Charnel House

by Anderson, Fred

  The sheriff stood up when he heard Garraty and the deputy on the trailer steps, using the hood of the car to help pull himself. “Mr. Garraty, could you come over here for a minute?”

  Across the street, the old woman draped her paperback across one skinny leg and picked up the pack of cigarettes lying on the table next to her. She stuck it between her pale lips and brought the lighter to her mouth, watching them the whole time. Wonderful. Garraty walked over to the car, trying not to look back at his neighbor. Waiting for her to caw something at him like the crow she was.

  “Look here, Mr. Garraty,” the sheriff said, pointing at the front bumper. “This is where you hit the boy, right?”

  The bumper in question had a light coating of dirt and grime. Dried dead bugs dotted its surface, but otherwise the soft blue—the guy at the dealership had called it Seaside Pearl, like the extra fancy name for the color added value—covering was unmarred. No cracks or dents, no broken headlight, and no blood. Nada.

  “I must have cleaned it up during my blackout,” Garraty said. But had he? Maybe. He couldn’t remember shit about those four missing days. The projector in his mind whirred to life, and he saw himself down at the Quickie Wash in Belleville proper, feeding quarters into the machine and scrubbing the car down with the rotating brush. That had to be it. It was a wonder no one had called the cops on him.

  “Mr. Garraty, that bumper ain’t been cleaned in ages,” Sheriff Langston said. He licked his index finger and ran it across the bumper. When he held it up, the skin was gray-black, and the spot where he’d swiped the car gleamed in the afternoon sun.

  “Is there something you want to tell us?” Frank asked. The smirk was back full force, and Garraty wanted to drive a fist through it. Knock it all the way back to the river.

  “Just take me up to the goddamn house,” he said. And then we’ll see who’s smirking.

  Garraty held out his hands for the cuffs.

  20

  The Interceptor bumped and shook its way up the ancient driveway, shocks groaning in protest on the uneven ground. Garraty tipped back in his seat. Like being on a roller coaster, hitching and jerking up that big first hill. From time to time, pebbles spanged off the oilpan beneath them. The branches snapping under the thick tires were as loud as gunshots.

  “How the hell did you get a Prius up this?” Sheriff Langston asked over his shoulder.

  “He didn’t.”

  Garraty ignored the investigator and said, “Slowly. Carefully.”

  The trees thinned and the Interceptor rounded the last curve. The blighted house squatted in its patch of weeds and saplings, regarding them through its empty black eyes. In the daylight its bleached sides looked more white than gray, its roof the maroon of dried blood. And you’ve certainly seen plenty of that, haven’t you?

  Sheriff Langston brought the vehicle to a stop. When Garraty got out and stood in the tall grass, the house seemed smaller than he remembered. Not nearly as towering... but still as ominous. Was that slumped thing he couldn’t stop thinking about somewhere inside, looking out at them through the hollows where its eyes once existed? He had a feeling it didn’t really give a shit about the notion that ghosts were only around in the night.

  “Christ, that thing looks like a death trap,” the sheriff said. Garraty saw that he was hugging himself as he looked up at the house, and wondered if he realized he was doing it.

  “You ought to try crawling under it,” Mullins muttered.

  Garraty couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched, and shivered despite the warmth of the day. Man up. This is almost over, and then you’ll be able to go back to the hospital and sleep as long as you want.

  “Too damn quiet,” the sheriff said. He was right, Garraty thought. Not a bird sang, not an insect buzzed. The only sound was the rustling of the grass in the warm breeze. It’s like they know something is wrong with this place. The silence bothered him more than the creepy watched feeling. He tried to think back to the night he’d been here with the boy, whether or not the crickets chirped their happy song, but he couldn’t remember. All he could think of was being in the dank crawlspace with a corpse... and something else.

  “So who’s coming in with me?” Garraty asked. He held out his hands to be uncuffed.

  Sheriff Langston took another long look up at the house. Did he know the story of Jeremiah Barlowe? Based on his expression, Garraty thought he probably did.

  “You’re going in alone,” Frank said, leering. “That’s how it’s done. You think anyone here wants to be stuck under this place with a lunatic like you?”

  Sheriff Langston was quiet so long Garraty thought he’d fallen asleep standing up. He knows one of them is supposed to witness everything, but dollars to doughnuts he’s thinking about Jeremiah Barlowe and his tasty treats right now.

  “To hell with it,” Langston finally said. He looked over at Garraty. “You ain’t gonna run, are you? You know we can catch you, even a fat bastard like me. You’re shot to shit, buddy, whether you want to admit it or not.”

  Garraty could see the fear in the other man’s face. The sheriff was doing his damnedest to hide it, but it was there, just under the surface like a waterlogged corpse in one of the backwater coves his daddy used to fish. He opened his mouth to make a smart comment, then remembered he had his own reasons for being scared.

  “I’m not going to run,” he said in a small voice. He hated the pleading tone he heard in it. Because if I did, I know who’d come after me... and he’s a lot worse than any of you. Christ, he didn’t want to go back in there alone.

  He led them around the house to the opening in the growth. When he ducked down and slipped into the gap between the siding and the bushes, Sheriff Langston stopped short.

  “You go on in there with him and wait at the porch. I’ll make sure he doesn’t try to sneak out another way.”

  He’s too scared to get any closer to the place.

  “Sure thing, Sheriff,” Mullins said.

  “This fucking loser is too damn dumb to sneak away, anyway,” Frank added. Garraty didn’t have to see his face to know he was smirking.

  The thicket was crazy with honeysuckle, and the small yellow and white flowers filled the air with their sweet scent. Garraty breathed deeply. In the distance, a passing train let loose with a blast from its airhorn, the faint mournful note winding up the hillside to them. Mullins got caught on a briar and cursed under his breath. The three moved in a line along the side of the house. It was cool in the gap, and the sweat beading Garraty’s forehead began to dry. Almost pleasant, if you can ignore the house.

  Which was the problem, wasn’t it? He couldn’t ignore it. Something baked off the thing, some malignant sentience that washed him in black thoughts and fears, despite the sunny skies and aroma of honeysuckle. Even though the two other men weren’t far behind he felt all alone. He wanted to go back to the hospital.

  But it’s too late for that now, isn’t it?

  Garraty rounded the final corner and saw the porch, the rusted tin underneath waiting for him to peel it away and crawl into the waiting mouth. Welcome back, my old friend, it seemed to say. I’ve missed you.

  “Sure you aren’t coming in with me?” he asked. His mouth was dry, but he didn’t think water would slake this particular thirst. “To preserve any evidence?”

  Mullins regarded the gloomy area under the porch without answering, perhaps reflecting on his previous visit. He shook his head, then pulled a heavy-duty flashlight off his belt and handed it to Garraty.

  “I’m going back to wait with the sheriff, Mr. Garraty. Don’t try anything stupid.”

  He vanished around the corner they’d just turned. Scared, just like his boss. Had he seen something when he was under the house?

  “Just you and me now,” Frank sneered. “We both know what you’re going to find under there. Squat. You’ll be down at Bryce before the week is up, strapped down to the table while some doctor runs a million volts through your head to shock out
the crazy. Best of all, you’ll be out of everyone’s hair, so why don’t you get your scrawny ass under that house and start digging?”

  As he spoke, the investigator moved closer to Garraty until the men were practically nose to nose. His hands balled into fists, and a zigzag of blue vein pulsed at one temple. Garraty tried to back away but his butt pressed against the rotting planks of the porch.

  “What’s your problem, man?” he asked. The guy’s balls had certainly grown a few sizes now that the sheriff wasn’t around to hold him back, Garraty thought.

  “My problem is you, dipshit.” A fleck of spittle flew from his lips and splatted on Garraty’s cheek. He could feel it there, hot and wet and disgusting, but he didn’t dare wipe it away. It might set him off. And they think I’m the crazy one. “You’re a worthless waste of space, a bully and a drunk too stupid to realize what he had. I wish there was a body under there, just so you could ride the needle at Holman. I’d come see the goddamn execution myself. Just tell ’em to reserve a ticket for Bobby Frank!”

  Hearing the man’s name triggered an old memory in Garraty. The high voice of a child, saying if you’re so brave, shithead, go in there where they found Jeremiah Barlowe. What was the cousin’s name? He riffled through old memories faded by time, trying to remember. That day had been a long fucking time ago, and all the beer in the intervening years hadn’t helped his memory.

  Then: Starsky and Hutch. The cousin said he wanted to be a detective like Starsky and Hutch. Bingo. The high voice of Tanner Frank floated out of his past, teasing across a lifetime. You haven’t ever noticed how much they like to hug and touch on each other, Bobby?

  “Your name is Bobby? Bobby Frank?” Garraty asked. Well, ain’t this a small fucking world after all.

  “Are you retarded?”

  Garraty ignored him. “You don’t remember me? I was your cousin Tanner’s best friend back in the seventies. The name Joe Garraty doesn’t ring a bell? Joey?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  But something flickered in his eyes. Garraty saw it.

  “My ass,” he said. “You and I have been at this house together before. Tanner dared you to go under the house and you did. What did you see? Was it the slumpy thing with the big black eyes?” Garraty knew he was jabbering, but couldn’t help himself. “Christ, how it made you run!”

  “Tanner wasn’t the one who made me go under the house,” Frank said in a low voice.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing. Knock off the jibber-jabber and get your ass under there, before I get mad.”

  Did he look the slightest bit nervous now?

  “What did this place do to you?” Garraty asked.

  “Now, asshole.” Frank let one hand drift oh-so-casually to the butt of his service weapon, holstered at his waist... but it looked like that hand was trembling the tiniest bit.

  “Come with me,” Garraty said.

  “Fuck you. Go on. The sooner you get going the sooner we can all get home.”

  Except I’m not going home, am I?

  “Come with me,” he said again.

  The investigator’s hand tightened on the grip.

  “You’re not scared, are you?” Garraty asked, and Jesus, wasn’t it nice to have the shoe on the other goddamn foot? Just like when we were kids. Where’s the smirk now, fucko?

  Frank pulled the pistol from its holster and leveled it at Garraty’s head. “Lead the way, shithead. We’ll see who’s scared.”

  You’re terrified. Why? What did you see under there all those years ago, little boy in a big man’s body?

  Garraty lowered himself to his hands and knees, using the edge of the porch to keep his balance. Every joint whined, but obeyed. He crawled under the structure and peeled the piece of tin away from the opening. In the light of day he could clearly see the swipe marks where he’d wiped at the metal with his sock. Mullins was either blind or full of shit.

  The air that wafted out of the dark space under the Barlowe house carried on it the smell of something long dead. Lazy motes drifted in the beam of light he aimed into the blackness. The place looked exactly as he remembered, from the slight up-slope toward the corner to the sagging beam that had scraped at his back. Faint tracks led from the opening to the far corner where he’d buried the dead boy. Garraty shone the light around the crawlspace slowly. Was it waiting in here for them, just out of sight, ready to reach out with a bony hand as they passed?

  “Would you get a fucking move on?” Frank asked, and jabbed him in the butt with the barrel of the pistol.

  Garraty wriggled into the crawlspace, stirring up a cloud of dust that boiled in the beam of light and tickled his nose. He ignored the sensation of being swallowed by the house and crept forward. Every part of him ached. He could hear the investigator behind him, inching through the darkness, grunting from time to time. Still happy with your choice of occupations?

  Slowly the two crossed the expanse of the house without speaking. It wouldn’t be right. As they drew closer to the sagging beam, Garraty saw the mound of dirt not too far beyond it. Get ready for your serving of humble pie, shitbird. He wriggled under the bent wood, shivering when it plucked at his shirt. Bad memories pecked at his brain like crows feeding on a corpse.

  He stopped when he reached the grave. Shoulda thought to bring a shovel, or at least another ice scraper. But he hadn’t. None of them had. It’s this goddamn place. It sucks everything out of you except the black thoughts. Hoping the wounds on his hands and arms had healed enough to protect him from nasties—and oh, that was a laugh because there was a certain nasty around here, somewhere just beyond the periphery of his sight, he thought, watching him right now—living in the spoiled ground, Garraty propped the flashlight against the same brick pier as last time and began to dig. The soil was loose, and piled up around him quickly as the hole grew deeper. Getting closer now. The loose earth practically jumped out. His hands were a blur, shoveling fistful after fistful.

  And then his fingers punched through the dirt into something gooey and cold and slick. From the grave rose a sound like a contented sigh, and a storm cloud of stench rolled up into his face, thick enough to taste. It coated his throat and wrapped itself around him in a lover’s embrace. The smell was so strong he felt dizzy, like he was standing at the edge of a monster precipice, trying not to fall over the edge. Garraty’s stomach clenched and almost before he could get his head turned to the side, a hot glut of amber vomit sprayed from his mouth and nose, drenching his arm and soaking into the powdery dirt. The thick yeasty smell of beer rose around him, briefly masking the odor of putrescence. The taste in his mouth was unmistakable. What the fuck?

  Frank had no smartass comment, for once. Nothing but silence came from the space behind him. Perhaps Garraty wasn’t the only one the place was getting to. He lowered his forehead to his dry arm and closed his eyes, willing the dizziness away. Wondering how the hell he had puked up beer when he hadn’t had anything to drink in weeks. After a few seconds he felt a little better, except for his stomach, which rolled in the heavy sea of stench coming off the corpse. He rubbed his glistening hand in the dirt to clean off as much of the boy as he could, nearly frantic.

  “Christ, kid,” he said weakly. “You stink.”

  Garraty picked up the flashlight and shined it down into the grave. Jesus. For moment, he thought he was going to upchuck again, spew out another jet of beer that had no way of being in his stomach. Gradually, the feeling passed. Viscous black ichor pooled in the bottom of the grave, oozing from the hole where his hand had penetrated the dead boy’s side. Up from the ground come a bubblin’ crude, his mind chortled, and Garraty tittered. He reached in and—carefully avoiding the wetness—brushed the dirt away from the boy’s mottled face. His blood-filled eyes were still half-open, Garraty saw, sunken in like deflated balloons, the corneas gone milky white.

  But despite his churning stomach, despite the knowledge he was signing his own death warrant, he was
filled with a dark and savage glee because that cocksucker investigator was wrong, and the proof was in the hole in front of him. So you can just kiss my ass.

  “Come on over here, Bobby,” he said over his shoulder, and my God, didn’t it feel good to be right? “I’ve got something to show you. I think you’re gonna want to see it.”

  An image rose in his mind, of his father holding out the newspaper that trumpeted BOY STOPS CHILD PREDATOR. Garraty guessed Bobby Frank was going to have his day in the sun for stopping another one.

  The investigator didn’t reply. Garraty chuckled. In the dim recesses of his mind a second image: little Bobby Frank screaming and screaming under the house, then blowing past he and Tanner like a bat out of hell. He was probably back there scared silly right now, bathing in the memories of whatever had happened to him the last time he was in the crawlspace. He might have said it was a snake, but Garraty knew better. He’d been under the house, too. It had a way of getting to you. He thought he had a pretty good idea of what Bobby Frank had encountered under the old Barlowe house. You bet. And now it had him in its grip again, and the poor man-boy was scared stiff.

  Unless he didn’t answer because he was never back there in the first place, the small voice in his head whispered.

  But that was crazy thinking. Dr. Redman thinking. Of course Frank had been back there; Garraty had felt the barrel of the gun poking him, felt the spit land on his cheek when the other man was goading him. For God’s sake, the sheriff and deputy had talked to him!

  So turn around and look. See if he’s there.

  Had they talked to him? Suddenly Garraty wasn’t so sure. He couldn’t remember a single instance of Langston or Mullins speaking directly to Bobby Frank. More importantly, despite all the shit-talking Frank did to Garraty, the sheriff never called him out on it. No man whose job depended on getting votes would let an underling talk to a voter the way Frank had, even if he thought the voter was batshit crazy, would he?