Fear Club- A Confession

by Damian Stephens

  “No! Not the key. I know that. Molly!” “Oh,” Steve said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Julie chimed in. I groaned again.

  “She’s probably fine?” Steve offered. “Right?” I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

  “Right,” I agreed.

  “I mean, those guys were chasing the thing—” Julie started.

  “Oh, hell, yeah!” Steve broke in. “Was that not awesome? Monster hunters! They were chasing it! That’s kind of like Fear Club, you know?”

  I sat up in the back seat and gazed out the window. “Where are we?”

  “Somewhere way out on 101st Street,” Julie said. “I think.”

  “We need to find a new HQ and get to figuring this whole thing out,” Steve said. “It looks like ‘Charley’ wrote us out a map of some sort, but what he’s implying is just crazy wild.”

  I rubbed my eyes. The adrenaline was starting to take its toll on me. “How far did you get?”

  “Skimmed a little, but read most of what’s here. About halfway through it goes blank. This guy basically admits that he had tried to win back this ‘Lady’ of his using magic from an old grimoire, but something must have gone wrong—or maybe something went right, after all, because he ended up stuck in a dream world where the probabilities were all skewed and time was no longer very linear.”

  “So is that what the beginning was about?” “Yeah, I guess. He just kind of dives in—we actually don’t know very much about him except that he’s a grad student at a school that used to be here in town.”

  “Except there wasn’t ever a university here in Golem Creek,” Julie reminded us.

  “Right!” Steve said. “But—hey, Jules, pull into that turn-off lane there, with the light.”

  Julie slowed down the car and turned gingerly into a gravel embankment with a low-hanging light hanging over it from a telephone pole.

  “Look at this,” Steve said, and extracted a folded sheet of paper from a pocket in the back of the journal. “It’s a fucking map, man! Can you guess of what?”

  I unfolded the page and played over it with the penlight. It was a reasonably good sketch of a city bounded by several hills, with a few labels here and there. F.C. written over a couple of little gravestones; C.H. by the foothill at one end of town; H.H. by a small cluster of buildings at the other end of town. A neatly shimmering circle near another cluster of buildings caught my eye— it had an arrow pointing at it labeled T.—but I was distracted immediately by something else. Near the center, an anomaly: what looked like a large, shaded triangle surrounded by a few concentric circles, with a little arrow pointing at it and the initials “L.B.”

  Despite the odd structures and some of the labels, one thing seemed pretty certain.

  “It’s Golem Creek,” I said.

  Steve clapped his hands together and cheered. “Bravo!”

  “So our only remaining question,” Julie said, putting the car in gear and heading back onto the road, “is, basically, what the fuck?”

  We found a FazMart where we could actually stop and plan out our next move, not to mention refuel the car and get something to eat. I was getting a headache and desperately needed some caffeine.

  “Put ten dollars in the tank. Stevie Wonder’s gotcha,” Steve said, getting out of the car and heading into the brightly lit, brick building with its garish red sign. I got out of the back seat and stretched my legs.

  “Does he know that Stevie Wonder’s blind?” Julie asked, sighing. She hefted the gas nozzle and angled it into the tank. “I still think it’s just a little suspicious that three of the names mentioned in that book are shared by three people we know,” she said.

  I stopped short. “Wait. Three?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “You—Charley. Molly, of course. And Finnegan.”

  “Who the hell is ‘Finnegan’?” I asked.

  “He’s in there buying cigarettes right now,” she said, pointing at Steve, who appeared to be haggling with the night-clerk.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Stephanos Finnegan Chernowski. Greek, Irish, Polish. I think it’s why—”

  “I should have known,” I interrupted. “Goddamnit. Of course.”

  I gazed into the sky, astonished, speechless. The moon had become visible again amidst scudding clouds. And somewhere, out there, where a “werewolf” is digesting his dinner of human teenager, scotopic devil-creatures are buzzing and clicking, excitedly preparing for some unconscionable “reward” from their undead messiah...

  Steve headed back toward us, loaded down with three bags and three Mega-Size drinks. “Code Red Mountain Dew. We’ve gotta be prepared, dudes!” He set the drinks down on the hood of the car. “And Twinkies, Snickers. What else? Ah!” He handed a pack of Marlboro Reds to Julie.

  “You didn’t say anything while I was reading the book, Steve,” I said.

  “What? Why?”

  “Your middle name is ‘Finnegan.’ You’re acting like—”

  “Calm down, Chuckie,” he said. “I’m figuring it out myself, as we speak. In fact, I think I know what’s going to happen next.”

  Julie and I both looked at him.

  “We’re going to go right to the source,” he said. “Let’s go kill Mike for a goddamned change.”

  Okay, I had to admit, this was an idea which had been a long time coming. Neither Julie nor I had any good reasons not to take the “fight”—if that’s what it was—right back to Mike Flowers and demand that he explain what was going on.

  “We’ve been listening to his goddamned cryptic bullshit for years now,” Steve continued. “As far as I can tell, based on what’s in that book, I’m guessing that we’re more important to all this—whatever it is—than Mike’s let on.”

  “Wait a second, wait a second,” Julie said. “We’ve all seen what Mike’s capable of. Plus, isn’t he kind of dead already? I mean, we actually don’t know what that guy can really do—”

  “Not an issue, Jules Verne,” Steve interrupted. “Right—he’s ‘undead.’ Which means he has died—” “That’s just crazy-person logic, Steve. It’s not the same thing at all. We saw what he did. And at Foxend—” Julie suddenly stifled herself.

  “What was that?” I asked. This was news. “What about Foxend?”

  “Yeah, Julie,” Steve repeated. “What about Foxend?”

  Julie squirmed visibly. “Let’s go,” she said, opening the car door.

  “No fucking way!” Steve shouted. Julie paused. “What about Foxend? What the hell do you know that we don’t?”

  I couldn’t imagine ever seeing Julie Evergreen cry—she just wasn’t that kind of chick. But a glint of the gas station lights played in her eyes, where it became obvious that she was holding something back. “Please don’t ask me again—”

  “What about Foxend, Julie?” Steve said again, a weird grin twisting his face.

  I had had enough. “Shut the fuck up, Steve,” I said. “Don’t be a goddamned sadist.”

  Steve chuckled, breaking eye contact with Julie. He pulled a Snickers bar out of one of the bags. “Just fucking with you, baby.” He opened the car door and got into the back seat. “You can ride shotgun again, Charley. It’s your big night, after all!”

  I glanced at Julie, who quickly swiped both palms over her eyes and breathed out heavily.

  “Maybe we should head back to Brake Street?” I suggested. “Even if we don’t exactly kill Mike, we might be able to pressure him into telling us something.”

  “What about the key? The journal?” Julie asked.

  “We’ll stop by Maple Ridge first,” I said. “I know where we can hide them.”

  Julie nodded, getting back into the car. “Sorry, Jules,” Steve said. He tried to pat her

  on the shoulder, but she visibly flinched. “Hey, seriously. I’m sorry.”

 
I sat down in the passenger seat. “Let’s just chill out, okay? We might officially have done too much tonight.”

  Julie turned the ignition and lit another cigarette. Just then, screeching tires and the strains of some raucous speed-metal band erupted from the darkness beyond the FazMart, followed by the unmistakable sound of an automobile smashing into something.

  “What the hell?” I said. Steve started laughing. Julie hung her head briefly, then put the car in gear.

  At three in the morning, it’s easy to wonder which way is up—which was literally true when we came across the shattered remains of an overturned Pontiac 6000 a block away from the FazMart.

  Julie slowed the car to a crawl, then stopped, headlights shining on the wreckage. The roads out here well past Forty Winks were dark and untraversed even in daylight, being mostly the “back way” to get out of town without having to pay any tolls.

  “What the fuck?” Steve was pressed up between Julie and I, straining to see.

  “Is there anybody in that car?” Julie asked.

  I was hesitant to get out, especially given my immediate conviction that there were to be few if any coincidences tonight, but proceeded to undermine my better judgment.

  “Steve, you’re coming with me,” I said. “Julie, just keep the car running.”

  In moments, Steve and I found ourselves with literal blood on our hands.

  “Goddamn it,” Steve exclaimed. “We’ve got to call an ambulance.”

  Three bodies, none of which appeared to be living, were still seat-belted into the car.

  “Are those—” I started.

  “Yep. Looks like it,” Steve said. “Those are the weirdos from the party. The guys chasing the wolfman.”

  “I thought there were four of them?” I said. Steve shrugged.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s get back to FazMart and call an amb—”

  “Wait a second!” Steve was reaching into the car.

  “Dude, what are you doing? I don’t think you’re supposed to move them. What if someone broke their neck?”

  “Oh—oh,” Steve said. “Nasty. There are four bodies in here—mostly.”

  I cringed. “I’m going to count to five, and then I’m getting the fuck out of here,” I said.

  “Check it out!” Steve extracted two black canvas bags through the back seat window. “Spoils of war!”

  “Steve! For Christ’s sake—”

  “Right! Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  I hesitated, standing there somewhat blankly as Steve dove back into the Honda. “C’mon, Chuckie! Gotta call an ambulance!”

  Back at the convenience store, I placed an anonymous call for an ambulance, hoping that there were no hidden cameras surveying the spot. Minutes later we were heading back toward the center of town.

  “We’ve got to regroup,” I said. “Now we’ve got more stolen merchandise to deal with.”

  “This shit is great!” Steve was playing his penlight over the contents of the bags.

  “Why didn’t you stop him?” Julie asked.

  I looked over at her. “I know that Steve can hear me. I will ignore that question.”

  Steve was laughing. “What is it?” I asked.

  “The camera, dudes!” Steve was ecstatic. “This is the fucking video camera! And it’s got the tape in it!”

  “Oh my God,” Julie said. “That means—” “We’ve got footage of that werewolf !” Steve finished. “Can you believe it?”

  I had to admit to an undeniable sense of accomplishment at Steve’s extremely uncouth kleptomania. Actual video footage of a werewolf? Or whatever the hell it was. This was unreal. And who knew what else was on that tape?

  My brief moment of illumination fell slightly flat. “Guys,” I said. “Who knows what else is on that tape?”

  Steve’s chuckling faltered. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Right.”

  “Because now we potentially have a fucking snuff film, for Christ’s sake,” I continued. “That’s got to be a federal offense.”

  “We don’t know what’s on it,” Julie said.

  Steve, ever undaunted, took his cue. “This is probably just X-Files shit, man. We don’t want the Feds to have it—what have they ever done for us, anyway?”

  “I just hope you didn’t get your goddamned fingerprints on anything, Steve,” I said.

  “No way!” Steve responded. “I’m pretty sure, at least.”

  I sighed. “Give me one of those cigarettes, Julie.” “Where should I head?” Julie asked, handing me the pack. We were rapidly approaching Golem Creek proper again.

  “It’s got to be somewhere relatively anonymous,” I said. “But somehow not public, either. Any ideas?”

  I lit a cigarette. Steve started chuckling again from the back seat, oblivious.

  “Oh! Steve, who’s that guy you were getting the stuff from?” Julie asked.

  “Stuff?” I said.

  “Pete’s!” Steve exclaimed. “Pete Jarry! ‘Best weed in the Shire.’”

  “Pete Jarry?” I repeated. “I guess that could work—”

  “He’s over on Shrub Lane, past the Pizza Hut,” Steve said.

  “Of course,” Julie said. “The drug dealer who lives by the Pizza Hut. Classic.”

  “Oh, man,” Steve said. “As if this night couldn’t get any better !”

  “I’d still like to know if Molly’s okay—” I started.

  “Hey, there’s half a carton of Camels in this backpack!” Steve said.

  “And, at any rate, it would be nice to know that Mike’s not poisoning the town water supply to get at us, you know,” I said.

  “There’s at least five dead people as of this moment,” Julie said. “The guys in the car crash. Whoever got eaten at Amanda Whitfield’s party.” “Horror novels?” Steve said. “What’s this—Bloodcurdling Tales of Horror... Oh! Lovecraft. Hell, yeah.”

  “There’s horror novels in that bag?” I asked. “Yep,” Steve said. “Oh, not just that! Reign in Blood on cassette. Slayer! Two cans of spray paint.” He lifted one out and shook it. “Empty. Heavy metal, vandalism, werewolves, H. P. Lovecraft— it’s too bad those guys are dead. I could’ve partied with them.”

  “We all could have,” I said. “Jesus, who were those guys?”

  “You’ll like this, Charley,” Steve said, and patted me on the shoulder. “Check it out.”

  He handed me a spiral-bound notebook. “Don’t tell me,” I said. “Another journal?”

  Steve started laughing again.

  “Hand me that tape,” Julie said. “I need a soundtrack.”

  We rolled into Pete Jarry’s neighborhood about twenty minutes later. Pete lived in one of those weird neighborhoods that stopped being built in the ’70s, where every house was slightly different because most of the architects were presumably doing acid on a regular basis. Jack-o’-lanterns still burned on the porches of some of the houses; Halloween decorations fluttering in a light breeze lent an air of horror-movie eerieness to the whole scene. Julie had to rely on Steve’s dim memory of monuments to pinpoint the right place, but after “the second stone fountain with a mermaid” and “the green house—no, the yellow one with the tree that looks like an afro,” we finally parked in a bank of shadows by Pete’s house and turned off the car.

  Everything seemed a bit too quiet. The light chirping of crickets and trickling of yet another stone fountain (was that a thing thirty years ago?) combined to diminish further the silence following Slayer’s frantic guitar riffs.

  “Steve...?” I said.

  “Yeah, hang on, let me out,” Steve said.

  I scooted the seat forward. Steve slid out of the car and scampered past a dim yellow porch light, into the darkness behind Pete’s house.

  Julie and I waited in silence for a moment. “That fucking guy,” Julie said.


  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  “You love him, you hate him,” she continued. “I don’t know,” I said. “Mostly hate him?”

  “I don’t know,” Julie said.

  “Truth be told, I wouldn’t have stolen that camera,” I said. “Does that make me a pussy?”

  Julie snorted. “None of us are pussies,” she said. “Not after all of Mike’s bullshit.”

  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “So...” “There was this thing, down under one of the

  mausoleums.”

  “What?”

  “In Foxend Churchyard.”

  “Oh.” I said. Revelation time. But why to me? Why now? Steve was likely to be back any minute.

  Julie sighed heavily. “I’m not supposed to say anything—”

  “Hey,” I rested one hand lightly on her shoulder, half-hoping that she wouldn’t say anything. I had to stifle an urge from the other half of me to beg her for the info. “Hey. You don’t have to. Whatever helps.”

  Julie smiled, gazing down at the steering wheel, and patted my hand with one of hers. “I don’t know if Mike’s full of shit or not about this. He said I couldn’t tell anyone about it. Not anyone. He said one of us would die for real if I said anything.”

  I recalled her mentioning this to me, of course. But after having stolen the goods effectively right out from under Mike’s nose earlier this evening, I was less inclined to assume our safety. Five dead bodies tonight...so far...

  “So he had me take off all my clothes—” Nope. Didn’t want to hear it. “Oh, shit, Julie, please don’t tell me this—”

  “He wasn’t watching, or anything,” she continued. She was going to do it. I gazed toward Pete’s in desperation. Come on, Steve! Please butt in like you always do! “He had me put on this white silk gown.” She paused, briefly. “Then he gave me a knife, like a ritual dagger, or something. Big knife.” She was sniffling at this point. “Big knife,” she said again. “He says to me: ‘Go into the darkness, love. Don’t hesitate.’” She paused. I wanted to remove my hand from her shoulder, but she wouldn’t let it go. She looked up at me.

  “How much darker could it get?” she asked me.