Cherry Hill

by James A. Moore

She was not that lucky. The pain she felt was real and would stay with her until her body could recover from it. Unless it killed her first.

  Amelia collapsed on the ground, barely even realizing that she’d moved in an effort to escape the pain.

  Her eyes fluttered briefly and then she was unconscious, incapable of thinking or feeling anything. Her mind sought out protection, reaching for anything that could save her body, even as she was struck by more pain and physical damage.

  Her attempt at salvation was purely instinctual and she sought the only person she knew could help her. The only man who had helped her in the past. Her lips formed his name and spoke so softly that even if she’d been conscious she wouldn’t have heard herself.

  “Jonathan, help me.”

  ***

  Easily eight feet tall and almost as wide, the creature pushed into the room and looked around with eyes that had barely formed lids. It looked like a psychotic’s dream made into an uneven reality. When Crowley considered its probable origin, he supposed that made sense. All of it looked like it should have been cooked for a little longer. The skin was thin and pasty, and every vein and artery was clearly defined under that hide. The face was uneven: the mouth hung slackly on the left side, and the nose was too small. One eye was larger than the other and neither of them were where they should have been. Thin, baby fine hair covered its scalp in odd patches.

  It wore no clothes, so figuring out the gender should have been easy. While it had no breasts, it seemed that whatever the thing was, it got a little confused when it designed itself. Fully formed male and female genitalia were readily available for all to see.

  For all of that, it looked intimidating as hell standing there and demanding to be worshipped. He studied it carefully, assessing as much as he could while it looked around. Even though it seemed incomplete, he knew that wouldn’t last. Even as he watched the skin was thickening, becoming more of a proper epidermis. The thin hair was becoming fuller and spreading like a lawn across the overly large head. The rest of the body was catching up: it was just born and maturing rapidly. It demanded worship again and he made a snide comment to get its attention. If it was looking at him it wasn’t mauling anyone else and John had no doubt it could ruin a person with one swipe of the massive hands it flexed as it stared in his direction.

  Once more it demanded worship and once more he taunted it, hoping he could dodge any actions it might take.

  Jonathan, help me.

  Three little words that came at the worst possible time. He recognized the source immediately, and let himself get distracted. That was when the oversized thing that had just knocked its way through part of a wall tried to send him into orbit. Crowley slammed into the ceiling, ricocheted off a metal table and slid across the ground.

  He laid perfectly still and felt the fiery itching start as his body mended itself. He couldn’t afford another distraction from Amelia, so he kept low and wasted precious seconds casting reinforcements for the ward he’d already set in place. He didn’t exactly have time to run down and check on her, so John had to hope it was enough.

  Dead God shouted out about wanting to be worshipped, and Crowley decided he’d had enough. He stood back up and wiped the blood from his face, careful to get it out of his eyes.

  The idea was to sneak as close to the thing as he could and attack it. The problem with that concept was the small group of people that the thing was looking at.

  Just to make sure he got his way regarding the end result of the thing looking at them, he made noise as he stood up.

  “You have no idea how much I wanted you to do that.” Blatant lie. He wanted it to politely lie down and die.

  The thing stared at him for a few seconds and Crowley sidled forward and to the right, making sure it was looking at him. The medical ward was at the end of the wing. If he could maneuver things the right way, he could take what was about to happen away from everyone’s sight.

  The Dead God had different ideas. It was big and it looked stupid, so Crowley made the mistake of thinking of physical confrontations. Instead it looked his way and lashed out with its mind.

  All of the memories he’d managed to suppress became fodder for the thing towering over him. It reached into his skull and pulled everything it could from inside, only to thrust the recollections back into John’s head. Elizabeth died again a hundred times. Each of his children screamed and suffered as he was forced to watch. His grief was renewed and cut into him, weakening his resolve, crushing his will. Why had he wandered down the middle of a street half-naked and picked a fight with the local cops? Because he’d wanted to die and that feeling came back, overpowering his senses and dropping Jonathan Crowley to his knees.

  The oversized beast came closer, and he didn’t have it in him to care. Let it crush him! Let it end this misery once and for all. He wanted his family back and knew he could never have them. If that was the case, why not join them in the darkness?

  As quickly as the feelings assaulted him, they were gone, replaced by a screech of pain.

  John blinked his eyes and shook his head and then looked at the thing that had just played inside his mind.

  The Dead God was not looking at him. It was staring instead at Mr. Weasel, who was not only conscious—surprise, surprise—but holding an IV stand like it was a baseball bat and getting ready to swing a second time. As powerful as the thing was, it was new to the world and ill prepared for the pain that the man had inflicted. It held onto one arm and glared at Weasel with a pout on its face. The IV stand had a dent near the base that cocked it at a strange angle.

  Crowley shook his head, amazed that anyone in the room would consider fighting for him, and then he attacked.

  Jonathan Crowley used his magic when he had to, but in a pinch, he still preferred a physical confrontation. He moved up fast and drove his knee into the crotch of the giant, satisfied with the way things crunched under the impact.

  The monster looked down and roared. Its face had taken on a lot better symmetry as it kept maturing, which in this case merely made it look even more intimidating as it glared at him.

  It brought both arms up over its head, ready to smash him into the ground, and Crowley smiled. As soon as it was ready to pulp him, he stepped in close and kneed it again.

  “Not a very fast learner are you, bright boy?”

  It was faster than he thought. It brought up a knee of its own and shattered Crowley’s ribcage. Having the ability to heal is a wonderful thing. It doesn’t do nearly as much good when you aren’t given a chance to recover. John bounced a good fifteen feet, and the thing followed quickly, knocking aside two patients still strapped to their beds and several pieces of functional but unattractive medical equipment in the process. It kicked him again and sent him into the wall. He gasped as the force of the blow pulped his internal organs. Blood flowed inside his battered form and he knew there were parts of him that had been torn apart.

  It kicked him again and this time he caught the worst of the impact with his forearms but still took enough damage to make the world go all gray and fuzzy.

  The Dead God looked down at him and mimicked his grin with surprising skill. Then it drew back to kick him again as his body tried to recover and Jonathan resorted to playing dirty once more. The foot that tried to crush his body still managed to hit him—hard enough to crack the wall behind him in fact—but instead of touching his flesh, the foot stopped half an inch away, blocked by an invisible barrier.

  Crowley stood up, wincing as his broken bones shifted back to where they belonged.

  The thing swung again, and Crowley moved to the side. The oversized hand smashed through the wall instead of his head. There are disadvantages to being the size of the creature that had just come into the world. Among those flaws, happily for Crowley, is not knowing your own strength. The thing looked at its hand where it had ruptured not only the drywall but also the thick bricks behind them, and let out a scream as it pulled back its shattered flesh and bone. Before it cou
ld recover from the new damage it had done to itself, Crowley shoved it against the weakened wall, letting its weight take care of the rest.

  The wall collapsed, falling away from the side of Cherry Hill and taking the living hungry ghost with it. Several hundred pounds of meat fell to the ground and hit hard amidst a shower of ruined bricks and mortar.

  Jonathan didn’t bother to think about it as he stepped out of the building himself and dropped down toward the Dead God. One way or another, he wanted to finish his task.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Kimberly Walker stayed at home when the insanity truly came to Cherry Hill. She was still overwhelmed by what she had seen and having troubles accepting it. Worse, she couldn’t quite get over everything that the monstrous voice had said to her.

  Long after it had finished ripping Walter Sawyer into pieces, it had stayed with her, speaking into her mind without words, but with images both vile and endearing, as if she would understand the mental assault and be grateful for it in some way.

  Even thinking about it made her hands tremble.

  She finally got out of bed a little after noon and stumbled into the kitchen of her small efficiency apartment to make herself a pot of coffee. She needed the caffeine; without it she knew she’d spend the whole day in bed, if not the entire week.

  Her mother had called her the night before and they’d talked on the phone for almost three hours, despite the cost. Her mom wanted her to come back to Florida and quit school. Kimberly wanted nothing to do with that. Still, it had been nice telling someone all of her problems.

  She set the Mr. Coffee to brew and sat down at the kitchen table while she waited, contemplating whether or not her stomach was up to actual food. She’d tried pizza last night, but not long after she’d eaten she thought about poor Walter again and lost her dinner.

  She stood up when the coffee was finished and reached for a mug with hands that were still shaking far too much.

  That was when the voice started in her head: Kimberly, come to me. Be with me and I will grant your every wish. Of course she recognized the voice. How could she not? If she never heard it again it would stay with her, haunting her every waking moment for as long as she lived. The mug she’d plucked from the cabinet dropped from numb fingers and shattered across the tiled kitchen floor.

  Kimberly walked over the broken pieces without even feeling them and, still dressed in only a t-shirt and a pair of underwear, she reached into her purse and pulled out her car keys.

  She didn’t want to go to Cherry Hill. That was just possibly the last thing on earth that she wanted to do, but her body moved anyway, following orders she could not resist.

  Kimberly Walker ignored Mr. Darby’s fish-faced expression as she pulled out of the apartment complex. He was a nice old man and very conservative; seeing her half naked had probably damn near given him a stroke.

  She drove carefully, following every rule of the road. She cried her eyes red and puffy and had to wipe them almost constantly. She did not want to go to Cherry Hill. She just had no choice. Her body was hers to command only as long as she followed the will of a nightmare.

  She had her orders and try as she might, she could not deny them.

  Kimberly wondered exactly when her world had gone to hell.

  ***

  The seven dead people came closer and Carl shook his head. “Screw this. Let’s go to the asylum.”

  “I think we’re already there.”

  “Not funny, Liebowitz. I mean it, let’s go!”

  None of the officers argued with him. They moved back to their squad cars as quickly as they could, doing their best not to take their eyes off of the out of focus shapes that were coming closer. Carl didn’t wait around to see who would follow. He hopped into the idling car and put it into gear. He only burned a little rubber. Both of the other cars made a lot more noise as they took off.

  There was only a short distance to go before they reached the parking lot. It should have been enough to leave the ghosts in the far distance, but it didn’t work out that way. By the time Carl was parking, he could see them coming up the road, moving faster than humanly possible.

  Chapman had his revolver drawn by the time Liebowitz parked the car. He was out and facing the approaching things before anyone else was ready.

  So Chapman got to die first. He didn’t wait for orders, but screamed at the things to stop where they were. They ignored him and kept coming. He fired one warning shot over their heads and when they didn’t respond, he cut loose with the rest of the shells in his Smith & Wesson.

  Carl watched as the bullets passed harmlessly through the figures. There was no sign of impact, no hint that they felt anything at all. Then, as he watched, the images changed. They became more defined…solid. In the near darkness of the day he’d barely realized they had no color, but now, as he watched them become substantial he noticed the rich hues that ran over them.

  The one closest to Chapman opened its mouth and let out a howl as it came for him. Chapman froze, uncertain how to deal with the sudden transformation, and it cost him everything. The creature grabbed the younger officer’s face with both hands and drew in a massive breath. In the process, it took something vital from its target. Chapman let out a small moan of surprise and fell to the asphalt parking lot surface, his eyes staring blankly.

  Four officers pulled their weapons and opened fire without a word spoken between them. Whatever the things were—Branaugh was still banking on them being ghosts, but they were solid now and obviously dangerous—they had just killed a cop.

  When the bullets hit this time they did damage. Holes blasted into the damned things and staggered them back from the officers.

  None of them, not a single one, looked completely right. They had humanoid shapes, but there was something off-kilter about their looks. He didn’t have time to deal with details. There was too much going on around him.

  Somewhere behind them he heard a loud cracking noise. He turned to look as he started reloading his revolver and saw what looked like a fist sticking through a brick wall forty or more feet up.

  “Oh, bullshit! This is just fucking bullshit!” He turned back to the immediate problem at hand. The ghosts looked down at where they’d been shot and he was happy to have them distracted. One by one they lost the focus that had made them clear and he saw thick fluids spilling to the ground. He couldn’t tell from a distance, but damned if the liquid didn’t look like the weird crap that had shown up a few times inside of Cherry Hill. Great. Whatever it is, it’s outside the walls now.

  A moment later the damaged wall exploded outward, dropping something the size of a small car with it. A shower of stone and debris smashed into the grass at the edge of the parking lot and the big pale thing went with it.

  Liebowitz looked over his way with half-wild eyes. “What the fuck did you get us into, Carl?”

  Carl looked his way and saw the ghosts, once again blurry and distorted, behind him. They stood perfectly still for a moment, all of them focusing on whatever had fallen through the hole in the outside wall of the asylum.

  He looked at the pile of rubble and saw the whole mass of debris tremble.

  Something big started to move under that mass, and Carl decided he could do without knowing what it was.

  Then the ghosts let out a few sounds of their own, wails of terror or pain.

  Carl looked their way again. They were still in the same spot, but their bodies were distorting even more. The seven figures seemed to pull back, trying to resist a force that had them caught and didn’t seem to want to let them go. Then one by one they lost whatever battle they were having. The spirits were torn apart and drawn into a stream like a whirlpool cutting through still waters. The end of that vortex was in the same spot where he saw the oversized thing fighting free of the rubble.

  “What the hell?” Liebowitz was watching too. Carl studied the process and tried to remember everything that Crowley had said about ghosts. None of this made the least bit of
sense to him.

  Something big burst away from the broken masonry and stood up. It was a nightmare, easily two feet taller than Carl and covered with dust, the creature looked like something out of a bad dream.

  A quick motion caught his attention from higher up, where the wall had fallen apart. He watched as Jonathan Crowley looked down at the thing below him and then just stepped out from the opening and let himself drop.

  “Crowley! No!” The words were out before he could think. He didn’t like the man, but he didn’t want to see him dead, either.

  Crowley did not fall to his death. Instead he landed with both feet on the head of the thing standing below him and struck like a pile driver. The beast let out a roar and fell into the ground for the second time, landing roughly in the ruins it had just climbed free from.

  Jonathan Crowley scrambled away from the behemoth and pointed his finger at it. “Do me a favor, Branaugh, and shoot the son of a bitch!”

  He didn’t even hesitate. He should have been considering everything that was going on, everything that had already happened inside of Cherry Hill. Instead, the detective aimed and fired, blowing chunks out of the thing that was trying to stand up.

  Liebowitz looked at him for a moment and then joined in.

  The pasty white thing bled and screamed; staggered by each bullet that blew through its body, but not killed, not yet. Carl called to Murphy and Wendt and they looked at him for a moment before finally taking aim. Whatever they were shooting, they could plainly see it was big and deadly. That was enough for now.

  Branaugh used every bullet he had and so did the rest of the officers. Twenty-four bullets smashed into the grotesque flesh and most of them came out the other side trailing blood and meat.

  The thing looked up when they were done. It did not fall dead or even stagger. It simply stared at them. In fifteen years of service Carl Branaugh had never fired more than two bullets at a living target. He’d just used every single bullet he carried to try to stop a monstrosity and the fucking thing just looked at him.