Johnny Gruesome

by Gregory Lamberson

  Tommy knocked on the scarred casket. A hollow sound bounced back at him. He regarded Ross with mock fright. “Doesn’t sound like anyone’s home.” Pause. “You want to find out?”

  Ross stared at the snow-covered lid. He did not wish to make any discoveries.

  “Come on, let’s open it up. Maybe the kid’s got some jewelry or something else that we can sell.”

  Ross shook his head. “He hasn’t got anything on him. This box is the low-budget model.”

  Tommy grinned. “Okay, so let’s just see what he looks like.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Scared?”

  Ross glanced at the sky, darkening beyond the blizzard. “I’d like to get out of here before five o’clock. My father doesn’t believe in overtime, remember?”

  Tommy snorted. “Okay, man. Whatever you say.”

  They grabbed the concrete lid, turned it sideways, and dropped it into place over the liner, entombing the casket. A fissure appeared near the middle of the slab.

  “Damn it,” Ross said.

  “It’s not like anyone’s going to notice.”

  “Let’s get on with it.” He stood on the edge of the liner, placed his hands on the edge of the grave, and jumped up. On the surface, snow pelted his face. He reached down and helped Tommy up, snowfall obscuring what remained of the sunlight. They disassembled the lowering device and laid the pieces off to one side.

  Ross clambered into the cab of the truck and pulled the release lever. As the bed of the truck rose, returning dirt to the ground from which it had been taken, he glanced into his side mirror, praying to himself that the dark figure would not return over the hill.

  Hard to walk.

  Concentrate!

  Baby steps.

  Like a puppeteer, operating my own body.

  Better.

  Can’t open my mouth.

  Places to go, people to see.

  Chapter 16

  Heavy footsteps, pounding. Labored breathing. A left turn, then a right.

  Todd staggered through the locker room, his layers of sweaty clothing soaking wet. A JV wrestler snapped a towel at another’s exposed buttocks, and both boys stepped out of Todd’s way when they saw him. He peeled off his top sweatshirt and passed the empty showers, steam lingering in the air. He turned left into the team room, a smaller locker room reserved for varsity athletes. A black scale stood at the end of two narrow wooden benches, like an altar. Derek and Cliff had already showered and changed into their street clothes. Cliff stood before the mirror in the open bathroom on the left, combing his hair.

  “Look who thinks he’s going home,” Derek said, closing his locker door and snapping shut its combination lock.

  “I am going home,” Todd said, discarding the sweatshirt and pulling at his practice top.

  “We’ll see,” Cliff said, turning from the mirror.

  Todd crumpled onto a bench, pulled off his sneakers, and stripped down to his jockstrap. Using his sweatpants like a rag, he wiped sweat from his chest.

  Derek stepped behind the scale and adjusted its counterweight. Todd limped over, exhaled, and stepped onto the scale. The counterweight struck the bottom of the scale.

  “Shit,” Todd said.

  “You’re five pounds over,” Derek said. “You can still run that off.”

  Stepping off the scale and shaking his head, Todd spoke between tortured breaths. “No way. No more running today. I’m exhausted. I’ll just shoot some hoops and skip dinner.”

  “And breakfast,” Derek said.

  “And lunch,” Cliff said.

  “Shit,” Todd said.

  “That might help, too,” Derek said and Cliff laughed.

  Standing at the free throw line in the gymnasium, Todd dribbled a basketball. The sound of the ball bouncing echoed through the gym. He raised the ball as high as his head, then slammed it down. Catching it in both hands, he repeated this until his palms stung. He focused on the basket, took aim, and launched the ball through the air. It struck the Plexiglas backboard and bounced away.

  “Shit,” he said, chasing the ball. He caught up to it and dribbled it back to the free throw line.

  A door swung open, and Darryl Bower leaned inside, dressed in his navy blue custodial uniform. “You gonna be much longer? I gotta mop in here.”

  Fucking loser, Todd thought. Darryl had dropped out of high school his junior year, and now he worked the night shift there. “You know who I am?”

  Darryl nodded.

  “You know who my father is?”

  Another nod.

  “Then go mop somewhere else. I’ll leave when I’m good and ready.”

  Turning red, but holding his tongue, Darryl withdrew from the gym and closed the door.

  Todd slammed the ball on the floor, alternating hands in a Vpattern, faster and faster. He aimed at the basket and shot again. This time, the ball struck the rim and rebounded.

  “Damn it!” He ran after the ball, catching it only after it ricocheted off the far wall. He dribbled back to the free throw line. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he stared straight at the basket, concentrating. He brought the ball to his face, readying another shot.

  One third of the ceiling lights turned black as he heard the sound of circuit breakers clicking off. As he raised his eyes to the ceiling and lowered the ball in his hands, another third of the lights went dark. What the hell did Darryl think he was doing?

  He’s not going to—

  The remaining lights went off, leaving him in darkness.

  “Darryl! Turn the lights back on, you asshole!”

  He received no response.

  “You want to keep your job?”

  Standing still, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the dense darkness. The only sound he heard was his own breathing. The exit lights over the doors glowed red, and he pinpointed two slivers of pale light at floor level. Dropping the ball, he stepped toward them, his footsteps echoing. His hands groped darkness until his fingertips brushed a wooden surface.

  I’ll kill him, he thought as he grasped the metal panic bar with both hands and shoved it. The bar slammed into the doors, the sound of metal banging against wood echoing around him.

  Locked, goddamn it!

  “Darryl, you son of a bitch, stop screwing around!”

  A thunderous rumbling filled the gym, and he turned, crouching in a defensive posture as the floor shook, his heart going into overdrive. He saw an immense shape pass between him and the far side of the gym, blocking out the exit signs above the doors there. The motorized partition slammed shut, halving the space.

  “Jesus!”

  The scoreboard near the ceiling lit up, its luminous digits casting just enough golden light for Todd to discern the general outline of the gym.

  “This isn’t funny!”

  The door within the partition swung open with a high-pitched squeak that caused him to shudder. A figure stood there, silhouetted by the red light on the other side of the gym. The figure stepped through and slammed the door. Footsteps echoed in the darkness: hard soles, not sneakers.

  Todd leaned forward, squinting. The figure moved in and out of splotches of dingy light, its footsteps growing louder. He scooted to the free throw line and snatched up a ball.

  “Darryl, I swear to God, my father will have your lousy job for this.”

  The approaching figure didn’t break its measured stride. Todd discerned a white shirt collar divided by a tie. The remainder of the figure’s outfit blended into blackness. A suit? Was a teacher playing games with him? His mind raced. He couldn’t think of any teachers who wore suits. As the figure drew closer, Todd saw the red exit light highlighting long hair.

  A headbanger. Should have known. That explained it: this headbanger had just come from Grissom’s funeral. But which one of those long-haired freaks had enough class to wear a suit? Carter had short hair.

  The figure stopped ten feet away and stood as motionless as a statue. Todd felt his stomach clench. Something wasn’t right
about this. “Who’s there?”

  The figure didn’t answer.

  Squinting, Todd saw splotches of mud caked on the suit. Studying the kid’s darkened features, he stepped closer for a better view.

  Cold, hard eyes stared at him, and thin lips stretched into a tight grin that cracked waxy flesh.

  Todd’s heart slammed against his chest, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Grissom …”

  The grin on the thing resembling Johnny Grissom pulled back even wider, into a jagged gash.

  Todd went weak in the knees. “YOU’RE DEAD, YOU SON OF A BITCH!” He hurled the ball at Johnny with all his strength.

  Johnny caught the ball without flinching. The sound of rubber impacting dead flesh reverberated against the gym walls. Johnny looked at the ball, then at the basket. He took the shot. Todd watched the ball sail over his head, but he didn’t turn around to witness the completion of its journey. The ball swished through the net and bounced away.

  “Oh, God,” Todd said in a high-pitched voice that sounded more like a pig’s squeal. “What do you want?”

  Johnny, motionless, stared at Todd for what seemed like an eternity. Then Todd watched the corpse of his classmate reach into the side pocket of his suit jacket with his right hand. Agonizing seconds passed before Johnny withdrew a narrow object, six inches long, and aimed it at the floor. Todd’s bladder threatened to burst as Johnny thumbed a switch on the black handle. A blade sprang out, gleaming in the crimson light, and Todd knew he would never leave the gym alive.

  Chapter 17

  Johnny came marching home at 7:00 p.m. The wind whipped his hair and pressed his suit against his frame, and he looked down at the snow-covered sidewalk whenever headlights from oncoming cars pinned him in their glare. He doubted anyone driving at night would recognize him or identify the dark spots on his white shirt as bloodstains. He lurched from side to side, like Frankenstein’s monster, still learning to control his body.

  Less than a mile separated his house from the school. He didn’t feel the cold, or any temperature for that matter, and walking through six inches of snow did not tire him. Death had its advantages.

  When he reached the orchard and vineyard beside his house, he veered off the sidewalk and walked on the other side of the barren trees. He saw no point in taking chances, and he intended to be cautious. The lights in his house guided him through the trees to the bushes along the driveway, where he waited.

  Through a side window, he saw his father moving through the living room. Charlie had traded his suit for the comfort of street clothes. Johnny felt emotion rising within him. He regretted he had not been a better son, that he hadn’t been closer to his father.

  Too late to worry about that now. If their relationship had been difficult before, it would be hell now. He buried his feelings, as he himself had almost been buried. Show no mercy. Remember why you came back.

  He watched Charlie exit the house, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, and pass a sign that had joined the Buffalo Bills cutout on the front lawn. When his father had disappeared, Johnny emerged from the brush and crossed the driveway. He stared at the FOR SALE sign.

  What? Johnny felt anger in his shell. His father had wasted no time trying to unload the old house.

  He hadn’t been buried with a house key, so he climbed the lattice on the side of the porch to the first roof. He tipped from side to side, off-kilter, like Mecha-Kong on that Japanese tower in King Kong Escapes. Confident the trees in the front yard hid him from the light traffic, he shuffled through the snow on the roof to his bedroom window, which he always left unlocked in case of just such an emergency.

  The window slid open and the wind blew the curtains, and he climbed into darkness. Pulling the window down and drawing the shade closed, he pulled the string hanging from the middle of the ceiling and the light clicked on. His room had not been touched since his demise: his belongings remained out of place. A cardboard box had been placed in the middle of the bed and he recognized his M.C. jacket inside it. The cops had returned his stuff.

  Loosening his tie, he jerked the noose over his head and discarded it on the unmade bed. He unbuttoned his top shirt button, then shed his suit jacket with a disgusted expression and kicked off his muddy shoes. Finally, he emptied his pockets, tossing a set of keys and a cell phone onto the bed. It had been simple enough to swipe the keys from Darryl Bower’s custodial cart and lock the gym doors. The cell phone had belonged to Todd. Too bad there was no charger for it. Still, he’d get some use out of it.

  He opened his closet door, stood before the mirror nailed to it, and stared at his reflection. The world appeared black and white through his dead eyes, except for the vibrant crimson that covered his shirt. If his heart had still pumped blood, he would have blushed. For a moment, he didn’t even recognize himself: the wind had blown his hair, which remained neat looking. And short.

  My fucking hair!

  His rosy lips and cheeks made him resemble a clown or a department store mannequin. Gray flesh peeked out through the furrows Todd’s fingers had dug through the layer of mortician’s wax covering his face. Using both hands, he wiped away as much of the wax as possible without using soap and water. God only knew what that would do to his complexion!

  Drawing his lips into a snarl, he gazed at the twisted barbed wire protruding from his dry gums. He gripped the wire between the thumb and forefinger on his right hand and untwisted the wires, then pulled each one out, his hand trembling with effort. Pink formaldehyde spurted at the mirror and ran down the glass like blood. Tilting his head back, he reached inside his mouth. His fingers tickled the back of his throat, but with no gag reflex, it was easy for him to withdraw the cotton Old Man Lawson had stuffed down there. He threw the cotton and wire into a wastebasket, then clawed at his neck, scratching off the mortician’s wax and exposing the purplish black bruise that encircled his neck.

  He stripped nude, disgusted by the plastic underwear, a diaper, really, and gaped at his dead gray body; Lawson had only made up his head and hands. His body hair had grown longer. He rummaged through his dresser drawers, took out gym socks and briefs, and pulled them on. Next, he stepped into his favorite pair of black Levis, and pulled a wide belt with a leering, pewter skull buckle through the loops. Opening his closet door, he examined his assortment of black T-shirts, feeling pressure to assemble the perfect ensemble. He found one with a glowing green rib cage printed on it and he snatched it from its hanger and jerked it over his head. He removed his M.C. jacket from the box and pulled it on, then plucked his skull rings from a clear plastic bag and returned them to his long fingers. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots. Standing before the full-length mirror he thought, Fuckin’ A.

  He strode over to the plywood shelves he had built for his comic books, CDs, and DVDs. Action figures and model kits posed on the black shelves, their grotesque faces staring back at him. Freddy, Michael, Jason, Leatherface, and Chucky mingled with the classics: Frankenstein’s monster, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, the Phantom of the Opera, and the Zuni Warrior fetish doll. He had always loved monsters.

  Twisting his lips into a grin, he spoke in a hoarse voice:

  “Gruesome.”

  Chapter 18

  In her bedroom, Karen used a rolled-up dollar bill to snort two lines of coke, then dabbed at the excess powder with her fingers, which she rubbed against her gums. Her entire mouth turned numb. And right now, she liked feeling numb.

  Gary had dropped her off at home after the funeral, and she had dashed upstairs to her bedroom with her new stash. An hour later, she lay on her bed, gazing at the ceiling, her mind clouded as Slipknot blasted from her CD player. She lit a cigarette, licked residue from her gums, and moaned.

  Gary had done all right by her. He was right: she did feel better. Johnny had disapproved of anything harder than weed, but Gary knew how to party. And he’d re-upped her at the funeral. She massaged her nose.

  Gary.

  She didn’t want to encourage
him, but he offered her the support she needed. And he had promised to get her more stuff anytime she wanted it, free of charge. How could she pass that up?

  The telephones throughout the house rang in synch, one in her mother’s bedroom, one in the living room, and another in the kitchen. She sat up, her eyes wide and unblinking. Maybe that was Gary now. She hoped not. She didn’t trust herself to be around him when she was high. She stood, wearing nothing but a long T-shirt, and crossed the hall to her mother’s room. Sniffing, she cleared her throat and lifted the phone from its cradle. “Hello?”

  Silence on the other end.

  “Hello?”

  Dead quiet.

  “Who is this?”

  Click.

  She set the phone down, agitated that she had left her room for nothing, and turned to head back.

  The phone rang again.

  She stopped in the doorway and turned toward it, an unnerved expression on her face. Didn’t coke make you paranoid? She seized the instrument in midring. “Hello?”

  No response.

  “Listen, asshole, if you don’t stop this right now I’m calling the cops.”

  Click.

  Good, she thought, hanging up. That will show him—whoever he is.

  Her hand had barely left the phone when it rang again, causing her to jump. She swallowed, her heartbeat gaining speed. The ringing filled her ears and pierced her brain. She snatched the phone and raised it to her mouth. “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  “Go to hell, you son of a bitch!”

  She slammed the phone down, then picked it up, checking for a dial tone, and pressed star-sixty-nine. A moment later, she heard an automated message from an operator: she had reached a cell phone that had no voice mailbox activated. She hung up and made it as far as the hallway before the phone rang again. She faced it, her movements strained, and slid one hand over her heart.

  She didn’t want to answer it, so she marched along the hall, the telephones downstairs ringing. She closed her bedroom door, picked up the rolled-up bill on her bureau, and snorted more coke.