Pitch

by William Ollie

  “You left out the dreams.”

  “What?”

  “The dreams. The hundred year old lady’s dreams.”

  Nathan glared at him.

  “How about the rest of you boys, you believe any of this dream stuff?”

  Walt Davis spoke up, “I’d like to believe I’m as rational and well grounded as the next guy. I don’t believe in ghosts or alien visitors, or monsters, but I’ll tell you what: something’s happening in this little town that defies all logic, and if I weren’t here, right now, and involved in this, there’s no way in hell I’d believe it. These visions that old woman talked about all seem to tie in with what’s happened in the last week. You’re telling us a young man has come here and met up with somebody, and they murdered Nathan’s father. She said an old man was coming to wreak havoc on the town, and he was bringing a young man with him. A young man who’s been killing people all his life. Sounds like the guy you’re looking for, doesn’t it?”

  Walt waited for a response, but now it was Pops who was silent.

  “So you ask if we believe this shit,” Donnie said. “No, we don’t believe any of this shit. Kids don’t just disappear in the middle of the day, decent people don’t go around killing other folks, and nobody murders the most respected man in town for no reason whatsoever. But I’ve got a news flash for you, pal—it happened.”

  “Now do you understand what we’ve been trying to tell you?” Nathan said.

  Pops nodded his head. “Yes,” he said. “I’m afraid I do. There is no rational explanation, for any of these events.”

  “You got any suggestions?” Walt asked him.

  “First thing I’d do is get a picture of this Hastie guy. If I couldn’t get a picture, then I’d haul his ass into town and let Johnny’s wife get a good look at him. Y’all say he showed up in twenty-nine? That means he got here about the time this shit started.”

  “I hear what you’re saying,” Nathan said. “But I have seen Hastie, many times. That old man’s as feeble as they come. He couldn’t do something like this.”

  “Maybe that’s why he brought John Smith here. Worth checking out, anyway.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  Pops excused himself to the bathroom. When he returned, he asked if anybody knew how to lift fingerprints. He wanted a set to compare with the others Smith had left behind. And if they were lucky they might find a print from some local person who wouldn’t be able to explain away what they were doing in Lester’s house.

  Johnny retrieved a print-kit from the trunk of the patrol car. When he returned, Pops had him go over the refrigerator, and several places in the living room. The last place dusted was the twin’s old bedroom. While Johnny worked on the doorknob, Pops found a bloodstain on the handgrip of an old Schwinn bicycle, and a bloody print on the horn, as if it had been honked. After pointing this out to Johnny, Pops stared out the window, wondering, what were you doing in here?

  * * *

  As Pops drove away, Nathan picked up the telephone and dialed Charles Hadley’s number, but the mayor wasn’t home. He called Harvey Lain, and was told the judge wasn’t home, either.

  To the others, he said, “I wanted to tell Hadley we’re going out to Pitch Place, but he wasn’t home. I don’t think Hastie had anything to do with this shit, but it doesn’t make sense to just ignore him, either.” Nathan looked around the room. “Hadley’s gonna raise all kinds of hell, but really, I don’t much give a shit what he does.”

  Six o’clock:

  Jimmy and Harbus had been all over the basement, and still had not found a way out. But they wouldn’t give up. They would keep trying until their time ran out. Then they would run and hide. At the top of the stairs they tried opening the door, but it wouldn’t budge. They retreated to the floor and scrambled onto the stone slab, where they got a close look at the bloody altar, and the monstrous statue that had stared out at the wicked sycophantic worshippers who had gathered before it.

  Jimmy wouldn’t go into the freezer, so he held the door open while Harbus looked for a way out. But all Harbus found were sides of beef and blocks of ice, pigs and dangling hooks. There were some tools on the bench outside the freezer, a screwdriver and a couple of wrenches, a carpenter’s level. A meat cleaver and three butcher knives lay on the floor beside the bench. Hanging from a row of nails on the far side of the basement were the thirteen dark brown robes the wailing crowd had worn, dangling loosely over a wooden bench.

  In six and a half hours they had been over every square inch of the basement. Their time was almost up. Someone would come soon, either to feed or to check up on them. Harbus led Jimmy back to the bench, and looked over the knives.

  “Somebody’s gonna come down here soon, Jimbo. We’ve gotta figure somethin’ out.”

  He picked up a knife and ran a finger across the blade.

  “I’m gonna go back to the top of the stairs. When they open the door they’ll think we’re still in the room. They won’t expect me to be hiding in the corner. I want you to stand down at the bottom of the stairs. If they catch me, I’ll holler somethin’ real loud. If the lights come on and I don’t start hollerin’, that means they didn’t see me, and you gotta hide until they get to the room. When they get over there, run for the stairs, and I’ll wait for you at the top.”

  “What if they find you?” Jimmy said, the fright evident in his voice.

  “Y’all play hide’n go seek up there on High Street, don’t you?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know how to hide pretty good, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Well, just act like you’re playing hide’n go seek and don’t let ‘em find you.”

  “I’m scared, Harbus.”

  “Aw, don’t sweat it. We’ll be out of here before you know it.”

  Harbus reached down and tousled Jimmy’s hair, and then handed him the knife.

  “Here you go,” he said. “Take this, and if you see they’re gonna catch you, hide it behind your back or somethin’. If one of them gets close, stab him.”

  “I don’t think I can,” Jimmy said, thinking, I’m just a little boy.

  “Yeah you can, Jimbo.” Harbus looked the frightened youngster in the eye. “Just think about what they did to Timmy, and let ‘em have it. C’mon, let’s get ready.”

  They moved to the bottom of the stairway.

  Harbus walked up a couple of stairs, and then turned and came back down. “Here, I won’t need this,” he said, and handed the flashlight to Jimmy. “Remember, hide’n go seek, just like you’re back on High Street.”

  Then, grinning one last time at his small friend, Harbus hurried into the darkness.

  In the dark at the top of the stairs, Harbus wished he could take back every prank he had ever pulled on Vonda Peters. All the smart-assed one-liners and goofy looks he’d given her had led him to this dark corner. If only he could go back to Wednesday afternoon, he’d pour that English Leather down the bathroom sink and become the most well-behaved student ever to have walked the hallowed halls of Whitley Jr. High School.

  All these thoughts vanished when somebody approached the door.

  Back against the wall, Harbus held his breath, and said a silent prayer, asking God to get him out of there.

  It was still dark when the shadows moved through the doorway and started down the stairs. Harbus thought he was actually going to make it. He stood quietly behind them, waiting. When they moved away, someone stepped into the doorway.

  “I know you’re back there,” he whispered.

  And the lights came on.

  Jimmy sat on the bottom step, a flashlight in one hand and a big butcher knife in the other. Many a Saturday afternoon he’d left the theater thinking how neat it would have been to be a hero like the kid in the movie. On his way home he would shoot silver bullets into the werewolf’s chest, drive a wooden stake into the heart of a vampire or chop off Medusa’s head. And now here he was, wondering if he would be able to use a
knife on somebody who wanted to kill him. Could he hide in the dark and wait for somebody like the old guy who had brought the food, or for Vonda Peters to come looking for him? Wait until they were right on him, and then lash out and bury the knife in their chest? Could he watch the blood gush out like it did in Blood Feast?

  “Could I?” the shaking child said.

  Light flooded the stairwell and Jimmy scrambled to his feet. He backed away from the stairs, and Harbus yelled, “Get you’re grubby, fuckin’ hands off me!”

  Moments later, a blood-curdling scream echoing through the enormous cavern stopped Jimmy dead in his tracks.

  The light blinded him, but Harbus didn’t panic. He yelled as loud as he could, waiting for the whisperer to touch him so he could launch himself and send him tumbling into whoever had started down the stairs. He was still waiting when his eyes finally adjusted to the light to find Pitch standing in front of him, smiling, while behind him, Vonda Peters and Doc Fletcher moved back up the stairs toward them.

  Pitch chuckled. “My, my, what a surprise. We were just coming to pay you a visit. Didn’t you like Mickey’s Clubhouse?”

  Harbus stood his ground.

  “How’d you get out of there, anyway?” Pitch asked him, obviously impressed that he had gotten out of the locked room, and might even have escaped had he sent Hastie to check on the boys.

  And it finally dawned on him.

  Boys.

  “Where’s your little friend?”

  “Well, what do you know?” Vonda Peters called out from behind Doc Fletcher. “Gary Harbus can’t think of anything to say. What’s the matter, Harbus, you so scared your tongue won’t work for you? That’s got to be a first!”

  “Fuck you, you ugly old bitch!” Harbus called down to the braying teacher.

  “Where is he?” Pitch said.

  “He got away, that’s where he is. We found another way out. I wasn’t little enough to squeeze through, but Jimmy was, and you’d better let me go and clear your ass outa here before the sheriff shows up.”

  Pitch, laughing, reached down to tousle Harbus’ curly hair. “There is no other way out, but not to worry, we’ll find him.” Pitch knew there was another way out, but he also knew they hadn’t found it, or they both would be gone, and yes, there would be hell to pay if that happened.

  “You too, Doc?” Harbus said, his voice trembling.

  “How do you like it now, you little asshole?” Vonda said, laughing, hurling insult after insult at Harbus. “Where’s your English Leather now? Huh? Where are your smart-assed little remarks now? How do you think it’s going to feel when he rips out your heart? You know what, it happens so fast, you live long enough to see it beating in his hand!”

  “Where is he?” Pitch said. Then, raising his voice, “Don’t make me ask you again, boy!”

  He reached out to grab Harbus, and Vonda crowed, “How do you feel now, Class Clown? What do you have to say now? Huh?”

  Harbus, sidestepping Pitch’s hand, grabbed his wrist and drove a thumb deep into the soft flesh between Pitch’s thumb and index finger as hard as he possibly could, drawing a pain-filled shriek from the madman, who stood helpless in front of Harbus, his face twisted in agony as Vonda and Doc Fletcher lurched forward, and Harbus slammed a knee between Pitch’s legs before they could take more than a step.

  “What do I say?” Harbus let go of Pitch’s hand, pushed and the madman went tumbling backwards. “I say, fuck you!”

  Pitch crashed into Fletcher, and was able to stop himself from going further, and like a human domino, Fletcher fell into the startled woman. He leaned forward and dropped to his knees, grabbing Pitch’s foot and hanging on for dear life as Vonda struggled to maintain her balance.

  But with no one left to continue the domino effect, Vonda Peters fell backwards, a horrifying scream echoing throughout the great hall while Harbus darted into the kitchen, and Vonda continued howling and tumbling, bouncing end-over-end off the concrete steps, all the way down to the basement floor, where she landed with a resounding thump… she tried raising her head, but she couldn’t lift it. Nor could she move her mangled right arm, which lay useless by her side. Her face, torn and bleeding, rested against the floor, while a jagged edge of bone protruded from the split skin of her thigh. Manipulating her good arm enabled her to lift her upper body a foot or so off the ground, exposing her torn and misshapen head to Jimmy Pritchard, who turned and ran into the darkness.

  Harbus charged into the empty kitchen, across the floor and into the hallway. Though worried about Jimmy, the only thing he could do now was run into town and find the sheriff. He raced down the hall and around the corner, straight into a forearm that lifted him off the ground and tightened around his neck, taking him down to a dark and dreary world of pain and degradation, where thirteen robed psychopaths stood howling for his blood.

  Newton Hayes walked into the kitchen with Harbus slung over his shoulder, laughing when he saw Pitch walking gingerly across the floor, a pained expression on his face as he followed Doc Fletcher out of the pantry.

  “Lose something?” he said.

  “Yes, I guess I did,” Pitch said, then, “Good boy, good job.”

  Pitch yelled for Hastie. Then he told Newton to tie Harbus to a chair. When Hastie entered the kitchen, Pitch instructed him to help Newton and Doc Fletcher find the other child.

  Pitch went upstairs to check on little Johnny Porter. Then he went through each room, looking under beds, behind doors, searching through closets. He entered his own bedroom, walked into his huge walk-in closet, and found a flashlight on the shelf where he’d left it. Looking around to see if anything had been disturbed, he breathed a sigh of relief when he found everything to be in order. Then he moved some clothes out of the way and stepped through them. Pulling a handle slid a panel open, revealing a dark passageway that led down to the basement, and he stepped into that passageway and started down the steep stairwell.

  Knife in one hand, the flashlight in the other, Jimmy ran blindly into the darkness, across the floor, where he tripped and fell to his knees, dropping the knife; his hands trembling so badly, he was barely able to click the flashlight on. But he did manage to turn it on, and when he did, he flashed the light around until he spotted the knife. Then he grabbed it and ran past the torch-stands, to the wall at the far side of the basement, where the dark-colored robes hung over a long wooden bench.

  Somebody laughed, and Jimmy turned off the flashlight. He stepped onto the bench and put his back against the wall, folding a robe around him and staring out through a thin sliver of separated fabric as Newton Hayes emerged from the stairwell, carrying an unconscious Harbus across his shoulder—stopping in front of Vonda Peters, he laughed as the bleeding and disfigured wretch pleaded to him for help, while Doc Fletcher and Hastie stood off to the side, as if afraid she might see them.

  Newton kicked Vonda in the stomach, and Harbus slid off his shoulder, crashing to the floor as Jimmy cringed and bit his lip.

  “You find him yet?” Pitch called out from behind the altar.

  “Not yet,” Newton said.

  “Then quit playing with Vonda and get your ass in gear!”

  Jimmy’s spirit’s rose. Pitch had appeared out of nowhere, shining his flashlight from behind the altar. And now Jimmy knew there was another way out.

  While Newton picked Harbus up and carried him to Mickey’s Clubhouse, Doc Fletcher bent down and whispered to Vonda, who could only lie there and moan.

  “There, there,” he said. “I’ll help you… when Hell freezes over!”

  “Give Doc a flashlight, James. We’ve got to find that little shit and get him ready for tonight!” Pitch pointed his light at Fletcher. “I thought I told you to leave her alone!”

  “Right. Right you are, Mr. Pitch!” Fletcher said. He clicked on his light and walked over to the freezer, while Pitch, who had been moving around the slab, walked to the edge of it, and played his light back and forth across the basement. Then he turned and checked
around the statue, even going so far as to scale halfway up it in case Jimmy might be hiding on its top.

  Jimmy saw the old man following a narrow beam of light across the basement, past the unlit torches. Soon he was at the wall, going through the robes, one at a time, rifling through one and then moving on to the next, until finally he stood directly in front of Jimmy. Heart pounding like an African war drum, Jimmy held his breath, terror rising within him as he clutched the knife in his sweating hand, waiting, wondering if he could get away if he stabbed him hard enough and ran across the floor.

  I could get by Mrs. Peters and run upstairs, get away while they’re all down here.

  Trembling, he bit the inside of his cheek. Any second now, the robe would open and he’d be found, grabbed and hauled up to the slab… slaughtered like an animal by that madman. He gripped the knife, his hands shaking, his legs wobbling, tears filling his eyes as his heart pounded in his chest. He was going to pass out—he knew he was.

  “I don’t think I can”… “Yeah you can… Just think about what they did to Timmy.”

  Jimmy remembered the look on Timmy’s face when they wheeled him away.

  Pitch, holding Timmy’s heart high above his head.

  The robe opened and Jimmy gasped.

  Tears rolled down his face as Hastie whispered, “Shhhh.” And then closed the robe and went on to the next one.

  Jimmy watched through the narrow opening as the old man walked away. Then he turned toward the slab, following Pitch as he moved back to the altar, where he stood for a moment, peering out across the great hall. Then, turning, he disappeared into the darkness hovering at the rear of the slab. Jimmy kept waiting for him to come back, but he never did. He was still standing in the robes, waiting, when Pitch came down the stairs and hurried across the basement to Mickey’s Clubhouse. Moments later, the three men made their way back to the stairs. Jimmy thought Mrs. Peters was dead, but when they walked by, she raised a hand in the air while a harsh rasping sound issued from her mouth. Pitch kicked her, and then kicked her again, over and over, until she collapsed to the floor and lay still. Then he started up the stairs, stopped and turned and stared across the basement, looking directly at the spot where Jimmy was hiding.