by David Greske
If they'd stayed in California, this wouldn't have happened. Travis would still be alive. Mom was right. All this was Daddy's fault.
Molly wiped her leaking eyes on the balls of her hands and padded into the bathroom. When she was finished, she walked into her brother's room, took Ted D. Bear from his bed, and put it next to the angel on her pillow. She crawled back into bed and pulled the stuffed bear and porcelain angel close to her. Hopefully, when she fell back to sleep, the dream would not come again. But if it did, she knew her special angel and bear would protect her.
* * * *
Jim lifted himself out of the weathered, wooden rocker and stepped back into the house. He put on a pot of coffee and thought about making himself some breakfast, but decided not to. He was no more hungry than he was ten feet tall. He had a funeral to arrange and as much as he dreaded it, it was something that had to be done.
He supposed Diane would spend most of the day in bed. The sedative Doc Addlerson gave her was quite strong, and he was warned that the day in bed wouldn't be unusual.
The coffee brewing, Jim opened a cabinet drawer and took out the community phone book. He sat at the table and thumbed through the thin directory. It took little time to find the listing.
Peterson's Mortuary was the only funeral home in Prairie Rest. According to the ad, Peterson's was a family-owned business that served the community since 1807.
Jim remembered the somber-looking building when he was downtown. At the time, he wondered how a funeral home in such a small town managed to stay in business. There couldn't possibly be enough deaths to make the venture worthwhile. But here he was, ready to make an appointment with Marcus Peterson. Life was ironically twisted sometimes.
Choking down the lump in his throat and squeezing back the tears, Jim picked up the phone and dialed the number.
* * * *
Jarvis rapped twice on the screen door and walked into the house just as Jim hung up the phone.
"Hey, Jarvis.” Jim walked to the counter to pour himself a second cup of coffee. Seeing his friend, he tried to smile. “I thought I was the only person in the county that got up this early. Of course, I have extenuating circumstan..."
Jarvis wrapped his arms around Jim. “The sheriff stopped by the bar last night. He told me what happened. Jim, I am so sorry."
"Thanks."
"How are you holding up?” Jarvis helped himself to a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table.
"I can't believe Travis is gone. My son is dead.” Jim joined Jarvis. “I still expect him to come running into the kitchen in his pajamas asking for the Cheerios."
Jarvis reached across the table and squeezed Jim's hand.
"The spooky thing about all this was the old gypsy lady told me this would happen and I laughed at her. I fucking laughed at her, Jarvis."
Jarvis looked puzzled. “What gypsy lady?"
"The one at the carnival. In the black tent."
"There was no gypsy tent at the carnival, Jim."
"Sure there was,” Jim insisted. “She'd set up camp just behind the Ferris Wheel. Diane and I went in to have our fortunes read. We thought it'd be fun. Turned out to be damned spooky."
"When was the last time you had any sleep?” Jarvis changed the subject.
"I can't remember.” He paused. “You don't believe me, do you? You think I imagined this whole thing, don't you?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. I can see the doubt all over your face. Well, one thing's for sure, my son is dead. Or did I imagine that, too?"
Jim pushed himself away from the table and walked to the counter to refill his cup. Maybe Jarvis was right. Maybe he needed some rest. But he knew what he'd seen. He still smelled her mothball stink, and her dreaded words still bounced around in his head: There is a veil over your son's face. That veil is death. There was no way he could've imagined all that.
"Maybe Travis's death wasn't an accident,” Jarvis said, speaking to Jim's back.
Jim spun around. In one hand, he held his coffee cup; in the other, the etched glass carafe. “Are you saying someone killed my boy?"
"Not someone,” Jarvis answered, “Something. You should never had been allowed to buy this place. There are forces at work here nobody understands. Strange forces. Evil forces. That gypsy witch you claimed to have seen may be part of all this."
The carafe slipped from Jim's grip. It shattered into a hundred glittery chunks when it hit the floor. Hot coffee splashed his bare feet, but he was too shocked and angry to notice.
How dare he! How dare Jarvis come into his house and make a mockery of his son's death. Jim's eyebrow began to twitch.
"Out!” Jim hissed. “Get the fuck out of my house!” His face was cherry red as he grabbed Jarvis by the collar and lifted him out of the chair. The chair toppled over and skid across the floor. He threw his friend at the screen door, and Jarvis landed on the front porch.
Jim towered above him; his chest rose and fell as intense angry rippled through his trembling body. Sweaty hair dangled in front of his eyes like wet ropes. A fine strand of spittle glistened from the corner of his mouth. His eyebrow twitched uncontrollably.
Kill him, the alien voice whispered in his head. Snap his pathetic little neck like a twig.
Eyes on fire, Jim reached down, prepared to wrap his big hands around his friend's pale, skinny throat, when Jarvis scrambled to his feet.
"Go!” Jim screamed. He forced his arms to his sides.
"I'll see you later,” Jarvis croaked. “Go upstairs and get some rest."
"Get out of here! Now!” It took all of his willpower to keep him from leaping at Jarvis. He wanted to attack his friend like a hungry animal attacks its prey. He wanted to tear out his throat and lap up the blood in great, greedy gulps.
Jarvis nearly stumbled down the stairs as he ran for his truck.
Jim turned, walked into the house. He tried to close the door behind him, but Jarvis's weight had sprung the frame. Jim picked up the pieces of the broken carafe, tossed them in the trashcan under the sink, then sat down on the floor. He scooted his knees up to his chest, rested his elbows on them, and dropped his face into his upturned hands.
God in Heaven, what was happening to him? He was going to kill another human being.
(Snap his neck like a twig.)
Was he losing his mind? Had his son's death pushed him over the edge?
Jim wept.
Outside, the hot morning breeze rustled through the trees. It sounded like children's laughter.
* * * *
"Jarvis, I can't believe you told him without consulting one of us first,” Cal said.
"I hadn't intended to, but you weren't there. You didn't see the pain in Jim's face. He was blaming himself for Travis's death. I couldn't let him do that. He was my friend, and the words just kinda came out,” Jarvis replied. He studied the bruise he'd gotten on his arm when he was thrown out of the house. “It didn't matter, anyway. He didn't believe me."
"They never do the first time."
Jarvis and Cal were in the back room of the Gas-n-Go. Cal handed Jarvis a Zip-Loc bag filled with ice from the machine that grumbled in the corner.
"So, what now?” Jarvis winced as he touched the ice bag to the black and blue wound. “Except for this,” Jarvis motioned to the bruise, “everything seemed fine. Nothing changed. There were no physical manifestations of the house."
"Not yet, anyway,” Cal reminded.
"Do you suppose I should go up there again? Convince him to abandon the place. I'm sure we could find him something in town."
Cal chuckled. “Jarvis, you sound like you want to run the man out on a rail. And while we're at it, why don't we tar and feather his wife and daughter as well. I thought you were his friend?"
"I am. But I have my obligations to this town as well."
"All right.” Cal sighed. “After the funeral, we'll all get together and try to make Anderson see things our way. For the better of the town."
"That's all I ask. I only hope we won't be too late."
"So do I, but if this drowning is anything more than just an accident, it may already be."
* * * *
That night, as residents of Prairie Rest slept peacefully ignorant in their beds, six specter children came out of the woods. Their bodies shimmered like kaleidoscopes in the moonlight, and their eyes sparkled like rare jewels. Blown by an undetectable wind, their golden hair framed their small faces like obscene halos.
Behind the children were the three whores. Wispy hair poked from their heads like dirty fright wigs. Tiny eyes were yellow and running with pus. They cackled like chickens as they fondled each other's sagging, putrid breasts.
Floating an inch above the ground, the group moved down the hill toward town. As they did this, green tendrils of glowing light snaked from the bottom of their feet and lapped at the passing landscape. Small animals that were unfortunate enough to be caught in the poison path of these tentacles immediately shriveled to dried out husks. Plant life blackened and died.
They moved down Main Street and paused to look in the shop windows. They left behind greenish smears of slime on the glass, smears that would be gone come sunrise.
When the group reached the residential streets, they huddled together in a circle. Black clouds, like spilled ink, tumbled in the sky, blotting out the stars and moon, throwing the town into perfect darkness.
The children and the whores melded together, forming a pulsing orb of energy. The sphere rose into the sky. A green moon against black satin. Lightning crackled around it. Moans and laughter cackled inside it. Growing three times its original size, the orb exploded with a crack that could've shattered the globe.
A misty green fog covered the town and was absorbed by everything it touched. The pendulous clouds shrank back to the horizon and the night was clear, calm, and humid once again.
Now it could begin.
Chapter 16
Just one drink. What harm would it do? Just one to calm his nerves.
Reverend Timothy poured a jigger of Old Crow into the glass and downed it with one quick gulp. The harsh liquor tore at his gullet like dull razor blades as it traveled down his throat. It warmed his innards like a thick wool blanket on a frosty winter's night.
Better now.
He'd be able to perform the duties the community and the Lord expected him to. Pastor Timothy had a funeral to officiate. He hated funerals. They were the worst part of a preacher's job. Even if the dearly deceased were a ninety-seven-year-old man whose ticker suddenly stopped while he was taking a leak, it took all of Timothy's inner strength to recite the Rite of the Dead. But when the Rite was for a child, like it was today, the task was almost unbearable.
Timothy locked the liquor bottle in the cabinet and left the parish house, heading for the church. Since the thunderclap a couple of nights ago, he thought the air smelled different. Almost like fried eggs and burnt toast.
The sun felt like a blast furnace on the back of his neck. It toasted his bare arms. The air was so heavy it was almost like inhaling water. Heat ghosts shimmered off the black asphalt of the church parking lot. It was another insanely hot and humid day.
Timothy walked into the church. The casket was already there. The oblong teakwood and brass box looked small and out of place in front of the altar. A spray of red carnations, yellow mums, and white roses lay on the lid. Alabaster stands flanked each side and huge pots of yellow roses laced with delicate baby's breath stood on top of them.
On a small, round table in front of the casket was a silver-framed picture of Travis Anderson. The table was draped with white linen, and more roses graced the bottom of the photograph.
The sweet fragrance of so many flowers filled the church with a sense of calm, but Timothy couldn't keep from thinking how the sweet scent masked the stench of death.
Jim Anderson requested the funeral be closed casket, for which Tim was grateful. The service was going to be hard enough without having an innocent corpse staring at him from a wooden box.
The pastor headed to the back of the church, toward his private dressing room, when he thought he detected movement from the corner of his eye.
He stopped.
Turned.
The coffin lid was open; the spray of roses scattered across the floor.
Now a hand, as pale as bleached flour, gripped the side of the coffin, and Travis Anderson sat up. His head creaked on his shoulders, and Timothy found himself staring into the cataract eyes of the dead. Travis's jaw dropped open and a thick, blackish-green goo gurgled out of it. The same fluid leaked from his ears and nostrils.
Timothy closed his eyes. When he opened them, the hallucination was gone. He hurried to his dressing room. And as he closed the door behind him, the nave filled with the sounds of children's laughter.
* * * *
Jim Anderson supposed he should've been the first one at the church. He supposed he should've been there to greet those who came to mourn his son. He supposed he should've tried to make sense of all this. Jim Anderson supposed a lot of things, but he couldn't stand being alone in an empty church with his dead son.
Both Diane and Molly had chosen not to attend the service. He tried hard to convince them to come—he probably should've insisted they come—but he decided he wasn't going to argue the issue. In the future, they both would probably regret their decision, but the guilt would be their cross to bear, not his.
Dressed in a pair of black slacks and a dark gray shirt, Jim stood on the church steps and wished the ordeal was over and done. His black shoes were scuffed and dirty. He supposed he should've given them a coat of polish, but it was too late now. Oh, well, he couldn't think of everything. Besides, how often does anyone ever notice someone's shoes? And what did he care if someone did. He was here to bury his son, not win a fashion show.
As the mourners arrived, they gave Jim their condolences before finding a place to sit in the church. Jim was surprised at the turnout. His family had been in town for such a short amount of time, yet so many people had come to share his grief. It was as if they were all part of his family. And that was what attracted him to Prairie Rest in the first place—the sense of community.
When Jarvis arrived, Jim hurried down the steps to meet him. The last time he'd seen his friend, something had gone down between them, and although the details were somewhat foggy, he knew he owed Jarvis an apology.
Jarvis stepped out of the truck and met Jim halfway across the parking lot. Jim extended his arm, expecting a handshake. What he got instead was a compassionate hug. If Jarvis was angry at him for what happened at the house, he hid it quite well.
"Thanks for coming,” Jim said.
"I couldn't very well let you go through this alone,” Jarvis replied.
"I ... uhm ... owe you an apology,” Jim stammered.
"What for?"
"The last time we saw each other I ... uhm ... have the feeling I acted like a bastard. And I'm sorry."
Jarvis rolled his eyes. “Oh, that! Hey, you were under a lot of stress. It's okay, really."
"Uhm ... what exactly did I do?” Jim asked sheepishly.
"You don't remember?” Jarvis raised an eyebrow.
Jim shrugged. “Sorry."
"You threw me out of the house,” Jarvis said, smiling. “Literally."
"Please, say you're kidding."
"No, really.” Jarvis rolled up his sleeve and showed Jim the bruise. It was a big purplish-black thing that covered most of his arm.
"Shit. I did that? Geez, I'm sorry."
"Actually, I was kinda impressed. I didn't think you had it in you. You being such a little guy and all.” Jarvis rolled down his sleeve and buttoned the cuff. “Come on, let's go inside."
They walked into the church and sat in a pew directly in front of the casket. Seeing the coffin made Jim's heart ache. He felt a lump of sorrow rise in his throat. The weight of his loss numbed his nerves.
Jarvis squeezed his pal's knee. “You're going to ge
t through this."
Pastor Timothy walked to the pulpit.
The congregation stood.
The service began.
* * * *
Russell Harvey was a fat thirteen-year-old boy who wore glasses with lenses as thick as Coke bottles and suffered from severe asthma. He was also an avid rock collector. Much to the dismay of his asthma, he spent most of his summer days at the town quarry looking for quartz and agates. Once, he found a stone as big as a half dollar, and after it was polished, it was the most beautiful Cat's Eye he ever found. In fact, it was so beautiful Russell's mother brought it to the local jewelers and had it fashioned into a pendant. Russell always wore it and has never found another rock to rival its brilliance.
Russell took the inhaler from his pocket, stuck the tube in his mouth, and gave himself a blast of medicine.
Too much dust.
He dug a piece of rose quartz out of the sand, wiped it on his blue jeans, and examined it. He was pleased. It would polish up nicely. He picked up several similar stones from the same area, dropped them in his bag, and pushed a lock of his oily hair off his forehead.
Russ could wash his hair a dozen times a day, and twenty minutes later, his head would look like he dipped it in a vat of grease. Consequently, the condition of his hair led to undaunting ridicule from his schoolmates. They called him names like Crisco Kid, or OPEC. They'd whisper behind his back just loud enough for him to hear: Who's Standard Oil's greatest competitor? Russell Harvey, of course. Sometimes, the taunts were so hurtful, all he wanted to do was teach them a lesson. Sometimes, he understood exactly why those kids at Columbine did what they did. Sometimes, he wanted to do the very same thing.
Doc Addlerson said a lot of young fellas go through this kind of thing. Sore breasts and oily secretions were a part of puberty. He'd outgrow it in no time, just like his asthma. Somehow, Russ didn't quite believe it. Doc was wrong about the asthma, and the jury was still out regarding his body's excess oil production.
"Hey, Wheezer!"
Russell froze. The rocks he held dropped from his hand. He recognized the voice immediately. It belonged to Vincent Mardell.