennsylvania town. Mr. Hibbs, as we can see, the town square is just packed with people. Could you tell me why you're here right now?"

  Hibbs licked his lips almost guiltily, glancing up and down at the camera. "Don't wanta be alone is all."

  "You live alone, sir?"

  "Yeah. Got me a little house by myself."

  "What was your first reaction to this phenomenon, Mr. Hibbs?"

  Hibbs's head wagged and a crooked smile split his features. "I . . . uh . . . I was pretty scared. I mean, I, uh . . . I seen my momma and daddy." His voice bubbled, cracked a bit. "Just went into the kitchen, and I seen 'em sitting there at the table plain as day, lookin' just like they did the day they died. Only they's naked." Hibbs bit his lip. "I never seen 'em naked."

  "And what did you do then?"

  "I got out. I . . . I just ran out of the house. And I seen more of 'em outside. But then Chris Spickler come by in his pickup and seen me and told me to hop in, and I did real quick and we come up here to the square."

  "When was this?"

  " 'Bout ten or so."

  "I understand the . . . occurrences took place much earlier.”

  “Guess so. I'm a pretty sound sleeper."

  "Have you considered leaving Merridale?"

  Hibbs shrugged. "I got no place to go."

  "But would you like to?"

  "Yeah. Yes, sir, I would."

  "Do you have any thoughts as to what these things might be?"

  "You betcha I do." He paused, gathering strength. "Ghosts. That's what they are. It's that simple."

  The reporter nodded sagely. "Do you have any thoughts as to the motive behind their appearance?" Hibbs looked puzzled. "The reason they're here," the reporter clarified.

  " 'Cause we fucked up!"

  It wasn't Fred Hibbs that answered. When the reporter turned, he saw an elderly man with a crisply lined face. Hibbs, who had jumped at the words, now frowned, his face turning red with anger and embarrassment. The reporter slashed a finger across his throat, the camera's red light winked out, and Eddie Karl laughed in a high-pitched cackle.

  "Goddammit, Eddie," Hibbs said through gritted teeth. "We're on TV here!"

  "Whoop-de-shit." Eddie Karl turned to the reporter. "What are you talkin' to Loafer for? He don't know nothin'."

  “You mean Mr. Hibbs?" the reporter inquired with a sickly smile.

  "Mr. Hibbs, hell. Loafer's the name. 'Swhat everybody else calls him, right, Loafer?"

  "You old—"

  "Now, you want to know what this is all about, you just ask me."

  "You know?" the reporter asked.

  "Damn right. They just don't like what the hell's goin' on here. They think we're fulla shit, and this is their way of tellin' us."

  "Full of shit," the reporter repeated.

  "You heard it here first, buddy."

  The reporter ignored Eddie Karl, thanked Fred Hibbs, and moved away, closer to the tight group of men in the center of the square that seemed to form the command core. He stopped and listened to his colleague, who was still interviewing the mayor. "So you really have no idea of the cause?" The reporter was in her late twenties, tall, slim, attractive, her tailored wool suit in cosmopolitan counterpoint to Mayor Markley's somewhat garish double-knit blazer and wide polyester tie.

  "Well, no. No. It could be due to any number of things, and I'm certain there's some logical explanation. Certainly no need to panic or leave town."

  "But in 1980," the reporter reminde
d him, "a good many people left immediately after a minor incident at the Thorn Hill Nuclear Station, isn't that correct?"

  Markley grimaced. "Yes, that's right. But there was no danger then, no danger at all. And there's no danger now either."

  "Some people are already blaming the plant for the occurrence. Any comment on that?"

  The mayor's face soured again. "No, no, that remains to be proven. Of course, if it turns out to be true, we will certainly demand a reckoning."

  "As you did in 1980?"

  "Well, that's still tied up in litigation, but we expect . . ."

  ~*~

  Kim Bailey hurled an armful of clothes into her suitcase, a frown wrinkling her pretty face. She thought of Dave again, picking up his picture and laying it carefully between two pairs of jeans, cushioning the glass. Damn. Where was he anyway? She'd tried to call his house as soon as her father had dropped the bombshell that they were leaving Merridale, but Dave had not answered. She knew he wasn't at school—the whole district had been closed. But where then?

  Just as she was sitting on her suitcase to force it shut, the phone rang, and she leaped up like some giant jack-in-the-box, her clothes spilling out over the handmade quilt. She jerked the phone from the receiver before the first ring had been completed and said hello breathlessly.

  "Kim?"

  "Dave, I tried to call, but you weren't there."

  "My folks and I were in the square for a while. I've been trying to get you all morning, but the phones are all screwed up.”

  “Listen," Kim said, "we're leaving."

  "Leaving? Leaving Merridale?"

  "Daddy's freaked out. Nobody knows what's happening. We're going to Lansford, Mike Davison, a guy Daddy knows. We're staying at his place. They have two kids in college, so they've got the room."

  "How long?"

  "I don't know. Till somebody knows something or these things disappear. You seen them?"

  "Yeah. My grandma lived with us when she died. I was just a kid. Mom didn't want me to look, but I did. Just once though. I don't want to again."