We Came Back

by Patrick Lacey

  Mack opened his mouth to answer but Luke beat him to it. “Take us to who?” His voice quivered. He talked more when he was scared.

  The girl smiled, held up her finger and pointed it against her temple, forming a mock-gun with her hand. The rest of the kids did the same thing. They didn’t say anything after that, only held the pose and stared with those smiles plastered onto their faces. Like they knew something Mack and the others didn’t.

  “That’s it,” Mack said, trying to sound brave but failing miserably. “We’re out of here. We’ll be back and don’t think we’re not going to call the cops and let them know you’ve been hanging out here.”

  “This isn’t our clubhouse. It’s our home.”

  The voice did not come from the group of teens in front of them but from the left, deep in the darkness, near the dust covered cash registers. From behind Mariah, another shape stepped forth. It was male and impossibly tall and skinny. Even from here, Mack could see a cheesy tattoo on the back of the kid’s hand, a poorly drawn skull with fire in the background. He noticed it even more so when the kid lifted his hand and wrapped it around Mariah. She fell back, struggled, screamed for help.

  Luke was first to act. He dropped the equipment and ran toward them but yet another kid stepped from the shadows, a spot that Mack was certain had been empty before. It latched onto Luke, who was not a small man at well over six feet tall, and could bench twice what Mack weighed. Despite this, a kid half his size held Luke in place without effort.

  Mack was about to say something brave, like if they laid a finger on Mariah, he’d beat their little pale faces to a pulp, show them not to mess with The Three Amighosts, but his jaw didn’t work so well when the group behind him stepped forth and enveloped him. He felt their fingers—bone dry and cold as ice—all over him. The pressure became unbearable. He thought he felt warm liquid leaking from him, his blood covering the floor below, just where Melvin Brown had died.

  How fitting.

  To his left, he thought he heard a gunshot. It was loud and cut straight through his ears. Perhaps it was a residual haunting of Melvin’s ghost reliving his last day. But as he managed to glance in the direction of the sound, he saw it was much worse than that. It had not been a shot but a crack. Mariah’s head lay at an odd angle, dangling limply in a direction for which it was never meant. Luke was sprawled on the floor, still and unmoving.

  The girl who had first spoken to Mack picked up the handheld recorder he’d dropped. “Hi, my name is Vickie Bronson. I’m here with Busty Brown and the rest of The Lynnwood Vampires. You asked us to give you proof that Melvin is here. We’re happy to oblige.”

  They carried him effortlessly out of the cafeteria and down the closest stairwell, not stopping at what looked like the basement but moving downward still until they reached the darkest place Mack had ever known.

  Death came not long after, albeit slowly, as something with long tentacles and more teeth than Mack’s mind could count took hold of him. His last thought, small and panicked from the pain he felt, was that the thing before him looked awfully familiar.

  Not unlike Melvin Brown’s drawing.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the darkness something fed.

  It gorged on flesh and bones, lapped at warm blood as if it had never eaten before. Though it felt like an eternity since its last meal, it had been roughly ten years. Its stomach was large, could easily fit several more victims within its fleshy walls, but it was tired already from lack of use. The thing considered asking its children for a second course but decided against it. Soon there would be even more children and even more food. Then there would be a feast unlike any other, a holiday that would seem endless. These three morsels were just appetizers.

  The children observed, their smiles wide and knowing. Their numbers had grown in the last few weeks. Even now, as the thing’s massive stomach digested fresh flesh, there were others above ground, finding more students to join their family.

  Join, the thing supposed, was a strong word.

  Because those that were chosen had no choice in the matter.

  One of the children broke from the group and placed something on the ground. The child gestured toward the object, a small piece of paper with a crude drawing. The thing recognized it immediately.

  The drawing was a replica of the thing itself, the many appendages and razor-like teeth drawn to near perfection. It brought back a flood of memories, some that had been buried like corpses, others still fresh like the blood dripping from its mouths. Some had never died, not even in death.

  ●●●

  It was the last day of Melvin Brown’s high school career.

  But more importantly, it was the last day of his life.

  He kissed his mother goodbye, told her he loved her even if it wasn’t true. She pretended to support the way he dressed and acted, told him often that he was her son and that was all that mattered, but they both knew the truth.

  Something was wrong with him, some part of his mind not working as it should. He heard things often, voices that did not come from any source in particular. He begged his mother to bring him to a psychiatrist. He knew there were medications that could help him, make him better, or at least manage his condition. But each time she brushed it off and told him he was an average teenager.

  “Those are just your hormones raging. You’ve got to keep them in check and you’ll be fine. Nothing more serious than a bad case of the teenage blues.”

  He would nod and pretend she was right, all the while hearing things toss and turn in his mind that didn’t seem related to the teenage blues.

  Once he showed up to his doctor’s office unannounced and told them he was certain he needed a prescription. At seventeen years old, he was one of the youngest in his grade, wouldn’t turn eighteen—legal—until that July. The office refused to treat him and called his mother, who picked him up and reminded him he was just being overdramatic.

  On the morning of That Day—the last day—he made sure to spend a few extra minutes with his brother. Youth, Melvin knew, was the most special time in a person’s life. Children that young didn’t yet have prejudice, couldn’t judge anyone. The way Busty looked at him—looked up to him—was almost enough to make him rethink what he was about to do. But the near constant buzzing in his mind, the sensation that there were things crawling through his synapses and begging to be let out—it was enough to drive anyone mad.

  So he’d snuck into his mother’s bedroom while she fed Busty and opened the lockbox she kept in the back of her closet. The four-number combination had not been hard to crack. He turned the dials until his month and date of birth were lined up and heard a click.

  He slid the box open and looked at the pistol, a nine-millimeter berretta that his father foolishly thought was hidden well enough. Melvin had done research on the internet. He knew how to properly load and fire the weapon. The clip was full and there was an extra round in the chamber, though he only needed one shot.

  No, not one. Many. Use them all. Make them pay.

  Melvin covered his ears but it didn’t help much. The voice came from within his mind. It belonged to something that didn’t exist in the physical world, something with long tentacles and plentiful teeth attached to several mouths.

  The thing came to him in his dreams and sometimes in reality. It was the most horrific creature he’d ever seen, a nightmare embedded in his brain. It was the source of the voices he heard on a daily basis, the thing he often drew in his notebooks instead of paying attention in class.

  His fellow students knew about his artistic habits. Word had spread that he was a nutcase who was going to snap one day and shoot up the school.

  Exactly, the thing in his mind said. They hate you for nothing. Give them a real reason. It’s hard to hate when you’re dead.

  Melvin shook his head again as he checked the safety and slid the gun into his backpack. He didn’t intend to hurt anyone aside from himself. That was the point of all of this. He was protecti
ng everyone from him.

  He couldn’t keep the voice and the thing at bay much longer. He’d tried for several years but with each day it grew stronger, told him to hurt others just for the fun of it.

  Sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night, when he couldn’t sleep from the constant buzzing, he would agree with the thing. He would think about all the jokes and bullying he’d endured and his pulse would quicken at the thought of hurting those that made his life even more of a living hell. Then he’d come to his senses and realize he wasn’t well.

  He zipped his backpack up, heavier now from the gun, tossed it over his shoulder, and said goodbye to his family one last time.

  ●●●

  Melvin didn’t want to make a scene of it. He wanted to be alone when he pulled the trigger. He had no note to leave behind. It would be obvious why he did what he planned on doing. He went through his entire last day of school as if everything were normal—normal for him at least.

  The punch in the shoulder he received in homeroom was normal.

  The loogie he felt plop onto the side of his face during chemistry was normal.

  The snickering of those around him in English class, when they watched him draw tendrils and reptilian eyes, was normal.

  Even the way one of the jocks shoved him into his locker, Melvin’s head slamming against the metal so that he saw stars for a few seconds, was not out of the ordinary.

  All was normal until lunch period. As he always did, Melvin sat alone at one of the tables closest to the food station. The other half of the table was cluttered with students but no one dared sit near him.

  The thing from his drawing had been slithering through his mind all day, reminding him of what lay in his backpack, the piece of metal that weighed him down, that could make everyone around him think twice before they called him freak again.

  “No,” he said, not realizing he’d spoken aloud.

  Yes, the thing insisted. Look around you. So many easy targets.

  “Shut up.”

  He took a bite of his ribecue sandwich. It was his least favorite meal on the menu. The “meat” had been processed and reformed to resemble ribs that couldn’t possibly belong to any animal on Earth. It was a pathetic last meal and he thought he ought to stop by a convenience store after school and pick up some Doritos, maybe a Coke or two, to rectify this disgusting mush.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder. At first he thought nothing of it. Sometimes there were sensations on his body he couldn’t explain, like the thing from his drawings had manifested itself, no longer a figment of his imagination, but something concrete that could reach out and touch him. Usually the feeling passed quickly but not today. He felt another tap, this time more insistent.

  He turned around slowly, expecting for a moment to see a large mass of appendages that dripped with thick slime, but in a way, the reality was much worse.

  It was the jock from earlier, the one that had slammed Melvin into his locker. The egg-shaped bruise under his jet-black hair throbbed as if scared at the sight of the bully.

  The kid’s name was Lance or maybe it was Lars. It didn’t matter. Melvin had never bothered to learn the names of most of his classmates. He didn’t want to get too close and let his guard down, lest the nightmare thing should finally take full control.

  “Hey,” Lance or Lars said.

  Melvin nodded. “Hey.”

  “You’re Melvin, right?”

  “Y-yeah. Why?”

  Lance or Lars turned around and smirked at his friends two tables down. They tried to contain laughter but failed miserably. “Because I wanted to say I was sorry. For earlier, I mean. I don’t know what came over me. Sometimes I just get angry, you know?”

  Must have the teenage blues, Melvin thought. Or maybe it was the thing inside him. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I want to make it up to you,” Lance or Lars said.

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “I’m serious. I want to give you something. A gift. Like a peace offering. That is, if you don’t mind.” His mob of friends were growing red in their faces, as if the punch line of this joke were seconds away.

  Melvin sighed. “What is it?”

  Without saying anything else, Lance or Lars revealed his right hand, which Melvin hadn’t noticed was hidden behind his back until now. He saw why as the sandwich moved in slow motion toward his face, a ribecue that was overflowing with synthetic meat, the sauce leaking onto the floor like fresh blood.

  Melvin tried to back away but the jock held him in place as the sandwich flew toward him like a jet. It connected with such force that Melvin was knocked onto the floor, his bruised head colliding with the hard tiles. His vision turned white for a moment. He couldn’t think straight for a long time. It was hard to form thoughts over the laughing and cheering, not to mention the throbbing within his skull.

  And the other sensation. It felt like something slithered along his brain, like the fall had awakened the nightmare thing, had given it more control over his body.

  The laughing grew deafening. Melvin covered his ears but it didn’t help much. He began to cry, huge tears smearing the sauce on his cheeks.

  Lance or Lars stood above him, flexing like he’d just won a football game. Where were the teachers and the principal? Melvin looked to the staff on lunch duty. Most of them were engaged in conversation, laughing at their own private jokes, but one of them turned from the crowd just long enough to make eye contact with Melvin.

  Mr. Tanner was a new teacher, didn’t look much older than some of the students. When Melvin had first entered his class he’d thought that maybe the bullying would die down. Surely someone younger would remember how it felt to be a kid. Surely Mr. Tanner would save him now.

  Seconds later the teacher turned back to his coworkers and Melvin was alone, totally and utterly alone.

  Wrong, the nightmare thing said. You’re never alone.

  Melvin began to shake in anger, gritting his teeth.

  You know what to do.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “What was that?” Lance or Lars said. “You talking to yourself again?” He laughed with the others. “Who the hell could you hurt besides a fly?”

  The laughing and the buzzing and the slithering of the nightmare thing became too much. He reached into his backpack, just as covered in sauce as his clothes, and touched the cold metal. He pulled out the gun, switched off the safety, and pointed it toward Lance or Lars.

  His tormentor stopped laughing and everyone followed suit.

  The teachers—even the new one—stopped their conversation.

  Now he had their attention.

  “P-please,” Lance or Lars said. “I didn’t mean it.”

  Now, Melvin. Make them pay.

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone!”

  You have to make them pay for this. It’s the moment your life has been leading up to. Think of their screams, their pain. The way the blood will splatter everywhere. It’s like art. Beautiful and wonderful art. Pull the tri—

  “No!” he screamed and brought the gun to his temple.

  Part Two

  Chapter Fourteen

  On Monday, October 26th, Lynnwood High closed early for the students but for the teachers it was three hours of class followed by another four of meetings. These administrative days were painfully boring and Frank swore they served no good purpose other than to waste the faculty’s time. This particular meeting, though, was different. They did not discuss standardized testing or ways they could get the students involved in their education. Instead they discussed something that was on every staff member’s mind.

  The Lynnwood Vampires.

  Teachers crowded into the largest of three study halls and spoke quietly among themselves while waiting for the principal to make his appearance. They whispered rumors about their resident teenage cult. Sacrifices were being made. Altars had been discovered in the woods. And Frank’s personal favorite: all of the girls
had made it their goal to summon a demon to impregnate them.

  Though he wished he could say otherwise, it didn’t seem that far off. Granted, there was nothing supernatural going on. Frank didn’t believe in ghosts or things that went bump in the night. If that were the case, he would’ve bought every Ouija board he could find and hired the world’s best medium to help him make contact with Jeremy. That, he knew, wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

  What they had on their hands was something else, mass hysteria or something akin to brain washing, and though he still had no proof, his gut was certain Busty was behind all of it.

  He’d told Alyssa about the piece of information Justin had uncovered, that her boyfriend was actually gay. He’d hoped she’d believe him. Hell, part of him wished she would tell Busty it was okay to be himself and come out already. Then they could just be friends and perhaps he could lay his worries to rest. But she hadn’t believed him for one moment. If anything, he’d driven a bigger wedge between them—if that was possible. She’d laughed in his face and had barely spoken to him since, which still left the million-dollar question floating around his mind.

  Assuming what Justin told him was true, why the hell was Busty Brown pretending to be something he wasn’t?

  “He drew a pentagram on my chalkboard,” Nancy Holden said a few seats behind him.

  “That’s nothing,” Lisa Stein, the school librarian said. “I found all these drawings scattered around the library after we closed for the day.”

  “What kind of drawings?” Nancy said.

  “I couldn’t even describe them. They were monsters or something, these big… things. With tentacles and fangs. I tore them up into little pieces. Every last one.”

  Despite his interest, Frank didn’t want to join the conversation. Right about now, he wanted the meeting to finish up—let alone start—so he could get the hell out of here. But if he had joined in, he could’ve shared plenty of his own stories.