August's Eyes

by Glenn Rolfe

  “Would that make it easier for you?” The Ghoul licked his lips and rubbed himself. “If I told you I took my boys and forced them into acts they didn’t want to do. When I’d force them to suck on me, and to take me inside….”

  Johnny covered his ears. God, he didn’t want to hear any of this.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, did you think you could just come to my home? That you could just waltz into Graveyard Land and what? You’d get to run around playing patty cake all day and night? Is that what you think goes on here?” The Ghoul unbuttoned his shirt and shed it to the floor. “Did they not tell you the truth? One Eye and August?”

  “Henry…and E-Ethan,” Johnny whispered.

  “What’s that?”

  “Their names.”

  The monster of a man clutched Johnny by the jaw.

  “They’re called whatever I tell you they’re called. I’m the god here. You hear me?”

  Johnny whimpered.

  “Mm,” the Ghoul moaned in his ear. “That’s the sound of ecstasy around here.”

  He leaned in and forced their lips together.

  Johnny thrashed at him, swinging his twelve-year-old fists in a flurry of rage and fear. One shot caught the Ghoul in the ear, knocking him to the side. Johnny tried to flee but a powerful hand clamped his ankle.

  “You want some pain first, huh?” the Ghoul said.

  Johnny’s wrist snapped under his tightening grip. He cried out when the Ghoul twisted his arm until Johnny felt something crack in his elbow. A heat accompanied a sudden deep ache within. He fell to the floor, holding his broken arm.

  “Did they tell you how I hurt them?” the Ghoul asked. “How I’d choke them inches from death before pulling them back from the precipice?” He planted his boot into Johnny’s kidney. “How I’d throttle them and fuck them, and do it all over again?”

  He undid his leather belt and pulled it from the loops of his slacks. “This was one of my favorite things to do,” he said.

  The belt whizzed through the air and slapped across Johnny’s back.

  “I used to love them, you know.”

  Another sting accompanied the next lashing.

  “It wasn’t only pain and sexual pleasure. You’re each so fragile and beautiful to me.” The Ghoul crouched down next to him and tried to look him in the eye. “Do you believe me, Johnny?”

  “You’re just a child-molesting piece of shit!” Johnny cried.

  The belt whipped through the air again and again and again. The Ghoul hauled off and kicked him in the stomach, stomped his knee, and then thrashed the belt against his back and shoulders again.

  Breathing heavy, he tossed the belt aside.

  Johnny rolled in agony on the floor.

  Where are you, Ethan? Please….

  “I’ll give you a bit of credit. You’ve got more fight in you than I thought you would,” the Ghoul said. “But we’ve got plenty of time to work that out of you.”

  “You’re w-weak…and sad,” Johnny cried.

  The Ghoul dropped to his knees beside him.

  “You want to see power, boy? Hmm?”

  He backhanded Johnny, knocking him into a ring of stars and blurry vision.

  “I created this place for us. I made this all happen.”

  Please, Ethan. Johnny thought. Please, I know you don’t owe me shit. I left you for dead, but please…help me stop him.

  “How?” Johnny asked, hoping the son of a bitch would take the bait.

  “How did I do it? Well, that’s not anything that really concerns you. Let’s just say you wouldn’t understand.”

  “It was the shaman…the evil one,” Johnny managed, daring a glance at the front door.

  “Huh,” the Ghoul said. “Well, look at that, maybe you’re smarter than I thought, too. Ain’t you just full of surprises?”

  “If you made this place, it can be destroyed,” Johnny said. He tried to sit up but the pain in his elbow made him too lightheaded.

  “That, Mr. Big Brain, is where you’re wrong. This place is eternal, but like I said, none of that matters.”

  The Ghoul caught him looking at the door.

  “Oh, what? Do you think you can make a run for it? Tsk, tsk, tsk, Johnny.”

  He circled Johnny, licking his lips and running his fingers through his gray chest hair. Johnny got a bad, bad feeling.

  “You’ve felt the whip and my boot. Now,” the Ghoul said, reaching for the button on his pants. “Now, I‘ve got something else for you, hmm?”

  “Please, Ethan…. I’m so fucking sorry,” Johnny cried.

  “Yes,” the Ghoul whispered, dropping to one knee and leaning into Johnny’s ear. “Let’s beg for forgiveness. We can beg together.”

  Johnny felt the man grinding against his hip.

  Tears streaked Johnny’s face.

  If Ethan chickened out, or if August had returned, Johnny was on his own. If he didn’t fight now, they would all die.

  The Ghoul reached for Johnny’s sweatpants and yanked them down. “Now let’s flip you over, boy.” He practically drooled.

  Johnny gritted his teeth and brought his knee up into the Ghoul’s groin as hard as he could.

  The monster grunted, but the weak attack only served to piss him off.

  Johnny tried to shove him but caught a punch to the face instead. Bright stars danced in his sight as he felt the Ghoul’s hands upon his hips.

  The front door burst open accompanied by a roar of children like something out of Lord of the Flies.

  No sound had ever been sweeter.

  Ethan led the charge, rushing through with a thick stick held over his head. Henry and the others funneled in behind him with wooden weapons of their own.

  “What the hell is this?” the Ghoul asked, climbing from Johnny and trying to get to his feet. “Get out of here, all of you, or you can all take your turns next. You hear me?”

  “Get off him!” Henry shouted.

  “What are you going to do? Any of you? You think you’ve got a say in any of this?”

  “We’re putting an end to this. To you,” Ethan said.

  The Ghoul stood. “Well, well, well, look at you,” he said. “What? You think because you look like you used to that you’re not under my spell? That you’re not dead?”

  “We’re done. We’re all going home.”

  “You’re not going anywhere!”

  Johnny watched, his entire body sore and shrieking out. The boys didn’t falter. They closed in like a pack of wolves.

  “I said get out!” the Ghoul barked, but his bite was gone, a glimmer of fear in his eyes.

  “Nooo!” Ethan yelled.

  All at once, they unleashed every ounce of pain and humiliation the Ghoul had ever introduced to them.

  He thrashed out, trying to fend them off, but it was too little in the swarm of sticks and knuckles raining down upon him.

  Johnny sat up and slid away, holding his broken arm.

  He saw one stick smash in the Ghoul’s teeth – blood exploding like an erupting volcano. Another shot cracked the monster’s jaw, sending it into an awful angle, and yet another caved in his eye socket.

  Johnny tucked his bare legs to his chest, closed his eyes, and cried, but couldn’t block out the sickening sounds as they beat the Ghoul into a bloody pulp.

  He didn’t look again until a hand shook him.

  “You have to go,” Ethan said. Henry joined him, as the boys continued to destroy Llewellyn Caswell once and for all.

  “We’ll finish this, but you need to get to Sarah before it’s too late,” Ethan said.

  “Where?” Johnny asked.

  “You picked a grave, remember?” Henry said. The boy had black-rimmed glasses with a patch over one lens. “She doesn’t have much time. Go, quick before it’s too late.” He helped Jo
hnny to his feet and shoved him toward the door.

  He went outside and looked back one last time.

  Ethan stood in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry,” Johnny said.

  “I know.” The boy nodded. “Go. Save Sarah and Pat.”

  Ethan backed into the house and closed the door.

  * * *

  The fog swirled over everything. It was so thick Johnny could barely see where he was going. Somewhere here, he’d chosen a grave. He needed to find it and find it fast.

  Stumbling through the trees, past the gravestones, he saw the names appear.

  Howie Goodwin… David Greeley… Bryce Wakefield…Carlton Cole….

  There were so many.

  Edward Willis Jr.…Nathan Meyers….

  Ethan Ripley.

  Johnny dropped to a knee and placed a hand on the gravestone.

  His turned his attention to the grave next to Ethan’s….

  Johnny Colby.

  …the one that got away.

  The stone cracked. A hole in the ground opened before him.

  “Goodbye, Ethan. Goodbye, Henry.”

  He rolled into the grave and closed his eyes.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  John awoke in his bed.

  Gasping for air and reaching for his broken elbow, he opened his eyes and sat bolt upright.

  The room was dark save for the red LED light of his alarm clock. It read: three forty-six.

  Sarah.

  He rushed into the living room, turned on the lights and looked for his keys. He couldn’t remember where the hell he’d dropped them.

  “Come on, John, you fucking asshole. What’d you do with them? Think!”

  He checked the cushions, tossing them to the floor, but found nothing but crumbs and lost pens. He ran into the kitchen and cleared the table and the counter.

  There was no time for this bullshit.

  He grabbed his cell phone and headed out the door. He dialed Dr. Soctomah’s number and sprinted down the wet blacktop.

  The doctor picked up after several rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Dr. Soctomah, it’s John. Meet me at Fairbanks Cemetery.”

  “John? Is everything all right?”

  “I think they buried Sarah alive. I need your help, please.”

  “I’m…I’m on my way.”

  John clutched the phone and ran as hard as he could. His knee called out, more from the dampness than the physical exertion.

  The cemetery wasn’t far, but he knew every second counted.

  * * *

  Sarah opened her eyes to a complete blanket of darkness. She could hardly breathe. The smell of death enfolded her. She tried to get up and found herself trapped.

  “Oh God,” she whispered.

  She sucked in one short breath after another.

  She reached up and felt the silk lining.

  A vision of her grandmother’s wake flashed across her mind.

  She was in a coffin.

  Sheer terror barreled through her.

  Was she buried? Is that why it was so hard to breathe?

  “John,” she wheezed. “Please help me….”

  * * *

  John heard a cry of pain as soon as the graveyard came into sight.

  Pat.

  He ran into the graveyard and heard Pat cry out again off to his right.

  It was coming from Caswell’s property.

  John burst through the trees and saw a light within the shed.

  He sprinted to the door, scanning the ground for anything he could use as a weapon.

  There was nothing. He turned and saw the van sitting by the garage. Hurrying over, he grabbed the first thing he found, a tire iron.

  As he gripped the tire iron, he heard Caswell howl, and Pat roar.

  Pulling the shed door open, John saw Pat swinging a hammer at a shirtless Alvin Caswell. Caswell’s man-boobs glistened with blood.

  Caswell crumpled between them, blood gushing from multiple wounds on his face and head.

  Pat was in his underwear, covered in crimson.

  “Oh my God, Pat,” John said. “Come here.”

  Pat stood, his hand trembling as he clutched the ball-peen hammer.

  Caswell’s chest continued to rise and fall, but the man did not move. Stepping past him, John saw Pat’s shirt on the floor. He picked it up and handed it to the boy.

  “Let me have it,” John said, reaching for the hammer. Pat gave it over. His crying eyes met John’s.

  “Pat,” John said. “Where is Sarah?”

  Pat blinked, and his eyes regained a bit of their normal energy. “He…he took her….”

  “Where? Do you know where?”

  Pat shook his head.

  A voice called, “John?”

  John turned and yelled, “Dr. Soctomah! We’re over here in the shed.” He turned back to Pat. “Pat, I think he buried her. I have to go look. Come on.”

  * * *

  Pat pulled on his shirt and was reaching for his pants when Caswell moved. He had the gun in his hand.

  “John!” Pat shouted. “Gun!”

  The barrel of the pistol rose, aimed right at Pat’s face.

  John grabbed Caswell’s arm as the weapon fired.

  Pat felt the bullet whiz past his ear as he stumbled backward and tripped onto his ass.

  “Pat,” John yelled. “Go! Find Sarah.”

  Another man, one Pat didn’t recognize, appeared in the doorway.

  John swung at Caswell, still trying to pry the gun from him. Before Pat could move, the gun went off two more times.

  John moaned and fell on top of Caswell.

  The man from the doorway hurried in and threw two huge punches into Caswell’s already bloody face. The gun fell at Pat’s feet as John slid down and lay on his back. Pat saw two entry wounds. Blood blossomed, spreading across the holes in his chest.

  “Johhhnnnnn!” Pat cried, dropping beside him. “No!”

  Pat saw the gun and picked it up.

  “No, don’t!” the man said, grabbing the gun before Pat could squeeze off a shot. “It’s not worth it, son. What’s your name?”

  “Pat.”

  “Pat, I’m Rik. John called me.”

  “Sarah,” Pat said. “She’s out there…in the cemetery.”

  “Where?” Rik asked.

  Pat got to his feet, hurried past him and ran to the graveyard.

  As he rushed through the trees he spotted the ladder and the pile of fresh soil.

  “Over here!” he shouted.

  He ran toward the mound and saw the aluminum ladder lying in the grass.

  The sky was lighting up around him.

  He read the gravestones.

  The open grave belonged to Llewellyn Caswell.

  Pat slid the ladder next to it and hurried down. He managed to raise the casket lid and gagged. Pulling his shirt over his nose and mouth, he saw not one, but two sets of bones. He stood and looked at the neighboring grave.

  Loretta Caswell.

  Save her, he heard a voice say.

  “Sarah!” Pat shouted. He snagged the ladder and climbed out of the grave.

  “What are you doing?” Rik asked.

  Pat found the shovel leaning against the gravestone. “He buried her alive.”

  “Who?”

  “That murdering bastard. That son of a bitch buried Sarah. Help me!”

  Rik looked unsure at first but dropped to his knees and began clawing handfuls of dirt from the grave.

  “Sarah!” Pat called out. “Hold on!”

  It was taking too long.

  He had to keep shoving away visions of her lying there dead.

  Pushing past the pain and exhaus
tion, past the possible horror awaiting him, Pat dug and dug, deeper and deeper.

  Without a word between them, both men worked nonstop.

  Pat didn’t know how long it had taken them, but the sun was up, the first rays of dawn following them into the ground.

  Birds chirped encouragement for them to keep going.

  “Please, please, please, Sarah….”

  * * *

  She could hear someone digging above her. Someone was coming.

  She tried to call out, but her voice was barely audible. The air within the casket was too thin.

  She was getting sleepy.

  She closed her eyes, and heard no more.

  * * *

  The shovel thunked against something hard.

  “Sarah!” Pat shouted.

  They worked double-time, uncovering the brown casket.

  “Sarah, if you’re in there, hold on!” Pat said. “Hold on, we’re coming.”

  They cleared the top of the casket and made divots in the dirt just above the coffin.

  Rik helped him as they reached down, clawed for the lip of the casket and pulled it open.

  “Sarah!”

  “Oh my God,” Rik said.

  She lay there, eyes shut, unmoving, her arms limply resting on her chest.

  “No!” Pat said. He dropped down and tried to lift her out of the coffin. “Hold on, Sarah!”

  Together he and Rik got her out of the ground.

  Rik cupped his hands together and made a step for Pat to climb up and out.

  Once Pat was up, he slid the ladder down in the hole.

  “She’s not breathing,” Pat said.

  Rik hurried out and moved Pat aside. Kneeling next to Sarah, he started compressions.

  “Come on, Sarah,” he cried. “Come back to us.”

  Rik counted sixty compressions, breathed into Sarah’s mouth and repeated the process again.

  “Please, God, please,” Pat cried.

  Rik looked Pat in the eyes. “Hey, what’s your name?”

  “Pat.”

  “Pat, my cell is in my back pocket. Grab it and call the police. After that, go stay with John until they get here.”

  “But he’s with…with….”

  “I pulled John out and locked the guy in the shed.”

  “Oh,” Pat said. “Yeah, then yeah. Can you save her?”