Black's Creek

by Sam Millar

  I wrapped a floppy arm around my neck and attempted to heave him up from the floor, but his dead weight was far too much for me.

  ‘Dad? You’ve got to get up. C’mon!’ There was annoyance in my voice now. I tried again to shift him, and once again failed. Defeated, I stood over him. ‘If Mom could see you now. Look at the state you’re in.’

  A groggy, hesitant response came from his mouth. ‘What … is it? … What do … want? Who … who you?’

  Dad was never a drinker, per se. Yes, he would have a beer watching baseball on the TV while cheering on the New York Mets, but other that that, he was little-league, especially if you compared him to Aunt Katherine down in Jersey, with her .300 batting average of slugging down Jack Daniel’s Old No.7. I had never seen Dad drunk. Ever. After tonight, I wouldn’t be able to say that again.

  ‘C’mon, Dad. Let’s get you to bed.’ I pulled at his arm. ‘It’s me, Tommy.’

  ‘Tommy …? Oh! Tommy! Good old Tommy … let’s have a drink to good old Tommy.’ His voice was slurred. It scared me to hear its ragged rhythm. Slowly, he moved, pushing himself up, guided by my pull. The skin of his face was crisscrossed with carpet creases and angry red blotches. Beside him lay the diary, open.

  ‘C’mon, Dad. I’ll help you into bed.’

  Dad swooned slightly before steadying himself. Bloodshot veins collected at the corners of his tired eyes. He patted me on the cheek.

  ‘You’re a good son … a damn good son …’

  ‘I know. The best in the world. Now, let’s be having you. You’ll feel a lot better in the morning.’ That was when I noticed the dried stains on his face, like a snail trail on garden stones. He had obviously been crying. I was shocked. Dad always said, crying never solved a single thing. Crying was for the dying – not the living, not even the dead.

  ‘A bourbon. I need a shot of bourbon, Tommy. Get me the bottle of Jim Beam from the bottom drawer in my desk, will you? Just to dampen my thirst. Know what I mean?’ Dad winked.

  ‘You’ve had enough to drink, Dad. Let’s get you to bed. Mom’ll be home shortly. You don’t want her to see you like this.’

  ‘Mom? Ha! Didn’t you hear?’ Dad laughed sarcastically. ‘She isn’t coming back. It’s just you and me, Son. Your mother’s had enough of a failure like me for a husband and sheriff.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that,’ I replied, trying to sound calm. The alcohol was confusing him. He had his facts all wrong. Mom would be back. I was certain of it. Almost. ‘You’re the best sheriff the town has ever had. Everyone knows that. You’re not a failure.’

  ‘Not a failure? God help us if that’s true. All those kids dead because I let a monster outwit me … useless …’ He pulled at his badge, ripping the cotton from his shirt as if it were paper. He flung the badge angrily across the room. ‘I’m not worthy to have that, pinned like a peacock to my chest.’

  It took me almost half an hour to coerce and cajole him into bed. By the time I was finished, I was exhausted mentally and physically. I wished now that I’d stayed at Horseshoe’s, instead of witnessing Dad’s drunken humiliation.

  I went back to the hub to get Dad’s badge, and just as I spotted it in the corner, something else caught my peripheral. An object, black and lumpy. I knew what it was, even before I picked it up: Dad’s service revolver.

  Something wasn’t right. Dad was strict when it came to guns. Drunk or sober, he would empty the gun’s chambers and lock it away in the gun cabinet.

  Cautiously but expertly, holding the weapon away from my face, I checked it. I was shocked. It was loaded. Even more worryingly, the safety catch was off. A big no-no in Dad’s bible: Never ever take the safety off. Once you take that off, you only have the safety net of quick thinking to prevent your happy little trigger finger determining the outcome …

  ‘What were you going to do, Dad?’ I picked the diary up from the floor. I read the open page in a whisper. ‘Payment of some sort has to be made. Ultimately, we all have to pay the piper, sooner or later …’

  That was when I finally decided to kill Armstrong. For Joey and Devlin, for Jordan Taylor and all the other nameless victims whose lives he had shattered. I wouldn’t allow Armstrong to torment Dad any more, or to destroy our family. I wouldn’t allow Dad to go to jail.

  It was time to face the monster. To slay it. On my own.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Preparing to Hunt the Monster

  Facing it – always facing it – that’s the way to get through. Face it!

  Joseph Conrad

  The next morning at breakfast, Dad was hurting – in more ways than one. He hadn’t shaved, and looked old and dishevelled. His bloodshot eyes squinted across the table at my own lack-of-sleep bloodshot eyes. I couldn’t read his mind, but I could guess he was more than embarrassed about last night.

  I placed a plate of burnt toast and watery eggs down in front of him, alongside a cup of coffee. Dregs, larger than nail heads, haplessly rearranged themselves in iffy oily patterns on the surface of the coffee. Dad looked at the liquid suspiciously, before turning his attention on me.

  ‘Did you go to bed late, Tommy? Your eyes look kinda red.’

  ‘No later than usual.’ Oh, I was up all night, planning the perfect murder.

  ‘What … what time did I come home at?’

  I shrugged my shoulders, and tried to sound casual. ‘Don’t know. I was at Horseshoe’s. Oh, I’ll be staying over there tonight, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Is it okay with the Coopers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then it’s okay with me.’

  ‘We’re doing a Monster Night special.’

  ‘Monster Night? Shouldn’t you keep that stuff for Halloween?’

  ‘Any dark night’s good for Monster Night.’

  ‘Well, just make sure you behave yourself.’

  ‘Mrs Cooper doesn’t take any crap.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t. That’s why Horseshoe is such a good kid. Got good parents.’

  ‘You haven’t touched your breakfast. It’s not too bad, if I say so myself.’ I forced some nearly-cooked egg down my throat, even though my stomach was knotted. I almost retched.

  ‘I don’t feel like eating right now. I’ll have something later.’ He pushed the plate away, before sipping bravely on the coffee. ‘Great coffee, though. Hitting the spot.’

  ‘Good to the last drop,’ I sang.

  Dad forced a smile, and then became serious. ‘Listen, Tommy. I’ve a load of work to do, over at the jail. I’ll probably be out most of the day. You’re going to have to fend for yourself until I get back. Is that okay?’

  ‘Sure.’ Since sitting down, neither of us had dared to mention Mom.

  ‘There’s plenty of food in the fridge. Any problems, you’ve got my number.’

  ‘I’ll probably be in Horseshoe’s anyway, so I’ll probably not see you until tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll do the washing up,’ Dad said, pushing away from the table, coffee in hand. ‘Then I’ll get going.’

  An hour later, he was dressed and shaven and looking almost like his old self. He was preparing to leave when I stopped him at the door.

  ‘You must have dropped this, Dad,’ I said, reaching out my hand, revealing his badge. ‘I buffed it up a little, to make sure it shines.’

  Dad stared at the badge, and then sheepishly at me.

  ‘Thanks, Son,’ was all he said, before disappearing out the door, badge in a closed fist.

  The moment I heard the car leaving, I quickly ran upstairs to the hub. I grabbed Dad’s flashlight, before heading into my room to get dressed in heavy winter clothing. Suitably attired, I made my way to the back of the house and grabbed a shovel. There was only one thing on my mind, and I needed to act fast.

  On the journey to Black’s Cemetery, I hoped for two things: firstly, not to run into Horseshoe or Brent; and secondly, that what I had come to look for was still there.

  The snow-covered cemetery gave me the shits even more than
usual when I finally arrived. It was deathly quiet – as Horseshoe liked to wisecrack – but there was something additionally ominous about today’s deathly quietness. I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting to be ambushed at any moment by some sort of graveyard ghoul; worse, Armstrong, leaping from behind one of the tombstones, grabbing me.

  It took me almost twenty minutes to locate the old uprooted tree, and as I began shoveling away the snow surrounding it, I hoped beyond hope that it still concealed the Luger. I wasn’t certain the gun was still here. There was a strong possibility that Brent would have moved it to another spot, after the botched ‘hit’ on Armstrong. But one thing I was certain of – he wouldn’t have got rid of it totally. Too tempting. Too powerful a tool in his inventory of bad-guy muscle.

  When the shovel finally hit something metallic, my heart skipped a beat. Suddenly, I was torn. It was one of Dad’s paradoxes – I wanted the gun to be there, knowing what had to be done; but a big part of me wanted the gun gone, fearful of the consequences that would most certainly follow if my plan went belly-up.

  I kneeled down, and pulled away the remaining dirt with my hands. The Luger had been rewrapped in its protective covering of polythene. I quickly picked it up. It felt heavier than before. I glanced nervously over my shoulder, before shoving the gun inside my winter jacket.

  As I left the cemetery, the gun inside my jacket seemed to be coming to life, almost breathing. As if it had found its rightful owner. Finally.

  Chapter Thirty

  Bloody Revenge

  As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moor.

  Arthur Conan Doyle, The Hound of the Baskervilles

  Mrs Cooper went all-out in making me feel welcome, with a meal that would have choked a giraffe: fried chicken, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, homemade apple pie, all washed down with buckets of fresh orange juice. It was more a banquet than a meal. I think Mrs Cooper still sensed something was wrong back at home, and was trying to ‘food comfort’ me. Perhaps all moms had this uncanny gift of knowing things just weren’t right, without being told?

  ‘More chicken, Tommy?’

  ‘Phew! No thank you, Mrs Cooper. That was great. I’m stuffed.’

  ‘Don’t offer Tommy any more, Mom,’ Horseshoe grinned. ‘He’ll be stinking tonight with his farts.’

  I felt my face go on fire, as Horseshoe and Mr Cooper burst out laughing. Thankfully, Mrs Cooper came to my rescue.

  ‘Don’t speak so crudely, Charles Cooper, and especially in front of guests. I never find it funny.’

  She gave Horseshoe the same kind of look Mom gave me whenever I became a bad page in her book.

  About an hour later, we went up to Horseshoe’s room to get everything prepared for Monster Night.

  Horseshoe’s room was a shrine to superheroes and monsters. He had every Aurora monster kit on the market, ranged on shelves lining the walls of his room. Frankenstein, Dracula, Wolf Man, The Mummy, et al., all meticulously constructed, each intricate and tiny piece lovingly attached, shaping and granting life to them.

  The one that always gave me the creeps was ‘The Forgotten Prisoner of Castel-Maré’, with its raggedly-dressed skeleton chained to the dungeon wall. It always made me shudder to think of being left to starve to death in a dungeon, alone, with no family or friends to remember you. A horrible way to die. No family or friends to remember you … just like Jordan.

  ‘How do you sleep in here at night, Horseshoe?’ I said, trying to get Jordan’s face out of my head. ‘Wouldn’t you rather have Green Lantern or Spider-Man up on the shelves, watching over you, instead of all these monsters?’

  ‘Where’s the fun in that? Night and darkness belongs to monsters. It doesn’t belong to superheroes.’

  For a moment, I thought about what he had just said. It was profound in a way, and made me think about what I planned to do. Night belongs to monsters. Was I a monster or a superhero?

  ‘C’mon, Tommy. Let’s close the curtains, and get some sheets to make the tent. I can’t wait.’

  ‘Do you ever feel guilty, not inviting Brent to your house?’ I said, as we pulled the curtains across.

  Horseshoe made a face. ‘Yeah, course I do, but my parents don’t even know he’s my friend. They’d freak out. They say his parents are criminals.’

  ‘That’s not fair, calling Mrs Fleming a criminal,’ I said, a bit too forcefully. ‘She’s got nothing to do with all that crap about drugs in Florida.’

  ‘Why’re you snapping at me? It’s not my fault what my parents think. Anyway, you’ve never invited him to your house either, so don’t talk. Bet your parents don’t like him.’

  Even though he was right, I didn’t like the tone in his voice. I was about to let him know what I thought of it when I realised I would be blowing everything for the sake of an argument. I decided to change the subject.

  ‘You better have extra underwear for tonight,’ I said, an evil grin forming on my lips. ‘When I’m finished with my special horror story, you’re gonna be shitting tons.’

  ‘Yeah? We’ll see, Vincent Price. I don’t scare easy …’

  Monster Night was ‘a howling success’, Horseshoe wisecracked afterwards, as we sat on the floor, finishing off the last of our Swiss Miss hot chocolate and marshmallows.

  ‘Shit, Tommy, that was your best one yet. Bet you’re gonna be a bestselling author one day.’

  ‘Dream on.’

  ‘Seriously, I almost jumped out of my skin when you grabbed me in the dark by the neck, just as the zombie was about to strangle the old lady in the kitchen.’

  ‘I told you you’d need extra underwear.’

  We both laughed, Brent long forgotten.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m beat.’ Horseshoe yawned loudly.

  ‘Yeah, me too.’ I forced a false yawn. The night was getting heavier outside, and I needed to be out there in its hidden blackness.

  ‘We had a great time, didn’t we?’ Horseshoe said, crawling into the bottom bunk.

  ‘We sure as hell did. Thanks for letting me stay over, Horseshoe. I really enjoyed it.’

  ‘It’s great having you stay. I only hope I don’t have any nightmares from your stories.’ I could detect Horseshoe’s voice tiring, as he fought the wave of sleep about to engulf him.

  ‘If you don’t have nightmares, then I failed as a storyteller.’

  ‘Wake me if you hear me screaming.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Goodnight, Tommy,’ were his last words, half-muffled by his quilt.

  ‘Goodnight, Horseshoe. See you in the morning, pal.’

  With the lights dead, Horseshoe’s monsters glowed eerily on the shelves, like miniature lighthouses bathed in fog. I wished now I could stay in bed, warm and safe, rather than face what awaited me out in the freezing snow and wind.

  Before the dark shifted too far into morning, I checked the luminous face on my Dick Tracey watch. Two hours had almost gone by, touching the dangerous side of three in the morning. I listened to Horseshoe snoring softly from below.

  ‘Horseshoe?’ I whispered.

  No answer.

  ‘Horseshoe?’ Much louder.

  Nothing. He was dead to the world. Just as I thought of that phrase, I wished I hadn’t.

  Easing out of the top bunk, I dressed as quickly and as silently as possible. Under his warm covers, Horseshoe tossed and turned, mumbled something about zombies, farted, and then went quiet.

  I quickly made a body shape in my bed, just in case the Coopers came snooping, and then went to the window. Outside, snow was falling thickly, and the wind was violently whistling. I steeled myself for the cold, then eased the window open just enough to squeeze through. Edging my way precariously onto the thick branch protruding from the tree, I closed the window behind me, leaving a notch of a gap for my return.

  If I returned …

  The branch was covered in icy, compacted snow, and I almost slipped off twice. Finally managing to secure myself, I made it into
the tree house. Inside, I steadied my nerves for a few seconds, and then began unrolling the rope ladder.

  Safe on the ground, I made a dash for the side of the house. The streets were deserted, everyone already where they wanted to be. The darkness had settled, curling cat-ways for the night, and the town was a startlingly quiet wasteland.

  In scattered windows, fluorescent lights flickered like candles on forgotten birthday cakes.

  Ignoring all last-minute appeals for reason coming from my subconscious, I quickly exited the street, feeling a strange momentum hurrying me along. The wind, strong and gusty, tore up the last layers of thought swimming through my head.

  I quickly proceeded in the direction of Armstrong’s lair. The twisty road looked eerie. A ghost’s entrails. Overhead, telephone wires were iced, trembling like piano strings. They made a creepy sound, like a dirge for the dead.

  The take-no-prisoners snowstorm had seriously dulled and diluted visibility. What would normally be a twenty-minute walk took almost an hour. Every now and again, the chalky headlights of a lone car would come my way, and I had to find a shadow to hide in. Strange, despite the temperature being sub-zero, I couldn’t feel the cold. Adrenaline was burning throughout my body. I wondered had I left it too late to reach Armstrong’s lair before light would start pouring over the hills? I had to get back to Horseshoe’s before morning. He would be my iron-clad alibi. Not that I would need one, hopefully. I kept thinking of what Brent had said, during that summer: We’re just three kids. Who’d suspect us? He was right – who’d suspect a kid of carrying out a murder? The bigger question was, could this kid carry out this murder?

  At last, the derelict hardware store came into sight. Déjà vu. I entered the building from the side. The interior was heavily dark, funerary, like the lining of a painted jar. I quickly switched on the flashlight. It created a spooky effect, making elongated shadows dance in jittery motion. To make matters worse, a large rat scurried out of nowhere, unhinging my already frayed nerves. I instinctively threw the flashlight at the vile creature. In a moment, the room was plunged into total darkness as the flashlight smashed upon a wall instead of the rat.