Gilchrist

by Christian Galacar

  Dave continued shouting and flopping as if possessed: “Kill it. Kill the fuckin thing.”

  Corbin looked down at Billy’s mangled face staring up at him, thought about what a waste of a life it was, and lost any sort of patience he had left. “Kill what, Dave? What’re you tryin to do here? Billy’s dead, so let’s go… now. I’ll put one in you if you make me, and I won’t lose a wink of sleep about it.”

  “Shoot it, asshole, what’re you waiting for? Shoot it, shoot it.” Dave flailed around on the ground.

  The whole thing looked rather ridiculous, Corbin thought. For a man who had just murdered someone in the name of pride, he sure was acting like a desperate fool.

  Dave shook hard, his legs spreading and stiffening, toes pointing up toward his head, then down away from him as if he were about to pencil dive. “Gawww! Stop! Nooo! Goddammit, no!”

  He lunged his head up, brought the inside of his wrist to his mouth, and bit a chunk out with his teeth. Blood jetted from the wound and covered his face. He’d hit an artery.

  “Get it off, get it off, get it off!” He howled in pain, his mouth a rabid maw, bits of flesh stuck in his teeth, blood turning his lips to a clown’s lips.

  Corbin stopped cold. This was something out of a nightmare—too bizarre to be real.

  “Help me, Corbin. Help me,” Dave pleaded. “God, please.” His body jolted as if a surge of electricity had ripped through him. He grunted and snorted. “Guurgh! Gawww. Breff.” He took a bite out of his other wrist, pulling a mouthful of tendons and veins with it. Then he was waving his hands around wildly in front of his face as if defending himself, spraying blood everywhere like a garden sprinkler.

  He continued to scream, but they became muffled screams: he was chewing and swallowing, chin covered in spit and dark blood.

  “Mother of God.” Corbin made the sign of the cross and thought of that ugly thing he had glimpsed standing in the street behind Dave. It didn’t make sense, but he knew it was somehow responsible for all this. And it wasn’t finished.

  Dave sat bolt upright, chest heaving, eyes bulging. He was drenched in his own blood. He turned his head to Corbin, his mouth dropping open. He let out a guttural cry.

  Then there was a sickening crunching sound, like snapping celery, as Dave’s jaw unhinged and opened impossibly wide, his skin stretching until it looked as though it would tear. He lifted an arm, made a loose fist, and pounded it into his mouth. His head jerked back as he stuffed his arm down his throat halfway to the elbow and started gnawing on it like a dog on a bone.

  There was a single gunshot, a punctuation mark to end the horror, and Dave Blatten’s forehead exploded. He slumped over sideways and was still.

  Corbin wheeled around, his left ear ringing. The barrel of Ray’s gun was smoking, and Ray’s eyes were bulging. He was half-crouched in a firing stance and appeared to be in shock. The crotch of his pants was dark, and the stain was spreading down his leg.

  “He was reaching for the pistol,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I swear… I swear to God he was, Chief.”

  Corbin turned back around without saying a word. He hated to admit it, but he didn’t care whether Dave had been reaching for his gun or not. He was only grateful the whole thing was over.

  The scene looked surreal. It was eerily quiet. The only sound was the whir of the car radiator in Dave’s police cruiser. Immie Davenport had fainted and was sprawled out on the sidewalk among her bags. The two boys on their bikes had gone, leaving a pink puddle of milkshake where they had been. People were starting to gather at street corners. Crowds were forming.

  What in God’s name is happening in this town? he thought.

  The afternoon had started to grow dark to the west, and the wind began to change as storms rolled in.

  Chapter Ten

  DYNAMITE MEATLOAF

  1

  Peter was leaning forward and squinting. The windshield wipers were doing their back-and-forth dance but having a hard time keeping up. A storm front had rolled in earlier that afternoon, and the rain had kept on going right into the evening. He liked everything about this sort of weather—the wind, the rain, the thunder, the lightning, the premature darkness. It was cozy, he thought, so long as you weren’t stuck outside in it without a place to go.

  “Should we bring something?” Sylvia asked. “We could pick up a dessert. I hate showing up empty-handed.”

  When they came to the intersection where Linebrook Road met Main Street, Peter hesitated at the stop sign and looked at his wife. Neither of them had been dressed so casually for a dinner in almost ten years. It felt nice.

  “I saw a bakery downtown when we came through. We can go check it out. We have time.” He checked his watch. Laura Dooley had invited them for dinner at six—it was only five thirty. “I think there was a drugstore next to it, and I wanted to grab a few things anyway.”

  He turned the car right, toward downtown Gilchrist, and found a place to park.

  While Sylvia was next door, picking out a cake from Joyce’s Bakery, Peter perused the aisles of Quints Pharmacy. He found a package of red felt-tip pens. They weren’t Flairs, but they would do the job, just the same. He grabbed a bottle of aspirin, a couple extra toothbrushes, and a Johnson & Johnson first-aid kit.

  On his way to the cash register, he spotted a metal-wire paperback rack. He glanced out the large display window of the drugstore. Outside, cars sloshed through the street. Thick thunder grumbled. Lightning snapped. People ran up the sidewalk, covering their heads with coats, while the more prepared carried umbrellas. He had his own writing to focus on, but if there was ever a night to dig into a novel, this was it. And he hadn’t been particularly interested in any of the books at Shady Cove.

  The top shelf of the drugstore rack was all Agatha Christie novels: The Burden; Ordeal by Innocence; Cat Among the Pigeons; The Pale Horse; And Then There Were None, which was often considered her masterpiece. Peter had read some Agatha Christie when he was younger and had enjoyed her books a great deal. They were fun stories, plain and simple. Good plot twists. Well-developed characters. Page-turning suspense. It was only in his college years that he had shifted away from books of that sort and moved more toward highbrow literary works. In the circles he wanted to be a part of, they read highbrow fiction like Salinger, Faulkner, F. Scott, and Hemingway. Somewhere along the way, he had gotten the idea that in order to be taken seriously, he had to read about and discuss serious things. And he had allowed the very same principle to affect—sometimes he thought infect would be a better word—his views on writing. But in the back of his mind, he had always felt that looking down upon any type of fiction was a rather silly idea. Yet he had done it anyway. The truth was, he never thought there was anything wrong at all with writing mystery, horror, or science fiction. So far as he was concerned, if the reader was entertained, the responsibility of the writer had been fulfilled. He had started writing in high school with that very outlook, but as they often do, priorities changed. Not that there was anything wrong with that, either. It was just a fact of life.

  The middle shelf was a mix of Ian Fleming, Ray Bradbury, and Philip K. Dick. But on the bottom shelf, there was only one novel. It took up every slot in the row. Declan Wade: Jackson Hill.

  Peter’s chest fluttered. He remembered seeing the title on the notes he had found in the drawer. He picked up a copy and studied the cover. It was a brooding but simple design—black and red with the title written in large silver gothic letters. Below that, a small blurb read: “From the author of Devil Incarnate comes a frightening new novel of horror and suspense.” Across the lower half of the cover was a white silhouette of trees against black.

  He turned the book over and saw the author’s picture in black and white in the bottom corner. Declan was leaning on his elbow, a closed fist resting against his temple. He had shortish gray hair and was sporting that clever smile Peter had seen before in magazine articles. He knew the guy was in his sixties and thought he looked pretty good for his ag
e. Of course, the picture might’ve been an old one the publisher had recycled. They did that sometimes, especially with an author like Declan who put out at least one new novel a year.

  Peter started to read the book synopsis for Jackson Hill:

  Three years after losing their son to a tragic accident, Jacob and Sandra Thornhill are still unable to move on. In need of a fresh start, and compelled by strange dreams, the couple decide to move to the small New England town of Jackson Hill. But as bizarre events begin to unfold around them, they soon discover moving there may not have been their decision at all. A timeless being called a gishet has—

  “That book was written right here in town, if you can believe it.”

  Peter looked up to find the pharmacist standing behind the counter. “I heard that. I take it that’s that why you have so many copies. Am I right?”

  “You are, indeed. It’s a bit of a novelty around here, I guess you could say. It came out years ago, but folks still stop in to pick up a copy a few times a week. It’s just to say they read it, I’m sure. Don’t want to be left behind, you know. But if they’ll keep buying them, I’ll keep stocking them. Much as I don’t care for it myself. Too violent for my taste.”

  “It looks interesting,” Peter said, stepping to the counter and setting everything down. “Good weather for it, too.”

  “That it is. Should clear up by t’morrow.” The pharmacist slid his glasses to the tip of his nose and regarded Peter. “I can’t say as I recognize you. You renting up at the lake?”

  “For three weeks. My wife and I.”

  “Gosh, it’s nice up there this time of year, isn’t it?” The pharmacist pushed his glasses back up.

  “Love at first sight,” Peter said. “Whoever rents it next might have to blow us out with dynamite.”

  A sweet smell hit him out of nowhere. It reminded him of the banana bread his grandmother used to make. Then it faded and was gone, a meaningless, passing detail.

  The pharmacist laughed. “I suppose they might. Which place are you renting?”

  “Same house this was written in, actually. Shady Cove.” Peter gestured to the copy of Jackson Hill sitting on top of the first-aid kit. “That’s what I was told when we rented the place, anyway. Don’t hold me to it if I’m wrong and making a fool out of myself. Did I get greased?”

  He knew it was true, though; he couldn’t think of another reason Declan Wade’s writing notes would’ve ended up in the desk drawer. Plus, the realtor, Leo Saltzman, had outright told him. Unless, of course, that was a tactic he used to bait people into renting the place.

  “Uh-huh, that’s the one,” the pharmacist said. Then his face took on a look of sad regret. “You rent it through Leo Saltzman, by any chance?”

  “I did, yes,” Peter said. “Seemed like a nice guy.”

  “He was a nice guy. Darn shame what happened to him. I couldn’t believe it, myself.”

  “What happened?”

  “You didn’t hear? No, I guess you wouldn’t’ve. Jeez, I hate to have to tell you this, fella, but Leo died yest’dee. Had an accident in his garage.”

  Peter felt his jaw go slack. “Oh my God. How?”

  “Not quite sure. Heard it was something with one of his power tools. A real dumb-luck thing. Poor guy. Here one day, gone the next. Life’s sticky that way.”

  “I only just met him, but…” Peter trailed off. He thought about how Leo had given him a pen and was struck by a far-off sadness for the man.

  “I know. It doesn’t make it any better,” the pharmacist said. “Dyin is dyin, no matter how you look at it. His wife found him, too. I can’t imagine.” He shook his head and punched a few keys on the cash register. “That’ll be nine dollars and twenty cents for all this. Need a bag?”

  Peter nodded, distracted. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Didn’t mean to put a damper on your day, son. Maybe I should’ve kept my trap shut. I’m sure you could’ve gone your whole three weeks here without having to think about that. I apologize.”

  “No, it’s all right. I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t be the only one,” the pharmacist said, handing him the bag. “Been a strange week altogether. Must be some sour luck going around. It’ll pass. Always does.”

  “I’m sure it will,” Peter said.

  He paid and then left, a sinking feeling in his stomach. It was funny, he thought as he ran up the sidewalk against the wind and the rain, how death can unsettle a person it had no business unsettling. He had only known Leo a few days, had spent a total of maybe an hour with the guy, and yet he genuinely felt disturbed and saddened that Leo had died.

  When he returned, Sylvia was waiting in the car, a pink pastry box dotted with rain spots sitting in her lap. “I got a vanilla cake. Nothing fancy.”

  “Okay,” Peter said, running a hand through his wet hair. He dropped the bag from Quints Pharmacy in the backseat, then started the car.

  “Something wrong?” Sylvia asked.

  “You won’t believe what I just heard,” he said, bewildered. “The man I rented the lake house from died yesterday. Some sort of accident.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked at Sylvia and forced a smile. “It’s fine. I don’t mean to put a mood on the evening. It was strange to hear, that’s all.”

  “What’s so strange about it?”

  “It’s just, well, you would think you can sense something like that coming. You know? I mean, I sat across from the guy and chatted for almost an hour, and never once did the idea of him dying cross my mind. Death is a big and ugly thing. It’s clumsy and loud, yet somehow it manages to be so damn clever and sneaky. It just doesn’t seem fair.”

  Sylvia reached over and took his hand. “I know.”

  They sat there, saying nothing to each other while rain beat down on the roof of the car and thunder tumbled high above heaven. It was a pleasant and sad piece of time. And it was good. When they were ready to go, they drove.

  2

  As it turned out, Laura Dooley hadn’t been lying about her meatloaf. It was so good, in fact, that Peter ate two helpings before finally having to surrender. Sylvia thought she had even seen him undo the top button of his pants to make a little room. The only other time she ever caught him doing that was at Thanksgiving.

  He and Kevin had gone over to the living room to play a rematch of Go Fish, leaving just the girls at the kitchen table.

  “More coffee?” Laura asked. “There’s still a little left in the pot.”

  “That’d be great,” Sylvia said. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.” Laura topped off her cup. “So as I was saying, when my grandmother died, she left me the house and everything else she had. It wasn’t a fortune or anything like that, but it’s enough for me and my son… for now, anyway.” She stirred sugar into her own coffee. “If it wasn’t for her, I don’t know what we would’ve done. Probably be living at the Willows.”

  “The Willows?”

  “It’s the trailer park across town.”

  “Oh,” Sylvia said, her eyes drifting down for a beat. She felt terribly self-conscious about the face she may have inadvertently made.

  Laura smiled sweetly, a look that said: You have no idea, do you? But that’s okay. “It would’ve been awful to live there. The Willows is no place for a single mother, and I don’t mind saying it. There’s plenty of good folks there—don’t get me wrong—but there are plenty of bad ones, too. Like anywhere.”

  Sylvia hesitated on the next question, but it was out of her mouth before she knew it. “What about your parents?”

  Laura glanced away, then back to Sylvia. “They’re dead.”

  “Goodness. I didn’t mean—”

  “No, it’s perfectly fine. You wouldn’t know that. Besides, it happened when I was only two years old. I don’t even remember it.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “My dad was a sick man. Schizophrenia,” Laura said.
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  Sylvia became aware of a hard courageousness in the girl’s demeanor—a girl who had been forced to grow up too fast. She also recognized, only because she had been through it herself, the stiff tone of voice that always seems to arise when a person begins to recite a story they’ve become tired of telling. Everything trimmed down to the barest details so as to get the information delivered as succinctly and quickly as possible.

  “He murdered my mother. Shot her one night when she was sleeping, then turned the rifle on himself. He didn’t leave a note or anything like that. It wasn’t suicide… he was sick. It happened, that’s all. My grandmother told me he should’ve been in a hospital.” She wrinkled her nose and made an embarrassed face. “Are you sorry you asked?”

  “No. We all have a past we can’t control. But I am sorry that happened to you.”

  “That’s nice of you to say. Thank you.”

  Sylvia cleared her throat and shifted in her chair. “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Twenty-three. A little young to have a six-year-old, I know.” She set the spoon on the table, then ran her finger around the rim of her coffee cup. “Now you can go ahead and ask me the follow-up. It’s fine.”

  “What follow-up?”

  “Sorry,” Laura said. “But you want to know where Kevin’s father is. It’s okay.”

  “It wasn’t my place to ask.”

  “You’re very polite, Mrs. Martell. I like that.”

  “And you’re very mature. We’re both great, aren’t we?” Sylvia winked at her and sipped her coffee with a smile. Then she added, “And for goodness’ sake, don’t call me that. I’m hardly ten years older than you.”

  “I’m sorry. You just seem so… I don’t know… together, I guess.”

  Sylvia blurted out a single syllable of laughter. “I promise you I’m not. But thank you for cheering me up. I needed that.”

  Laura smiled, then went on. “His name was Jacob—Jake. He was a real special guy. Really smart and probably the kindest person you’d ever meet, I swear. We got married when we were eighteen. See?” She held up her hand and wiggled the appropriate finger. There was a thin gold ring with a small diamond chip on her wedding finger. “It isn’t much, but we loved each other. And I think that counts the most. It could’ve been a bread tie or a Band-Aid, and I would’ve liked it just the same.”