The Nightmare Girl

by Jonathan Janz

  Grayman nodded. “I also find it ironic how puritanical American politicians pretend to be, when their behavior runs so counter to their platitudes.”

  Copeland grinned broadly. “Well, look at us, Pastor Grayman. Sharing our views like two old pals. Maybe we should bump chests, show our solidarity.”

  Grayman’s answering smile was patient. “No thank you, Chief Copeland.”

  “So where’s your church?”

  Grayman’s smile faded.

  Copeland’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t call it that? I apologize, Pastor. Your temple then? Or synagogue?”

  Grayman’s eyes had gone fierce.

  “Mosque?” Copeland persisted. “Nah, y’all don’t look like you’d worship Allah here. More like the Satanic Cathedral of the Goat, something along those lines.”

  Grayman’s words were low, clipped. “When you’re quite through mocking our beliefs, I’d like you to finish your questioning.”

  “Sure,” Copeland said. “I know you guys got stuff to do, chickens to sacrifice and all. Just show us where your place of worship is, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Grayman said nothing, but Gentry’s eyes flicked toward the woods beyond the outbuildings.

  Copeland noticed it too. “Out there, huh? Thank you, Kevin! You’re a hell of a good man. I wondered why Joe kept you on so long, but now I know. When a guy’s as helpful as you, a boss can put up with a certain amount of public indecency.”

  “You fucker,” Gentry said, teeth clenched.

  “You wanna take out your anger on me,” Copeland said, stepping forward, “you go right ahead. Sounds to me like Joe whupped your ass good and proper, and I know I could take Joe. He’s strong, but he ain’t as nasty as I am. I used to get into bar fights every weekend when I was a younger man. Figured the ladies weren’t gonna go for me because of my devilish good looks, so I had to impress ’em somehow. Kicking their boyfriends’ asses seemed the best way to go about it.”

  “Did it work?” Joe asked.

  “Occasionally,” Copeland said. “Most of the time, the bouncers called the police before I could see the effect my barbaric behavior had on the lady. Once or twice I got arrested.”

  Joe smiled. “That’s how you got interested in becoming a cop.”

  “You got it.”

  Grayman said, “I’d like you both to leave.”

  Gentry took Copeland by the bicep. “You heard the man.”

  Copeland didn’t budge. “You don’t want me to tear your arm off, bitch slap you with it, you better let go of me now.”

  Gentry did.

  Copeland turned to Grayman. “You wanna do this the hard way, that’s fine with me. The judge and I, we’ve gone on fishing trips together. It’ll take me about a half hour to get my people over here with a search warrant. Meanwhile, Joe and I’ll stay right out there on that country road, watch your activities. We see you and your little stoolie here scurrying back to those woods, we’ll know you’re destroying evidence.”

  Grayman seemed to consider. He tilted his head. “You really believe we’re violent people, Chief Copeland?”

  “Depends on what you call violent,” Copeland said. “You consider mutilating a helpless old man and sewing up his skin with branches violent, then yeah, I’d say you guys fit that bill.”

  “That’s an ugly thing to say.”

  “It is indeed,” Copeland said. “It is indeed.”

  Grayman exhaled wearily. “It’s obvious you’re not going to treat us with dignity, Chief Copeland. I shouldn’t allow you to investigate our property—frankly, I doubt you have just cause to procure your search warrant—but I’m sick of listening to your insults and am eager to be rid of you and your lying friend. You may search on one condition.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You take Mr. Gentry with you.”

  “That’s it?” Copeland asked, grinning. “Well, hell. I was hoping old Kevin here would go with us anyway. He’ll make a great tour guide. Less of course he spots a woman in a brassiere on the way past one of those dorms and succumbs to an ungovernable urge to spank his monkey.”

  Joe bit the inside of his mouth to stifle laughter. Gentry looked like he might strangle Copeland.

  But Grayman moved toward the house without a word.

  Copeland called out, “Oh, and Pastor Grayman?”

  Grayman froze about ten feet from his back door, but the small man didn’t turn. “What?” he asked.

  “Joe’s not a liar. Oh, he’s got a lot of bad habits. Peeing on the seat, forgetting to say please and thank you. But he’s not dishonest. You’d be smart not to insult my friend again.”

  Grayman headed for the house, his stiff-limbed movements indicating plainly just how indignant he was.

  Joe watched him disappear into the house and said to Copeland, “You’re a real instigator, you know that?”

  “Bet your wife thinks I’m charming.”

  “Why’d she marry me then?”

  “You’re right,” Copeland said, starting toward the woods. “She must have questionable taste to marry a sad sack like you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  They’d trudged through the winding forest trail for perhaps ten minutes when Joe first spied a large, hulking shape through the branches and leaves.

  “That our destination?” Joe asked.

  But Gentry didn’t answer, only continued leading them down the tortuous path. Whoever had chosen this spot hadn’t done so for its accessibility, Joe decided. He wondered how far away the nearest neighbors were, how vast Grayman’s land was. He thought of asking, but figured Gentry either wouldn’t know, would make something up, or wouldn’t answer at all.

  A minute or so later they emerged into a clearing and stared up at a pitch-black structure. It wasn’t immense, but it was as big as most small town churches. Joe figured it would hold at least a hundred people, probably a few more. The roof was shingled with black shakers, the shakers either having been painted that color or perhaps even treated to look that way. The wood façade was the same scorched hue. Joe assumed the boards were pine or cedar, but it was hard to tell when they were so dark. The black building took up most of the clearing, the boughs of various old growth trees extending over the roof protectively.

  “What is this place?” Copeland said.

  “The Black Chapel,” Gentry answered.

  Joe eyed the ebony exterior but didn’t speak.

  “You going in or not?” Gentry said.

  Copeland glanced at their guide. “You sound agitated, Kevin. Something supposed to happen to us in there?”

  “Like what?” Gentry asked.

  Joe stared at his profile. His words had sounded easy enough, but his expression was tight.

  Copeland studied Gentry. “You know not to do anything stupid, don’t you?”

  “No one’s as smart as you,” Gentry said, looking like someone had just whispered the world’s greatest joke in his ear. Except there was no one else out here, not that Joe could see. Unless you counted the blackbirds sheltering under the chapel entryway.

  “Enough screwin’ around, Gentry,” Copeland said. “What’s waiting for us in there?”

  Gentry finally looked at them. His smile was somehow both cowardly and aggressive. “Now who’s afraid?”

  Copeland glanced at Joe. “See what he’s doing? Like we’re ten years old again. Standing outside some supposedly haunted house.”

  Joe nodded. “Daring us to go first.”

  “Door’s unlocked,” Gentry said with a grand gesture.

  “Shit,” Copeland muttered. Eyeing the black door ruefully, he made his way to the chapel.

  They were met with a room so large and murky Joe had the sensation they’d discovered some sprawling underground military bunker. Only this one, he saw from the scant light washing in through t
he doorway, had two rows of church pews, an aisle down the middle.

  Joe and Copeland waded into the murk.

  “Why the hell’s it so dark in here?” Copeland asked, and Joe detected the faintest hint of panic in his voice. He was pretty sure Gentry wouldn’t notice, but if you knew Copeland well enough, you could hear it. Joe couldn’t blame the chief for feeling tense. The skin of Joe’s arms had broken out in goose flesh.

  Gentry didn’t answer, only stood there in the doorway.

  Copeland looked around. “Why don’t you flip on some lights, Gentry?”

  “No electricity out here,” Gentry answered. “Or didn’t you notice the lack of wires?”

  “I’ve got a Maglite,” Joe said, fishing it out of his pocket. “It’s not much, but…” He shrugged and clicked it on, flicked it about the tenebrous space. He saw a raised area straight ahead. It seemed like the kind you’d see in a church, only there was no altar there, and there certainly wasn’t a big cross. Joe suspected the kind of worshipping they did here had as little connection to Jesus as Sharon Waltz had to Harvard or Yale. There did appear to be a piece of furniture up front, but Joe didn’t linger on it long enough to surmise its purpose.

  “What do you think?” Gentry asked.

  “I think this place needs airing out,” Copeland said. Joe noticed with a rush of misgiving that Copeland’s right hand had drifted to the handle of his .38. “Why aren’t there any windows?”

  “There are windows,” Gentry said. “All over the place.”

  And as Joe leveled the flashlight to their left, he saw that this was indeed the truth. Only the windows weren’t letting in any sunlight.

  “Wait a minute,” Joe said. He took a couple steps behind the back row of pews. The whole eastern wall of the chapel was lined with windows, but he saw as he moved closer that his Maglite beam was penetrating not only the glass, but several feet beyond. There was a space there, a long, narrow room bordering the main chapel.

  A face stared at him through the glass.

  “Jesus,” he hissed, fumbling the flashlight.

  By the time he got the Maglite under control and aimed it, the spot was empty. He’d almost begun to believe he’d imagined the whole thing when Copeland said, “Was that Shannon?”

  Joe swallowed, blinked at Copeland in the darkness. “What do you—”

  “The tattoos,” Copeland broke in angrily. “The tattoos, dammit. Didn’t you see ’em?”

  “Huh-uh,” Joe answered, and his voice was a raspy croak. He wanted out of this place, and he wanted out now.

  “All right, Gentry,” Copeland said, “I think we’ve seen—”

  But Copeland didn’t finish, and when Joe swung the light in his direction, he saw why.

  Gentry was gone.

  “Well, hell,” Copeland said. “I’ve had enough of this.”

  The door banged shut. There was the rattle of a lock. Joe’s belly tightened into a knot.

  Copeland started in that direction. “That little weasel. He thinks he’s gonna lock us in here, trap us like some kind of—”

  “You came willingly,” a voice interrupted from the front of the chapel.

  Joe whirled, the flashlight dancing over the front wall, over what looked like a series of red and black tapestries, until he finally picked out a shape in the foreground.

  Someone was sitting in the front pew.

  “That you, Gentry?” Copeland asked, but Joe knew right away it wasn’t. Not only because he was certain it had been Gentry who’d shut the door on them, but because of the shape of the figure’s shoulders, its slender neck and head.

  Joe recognized that figure.

  Scarface rose to his full height, the man like a pale human walking stick.

  Scarface was totally naked.

  Copeland’s voice was thick with fear. “Hey, man, we didn’t mean to interrupt anything. You want, you can go back to doing whatever it was you were doing.”

  But there was something wrong with Scarface. His eyes, Joe saw, were completely white. And there was something glinting on his chest, some dark gruel Joe wanted to believe was ketchup or barbecue sauce or something other than what he knew it was, knew it even before he saw what was clutched in Scarface’s left hand.

  “Oh hell,” Copeland said, drawing his weapon.

  Scarface, his white eyes agleam with lunatic rapture, took one step in their direction and heaved the human arm at them. In the split second before he lost track of it in the gloom, Joe saw where the flesh had been gnawed, saw that the arm had belonged to a woman, or a man with hairless skin.

  Joe thought Copeland would open up on the crazed cannibal, but the man darted behind the pews before the chief could nail him.

  “We love to watch the hunters at work,” a voice from their right said. But it was weirdly muffled, as if overheard from another room. Joe swung the flashlight around, realized the voice had come from another room—or rather another section of the chapel. The windowed partition between the pews and the exterior wall was crammed with faces, some of them familiar, most of them not. Joe assumed that the majority had been present the day Angie Waltz was buried, but in the end it mattered very little. They were all on the wrong side—Grayman’s side. Sharon Waltz’s side. Hell, maybe some of them had belonged to Antonia Baxter’s clutch of ghouls, though none of the faces looked old enough to go back that far.

  Grayman spoke again. “It’s long been part of our tradition, Mr. Crawford. The hunting. It has protected our way of life when threatened and provided us with a suitable diversion while we’ve waited.”

  “Waited for what?” Copeland said, but his question was half-hearted. He was busy scanning the chapel, the nose of his .38 probing the darkness like a frightened bloodhound.

  Joe moved the flashlight to their left and saw with little surprise that the eastern wall was now full of faces as well.

  One of them was Sharon Waltz’s.

  He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised, but seeing her ravenous stare was still a kick in the belly.

  At least, Joe thought grimly, the fact that the entire cult was here made it likelier that Michelle and Lily had gotten cleanly away. With any luck they were secure at Joe’s in-laws. He gritted his teeth, wondering if maybe he should’ve sent them to a hotel instead, told them to stay there under an alias. Because Michelle’s parents could be tracked and found. What if someone had been dispatched to drive down to Indianapolis? What if—

  Copeland tapped him on the arm. “Hey, Joe, you mind shinin’ that light somewhere other than those folks’ faces? I mean, they’re pretty and all, but I’m a trifle more concerned with the bastards that’re in here with us.”

  “The hunters,” Grayman said from behind the glass.

  “You’re a shitty preacher,” Copeland muttered.

  The big cop backed up against Joe. Copeland’s body heat was intense, the man’s polo shirt soaked through with perspiration. Joe was sweating too, but he felt colder than January frost.

  “Anything you can use as a weapon?” Copeland whispered.

  Joe thought a moment. He stuffed a shaking hand into his hip pocket. “I’ve got this pocketknife.” He pulled it out, opened the little blade. He glanced down at it. The thing looked like a fingernail cleaner.

  Copeland bent down.

  “What are you—” Joe began to ask, then jumped as something was shoved against his hip. He realized it was Copeland’s hand. Taking care not to stab his friend with the pocketknife, he grasped what Copeland held.

  A gun.

  “This your .38?” Joe asked, examining it.

  “Hell no, numbnuts, it’s not my .38. I carry more than one.”

  “Is the safety on?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Copeland hissed. “I’d rather them not know you’re armed. It’ll give us better odds.”

  “What ar
e our odds?”

  “Terrible,” Copeland said and swung the Smith & Wesson toward a shadow behind them. As Joe speared the shadow with the flashlight, Copeland opened up, the two rounds exploding in the silence of the chapel, yellow tongues of fire licking from the end of the black barrel.

  “You get him?” Joe asked in the silence that followed.

  The sounds of someone scrambling along the rear of the chapel told him Copeland hadn’t.

  “The safety’s on the left side,” Copeland said. “Get ready.”

  “For what?”

  “Shoot anything that moves. Just don’t hit me.”

  “Hell,” Joe said. He pinned the Maglite in his armpit while he switched off the safety. Then he grasped the flashlight, aimed it into the murk, and tracked the narrow beam with the barrel of the gun.

  “Be ready,” Copeland said.

  Joe shone the Maglite around the chapel, but other than the staring faces of the spectators, he spotted nothing.

  Yet the chapel now seemed alive with rustlings.

  Joe swallowed. “Let’s just head for the door.”

  “Best idea I’ve heard today,” Copeland said, beginning to creep in that direction.

  Movement to their left drew Joe’s flashlight beam. For a moment there was what appeared to be an elbow, maybe someone’s blue-jeaned hip. Then it was gone, presumably scuttling under the pews.

  Unaccountably, Joe had an image of gigantic sewer rats scurrying toward him. Jesus. He was gripped by a wild, body-racking shiver.

  Copeland seemed to pick up on it. “Almost there, Joe. Stay with me.”

  Okay, Joe thought. He’d stay with Copeland. He’d stay with him all the way until the door, and then they’d blow the damned thing open if they had to. After that he’d set the world land speed record getting back to Copeland’s car.

  “Don’t you want to know whose arm that was?” Grayman called from the glassed room.

  “Not particularly,” Copeland answered in a tight voice.