Red Harvest

by Patrick C. Greene

  “Yo.”

  “This is it, brother.”

  Dennis clasped Pedro’s hand in a firm fraternal grip.

  Jill lunged at Pedro to give him a fierce embrace. “You’re the cat’s tuxedo, Petey.”

  “God damned right,” Pedro said. “All of us.”

  Jill released him and took Dennis’s hand, leading him down the hallway. “Now let’s go wreck Petey’s mattress, Mister Killmore.”

  * * * *

  Stella parked across the street from the cemetery’s western side—the vast memorial lawn’s rear—to avoid being seen. She was apprehensive enough about stumbling around in the old cemetery in darkness, much less being seen and becoming the center of rumors. Why, just imagine what Ruth would say!

  This section of the road winding around Ember Hollow’s memorial grounds hugged a bank so steep no one would even try to landscape it. Too many lawnmowers of both the push and ride varieties had careened into the street and its unsuspecting motorists.

  The side on which she parked was the edge of a middle-class development whose entryway sign read ember meadows, a memorial to the picturesque parcel that had been dozed to make way for the homes built over it.

  Parking in this spot wasn’t likely to draw attention, and a scarf—not the one that had “attacked” her—worn over her head would obscure her face from passing drivers.

  She checked the flashlight, a heavy square black thing Bernard kept in the garage, then gripped the pocket knife—also Bernard’s—that she had dropped in her pocket for protection. She rechecked all the doors to be sure they were locked, and then she realized she was stalling, that it wasn’t getting any brighter or cheerier.

  She made her way to the lowest point of the unfenced hill and clambered up, pleased that her youthful track-runner legs still carried their weight. At the top, most of her courage vanished when she beheld the rolling gray hills and the black monuments that jutted from them, markers that signified a rotting corpse just a few feet beneath.

  No cars passed on the road behind her. Isolation cloaked her instead of the warmer coat she wished she had brought.

  The grounds harbored the occasional tree, the burial plots located under their branches commanding optimal price for reasons that now struck Stella as absurd. The nearest was a dogwood with limbs low enough that someone could very well be squatting under them to watch her.

  Never had she felt this daunted. Thousands of graves under a starless sky, and she had to find a simple wooden cross. The church was a vague, blocky void two hundred or more yards to her ten o’clock, and for this she was glad. There, she had witnessed the unknown, and there, she hoped, it would stay—at least for tonight.

  She panned the flashlight beam across the first rough row of the field of fallen, praying that it would be just that easy. It wasn’t.

  She made a plan to circle around the outside, spiraling inward until she found the simple wooden marker, which, she was ready to consider, could very well be dead center, if it even existed.

  At least it’s distinctive, she told herself, hoping that Bela himself would not pop up from behind a stone to raise a cape-wrapped arm, the other drawn up beneath hypnotic sensual, satanic eyes.

  Sweeping the beam, she cursed herself for overreacting at the sight of a tiny rabbit, which hopped away—probably not half as startled as she was.

  “I should have come out here more often,” she mumbled to herself, “learned my way around.” As if this was bound to come up at some point.

  The beam was drawn like a magnet to something dark sticking to a monument, a bat waiting to—what else?—become Bela, towering and intense, intent on whisking her away to some abandoned Universal Studios back lot.

  It was just a wet leaf.

  Nonetheless, Lugosi’s alluring and alarming pale face flew to the fore of her mind’s eye, soundlessly asking, Why?

  “Why?” Stella said aloud, and the wind picked up, blowing past her face as if to draw her eyes to something to…her right?

  The dogwood tree.

  A warning. Her imagined hidden stalker was about to pounce.

  She drew Bernard’s pocket knife from her jacket pocket and clutched it as she directed the light at the tree, straining to see a human shape. “Why?” she asked the tree.

  The wind blew the limbs across each other in her beam, taking a recognizable form, and her frightened mind sparked with recognition.

  “Not ‘why.’” Stella went toward the tree, emboldened by the smiling face of her Aunt Miriam replacing that of Lugosi. “Y!”

  She opened the knife and walked to the tree, setting the flashlight on the ground. She cut a limb, then raised the light to do a quick scan around her before further trimming the limb into a Y shape.

  Armed with the first dowsing rod she had touched since that long-ago summer visit to Aunt Miriam’s cottage, Stella took a breath of resolve, turned off the flashlight, and tucked it under her arm, then held the rod in divining position, opening herself to whatever force made it work to guide her.

  Wind blew, and leaves attacked her, one sticking to her hair and licking her neck with its damp stem before she smacked it away.

  With each step, the pull of the rod became stronger, like a Great Dane out for its first walk in days. It dragged her in a near run to the towering obelisk monument and around it, lurching downward, almost bringing her eye-first into the top of the wooden cross.

  Vibrating with such intensity it made her hands tingle, the rod split itself down the middle and went still.

  Stella, both enraptured and terrified by the invisible power, released the two pieces of the spent divining rod, wondering if, as Ruth would proclaim, she was allowing something evil inside.

  In any case, what she was to do next was clear: lift out the cross.

  She took an underhand grip and again felt vibrations—much more powerful in the dense hickory—and in uneven pulses, as if two energies were at war within its molecules.

  With a grunt, she lifted, her entire body radiating with what seemed like a mild electrical shock, growing in intensity.

  The cross did not budge. Like The Sword in the Stone, it was immovable to all but Arthur—who she was not.

  She released and stepped back, staring at the rough-hewn talisman. She saw no visual indication that it was tremoring. Stella thought how Bernard would raise his eyebrows high upon his forehead at such raving impossibilities.

  She took in a cool breath and reset, squatting deep to get a better position. When she gripped the cross, it tremored harder than before, startling her. But the sense of urgency felt like life or death—hers, maybe everyone’s.

  Gritting her teeth and doing Lamaze breaths, she strained, ready to catch herself on her hands and rump in case of an abrupt release.

  Instead, the cross floated, up and out. A sudden cold wind rose, seeming to pass through her, as the vibrations faded.

  She stepped back to ponder the weightless cross, wondering if she was in another dream.

  The nail through the cross-section extracted itself with a little groan and shot off into the dark.

  Then the crosspiece separated itself and spun past her head like a boomerang while the post section shot up into the sky and arced out of sight, a wooden rocket.

  Stella heard it thump down out in the woods, skimming leaves en route to becoming just another fallen branch.

  She leaned over, squinting to see the inch-and-a-half-wide hole where the cross had been posted, wondering if she had just lost her mind, or her soul.

  * * * *

  A throaty high-pitched scream caused Pedro to shift on the worn couch that barely accommodated his bulky frame, unsettling Joan Crawford from his chest. He pulled his pillow over his ears and turned over.

  * * * *

  Jill, naked and breathless, collapsed onto Dennis’s heaving chest. He squeezed her in
his arms. “Damn, I love you.”

  She kissed him, deep and soulful, as she caught her breath. “I love you too, baby.”

  “Poor Pedro is gonna hate us,” he said.

  “Nah. This time tomorrow night, his new groupies will make him forget all about us.”

  They snuggled and kissed. Then Jill slid off to his side. “Case you can’t tell, I’m really proud of you.”

  “Hm.” Dennis beamed. “Almost there myself.”

  “You should be.” She tagged his crooked nose with a long crimson nail. “See how much everybody believes in you, Dennis? Your brother, Pedro, and me. Even Darren and his, um…disciples?”

  “It’s do or die, you know.” Dennis’s face was grim but determined. “If this contract doesn’t come through, I don’t know if we can keep playin’ biker dives till the next shot comes along. And I can’t crash at Mom’s forever.”

  “Hush.” She nibbled his lower lip. “Forget about all that. You just be ready to play and sing your ass off tomorrow night. Dig?”

  “Yeah, I dig.” Dennis had planned to confess his little slip—but now decided it was a bad move. He would tell her after the show. “I want it for you too, you know. And Petey. And Stuart.”

  Jill pulled his arm around her shoulders and neck, settling against his side. “What is this? The Waltons? I thought men were supposed to go all corpsy after sex.”

  Dennis rubbed her shoulder then blew out the candle. “I’m not through with you yet, girl!”

  He wrapped his arms around her again and buried his face in her neck, making her issue a delighted squeal.

  Chapter 29

  October 31

  Hidden under tarps, the parade wagons sat in a semicircle as the pilot cars maneuvered into place to connect to them. Strong gusts blasted waves of noisy desiccated leaves across the grounds like ocean breakers while performers and participants stood mingling.

  Reverend McGlazer, in costume as Lord Summerisle, complete with unruly wig, chatted with a trio of drivers, all in slick ducktail hairdos that were not part of a costume, at a table loaded with donuts and industrial-sized coffee urns.

  Hudson Lott loped toward them, carrying an extra-large, ghost-themed travel mug. “Reverend, you got a sec?”

  “Of course.”

  The drivers walked away toward the wagons.

  “Trying to find Ruth.” Hudson filled his mug at the urn as he spoke. “She around?”

  “No, but I wish she were. I was hoping for her help today. Is something wrong?”

  “I hope not.” Hudson drained half the cup, ignoring the scalding. “Can’t find Charlie Plemmons either. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

  “No,” said McGlazer with mild alarm. “I hope they’re both all right. Is there a connection?”

  Hudson drank another huge gulp of the hot coffee and grimaced at McGlazer. “I was gonna ask you.”

  “No. Ruth is beyond reproach these days,” said McGlazer. “She puts me to shame.”

  “Yeah.” Hudson’s voice was incredulous, but he didn’t mention that he knew better. He topped off the giant mug, then raised it to McGlazer. “All right then.”

  * * * *

  DeShaun, costumed as a white-haired kung fu master, tapped, blew on, then spoke into an unplugged microphone. “Ember Hollow, are you ready to rock?”

  He mimicked audience excitement with a throaty hiss. “Ladies, gentlemen, victims of all ages, I bring you…the grave robber, heart throbber, shock-rock sensation feared throughout the nation!”

  He assumed a deep guttural death metal growl. “Staurt!”

  With a grand flourish, he thrust the microphone toward the glum Stuart sitting on the back of a pickup truck, costumed as a forties gangster in a pin-striped suit. He ignored DeShaun, tweaking tuning knobs on the borrowed bass. The instrument’s body was sculpted into a Gigeresque nightmare of alien heads fellating gray and black serpent skeletons, the sort of thing that normally had Stuart grinning in awe. But he only sat and worked at it with listless concentration

  DeShaun lowered the microphone. “Come on, man. Her folks probably decided she couldn’t come at the last minute. Don’t take it personally.”

  “Maybe,” Stuart mumbled. “Weird that I’m so disappointed, isn’t it?”

  DeShaun sat beside him. “Nah. My folks are like that, all up on each other, kissing and hugging. Both of ’em. Makes me sick. Like, I really wanna throw up sometimes, man.” DeShaun convulsed as though he was trying to clear away the very thought. “But yet, I’m kinda starting to get it.”

  Dennis, Jill, and Pedro appeared, giddy with preshow anticipation.

  Dennis wore black shades and a black pearl snap shirt with the sleeves ripped off, his cheeks gaunted via Jill’s makeup job.

  Pedro’s muscles strained the seams of a mesh tank top with a black Chalk Outlines patch safety-pinned to the front.

  Jill, of course, was drop-dead stunning in ruined hose, a black corset, and a glittery hangman’s noose necklace. “How’s it coming, fellas?” she asked.

  “All done,” Stuart said, handing the bass to Pedro, who propped a boot on the tailgate and played a few notes. “Damn!” He remarked, impressed. “Perfect. Maybe better than mine, God rest its dark soul. And by ear, no less.”

  “I told you. Top shelf.” Dennis’s sneer reflected pride. “No one tunes mine but Stuart.” He headlocked his brother, but the teen only gave a wan smile.

  Jill stroked his hair. “Aw, sweetie. Sorry about Candace. Maybe she’ll make it yet.”

  “And if she doesn’t”—Pedro interjected, making a dismissive swipe in the air—“her loss, dude!”

  “That’s not gonna make him feel better, Big Mouth,” chided Jill.

  “You sure you guys feel like coming on stage with us?” asked Dennis.

  “Oh yeah! No way we’re missing that.” DeShaun put his arm around Stuart and squeezed, making him grunt. “Right, Stuart?”

  “Yeah…” Stuart conceded.

  “All right then, Outlines,” Dennis marshalled. “I gotta go warm up the pipes. Get your game brains on.”

  Pedro strummed a hard note on the bass and followed him.

  Chapter 30

  A Tragedy in Triptych

  III

  Aloysius sat across a massive oak desk from Father Scalia, head down in a supplicating, servile manner. Scalia’s assistant, Father Wemble, sat nearby.

  “You are right to be concerned. I believe it’s important we get to the boy before he gets any older. We’ll perform the rites of exorcism.”

  Aloy crossed himself.

  * * * *

  Mamalee answered the front door without a greeting, casting her worried face down.

  The two priests stood there in full garb, Scalia holding a polished wooden box, Wemble carrying a large white-leather-bound bible. When Mamalee did not step aside, Aloysius came behind her and pushed past. “Thank you for coming, Fathers.”

  The grim-faced clergymen entered with curt nods.

  Everett sat moping on his bed as Aloysius and the solemn priests entered his room. The silver cross Scalia carried reflected across the boy’s face, its harsh glint making the boy wince. He looked up at his father, knowing this would be unpleasant, but never guessing it would be life-shattering.

  Aloysius grabbed the boy’s little arms, pinning him down on the bed.

  Everett struggled, crying, screaming with greater strength than a small boy—but not enough.

  Scalia crossed himself and chanted, looming over the boy as Aloysius and Wemble trapped his legs.

  “Please stop!” Mamalee demanded. “You’re frightening him!”

  “Quiet!” ordered Aloysius.

  “The demons in him are powerful,” announced Father Scalia. “I’m afraid he will have to be bound!”

  The priests deferred to Aloysius for
permission, and he gave it.

  He held the pleading Mamalee in a restraining embrace, as Father Wemble secured a leather strap, shiny and black like a malevolent eel, around Everett’s wrists. “Make them quit it!” the boy pleaded to his parents. Baby Candace’s cries rose from the next room.

  “No matter what you hear, do not come in until we summon you,” commanded Father Scalia.

  “Yes, Father.” Aloysius lifted Mamalee by the waist and scooted out the door with her.

  “No, no, no!” Mamalee cried. “Please leave him alone!”

  The priest slammed the door.

  Mamalee, her face etched with heartache, rocked the crying baby Candace. She squeezed her eyes shut in denial as thumps and shouts emanated from upstairs.

  Aloysius sat hunched over a coffee cup, staring into a deep scar on the table. Everett’s cries penetrated through the doors and walls: “No! You stop that! STOP STOP STOP!”

  In his powerful baritone, Father Wemble chanted Latin phrases to drown him out, but Everett only cried louder. “MAMA!”

  Mamalee rose—but Aloysius slammed the cup on the table and glowered at her until she sat.

  There was a long time of utter monstrous silence. Even little Candace was quiet, staring up as though expecting something to burst through the ceiling.

  Then the faintest of sounds. Perhaps it was Everett emitting some agonized muffled moaning, or perhaps not. It was a sound that did not sound like a small boy. It was a sound that a grown man did not make in the presence of a child.

  Mamalee covered Candace’s ears, continuing to obey her husband, trusting that he knew best, that this would end with a new Everett whom Aloysius could love.

  Then came a hoarse anguished cry, and another.

  Not Everett. The two priests. And then a loud din of furniture breaking and thrashing and violence.

  A new voice rose, one neither Mamalee nor Aloysius knew—raspy, low, and eerie.

  Aloysius rose, dread painting his face. He blinked at Mamalee, showing uncertainty about this exorcism business for the first time since it had begun. “Fathers?” he called.