Pitch

by William Ollie

  “How should I know?” Jimmy said, as the lights in the stairwell came on, and Harbus grabbed them by their shirts and pulled them close. “We’ve gotta run back to the room, fast, okay? Don’t make any noise.”

  They raced across the basement, back to the room, into the room, where Harbus pushed the door almost shut, leaving just a narrow crack so he could watch the flashlight make its way across the basement. Then he eased the door shut, and gathered Jimmy and Timmy at the back of the room.

  “Y’all wanta jump him?” Harbus asked. “He’s just an old man. Maybe we can get away and haul ass upstairs.” He looked from one frightened face to another, and realized it was hopeless. He considered using Norval’s knife on the man, but if he failed he’d lose it. Not only it, but their only way out. “Maybe we should just see what he wants,” he suggested, grinning at the relief washing over their faces.

  Hastie came down the stairs carrying a tray full of fried chicken and a pitcher of grape Kool Aid. On his way to the room, he spotted an unlit torch lying on the floor, and knew they had found a way out. He picked up the torch and fit it back into the stand.

  Moments later, having arrived at the door, he put the tray on the ground and twisted the doorknob, which should not have turned so free and easy.

  Hastie picked up the tray and entered the room, hoping they wouldn’t try to attack him. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, but he would if he had to. There was no way he could tell Pitch he’d been overpowered by three little children.

  “Hello, boys,” he said.

  When he saw them cowering by the bed, he felt empty and ashamed. He walked over and set the tray on the floor in front of Harbus. “I’ve brought you some food,” he said, and stepped back to the open door.

  “We ain’t eatin’ that shit!” Harbus shouted. “It’s probably got poison in it.”

  “Why’re you doing this?” Jimmy said, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  Hastie left without saying a word. He closed the door and made sure it was locked, and walked away with a heavy heart, wishing to God he could be strong enough to help them, but knowing he wasn’t.

  Should I have left the door unlocked, left them with hope? What’s it matter, anyway? There’s no way for them to leave here alive.

  When the door closed, they ran over and drank from the pitcher.

  Harbus reached for a piece of chicken, but Jimmy grabbed his arm. “What’re you doing?” he yelled. “Are you crazy? What if it is poisoned?”

  But Harbus, starving, grabbed a chicken breast and tossed it to Timmy.

  “They ain’t gonna poison us. I don’t know what they’re gonna do, but they ain’t gonna poison us.”

  “How do you know?”

  “‘Cause it don’t make sense to snatch us up and put us in the basement, and then send that old fucker down here to poison us. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with this stuff. I don’t even think you can put poison in fried chicken.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Timmy. There’s gotta be something wrong with it. They ain’t feeding us just to be nice.”

  Timmy was starving, too. His mother had been hung over this morning, and had not fed him. All he’d had to eat today were the two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches his brother had fixed him for lunch. But what if it is poisoned? he wondered, and let the crispy breast fall to the floor.

  Harbus took a bite of chicken, and Jimmy kicked the pitcher, spilling Kool Aid onto the floor. Then, grinding pieces of chicken under his feet, he said, “Eat that, you stupid fucker!”

  Harbus looked at Jimmy as if he were crazy. Then he smiled and threw the remainder of his chicken leg to the floor. “Fuck it,” he said. “You may be right.”

  “Look!” Timmy said, gasping and pointing at a slightly discolored residue that clung to the bottom and sides the overturned pitcher. “What’s that?”

  Harbus ran a finger across the pitcher, and touched the tip of his tongue.

  “Damn,” he said.

  And the lights went out.

  Wednesday Night

  Eleven o’clock:

  They spent most of the evening combing the town, asking everybody they came in contact with if they had seen Jimmy Pritchard, or Timmy Butler. Nobody had seen either child. They returned to the police station at ten o’clock, tired and exhausted.

  Nathan told Johnny and Walt to go home and get some rest.

  While he and Donnie stayed at the police station, Johnny went home to check on his wife.

  Walt went home and made love to his wife. When they finished, Walt asked Sandra to fix him something to drink. By the time she had made her way back to the bedroom, he was snoring his way through a horrible nightmare.

  Eleven-Thirty:

  Jimmy lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was pitch black, but his eyes had finally adjusted. Harbus had fallen asleep beside Timmy, who was lying on the floor, shivering. Jimmy tried to remember what he’d seen when the lights came on, but the basement was so big he had only seen directly in front of, and close around the lighted stairway. Lying in a room filled with the stench of death, he thought of his parents, his brother and sisters, about their gang of friends on High Street, and how he would never see any of them again. He thought of Nathan Hayes and Donnie Belcher, and the rest of the town’s citizens, Sheriff Peters and the other policemen.

  Sheriff Peters…

  Harbus’ story echoed through his head: Mrs. Peters asked me to carry an old trunk into Pitch Place... Said she’d wait for me in the kitchen… When the lights came on I saw… Read this shit… V Peters…

  Did Sheriff Peters know what his wife was doing? Is that why he drank all the time? Is there any way out of here? Are we going to die?

  Gary Harbus, Timmy Butler, and he—they knew the answer to the question the rest of the town had been asking since way before he was even born: Who’s taking our children?

  He remembered that day on Ward Rock, and tears stung his eyes. They told E.L. about those missing kids, how nobody ever found out who took them, how none of them had ever been seen again.

  And now he was one of them.

  Jimmy wiped his tears and coughed, and then clasped a hand over his mouth. Something had moved beyond the door, a scraping noise, a squeaking noise, barely heard over Harbus’ snores. He hoped he was just imagining it, or dreaming it. The noise came closer, and his hammering heart lurched in his chest.

  Then a thump, as something hit the door.

  Oh, God! Jimmy thought, squinting his eyes as the doorknob turned, and Timmy and Harbus scrambled onto the bed.

  The door swung open, revealing two men standing beside a cart. The old man who had brought the food stepped through first, followed by another man. It was dark, and Jimmy couldn’t see who it was, but he could see his eyes, glowing, and suddenly it didn’t seem so dark anymore. And those eyes, already as big as a television screen, grew so big he could see nothing else. He tried to look at his friends, to turn away from what was coming toward him, but he couldn’t even move.

  “Which one?” Pitch said.

  “Whichever one you say,” Hastie told him, his voice a drab-sounding monotone.

  “No! You choose! One of the little ones.”

  “Please.”

  “Choose, you son of a bitch!”

  The voice broke the spell, and Jimmy realized he had heard it the day the old man scooped him up and put him in his pickup truck. The beard was gone, the friendly countenance, too. But it was him, all right.

  Hastie walked up, and stroked a trembling hand across Timmy Butler’s head.

  “This one,” he said.

  Pitch grinned. “Yes, good choice.” When he spoke to Timmy, his voice was soft and soothing. “Come along, Timmy. Let’s go to the party.”

  Jimmy tried to call out and tell him to stay put, tell him not to listen, but he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even make a sound.

  Pitch, laughing softly, crooked his index finger, and said, “Come along, Timmy. Let’s not keep our guests waiting.”


  And Timmy hopped off the bed and shuffled forward.

  Harbus and Jimmy watched in stunned fascination, horrified as their little friend climbed onto the cart, and the cart rolled away… and Timmy, turning, pleading with his eyes, disappeared into the darkness, while Pitch walked to the door and called out to Hastie to stop.

  “Yes, Mr. Pitch.”

  Jimmy couldn’t believe it. William Pitch was supposed to be an old man, well into his nineties. Everybody knew the story of how Pitch had come to town in the roaring twenties.

  He’d have to be a lot older than that guy.

  But there he was, walking across the floor, walking toward him.

  Jimmy tried shutting his eyes, but his eyes refused to close. Tried turning as a hand stroked the top of his head, hot breath touched his cheek.

  And the Devil whispered, “See you tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Nathan stood in the doorway of Jacobi’s Jewelers. To his left were The Dime Store, and the other shops lining Main Street. To the right, the bank and the rest of the shops stretching quietly to the west. He stood for a moment, looking at the spot where Bobby Turner’s bicycle had been found, thirteen years ago. It was a long shot and he knew it, but there wasn’t much else he could do. He had Donnie patrolling from High Street down through Slag Town, Johnny Porter at the west end of the county working his way back.

  Walt Davis doing the same from the opposite end.

  He stood in the shadows, hoping history would repeat itself.

  But none of their efforts would do them any good.

  His deputies would ride around all night, and Nathan would still be standing there when the early morning fog rolled down from the mountain.

  * * *

  It was dark, and so quiet… too quiet. Timmy had been gone for a long time, and Jimmy and Harbus couldn’t help wondering where they had taken him, what they might be doing to him.

  Harbus thought of all the people who had told him to change his ways. His parents and teachers, even his friends had warned him: ‘One of these days your little pranks are going to get you into big trouble.’

  And now they had.

  “What do you think they’re gonna do to him?” Jimmy said.

  “They’re gonna kill him, Jimmy. Just like them other kids.”

  “Us too,” Jimmy said, his voice wavering with each word.

  “Shhhh, listen.”

  Both boys sat quietly, trying to identify the sounds echoing across the basement.

  Jimmy was the first to speak up. “There’s a bunch of people out there.”

  “Quiet. Let’s try to figure out what they’re doing.”

  Sitting in the darkened room, they heard voices, but couldn’t understand what was being said. Suddenly a loud, booming voice called out, ranting and raving like a Baptist preacher shouting his favorite fire and brimstone sermon.

  “The fuck?”

  “My children, he called them,” Jimmy said.

  “Shhhh… Just listen.”

  They sat motionless, neither child making a sound.

  “Another thirteen years… I’ve come back! I, who have given you more than you ever dared to imagine… more power… more riches than you ever hoped to attain!”

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Harbus whispered.

  “I ain’t goin’ out there.”

  “We got to. We can barely hear ‘em. That means they’re all the way at the other end. This might be our only chance.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yeah, you can.” Harbus ran to the door, and fell to his knees. “C’mon, you got to. I can’t leave you here.” Using Norval’s knife to work the bolt, he opened the door, and then motioned for Jimmy to follow him.

  Harbus was right. All the way on the other end of the huge, cavernous basement, a hooded crowd stood in front of a big stone slab, arms raised, swaying back and forth in front of a giant statue of a horned demon, who stood before them on cloven hooves, its thick muscular legs set in a warrior’s stance, its powerful arms extended, its clenched fists threatening all who dared stand before it—a leering scowl etched upon its granite face. Ghastly shadows, and weird, misshapen forms danced on the walls behind, and on either side of the slab, illuminated by the eerie glow of torches mounted on stands like the one they had knocked over.

  “Look, Jimbo.” In the dark, in the middle of the basement, Harbus pointed to the lit stairwell. “They left the lights on so they could find their way back. That mean’s they’re all down here. All we have to do is get up them stairs.”

  The stairs were lit, and it looked like they could get to them without being seen.

  Jimmy’s eyes darted back and forth between the stairway, the torches and the crowd of people gathered in front of the slab.

  And in the middle of the slab, the Devil himself… Pitch, dancing around in front of some kind of a table, gesturing wildly, the sloped structure reminding Jimmy of something he’d seen in a monster movie, like an altar on which the high priest might sacrifice something to his gods. On the altar lay a child, a small child who could only have been Timmy Butler, struggling in vain against the bonds that held him in place.

  Jimmy and Harbus took off for the stairwell. On their right was a wooden table full of tools. Near the bench, a huge freezer door. Jimmy wondered how many bodies might be hanging in there. He followed Harbus, horrified as he thought about the stone platform, the altar, the robes.

  They’re gonna sacrifice us. Just like that Blood Feast guy did to those women.

  Pitch’s voice and the chanting crowd covered every noise the boys made as they started up the stairs, headed toward the open doorway, Jimmy’s trembling legs barely able to carry him up that winding staircase.

  “It looks like Dracula’s Castle,” he whispered, and then fell another step behind Harbus, who, stopping short of the landing, whispered, “Go slow.”

  And Jimmy followed, slowly, methodically, until, miraculously, he found himself at the top of the stairs.

  Soon he would be free—they would be free.

  He peered across the kitchen floor, and saw no one.

  They were about to run through the doorway when a voice sounding in the kitchen stopped them dead in their tracks… the voice of Newton Hayes, who walked to the refrigerator and took out a beer.

  “We’ve gotta go back,” Harbus whispered, but Jimmy shook his head no.

  “We have to. If we stay here long enough, he’s gonna come down, or they’re gonna come up. They’ll catch us.”

  They waited while Newton Hayes took a seat on a barstool by the kitchen counter.

  Then Harbus motioned for Jimmy to go back, and followed him down to the basement. But instead of going to the room, Harbus walked toward the chanting crowd, Jimmy following him to the edge of the darkness, where they stopped and watched Pitch run around the slab, screaming and shouting and flailing his arms, pointing up into the dark as the crowd swayed back and forth before him, singing their praises while Timmy, who had stopped struggling now, lay calmly on the altar, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Pitch carried on with his sermon-like oration, leading the crowd at an ever-increasing pace, while his loyal sycophants chanted his name, and swore their allegiance to their master.

  “Our soul to Satan we do give!” they sang out, while Pitch grabbed Timmy’s forehead, and raked a hand across his neck, blood spraying his face and running along the altar into a large silver bowl that sat on the floor as he raised a bejeweled dagger up over his shoulder, and brought it down on Timmy’s chest, sheets of red shooting skyward when he sawed his way through Timmy’s ribs—ripping and pulling, laughing and tugging, twisting and snatching, until a heart was held high above his head.

  Jimmy heard the crowd screaming, the chanting and moaning.

  Then he saw it.

  For a split-second, or maybe a second or two, or perhaps it was a moment or two that time stood still. A moment, frozen in time as the madman transformed into a huge, snarling, over-muscle
d monster, its dark eyes blazing as if spotlights burned behind them. His deep-throated laugh filling the giant hall, so loud it seemed like a train was roaring straight through Jimmy’s head.

  Shrieks and howls and ecstatic moans filled the cavernous hall as a hand pulled Jimmy back, and Harbus whispered “C’mon.” And the two captives ran back to the room as fast as they could go.

  Vonda felt the power flowing out of Pitch and through them. She could almost see it, flying at her in waves, much like she would’ve imagined shock waves might look if they could be seen. It wasn’t the first time she’d been through the ritual, but this seemed different, special. When Pitch plunged his knife into Timmy’s chest, she swooned right along with the rest of them, watching eagerly as blood flowed into the chalice. And when their idol ripped out Timmy’s heart, and held it above his head, Vonda’s knees weakened. Then she saw the massive, ogre-like demon, and almost fainted. When that split-second that seemed to have lasted forever finally ended, Vonda saw the confused and, yes, fearful expression on Pitch’s face. She wasn’t sure what she had just witnessed, but she knew it wasn’t anything good, and hoped like hell she never had to see it again.

  Jimmy and Harbus hesitated at the room.

  Neither of them wanted to go back inside with all those dead bodies.

  “Did you see that shit?” Harbus whispered.

  “Yeah. What was that thing? Where did it come from?”

  “Jimmy, have you ever wondered if there really is a Devil and demons, and stuff like that?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, now we don’t have to wonder anymore. That man changed into a monster, or some kind of demon, right in front of our eyes. That wasn’t no trick, Jimmy. We saw it.”

  “Who do you think them people were?”

  “I’d say one of ‘em was Mrs. Peters, and if she’s one of them, then I’d bet the rest are people we know, too.”