Alec spat on the ground. He knew no Hollywood producer would ever make him rich and he didn’t care. A documentary crew had arrived in town a few days after the last murder and the filmmakers had been there ever since, interviewing anyone willing to participate. And more than one writer had arrived to document the definitive account of what had transpired.
As he set the wheelbarrow down and unloaded his tools, he glimpsed a solitary figure limping across the cemetery. The boy carried a bouquet of flowers, and Alec recognized him from the news.
Eric made his way along the dirt path, red roses in hand, searching for Rhonda’s grave. All of Johnny’s victims inhabited graves here, except for the Lawsons. The men whose business had been embalming and interment had been cremated in the fire that consumed the funeral home.
Eric stopped before Rhonda’s marker, a simple stone with a glossy finish. A gentle breeze blew his hair, which had grown longer during his hospital stay. Laying the roses on the ground, he massaged his aching leg. He had been laid up in the hospital for two months, admitted for his broken leg and pneumonia. He’d undergone three operations for his knee, with one more scheduled. He also had spent time at a psychiatric facility in Buffalo after telling state police and FBI agents that he’d gone to the Willow Creek Bridge to kill himself on that terrible night. He reported that Matt and Carol had saved his life, which was true enough. He hadn’t minded the treatment, which had enabled him to sort out some of his feelings.
“Johnny was right about one thing,” he said in a soft voice to the earth at his feet. “I really did love you. I still do, and I miss you. I’m so goddamned sorry this happened. My parents have agreed to send me to Europe for the summer, and when I come home I’m attending college in Syracuse. I just can’t stay in this town any longer. But I want you to know I’ll remember you wherever I go.”
He stood there for a moment, as if waiting for a reply. When none came, he turned and left.
Alec watched the boy exit. From what he’d seen on TV, the kid had been through a lot and he felt sorry for him. But he had problems of his own, and work to do. Approaching a gravestone, he frowned. The dark gray marker said, JOHN VINCENT GRISSOM, followed by dates of birth and death. Over the engraved lettering, someone had spray painted JOHNNY GRUESOME in dripping, crimson letters. It would take him the better part of the morning to remove the graffiti.
Damn kids, he thought.
GREGORY
LAMBERSON
photo by
Richard Wicka
Gregory Lamberson was a horror storyteller long before unleashing Johnny Gruesome on the world. At the age of 21, he wrote and directed his first horror film, Slime City, which became a midnight movie cult classic. He also wrote and directed the microbudget features Undying Love, released on VHS as New York Vampire, and Naked Fear, released on DVD as a second feature with Slime City. His first novel, Personal Demons, won the Anubis Award for Horror, judged by acclaimed writer T.M. Wright. For the last few years, he’s devoted himself to giving undead flesh to Johnny Gruesome; the multimedia monster also exists as a rock CD, an on-line comic book, a collectible mask, and a short film starring Erin Brown, aka “Misty Mundae.”
www.slimeguy.com
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