He had law enforcement on his side. He had dirt. It would be easy to blackmail Gaines into helping him.
Help me find a spell to counteract what you helped me with in Zuck’s Woods and I won’t furnish the police with more evidence that you robbed that grave in Reamstown.
Gordon’s confidence was solid now. He knew Gaines wanted this latest episode to go away. He’d probably do anything to get the police to drop the whole matter. He could even sweeten the deal by assuring him that it wouldn’t happen again, which was true. Gordon had no intention of messing with that black magic shit again. The guys had no inclination to try it themselves, and Gordon doubted they even remembered the title of the book in question he’d gotten the spell from. They’d be unable to duplicate his efforts for another go round.
This was going to work.
They approached the guest house and Scott stepped forward, gripping the doorknob firmly. He glanced back at the others and Gordon met his gaze with fierce determination. Let’s get this done. Scott nodded, and then he opened the door.
Chapter Sixteen
Ripple effects.
Like throwing a stone in a still body of water, an individual’s actions reverberate through life. A manufacturing plant manager laying off workers with a stroke of a pen to pad the compensation of the company executives affected those workers’ families, their wives and children. A slip down the economic ladder could mean hard times both financially and psychologically. In the mind of a child, that slip could mean a drastic change in their future that would, in turn, affect their future partners, their future children, and anybody whose lives they touched. Likewise, the choices one made upon deciding whether or not to enter college had similar effects. Choose the wrong major and stay with it for the wrong reasons and one could end up a lonely, bitter, angry person who, in turn, could affect everybody they touched in their lives.
So it was with magic.
And it did not concern the forces beyond who bestowed the practitioner of magic with their dark boons.
Their job was to grant the magician their wish.
No more, no less.
The ritual performed by Gordon Smith had been set to do its deed. The elements had fallen into place; the correct words had been spoken.
And the dark forces had answered.
And like all things, the ripple effect was in motion.
Flowing through the netherworld tide it reverberated, echoed. It sank into the ground, gathering strength through the ebbs and flows. It had been strong enough to reanimate and take possession of Neal Ashford when his lifeless, beaten body was buried in the consecrated ground and its strength was still present when Roger Gahan (who had lost his wallet two nights before being kidnapped by Scott Bradfield and his crew) was kidnapped, murdered and buried in the same spot. Building on its initial strength, and the new power it found through its simple task, that strength spread. It seeped through the ground, touching everything that had died and sunk into the earth. It moved slowly, creeping in a manner that was transparent to human perception.
A colony of ants killed by an invading colony was the first. Reanimated, the ants moved around sluggishly, as if confused in their destroyed labyrinths.
Farther in the woods the carcass of a mole, dead of a heart attack, was reanimated by the force’s power. It burrowed through the ground, still forever blind, searching for something that it could not comprehend.
The leaves of the trees overhead stirred. Birds in flight began to avoid the consecrated spot. Likewise, animals normally found in this section of the woods — deer, foxes, rodents, snakes — began to instinctively steer clear of it.
And the power slowly spread, reaching outward. Touching and awakening more dead life forms, calling them forth.
* * *
It was Wednesday morning and Tim Gaines was reclining on the leather sofa in the living room watching the news. He was tired. Last night, he’d gone out with Chelsea on his first date with her — she’d actually driven them into Lancaster to the Manor Theater to see the new Chronicles of Narnia movie. It had been a pleasant evening and thinking back on it sent tingles of pleasure through Tim. Even though it was pretty much common knowledge that they were attracted to each other, there was still that awkwardness between them. That all evaporated after the movie, when Chelsea parked her car in the community guest parking lot of his development and they talked. It had been so easy to talk to her now that the barrier between them was crumbling. He felt comfortable with her; still nervous, but comfortable. So when conversation abruptly died in mid sentence and the silence threatened to bridge that gap again, Chelsea had leaned forward quickly and kissed him.
And Tim had surprised himself by kissing her back.
He’d never kissed a girl before and he was surprised to find that his body just seemed to know what to do. From the gentle embraces, to the movement of lips and mouth, teeth and tongue, to the way he responded to her touches, her kisses, everything just came to him. The stirring in his groin was a natural reaction to that very physical coming together of their bodies, and Tim felt a momentary burst of panic. He didn’t want Chelsea to have the wrong impression of him; he wasn’t like all those other guys that lived only to get into a girl’s pants and then dump them. He wanted this to be special!
At the same time, he wanted her so badly.
And he sensed that Chelsea knew this.
And she responded accordingly.
She’d pressed herself against him and he could feel her breasts against his shirt. That only made him more crazy, more responsive to her touch, her caresses, her kisses. He let himself go, gave up control to his body’s instincts and expressed his desire for her through his own touch.
He didn’t know how long they made out in her car but at some point she stopped and held him. Tim opened his eyes, noted that the windows of the car were steamed up and he smiled. Chelsea told him that she should go — her curfew was midnight and it was already eleven-thirty. She started the car, rolled down the windows, laughing at the fact that they were steamed up. Tim had laughed too and she backed the car out of the parking slot and drove the dozen houses down to his condo unit and pulled up in front of it. She told him she’d talk to him tomorrow morning. He told her that would be great. They kissed one more time, quick, but still passionate, and then he was out of the car and heading toward the front door, feeling a momentary sense of panicked embarrassment. God, I hope my folks didn’t peek out the window as she pulled up to the house.
But those fears were laid to rest when he entered the house and saw his mom reclining on the sofa, the TV on, her eyes half shut. She’d looked up at him wearily, asked how his evening was and he’d smiled and said fine. Then he’d gone upstairs.
Where he’d stayed and relived the moment in the privacy of his bedroom.
And didn’t fall asleep.
At some point Mom came upstairs to bed. Tim went downstairs quietly, turned on the TV, and sat down in the darkened living room. His excitement was fueling his wakefulness and he could not go to sleep. He channel-surfed for a while, then headed to the kitchen for a snack.
A light tap on the sliding glass door caught his attention.
Chelsea was on the back deck. When she saw Tim, she grinned.
Tim had quietly opened the back door and before he had a chance to ask what she was doing, Chelsea was in his arms.
Somehow they kept quiet. And when it was over and they were re-arranging their clothes, Chelsea gave him a quick kiss, told him she just couldn’t help it, she had to come back. Tim had grinned back, told her he hadn’t been able to keep her out of his mind since she’d dropped him off, and then she was leaving out the back door. He watched her shadowy figure dance across the yard and between the utility shed his father had built and the fence that bordered their property with the neighboring house, then down the common area to where he knew the guest parking for the development was located. A moment later he heard a car engine start. Only then did Tim close the back door.
&n
bsp; And now it was the following morning and Tim had relived his evening with Chelsea too many times to count. Everything about the date was perfect; the physical expression of their feelings toward each other last night had been the icing on the cake. Preceding that had been their conversation at the theater and in the car, where they’d talked about everything. School, their families, friends. Tim had brought her up on the latest in the investigation. How the police still hadn’t pressed formal criminal charges against him, or George and Al, but on the advice of their attorney they were on a sort of house arrest. Chelsea had raised an eyebrow at that and asked if he was on house arrest, why did his parents let him go to the movies with her? Tim could only shrug and grin. “I guess as long as they know we’re going to the movies, they’re cool with it.”
In reality, the house arrest wasn’t mandatory, but was suggested until their attorney could get the police to drop the investigation or file charges. Should something else happen in the interim, it was important they had firm alibis, and if they could verify they were at home, so much the better. It made sense.
It also kept them safe.
Thanks to the local weekly newspaper, the Spring Valley Gazette, they had every reason now to stay close to home due to a story published in last week’s edition. According to the story, which stated in a bold eighteen point headline: local teenagers involved in occult activity accused of grave-robbery, other satanic activity, Tim and his friends were all but tarred and feathered. The article straddled a thin line between sensational journalism and reporting the basic facts. It started off by relating the incident at Reamstown Cemetery, including the police questioning of Tim Gaines due to the evidence found (an occult paperback, according to the paper — nitwits couldn’t differentiate between fiction and non-fiction), and then proceeded to lay out a thinly-veiled indictment of him. It wasn’t enough to support a libel suit, which was the first thing his mother thought of when she read the piece. Their attorney, Doug Fenner, after a careful reading, broke that news gently, and it was he who suggested the house arrest. “The only way we can nail them is when we get the police to drop the investigation completely and hopefully arrest another suspect in the cemetery desecration. If they can do that we might have a case. But for now…we don’t.”
The background material in the article was simple enough in its noting the facts of the past six years from the school records at Spring Valley Middle School and High School; from the accusations that Tim had drawn occult symbols on students lockers and books, to the more outlandish ones where some of the more boneheaded kids swore he’d cast spells on them. There were a few comments on record that the reporter managed to get for the piece, including one from that bitch Heather Watkins, in which she dug up that old chestnut from ninth grade — that Tim had sacrificed her cat and not only told her about it, but informed her that he’d hexed her. It didn’t matter that the police had later dismissed the allegations, and it didn’t matter that this wasn’t reported in the article. As Mom had said the night the article came out, “Who the fuck wrote this? Some idiot that flunked journalism school?”
Dad had written a very long letter to the paper taking them to task for their shoddy reporting. He also set blame on the paper for placing the Gaines family in danger; since the article’s publication they’d received a dozen death threats by phone and had several dozen drive-bys where people yelled obscenities. While the majority of the citizens of Spring Valley were level-headed people, it seemed that a tiny minority of them not only believed everything they read and were told about Tim, they felt the need to put him and his parents in danger when there was no solid proof he’d committed any crime. Furthermore, he wrote, Tim had never been convicted of a crime despite being made the social pariah of town. He concluded by addressing the Spring Valley Police department directly: either file criminal charges against my son or cease your investigation and make a public apology.
That had been three days ago, on a Sunday. Dad’s letter had not been published yet (he wondered if the editors of the paper would publish it in its entirety, if at all), and as Tim thought about it, not even paying attention to the news on TV, he added a few more things he’d noticed in the days since the article’s publication. How the police and Spring Valley High’s principal weren’t returning their calls. How Dad casually mentioned the other night how a once friendly colleague at work was now silent around him, refusing to speak to him (the guy in question lived in Spring Valley). For her part, Mom was looking into moving out of the area. Tim had overheard his parents talking about this Sunday night and his heart sank as he detected the seriousness in their voices. As much as he realized it was the rational thing to do, to wipe the slate clean and start fresh, he felt a tinge of sadness that he would be forced to leave his friends. He also felt a heartsickness at the thought of leaving Chelsea. In the days before their date they’d talked constantly on the phone, and Tim could feel that the attraction was not only mutual, but was preparing to build to a new level. He didn’t want to destroy any hope he had with her.
But he knew that in the grand scheme of things, what was happening to him and his family was very serious. For his sake, for the sake of his future, for the sake of his parents, they had to leave.
A sudden knock on the front door snapped Tim out of his thoughts. He turned down the TV’s volume with the remote, then got up and headed to the front door.
Gordon Smith stood on the front porch. He tilted his head in a greeting. “Hey, Tim. What’s up?”
Tim’s stomach clenched. A burst of anger flared within him. “What do you want?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Really? Maybe you should talk to me through my attorney. I’ll get you his number.” He was just about to close the door in Gordon’s face, the anger and rage racing through him now so much it took all his will-power to control it.
“Wait! I need your help!”
Tim paused and something in Gordon’s voice and demeanor diluted his anger. “You need my help? Are you out of your mind? I tried to help you before but you framed me!”
“I know and I’m sorry!” For the first time Tim saw a look on Gordon’s face he’d never seen before. Fear. “But you’re the only person I can come to with this. It’s about — “
“You think I can trust you now after you lied to the police?”
“No, I don’t.” Gordon hesitated a moment, and now Tim’s anger subsided even more. The look of fear in Gordon’s eyes was genuine.
Tim dropped his guard slightly. “What’s going on?”
“It’s about that book you loaned me and why the police found it at Reamstown Cemetery,” Gordon began. “And its about…some really fucked up shit that’s been going on because of it.”
“The only fucked up shit is you vandalizing a cemetery and trying to blame me for it,” Tim muttered.
“I admit, I vandalized that grave,” Gordon said. “But it wasn’t done with the intention of framing you, I swear. It was to…gather material…to cast a spell…”
Now it was Tim’s turn to be surprised. “What?”
Gordon glanced around the neighborhood. “Can I come in? I’ll tell you everything.”
Tim almost told him no at that point. Almost told him to fuck off, but something about Gordon’s demeanor spoke to him. He’s scared out of his mind.
That decided it. He opened the screen door. “Come in.”
Gordon stepped inside and Tim shut the door.
* * *
As Gordon began telling Tim the events of the past few weeks, Tim felt a strange sense of disbelief along with a mixture of dread.
Tim was sitting in the easy chair by the living room window, Gordon on the sofa. He’d retrieved cokes for them, and Gordon sipped his as he told Tim what was going on. He started by telling Tim about the wilding sprees, which surprised and shocked him. As much as a pack of assholes Scott Bradfield and his friends were, he never imagined they would be insensitive psychopaths. As quickly as that thought came, though, it went
away as the memory of that horrible day from six years ago rose in his mind, unbidden.
He’d been walking home from school that late spring day, minding his own business as usual. The day had been largely uneventful. A math test, an assembly for preparation for the sixth grade class graduating ceremonies. Lunch and recess. Same old shit. Scott Bradfield and his stupid friends had been pestering him again, but they were dorks. Tim avoided them whenever possible anyway, and usually spent his time hanging out with his friend Richard Pilson, who would later move out of the area with his family. During study hall he spent his time reading a really cool book by Stephen King, ‘Salem’s Lot, which was about vampires. Tim was engrossed in the story, and had not been able to put the book down since picking up the worn paperback from the crammed bookshelf that was in the third bedroom of their condo. Good thing he’d completed his homework early.
He was thinking about nothing in particular, only wanting to get home and get back into the book, and was just in the middle of a lonely stretch of road where a large field lay on his right, when he heard them approach from behind.
Scott Bradfield and his friends Dave Bruce and Steve Downing. They were running toward him fast, closing the gap. A yell sounded and Tim caught a momentary glimpse of the look in their eyes before he turned tail and ran.
They had too great a lead on him and caught up with him after fifty yards. Scott grabbed him, holding him back. Immediately Tim had gone on the defensive, trying to talk his way out of a physical confrontation. Scott had beaten him up last year on the way home from school, not enough to raise concern with his parents (who hadn’t noticed he’d been in a fight, nor had he told them; he’d been too embarrassed), but the experience was enough to make him avoid Scott whenever possible. In the year that passed, Scott had occasionally set his sights on Tim, who’d done everything he could to get out of Scott’s radar. It usually worked.
Back From The Dead Page 14