Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  At nine in the morning with the temperature hovering at just over 43 degrees, the usual joggers and dog walkers were conspicuously absent from the sidewalks. Even the morning breakfast traffic seemed sparse. Trey looked over at Dick as he kicked on the Regretta's heat.

  “We're going to freeze to death on the first hill,” Trey chuckled.

  Dick turned to him and smiled. “Wuss,” he said. “You been here in Texas your whole damned life. You're lucky. Try living in the Great White North.”

  “Whatever,” Trey said. “I bet you weren't crazy enough to play disc golf in the freakin' winter up there.”

  The older man shook his head. “Hell, no. Just crazy enough,” he said, “to go sledding in zero degree weather with snow blowing sideways.”

  “And let me guess,” Trey grinned, “it was uphill both ways?”

  “Something like that, young'n,” Dick said.

  They were both quiet for a moment as the Regretta wound through the twists and turns heading for the disc golf course. As they pulled in, Dick pointed at the parking lot. “See? We're not the only ones.” A number of cars were parked. Trey watched as a stray disc flew high into the air, stalled and then swerved off into the ground. “And it looks like the wind might make things interesting.”

  Trey groaned. “I haven't played in a week and you get me out here in the frozen tundra and shrieking wind?”

  “Oh for fuck sake, Trey. It's a 2 mile an hour wind and it's the mid forties.” He parked the car and pulled the keys. Dick turned to Trey and slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “Stop being a pussy.”

  “And here I thought you Canadians didn't curse.”

  “Shit,” Dick said laughing, “I've been down here too long, hanging out with Texas scum like you.”

  They stepped out of the warmth, retrieved their bags from the trunk, and headed toward the practice tee. As Dick pulled out a disc to throw through the trees at the first basket, he looked at Trey. “Everything okay, man?”

  “Yeah,” Trey said. “I'm, um, better.”

  “Good,” Dick said. He turned back to the brush choked, wood-lined path. He pulled in a deep breath and then forehanded the disc into the air at chest level. The disc flew between the trees, pinging the metal basket stand, bouncing off the post, and landing a yard shy of the basket. “Fuck.”

  “Yeah,” Trey said. “Shitty throw. You should practice more.”

  “Asshole,” Dick breathed and stepped back.

  Trey stepped up to the starting line painted on the concrete path. He took a deep breath and backhanded his disc with a tight snap at the end of the arc. The disc wobbled from the spin, veering the slightest bit to the right, far enough for it to slam into a thin pine. The disc bounced off the trunk and flew at a diagonal. It landed about fifteen feet shy of the basket in heavy brush.

  “Wow,” Dick said. “That was a stellar throw. Just like last week.” He winked at Trey. “Championship worthy.”

  Saying nothing, Trey reached down, picked up his bag, and began walking. The recent rains had left the ground pliable and sticky. He just knew his sneakers were going to be covered in mud by the ninth basket. Dick walked with him, pointing to the disc trapped in a pile of dead branches and leaves. Trey walked over to it, picked it up from the brush and held it. “How much you bet I can get it into the basket from right here?”

  Dick shrugged. “Using that disc, or another one?”

  “This one.”

  “I will bet you breakfast,” Dick said with a grin. “An expensive La Madeleine breakfast.”

  “Oh, fuck,” Trey said. “No bet, man. I've seen you eat.” With Dick's laughter as a soundtrack, Trey tossed the disc softly toward the basket where it landed just in front. “Not bad, though.”

  “You know,” Dick said, “you can talk to me about anything you need to.”

  Trey walked out of the brush and glanced at Dick. “Yeah, I know.” He walked and retrieved his disc, not bothering to throw it in the basket. Dick nodded and got his own. “First tee?”

  “You're brave today,” Dick said.

  “I'm out here with you, aren't I?” Trey stopped and turned toward Dick. He raised his eyebrows. “Aren't you going to--”

  Dick shook his head. “Not today, bro.”

  Trey laughed. “You run out already?”

  “Shit no!” Dick said. “Just don't feel like it.” Trey shrugged and turned back to the first tee.

  The course, once a giant landfill, had been molded into contoured hills. They were steep and inevitably channeled the wind. As the two men struggled up to the first tee, a cold blast hit them both. Trey looked at Dick, smiling as the older man shivered. “Pussy,” he said.

  Puffing from the exertion, Dick smiled. “Uh-huh. Keep talking like that, boy, while I kick your ass with my par shots.”

  “Right,” Trey agreed. “Because I never get those.”

  “Damned right you don't.” They reached the top of the hill. Dick laid his bag down on the ground with care while Trey dropped his next to the tee marks. “Mugs go first,” Dick said.

  Trey sighed. “One day I'm going to get to say that to you, you damned Canuck.”

  “One day,” Dick agreed. “When Texas becomes part of Canada, maybe.”

  The metal basket gleamed in the channel between the tree branches. Trey started to throw and then stopped. The pines, oaks, and sweet gums were all mixed together, their branches snaking in and out, creating a face made of wood. It grinned at him. It was the Grubby Man. No, he thought, not the grubby man. The fiend. The Ice Cream Man. Trey shook his head.

  “What's wrong, man?” Dick asked. Trey turned to him and shook his head again. Dick walked forward, placing a hand on Trey's shoulder. “Hey, man. You got that look in your eyes again.”

  “Just give me a sec,” Trey said. He closed his eyes, but the shape was still there. “Fuck,” he said.

  Dick tapped him again on the shoulder. “Take as long as you need, kid.” Trey opened his eyes and looked back into the brush. He couldn't see the shape anymore. He blew out a long sigh.

  “That guy creeps me out too, you know,” Dick said.

  “Who?” Trey asked. He turned back toward Dick, ignoring the tee.

  “The guy. The Ice Cream Man. Think he said his name was Reggie.”

  Trey nodded. “Carolyn said he'd come by the house.”

  “Yeah,” Dick said, “and he freaked her the hell out.” Trey said nothing. Dick leaned against the course post, his disc dangling from his fingers. “I don't like him.”

  “Glad you're not the only one,” Trey muttered.

  “No, man. You don't get it,” Dick said. “I like everybody. And I don't like this guy. Anyone who hides their eyes like that--”

  Trey frowned. “What do you mean he hides his eyes?”

  “When he showed up at your house,” Dick said, “he was wearing that hat. That porky thing. Anyway, he had it slung way down. Never got a really good look at his face, other than that damned nose. And his teeth? Christ.”

  Dropping his disc to the ground, Trey rubbed his hands together to keep them warm. “Teeth? Dick, tell me what you saw, man.”

  He shrugged. “They were, I don't know, abnormal or something. Guy could use a trip to the dentist. Fucking things were curved bad. And they were stained. And his breath,” he shuddered. “Smelled like he'd been eating turds.”

  Trey laughed. “Turds, eh?”

  “You know what I mean. Like he hadn't brushed his teeth in forever. Guy belongs in a Listerine commercial.”

  Trey's expression flatlined. “What do you think?”

  “That depends,” Dick said. “What do you see when you look at him, Trey?” Dick's mouth was set in a thin line, his eyes glittering in anticipation.

  Shifting to lean on one foot, Trey looked down at the ground. He tried to find the words, and then gave up. “I'll sound crazy, man.”

  “Fuck that, Trey,” Dick spat. The sound was enough to make Trey look at him. “Tell me what you see.”
<
br />   Dick didn't look like he wanted to know. Dick looked as though he had to know. “I see a ghoul.”

  “A what?” Dick asked.

  Trey sighed. “Told you, you wouldn't--”

  “Shut up and describe it.”

  It. Trey blinked at him and frowned. “I see eyes. Glowing yellow eyes with crimson fire for pupils.” Trey took in a deep breath. “I see an impossibly long nose, canines dripping with saliva and hunger. I see talons for fingers.”

  Dick shuddered. “You have one fuck of an imagination,” he said. Trey opened his mouth to say something and Dick put a hand out to silence him. “You have psychosis.” Trey nodded. “You see things that aren't there.” Trey nodded again. “But,” Dick said, licking his lips, “how do you know they're not there?”

  Trey blinked at him. “I-- Well, um, people don't see--”

  “I see,” Dick whispered. “I don't see the-- the thing the way you do, but Reggie's not, well, normal.”

  “Dick,” Trey said, “what do you know?” Dick dropped his eyes and rolled the disc between his fingers. “Dick? I know I'm crazy. What about you?”

  Dick shook his head. “I'm not crazy, Trey.” He stared into Trey's eyes. “I'm not.” Dick let out a sigh. “I've been watching that fucking van go around the cul-de-sac for days.” He brushed his free hand against his beard. “I hear those damned bells in my sleep.” Dick was silent for a moment, looking up at the sky as if to gather his thoughts. “So, I thought I'd call the Yummy Company to complain.”

  Trey blinked at him. “Why didn't you just tell the guy to turn down the volume?”

  Silence fell between them. Dick looked down at the ground. “I don't- -” He cleared his throat. “I don't want to be that close to him again.”

  Trey nodded. “Okay, man. Go on.”

  “Two days after your...incident, that fucker came strolling down the street again. I looked out my window and took down the license num- ber. You know, so I could tell the company what vehicle was causing the problem.” He looked at Trey. “I searched for the Yummy company, Trey. It doesn't exist.”

  For a moment neither of them moved, or spoke. Trey realized he'd been holding his breath and then let it out in a long hiss between his teeth. “What do you mean it doesn't exist?”

  “It. Doesn't. Exist,” Dick said. “The closest thing I found was the Yum-Yum Corporation in Michigan. And they don't sell ice cream. They make toys.”

  “Okay,” Trey said, “so the guy is running around claiming he's the Yummy Company. So what?”

  Dick shook his head. “I don't know. It just gave me the shivers.”

  “So.” Trey took a long look at Dick, then furrowed his brow. “There's something else, isn't there?”

  With a sigh, Dick nodded. “Yeah, there is.”

  “Well?”

  “I looked up the license plate number.”

  “You what?”

  Dick smiled. “Remember, I'm a geek too, you know. I, um, visited a reverse lookup site.” Trey looked confused. “Jesus, Trey. Think about it. They have services out there that will take your cash and a license number and get back to you with all the information.”

  “Fuck, is that even legal?” Trey asked.

  “Yeah,” Dick said with a nod. “Great way to make $24.95 a shot, don'tcha think? Someone sends you a license plate number, you buzz your cop buddy or your friend at the DMV, and have 'em fax you the report. Then you split some of the cash with them.”

  “So you got the report?”

  Dick nodded. “Sure did.”

  “And?”

  “That's the fucked up part. The owner's name ain't Reggie.”

  “So what is his name?”

  Dick's face spread into a smile. “Archibald Simmons.”

  Trey laughed. “Archibald? You have to be fucking kidding me.”

  “No.” Dick sighed. “Imagine the kind of shit that kid got in school.” Dick's smile faded. “But that's not the strange thing.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Trey asked.

  “Then what is?”

  “I googled the address. It's in the warehouse district.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” Dick said. “Like in an actual warehouse.”

  “So you know where it is?” Trey asked. Dick nodded. “So what do you want to do?”

  “I want to play disc golf,” Dick muttered. “I don't know, man.” Dick looked up at him. “That boy is missing.”

  Trey nodded. Dick was shivering, but Trey couldn't tell if it was from the cold. “Okay. So--”

  “Fuck this. Throw your goddamned disc before we hold someone else up.”

  Trey looked down the hill and saw another group of intrepid disc golfers heading toward them. “Okay,” Trey said. He picked up his disc from the ground and looked down the hill. He flung it toward the bas- ket. It flew through the clear space between the branches and landed in the tall grass a few yards away from the metal post.

  Chapter 46

  They managed to play through nine holes. As they were walking toward the tenth tee, Dick turned to Trey and said his fingers were frozen. Trey seconded that. Disc golf was difficult enough without gloves; Trey couldn't imagine trying to throw a frisbee while wearing them.

  As promised, Dick had kicked his ass anyway, finishing one over par while Trey managed a meager 9 over. As they walked in silence toward the car, Trey stopped. “Do you hear that?”

  Dick cocked his head and then frowned. “You have to be fucking kidding me.” The sound grew louder as the two men stood side by side in the cold. The cream colored Yummy! truck pulled into the parking lot, its bells pummeling the morning's winter birdsong. It paused for a moment, not far from the Regretta. The squealing brakes were barely audible over the sound of the bells.

  “Get in the car,” Dick growled.

  Trey blinked at him, opened the passenger door, and stepped in. Dick continued standing by the driver-side door, glaring at the van. The ice cream van, receiving no interest from the few people in the park, turned out and exited, its bells dwindling in the distance.

  The door clicked open and Dick ducked inside with effort. The Regretta bounced as he wedged himself into his seat. He stared through the windshield for a moment. Trey cleared his throat, but Dick didn't respond to him.

  “You know,” Trey said, “that kind of anger--”

  “You want some breakfast?” Dick asked without turning his head. Trey cocked an eyebrow.

  “Breakfast?”

  “Yeah,” Dick said, finally turning his eyes to meet Trey's. “You know, stuff you eat in the morning?”

  “Um, we never--”

  “Well, we're going to today, dammit,” Dick growled. He inserted the key into the Regretta's ignition and started the car despite its protests.

  Chapter 47

  IHOP was the last bastion of breakfast dives left in the neighborhood. At ten in the morning, the crowds had finally started to dwindle, but they still had to wait twenty minutes for a table. Trey spent the time smoking cigarettes outside while Dick waited.

  Trey wasn't sure what Dick had in mind. The trip from the disc golf course had been made with Pink Floyd blaring from the speakers and Dick refusing to talk. Each time Trey opened his mouth to say something, Dick held up a finger and sang along with Gilmour.

  The Ice Cream Man. The ice cream van. The bells ringing out across the park as the van slowly made the circle, pausing just long enough to gauge interest. Trey hadn't really looked at the passenger side window. He'd been afraid he'd see those yellow eyes staring back at him. But Dick had looked. Dick had stared, his face growing angrier by the second. What the hell had he seen to set him off like that?

  Archibald Simmons. A warehouse. The man had said his name was Reggie. The missing boy. The eyes. Trey sucked down the last bit of smoke from the cigarette, flicked the cherry and watched it jump into the wind and skitter across the concrete. He rolled the butt between his thumb and forefinger. And now breakfast? He looked up into the crowded waiting room and
saw Dick gesturing toward him.

  Trey tossed the butt into the ashcan and headed inside. It was ridiculously warm, as though someone had decided using the heater in Houston was an opportunity not to be squandered. He and Dick were the only two people in the place dressed in sweats. Nearly everyone else wore expensive winter coats or sweaters. Just as with the heat, the chance to dig out the winter clothes and wear them was an opportunity.

  Dick grinned at him and then followed the waitress back to a booth. Trey followed suit.

  Dick ordered two coffees and stared down at the menu. “You might want to get something pretty hearty. May not be home for a while,” Dick said. “We got some planning to do.”

  Trey cocked his head, one brow raised. The coffee cups arrived and Dick immediately filled them both. “Dick, what the hell are you talking about?” Trey asked.

  “Cream?” Dick asked as he slid the tub toward Trey.

  “Dick?” Trey said, holding the tub with his finger-tips. The large man finished pouring the contents of a small plastic tub into his coffee and looked up. “What. The fuck?”

  The big man opened his mouth in a grin. “I have an idea.”

  “Is it another crazy whack-a-doodle idea, or is it something that serves reality?”

  Dick grunted and stirred his coffee. “We go to the warehouse tomorrow.” Dick gestured toward the menu. “Figure out what you're gonna eat. We got shit to do.”

  “Why do you--”

  “Look,” Dick said, rolling the coffee cup between his gnarled fingers, “we think we know something.”

  “We do?”

  “Shut up and listen to me, Trey.” Dick cleared his throat and took a sip of coffee. “Needs more sugar,” he muttered and grabbed a white packet. “We think there's something not right. Right?” Dick shook the packet and then tore it open, emptying it into the cup. “This Archibald, Reggie, or whatever the fuck he calls himself, he shows up. Less than a week later, a kid goes missing. Right?”

  Trey nodded. “Yeah, that could be just--”

  “Stop it, Trey,” Dick said, glaring at him. “Just stop it.” Dick took a deep breath and then pointed at him. “You're not afraid to say you're crazy. But you are afraid to think you're sane.”