Some Monsters Never Die

by E A Comiskey

  They parked on Toughnut Street and walked along the boardwalk toward the restaurant. Fatigue was creeping up on him again and he thought he’d rather lay down and rest than eat dinner.

  Sara laced her fingers through his. “Once you eat, you’ll feel more energetic,” she said as though reading his thoughts.

  “Yeah. I’m sure you’re right.” He hoped she was right. It was a chore to put one foot in front of the other. He desperately wanted to feel more energetic.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Richard

  On Saturday, they would stop by The Emporium, a tourist shop with every sort of Old West bric-a-brac, to get a box made of bone, hoping that cow bone would be sufficient to lure The Devil. After that, they could pop over to Boot Hill Cemetery where they would fill a Ziploc baggie with graveyard dirt. Everything was falling into place.

  “Maybe trapping The Devil won’t really be so hard. We almost have everything we need already,” Richard said.

  “Why, Grandpa! If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re getting downright optimistic in your old age.”

  “Hmph. Ain’t so old. Look at this.” He tapped out an enthusiastic jig on the boardwalk. The freedom of movement left him cackling with glee. “Come on, kid. I’ll buy you a burger at Murphy’s.”

  He led the way to a narrow establishment with little signage. With the flashy Crystal Palace across the street, historic Big Nose Kate’s to the right, and The Longhorn on the left, which advertised a free seventy-two-ounce steak to anyone who could finish it, Murphy’s was clearly a local haunt. The tourists probably didn’t even notice it was there. It wouldn’t have been difficult to convince someone that the rickety old screen door that opened with a rusty shriek was part of the original hundred-and-fifty-year-old building.

  “Careful there. Looks like just one step down to get into the restaurant but it’s actually two,” he said.

  Burke peered at the single little step. “Are you sure?”

  “Yup. One step down, physically, when you go in and one step down in social status.” He cackled again, his laughter ending in a wheezing fit of coughing that did nothing to rob him of his joy. He was an inchworm away from having everything he needed to catch that saucy trollop who had tricked him. He was going to unleash the fury of Hell on the beast that stole his wife away before her time, he’d had a bowel movement for the past three mornings in a row, and he was about to enjoy one of the best burgers this side of the Mississippi.

  Burke perched on the edge of a stool in front of a long bar made of scarred pine and coated with a thick patina of ancient grease. She folded her hands primly in her lap. She appeared to be trying very hard not to pass judgement or touch anything. “You look happy,” she said.

  “I am,” he answered, astonished to realize it was the truth. He plopped down on the stool next to Burke. For the first time in forty-two years, he was really and truly happy. He flicked a cockroach off the counter. “Don’t worry,” he said in response to her little squeal of disgust. “No one ever gets sick here. There’s so much alcohol in the air, the germs can’t survive.”

  “If only the same were true of the bugs,” she muttered.

  “They don’t eat much,” he said, and leaned over the bar to order two burgers with the works, fries, onion rings, and two beers.

  “That it?” the girl at the grill asked.

  “Also, an order of fried cheese.” She nodded, and he sat back on his stool. “For Stan,” he told Burke.

  There’s no way she could have understand the reference, but she didn’t comment. She seemed too busy scanning the shadowy corners for grime.

  “How can it be this dark in here when it’s still daylight outside and the whole front wall is a window?” Burke asked.

  “Part of the charm,” he told her.

  The girl set two bottles on the counter. “Wanna glass?”

  “Drink it from the bottle,” Richard advised. “It’s probably cleaner.”

  Burke declined the offered glass, opting instead to scrutinize the lip of the bottle as though she might be able to note any germs lurking on the dark glass.

  Richard swallowed deeply, and, in that instant, he was thirty years old. He and Barbara used to come to this little hole-in-the-wall at the beginning of a night on the town. In those days, they’d lived on love and wishes, and they could get two burgers and enough beer to wash them down for five bucks. Then they’d scamper across the street and dance the night away in the Crystal Palace, sharing a single glass of Coke. By the time they got home, they were exhausted and dehydrated and ready to eat again. They’d make love in the small, squeaky bed they shared and snack on peanut butter and chocolate chips.

  Two red plastic baskets full of burgers and fries were unceremoniously dropped in front of them, followed by two more with onion rings and a little paper box of cheese sticks.

  “Oh, my God,” Burke said.

  “Amen,” agreed Richard, assuming that she was overwhelmed by the beauty of this bacchanalia of crunchy grease and meat. “Looks amazing, right?”

  Behind them, one of the cowboys by the pool table fed a dollar bill into the jukebox and stunned Richard by selecting one of his favorite Johnny Cash songs. Life was good. Great. Fantastic! What a shame he’d wasted so many years believing otherwise.

  He took a bite of his burger and moaned in pleasure. “So good,” he mumbled, aware of how rude he was being by talking with his mouth full, but too enraptured in the moment to care. “Try it.”

  Burke held her sandwich like she was afraid it might bite back and took a single dainty nibble from one edge. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  “Good, right?”

  “It really is,” she said before taking another, more reasonable bite.

  The squeak of the door rose above the deep voice singing about a ring of fire and they both instinctively turned. The man seemed vaguely familiar. He looked like he’d rather be at home in bed than just about anywhere. Dark circles under his eyes took on the cast of bruises in the dim light of the bar. His clothes were rumpled and hung on him as though he’d recently lost a good deal of weight. The girl holding his hand looked young enough to be his daughter, but he’d have bet dollars to donuts she wasn’t. Her jeans clung to her legs. A diamond sparkled in the navel exposed by her bright red, short-cropped t-shirt.

  A spider of fear crawled up his spine. The sensation was not lost on him. He’d experienced it before, in the presence of The Devil. There was something more to what he was seeing than he realized. He watched the couple in the mirror behind the bar. The man with his slumped shoulders and five o’clock shadow. The girl oozing sex and power. No wonder he was worn out.

  Burke’s little gasp drew his attention. In the mirror, her eyes were wide. Her mouth formed a perfect little “o.”

  “Ghost walk over your grave?” he asked, and immediately regretted his choice of words. Such a thing was entirely too possible in this new world they were uncovering. He shivered a second time.

  Something was wrong, but what?

  Two guys were playing pool and smoking. The couple was ordering food from the kid with the nose ring. The smell of frying onions filled the air.

  Burke whispered.

  “What?” he asked. The clamor of the music, sizzling meat on the griddle, pool balls clacking together, and drunken voices sent a wave of feedback through his hearing aid. He fiddled with the volume, knowing from experience no amount of fiddling could truly fix those old ears.

  She whispered again.

  “Speak up!” he insisted. “Can’t hear a word you’re saying.”

  Her eyes flitted to the couple and back to him. She fished in her purse, came up with a pen, and snatched a little square cocktail napkin from the stack on the table. When she finished writing, she rotated the napkin and slid it toward him.

  ←O’Doyle

  His heart stuttered in his chest. If the haggard man was O’Doyle, that meant the girl was the thing that was feeding on him. If Burke was right, they�
�d guessed well. O’Doyle looked forty years older than his picture—closer to Richard’s age than Burke’s.

  He turned from Burke toward the couple.

  The girl flashed a smile at him, warm enough to win a Miss Congeniality ribbon.

  She’s no girl. She’s the monster who murdered my Barbara. His hands began to shake. His heart hammered out a chaotic rhythm of rage.

  Her smile faltered. A little line forming between perfectly plucked brows. She cocked her head as though wondering what had come over the poor old man who was suddenly red faced and trembling.

  When they started past on their way to the single little table near the back of the bar area, she pulled O’Doyle to a stop in front of Richard.

  “Have we met?” she asked him.

  He swallowed hard. Words would not come. He would see this thing dead and burned and scattered to the four winds. “You,” he managed to whisper. “You—”

  “I’m sorry, my grandfather gets a little confused sometimes,” Burke said. Her strong hand pressed down on his shoulder. He was not to rise from his seat.

  “I gotta sit,” O’Doyle said, let go of the girl’s hand, went to the table, and slumped into the black plastic chair.

  “Enjoy your meal,” the girl/monster beamed.

  Burke pressed his back. “Time to go, Grandpa,” she said, but he didn’t budge. Now was their chance. He could take her out right here.

  “Grandpa, time to go. It’s almost dark.” Her words carried a strange emphasis that caused him to look outside.

  The creature had to be killed by the light of the full moon. It wasn’t even dark yet, and when night came, it would bring a moon still four days from full.

  Her hand still pressed his back. She guided him up and out of the restaurant toward the blinding light of sunset. In the distance, gunfire roared. It was time for the dinnertime old-west show at Six Gun City—the dinner show on the other end of the boardwalk. A carriage clattered by, churning little whirlwinds of dust into the air. Families riding, laughed and waved at the cowboys smoking cigarettes on the corners. Life swirled around them in a nonsensical blur of color and sound.

  Burke was talking, pulling on his hand.

  “We have to kill it,” he said.

  She prattled on about hotel rooms and the importance of anonymity.

  “We have to kill that little girl,” he said.

  A woman walking by gave him a wary glance and stepped a little faster.

  Burke’s strong hands descended upon his shoulders. She gave him a single, solid shake. “Listen to me. We need to get out of here. There is nothing we can do against that creature right now. Nothing. Do you hear me? It can kill us, and we can’t give it so much as a paper cut. If you want to do what we came here to do, we need to get out of here right now before that thing suspects we are something other than ordinary humans out for a bite of dinner.”

  He stared into her brown eyes and let the strength of her spirit ground him. “It recognized me.” He hadn’t meant to whisper, but it seemed that’s all he had in him.

  Her mouth pressed into a thin line, turned down at the corners. “I know, but we shouldn’t panic. It has no reason to suspect that you know what it is. We have to go, Grandpa. We have to stick to the plan.”

  “Yeah, the plan,” he whispered. “Right.” He turned and went past the big window of the bar, resolutely keeping his eyes forward. The monster’s preternatural gaze marked his progress through the glass, or, at least, he imagined it to be so.

  Burke jogged to keep up, and when he took a sharp left turn, she kept going for several steps before realizing he’d slipped through the swinging doors into Big Nose Kate’s Saloon.

  The nighttime crowd hadn’t arrived yet, but the dinner group was trickling in. On the stage, a young Asian man in a black AC/DC shirt and ripped jeans unpacked an elaborate Karaoke setup.

  The stairs to the balcony were beyond the restrooms, just past the kitchen door. He jogged upward into the darkness, taking the steps two at a time, slowing only as he reached the arched opening where he could be seen by the diners and staff below. Stooping low, he reached forward and grasped the tasseled end of the long stole and tugged. The mannequin wobbled.

  For a moment, he was certain the thing would topple, falling over the wrought iron railing and spinning end-over-end to the hardwood floor below. Imaginary screams filled the air when bits of plastic and wood exploded from the broken body, but then the mannequin stilled and a second, gentler tug brought the purple silk sliding down the back of the imitation Three Cent Sam just as Burke tiptoed up to the top step.

  With one hand, he shooed her back down, following close on her heels as he wrapped the fabric into a tight ball and stuffed it inside his shirt, under one arm.

  Burke stopped in the little hall at the bottom of the stairs and turned toward him. “Grandpa, I know you’re upset but—”

  “I’m not upset,” he said.

  Her eyes were wide and panicky. “We have to stick to the plan.”

  “That’s what I’m doing. This is the plan, remember?”

  A tiny woman with enormous breasts held unnaturally high by a black-and-red corset pushed through the door and past them, a black tray full of food balanced on her shoulder. “Men’s room’s on the other side,” she said without breaking stride.

  “We’re going to draw suspicion just standing here. We should go,” he said.

  For the first time since Stanley first interrupted the evening news, Richard could see the path ahead of them with crystal clarity and he was certain he had it within him to do what needed to be done. Elation was gone, but strength and vitality coursed through his veins. He understood now what had made Stanley seem so strange, what had attracted women to him.

  Stick to the plan.

  Ha!

  Just try and stop him.

  He brushed past Burke, not wasting any more time addressing her silly concerns. Worry was as useful as a spider’s fart in a rainforest. Action was what was needed. He allowed the music and noise of the increasingly busy saloon to push him back out onto the boardwalk. A brother and sister in coonskin caps raced by shooting cap guns in the air. The snap, snap, snap of the toy weapons whipped painfully across his ears. He scooted close to the wall to let them pass. When he looked up, he met Barbara’s beautiful eyes.

  She stood on the boardwalk, leaning casually against a wooden pillar. Her hands remained tucked into the pockets of her denim pedal pushers and the diamond in her navel sparkled. Her red t-shirt was so short it barely covered her breasts. The fabric strained across her chest. Moonlight shone on her thick, soft curls. “Thought I recognized you. Have you missed me, Richie?”

  Steel bands clamped around his heart and squeezed. The earth tilted beneath his feet.

  “Why, Richie, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She sashayed toward him and pressed her palms against his chest. Her warm, solid flesh seared him. Spots of light flashed in his oxygen-deprived mind and his body gave a sudden, involuntary gasp so fierce it made his lungs hurt.

  Barbara stuck out her lip. “You don’t look happy, Richie. I thought you’d be pleased to see me after all this time.” She stepped closer, crushing her breasts against his chest, pressing her hips to his. Her pout slid into a knowing grin. “Oh! You are happy to see me. You’ve still got it after all this time, eh? Color me impressed.” She wrinkled her perfect nose. “You stink though, Richie. You’ve got the reek of hunter on you.”

  His mind screamed in protest against the assault of this monstrosity that pretended to be his beautiful wife, but his body remembered her soft, strong flesh and every cell responded to the memory. Tears blurred his view of her angelic face. Surely nothing evil could lurk behind those innocent eyes.

  “Get away from him!” Burke was there, yanking Barbara’s shoulder, trying to wedge herself between them.

  Barbara’s hand, a flash in the night, grabbed hold of Burke’s throat. “Who invited you?” she hissed, slamming Burke against the wall.

/>   A door banged open.

  Richard winced and blinked. When he opened his eyes once more, Barbara had vanished.

  Burke sagged against the wall.

  “Sara?” Finn O’Doyle stood thirty feet away. He turned toward Richard. “Have you seen a woman? Short? Black hair? Looks like a twelve-year-old?”

  Did he shake his head no? Was he still standing? How could he still be alive?

  “Sara?” O’Doyle called once more and then slumped away around the corner of the boardwalk.

  A group of tourists spilled out of The Longhorn and surged in a tangled, staggering, laughing mass of noise across the street to The Crystal Palace. As though cued by the group’s entrance, the band started up and music filled the evening.

  Burke gasped, a harsh, wet, ragged sound that acted like a slap across the face, waking him from the time-warp nightmare he’d stumbled into.

  He reached for her and withdrew; considered putting an arm around her; hesitated; settled for, “Okay?”

  With one hand over her throat and tears in her eyes, she nodded. “Let’s get out of here,” her whisper was sandpaper dragged across fine satin.

  “Yeah. Come on.” He put an arm around her then and, leaning on one another in a way not so different from the drunken tourists who’d just passed, they made their way back to the car and up the hill to the hotel where they turned on every light, drew the curtains closed, engaged all three locks on the door, and hid from the monsters that lurked in the night.

  Lying on the bed with his back to his granddaughter, Richard let the tears spill. When she sat next to him, causing the old bed to creak and sag, he confessed, “I had a moment when I was sure I’d give my soul to hold her again.”

  “What stopped you?” she asked.

  He rolled onto his back so he could see her. What difference did it make if she saw his swollen eyes and red nose? Was it so shameful for a man to cry? “You stopped me. I’d give my soul to be with her, but I couldn’t give yours.”