by Jeremy Bates
“That we do.” Spencer stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Cleave, what would you think about leading the next mass?”
“Me?” Cleavon said, surprised.
“You don’t want to?”
“It ain’t that. It’s just…I don’t know none of that Greek mumbo jumbo.”
“Latin mumbo jumbo. And the mass doesn’t have to be led in Latin. You can recall most of the English parts can’t you?”
“Sure…probably.” He shrugged. “I guess.”
“Then you’ll do fine.”
Cleavon cocked an eye suspiciously. “Why you offering to let me lead the mass?”
“It seems in our excitement we forgot to post a sentry out front the church.” A brief uproar followed this announcement, which Spencer promptly cut off. “Calm down, gentlemen. Calm down. We simply won’t make the same oversight twice.”
“I’ll go, Mr. Pratt,” Jesse Gordon said. “I don’t mind. The old pecker’s not what it used to be, and I’m not sure I could get it up for another go anyway.”
“Thank you, Jesse,” Spencer replied, “but my libido isn’t what it used to be either. Also, to be perfectly frank, without my robes and headgear I don’t feel comfortable leading the mass. The psychodrama is not at the level it should be.” He started walking toward the double front doors. “Collect yourselves, gentlemen,” he added over his shoulder. “Take your time with her, enjoy her, for she will be our last sacrifice for some time.”
“You holler you see that girl!” Cleavon called.
“You’ll hear me.”
Outside, beneath the black, weeping sky, Spencer went to the Volvo, popped the trunk, and retrieved the two lengths of half-inch chain and the two heavy-duty padlocks he’d kept there since deciding on Mother of Sorrows church as the venue for his contingency plan.
He secured the doors on the east side of the church first, looping one chain through the sturdy brass handles several times before attaching a padlock. He repeated this procedure with the front doors. Both times he tested his handiwork, tugging the handles quietly.
Spencer had always been curious as to how he would feel when the occasion inevitably arose when he would have to murder his brothers. They weren’t nameless, random women. He had grown up with them, went to school with them, opened presents on Christmas day with them. They were blood. He had hoped he would feel regret or sadness—those would be the appropriate emotions one should feel in such a situation—but as it turned out he didn’t feel anything. Their deaths would be meaningless to him.
Back at the Volvo’s trunk Spencer withdrew the red jerry can, unscrewed the cap, and walked the circumference of the church, splashing a line of gasoline behind him. When he met up with where he’d begun, he lit a match and dropped it in the gas. Flames whooshed to life and chased the flammable fluid around the wooden building like a line of falling dominoes.
A sense of accomplishment filled Spencer. It was done. Everyone inside the church would meet their fiery deaths shortly. There would be no one left who knew about the Mary Atwater incident. Moreover, they would take the fall not only for the murders this evening, but for each and every murder over the past twenty-four months. The police would raid the House in the Woods and find eight skeletons buried out back. They might not be able to explain who was responsible for locking and burning the church to the ground, but they wouldn’t have any reason to suspect Spencer. It would remain a mystery, which, in the big picture, wouldn’t matter anyway—because the main culprits were dead, justice was served.
Spencer, of course, could not continue with the Satanic masses on his own, at least not in Boston Mills. This would be a shame. He had become comfortable with the arrangement he’d orchestrated. Nevertheless, a return to his old ways would be its own relief. He would no longer have to worry about other people talking, other people screwing up. He would once again be wholeheartedly in control of his fate.
“Goodbye, gentlemen,” Spencer said as the heat from the quickly escalating fire rose against his face. “Be sure to give our fair Lucifer my salutations when you see him.”
CHAPTER 26
“It’s been a funny sort of day, hasn’t it?”
Shaun of the Dead (2004)
The storm continued to strengthen, the torrent of driving raindrops turning the surface of Stanford Road into a furious boil. The first peal of thunder rumbled ominously in the dark sky, almost directly overhead.
Greta, more skipping than walking, said, “How are you feeling?”
Beetle rubbed rainwater from his eyes. “Wet.”
Greta laughed, tilted her head to the heavens, and stuck out her tongue, to catch the raindrops on it. “I love walking in the rain.”
“You’re in the minority.”
“Then you should have brought an umbrella, Herr Beetle.” She smiled crookedly at him. “Are you still drunk?”
Yeah, he was. Drunk and stoned and a bit squishy inside. But walking in the midst of a storm had a way of sobering you up. “I’m fine,” he said.
“You don’t talk much, do you?”
“We’re talking right now.”
“Because I’m talking to you. I think if I never said anything, you might not either.”
Beetle wondered about that. He supposed she was right. He’d never been much of a talker, especially with strangers. And although Greta was no longer really a stranger—more like the talkative girl at a party who wouldn’t leave you alone—he was in no mood for chitchat. In fact, he was already beginning to second-guess his decision to come along on this witch hunt or whatever it was.
He hunched his shoulders against the rain and dug his fists deeper into his pant pockets.
“See!” Greta said.
“Huh?” he said, glancing sidelong at her. Her eyes were sparkling, her wet face glowing. She was really getting off being out in a storm.
“I didn’t say anything, to see if you would say something, and you didn’t.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
Greta rolled her eyes. “Nothing. That isn’t the point. Talking doesn’t have to be about something. You can just talk to talk.”
Beetle nodded, realized this didn’t qualify as speaking, didn’t want to get reprimanded again, and so said, “Got it.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
The question surprised him—and angered him. “No.”
“I don’t either,” she said. “A boyfriend, I mean. I’m too tall.”
“To have a boyfriend?”
“No man wants to date a woman taller than themselves. Only movie stars don’t seem to care. Unfortunately, I don’t know any movie stars.”
Beetle glanced at Greta again. She must have been six feet, maybe six-one—his height, though likely two thirds his weight. She wore a red rain slicker over a white T-shirt. The slicker was unzipped, the tee soaked through. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
“You know,” she said, “it’s nice walking next to someone as tall as I am. I don’t feel like a freak.”
“You’re not a freak.”
“I was at a zoo last week, the one in Toronto. There were these young children there with their teachers on a school field trip. You should have seen how they all looked up at me, with these big, curious eyes, the same way they looked at the animals. I stick out like a blue thumb.”
“A sore thumb.”
“A blue thumb doesn’t stick out?”
“I guess. But the saying is a sore thumb.”
“I like blue thumb. I think a blue thumb sticks out more than a sore thumb.”
“Why would you have a blue thumb?”
“Hey,” she said, “do you think if we had babies, they would be tall too?” Her eyes shone with bright mischievousness. “Don’t worry,” she added, “I’m not proposing we have a baby. I don’t even know you. And you’re too quiet to be my husband. I’m just wondering if you think we would have tall babies.”
Beetle shrugged. “Babies aren’t tall.”
“Some are.”
<
br /> “No, they’re not—inherently not. The same way ice isn’t warm.”
“Are you making a joke?”
“I’m pointing out a truism.”
“No, I think you made a joke.” She clapped her hands. “I can’t believe it! Herr Beetle has a sense of humor. Tell me something else funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke—” Beetle stopped abruptly. Aside from the machinegun-like patter of rain he thought he could hear the sound of an approaching engine. “A car’s coming,” he said.
“So?” Greta said.
Headlights appeared from around a bend ahead of them. Beetle took Greta’s arm and steered her into the vegetation lining the verge until they were concealed behind a large tree.
“Kinky, mister,” she said.
“It’s coming from the direction of the church.”
“Oh!” she whispered. “You think…?”
The headlights merged into a blinding white light. For a moment Beetle felt unacceptably exposed. He pressed his body against Greta’s, wanting to blende further into the shadows. The car roared past, the sound of the engine faded, then they were alone once more.
Beetle realized his lips were inches from Greta’s, his chest pressed against hers. Embarrassed, he led her back to the road. Her cheeks were flushed. Her erect nipples pressed against the fabric of her drenched shirt. She noticed him notice this.
Beetle looked away. “Guess we missed it,” he said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“The mass,” he said. “If that was one of the Satanists, it seems the party’s over.”
“We don’t know who that was. It could have been anyone.”
“At this hour—?”
“Sue dumm fuhrt!” Greta said. “Don’t give up so easy on things, Herr Beetle.” She took his hand in hers. “Now come on! There still might be time.”
CHAPTER 27
“Sometimes dead is better.”
Pet Sematary (1989)
Cleavon had been the first to smell the smoke. They had replaced the blonde with the Asian on the altar—she’d been a bitch to tie down, fighting as if she really did have a demon inside her—and as Cleavon stood in front of her, trying to think how to begin the black mass, he detected the unmistakable smell of smoke. For a moment he wondered if someone was burning leaves before remembering the nearest neighbor was the motel some two miles away. He said, “Can you smell that?”
“That ain’t how you start the mass, Cleave!” Earl said. “First you gotta cross yourself backwards, that’s what you gotta do first—”
“Jess,” he said, “you smell that?”
Jesse was sniffing the air. “Sure do, Cleave.”
“Something’s burning, I reckon,” Weasel said.
“What the fuck’s Spence doing?” Cleavon growled. “Staring a fuckin’ signal fire for the girl?”
Tossing aside the little bell he’d been holding—it landed on the altar with a small ding!—he snatched the flashlight and marched up the aisle to the front doors. Jesse and Weasel followed close behind him, with Earl and Floyd bringing up the rear. He gripped the brass door handle and immediately released it, crying out in pain. He spun in a clumsy pirouette, flapping his scorched hand in the air. “Jeeeeee-zus!”
“What is it, what happened?” Earl asked, reaching for the handle next.
“Don’t touch that!” Cleavon said, slapping Earl’s hand clear. “It’s hot!”
“Why the hell’s it hot?” Jesse said.
Cleavon kicked the door hard with his right foot. It didn’t budge.
“It’s stuck?” Weasel said, kicking the door himself to no avail.
“Mr. Pratt?” Jesse called. “Hey-o! Mr. Pratt!”
There was no answer.
Understanding dawned on Cleavon, and a body-wide coldness slipped beneath his skin. “The motherfucker!” he mumbled.
“Who?” Jesse asked, staring at him with eyes expecting the worst.
Cleavon, however, barely heard him. He was numbed. His goddamn bastard of a brother had double-crossed them all! No wonder he hadn’t given a damn about finding the bitch who’d gotten away. She’d never seen him.
“Cleave?” Earl said, worried. “What’s happening, Cleave? Cleave?”
“Bust them down, Earl!” Cleavon told him, pointing at the doors. “Bust them hard as you can!”
Earl shoved Weasel aside and raised his massive boot and slammed it into the crack where the doors met. The doors shook but held.
“Again!” Cleavon shouted.
Earl kicked a second time, and a third, and a fourth.
“It ain’t working, Cleave!” he cried. “They’re too strong!”
Cleavon’s shock and anger was quickly giving way to blistering fear.
They were trapped.
They were going to roast alive.
Spencer wouldn’t have attempted something like this had he not been convinced it would work.
My brother! he thought, his mind reeling. My own fucking brother!
Then again, was he really surprised Spencer could orchestrate something so heartless? Two years ago he would have been, back before Spencer showed up at the house with that Mary woman, both of them bloodied and smashed up. Because before then Spencer might still have been a holier-than-thou asshole, but that had been all. After that night, however—that’s when Cleavon began to see his older brother in an entirely new light. It wasn’t the revelation that Spencer was okay with killing. Hell, as it turned out, the whole merry lot of them were okay with killing. Life was a spiteful whore, and you had to do what you had to do sometimes to make yourself happy. So it wasn’t that Spencer was okay with the killing; it was that he actually enjoyed it. Jesse and Weasel, Earl and Floyd, himself too, they were in this devil worship stuff for the sex. That first woman, that Mary, she got them hooked on the black masses like junkies on heroin. This was not so much the case with Spencer, who always seemed more interested when he was looking in the women’s eyes in those last few seconds before they died, as if he were seeing something there no one else could see.
So, no, maybe Cleavon wasn’t surprised to discover Spencer had it in him to murder his own brothers. Maybe he wasn’t surprised at all.
Cleavon directed the flashlight beam around the church’s sanctuary. Three stained-glass windows lined the east wall, three the west wall, each a dozen feet tall, two feet in diameter, tapering to pointed tips. Earl could boost him up to one, but it would do not good. They were all secured with steel mesh on the outside to protect against vandals and the elements.
“Well don’t just stand there looking pretty, boys!” he quipped. “Get looking for another way out!”
They searched every dark corner of the church. The only other set of doors they found turned out to be locked as tightly as those at the front.
Think, Cleave! he told himself, turning in a circle, panicking. Think!
But how could he? The scene was chaos. Earl wailing like a little kid. Floyd holding his ears and making that retarded deaf sound he made. Weasel and Jesse both shouting for instructions.
“Shut up!” he exploded, wiping sweat from his brow. It was as hot as hell in summer. “The lot of you! Earl! Shut the fuck up!”
They went quiet.
Cleavon’s eyes fell on the dead blonde. A great sadness welled inside him. Not for her. For himself. Because shortly he was going to be dead too. Dead and crisped so black the sheriff will be identifying him by his teeth.
And I just unloaded two hundred bills on a new carburetor for the Mustang in the garage, and I ain’t even gonna get a chance to install it. Ain’t that a bitch, ain’t that just a goddamn, motherfucking bitch.
His eyes drifted to the pew the blonde was lying on, then the pew’s clawed wooden feet.
They weren’t bolted into the floor.
An idea forming in his mind, Cleavon rushed to the pew, shoved the woman’s body to the floor, and gripped the pew beneath the seat. He managed to rock it back an inch. “Boys!” he rasp
ed in the dry air. “Give me a hand here! We got ourselves a battering ram!”
With Cleavon and Earl on one side, Weasel and Jesse and Floyd on the other, they lifted the pew between them, swung it perpendicular, and carried it up the aisle. On Cleavon’s instruction they set it down still some distance from the front doors.
“This is it, boys!” he said, shaking his spaghettied arms. “On the count of three we charge those doors like it’s nobody’s business! Y’all ready? Y’all fuckin’ ready?”
“Ready, Cleave!” Earl said.
The others concurred with equal enthusiasm.
“On the count of three!” Cleavon said. They lifted the pew simultaneously. “One! Two! Three!”
They rushed the double doors, shouting like a pack of crazies.
The front of the pew crashed into the doors straight on—and came to a bone-jarring stop. Everyone’s momentum caused them to release the pew and torpedo into the doors themselves. Cleavon and Earl bounced backward, lost their balance, and collapsed to the floor in a mix up of limbs.
“Shoot, Cleave,” Earl said after a dazed moment. “That didn’t work real good, did it?”
CHAPTER 28
“We all go a little mad sometimes”
Psycho (1960)
Beetle and Greta stared in disbelief at the white wooden church with the upside down crosses incorporated into its architecture. It was engulfed in a glowing red fire that blazed against the black night. The flames, undeterred by the downpour, licked as high as the overhanging soffits, crackling and popping as they consumed the buckling weatherboards. Clouds of thick, acrid smoke streamed upward into the sky.
Beetle and Greta had frozen at the sight of the inferno when they’d breasted the summit of the hill on which the church had been built. Now they rushed past the two parked cars toward the front doors, where they stopped and stared again at the chain wound through the door handles and cinched together by a large bronze padlock.
“What the hell?” Beetle said.
“Hey!” Greta shouted, cupping her mouth with her hands. “Hello in there! Hey! Can you hear me?”
