The Deadsong

by Brandon Hardy

  “Hey, I’m missing the scary part!” Tommy said.

  “Hold your horses, will ya?” Seth looked at the phone, flexing his toes to the beat of the mouthwash pop jingle. His girlfriend usually called after she closed up the Billy Burger and went home, but she was coming over tonight. Maybe she stopped off for condoms. Yeah, that’s it. They’d have some time to get down and dirty after Tommy fell asleep and before his father returned from an all-nighter with the tooth tickler.

  The zombies were ripping a chunk of meaty flesh from the lady’s neck when the phone rang. Tommy jumped and threw up an ear-piercing shriek, then latched onto Seth’s thin arm for protection. Seth said “Don’t be such a baby,” and grabbed for the remote, knocking over a glass of milk. It beaded up on the new carpet, but luckily his father had paid a few extra greenbacks for the Scotchgard. Before Seth could say hello, Tommy screamed again. Dragging its long, scaly body through the glob of spilled milk was a snake.

  It’s not real. Don’t be such a baby. Tommy shut his mouth tightly, locking in the horrific sound threatening to escape.

  Seth held the phone to his ear, still looking at Tommy, his eyes big as saucers. “What’s the matter with––”

  The snake raced up the denim on Seth’s right leg and bit down on his forearm. Seth wailed in horror, but he couldn’t move.

  (knock it away kill it get away from it)

  He couldn’t. He sat there frozen like an ice sculpture, the coiled phone cord bouncing as the snake bit him again and again, working up around his neck and face. Tommy slid into the floor and scooted back, back, until he was against the soft glow of the TV set. The zombies had ripped into the woman’s guts and were now holding up the long, bloody entrails for the camera to admire before gnawing on them like starved dogs.

  Don’t look away. This is the scary part.

  He could hear a voice on the phone saying “Seth? Seth, what’s wrong? Is this a joke?” but Seth couldn’t make a noise to indicate just how real it was.

  Don’t look away. This is the really scary part. Are you watching?

  The phone fell from Seth’s hand and smacked into the wall, springing to its keypad beside the doorway of the kitchen, bobbing up and down like a blood-smeared yo-yo.

  Tommy watched as the snake dropped into his brother’s lap and slid silently into the kitchen. The zombies on TV were replaced with an ad for Crisco. Nothing cooks like Crisco can!

  Seth lay still. Blood drained from his arms and neck and onto the carpet. Good thing for the Scotchgard. A fearful silence spread like smoke, filling young Tommy with regret and despair. He sat there in voyeuristic amazement, trying to justify his lack of reaction. But he couldn’t.

  I didn’t look away. I saw it. I saw it all. See, I wasn’t a baby, Seth.

  Tommy retched and heaved until all his dinner was gone. When Seth’s girlfriend arrived ten minutes later and saw the body––a ghastly scarecrow, the face purple and swollen––she called 9-1-1 but she knew he was already dead. While they waited, Tommy cried in her arms and wished to God he would have said something when he first saw the snake.

  But he wouldn’t have seen the scary parts.

  11

  When Duke unlocked the backdoor and tiptoed across the kitchen, he didn’t expect to see his father sitting in the dark. Not at two in the morning.

  “Couldn’t sleep, Dad?”

  Ellis said nothing. The ringing in Duke’s ears was almost nauseating against the silence. He hung his head and waited.

  “Am I in trouble?”

  Ellis shot up from his chair. “You can’t keep behaving like you’re above the rules.”

  “It’s my birthday. I wanted to go out and––”

  “Even I am not above the rules,” Ellis said, pouring another whiskey. “It seems like no matter what I do, I can’t keep you out of trouble. I got a call from the Sheriff’s Department, Duke.”

  Cooley. Oh, I’m gonna get you good for this you no-good copper top.

  “So, punishment…” Ellis rapped on the kitchen table with his knuckles. Duke wondered why his dad smelled funny and why he was wearing galoshes.

  “Son, come here.”

  Duke approached him hesitantly––whiskey on his breath meant his father had the unpredictability of a compassionate bulldog.

  “Ellis? Are you down there?” Michelle Pearson called down from upstairs.

  “Getting some water,” Ellis replied. “Go on back to bed now.”

  Once her footfalls faded away, Ellis resumed his lecture with more clarity. “Son, I don’t mind you having fun. But you have to think about your future. You can do all the things I wanted to do when I was your age. You’ll go off to college and play football and meet people who’ll be your friends for life. These people––these Hemming people––won’t mean anything to you after graduation. Things change, Duke, and you should be thinking about this now. I’m doing everything I can to make sure you succeed and not embarrass yourself. So, please, make an effort from now on.”

  “Yes, sir,” Duke said solemnly.

  Ellis resigned and wrapped his arms around him, squeezing him as though he might vanish at any moment. “All right, you go on up to bed. Don’t wake your mother.”

  Duke nodded. “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you checked the house?”

  “Checked the house?”

  “For…snakes,” Duke finished, hoping he didn’t sound too much like a woman.

  “Oh, sure,” Ellis said. “I go through the same routine every year. Don’t you worry about a thing, you hear?”

  “Loud and clear.” Duke began ascending the stairs and stopped. He turned around. Whatever had been on his mind seemed less important than sleep. He continued up to his room.

  Duke closed the door, locked it, and stuffed a towel into the gap between it and the floor. After he undressed and slid between the sheets, the bully mutated into a child. He lay there, exhausted but alert, listening, watching, waiting for something to slither into his room and chomp down on his tasty parts. He had heard what the kids looked like after they were attacked, and he didn’t want his mom or dad finding him looking the same way. It must be painful, he thought, when it happens. Scary, too. I hate snakes. They can’t get in here, can they? Dad said he checked the house, but there might be a crack or a hole somewhere they could crawl through, right? What if there’s one in the closet under my dirty clothes? What if it doesn’t happen tonight and I wake up all right but I get in the shower and while I’m shampooing my hair…

  Sleep. Dad said not to worry. Stop being such a woman. Man up, will ya?

  Duke lay there until he was sound asleep, lost in another world, a nightmarish world where his death played out in fragmented snapshots, running away in slow-motion, an army of red-eyed vipers on his heels.

  But as he tossed and turned under a splash of cream-colored moonlight, the Pearson house remained quiet.

  In the room below his, Ellis lay awake watching the blue digits of his alarm clock change each minute. He was so proud of himself. Even I am not above the rules, he had said, but he had broken them by discovering a loophole in the mix––a successor that didn’t bear his name or have his natural gift. So far it had been working. At least his pupil’s first reaping had gone according to plan, but by meddling in an established supernatural bond, he knew there could be trouble. He had to be careful.

  His father, his father’s father, and so on, have all had to fulfill the same purpose, and now, his own son should be learning the ways passed down through his bloodline, but that rule had been broken. Well, bent a little. What made this possible was nothing short of a revelation, and best of all, Duke knew nothing of it.

  Blood brothers. The notion was revelatory and presented a solution that would remedy his situation completely. Duke was about eight or nine years old when he had come into the house with blood gushing from a slit he’d made on his palm with a broken piece of mirror. Young Duke had unknowingly tainted Jared with this very specia
l gift.

  Blood brothers. Why didn’t I think of that before? Ellis felt like celebrating. Call up the friends and neighbors, honey, I’m getting out of the family business.

  He liked Jared. Loved him like a son. But Duke was his son. And no other option existed even in the realm of speculative fantasy. This was not only his ticket out, but Duke’s pardon––his saving grace. His son, his blood wrapped with flesh that favored his own more and more as each day passed, would be free. Free to have a life and pursue any vocation he damn well pleased. Duke wanted to play professional football, and glory to all that is holy if he did it, but the outcome was solely dependent on Jared’s ability to learn. And sing.

  If Ellis passed the torch to another and became free of this nasty curse, his family name would no longer be stained with the blood of thousands. But he had broken the rules, and when you break the rules, the boss comes by to let you know it.

  The boss was would be coming to town. Ellis knew he wouldn’t get walking papers––he’d receive due punishment.

  12

  Garret Eucher looked up at the marquee and walked to the ticket booth. “One for the four-thirty show.” A dainty hand with pink nails took his five bucks and slid him a ticket.

  He didn’t come here often, but now that Dylan had gotten hired on, he could enjoy all the free movies he wanted. He strolled in and whiffed gloriously at the smell of fresh popcorn. He still had four dollars in his pocket and could afford a bucket––loaded down with that butter-flavored syrup, of course––along with a box of Milkduds or perhaps some chocolate-covered cookie bites. Instead, he selected a pretzel from the rotisserie and a small root beer from the fountain. Dylan was rocking on his heels by the double doors that led into Screen 1, which was the only screen in the place and Garrett couldn’t understand why it had to have a number.

  “Hey there, Stark. Tear my ticket like a good little usher. Nice tie, by the way.”

  “I know, right?” Dylan straightened it with dignity. He took Garrett’s ticket, tore away the stub from the perforation, and handed it to him.

  “Make sure you hold onto that. I’d hate to kick you out for not having your stub.”

  Garrett faked a jab at Dylan’s gut and slapped him on the shoulder. “Keep up the good work. If the sound’s out of sync with the picture, you better fix it fast or I’ll write up a complain card.”

  “Enjoy the movie, sir.” Dylan opened the door for him.

  “Sir, huh? I can get use to this,” Garrett said and disappeared into the darkened theatre.

  A man wearing a blue button-down shirt and slacks approached him with his ticket held out. Dylan took it.

  “How are you doing today, sir?”

  “Very well, thank you,” the man said, taking his stub. “You live around here?”

  “Born and raised. You from out of town?”

  “Is it that obvious?” The man looked himself over self-consciously.

  “Everybody knows everybody around here. Pretty much, anyway.”

  “Then maybe you could help me out. I’m here on business. You could say I’m checking into the snake problem.”

  Dylan broke character and felt blood swelling in his cheeks. “Is that right?”

  “Yeah, I’m hoping to get some background from some of the locals. I’ve been trolling through the archives, but I have a feeling I’ll have better luck hearing things first hand.”

  “Maybe you should try Avery’s. Lots of old-timers hanging around who’d love to tell you more stories than you’d care to hear.”

  “I’ll do that,” The man said and offered his hand. “I’m Alan Blair.”

  Dylan gripped it and pumped. “Dylan Starkweather.”

  “Nice to meet you, Dylan. What about you? What can you tell me about what’s been going on here?”

  “Well, sir, I’m––”

  “Please, no ‘sir’. I can’t be more than five years older than you.”

  “Alan, you probably know more than I do. Every year about half a dozen kids get bit and die. Just happens, I guess.”

  “These things don’t just happen without any scientific reason, though, Dylan.”

  “I don’t know much about science, but Hemming has its own story.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Ah, just a stupid tale about a guy with a bunch of snakes who kills kids because they’ve been bad or something like that. You know, just a story to scare us kids. Campfire stuff.”

  “I see,” Alan said absently, furiously jotting notes onto his palm.

  Dylan cleared his throat. “I don’t mind talking to you, but you’re gonna miss the movie.”

  Dylan wanted to talk to this college guy some more. Maybe he could help him out somehow…

  No, Dylan. You’re weak, remember. Just a weak, shit-freckled fuck. Know your place.

  Alan clicked his pen and clipped it inside his breast pocket. “Good call. I’ll be seeing you around, I’m sure.”

  Dylan nodded and held the door open.

  “Enjoy the movie, sir. I mean Alan.”

  Once Alan was inside and the door had silently returned to its rest, Dylan watched the clock above the entrance, impatiently waiting for his shift to end so he could tell Gina about the new guy in town.

  13

  They parked outside the Billy Burger just as it began to rain. Jared had picked Gina up earlier and had taken her to see “Nightcrawler” at the Hemming Theatre. It was a campy horror flick about a masked killer who terrorizes these kids shacked up in a haunted house. In the end, the maniac with an ax was none other than the protagonist’s father who had escaped from prison to butcher up his ex, his son, and anyone else who got in his way. One of kids had plunged an ice pick––conveniently in plain sight once the killer chased a screaming blonde through the kitchen––through the killer’s boot, but he didn’t scream, because in these kinds of movies, if the killer’s wearing a mask and he screams, you can tell who it is, or at least have an idea.

  They had laughed more than anything. Dylan had gotten them in for free (thanks, bro, you’re the best) and they had even scored free concessions. Once the film was over, they decided to satiate their appetites with even more feel-good food, except with something sopped in grease instead of butter-flavored syrup.

  “Hurry back,” she said.

  Jared got out of the car and ran into the place. Gina watched him. He stood patiently in line, casually looking around as if searching for something but nothing at all. I hope I’m wrong. Sweet Jesus with a lollipop, I hope I’m wrong.

  She glanced in the rearview at Jared’s gym bag in the backseat. She had been eyeing it most of the time they’d been in the car, and she wanted to know what was in it. It had moved yesterday. She was sure of it. Maybe there’s snakes in there…

  Whatever it was, her curiosity got the best of her. She had to find out.

  Now was her chance. Her hands found the seatbelt and unfastened it, letting it crawl away from her shoulder. The rain cranked into an all-out downpour, whooshing across the hardtop with deafening intensity. She turned in her seat and reached back until she felt the slick nylon of Jared’s gym bag. The storm afforded her more cover but she had to get this over with fast. He’s paying for the burgers now, getting his change…

  She gripped the zipper and pulled it around, then she stopped. What if something’s in there? What if I am right? What will he do when he finds me looking at––

  She jabbed a finger at the bag. It just sat there motionlessly, benignly. She took a deep breath and threw back the top flap.

  Clothes. That’s all. Almost in disbelief, she rummaged through the contents: a T-shirt, gym shorts, and a pair of dusty cleats. No snakes, Gina. The men with the white scrubs and butterfly nets will be coming for you if you don’t stop this nonsense.

  Through the storm she heard the electronic bell chime as Jared walked out the front door with a paper sack.

  Hurry! He’s coming, you idiot!

  Quickly, she zipped up the ba
g and saw a piece of paper jutting out from the side pocket. She snatched it and stuffed it down in her bra without thinking.

  The door opened. “What are you wrestling around in here for?” Jared asked, handing her the sack. He closed the door and they were enveloped in silence.

  “I got hot and tried to turn on the AC but––”

  “Well, that would be a little tricky,” he said. “This car didn’t come with air conditioning.”

  “No big deal. I’m starving.” Gina unwrapped her cheeseburger and bit into it. She chewed as long as she could to avoid conversation. She wanted to get home to read the note.

  “I was thinking we could park out near Goodman’s Branch and––”

  “Not tonight, sorry.” She tried to look regrettably apologetic and for her sake, it was working.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, I… Nevermind,” Jared said and shifted into Drive.

  The lights were still on in the house when they arrived. Her mother would be on the couch watching the news, Dylan in his room listening to music and doing homework.

  The note.

  “Call you tomorrow?” Jared asked, his eyes tired but forgiving.

  “Sure.” Gina put her hand on his and squeezed. It was warm and calloused, the hand of a hard worker––a good man. There was something about Jared Kemper that made her entertain the possibility of actually finding someone who was genuine, someone who liked her for all her endearing qualities and had no reservations.

  She wanted to know this boy, but if he had secrets, she wanted to know them as well.

  And so she ducked through the rain and jumped the porch steps. She turned and waved, watching his tail lights fade into the night as the Charger groaned away.

  She pulled out the note. It was wet and the ink had begun to smear. But she could make out some of it: LUBBOCK and MIDNIGHT and…

  A capital letter P signed at the bottom. It was underlined with a tail squiggle at the end, and she knew only one person who signed their initial like this. She had seen it countless times on her economics tests when she was a freshman.