Johnny Gruesome

by Gregory Lamberson

  On another site, he found this: Ghosts are unable to cross, travel over, or escape from, running water. The statement existed within a general article on ghosts that didn’t specify if this pertained to fictional specters or paranormal phenomena. So many sites existed on the subject that he found it difficult to sort the serious-minded ones from the absurdities.

  A ghost can be defined as the apparition of a deceased person, which frequently manifests the deceased person’s likeness in association with that person’s former habitats. “Ghost” also refers to the spirit or soul of a dead person, or to any spirit or demon. Ghosts are associated with haunting.

  He added this portion to his notes.

  According to the Parapsychological Association, “The more or less regular occurrence of paranormal phenomena associated with a particular locality (especially a building) and usually attributed to the activities of a discarnate entity; the phenomena may include apparitions, poltergeist disturbances, cold drafts, footsteps and voices, and various odors.”

  He sat back in his chair. It would be difficult to attribute a cold draft to a ghost in this weather. But he had heard footsteps on the roof outside his window; he’d also seen a shadow, and his visitor had left the handprint on the window.

  “… various odors.”

  He had smelled chlorine on numerous occasions since Johnny’s murder, without any apparent reason for it. And Johnny had saved him from drowning in the school pool when they were both in fifth grade.

  Because the word ghost has been deemed imprecise, it has been replaced by the term apparition in the scientific field of parapsychology.

  To Eric, apparition suggested something intangible. Whoever or whatever had committed the Red Hill murders was very tangible.

  He keyed in the word zombie and waited to see what the search engine kicked back at him. Discounting those entries related to films, he concentrated on the more academic ones.

  A zombie is a dead person whose body has been reanimated. Stories of zombies originated in the Afro-Caribbean spiritual belief system of Vodoun (voodoo), in which zombies are humans who have had their “Ti Bon Ange” or soul stolen by supernatural means or shamanic medicine. They therefore lack free will and are forced to work as slaves for a “zombie master,” typically on plantations. Certain studies indicate that if such “zombies” exist, they are in fact heavily drugged but still-living humans.

  There were no plantations in Red Hill, just wineries and grape vineyards, and Eric couldn’t picture them utilizing zombie slaves.

  In contemporary horror fiction, zombies are brought back from the dead by supernatural or scientific methods, and eat the flesh of the living. They have limited intelligence and may not be under anyone’s direct control.

  So far as he knew, none of the murder victims had been devoured. And whoever had placed Todd’s head inside Gary’s locker had possessed more than “limited intelligence”; more likely, they were smarter than Gary. Sighing, he reviewed the notes he had taken during his hour of online research.

  “‘… in association with that person’s former habitats,’” he read out loud.

  Standing, he shut down his computer and went to his closet.

  Chapter 41

  Dressed in patched blue jeans and a Windbreaker over a hooded sweatshirt, Eric stood in the fading shadow of the Grissom house, regulating his breathing after the thirtyminute run from his own home. The sun, gauzy through the falling snow, dipped behind the house, leaving pink and orange slashes in the gray sky. He felt like a child again, reluctant to deliver a fruit basket to Johnny and Charlie following Helen Grissom’s death.

  The elements had been cruel to the old house; advanced decay had already set in. The roof sagged in the middle, the grimy windows bowed, and the porch steps twisted at a warped angle. If the structure survived the winter, would people believe it haunted? Johnny’s Aunt Alicia stood to inherit the house. Would she invest in the necessary repairs, sell it as quickly as possible, or simply tear it down and start all over? In his mind it deserved burial, like any other corpse.

  Pulling the hood low over his face, he started forward, trudging through the snow where he estimated the cracked walkway split the lawn. The bitter cold wind elicited tears from his eyes, which he wiped on his jacket sleeve. He licked his dry lips as he drew closer to the dead house, then mounted its icy steps. The space where he had smashed the glass had been boarded up with plywood and an official seal bearing the town emblem had been affixed to the edge of the door and its frame, preventing entry. He tried the knob anyway, but the door didn’t budge. Stepping to his left, he cupped his hands around his eyes and peered through the nearest window. Darkness shrouded the interior, allowing him to discern only the dim outline of the living room furniture.

  Stepping off the porch, he rounded the corner of the house and followed the driveway, passing Charlie’s immobilized truck. He stood on the patio between the corner of the house and the rear porch, his back to the detached two-car garage. A basement window eyed him from behind a snowdrift. With vapor trailing his mouth, he seized a log from a cord of firewood and swung it at the window, shattering both it and the silence. Broken shards of glass rained down into the basement darkness, chinking on the unseen cement floor. He ran the log around the edges of the rotting window frame, clearing away the jagged remains of glass, then discarded it in the snow. Glancing over his shoulder at the grape vineyard, he removed a slender flashlight from his pocket and thumbed it on. Squatting, he peeked through the ruptured window.

  Darkness soaked up the flash beam.

  Shit, he thought.

  Setting his hands on the ground, he eased his legs through the window space and wiggled his way backward. Gazing at the dying sunlight, he allowed himself to disappear into the blackness. He landed in a crouch, sneakers crushing the glass on the floor, the flashlight’s beam ricocheting off gray concrete walls. He swung the flashlight in an awkward arc, and the halo of light played across the opposite wall, revealing power tools on metal shelves. Standing erect, he pulled off his hood and aimed the beam around the space, getting his bearings. A shovel stood propped against the shelves, and the light reflected off a roll of silver duct tape. He crossed the floor but came to a sudden stop when his face passed through a spiderweb. Dancing in circles, he clawed at the webbing, the halo bouncing everywhere as his sneakers scraped the floor.

  He froze, listening.

  Silence.

  Stuffing his gloves into his pockets, he moved to the shelves, snatched the duct tape, and tore off a strip. His movements caused the beam to bounce away from him, and he found himself in temporary darkness. Seizing the shovel, he taped the flashlight to its wooden handle, which he then grasped in both hands. He aimed the flashlight and the shovel’s blade at the darkness ahead.

  A half-dozen steps through a doorway and into the oppressive darkness, he crashed into something solid and nearly fell on his ass. Reaching out to steady himself, his right hand pressed down on something that sent deep musical notes reverberating through the cellar. His body turned rigid and his heart skipped a beat. The upright piano that had occupied the basement for as long as he remembered. Jerking his hand away from the keys, he stood still, waiting.

  Thirty seconds passed and his heart rate and breathing returned to normal. His left hand located the two-by-four that served as the stairway railing and he ascended the creaking stairs, holding the shovel before him like a lance. The circle of light illuminated the door at the top of the stairs. Every footstep sounded impossibly loud. Fumbling with the knob, he opened the door and faced the familiar hallway that separated the living room from the kitchen.

  Grateful for the faint light, he hurried through the doorway and shut the door behind him. Making his way into the kitchen, he flicked a switch, but the overhead light did not come on; the power had been shut off. Moving to the sink, he raised a blind. Gray light seeped in, revealing dirty dishes and dark water. He turned the faucet knobs. No pressure. The house had been shut down.
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br />   Back down the hall.

  He dared not open the living room curtains or blinds, or do anything else that might draw attention to his presence in the house. Everything looked exactly as it had for years, but the stillness in the air made the room feel like a museum exhibit or a snapshot from another time. The photo with the broken glass remained on the floor, the empty booze bottles still on the table beside Charlie’s worn chair.

  He crossed the room, every squeak of the floor causing him to stop and listen to the house around him. His grip on the shovel tightened as he stopped at the staircase opposite the front door. Light crept through the stained-glass window in the foyer, illuminating the musty-smelling stairs. He gazed at the top.

  Swallowing, he shifted the shovel into his left hand and reached for the banister with his right. His fingers closed around the cold wood and a tremor ran through his body. He raised his left foot, allowed it to hang in the air for a moment, then set it on the first stair. Sliding his hand up the railing, he put his weight on the stair and raised his right foot; the ensuing creak made his stomach clench. The flashlight’s beam bounced around the walls above him and the shadows of the wood bars supporting the railing fanned out on the wall to his left. He climbed the stairs, his eyes focused on the doors above. His heartbeat quickened, and halfway to the top, he looked over his shoulder. Dust motes swam in the dying light. He resumed his journey, the dread within him increasing to an almost unbearable level. Sweat formed on his forehead, and he wiped his brow on his sleeve.

  As he reached the top, he stared at Johnny’s closed door. Nails protruded from the soiled wall beside it, the outline of a cross revealing where Helen’s crucifix had once been. Other religious totems remained on the wall, covered with layers of dust. Eric glanced down the stairs at the front door. With it sealed, would he be able to escape in a hurry if it became necessary?

  No one else is here. You’re alone. Johnny is dead.

  He approached Johnny’s door as if in a dream. Stopping before it, he clasped the tarnished doorknob. The cold metal prickled his flesh. Twisting it, he drew in a deep breath and threw the door open, thrusting the shovel forward. The door struck a wall and bounced back at him, but he held it open and faced the dark room. His eyes discerned the vague shape of the mattress hanging halfway off the bed at an angle. Exhaling, he entered.

  And gagged. The room reeked; the stench came from the bed.

  There must be food and garbage under there, he thought. Or a dead animal.

  Pale light outlined the window blinds, and hideous faces leered at him from the walls. Covering his nose with one hand he circled the unmade bed. Something plastic crunched beneath one foot and he stumbled over something else. Regaining his balance, he reached the far side of the room. He aimed the flashlight at the floor: Johnny’s black Marshall amplifier had been knocked over, clothing lay strewn on the floor, and dozens of DVDs and CDs had been knocked off their shelves. The bedroom had been ransacked. Had Charlie gone on a drunken rampage following Johnny’s funeral? He raised the blind, no longer caring if anyone saw him at that point, but little additional light seeped in.

  On the bookcase he saw the slipcased, hardcover collection of the old EC Comics Johnny treasured. How many hours had he spent here, watching obscure horror films and reading lurid comics with his friend? Moving through the mess, he withdrew the volume from its case and flipped through its oversized pages. Garish illustrations screamed at him: ax murderers, zombies, and murderous spouses. The mayhem dripped off the pages. As he closed the book, he noticed a patch of gray on the floor. Sliding the book into its case again, he stepped forward and kicked aside articles of clothing. His fingers dug into the shovel’s handle and he aimed the flashlight at the floor. Muddy footprints clung to the green carpet like slugs, starting from beneath the window.

  So what? Johnny used to sneak in and out of here all the time.

  He followed the footprints to the closet door, his heart pounding so hard he thought he could hear it. Taking a deep breath, he aimed the shovel at the door, illuminated in the circle of light, and swung it open. He lunged at the closet’s interior, the shovel slicing through the clothes hanging there and striking the wall behind them. He drove the shovel to the left and then the right, prodding for anyone who might be hiding there. The shovel dragged Johnny’s clothes back and forth, wire hangers scraping the metal rod.

  For the second time, he released a deep sigh of relief. Then, facing the dark garments, he narrowed his eyes. A suit hung before him. As far as he knew, Johnny hadn’t owned a suit since his mother’s funeral. Inching forward, he cleared the clothing on either side of the mysterious garment. Mud, the same shade of gray as the footprints, clung to its fabric. Gripping the shovel in one hand, he tore the suit from its hanger and turned it over. The jacket and slacks had been split up the back and sewn up again.

  Johnny’s funeral suit.

  His trembling fingers released the suit, which fell to the floor, and he stepped back. His head throbbed, and the odor of chlorine filled his nostrils. Dizziness swept over him, and he feared he would pass out again. He fled the bedroom, charging down the stairs two at a time, the shovel throwing him off balance, his eyes focused on the front door.

  Please, God, don’t let him step out of the living room!

  Blind panic drove him to the door, now shrouded in darkness. He had to discard the shovel to twist the dead bolt and the knob. The tool clattered on the hardwood floor as he fumbled in nearblackness. The bolt turned and he threw the door open with both hands, tearing the seal down the middle. He bolted across the frozen porch, sliding to its edge, and leapt over the steps. Landing in snow, he rolled over and stared at the doorway, which yawned at him like an open mouth. He staggered upright and ran away as fast as he could.

  Chapter 42

  Through the glass-faced lobby doors, Michael Milton watched the last of the parents depart the high school parking lot, en route to the town hall. Only three vehicles remained outside the school: his Jetta; Darryl’s beat-up old Rambler; and Ben Yerkovich’s squad car.

  Darryl, Michael thought with disgust. He didn’t care if the custodian had an alibi for the murders; employing such a suspicious individual made him nervous. Darryl had been a classic underachiever as a student, ideal preparation for his current employment. Michael knew he needed to air his reservations about the fellow to the school board with discretion: there were all kinds of laws to protect someone like Darryl just because he hadn’t been charged with a crime.

  Bleeding hearts, he thought.

  The PTA meeting had gone well, all things considered. Parents and teachers alike expressed their fears and frustrations, and asked reasonably intelligent questions. They intended to speak at the town meeting with a unified voice, not that it would matter. Michael knew full well that the triumvirate of Mayor Anzello, the town council, and the police department would act as they saw fit regardless of the wishes of Red Hill’s citizens. Order had to be maintained.

  The sun had set, and the streetlights shone on the parking lot. Another night, another murder? He shuddered.

  And then he cried out.

  He saw the reflection of the figure behind him an instant before the hand clasped his shoulder. Whirling around, he faced Ben Yerkovich.

  The little man said, “Sorry about that, Mike. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  Red faced, Michael straightened his narrow tie. “It’s Michael.”

  Ben smiled. “At least you didn’t say, ‘It’s Mr. Milton,’ right? I did a walk-through and everything seems copasetic. You ready to go?”

  “I’ll be a moment.”

  “Then I’ll be in my car.”

  Ben stepped outside, and Michael watched him cross the icy sidewalk to the parking lot. The wind almost blew him over. Michael found the little policeman annoying, but he appreciated his presence.

  My own personal bodyguard.

  He crossed the gleaming floor, his footsteps echoing. Outside his office, he flipped open the metal c
over of a box mounted on the wall and inserted a key into a slot. A metal gate descended from the ceiling, cutting off the lobby from the upper and lower floors. Pocketing the key, he entered his office.

  He removed his camel-colored coat from the closet, moved to his desk, and packed some paperwork into his briefcase. With his coat draped over his arm, he opened the blinds behind his desk. Yerkovich had already pulled his squad car around to the curb facing the office. Michael prayed the police would apprehend this madman soon. He hated to admit it, but he almost wished the killer would strike again, just so the FBI would take over the case. Then the town would see some real results. Matt Crane and his Mayberry R.F.D. cops just weren’t up to the task, and the state police provided little more than a cosmetic makeover.

  Grim faced, he closed the blinds and crossed to the office door. Grasping the handle with his chubby fingers, he pulled the door open. As he stepped forward, a dark shape filled the doorway, blocking his path and causing him to recoil. The sudden movement so startled him that he would have cried out even if he hadn’t recognized Johnny Grissom’s features in the canvas of rotting, discolored flesh before him.

  Shrieking, he dropped his coat and briefcase to the floor and leaned against the door, reaching for the lock with trembling fingers. The door flew open, kicked by Johnny, who lowered his steel-toed boot to the floor. Michael staggered back with a petrified scream.