by phuc
“I think it’s no secret that my closest friends, aside from you and your mom, are the ones I made in high school and college. I have a feeling George and Al are going to be very good friends for you, Tim. You share the same interests and, from the way it sounds, they respect you. I’m certain they’ve had to have heard some of the nasty rumors about you from other kids.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “Well, Al said that Jennifer Walbert told him not to hang around with me because I sold my soul to the devil and belonged to a coven.”
At the mention of this, Naomi retorted in anger. “That little bitch has been a thorn in your side since seventh grade. When the hell is she going to grow up?”
Tim grinned. “Al told her he thought that was cool. He said he couldn’t wait to join the coven, and she looked at him like he was a freak and walked away. I don’t think that was the reaction she was expecting.”
Jeff chewed his food. “Well, that tells me Al doesn’t give a damn what the other kids say about you, and that’s good.”
“Yeah, when Al told me about it, he was laughing,” Tim said, relating the incident in surprisingly good humor. In days past he would have either been dismissive or depressed about it. “He was like, ‘damn, she’s got to be the dumbest chick I’ve ever met.’”
“Unfortunately, she’s probably going to grow up to assume some position of influence or authority,” Naomi said. She was finished with her meal and leaned back from the table. “And she’s going to torment some other hapless soul.”
“It really is so like The Stepford Wives living here,” Tim said.
“You can say that again,” Jeff muttered.
Naomi couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret when she talked with Tim about his problems or saw his reactions to the vicious teasing he received. She’d hoped the good of living in a small town would outweigh the negative; that hadn’t happened for Tim. She remembered hating Spring Valley High. She liked the town–the architecture, its history, the peaceful setting of the surrounding countryside. But the people? They were all narrow-minded, self-righteous religious zealots. Okay, maybe not all of them, but more than she could count. When Naomi was in high school she’d gone through her own identity crisis stage. Her parents had been strict on appearance, stressing that how you presented yourself through dress, grooming, hair and makeup, formed an impression on other people. Things like your personality, whether you were a pleasant person, easy going, friendly, or kind, did not matter.
So when Naomi had fallen for a boy named Chuck Gabriel, a sullen olive-skinned boy who wore his straight black hair below his shoulders, her parents had disapproved of the relationship vehemently. They’d been trying–hell, pushing her–to date Greg Argall, a boy who lived down the street who’d grown into a Ken-doll caricature of perfect hair, perfect teeth, six-pack abs, and a predictable future of an MBA position at some faceless corporation. If Greg hadn’t been a belligerent asshole, she might have been mildly attracted to him. The fact that she could engage in more stimulating conversation with a pile of mulch was another souring point for Naomi. Chuck, on the other hand, was kind, considerate, polite, and genuinely cared for her and she could talk to him for hours about everything. He wasn’t cruel, did not possess a sense of humor from the gutter like Greg, and he was smart—a straight A student. Despite her pointing this out to her parents, they still didn’t approve of him. Her relationship with Chuck was the first time Naomi ever lied to her parents, and the sneaking around to see him eventually took its toll on the relationship.
Naomi offered Tim a smile. “The difference between you and me is that my parents didn’t take the time to understand me, nor understand what it was like to be a teenager when I became of age. They saw it from their own perspective, which was the nineteen fifties. They didn’t relate to the early eighties trends or fashions at all. Your father and I…I’d like to think we’re trying a lot harder than my parents ever did.”
Tim grinned. “You guys are the best. I mean…I hear some of the kids in my class talk about their parents and they think Linkin Park is a place!”
They all laughed at this.
Jeff was finished with his meal. He stood up and began clearing the table. “Son, your mother and I are happy with the way things are going for you lately. We really are.
George and Al seem like great guys, and I think some of the kids that used to be so much trouble for you are eventually going to come around and grow up. If they haven’t by now, they probably will by the time you graduate.”
Tim got up to help his father. “Actually that might have already started to happen.
Gordon Smith actually asked if he could borrow a book from me!”
Naomi raised an eyebrow at this. While Gordon wasn’t one of the kids who’d set upon Tim that dark day, he’d participated in too many incidents of harassment against her son that she felt instantly wary and suspicious. “Why did he want to borrow a book from you?”
Tim shrugged. “Beats me. But he seemed really interested in it.” Tim told them about his initial contact with Gordon last week, and the conversations and encounters that led to Gordon’s growing interest in Back From the Dead. “Maybe he’s finally seeing reading as something that can be fun. You know?”
Naomi nodded. Tim inherited his love of books from her and Jeff, and had developed his unique tastes on his own. She surely hadn’t been into horror fiction as a child the way her son was, although it was a genre she dipped into from time to time and enjoyed occasionally. But if it got kids into reading that was half the battle. She’d been pleased when Tim went from Goosebumps to Stephen King and finally to Faulkner, Dickens, and Capote on his own, at no urging from his high school curriculum. “Maybe you’re right,” she said.
And as the three of them bustled about the kitchen clearing the table, rinsing the dishes, placing them in the dishwasher and doing the evening chores, Naomi felt the first ray of hope that perhaps Jeff was right. Their son was going to turn seventeen this summer. He was on the road to adulthood–manhood. He was a mature kid for his age, and she had no doubt that he had a bright future ahead of him. She truly hoped that Al and George were opening new doors for him, that things would improve on a social level for her son in the coming months as he gradually ascended to his senior year.
Chapter Seven
Scott Bradfield and David Bruce accompanied Gordon Smith into the woods to see if there was evidence that the rabbit had come back from the dead.
David giggled. He and Scott had gotten stoned before Gordon showed up at the Bradfield house and they were getting on his nerves. “A zombie bunny!” David said.
“Shut up!” Gordon said.
“I wonder if it’ll try to eat us?” Scott asked, half seriously.
David and Scott burst into laughter.
Gordon stopped and turned around. His friends had stopped in their tracks and were doubled over with laughter. The days were getting longer, and at a few minutes past eight pm there was still sufficient sunlight to see by. They had another ten yards to go.
“I’m going to go check. If you assholes want to come, let’s go.” He turned and started heading toward the clearing, not caring if they followed.
Despite it not being fully dark yet, the woods had a sinister quality to them, more so than last night. As Gordon picked his way past poison ivy and fallen pine branches, he heard the crickets going at it again. They sounded normal to him now. What was I thinking last night? he thought as he reached the clearing.
He stood at the edge of the clearing, not too surprised at the sight but his heart sinking nonetheless.
The hole he’d dug and buried the rabbit in, that he’d filled up and tamped down, was undisturbed.
Gordon hoisted the small bladed shovel he’d brought along. This wasn’t going to be pretty, but he might as well get it over with. He took a step toward the area where he’d buried the rabbit, plunged the blade in the soil and started digging.
Scott and David showed up a moment later. Gordon didn’t notic
e the look on their faces, but he could tell from their tones of voice that they were disappointed. “Hey, there’s nothing here.”
“I know,” Gordon said. He was almost a foot down now.
“So it didn’t work?” Scott asked. Both of them sounded serious now.
“Not sure,” Gordon said, because he didn’t really know how to answer that one.
Because despite not seeing the tell-tale signs of the rabbit having clawed its way up out of the soil, something didn’t feel right.
Something felt… wrong.
Scott and David stood on either side of him as the shovel hit something more solid. Grunting with the exertion, Gordon carefully levered the shovel under the bulk and lifted it. As he lifted the mass of soil and dead flesh, David gasped. “Aww, man, that thing’s deader than shit!”
Gordon dumped the dead rabbit on the ground, not even feeling sick at the sight of the worms doing their number on the animal. Already there were maggots writhing about the body–how the hell did flies burrow underground to lay their eggs anyway?
Underneath the earthy smell of wet soil was the scent of rotting flesh.
“Well shit, I was actually looking forward to this,” Scott said.
“Yeah, me too.” David.
“Dammit,” Gordon said.
“So why do you think it didn’t work?” Scott asked.
“I don’t know,” Gordon replied. “I did everything right. Followed everything in the book to the letter.”
“Maybe it’s because animals don’t have souls,” David surmised. “I mean…the demon can’t take their soul and use their body as a vessel. Know what I mean?”
Gordon nodded. It made perfect sense. But still…
There was that feeling. Something was there. In the woods.
Do they feel anything? Gordon thought. Or am I just imagining things?
“Well, might as well bury it and get going,” David suggested. “We can try again.”
“Yeah,” Gordon said, anything to agree with them and get the hell out of here. He shoved the animal back into the hole and started piling the dirt back over it. When the hole was filled up completely, he stomped the soil down.
“What kind of animal are we going to try it with next time?” David asked Gordon.
“You mean we’re going to try this again?” Scott asked. He looked doubtful. “The shit obviously didn’t work.”
“I don’t think we’re going to try it again,” Gordon said. He started heading out of the clearing. He didn’t tell them that he agreed with what they were saying, that they were right. That might be the impression they got out of his response but it wasn’t his intention.
Something did work.
He could feel it.
Scott and David followed along behind him. They talked and Gordon answered, but he wasn’t really paying attention to what they were saying. “We can still bury him out here when he’s dead,” Scott said. “Nobody’ll find him.”
“Yeah,” David answered. “Too bad we’re not going to know if he’ll come back from the dead.” To Gordon: “Hey, Gordon, whaddaya think? Think this’ll still work?”
“I don’t know,” Gordon said, his heart racing. He felt his skin bristle; gooseflesh.
He didn’t want to give them his honest opinion.
That he felt whatever it was he’d done out there last night had worked.
Chapter Eight
Tim Gaines had just finished his homework–his last big assignment before the semester ended–when there was a knock on the front door.
His mother was in the kitchen stacking the dishwasher, and his father was in the living room watching the news. Dad looked out the window and frowned. “It’s the police,” he said.
“What?” Tim got up from his chair and walked over to the living room window.
Sure enough, a black and white squad car was parked in front of the townhouse.
Dad was already up and crossing the room to the front door. When he answered the door, Officer Frank Clapton stood on the stoop, a grim expression on his face. Officer Clapton had been one of the investigating officers in the Scott Bradfield and David Bruce assault case five years ago. In the intervening years he’d been a strong ally to the Gaines family, providing Tim with the occasional escort home, or stopping by to see how he was doing. When Jennifer Walbert spread the rumor that he was killing neighborhood cats for satanic sacrifices, Office Clapton had been the investigating officer. He’d even apologized to Tim’s parents that night for the trouble.
“Officer Clapton,” Dad said, opening the screen door. “What seems to be the problem?”
Naomi came in from the kitchen and Tim’s heart clenched in his chest when he saw the look on Officer Clapton’s face. “Evening Mr. and Mrs. Gaines. Sorry to bother you, but I’m afraid I have to talk to your son.” His eyes focused on Tim. For the first time they looked accusing.
“What’s going on?” Tim said. What did they say about me this time? Who said it?
I thought they were finished with this shit! I thought it was finally over! Unbidden, Tim felt his eyes begin to tear up.
Officer Clapton extracted a slim notebook from his breast pocket. He flipped through to a fresh page, pen in hand. “Mind telling me where you were two nights ago, Tim?”
“He was right here!” Naomi said, her voice and features showing frustration and a hint of anger. “Where else do you think he’d be on a school night?”
“Please, Mrs. Gaines,” Officer Clapton said. Tim could tell by the tone of his voice that he didn’t want to question him. He turned back to Tim. “Specifically between the hours of ten-thirty P.M. and five A.M. yesterday morning.”
“He was asleep!” Naomi stated, the irritation clear in her voice now.
“I was asleep,” Tim said at the same time.
“Are you sure?” Officer Clapton asked.
“Will you mind telling us what this is about, Officer?” His father asked.
Officer Clapton ignored the question. He looked at Tim’s parents. “Can you two place Tim in his bedroom at those times?”
“Yes!” Naomi stated vehemently.
“Absolutely,” Dad said, his voice and stance firm.
Office Clapton regarded them calmly. “Two nights ago Reamstown Cemetery was vandalized. Somebody broke into one of the graves and stole…certain body parts.
Reamstown police recovered evidence and called us. I wouldn’t be here if that evidence didn’t lead straight to you, Tim.”
Tim felt the blood run from his face. “Wh…what evidence?”
“Do you own a book called Back From the Dead?”
At the mention of the book, Tim felt like he was going to faint. He could tell that the cop knew Tim owned the book; he could probably see it in his face.
“Um…well…yeah, I do, but—”
“Reamstown police found it at the scene,” Officer Clapton continued. “It had your name and address written on the inside cover. Are you sure you were home between the hours of—”
“I said he was here!” Naomi Gaines was suddenly in front of her husband and son, hands on her hips, a ragged dishtowel in her hand. She faced Officer Clapton, her features pure anger. “I don’t care what you found, Tim would never be involved in something so…so…”
“Believe me, I know how this looks,” Officer Clapton said. “I know the hassle you people have gone through with every religious freak in town accusing you of everything from killing animals for the devil to vandalizing school property with satanic symbols. I know you’ve had to endure years of rumors and harassment and I’m sorry for it. But…I have to ask this stuff. We have the book. It has your name and address on it, a crime was committed…parts of a human body were stolen!”
“I loaned that book out!” Tim said suddenly and then it all came out in a rush, like a confession. “I loaned that book to Gordon Smith. He asked if he could borrow it and I gave it to him Monday afternoon.”
Officer Clapton was writing in his notebook. “Gordon Smith
?”
“Dammit, I knew it!” Naomi said. She turned away from the door in anger.
Tim felt suddenly like he was to blame. If he hadn’t been receptive to Gordon’s seemingly friendly overtures maybe this wouldn’t have happened.
“Care to tell me about the circumstances that led to you loaning this book to him?” Officer Clapton asked.
Taking a deep breath Tim told him, starting with the day Gordon inquired about the book and culminating in Monday when Tim finally turned it over to him. “He seemed to be…I don’t know,” Tim said, feeling embarrassed. “Interested in it. I thought…I thought we’d put aside our differences and…”
Officer Clapton offered them a small smile. “I know what you mean, Tim. You were trying to meet Gordon halfway. No problem with that.” He looked at Naomi and Jeff. His features seemed gentler now, more at ease. “I think we can get to the bottom of this,” he said.
“You damn well better,” Naomi said. She was in Officer Clapton’s face again, pointing her index finger at him. “I’ve had about enough of these goddamn self-righteous little shits spreading falsehoods about my son! Do you understand me!”
“I understand perfectly, Mrs. Gaines.”
“I hope you do.” Naomi was so upset she looked like she was going to cry.
“I’m…I’m sorry for blowing up at you like this, Officer Clapton, it’s just that—”
“Listen,” Officer Clapton said. He took a step inside the house. Jeff and Naomi stepped back to allow him entry and Tim found himself huddling near them to listen. “I understand your frustration. Believe me, I do. If it was my kid I’d be furious. I hope you can see my position, though. I can’t play favorites. I have to play by the rules. I know you, and I know you’re good people. Tim’s a good kid.” He nodded at Tim and smiled and Tim instantly felt better. Gone was the cautious semi-accusing tone and stance. “And I know you’ve had problems with certain kids at the school, specifically Scott Bradfield, David Bruce, and Steve Downing.”
