Pitch

by William Ollie

  He gathered up his belongings and, looking around to make sure he wasn’t leaving anything behind, stepped out into the hallway; shut the door and made his way to the deserted front desk, tossed his key on the counter and walked away.

  Driving through town, he wondered if the sheriff and his men had found anything out at… What’d they call it? Yawning, he thought back to last night, and all the unbelievable things he’d been told. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Pitch Place.”

  The houses were nicer on the east end of town, the streets smoother, without the potholes he’d driven over near his hotel. He looked forward to seeing Vonda. Even though he hadn’t stayed in touch with her, he had spoken with Earl every now and then, and it would be nice to talk over the good old days. He also wanted to get her take on things. He still wondered how something like this could have happened in Earl’s town without him ever mentioning it. He also wondered why the state police had never gotten involved, or the F.B.I., for that matter.

  Pops pulled up in front of Vonda’s house, got out and walked up to the porch. He knocked on the front door, but nobody answered. Surely she’s in there, he thought, as he continued to knock. When no one answered, he stepped around to the front window and peered in through the curtains. Lights were on in the living room, but he heard no sounds, no one humming or singing or moving about the house. He turned away from the window and walked around back, up the steps and onto the porch, where he proceeded to knock, and then pound on the back door.

  * * *

  Junior, Billy, and E.L. cornered Jackie in the schoolyard. It was his first day back since his little brother had disappeared. Every morning, Jackie left for school as always, but he didn’t go to school. He went into town to search for Jimmy, up the mountain to hunt for his brother. He stopped off to see Miss Maudie. She wanted to tell him everything would be all right, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him she had dreamed that two children had been butchered, and by now his brother was probably dead.

  Jackie’s friends missed him, and were glad to see him back in school. They felt his loss. They too wanted to tell him everything would be all right, but like Maudie Mason, they didn’t believe it would be.

  Junior, turning to Billy, said, “Did your dad have anything good to say this morning?”

  “Huh uh. He wasn’t up when we left for school. But by the way Mom was acting, I don’t think anything has changed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She looked all sad or something. Davey asked her what was wrong, but she just shooed us on out of the house.”

  “How about your dad, E.L.?” Junior asked him.

  “I don’t know. He was already gone when I got up.”

  “We goin’ to the tavern for lunch?” asked Billy.

  “Sure,” Jackie said. “Why not?

  As the morning bell rang, Junior said, “Where’s Harbus?”

  “Who the hell cares?” Jackie said, and then disappeared into a crowd of students hurrying along to their classrooms.

  * * *

  Pitch stood on his balcony, thinking about last night. He had performed the same old ritual, dancing about the slab like a bible thumper gone mad. Working his followers into a frenzy, their shouted oaths and cries of devotion had lifted him to new heights.

  Their demented rhapsody was like music to him.

  Before him was Gary Harbus, the smart-assed class clown who had kneed him in the nuts, almost sending him hurtling down the long flight of stairs. The foul-mouthed white trash was spoiling Pitch’s fun by staying unconscious, refusing to wake up and observe what was happening to him. Still, the moment carried Pitch and his group along on an emotionally-charged tidal wave of raw, unbridled power.

  He grabbed the knife and held it as always, high above his head; shouted a pledge to the Master, and his words echoed from the crowd. He commanded them to their knees, and smiled down at Harbus. Any second now the knife would sweep down. The sycophantic shouts and shrieks melded together into one long, loud moan, and Harbus’ eyes snapped open. Pitch, smiling, leaned over to whisper a taunt. But before he could get it out, Harbus spat a mouthful of thick mucus into his face.

  Pitch didn’t remember anything after that.

  He didn’t remember plunging the knife into Harbus’ chest, or tearing out his heart. One second, he was smiling down at the boy. The next thing he knew he was standing at the edge of the slab, watching his blood-spattered congregation gather body parts from the floor, while his body trembled from the sheer force of energy coursing through it.

  The loss of time bothered him. It had never happened before, and he didn’t understand it. And what about Harbus, could he have been faking unconsciousness? He didn’t see how. No one had ever withstood him before, and the child had already succumbed to his will once.

  Pitch had not been to sleep, but he felt strong, stronger and more alert than ever before. And he could still feel that incredible sense of power running throughout his being. He hadn’t allowed Newton Hayes or Hastie to sleep, either. Newton tried to go to bed, but Pitch said no. His younger and much stronger protégé became angry, and Pitch grabbed him by the throat. Using only one arm, he lifted the startled man off the floor, waiting until his face turned blue before dropping him like a sack of laundry, and then laughing as the murderous psychopath cowered away from him.

  Posting Hastie at the front porch, he sent Newton to fetch his cocaine, and then he and Newton prowled the house all night, looking everywhere they could think of, in closets and under beds. ‘Not one stone unturned’, he told Newton. Still, they could not find Jimmy Pritchard, the undisputed king of hide n’ go seek.

  12:00 p.m.

  Every time Charles Hadley thought about Vonda Peters lying at the bottom of the stairs, he smiled. Her dying eyes pleading for help hadn’t bothered him at all. He hated her and her pretentious bullshit, always had. Something else altogether troubled Hadley this morning. Tuesday night, for a brief moment, a second or two, Pitch seemed to change into some kind of monster. He, like the rest of the group, had told himself it was a hallucination, a trick of the mind. Things like that just aren’t real. But last night couldn’t be explained away. Last night it wasn’t just a brief moment, or a second or two. Last night left no doubt about what, or who, they were involved with. Pitch had urged them on as always, pacing wildly back and forth as he feverishly led them along. By the time he was ready to do the deed, they were crazy, screaming and shouting their allegiance to the Dark Master. On their knees, they looked up to see Pitch bring the knife down. He hesitated. Then, with a look of absolute hatred, he slammed the knife into Harbus’ chest.

  Hadley couldn’t believe what came next: Pitch changing into the hugely-muscled monstrosity of the night before. But this time it wasn’t just a moment or two. Eyes flashing with hatred, the misshapen creature ripped Gary Harbus to shreds, tearing him apart with his bare hands and tossing his mangled body parts at the group. He grabbed the silver bowl that had caught Harbus’ blood, and jumped down amongst them, his deep, demonic voice resonating throughout the great hall as he demanded the bowl be passed back and forth until every drop had been taken, snarling and running at each of them, slavering and threatening death and decapitation as the bowl was passed. Moments later, the monstrosity snatched the empty bowl from Clyde Barlow and jumped onto the slab, laughing wildly as he melted right in front of them, returning Pitch’s form to him. And the bewildered look on Pitch’s face, like he didn’t even know what had happened.

  After leaving Pitch Place, Hadley and Doc Fletcher met in front of Fletcher’s Pharmacy, Fletcher listening to Hadley’s panic-stricken harangue: ‘The fuck was that?’ and ‘What’re we gonna do?’ and ‘God help us, what have we gotten ourselves into?’

  Fletcher listened as the mayor babbled, each unanswerable question seeming to add more and more pressure to an already fragile psyche, until finally he backhanded the frightened mayor, grabbed him by his shoulders and shook him violently. “The fuck do you want to do? I
’m listening. The fuck did you think you were dealing with?”

  “But what’re we gonna do?” Hadley wailed. “What if that thing goes crazy tomorrow night and rips us to shreds? What if—” Hadley looked up to see a fearful look on Doc Fletcher’s face, the same look of fear he knew was on his own…

  Hadley opened a desk drawer with shaking hands, and then fumbled around until he found a pint of rye whiskey. He didn’t bother with a glass or a chaser, just guzzled a mouthful and braced himself for another. Shuddering, frightened, scared to death of what might happen at Pitch Place tonight, he took another drink, closed his eyes and massaged his temples.

  “Son of a bitch,” he whined, and then, looking down at his watch, wondering how much time he had left on this earth, Charles Hadley folded his arms across his desk, cradling his head in them like a second grader.

  * * *

  Pitch drove off in the old Ford pickup. Just a day ago he might have been afraid of using it, fearful someone may have seen them the night they took the baby. But none of that mattered now. This was his town. He had the sheriff and his so-called deputies locked away where they couldn’t even touch him, much less harm him in any way. Every person with influence, wealth or power, was under his control. They bowed to him, and he knew that he could go anywhere, do anything. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and snickered, and then chuckled. Before he knew it, tears were running down his cheeks, he was laughing so hard. Then, laughing uncontrollably, howling with joy, he drove on toward his town.

  * * *

  They found Norval’s handcuff key in his pocket and used it to release Nathan. The metal door’s rusty old hinges seemed to be welded to it, but they kept working on them. They tried busting down the door but it wouldn’t budge—along with the fact that it was a steel door, Pitch had fortified it with a two-by-four.

  Donnie looked at his watch and sighed. “Three o’clock,” he said. “We’ve been here more than sixteen hours.”

  “I don’t see any way out of this here mess,” Johnny said.

  They had been trying all night and into the afternoon to get out, and were no closer now than they had ever been. Every one of them felt the same as Johnny, but until now they had refused to say it aloud. They were tired, and hungry, their weary muscles aching. Walt Davis had a headache that was about to drive him out of his mind.

  Donnie, managing a weak smile, said, “Jerry Mays would shit a brick if he was here, wouldn’t he, Cuz?”

  “We had that son of a bitch,” Walt said. “We had him sure as hell.”

  “We didn’t have shit, Walt. How do you think that message got on the windshield?” Johnny paused, and then answered his own question, “We walked right into his trap.”

  “What happened in that room?” Donnie said. “One minute I was lookin’ at that smiling son of a bitch, the next thing I know I’m talking to my brother, Mark—who, by the way, is dead.”

  “I know what you mean. I saw my dead grandfather sitting behind that desk.” Walt looked over at Nathan. “The fuck happened, could he have hypnotized all of us at the same time?”

  “I wasn’t gone all the way. My head went light and somebody punched me in the gut. It was my brother, my own brother who I’ve been grieving over these last twenty-six years, who’s crazy as a shit-house rat. My fucking sick-assed brother who killed the greatest man I’ve ever known.”

  Donnie reached over and put a strong grip on Nathan’s shoulder, and Nathan continued, “That white-haired bastard told me he was a hundred and six years old, that he hasn’t aged a bit since 1929. Said Earl knew all about what he was up to but was afraid to do anything about it.”

  “I don’t believe that shit,” Donnie said. “Not for a minute.”

  “It makes sense, Donnie. Look at the house they lived in. Vonda scouted out the kids and Earl looked the other way. I figure he couldn’t live with it anymore and told Vonda he was gonna put a stop to it, and she killed him.”

  “He told you this last night?” asked Walt.

  “That, and a whole lot more. The son of a bitch took his first three kids back in 1916…”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, and Doc Fletcher killed the sheriff we had before Earl. Gave him a physical and a dose of poison to go along with it. Poor bastard fell down on Main Street, deader’n shit. The night Larry Dale found Bobby Turner’s bike, Pitch and my fucked-up brother was sittin’ up in one of them offices, watching the whole thing unfold. Yep, Vonda picked out which child would be taken. The year Newton disappeared, she picked me.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right, me. All the kids that have gone missin’ have been good kids, respectful kids, innocent little children. Fucking prick said he happened to be out riding around that night and spotted me walking through the Holler. Thought it was his lucky night. ‘Course, it was Newton he saw. He said Newton was so damned nasty and ornery, he let him live. He liked that shit. They’ve been together ever since.

  “Burgess was right. Newton Hayes, my brother, is the Charleston Butcher. I’ve lived all these years because Pitch took my brother instead of me.” Nathan paused and looked at Donnie. “He took my place, and I’m alive, and all the people he’s killed over the years…”

  “Fuck that, Cuz. He was a rotten son of a bitch when he was a kid. It wouldn’t have been any different if it’d been you instead of him. You’d be dead and he’d be one of these assholes living the good life because they’re in cahoots with that son of a bitch.”

  “Yeah, he’s right,” Johnny said. “He’d be the mayor or the sheriff, or some shit like that.”

  “Yep,” Walt said. “He’d be leading us around in circles while that bastard went right on killing kids. You know, we did track those fuckers down.”

  Nathan huffed out a breath. “We’d still be sittin’ on our asses wondering what to do next if it hadn’t been for Burgess.”

  “Burgess… Burgess!” Walt cried out. “Burgess knew we were coming up here!”

  “So what?”

  “So our wives are bound to have called Harvey Lain or somebody about us not coming home. Burgess knows we were coming out here last night. When he tells the judge, somebody’ll come looking.”

  “Burgess was taking those print cards back to Charleston this morning. We might all be dead by the time he gets back,” Johnny said. “If he comes back. If the judge ain’t mixed up in this shit, and if the mayor and the rest of those rich bastards can’t head him off at the pass.”

  “Lot of ifs there, Johnny,” Walt said.

  Nathan leaned against the door, and closed his eyes.

  Lotta fuckin’ ifs.

  Three-Thirty:

  Billy, Junior, and E.L. swarmed Jackie when he walked out of his sixth period class.

  “What happened to you at lunch?” Billy asked him.

  “Ronny Ball made me eat with him. Said he needed me to help set up some chairs, but we never done it. Just ate lunch and talked.”

  “We’re going down to Donnie’s. Why don’t you come with us?”

  “Nah, I’m gonna hang out in town.”

  “C’mon man, go with us.”

  “Huh uh, I’ll see y’all later.” Jackie walked down the hill with his friends, but went in the opposite direction when they reached the bottom.

  “Boy, this sure is one messed up Halloween, ain’t it, Junior?” Billy said.

  “You got that right.”

  The three friends stepped into Donnie’s game room and made a beeline for the pinball machines. Billy went to get some Cokes, and to see if his father was there, or if there was news about Jimmy. He poked his head into the other side, but there was no sign of his dad. He went into the kitchen, but his father wasn’t back there, either. Billy walked out to the bar, and leaned into the cooler to gather up their drinks. When he stood up, Willem Mays walked through the door, followed by Carver Pitts and Jim Harris.

  Billy started through the archway to the pinball machines, pausing when Jim Harris called out, “Made it back, d
id you?” He looked back at Carver Pitts, who was walking toward Mary Cousins and her table of customers, and almost dropped the Cokes. Sitting at the table, laughing and joking with three coal miners, was the old man who had hit Jimmy’s bike. He didn’t have a beard anymore. Nor was he dressed like an old coal miner. But it was the same man. He was sure of it. And as Billy felt his heart begin to pound, he thought he could actually hear it, too.

  Mary Cousins called out a greeting, but Billy turned and hurried back to his friends, who had already started playing pinball. Hands shaking, he offered them their drinks.

  “What’s wrong?” Junior said. “You see Missy Thomas back there or something?”

  “The old guy that hit Jimmy is in the other room, drinkin’ beer with a bunch of miners.”

  “So what?”

  “He ain’t got no beard anymore, Junior—he ain’t even dressed the same, like he was pretending to be who he was the other day.”

  “Come on,” E.L. said, rolling his eyes.

  “Go look, Junior. Just peek around the corner. Don’t let him see you, though.”

  Junior walked over to the cash register expecting to see some old miner who looked like the man who had hit Jimmy. And if it was him, what was the big deal anyway? He saw the white-haired guy, and felt a dozen pairs of spider legs crawling slowly up his spine. All around the man were people Junior had known all his life, laughing and joking, slapping him on the back and clinking beer bottles with him.