Grogo the Goblin

by Sackett, Jeffrey

  Thank God I got wheels, Sean thought as he sped out of Beckskill. And then the jeep ran out of gas.

  "Help me, Jesus," he whispered as he jumped out of the jeep and began running up the road. He ran for half a mile, and then heard a car approaching him from behind. He turned to see Nancy O'Hara in Russell's Beetle barreling down the road from the other direction. Nancy pulled over to the side and unlocked the passenger door, and Sean hopped into the seat, closed the door, and locked it. "Thank God!" he said breathlessly.

  "Sean, what the hell is going on around here?" Nancy asked. "You won't believe the shit I've been seeing."

  "Yeah, tell me about it!" He laughed, trembling with fear and joyful relief. "Where are Russell and Peter?"

  "Back there a ways," Nancy replied as she pulled back onto the road and began to drive into Beckskill. "Russ was changing a flat and . . . I'm not bullshitting you, man, honest to God . . . and Grogo the Goblin attacked us!"

  "I believe it," Sean said. "Sarah Ostlich just chased Clay off into the woods, and that old asshole Alex just went off with a skeleton."

  "Sarah Ostlich!" Nancy exclaimed. "Lydia's sister? But she's . . . I mean, Sarah's dead!"

  "Yeah, right, I know," Sean replied. "That's the whole point, man! And whatever the hell it was Alex walked off with sure looked dead, too."

  "Holy shit," Nancy muttered.

  "Where're Pete and Russ?"

  "They ran off into the woods, with Deirdre and Artie. I got into the car and got the hell out of there."

  "Hey, real brave," Sean spat.

  "So what do you think you're doing, helping Clay?" she rejoined hotly. "If Clay's being chased by some dead chick, what the fuck are you doing here?"

  "Yeah, yeah, all right, all right," he said, urgency in his voice. "Let's just get the hell out of here."

  "Shouldn't we go back to the trailer?" Nancy asked. "I mean, we have wheels, you know? What if Clay and Becky need help?"

  Sean pictured Rebecca lying wounded and helpless on the floor of the trailer and remembered Clayton dashing o$' into the woods. "They're okay, I know they are. Becky managed to get into her car and get away, and Clay probably got to the police station already."

  Nancy was skeptical. "You sure?"

  "Yeah, I'm sure, I'm sure, okay?" He glanced at her angrily. "Besides, why are you so worried about Clay and Becky? What about Russ and Pete? What if Artie and Deirdre need help?" She had no answer to this, so he went on, "Now turn the car around and let's get the hell away from here!"

  Nancy hesitated for a moment, and then she slowed down and made a U-turn in the middle of Route 42. She drove back in the direction from whence she had come, muttering, "This has been the most fucked-up weekend I've ever had in my whole life, so help me."

  "Nuts." Sean nodded. "Absolutely nuts."

  "And I thought nothing could ever be worse than Woodstock. Sitting in piss-soaked mud for two days, trying to ignore all the assholes bumming out on lousy acid. . . ."

  Sean had heard Nancy's litany of complaints about the Woodstock weekend before, and he ignored her. They drove for a few miles, turned on to Bennets Road, and then Nancy slowed the car again. She pulled over onto the shoulder and gazed out the window to his right. "What are you stopping for?" Sean asked.

  She indicated a direction with a nod of her head. "Look at that. Jesus, this is crazy!"

  Sean looked at the entrance to the Beckskill Rural Cemetery, and he swallowed hard. It seemed that each and every grave had been dug up and emptied, and large mounds of earth skirted long rectangular holes capped by upthrust markers and toppled tombstones.

  They were still looking out at the desecrated graveyard when Sean saw movement on the road up ahead. He turned to see the thing that had once been Paula Riasanovsky shuffling toward them, the weeping Alex Brown still in its arms as he stumbled along beside her. Sean frantically checked the lock button on the door, but there was no need for fear, for the reunited couple walked past the car and into the cemetery, completely ignoring Sean and Nancy.

  "Sean . . . isn't that . . . that's the old bartender, isn't it?"

  "Yeah," he whispered. "And I think . . . I mean, like from the way he acted, I think that thing was his wife."

  Nancy started to respond to this, but she seemed unable to think of anything to say. They watched as the gray, dusty skeleton led Alex forward into the midst of the cemetery and then down into one of the gaping holes. Their heads disappeared behind a mound of earth, and then two skeletal hands reached up and began pulling the earth down upon them both. A moment later one trembling human hand reached up also and joined its fleshless companions in their labor. Sean and Nancy watched with morbid fascination as the mound grew lower and lower, until at last the grave was filled. The earth shifted slightly as it settled, and then it was still.

  They looked at each other and shook their heads simultaneously with disbelief. Then Nancy drove back onto the road and sped farther away from Beckskill.

  They had gone four miles when Nancy slowed the car again and asked, "Is that Peter down there?"

  "Down where?"

  "There, in that ravine," she said, pointing off beyond the edge of the road.

  As Nancy pulled the car to a stop Sean was able to see Peter Geerson standing about four hundred yards away from the road, back in the woods near what looked to be a dried-up stream bed. "Yeah, it's Pete. I think I see Artie, too. I don't think they see us. Honk the horn, Nancy."

  "Horn?" She laughed glumly. "What horn? This is Russell's car. Nothing works on this fucking thing." She paused. "Look, we gotta get everybody in the car and then like lose this town, you know? You go get them. I'll wait here."

  "I ain't getting out of this car!"

  "Damn it, Sean, just go get them, okay? Somebody's gotta stay with the car."

  Sean knew that concern for the car had nothing to do with it. "Okay, so you go get 'em and I'll stay with the car."

  Nancy sighed with exasperation. "Look, neither of us wants to be alone, right? So let's both go get them."

  "What about the car?"

  She switched off the engine and pulled the key from the ignition. "Okay? Nobody's gonna steal the car, okay?"

  "Okay," he agreed glumly as he stepped out onto the road, "but keep the key handy, just in case."

  They began walking from the shoulder of the road down into the woods toward the ravine, and they saw Russell and Deirdre join Peter and Artie below. All four were shouting at them, their hands cupped around their mouths, but Sean could not make out their words. "What are they saying?"

  "I don't know," Nancy replied.

  They drew closer as the others kept shouting urgently, and Sean was able at last to understand what they were crying out to him.

  "Sean, that isn't Nancy. THAT ISN'T NANCY!"

  Sean heard laughter beside him, and he turned to see the dagger teeth bursting from Nancy O'Hara's mouth. "Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain," chuckled Grogo the Goblin. And then he attacked.

  From the nearby ravine Peter, Russell, and Deirdre watched a replay of the same sickening spectacle they had seen a few hours earlier. They had fled into the woods as Grogo rushed at them, but Nancy had slipped on an ice patch and then had fallen victim to the demon's fangs. They had watched as Grogo burrowed into the back of her head, as the shapechanger's body melted and twisted and shifted into the form of Nancy O'Hara. The creature had donned Nancy's clothes and then had run back to the car and had sped off, laughing maniacally.

  And now it was happening again. Sean tried to scream, but his brain was sucked out and swallowed so quickly that his open mouth was silent as the life fled from his eyes and he fell shuddering to the ground at the feet of Grogo, whose body had taken upon itself a form identical to his own.

  The Brenner-thing laughed as he began to run toward the others. "Hey, you guys," he called out. "Wait for me!"

  They began again to run into the woods and the Brenner-thing chased them, relishing the hunt and amused by the attempt of the
living to escape death. Who shall be first? he mused as he pursued them. Whose shape shall I take next, before I become Vernon Sweet again, as I have decreed I always shall? Peter might like to become one with the elemental forces, I would think. But surely Russell will bravely sacrifice himself for the greater good. Ah, but Deirdre's flesh would be so sweet, so sweet. . . .

  " . . .MUJEY SUNO BHAGAWAN VISHNU . . ."

  The Brenner-thing stopped abruptly in his tracks as he heard frighteningly familiar words echoing from a distance, echoing not in his ears, but in his mind.

  "MEYRIY MUHDUHD KUHRO, BHAGAWAN VISHNU . . ." He looked around him wildly as if searching the air for the source of the voice that was intoning the hated supplication. "No!" he cried. "No, you must not, you must not!"

  ". . .MEYREY SAREY ACHEY KURUM, MEY APHEY UPIYOG . . ."

  He forgot his quarry and ran back to the car, jumped in, started the engine, and began to drive wildly back to Beckskill. With each passing moment he felt his power ebbing and his consciousness disintergrating as the hated words reverberated and enveloped him.

  ". . . IS JAN WUR KO NIRBUL BUNA KUR ISKIY . . ."

  Just as he reached the outskirts of town, he lost control over his shape and dwindled down into the form and mind of Vernon Sweet, who had, of course, never learned to drive a car. He crashed into a pickup truck that was parked against the curb and was thrown forward through the window of the Beetle. He fell onto the ground amid a shower of broken glass, but he was not injured, for death is invulnerable; but he felt rage and hatred even though he was already forgetting its cause.

  ". . . SUB JIYVIT PRANYO KIY OR SEY MEY THUMBARIY RUKSHA KEY LIYEY VINTHIY KURTHI HU. . ."

  Hear me, Lord Vishnu.

  Help me, Lord Vishnu.

  All my good karma I surrender to you for your use.

  Weaken the beast and blind his inner eye. . . .

  On behalf of all living things, I beg you to preserve. . . .

  . . . preserve . . .

  . . . preserve. . . .

  The echoing words drew him to the Ostlich home, and he ran madly down the street. Everywhere were corpses and skeletons and piles of bone and dust that had been robbed of their unnatural animation and now lay dead and motionless upon the ice and the pavement and the snow. The last slender thread of his unearthly self-awareness snapped as he ran on and then trotted and then walked with nervous confusion until he reached the front door and knocked on it tentatively.

  The door opened, and Dorcas smiled down at him. "Hello, Vernon," she said kindly.

  "Dor Dor!" he chirped, smiling happily. "Hi hi hi. Hello!"

  Chapter Nineteen

  January 12, 1969 (continued)

  The human nervous system is designed to be able to absorb just so much before it reaches overload, and Lydia Ostlich had passed that point hours before. During a very brief period of time she had seen her dead mother murder her father, listened to her marginally unbalanced sister explain how it all certainly made sense to her, tried to understand how some gibberish scrawled on a paper napkin was part of a divine plan, and sat watching in silence as her sister lighted a candle, sat down cross-legged in front of it, and began to chant in a language neither of them could understand.

  Lydia was numb, she was short-circuited, burned out. Her ears had ceased to be conduits to her mind. They were impenetrable barriers, blocking out the tapping on the front door. Her eyes were blank as they followed Dorcas to the door, and no sharp intake of breath expressed any shock or surprise as Grogo the Goblin walked into the living room of the Ostlich house. I thought they killed him, she mused. They probably did. He's probably dead, just like Mom. But she dropped in for a visit, so why shouldn't old Grogo? Open house at the Ostlichs'. Come on in, and leave your coffins at the door. She giggled softly, but neither Dorcas nor Grogo paid her any attention.

  "Sit down, Vernon," Dorcas was saying gently as she led him to the sofa. "I have to talk to you about something very important, okay?"

  "Sit!" Grogo exclaimed, hopping up onto the cush-ions.

  "That's good, Vernon." She smiled. "Now I'm going to ask you some questions, and I want you to try to answer them. Okay?"

  He nodded. "Vernon do."

  "Good, Vernon, good." She paused and took a deep breath before asking, "Do you know who you are?"

  The little man seemed confused by the question. "Vernon!" he answered simply.

  "Yes, that's your name," she said. "But do you know anything else about yourself? Do you have any other names? Have you ever been called anything else?"

  He thought hard, and then smiled. "Vernon Sweet!"

  "Yes, yes, I know. But do you have any other names?"

  He thought again. "Grogo the Goblin?"

  She nodded, staring at him. "Vernon, do you understand what happened in town today?"

  Vernon's simple mind had never mastered the art of concealing thoughts or emotions behind carefully con-trolled facial expressions, and the intensity of his strug-gle to think and reason and remember was drawn clearly upon his pursed lips, his broad, furrowed brow, and his twitching fingers. "Car," he said.

  "A car? What about a car?"

  He thought harder. "Vernon in car. Bad car."

  Dorcas was not certain what he was referring to, but whatever it was, it seemed unrelated to the topic of her question. "What about the people, Vernon? Didn't you see the people on the streets? Sick people, funny people?" She paused. "Dead people?"

  "People," he whispered softly, trying to remember. He shook his huge head. "Car," he insisted. "Bad car."

  She nodded. I've done it, she thought. He doesn't remember. He doesn't know. It worked. The prayer worked. "Never mind, Vernon. It isn't important. May I ask you some more questions?"

  "Dor Dor!" He grinned.

  She took that as an affirmative response. "Vernon, do you ever get hungry or thirsty?"

  "No," he replied.

  "Do you get cold in the winter, or hot in the summer?"

  "No."

  She nodded again. "Do you remember what happened the day you and Rinda were hurt by . . . by the mean faces?"

  He sighed. "Vernon 'member."

  "Can you tell me what happened?"

  "Mean faces come," he replied. "Rope, rope, tight tight tight. Vernon sleep, wake up all brightness."

  She considered his words for a moment, trying to make sense of them. "Did the rope make you go to sleep, Vernon?"

  "Sleep!"

  "Yes, but did you go to sleep all by yourself, or did the rope make you go to sleep?"

  "Sleep!" he repeated, petulantly.

  She paused. "Do you sleep at night, Vernon? Do you go to bed, and go to sleep at night?"

  "No."

  "You don't go to sleep at night?"

  "No."

  "So the rope made you go to sleep that day?"

  "No."

  No, she mused. He doesn't sleep. Of course he doesn't. He isn't human. So what did he do? Why did he seem dead to the lynch mob? She thought for a moment, and then a possibility occurred to her. "Vernon, did Rinda ever teach you to meditate?"

  "Med . . . ?" He could not even say the word.

  "Meditate," she repeated. "Sit very still and quiet and get rid of all your thoughts."

  "Good-sit!" he exclaimed, suddenly understanding her. "Vernon good-sit!" Then he made the connection. "Vernon good-sit tight rope tree. Vernon good-sit tight rope tree."

  She understood his oddly phrased explanation immediately. That explains it, she thought. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was rage, maybe it was confusion; but for some reason, he put himself into a trance while they were trying to hang him. A ploy, maybe? Or an instinct? Or. . .

  "Vernon, why did Rinda teach you to good-sit?"

  "Rinda say good-sit always."

  "Yes, it's always good to med . . ." She paused. "What do you mean good-sit always?"

  "Rinda say good-sit always."

  "Did Rinda ever say he might . . . go away, Vernon?"

  The little man started t
o cry. "Rinda go 'way," he wept.

  "Listen, Vernon," she said, squeezing his hand, "this is important. Did Rinda ever say he might go away someday?"

  "When Lord want." He sighed. "Rinda say Lord call, Rinda go, Vernon good-sit always."

  It all seemed to make sense now. The old yogi knew he was approaching the end of his life, Dorcas reasoned. He had been creating a . . . what was the phrase he used that night in the cave? . . . a psychic link, that was it . . . he had been expanding some sort of mental control over the creature for decades. When Ashvarinda died, Vernon was to have followed some sort of conditioning, some sort of training. He was supposed to sink into a meditative trance and never emerge from it. Vernon good-sit always. Forever. For eternity.

  But Ashvarinda didn't have enough time. Thanks to Clayton and Alex and everybody else, he didn't have enough time. All he could do was teach me the prayer, and try to explain things to me, and hope that I believed him.

  "I believe you, Mr. Patanjali," she said softly. Then she looked back to Vernon. "Let's take a walk together, okay, Vernon?" she asked, rising to her feet and leading him to the door. He went with her willingly, and together they began walking toward the River Road.

  She had not spoken to Lydia at all since she had begun praying, and now she departed without giving her sister so much as a glance. Lydia watched her leave, and then released the breath she felt she had been holding in for the past hour. A thought had been rambling around in her mind ever since the previous evening, and the events of the day had given the thought form and substance and had then transformed it into determination. I can't trust Clay . . . I couldn't even look at him again, I don't think . . . my parents are dead, one sister is dead, and the other one just eloped with a goblin.

  Nothing's holding me here anymore, and I'm getting the hell out.

  Lydia walked over to her father's body and went through his pockets and his wallet, and then went upstairs and began to go through his bureau drawers. All together she found just over four hundred dollars and some jewelry. She took that, his car keys and registration, and then got into his car and drove out of Beckskill, toward the thruway, toward New York City.