The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  It's just a deer.

  “Thank God,” I stammer. “You scared me there.”

  If it had been a person, if a real live human being had fallen into the old pool and had ended up getting eaten by the zombie, I would never have been able to forgive myself. I'd have had to deal with the knowledge that I'd allowed this creature to stay here undetected. Even now, as I see that the deer is still partially alive as its neck is eaten away, I feel a pang of guilt.

  “Hey,” I whisper, just as the deer lets out a faint groan. “Sorry about this.”

  As if it hadn't noticed me until just now, the zombie suddenly looks this way. For the first time, I see fresh, glistening blood all around its mouth. Frankly, this is not the prettiest sight in the entire world.

  “Well you look happy,” I say, forcing a sad, deflated smile. “I guess maybe this extra meal might keep you going for a day or two longer, huh?”

  At that moment, the deer suddenly finds enough strength to kick the zombie hard. As the creature falls back, the deer stumbles to its feet and tries to drag itself away, although its rear legs are clearly broken and there's blood pouring from a thick wound on the side of its neck. I really want to find some way to put it out of its misery, and I can't help wincing as I see the smeared blood trail that the poor thing leaves as it lets out a series of agonized cries.

  The zombie quickly stumbles after it, falling against its flank and biting hard.

  The deer cries out again, while kicking furiously but without any success. There's no way it's going to escape, and I can only hope it dies quickly. I wish I had a gun or something I could use to shoot it and end its suffering, but all I can do is watch as the zombie tears strips of flesh away from the deer's side.

  It takes about ten more minutes, but finally the deer falls still.

  Now the only sound is a series of rips and slurps as the zombie continues to feed, accompanied by the occasional crack of another rib.

  “You're really gross,” I say finally. “You know that, right? You're disgusting.”

  Ignoring me, the zombie tears more flesh away.

  “You realize you're probably one of the last of your kind, don't you?” I continue, feeling like I want to hurt the zombie. I doubt it has any real awareness of me, and I'd be shocked if it understood language, but I still want to make it suffer the way it made that deer suffer. “They're mopping the last ones up at the moment. I know there was a time when you were all roaming the cities, killing anyone you came across, but those are over. Your species lasted about five months before humans struck back and wiped you all out. How do you feel about that, huh?”

  Nothing, apparently.

  The goddamn thing didn't seem to notice a word that I just said. Instead, its attention is focused entirely on stripping as much meat as possible from the deer. There are some people who have suggested that zombies have some form of conscious mind. Hell, there are even groups that have advocated for zombie rights, claiming that it's wrong for them to be wiped out. But as I stare down at this creature right now, all I see is an un-dead monster that cares only about killing and eating everything in its path.

  A shudder passes through my chest.

  “You're disgusting,” I whisper. “You should be burned.”

  Four

  Dad has gasoline. Lots of it. So much, in fact, that I know he won't miss a can.

  I don't turn the light on when I go into the shed. After all, the last thing I want is to draw attention to myself. So I fumble in the dark, and it takes quite a while until I feel a sticky old can on one of the shelves. Taking it down, I tilt it toward the light, and sure enough I see the word 'gasoline' written in Dad's blocky, childish handwriting.

  “Is someone in there?” a voice calls out suddenly. “Show yourself!”

  Looking toward the open door, I realize that Dad must have heard me searching. I step back, behind a set of shelves, and a moment later he appears in the doorway with his shotgun raised.

  “This is your last warning!” he says firmly. “I'm a shoot first, ask questions later kinda guy.”

  He hesitates, before stepping into the shed. Staying completely still, I watch as he edges closer, and then he turns and heads out again while muttering something under his breath. I'm lucky that he's been drinking, and that he didn't decide to turn the place upside down. Still holding the can of gasoline, I wait as he slams the door shut, and then I hear him slipping the padlock back in place.

  I'll stay in the dark for a little while longer before I head out, just in case he's not gone yet. Fortunately, that dumb, rusty old padlock won't be a problem.

  ***

  The goddamn stupid zombie just stares up at me as I dribble gasoline down onto its face. I don't think it even blinks once. It just stares up at me with its eyes wide open and its jaw hanging almost completely off.

  Hell, these things might be freaky, but they're dumb as a bag of nuts.

  “Did you enjoy your last meal?” I ask, glancing at the nearby deer carcass, which has been stripped of almost all its meat. Already, the remains are drying out in the midday sun.

  The zombie lets out a gurgled cry.

  “You should be thanking me,” I continue. “If someone else found you, they might haul your ass off to one of the research centers. They might even try to take you alive, for their experiments. I don't know if you can feel pain, but they'd cut you open and poke about in your guts. From what I hear, it's like zombie hell. At least this way, you're going out in a blaze of glory.”

  The last of the gasoline runs out, and I toss the can down. It hits the zombie's head and bounces off.

  “Or a blaze, at least,” I add, taking a box of matches from my pocket and striking one. I can already smell the gasoline, even from up here.

  For a moment, I stare at the flame. When it runs down, I throw it aside rather than letting it fall into the empty swimming pool.

  “The next one's for you,” I whisper. “For real.”

  The zombie groans again, and for a moment I actually think that it might be trying to say something.

  “What's that?” I ask, cupping a hand against my ear. “Are you trying to get something off your chest? Got some famous last words? Some sins to confess? How many brains did you eat, anyway? Were you a good zombie, or were you a bit rubbish?”

  It lets out another groan, this time one that lasts a little longer. Maybe I'm going crazy, but I'm seriously tempted to think that it's trying to get some words out. Every report I've ever heard on the radio says that zombies have no ability to use language, but this dumb thing is wheezing and groaning as if it's trying desperately to tell me something.

  “You're gonna have to do better than that,” I tell it. “You're just -”

  Suddenly there's a snapping sound, and the zombie slumps down. To my surprise, I see that its damaged leg has finally broken away. The creature tries to get up, as if it doesn't understand what has happened, and it groans again as it reaches its hands up helplessly.

  “God, you're pathetic,” I mutter.

  It cries out again.

  “Sorry, but it's true,” I continue. “I can't believe how scared we all used to be. Earlier in the year, we used to scream and run whenever we saw one of your lot. There was a time when it seemed like human civilization was coming to an end. You were all pretty terrifying.”

  I pause, thinking back to all the times we had to run from zombies, and all the times we had to shoot them. There were so many moments when I thought we had no hope, when I was ready to give up. I honestly thought the entire human race was going down the pan. Fortunately, Dad had guns and a metric shitload of ammunition, which gave us a much better chance than any other family in the neighborhood. Better, but not perfect.

  “One time,” I whisper, “in the forest...”

  My voice trails off as I remember old Mrs. Cole clutching at my chest, trying to bite me. The first time I ever saw a zombie, I was revolted by the sight and smell. After a few months, I was just terrified that one of them mig
ht get hold of me, and that I'd end up becoming one of them.

  “And now look at you,” I add finally, forcing a smile as the zombie continues to reach up toward me. “You can't even stand.”

  I watch for a moment, and I swear this thing doesn't even seem to understand that its leg has come away. It keeps trying to get up, only to fall down, but it's not deterred. Instead, it tries over and over again, and its rasping cries are starting to sound increasingly desperate. It doesn't understand that it's covered in gasoline, either, or that I can drop a match at any moment and end its existence.

  Well, that's the theory, anyway.

  We learned a long time ago that burning them can be quite effective, so long as the flames eat through the spinal cord around the lower neck area. Something like that, anyway.

  “When you're gone,” I continue finally, “I think I...”

  Again, my voice trails off. I stare down at the zombie for a moment longer, before suddenly getting to my feet.

  “I have to do something first,” I tell it. “Sorry to keep you on tenterhooks. I should have realized before, but now I have to...”

  I hesitate, before turning and hurrying away from the edge of the pool. I don't know how I could have been so dumb, but suddenly I've realized that there's something I have to do at home before I set fire to the zombie.

  Five

  “Someone took a can of gasoline from the shed,” Dad mutters grumpily, as he continues to clean his gun. “I didn't see them, but I'm missing one can. Thieving scum.”

  “We'll get 'em next time,” Scott says as he turns and heads out of the room. “We'll stick their goddamn head on a spike.”

  Once Scott has gone, I make my way over to the table and watch for a moment as Dad works on his gun. This is all he does lately, day in and day out. I mean, I guess guns do need cleaning, but I figure he's going a little overboard. Then again, I can see pain in his eyes, and I think this might just be his way of calming his thoughts.

  “I think I'm going somewhere,” I tell him finally. “I don't know if I'll be back any time soon. Or at all.”

  He mumbles something under his breath as he turns the gun around and starts wiping the barrel.

  “I just came back,” I continue, “because...”

  My voice trails off.

  Why did I come back?

  “I guess I wanted to say goodbye,” I tell him, trying to smile but not quite managing. I can feel tears in my eyes, which is a surprise. I thought I couldn't cry anymore. “I know you probably can't hear me,” I continue, “and I guess there's not much I can do to change that. It's been a while, huh? When Mom died, everything just went to hell, and then Mrs. Cole...”

  A shudder passes through my chest.

  In my mind's eye, I see Mrs. Cole lunging at me again. That was not a good day.

  “This was a dumb idea,” I add, sniffing back more tears. “I guess I thought I'd come up with something profound, but I should've known better, huh? I mean, when have I ever said anything profound in my life? We're not exactly a profound family.”

  I hesitate, before stepping around the table and leaning close to the top of Dad's balding head.

  “I'm sorry for what happened,” I continue, kissing him in the hope that he might sense my presence. “I'll see you again some day. But not soon, I hope. You'd better last a long, long time in this post-apocalyptic world, okay? You and Scott. I want you to help put the world back together. I want you to help show that those zombie assholes didn't beat us. The human race goes on.”

  I wait, just in case he might look up at me, but he's too focused on his gun.

  “Bye, Dad,” I add finally, before turning and heading out of the room. I desperately want to look back at him one more time, and maybe to find a way to get through to him, but I've tried so many times already. I love him so much, and I'm so proud of him for surviving. He's a good man.

  Passing Scott's room, I see him sitting on the end of his bed, flipping through a book.

  “Seeya later, asshole,” I tell him, not even stopping as I leave the house.

  ***

  Jumping down from the last rung of the metal ladder, I finally get down to the bottom of the empty swimming pool. As soon as I turn and look over my shoulder, I see that the zombie is already crawling this way.

  Dumb, stupid monster.

  “Hey, bozo,” I say with a faint smile, as I reach into my pocket and take out the box of matches. “I thought I'd come down to your level for this.”

  Still covered in gasoline, the zombie seems to be moving a little faster now, as if hunger is driving it to keep going. It's dragging its one remaining leg as it comes closer, but I'm faintly impressed to see that it seems to have learned how to move despite its injuries.

  There are still some scraps of black fabric hanging from its bones, and I can just about make out a Ramones logo on the t-shirt it was wearing when it died.

  “That was my favorite shirt,” I say through gritted teeth, trying once again to hold back tears. “I've gotta say, you don't seem to have taken very good care of it.”

  The creature lets out another groan.

  God, it looks so hungry.

  “You didn't look after those jeans very well, either,” I point out, seeing the scraps of denim around its waist. “Those were a Christmas gift, asshole. They were my favorite. I can't believe I was wearing them when Mrs. Cole got me. I mean, what are the odds, right? I was almost caught by zombies so many times and I managed to escape, and then that old bag came out of nowhere and bit down on my neck, and that was that.”

  The zombie reaches me and tries to grab my leg, but of course its rotten hand goes straight through me.

  “Still, you've lost some weight,” I add with a faint, sad smile. “At least there's that.”

  I look down as the zombie tries to bite my legs, and it seems utterly confused as its teeth simply pass straight through me. It's almost as if this goddamn thing has never seen a ghost before.

  Taking a deep breath, I light a match.

  This is the one.

  I'm not going to chicken out this time.

  “I think I'll disappear once you're all burned up,” I tell the zombie. “That's what I'm assuming, anyway. Once my body's gone, my ghost'll just fade away and go to... Well, wherever I'm supposed to end up. Maybe there's nothing, maybe I'll just blink out of existence, but I'm betting there's something else. I used to be this total nihilist, but if you ask me, life is full of surprises. And when it's over, I reckon there's at least one more big surprise waiting for us.”

  The zombie raises its face and hisses at me. I stare for a moment, mesmerized by the sight of my own rotten features. To be fair, I made a pretty horrific zombie, like something that'd even have been too gross for The Walking Dead. And part of my skull looks to have come away. I can actually see my brain.

  “Way cool,” I whisper, and now I smile a genuine smile, even though tears are running down my cheeks. “I made such a cool zombie. Just answer me one thing. Do you recognize me? Deep down, do you understand who I am?”

  The zombie lets out another dry, hungry gurgle.

  “That's what I figured,” I mutter.

  With that, I drop the match and the creature immediately bursts into flames. It starts screaming, which is kind of disconcerting seeing as it's my voice that's crying out, and I can't help staring into the inferno and seeing my own face as it burns. I'm standing right over the zombie, of course, so the flames are rushing all through and around me, but I don't feel the heat.

  I don't really feel much of anything.

  Just sadness, that Dad and Scott are going to be all alone.

  I hope they'll be fine. It's not like they've got any choice. And to be fair, they kept me and Mom safe almost until the end, until Mom was caught by a pack of zombies near the mall and then Mrs. Cole got me just outside the house. That was the lousiest, suckiest day ever.

  The flames are getting brighter.

  I close my eyes.

  I can't op
en them again. I was right. I am going somewhere.

  My Father's House

  One

  If someone was in the empty house now, standing at one of the windows and watching me approach, what would they think?

  Probably that I was crazy to drive out here today, that I should have waited until the snowstorm passed. That I should have listened to everyone who told me to sell the place. That I had all summer and all fall to come and visit, so why did I wait until the worst of the winter weather had set in? That I'm doing this for all the wrong reasons, and that – as my delightful brother insisted – the house is too much work for me. That I have no business coming out here in the dead of winter and trying to...

  Trying to what, anyway?

  “You still haven't explained why you're going all the way up there,” Dougie pointed out at dinner the other night, when I went to collect the keys. “The place has been shuttered for almost a year. What are you actually going to do there?”

  “I'm going to fix it up,” I told him.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I'm going to see what work needs doing. You know Dad was the kind of guy who papered over the cracks rather than getting to the root of a problem. God knows what's wrong with that house.”

  “So we'll hire a guy.”

  “I know a guy,” his wife Valerie added. “He's good. He'd be quite cheap, too. I'm sure he wouldn't charge too much to get the house into a state where it can be sold.”

  “I want to go and do it myself,” I told them, aware that I sounded stubborn but unable to really explain myself properly. “It's what Dad would've wanted.”

  “Bullshit,” Dougie muttered. “Dad wouldn't give a damn.”

  “I just want to see if the place is okay,” I continued. “I want to air it out a little.”

  “You keep saying that, Paula, but why?”