by Unknown
They matched the circles beneath her own eyes.
"Aren't you going to eat, sweetie?"
"No." Barry shook his head. "I'm not that hungry."
"Eat your supper." Clark shoveled a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.
"I don't feel good."
"None of your lip. Eat your goddamn food. When I was in Vietnam, I saw a hundred starving kids that would have given their left arm to have just a mouthful of what you got on that plate."
Barry put his fork down. "That's a shame. Why don't you send mine over to them?" Clark choked on his food. He grabbed his glass, took a quick drink, and then slammed it back down on the table. Milk sloshed out.
"What did you say?"
Barry sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest in defiance. "I said why don't you send my dinner over to them. Then they won' t be starving anymore." Clark started to rise, but Rhonda reached out and placed her hand atop his clenched fist.
"Dear," she pleaded, "he's just upset. We all are. The police were here for so long, and it's been"
Clark tore his hand free of hers, picked up his glass, and threw the milk in her face. Rhonda gasped in surprise. Milk dripped from her nose and chin.
"That's where he gets it from," he said. "Boy talks back and doesn't listen. Acts like a smartass because his bitch of a mother is the same way."
"You motherfucker." Barry jumped to his feet, sending his chair crashing backward to the floor.
Fists clenched, his father rose to meet his challenge.
"You sit the hell down, shut the hell up, and eat your goddamned supper, or so help me Page 97
God, you won't sit down for another week."
"Fuck you, you son of a bitch. I hate you. I hate you and I wish you were dead!" Barry's hands curled into fists, just like his father' s. Hot tears of anger, not shame, coursed down his face. He shook with rage. Clark studied him for a moment. Then he stepped around the kitchen table.
"Reckon you're a man now, huh? All grown up and cursing like an adult. Figure you can kick my ass?"
"I would love to."
His mother jumped to her feet, hands flailing like frightened birds. Her wet bangs were plastered to her forehead and milk still dripped from her face.
"Barry, no. Clark! Please!"
Ignoring her, Clark swung around to Barry's side and stood right in front of him. Barry resisted the urge to step backward, and held his ground. His father leaned down and thrust his chin out.
"Go ahead, boy. Take your best shot. Better make it a good one." Trembling, Barry said, "Why are you like this? Why can't you be like Timmy's dad?" Clark laughed. "That what you want? Randy Graco don't know the first thing about being a father."
"He's better than you'll ever be. You're a drunk and an asshole. You don't let Mom or me have any friends. You don't let us go anywhere. I can' t even be next door anymore unless you 're with me."
"I told you," Clark said. "It's for your own good. Nobody is allowed in the cemetery after"
"Shut up," Barry shouted. "I'm tired of your shit. Tired of the way you treat us."
"Barry," his mother cried. "Please, stop this now. Sit back down." His father smiled. "Then like I said, take your best shot." Barry stared at him. His entire body quivered. The anger felt like a solid thing, deep down inside him. His pulse throbbed in his ears, and his lips felt swollen and full.
"Pussy," his father teased. "I knew you didn't have it in" Barry swung. Swung with all his might. His fist plowed forward with the weight of twelve years of abuse and cruelty behind it, twelve years of anger and tears and frustration. Twelve years of hell. It rocketed toward his father ' s stubbly, unshaven chin and he felt a surge of vindication. Importance. A fiery, testosteronedriven right of passage into manhood. In that brief second, he understood the magnitude of his actions, and how they 'd change the course of his life.
And then he missed.
Arm extended, body swerving with the thrust, stepping into the punch just like Luke CagePower Man did in the comicsand yet, despite all this, and despite the poetic justice he felt flowing through his veins his fist sailed by his father's jaw and clipped the older man's shoulder.
His father didn't even blink.
Still grinning, Clark swung his own fist. It smashed into Barry' s mouth, and immediately, the boy tasted blood. His lips were crushed against his teeth, splitting open. Blood flowed. The warmth squirted over his tongue, and Barry ' s stomach rolled. He spat blood, and the simple act of doing so left his mouth in agony. In the background, his mother was screaming. He stared at the bright red spot, and didn 't notice the second blow coming. Clark' s other fist clobbered the side of his head. Barry became woozy. His vision dimmed on the sides and it seemed as if he were looking down a tunnel. Stunned, he kept staring at the blood, even as more of it filled his mouth.
He noticed something else. A flash of color, glinting off his father's ring finger. It had just left an imprint on his facea ring. A Freemason' s ring. Barry had only seen one Page 98
like it before, and that was buried with Timmy 's grandfather.
"That's what you get," his father said. "I told you before to not talk back to me. This time, you ain't gonna forget it."
His fistand the ringcame down again, but Barry' s knees gave out before it could connect. The blows followed him all the way to the floor, and continued as he wavered on the edge of consciousness. Blood his blood, he realizedflowed into his eyes. The last thing he heard were his mother's screams.
Barry tried to speak, and then he passed out. Mercifully, he did not feel the next punch. When Timmy' s father arrived home at a quarter past ten, Timmy was sequestered in his room, lying in bed, surrounded by books and comics. He had his Trapper Keeper notebook in his lap. HeMan 's archnemesis Skeletor graced the front cover. Timmy was taking notes on ghouls.
He' d pulled out every reference he could find, from the House of Secrets comic to his Dungeons and Dragons Monster Manual. He wasn' t sure the latter was entirely accurate, because it dealt more with the game than it did mythology or legend. He heard his father's pickup truck pull into the driveway. Glen Campbell's "Wichita Lineman" drifted softly from the cab' s radio. Then he heard the garage door opening. Moments later, his father came inside.
The television snapped off. In the living room, his parents talked in hushed tones, and though Timmy strained to hear them, he couldn 't make out their words. Instead, he turned back to his research.
A few minutes later, there was a knock on his door.
Timmy?"
He closed the notebook. "Come on in, Dad. I'm awake." His father entered the room, looking exhausted and smelling of sweat. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and patted his son's knee through the blankets.
"You okay? Your mom says you and Doug had quite the day."
"Yeah, it was something, all right. But I'm fine."
"Well, it must have been pretty scary, I guess." Timmy shrugged. "Kind of. It's scary to know that somebody did this. When you see it on TV, it's always in faraway places like Los Angeles and New York. And I'm sad about Pat and the others."
"I shouldn't have hollered at you this morning, about the serial killer thing. I'm sorry about that. Looks like you may have been right."
"That's okay."
Randy glanced down at the books spread out all over the bed. "So what's all this?
You working on a D&D game for your friends?"
"No," Timmy said. "Just doing some research."
"On what?"
"Ghouls."
Frowning, his father picked up the Monster Manual and began flipping through it.
"Ghouls, huh? You know, Reverend Moore says that some kids get too wrapped up in this game. Can' t tell fantasy from reality anymore. A couple college kids supposedly died…"
He trailed off, put the book down, and nodded at the Iron Maiden poster on the wall.
"That, too. The Number of the Beast? That's satanic, Timmy. Don' t you think?"
"Isn't that what
they used to say about the Beatles when you and Mom were kids? And Elvis?"
Randy nodded, obviously reluctant. "Yes, you' re right. Some people did say that. Especially when John Lennon joked that the Beatles were more popular than Jesus Christ. But that's different, Timmy. Elvis and the Beatles never sang songs about the devil. Page 99
They certainly never had album covers like that. My parents would have kicked me out if I'd had something like that hanging on my wall. It's just evil looking."
"Come on, Dad. You know I don't worship the devil."
"I know. You're a good kid, Timmy, and I'm very proud of you. I just worry sometimes. Your attraction to stuff like this and your infatuation with monsters and thingsit just isn'
t normal for a boy your age. You should be playing sports "
"I hate sports."
"and be more interested in girls than you are little green men."
"I am interested in girls," Timmy said, feeling defensive. Randy paused, surprise and relief both clearly visible in his expression.
"You are? Well, that's good. That's very good."
"You sound surprised, Dad."
"No. Don't think that way. I just didn't know. See, we need to talk more, kiddo. You need to know that you can tell me things like that."
"Okay," Timmy said. Secretly, he wished his father would just kiss him good night and go to bed, so that he could get on with his research. It had been a long day and he still had lots to do.
Randy made no move to leave. Instead, he winked and said, "So, is it anybody I know?"
"Who?" For a moment, Timmy thought his father was talking about the ghoul.
"This girl you like. Is it someone your mother and I have met?"
"Yes," Timmy mumbled.
"Who?"
"Aw, come on, Dad. I don't want to say. It's embarrassing."
"You can tell me. I won't say anything to your mother. Is she cute?" Timmy took a deep breath. "It's Katie Moore."
Grinning, his father slapped his knee in delight. The bed springs groaned from the sudden movement.
"Katie, huh? That's great. She's going to be a knockout when she gets older. Does she know you like her?"
"Yes. We're going together. We talked about it today."
"Going steady?" Randy reached out and ruffled Timmy's hair. "Well, how about that. My little guy is finally growing up."
Despite his embarrassment, Timmy smiled. Once he' d finally admitted it, he was surprised to find that it actually felt good to share the news with his father. Maybe his dad was right. Maybe he should talk to him about things like this more often. Like Doug had said earlier, Timmy was pretty lucky.
He had a father, unlike Doug, and his father was pretty cool most of the time, unlike Barry 's.
Still grinning, Randy got to his feet. "Well, I'll let you get back to your reading. Still wish you'd read about other stuff, for a change. Don' t stay up past eleven, okay?" Timmy decided to take a chance.
"Dad, wait. Can I talk to you about something else?"
"Sure." Randy sat back down again. "What's up?"
"Well… I'm not sure where to start. This may sound kind of weird."
"Try me."
"Okay." Timmy swallowed. "I think I know what happened to Pat and Karen, and all the others."
His father blinked. "Well, Timmy, I know it was traumatic finding Pat' s body the way you boys did, but according to your mother, the police have cautioned against assuming the other disappearances are related."
"Do you believe that, Dad?"
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"I think it's safe to assume that whoever killed Pat probably killed… that the same thing might have happened to Karen. But we just don' t know about the others yet."
"But this morning, when you warned us to stay around the house, I thought you were assuming the same thing."
"Maybe I was. Look, Timmy, I don't have all the answers. I'm just worried about youand your friends. Something's going on and I don' t want it to affect you any more than it already has. Whatever it is that 's happened to the others, I don't want it happening to you. Let's just let the police find out who's responsible."
"But, Dad, that's just it. I know who it is! I know who's behind this."
"Who, Timmy? And how do you know? Is there something you didn't tell the detective when he interviewed you?"
"No. I figured it out later, when I got home. That's why I'm doing all this research." Randy's face grew concerned. "What do you mean?"
"The person that killed Pat isn't a person at all. It's a ghoul." His father didn't speak, and Timmy assumed he was too shocked to reply. Gathering his courage, he pressed ahead.
"You said I could talk to you about what's going on. Well this is what's going on." He proceeded to tell his father about all that he suspected, blurting out a breathless, excited litany of the past month' s chronological events and how they connected to facts regarding ghoul legends. Occasionally, to clarify a point or back up a position, Timmy would rifle through the stack of comics and hold one up for verification, pointing to the specific panels where he ' d gotten the information. Randy kept quiet, listening with rapt attention to all that his son had to say. He started to interrupt once, when Timmy voiced his suspicions about Clark Smeltzer, but then he fell silent again. His mouth was tight, his face grim. When Timmy had finished, he was speechless. Timmy waited expectantly for some sort of response anythingbut none was forthcoming. His father merely stared at him.
"Dad?"
Blinking, Randy shook his head slightly, as if waking up from a daydream.
"Dad," Timmy said again, "what should we do? Do you think we should tell the police?"
"No." His father's voice was sad and hoarse. "No, Timmy, I don't think we should call the police."
"But why not? It could be out there right now."
"That's enough, Tim."
"But Dad, you said that you'd listen to me. You said I could talk to you. What's wrong?
Don't you believe me?"
Randy sighed. "No, Tim. I don't."
Timmy's heart sank.
"But… but it all makes sense. Even Grandpa's grave." Randy tensed. "Stop it, Timothy. Just stop this right now."
"Don't you care? The ghoul could have tunneled into his coffin."
"I said stop it."
"It could have eaten Grandpa."
"I said stop it!"
In the living room, Elizabeth heard the outburst. Gasping, she ran down the hall. She flung the door open and stared at them, frightened. Tears rolled down her son 's face. He was sitting upright against the headboard, shrinking away from his father. Her husband looked angrier than she'd seen him in a long time.
"What on earth is going on in here? What's wrong?"
"Tell your mother," Randy spat. "Tell your mother the same nonsense you just told me."
"I… I…" Timmy trailed off, stifling a sob.
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Randy stood up, fists clenched at his sides. Elizabeth touched his shoulder, but he shrugged her away.
"Randy, what is going on?"
"Our son," he said through gritted teeth, "thinks that a monster is on the loose next door in the cemetery. He says that it' s in cahoots with Clark Smeltzer, and that the two of them are robbing graves. He thinks that this monster, this ghoul, is eating people. He thinks that it ate… my father."
Elizabeth's eyes went wide with shock. Her head whipped back and forth in denial.
"Timmy," she cried, "why would you say such horrible things?" More tears rolled down his face. "Because it's the truth, Mom. I can prove it."
"Honey, you know it's not the truth. There is no such thing as monsters. And Mr. Smeltzer? I'll admit, he has problems, but Barry's father is"
"Barry's father is a monster," Timmy shouted. "Jesus Christ, are you both blind?"
"Don't take the Lord's name in vain."
"Mom, don't you know what Mr. Smeltzer does to Barry and his mom? He's evil, and he's working with that thing out there. That ghoul."
&n
bsp; "Timothy Graco," Elizabeth snapped. "You stop talking like that this instant. There is no monster living in the cemetery. You know that."
"It' s these funny books," Randy said, seizing a handful off the bed. He crumpled them in his fist. "This garbage. I told you Reverend Moore was right. We shouldn 't be letting him read this bullshit. These comics are where he gets these ideas. They're a bad influence." Timmy cried out as his father continued to squeeze, crumpling the comic beyond any hope of repair.
"Your father is right," his mother said. "Like earlier, when you said that you and your friends blew up a dead animal. That type of behavior just isn't acceptable."
"I'm sorry," Timmy said. "We won't do it again. But I'm not lying about the ghoul."
"No more," Randy said. "I'll have no more of this nonsense. It's not normal, Timothy. These things you believe innormal people don' t think about monsters and demons." He tossed the comics on the floor and stalked out of the room. Timmy leapt out of bed and scooped them up. He flattened the comic books out on his mattress and tried to smooth them.
"Look at this," he sobbed. "Look what he did. He ruined them." Elizabeth tried to soothe him. "Timmy. Calm down, sweetie. Your father is very angry right now, and he's had a long day."
"I don't care. It isn't right."
"Honey, did you really say that about your grandfather?"
"Yes."
"But why? Can't you see how hurtful that is to your father? How wrong it was to make up such a horrible story?"
"It's true!" Timmy looked up at her with redrimmed eyes. "See for yourself. His grave is sinking."
"That's normal, Timmy. Graves settle after a few weeks, especially if it rains like it did last night. You can't make up lies like that."
"It's not a story, and he didn't need to do this." He continued smoothing the comics. "I hate him. I'll never forgive Dad for this."
"Timmy, that's not true. You love your father, and he loves you very much."
"If he loved me, then why won't he listen? Why did he do this?"
"You have to look at it from his perspective."
"Why? Why do I have to? Because I told the truth?"
"But you didn't, Timmy. You're telling stories. Fiction. You're confused right now. Upset with all that's happened."