“Kimmy!" her father called sharply from downstairs. "You ready?"
"I've gotta go, Dave."
"When will I see you?"
"I'll call you. Or call me. Mike Davison in Lansford. I love you."
"I love you. It'll be all right. Don't be scared."
"I won't."
~*~
Everyone was scared.
It was not the fear of the outward appearances of the dead returned so much as the fear of what had brought them back. It was the fear of the unseen rather than of those poor, shabby things, ethereal and real at once, that terrified.
Where did they come from?
Why are they here?
What do they mean?
They asked themselves the questions over and over, then talked of theories, possibilities. What if, suggested Hen Ebersole, the nuclear plant had put something into the air that made these things visible? What if they'd been there all the time, only invisible, and what if some nuclear dust settled on them so everyone could see them? Howard Flory held out for the ozone layer. The spray cans, he said, breaking down the ozone. You can't see them when there's ozone, but now all the ozone's going away. Jerry Earhart held that they were ghosts, just ghosts pure and simple. As to why they showed up when they did, Jerry couldn't say.
Pastor Robert Craven, moving from group to group in the square, calming, cheering, had his own explanation. "All we can know is," he said, "that the hand of God is behind it. We can't see His purpose, but He's allowed it to happen. All we can do is wait and try to do His will."
"You think it's a sign of the Revelation, Pastor?" asked Josie Betz. "The dead rising and all?"
"Only God knows that, Josie. And He's told you as much as me."
The pastor moved on to the next cluster. At most he was welcomed; at a few, only kindly tolerated. Craven was not the kind of minister who inspired faith. If his sermons and his manner had had the theatrical majesty of his physical appearance, there might have been those who would have followed him into hellfire. He was tall, cadaverous, prophetic-looking. Though only in his early fifties, his hair was nearly pure white, combed straight back without grease so that he always appeared to be striding directly into a gale.
Yet, in spite of his prepossessing looks, his manner had far more in common with the Gentle Shepherd of the New Testament than the zealous warriors of the Old, whom he more closely resembled. His sermons were flat and unexciting, offending no one and captivating few. Still, he was liked by his congregation, who attended services out of habit and appreciation. If a church member found himself in the hospital, he also found Bob Craven at his side no later than the following morning. At funerals and viewings he would be there for just as long as the family wanted him, knowing unerringly what they wanted most to hear.
In spite of this there were those who felt Craven's qualities were best summed up by his name, due to his refusal to lend that name to anything that could be interpreted as controversial. In 1980, when Tom Markley had asked him to sign a petition demanding the closing of Thorn Hill until a full safety investigation could be launched, Craven had declined, saying that he couldn't use his position in the church to accomplish secular ends.
"Bob," Markley had pressed, "as a private citizen do you believe in this?"
"Yes."
"Well, why don't you sign it as a private citizen?"
Craven had smiled. "Does that mean I can go out and get drunk as a private citizen?"
Markley had begun to argue that it was not the same thing, but he could see that in Robert Craven's eyes it was, and he had given up, still liking Craven, but thinking less of him than he had.
The criticism had filtered back to Craven, and though it bothered him, he would not change. During his years of pastoral apprenticeship he had seen a long line of ministers who, by taking a stand on a controversial point, had pulled their churches apart. Take sides on any secular topic, he thought—abortion, welfare, the military, even sports in some communities—and you ran the risk of polarization. For there is always someone sitting out there in one of those pews who is ready to disagree, sometimes violently. And then it starts. The backbiting, the innuendos, the innocent acts made to look guilty. Craven would never forget the look on Pastor Albemarle's face when his church's lay council decided that it would be in the best interests of the church to find another head pastor.
It had been in 1952, and Craven, fresh out of seminary, had considered himself fortunate to have received the assistant pastorate, particularly at such a fine new church as St. Peter's. The congregation was upwardly mobile, as befitted a west Philadelphia suburb in the fifties, and from St. Peter's it was only an hour and half drive to his family in Merridale. But one fatal Sunday Dick Albemarle, a handsome, thirtyish bachelor, had spoken out from the pulpit against Joe McCarthy's witch hunts, knowing full well that some powerful and influential members of the church were all for "Old Joe's stickin' it to the commies." What had followed was disgusting: the discovery by the church caretaker of a half-empty jar of Vaseline beneath the couch of the pastor's study, a brazenly stained pair of men's briefs in the wastebasket, several homosexual magazines under the religious newspapers on the desk top. There were even some rubber sex aids found when the members of the church lay council, with Craven looking on, forced open the locked drawers of Albemarle's desk. Though Craven did not definitely know that the items had been planted, he suspected so, and voiced those suspicions to a member of the council whom he felt was sympathetic toward Albemarle. "I wouldn't bring that up," the man had told him, not unkindly. "You're married, and that helps, but you've got no kids yet. Don't get tarred with the same brush, Bob. You'd never get it off." Craven, young and scared, remained silent, not speaking as the council held their off-the-record meeting, confronting Albemarle with their evidence, doing it quietly so as to cause "no public scandal" and "wreck any future career you may have in the ministry." Albemarle was so shocked, so white-faced, that Craven wondered if his suspicions were incorrect, if Albemarle were homosexual after all. He did not deny the charges, but only smiled grimly once his initial reaction had passed. He said merely, "I see I'm not wanted here. You'll have my resignation tomorrow." The council president replied with a gracious thank you, and stressed that what had happened in the meeting would always remain confidential.
And well it might, thought Craven. He had spoken to Albemarle fifteen years later at a church conference in Pittsburgh, where Albemarle now preached. He was married, with three children, and told Craven that the evidence had been planted. "They couldn't have made it public," Albemarle said. "They'd have been open to slander then." When Craven apologized for not voicing his doubts, Albemarle shrugged it off. "They just would've got you too. No, it was the best thing. I learned my lesson. Politics and the pulpit don't mix."
Craven learned the lesson too, and had been noncontroversial ever since. Quietly, safely, he had wended his way from church to church, watching the politically and socially aware lose their congregations and ultimately their positions, until finally he was back where he wanted to be. Back in Merridale. Back in the church of his parents and his grandparents, of Pastor Dunson, bald, moustached, overweight Pastor Dunson who'd said. "I see the calling in you, Bobby, I can see it." Pastor Dunson, whose death brought Bobby Craven into the pulpit of Merridale United Methodist, from whence no sly plot or bridled congregation would ever remove him.
Chief Kaylor's voice broke into his thoughts, startling him. "Dotty Sanders on the line, Pastor. She'd like to talk to you."
"Oh, yes," Craven said absentmindedly. "I'd wanted to visit her. Forgot in all the excitement."
On the phone Dotty Sanders sounded upset and scared, as though she needed a living, calming presence. "I can't get hold of my sister, Pastor. But I don't want to go outside. I see them out there."
"You relax, Dotty," Craven said gently. "I'll be right over."
He drove apologetically through the crowd in the square, then through the streets, empty of all but the blue forms, which
he avoided when he could, and closed his eyes and drove through when he couldn't. He tried not to think about the phenomenon, tried to clear his mind of it enough to decide how he could best comfort Dotty Sanders.
When he arrived, she explained what had happened, opening the bedroom door and showing him the faint shade of Sheila Sommers. He was shocked by this new sight, the product of lust and rage. But he drew on his calm facade as easily as a surplice, and, in the warm hominess of the kitchen, across cups of coffee, he spoke to Dotty Sanders of the frailties of humanity, of how King David had been tempted, of how all save Jesus had fallen short of God's trust and glory. "But love will win over all," he told her. "The love of your friends, the love of your husband"—she winced—"because I have no doubt that Martin still does love you, in spite of what you may feel right now. And most of all God's love, Dotty. "
"God's love."
"Yes. Of course."
"If God loved me, how could He let this happen?"
"We can't understand His ways, but we must believe that there is a purpose."
"Purpose?" she snarled. "What purpose? What conceivable purpose could there be in Marty screwing that . . . that whore, and her getting her head smashed? You tell me that! Purpose!" she went on, flecks of spittle coating her lips. "What purpose that . . . that parents beat their babies, or . . . or plane wrecks kill a hundred people, good and bad? Why do people die of cancer? Like my mother? She was sixty, only sixty, and she suffered like she was in hell before she died. Why do killers walk free out of courtrooms? Why does the plant get to throw that shit into the air we breathe? Why do we take the chances? Why do we have a town—right now—full of dead people? Why don't you tell me! Tell me something that makes sense to me, not to God. But please, please, don't tell me there's a reason that we're all too stupid to see. Don't insult my intelligence anymore."
Her voice had slowly become less frenzied until now she sounded nearly in control, almost reasoned. It discomfited Craven. He had always been able to deal with emotion. But pure reason left him at a loss. His faith, that which he personally bore within him, would not let him spar with reason. "I'm sorry, Dotty. I don't know what else to say. Only that I believe that what I say is true."
She cried then, and apologized afterward. He left her house feeling like he had poured buckets of water into a barrel only to find there was a hole in the bottom. I believe it, I do, he thought violently, trying to avoid looking at the glowing figures that increased in number as he neared the town's center. They seemed to mock him, as if saying, "Explain us. Why are we here, Pastor? Why have we come back?"
"I don't know," he said aloud. "But God does," and he thought of the church, and turned in its direction. It was always there for him, that huge, somehow motherly building with its warm wood interior and bright stained-glass windows. When he felt troubled, worried, or simply tired, he would seek out the sanctuary and sit several pews from the front, waiting for his strength to return, listening for his faith.
There were not many ghosts near the church when he arrived. It was relatively new, built in the mid-fifties at what was then the edge of town. But now, several decades later, the town had moved outward, surrounding it with tract-home suburbs so that it rested amid young houses, young streets, young families.
Pastor Craven opened the unlocked door of his church and walked through the narthex and into the sanctuary, where Pastor Evan Dunson stood naked in the half light that penetrated the stained glass. The old man's shade was behind the right pulpit as Craven faced the altar, so that only the head and upper torso were visible. There was no expression on the pale blue face, no wry smile beneath the heavy moustache. The eyes no longer twinkled. It was a face as lifeless as an art student's statue.
Craven stood, incapable of movement. He had seen them before, by the hundreds. He had seen people he had known in life, people he had called by name, had shaken by the hand on Sundays, people at whose deathbeds he had knelt in prayer, seeing the tears roll down their faces, wondering if anything he did or said could ease their terror at leaping into the great unknown.
But he had not yet seen his grandparents, or his father, or the older sister he'd loved so. He had not seen anyone he had loved until now.
Pastor Dunson had been like a second father after his dad had died when Craven was fifteen. And now he stood at his pulpit, stripped of not only clothing but of humanity as well. He was like . . . like . . .
Like a locust shell, Craven thought. The form is here, but not the soul. The thought emboldened him, and he regained the power to move. He walked toward the altar with a deliberate tread, but at a moderate speed. Had it been faster, he might have frightened the image away, though he knew that was unlikely. Any slower, and he might have stopped out of his own fear. He paused only a few feet from the pulpit, looking up at the round robust body the heart attack, unheralded, had claimed during Dunson's sleep. Craven's eyes grew wet with tears, and he held out a hand to be taken and held in return.
It did not happen. "Pastor," Craven said, his throat tight, "can't you tell me? Tell me so I can tell them?" The face did not move. Craven's nose was stuffed up; he breathed through his mouth, shallow, insubstantial breaths. "Is it so much to ask? To know?" He could not see the face now. His tears blurred his vision.
"Why!" he cried out before he went to his knees, pressed there by doubt, by sorrow, by fear of his own mortality, which, in spite of all his declaimed faith, had never been as strong as at this moment.
CHAPTER 10
"Doris . . . Jesus Christ, come in and listen to this."
Doris's voice, weakened by three rooms' distance: "I'm not done with the dishes."
"Screw the dishes. Hurry up."
Doris appears wearing rubber gloves and a look of irritation. "What is it?"
"Shh. Listen."
A newscaster, gray-haired and earnest, is speaking: ". . . in this small Pennsylvania community. Unheralded, as yet unexplained, it is mystifying scientists and parapsychologists as well. Needless to say, it is also terrifying the residents of the town, and a state of near-panic exists. CBS Evening News will have a full report with filmed coverage." A film of a dog turning away from a bowl of food replaces the newscaster's head.
"What was that?" Doris asks.
"This town in Pennsylvania. Merry-something. Dead people are starting to appear."
"What, like a mass murder?"
"No. No, like ghosts."
"Like ghosts."
"That's what they said. The whole town is full of ghosts.”
“Great. Can I finish the dishes now?"
"I'm not kidding."
"You sure that wasn't a commercial? For a horror movie?”
“Nah, it was a bulletin, hell, you heard it. It's gonna be on the evening news."
"Yeah. Sure."
"Look, I gotta leave for the game now. You watch it and tell me when I come home, okay?"
"Let me finish the dishes first."
~*~
Doris in Boston didn't watch the CBS Evening News. Walter Peschke in Manhattan didn't either, but he watched it later that evening on his VCR when he got home from his job at Mr. Steak. After he saw the Merridale story, heard the interviews, watched Dan Rather disappear immediately afterward, and cursed his timer once more, he called Alice Meadows, hoping she would be home. She was.
"Alice, Walter," he said when she answered. "Didn't know if you'd be home so soon."
"Oh, yeah," she said. "Ever since Freeland's been conducting, the tempos are faster by a good twenty percent. Show wraps at ten-fifteen now." Alice Meadows had been performing in an Equity Library Theatre production of Anyone Can Whistle for the past two weeks. Walter still hadn't seen it. Walter didn't like musicals.
"Friday night—I thought you might be out," Walter said.
"No. Not tonight." It was a noncommittal answer. Typical of Alice, Walter thought. Always noncommittal. "What's up?"
"I just heard something on the news about your old hometown."
"Merridale?"
The name came slowly, as though she were hesitant to speak it aloud.
"Yeah. Listen. I'll play it. But it's pretty strange." He held the receiver to the speaker and pushed the play button.
Alice Meadows listened to Dan Rather, listened to reporters interviewing Tom Markley, Frank Kaylor, Pastor Craven, even Fred Hibbs, whom she did not remember. As she listened, she slowly grew chilled, in spite of the steam radiator that had driven the apartment to a cloying seventy-eight degrees, and by the time the voices had stopped and Walter was back on the line, she had already realized the possibilities.
"You hear it okay? Alice?"
She tried to answer, but had to clear her throat first. "Yes. Fine, Walter."
"Bizarre, huh? Your folks aren't there now, are they?"
"No. No, they're not." Alice's father had worked in a civilian function for the Air Force. He had been stationed at the now defunct Fort Harris base, twenty miles from Merridale, where he had had his longest span of service—six years, from the time Alice was fourteen through her twentieth birthday. They were in Colorado now.
"You still keep in touch with anyone back there?"
"Not really. Walter, listen, I'm kind of busy right now. I'll talk to you later, all right?"
"Yeah, sure. But listen, what about that Vivaldi concert next week? You said you'd let me know this weekend."
"Thanks, but I don't think so. I’ll be out of town next week."
"Out of town? What about your show?"
"I'll work something out."
"But where are you going? What's—"
"Talk to you later, Walter. Thanks for giving me the news." And she hung up.
"Shit," Walter mumbled into the dead receiver, trying to remember what he'd ever done to piss her off. Their first dates had been great, even if his taste in shows had been a little heavier than hers. Sex had logically followed, and it had been very good for both of them. What's more, they related well—even Alice had admitted that. She'd gotten under his skin all right, and he was damned if he could get her out. But when he had suggested living together, he was suddenly talking to a different person. She seemed offended, as though he'd asked her to go down on him in the Plymouth lobby at intermission. "I can't commit to a relationship like that," was all she said, and when he pressed her for a reason, she withdrew, not only from the conversation, but from him as well. A week ago they'd created a small monsoon on his waterbed, and now he couldn't get a luncheon date. Walter Peschke cursed the perversity of women and shuddered at the thought of hauling his VCR down to Crazy Eddie's in the morning.
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