by Anthology
They were here, tonight, to find out. And to do something about it.
The group had gathered first at the Dairy Hut south of Harlan, about halfway to Grays Knob along Highway 421, for a quick dinner just before dusk. Cars crowded the gravel parking lot surrounding the fast food place, poised like animals at a watering hole. Feral sat in the Formica booth under the fluorescent lamps, their stark bluish light casting too-sharp shadows on the drab white walls, watching Joe Ellis scarf down his Giant Burger. The thing was the size of a catcher's mitt, but the truck driver had already finished one off, and Feral knew he would have no problem downing his second one as well. Joe was the de facto leader of the believers. At age thirty-two, he was just under twenty-four years younger than Feral---young enough to fall for the stories, yet old enough for others to trust in his judgment. Joe had in turn placed that faith in Feral, talking him into this excursion by appealing to his own reputation in the town. Both men had been sports legends in their high school days, and everyone looked up to them for their past exploits, if not for the mundane way their lives had turned out.
That's how Feral remembered it, anyway.
Randy Vaughn sat next to Feral, and next to Randy was his girlfriend, Kathy Taylor. The two twenty-somethings appeared to him to be more interested in each other than in hunting demons in the cemetery. Their bodies were almost indistinguishable, so closely did they press against each other in the booth. Charlene Williams was a surprise. Feral would never have expected the town's high school librarian to get caught up in this kind of nonsense; she seldom attended bake sales. Tonight, fear had washed the color out of her face. That wouldn't help matters. She sat next to Joe, nervously sipping a Coke through a straw.
The others---Harold, Frank, Eliza, and Josh---were all kids from the town's high school, eager to test their fighting skills against what they no doubt imagined would be martial-arts-practicing caricatures like the demons they had seen on "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." They sat in the booth behind the adults, talking animatedly amongst themselves, wolfing down hamburgers and fries, itching to head for the cemetery. Each had given typical teenage excuses to their parents for being out that night.
Feral wasn't sure which troubled him more: his suspicion their parents didn't know where they were, his own culpability in bringing them along, or his growing apprehension, as the sun began to set, of what they might run into.
"We're not going to stay there all night," he said. He spoke to the group as a whole, but to Joe in particular.
"We have to wait long enough for them to come out," Joe said. "At least until midnight."
"How do you know they come out at midnight?"
Joe didn't answer.
Josh said, "Our parents won't mind if we stay out longer."
"Yeah, right," Feral said, turning. "But I will." As Josh opened his mouth to protest, he added, waving a warning finger at him, "And I'm the one who's responsible for y'all."
Josh ducked his head. "Yes, sir."
"So," Charlene asked, "how are we going to go about this?"
Feral felt compelled to look around the diner before answering, to see if anyone nearby was listening. No one paid the group any attention. Keeping his voice low, he said, "I figured we'd break up into three groups, fan out, and kind of keep watch on the graves. Especially the newer ones."
"Three groups of three," Charlene murmured, smiling. "Interesting."
Feral stared at her, uncomprehending.
"It's kind of a Pagan thing," she offered.
"Yeah," he said. "Well, we don't have enough people to cover the whole place. We'll stay within sight of each other, so we can gather quickly if we have to."
"That should be enough," Joe said.
"Considering we're not going to see anything," Feral said, "it's more than enough."
"What does it mean if we don't?" Charlene said. "Not seeing something doesn't mean something isn't there."
Joe laughed. "Don't confuse Feral." He pronounced the nickname as if it had only one syllable. "If nothing shows up by midnight, I think we can pretty much be sure they're not going to. And at least we can sleep peacefully tonight."
"I think it would be better if we find one," Charlene said. "That way we don't have to keep wondering." She glanced quickly at the others, and just as quickly dropped her gaze. "I would rather be sure."
Joe looked squarely at Feral. "Wouldn't we all?"
So there they were, huddled together somewhat self-consciously at Resthaven, seeing nothing out of the ordinary as the darkness gathered around them. Feral set them up in teams, making sure each of the teens had a male adult with them. Since Randy was barely out of his teens himself, Feral placed his group at the main gate; Eliza and Charlene went with him. Kathy had protested this last, but Feral was adamant. He didn't need Randy and Kathy absorbed in each other if something did happen. And this way, he had those he considered to be the weakest in the safest place.
Joe's group consisted of Josh and Harold, who was a linebacker on the football team. Feral was thus left with Kathy and Frank. He felt fairly confident that each team could handle itself well enough. Especially, he kept telling himself, since they wouldn't need to anyway.
As they started out across the grounds, Joe lit a bitumen torch. The flames shot up with a sound like crinkling paper, lighting up an area about fifteen feet in diameter. Feral looked at him with a mixture of surprise and consternation.
"Joe," he said, "what the hell d'you think you're doing?"
"Gotta see somehow."
"Don't you think you're going to scare the vampires off?"
"Vamps ain't afraid of fire." He fingered the huge silver crucifix that dangled on a chain around his neck. It glinted with a sinister light.
Feral sighed, resigned. "Let's go," he said.
He had chosen the eastern side of the cemetery for his team, the side bordered by thick stands of pine lining the crest of a hill. The hill made a good landmark, a darker blotch against the night sky. Directly across from it, in the center of the graveyard, stood a gazebo, their rendezvous point. The three groups checked their flashlights, turned on their cell phone vibrators, hefted their clubs, and set off in their appointed directions, talking softly amongst themselves. The whole thing would have reminded Feral of his days walking point in Vietnam had it not all been so utterly ludicrous.
The cemetery was characteristically quiet, no more ominous than could be expected for a harbor of the dead after dark. A light mist drifted down from the stand of pines, but the full moon peered out from behind broken clouds, casting its silken web across the landscape. Even so, Feral preferred to leave his flashlight turned on. Moonlit shadows had a way of playing with a man's perceptions, which in turn put his fears on hair-trigger overload. The flashlight cut through a lot of illusions. He was embarrassed to admit to himself that he wouldn't have minded having Joe's torch after all. That torch could be seen, comedic in its bouncing among the gravestones, across the cemetery from where Feral's team meandered. Feral shook his head at the sight.
Then he stopped and turned, facing his little group. "Okay," he said, trying to maintain some semblance of authority. "This is our station. Let's form a circle so that we can look out in all directions. We don't want anything escaping our attention."
"Or sneaking up on us," Frank said.
"Right. Or sneaking up on us."
Feral felt foolish, standing there with his back to the others. The silence among them quickly became awkward. But he really didn't know what to say. He tried instead to concentrate, peering into the darkness, looking for---what, exactly? Moving shadows, he supposed. Glaring yellow or red eyes. Bela Lugosi, maybe.
It was impossible to tell how long they stood like that. To Feral, it seemed like forever. The moon peered over his shoulder, witness to his growing unease.
"It's getting cold." Kathy's voice, though hushed, reverberated in the silence.
"Yeah," Feral said, surreptitiously pressing his limbs against his body. "Kinda wish I'd brought
my gloves."
"Hard to wield a stake with gloves on," Frank said, chuckling.
"I suppose," Feral said. He didn't bother to mention the stakes he was carrying. Not that he was scared of the dark.
He turned to peer up at the hill behind him, an inkblot spilling out of the night sky. The earlier clouds had moved on toward the southern horizon, leaving the moon above the hillside free and round and untouched. The moon challenged him. He couldn't bear to look for long at its face. Still, he felt silly holding a flashlight in such a bright landscape, when none of the others had theirs on. After a moment's hesitation, in which he somehow had trouble getting his thumb to move, he switched the flashlight off.
No sooner had he done this when a commotion arose across the cemetery. Whipping back around to face the noise, he fumbled with the flashlight, almost dropping it. At last he got it switched on. But its beam didn't penetrate far enough to illuminate the headstones twenty feet in front of him, let alone the gazebo, over a football field away. Fully embarrassed, he switched the useless light off again.
"What was that?" Kathy's voice was a gasp.
Feral motioned for her to keep quiet. The three of them strained their attention into the interior of the cemetery, hoping to make out what was going on. They could hear voices, but the rise of ground past the gazebo muffled the sounds, with only the odd shout breaking through. The glow of the torch Joe carried bobbed along the crest of the rise. Feral couldn't determine what its movement indicated.
"Joe!" he called out at last. He was careful to keep any note of urgency out of his voice.
No answer came, although the torchlight appeared to flare more brightly for a moment. The group continued to watch, listening intently. The silence became all there was in the world.
A sharp report made Feral jump. But as soon as he heard it, he recognized the source of the noise. From beyond the rise, where Joe's team was patrolling, a dog had barked.
Feral released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He also realized he was sweating. He looked at Kathy and Frank, hoping they hadn't noticed his fear.
"Let's go," he said.
They traipsed across the grounds, careful to skirt the grave mounds. Many of these were marked with small, low headstones, dangerous in the dark. It took them several minutes to reach the gazebo. They stood at the top of the rise for a moment, looking down into the shallow bowl where Joe, Eliza, and Harold played with a small terrier. Feral shook his head and moved to join them.
"Look what we found!" Eliza said, laughing. The dog jumped at her outstretched hands, barking and growling.
"It's probably all we're going to find," Feral said, relief in his voice.
"Isn't it cute?"
"Yeah, it's cute. But it isn't exactly dangerous." Feral raised his hands. "I say we call it a night."
"Are you all right?" Joe said.
"Yeah. Nothing's going to happen here. I'm headed back."
Joe peered at him intensely. Slowly, he nodded. "Yeah, okay. Full moon's better for werewolves, anyway." He wrestled playfully with the terrier, which was yapping and snapping and circling among them. "Right, boy? Wolves like you, eh?" He laughed.
The dog, crouching in a ready stance, stared up at Feral with a knowing glare.
Feral awoke groggy and restless the next morning. His knee was stiff, the result of clambering around in the cold the night before. Damn fool, he thought. He wasn't sure at whom the epithet was directed.
The midmorning air was reasonably warm, so he soon found himself ambling aimlessly along Mound Street. Named to commemorate the old Amerindian burial ground on which the town was built, the street divided the downtown business district from the elegant residential section of Ivy Hill. Brick and colonnades were the order on the north side. The sun cast long westward shadows under the trees, although Mound was open to the sky. Feral luxuriated in the heat flowing through his body, loosening the ligaments in his damaged knee.
He hoped the night's excursion had satisfied the group's vampire lust sufficiently to preclude another attempt. He didn't relish spending any more of his nights in such fruitless adventure. This whole vampire scare was utterly ridiculous, in his opinion.
And yet...there was certainly something going on.
He looked up at the ridgeline of Ivy Hill, rising on his left some two hundred feet above his head. Behind that skyline, along the next ridge beyond the hollow, it had long been rumored a "family" of vampires congregated. This rumor had persisted over most of his life, but Feral had never really put any stock in it. Before now. Of course, he wouldn't put it past the rich to practice any eccentricity, and Coldiron Heights was the wealthy section of town. Money made for some strange behavior.
But maybe not that strange.
Man, he thought. This stuff is starting to get to me now.
He was almost to the corner of South Williams Street, the last chance to turn back up the slope toward the town center before taking the switchbacks that wound their way up Ivy Hill. He could see the elementary school, heavy and rectangular like the red blocks that made up its structure, looming on the far side of the street. He slowed, wondering if he should continue up or down. As he considered this, standing in front of the yellow clapboard façade of the Rich Funeral Home, he suddenly jumped at the sound of approaching footsteps behind him. He hadn't realized he wasn't alone on the street.
He also hadn't realized he was so nervous.
"Joe," he said, turning. "Damn, man, don't do that."
"Feral," Joe said, his voice so low the name came out like a growl. "I think you need to come see this."
"What is it?"
Joe shook his head. "You really need to look at it."
Feral sighed. "Not even a 'good morning' first?"
"Come on." Joe began walking off in the direction he'd come along Mound. He glanced over his shoulder. "Good morning."
Feral followed him.
"How'd you know where I was, anyway?"
"You was looking the other way when you passed by my street."
Up at Ivy Hill, Feral thought. And Coldiron Heights. At the vampires.
They turned back one block, then headed south on Third Street, a neighborhood of small, well-kept houses under spare, graceful shade trees. Feral could see a group gathered on the sidewalk up ahead, in front of Joe's place. The looks on their faces made his heart squeeze in his chest. Their voices were subdued as he approached, greeting him in chorus.
"Morning, everyone," he said. "Don't any of you guys ever sleep?"
"Not very well," Charlene said, taking his question seriously. "I've been having nightmares."
"And it's no wonder," Joe said. "Take a look at this."
The group parted as Feral stepped up. In the gutter lay the little terrier from the night before, its throat ripped out.
"Jesus," Feral said.
"Been laying here all night, by the looks of it," Joe said.
Feral shook his head. "That's just wrong."
"So what do you think did it?" Kathy said. Her voice quavered; she seemed more anxious this morning than she had in the cemetery.
Maybe she was beginning to believe, Feral thought hopelessly. "Coyote, maybe?" he suggested.
"Nah," Joe said. "Coyote'd eat the whole thing."
"Dogfight?" said Randy.
Feral nodded. "That would make sense."
"Except," Joe pointed out, "this here dog shows no sign of having been in a fight. His throat was just tore clean out. Nothing else on him was touched."
Feral grunted. "That is kind of weird."
"Damned straight it's weird. It's a sign."
Feral sighed. He stared at the carcass. Somehow the horror of it seemed even more grotesque in the clear morning sunlight. His stomach turned. This wasn't the sort of thing he needed before breakfast. "A sign of what, exactly?"
"I don't know. Maybe we're too close. Something's trying to warn us."
"To keep us from wandering around the graveyard? Do you know how stupid that even soun
ds, Joe?"
"All I know is, there ain't no blood in the gutter."
Feral looked again. Joe was right. There was a small stain on the concrete from some residual dripping, but otherwise the street was clean.
"So the dog didn't die here." He hated having to admit it.
"Nope. Someone killed it, then brought it here afterward. Put it right in front of my house."
Jesus, Feral thought.
Joe said, "This is the dog from the cemetery last night."
"Are you sure?"
Joe glared at him. "It's the damn dog, Feral."
Feral nodded. There was no use arguing the point. Besides, he was pretty sure Joe was right.
"So now what?" he said.
"We should bury it," Eliza said. She wiped away a tear.
"Or at least tell the owner," Frank said. "Anyone know whose it is?"
No one did.
"Shouldn't we report it?" Harold said. "I mean, this is pretty scary."
"Yeah," Feral said. "Animal control can take care of it."
Harold pulled out his cell phone and moved off to make the call.
"This has to be stopped," Joe said.
"Joe, we don't even know what happened."
"Well," Randy said, "we have to do something."
"I wonder," Charlene said, "what it was doing in the cemetery."
"Hunting," Joe said. At Feral's glare, he pointed at the dead dog. "There's dirt on his front paws. He's been digging." He squinted up at Ivy Hill. "We should've stayed last night."
"And done what, Joe?" Feral said. "Do you really think that, after we left, some vampire broke out of a grave, chased down this dog, bit off its throat, walked the four miles here, dropped it in the gutter, and then went back? Or that we could've stopped him even if he did?"
Joe didn't remove his gaze from the tree-studded hill.
"One way to find out," he said.
And so once again Feral found himself, against his better judgment, in Resthaven Cemetery.