William Sawyer must have been on her wave-length. “I wrote five horror novels under the Richard Long byline,” he said. “They’ve done moderately well, but they aren’t my bread-and-butter novels by any means. Most of my fiction is pure psychological suspense like Scream, which sells much more than the horror stuff under the Richard Long pseudonym. Prior to today, I would have thought it was more likely for some nut to get inspired by a scene from Scream and smear her cheating husband’s genitals with honey and leave him in the woods for the ants. That book’s sold almost a million copies. My novel Mother Love was even worse. I got hate mail for it, but I got even more letters from women claiming they would have done the same thing if they were in my main character’s position. My psychological suspense novels push buttons, they’re rooted in reality, but they don’t inspire people to do the things I depict. I hardly thought the scenes in a supernatural horror novel would inspire somebody to actually do the wacky shit I describe.”
Despite not having met this man before, Naomi felt an instant kinship with him. She had the impression he was intelligent and often had a hard time with readers who reacted viscerally to the themes of his suspense novels. It was obvious his horror novels weren’t taken as seriously by his hardcore readership. “I’ll get straight to the point Mr. Sawyer.”
“Call me Bill.”
From the living room, Jeff was watching the TV. “Oh my God,” she heard him mutter. “Jesus, hon, you should see this — “
“Hold on,” Naomi said to Jeff. She knew what was happening without needing to see the news. The spell was getting stronger, raising the dead everywhere and powering them, gaining strength as it emanated onward. She turned and headed into the kitchen, talking to William Sawyer who, as far as she knew, was hundreds, if not thousands of miles away. “A classmate of Tim’s borrowed his copy of Back From the Dead. He overheard Tim talking about the book to a group of his friends and was interested in the book for one reason. He wanted the formula to perform a spell that is depicted somewhere in the narrative. I’m not familiar with the book Mr. Sawyer, so please forgive my ignorance of the novel’s plot — “
“That’s okay,” William Sawyer said.
Naomi gave William Sawyer an abbreviated version of what happened. She heard him draw in a breath of surprise. Several times he said, “I can’t believe it.” When she got to the part about Scott Bradfield’s wilding spree and the use of the spell to reanimate the bodies of their murder victims for further abuse, William sounded disturbed, to say the least. He spoke in a hushed voice, as if he were holding his breath. “I don’t know what’s more disturbing. The supernatural elements I’ve never believed in, or what you said about this kid and his friends kidnapping people, taking them to his rich parents’ guesthouse and torturing them. Jesus!”
“So what you described in your book is fictitious?” Naomi asked.
“The ritual? Elements of the ritual are taken from non-fiction accounts.”
“So they’re real?”
William let out a small sigh. “Ms. Gaines…you’ve got to understand…what happens in Back From the Dead is fantasy. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the concept that somebody out there took a piece of fiction as…the real thing.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, Mr. Sawyer, it’s that most people are dumber than stumps. Especially the ones I’m dealing with now where it concerns my son.”
“I’m an Agnostic, Ms. Gaines. I approached the supernatural elements of Back From the Dead from a very pragmatic, anthropological view.”
“But the ritual itself is real?”
“Only elements are.”
“Which elements?”
“There’s a scene in the book where the antagonist performs a ritual in the woods,” William Sawyer explained. “What I describe him doing, the animal sacrifice he makes, the occult items used, the time of year, it’s all based on variations of different occult rituals. A dash of Macumba, a little bit of Santeria, some Wiccan stuff. I threw in elements of pseudo-Satanic stuff for dramatic effect and to give it a more sinister edge. Other elements were inspired by the writings of Justin Grave, a pulp horror writer from the 1930’s who wrote a handful of stories and a novel utilizing the demon Hanbi. Other stuff I made up.”
“Such as utilizing the bones of a human being?” Naomi asked.
There was a short pause. “Did the boy who performed the ritual…use human bones?”
“He dug up a grave to get human bones for the ritual, Mr. Sawyer.”
The silence on the line spoke volumes. Naomi wondered how Agnostic William Sawyer really was. She was just about to ask him when he cut in. “This is just impossible. I mean…the ingredients are real enough…the positioning of the stars is all based on known astrological charts, but the spell itself…the dialogue and what’s said. I made that all up.”
“You made it up?”
“Yeah. Do you know anything about the boy who performed the spell?”
“He’s a trouble-maker.”
“Is he Catholic?”
“Catholic?”
“A believer. A Christian, Jew, or even Muslim?”
Naomi shrugged. “I’m pretty sure he’s Christian in name only.”
“You said he believed my book was non-fiction?”
“That’s what Tim said. It didn’t matter how many times Tim corrected Gordon and told him it was fiction, it didn’t work. Gordon was convinced the spell in the book was real.”
“Belief can be strong.” Naomi heard William rummaging around in the background. “Hold on a minute, Ms. Gaines.”
Naomi drifted into the living room to see what was going on. Jeff was sitting on the sofa intently watching the news. He turned to her. “It’s really happening,” he said. For the first time in the twenty years she and Jeff had been married, he looked deathly afraid. “It’s like…” He was so stunned he couldn’t finish his sentence.
William Sawyer came back on the line. “Are you there, Ms. Gaines?”
“Yeah.”
“When did all this happen?” William’s voice had taken on a new tone. It sounded grave.
Naomi backtracked in her mind. “Three weeks ago. Maybe less.”
“Can you be a little more specific?”
Naomi sighed and tried to do better. How long had Tim been out of school? A week? That would place things at around June 5. Gordon had come to Tim about a week before that to borrow the book, probably May 24. “Gordon borrowed Tim’s copy of Back From the Dead the week of May 24th. I’d say it was May 27th when the police showed up here to accuse Tim of robbing that grave.”
“They showed up the afternoon of the 27th?”
“Yes.”
“So the grave was robbed the night before?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause, followed by an audible whisper. “My God!”
“What?” The tone of William’s voice sent shards of ice down Naomi’s spine.
“I’m consulting a book, Ms. Gaines,” William Sawyer said. His voice maintained that grave tone. “It’s…a rather old volume and technically it’s a piece of fiction, but it’s based on a very old legend. It contains many recipes for magical formulae. Anyway, I remember a reference to the month before the Summer Solstice, so I did some research. In four years the stars will be in a perfect alignment on the night of the Summer Solstice, but listen to this…” She heard the whispering of pages and then he continued. “The stars align to their position six years before this is to happen, and in yearly increments they continually shift until the night of the Solstice, when they’re in the correct position. However, in the years prior, if certain rituals are conducted at midnight on May 26th or 27th, depending on the alignment of the stars, it’s enough to throw the gates open and call to certain dark gods.”
“Do you believe that?” Naomi asked.
“I’d like to tell you no, I don’t believe it. But then all I have to do is look at my TV and see what’s happening in your town and…” Once
again he trailed off, at a loss for words.
“So if Gordon were to read the spell at a certain time at night and use the correct ingredients, he could make this thing work?”
“If his belief was genuine, yes. Only…and here’s what I don’t understand…the spell I’m looking at says that in order for this particular ritual to work, there must be a human body for the magician to conjure the demon up to inhabit. The demon uses the body as a vessel and it spreads itself by contaminating other living things, usually by killing them. Only then can the demon replicate itself to newly created vessels.”
Naomi drew in a breath. “Oh my God!”
“What?”
“When you wrote that you didn’t realize, did you?”
“When I wrote this I was combining fact with fiction! I was putting in elements of different belief and magical systems for verisimilitude and making stuff up for dramatic effect! When I wrote this I was writing a novel, Ms. Gaines! Fiction! Make-believe! I realize most people today cannot tell the difference between fiction and non-fiction, that many people believe The Da Vinci Code is real, but I don’t write for them. If they’re too stupid to differentiate — ”
“But the spell you wrote about was one your characters used to conjure the dead back to life?”
“Yes,” William Sawyer admitted. “The antagonist uses it to ressurect his enemy. He turns him into a slave, of sorts. But yes, the guy is dead in the book and he’s called back to life.”
“And you’re saying in similar real spells that in order for it to work, the demon must inhabit a dead human body.”
“Yes — “ William’s voice trailed off as he understood what Naomi was getting at. “Oh no, you don’t think — ”
“There was a dead body in the woods when Gordon conducted his ritual,” Naomi stated.
“But that’s impossible! The odds of that happening are a million to one! If I’d known any of this would have been even remotely possible I never would have — “
“Is there a way to stop it?”
“Stop it?”
“A way to get the corpse, or the zombie, or whatever, to be dead again?”
There was the fluttering of pages as William rifled through his research material on the other end. “I suppose there has to be, but damned if I’ll be able to find it in time.”
“Would somebody who is involved with magic be aware of something like this?”
“Do you know anybody local that practices Wicca?”
“No.”
“Any occult supply stores near you?”
“A few.” She knew of a couple in Lancaster.
“I’d try with them. They’re probably glued to the TV wondering how they can assist in trying to stop what’s going on. I’m sure some of the more sensitive ones are already working on rituals in their attempt to reverse the destructive nature of whatever it was Gordon did.”
For a self-proclaimed Agnostic, William Sawyer sure put a lot of faith in alternative belief systems. “I’ll make a few calls,” Naomi said.
“Please keep me posted.”
“I will.” She got William’s home phone number and hung up.
Jeff was in the kitchen demanding to know what was happening. “Hold on,” she told him, as she dialed the number to Brendan Hall.
It took awhile, but she was finally put through to Officer Clapton, who sounded exhausted. “Tell Tim that his father and I will be by in an hour or so,” she said. “I’ve got a few calls to make and — ”
“Ms. Gaines, I think you should stay home. Have you seen what’s going on outside?”
“I know what’s going on, Officer Clapton, I’m not stupid!”
“Stay inside!” Officer Clapton was firm on this despite the tinge of exhaustion Naomi detected in his voice. “It’s dangerous out there. Tim is safe here, trust me.”
“I just learned something that I think you need to hear,” Naomi said.
Officer Clapton paused for a moment. Naomi could hear activity in the background; intermingling voices, ringing phones, a scurry of footsteps. When Officer Clapton came back on the line he sounded like he was trying to keep his voice down. “We’re tearing our hair out trying to keep this under control and all we keep hearing is that whatever is happening…is spreading. What have you got for me, Ms. Gaines?”
And then with Jeff riveted to the news, Naomi retreated to the kitchen and began telling Officer Clapton about her phone conversation with William Sawyer.
* * *
Time slowed to a crawl when you were confined to a jail cell.
It felt like Tim had been imprisoned for days at Brendan Hall. The more time dragged on, the more his nervousness grew. Every time he asked a guard what time it was he was surprised to learn not much time had passed. He was positive hours had dragged by, not minutes.
Officer Clapton had been absent for the past hour. Tim had spent much of his time pacing his cell, his mind racing. He had to get out of here. Mom and Dad would have called by now. They would have been here. They would not have left him at Brendan Hall to worry like this. It wasn’t in their nature.
Not having a TV to keep track of what was going on was killing him.
Listening to the muffled, frantic voices in the offices outside his cell was even worse.
Tim paced the room. There had to be a way out of here!
And then, suddenly, a possible solution presented itself.
* * *
Gordon Smith had made it up to Chelsea’s bedroom and was making quick work with his knife, stabbing and slicing and cutting, and was so into teaching that bitch a lesson that he failed to notice the sound of footsteps tramping up the stairs.
“What the hell?”
Gordon started suddenly, momentarily startled. He turned around quickly.
Chelsea stood at the threshold to her room. She looked stunned and shocked.
Gordon gripped the knife in his fist, still bent over her now slashed-to-ribbons bed and pillow.
Chelsea took a step backward into the hall. “Dad!”
Panic surged through Gordon. Instead of compelling him to flee, he remained rooted to the spot as Chelsea took off back down the stairs, screaming at the top of her lungs for her father.
OhshitohfucknowwhatthehelldoIdo?
Get the hell out of here!
As suddenly as the paralysis hit, it was gone. Gordon leaped for the hallway and headed down the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Gordon hit the living room and bolted for the front door just as Chelsea and her father entered the living room from the den. “Stop right there!” Chelsea’s dad bellowed.
Gordon turned around quickly, the hand holding the knife raised. He got a quick glimpse of Chelsea’s dad raising his arm, saw the black handgun he was holding, and then he heard a deafening BOOM!
The bullet punched through his chest and knocked him against the front door. Shit, that hurt, he thought, as he felt himself falling to the floor as the darkness overtook him.
* * *
Chelsea could not bear to be in the living room with Gordon’s body lying in the foyer of the house.
She remained at her father’s side as he stood in the kitchen, trying to call 911 on the phone.
“Dammnit!” Her father pressed the disconnect button, got another open line, and tried again. “911 is jammed.”
“Everybody in the world is probably calling,” Chelsea said. She felt weird, like she was viewing everything from an out-of-body point of view. As if it wasn’t bad enough that dead people were climbing out of their graves, that people were turning up missing in their homes, that they were being killed by the newly risen dead and, in turn, were rising from the dead themselves, it was even harder to believe her dad had just killed Gordon Smith.
Dad punched numbers into the phone again. “If I can’t get anybody at 911, I’m just going to call the main number for the Spring Valley Police station.”
“Are you even sure he’s dead?”
“I’m sure. I checked his pulse. H
e’s dead.”
Chelsea nodded. The shriek of police sirens rose from blocks away, heading to different destinations. Maybe if they headed outside, hiked over to Route 501 and waved down a cop car, they could get somebody to the house.
“Still busy.” Dad disconnected again and pulled the phone book out of the cupboard drawer. He began flipping through it. “Don’t worry, honey, everything will be okay.”
Chelsea barely heard him. She was looking out the window into the back yard, hoping somebody in the neighborhood heard the gunshot. She knew her dad wouldn’t get in trouble for killing Gordon — he’d clearly acted in self-defense and had left Gordon’s body the way it had fallen, even left the knife in Gordon’s hand, didn’t even touch the weapon — but she was still afraid for what might happen anyway. It didn’t matter what she or any of her friends did; if Gordon Smith and his crew were involved, they would make it look like she and Tim, and George and Al, were somehow to blame.
And for the first time in her life she didn’t really give a shit.
Realizing this made her feel more confident. It was exhilarating.
Dad found the listing he was looking for. He’d replaced his handgun in the inner pocket of his sport coat and was dialing the number, glancing at the phone book as he did so. Chelsea watched him from her spot at the kitchen table. Her back was facing the living room and the front door.
Neither of them saw or heard Gordon Smith rise to a sitting position in the foyer, then get to his feet.
Chapter Twenty-Six
He was growing weaker by the moment, but Scott Bradfield was determined to reach his destination or die trying.
He was dying anyway.
Scott didn’t even pay attention to the police cars that were whipping this way and that during his drive to the Gaines house. It was hard enough keeping Dave’s vehicle in a more-or-less straight line. His left eye was gone, and blood continued to drip into his swollen right eye from his flayed scalp, making it sting. The flesh of his right cheek had been torn away, revealing tendons and gristle and a hint of jawbone. His breath was coming in rasping gasps, made worse by the deep gouges in his trachea. Likewise, he’d lost muscle mass thanks to Dad’s strong fingernails — who would have thought Dad would have had the strength to tear his biceps to shreds with his bare fingers?
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