Everyone Dies in the End

by Brian Katcher

  My victory was short-lived as my weapon was wrenched from my hands and bent in two. My opponent faced me…and began to change.

  It wasn’t like some cheap CGI trick. First it was the faceless cemetery wraith, then it wasn’t. It was a person. A man. A chubby, olive-skinned man in his fifties, with salt and pepper hair, a pencil-thin mustache, and a Roman nose. And a smile. A friendly yet somehow insincere salesman smile.

  Saberhagen.

  And then he was gone. He didn’t exactly vanish. It was like when a light bulb burns out. You’re not aware of the absence of light so much as the sudden presence of darkness. I stood blinking at the cemetery fence.

  The experience rattled me so much that I didn’t at first remember that I wasn’t by myself. I found Charlie struggling to her feet.

  Her sweater was caked with grime and torn. If it hadn’t been so loose it probably would have been ripped completely off. Several deep gashes ran along her shoulders, oozing blood. Her hair was filled with leaves and twigs, and one of her lips was swelling.

  “Charlie…”

  She stood up. “We’re getting out of here. Now.”

  She drove us almost twenty miles without saying a word. She mopped up blood with some Kleenex while I sucked on my extremely painful broken teeth. Finally, I had to break the silence.

  “Charlie…”

  Her eyes sparked with fury. “Don’t talk to me. Seriously.”

  When we approached campus, she slammed on the brakes. “Get out.”

  “Are you going to…”

  “I’m going to Katherine’s. Get the fuck out of my car.”

  “Your sister’s house? But…”

  She smacked me. Hard. In my broken teeth. “I sure as hell can’t face my parents looking like this!”

  Torn shirt, scratches, tears. Yeah, I knew what they’d think.

  Words failed me. I got out of the car. She took off just as I was closing the door. I watched, morosely, as her headlights faded.

  But after about a hundred feet, she pulled over.

  Joyfully, I ran toward her. I think I was laughing. I realized just how badly I needed her at that moment, to talk to her, to comfort her, to let her comfort me. The thing we experienced tonight, we had to face it together. She must have realized that.

  The car door open. After a moment, L.J.’s backpack flew out into the street. The door slammed and she sped off into the night.

  The clock tower of the Memorial Union rose high above the university like the spire of a Gothic castle. Beneath the ornate facade, a huge archway provided an entrance to the white stone buildings of east campus. The upper vaults of the arch were lined with the names of University of Missouri students ‘who made the ultimate sacrifice during the Great War’. A plaque said that when passing through the archway, you were supposed to remove your hat and pause for a moment, to honor the dead.

  I lay slumped against an interior wall, watching the ebb and flow of summer school students. No one doffed their hat. The clock didn’t strike, but it was probably about ten in the morning.

  After Charlie ditched me, I’d walked to the University Hospital, where a sleepy oral surgeon had yanked two of my broken teeth. He accepted my story of a frat house fight without question. I slipped out without paying and wandered back to campus.

  I sat under the tower for five hours, filthy and frightened. The very idea of being alone was suddenly terrifying. I had to be around people. Lots of people. The thought of the dorm seemed claustrophobic. I had to be here in the middle of campus, with hundreds of students nearby. The image of Saberhagen’s horrible eyes tortured me.

  Demon. Zombie. Vampire. Ghost. Whatever the hell he was, he was real. Had my trespassing summoned him, or was it just his time to return, like Denton theorized? It didn’t matter. Whatever he was, wherever he came from, I was screwed.

  The fact that I had no idea what to do was almost as bad as the memories of the previous night. If I called the police I’d wind up in the crazy house with Denton. I didn’t want to risk involving any more of my friends. My whole world had become a living nightmare. No, it was worse than that. It was like a German children’s story.

  “Hey, I know you!”

  The lilting, female voice evoked a terrified howl from my battered and paranoid brain. I skidded halfway out of the arch, ready to pounce, to fight, to kill, before my numbed senses could process who was talking to me.

  It was Steph, the cute Mormon girl from Mark Twain Hall. Her face was expressionless as she retreated backwards from the guy who’d snarled and skittered away at her friendly greeting.

  “Wait,” I croaked. I’d looked upon evil last night. Steph was the closest thing I had to an angel on this campus and I wanted to talk to her.

  She paused, but kept walking slowly away, never taking her eyes off me, as if she expected me to suddenly lunge.

  “Please talk to me, Steph.”

  She stopped backing up. Her foot jiggled. I imagined her picturing the blond-haired, blue-eyed Mormon God instructing her to minister to the fallen, as well as her earthly father warning her to stay away from creepy teenage guys.

  She must have been feeling charitable that morning. Probably bolstered by the presence of passing students, she hitched up her skirt and sat down next to me on a step.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Well, I kind of like this girl, even though she’s overweight, but I don’t think she likes me because when I took her grave digging last night the ghost of this 1930s cult leader attacked her. And all I was trying to do was prove to some mental patient that the writings of this one-eyed minister were bogus.

  “It’s kind of involved. Want to get some coffee?”

  There was a Starbucks inside the Union. I ordered us two coffees (Steph, of course, requested a decaf). I found us a table where I could sit with my back to the wall.

  “So…” said Steph, staring at the blood and dirt stains on my shirt. “What’s new?”

  I sipped my overpriced coffee. How to put this? “Do you believe in the devil?”

  She paused for a moment. “Yes.” It was not a ‘yes’ that left room for doubt.

  “I don’t mean the Bible devil, or like an abstract representation of evil. I mean, an actual, physical being.”

  “I do.”

  “What about demons? Do you believe in them?”

  “Of course I do,” she said with a tone so condescending that I might have asked her how the little people got inside the television. “Don’t you read the news?”

  “I don’t mean evil humans…” I began.

  “Neither do I, Sherman. The Bible tells us they walk among us. Beautiful to behold, but beings of darkness.”

  Denton had claimed Saberhagen had worked evil in all his incarnations. Was that was Steph was referring to? How much should I tell her?

  “Sherman,” my companion continued. “Um, have demons been talking to you?”

  I flashed her my best non-insane smile. “No, it’s just that…how would you go about fighting a, erm, being of darkness?”

  Steph suddenly took a swig of her coffee, like a novice drinker downing a shot. She winced, then focused on me. “They aren’t vampires. You combat evil by doing good, not by splashing them with holy water.”

  “Yeah.” I might have expected that sort of answer. Maybe I’d have better luck with a Catholic missionary. I was sure the Vatican had some sort of secret army of grim-faced priests ready to fight the living dead.

  Stephanie regarded me with a slight smile, probably labeling me as harmlessly mad. She wrote something on a napkin.

  “I have to go. This is my cell phone number. If you ever need to talk, about demons, or whatever, call me.” I was sure she was giving me her number because she did not want to hang out in person again. I thanked her and she left, only glancing over her shoulder once.

  Steph was wrong about one thing. My battles were physical, not moral. Saberhagen, or whatever he was, was not made of ectoplasm. I’d hurt him when I hit him with
that rod. And if he could be injured, then he could be killed. I had to send that thing back to its grave.

  When I arrived at Mark Twain hall, I half expected my clothes to be scattered all over the front steps. Mr. Schultz had been clear as to what would happen if I stayed out all night again. I shuffled through the empty lobby and up the stairs. From my room, I could hear L.J. belting out ‘Ironman’ on his guitar. Not wishing to give him a long overdue explanation, I searched the nametags on the doors until I located Aaron’s. I realized, with no interest whatsoever, that John Doe was his roommate. I knocked, then entered.

  Both guys at their desks, half buried in papers and books. When they looked up, they both winced, briefly. Just a quick, frightened grimace when they saw me.

  “You feeling okay, Sherman?” asked John.

  “Why?” My voice was raspy and thick, still half numbed from the dentist.

  “You have blood on your chin. And your shirt.”

  I made no effort to wipe my face. “Get out, John. I have to talk to Aaron in private.”

  He balked. “Ypsilanti, Michigan! Where do you get off—”

  “Now!”

  John, insulted and frightened, glanced at his roommate, who nodded. As soon as he left, Aaron swiveled in his chair and regarded me through narrow eyes. His face was uncharacteristically scruffy. Probably because his razor was now lying in the middle of an abandoned graveyard.

  “You shouldn’t talk to John like that. He saved your butt last night.”

  “How?”

  “He crawled into your bed and pretended to be you when Benny did bed check last night. Then I distracted him while he ran back to his own room.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” I tried to work up some gratitude, but after the events in the cemetery, it all seemed pointless and stupid.

  “Thank L.J., he arranged it. That guy’s been bouncing off the walls since he went driving with you the other day. What the hell did you guys get up to?”

  I ignored the question. Sitting on John’s bed, I attempted to be casual. “Aaron, you’re a man who appreciates our Second Amendment rights, correct?”

  His stern look broke into a grin. “Junior NRA member since I was nine.”

  “And you have some guns yourself?”

  “Hell, yeah! Two shotguns, couple of pistols, and…” He suddenly stopped smiling. “Why do you want to know?” he asked suspiciously.

  There was no casual way to broach was I was about to ask. “The other day, when I got robbed…well, I’ve just been thinking, if I’d been armed…”

  “You might have shot yourself in the knee,” Aaron finished. “Or killed a guy over twenty bucks. You think you could live with that?”

  “Don’t be like that. I want to buy a gun. What do I do?”

  He avoided my eyes. “You have to be eighteen. Twenty-one for a pistol. My guns are registered under my dad’s name.”

  “But there’s ways to get around that, right? C’mon, I know you can help me. Just point me in the right direction.”

  Aaron opened his mouth, then closed it. After a pause, he spoke. “I’m sorry, Sherman. But you’ve been acting real weird. You don’t want a gun because you’re afraid of getting robbed. Talk to me, man. What’s really going on?”

  I slowly stood. Everything ached. “Forget I said anything. You don’t want to help me, that’s just great. Your conscious is clear.” I left before he could protest.

  L.J. was gone, but he’d left the door slightly open (which was good, because I hadn’t taken my key). I glanced around the room, almost hoping Dan was there waiting for me, just so I could get the confrontation over with. And a fight with Dan, castration fears and all, would be a hell of a lot more welcome than whatever I’d met in Irontown.

  I sat down in from of my computer. Dan, or Saberhagen, or someone seemed to know everything about me. It was time to even the score.

  Okay, maybe Saberhagen was an undead monster with legions of followers, unlimited resources, and a history of destroying those who crossed him.

  But I would bet anything he didn’t know how to Google.

  – Chapter Fifteen –

  According to Denton, Saberhagen had been eviling up Missouri since it was still part of Louisiana Territory. He had to have left a trace somewhere.

  The first thing I learned was that Saberhagen was a more popular name than you’d think. I got over half a million hits on Google. Even combining it with his known first names (Paul, Peter, and Pieter), I still failed to reach a workable number of web sites.

  By adding Columbia, Missouri to the search, I reduced my options to less than one hundred. After a frustrating twenty minutes, I found exactly one legitimate reference to my Saberhagen. A Mr. Perry Saberhagen of Missouri had apparently donated a lot of money in an attempt to block passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Other than that, nothing.

  Searching Northern Synod brought up thousands of Lutheran Churches in Minnesota and Wisconsin. Occult Missouri got me a site featuring photos that were either the result of UFO activity or smeared camera lenses. Irontown Cemetery brought up nothing relevant. Rutabaga Monkey Purple Genuflect got 72 hits.

  I recalled the odd symbol on Saberhagen’s grave: the sideways E and the X. Searching ‘E X’ in conjunction with Saberhagen, Missouri, or occult didn’t turn up anything of note. Only when I combined it with Northern Synod did I find something.

  Just one hit, but it was enough. The site was poorly designed. Nothing but page after page of small-type print, someone’s abortive effort to write a history of Columbia churches. I had to use the ‘find’ function to locate the bit I wanted.

  Also founded in 1933 were The Campus Lutheran House, located at 1550 Cherry Street, First Church of the Nazarene, located at 200 9th Street (relocated to 301 College Avenue in 1935), and The Northern Synod Headquarters Building at 4 Ciego Drive (sometimes known as the ‘EX’ building, due to an unusual logo or design over the transom).

  Northern Synod. The name and the time period were right, and the logo over the door seemed to match the one on Saberhagen’s grave. But 1933? There’s no way the building would still be standing. Ciego Drive might not even exist anymore.

  Then again, Columbia had dozens of buildings that dated back to the mid nineteenth century. Half the buildings on campus were probably built before 1900. But even if the Synod headquarters was still around, it’d probably been partitioned off into offices or student apartments in the past hundred years. Another dead end. And yet…

  L.J. walked in. He seemed surprised to see me. We quickly broke eye contact. He picked up his guitar and played a few chords. I typed gibberish into my computer. It was like we were two coworkers, the Monday after a drunken hookup.

  “Sherman?”

  I didn’t answer. He’d want to know who was chasing us the other day, and I couldn’t tell him.

  “Sherman?”

  I ignored him. Suddenly, a rough hand slammed my laptop closed. L.J. then shut the door with his elbow.

  I attempted to smile. “Would you believe me if I said you’re better off not knowing?”

  “A guy died. You know who it was. Tell me.” L.J.’s usual geniality was long gone.

  “Forget about it. It never happened.”

  “Bullshit. I’ll call the cops. I swear to God, I will.”

  Part of me wanted to grab my roommate by the collar, slam him into the wall and threaten to bust his face in if he didn’t shut up. At the same time I wanted to collapse sobbing on my bed, begging him to help me.

  “L.J., remember that boring guy who moved in with you last week? The guy who gave you the big lecture on responsibility?”

  He half-smiled. “Yeah.”

  “Well, let’s say this guy was a journalist. And he dug a little too deep and discovered a rather nasty secret about someone. Like maybe a prominent citizen had some rather unsavory connections?”

  L.J.’s eyes widened. “You mean with the Mafia?”

  “More or less. Remember when I got beat up at the pool hall?
That was a personal warning for me to back off.”

  “I don’t get it. So why is he still…oh, Jesus, you didn’t.”

  I managed to smile. “Yep. I got cocksure and kept researching. So he decided to shut me up permanently the other night. I’m sorry I got you involved there.”

  He rapidly shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. But you have to go to the police now. Those mobster guys don’t screw up more than once.”

  I fingered the business card that had come in the mail. “I talk, he goes after my father.”

  “Dear God!” L.J was up and pacing now. I wondered if talking to him had been a huge blunder. “Well, maybe you should just lay low and keep quiet. Hope he’ll back off.”

  “He won’t. He’s decided I know too much.”

  He wiped some sweat from his forehead. “Well, then do the opposite. Tell the world what you know! Blog it, post it on the net, write letters to the editor, tell everyone you see, everywhere. He won’t be able to touch you then, it’ll look too suspicious.”

  I remembered poor Denton, locked up in the loony bin because of what he knew. “It won’t work. This guy…he doesn’t scare.”

  L.J. sat down again. “Maybe you should leave town for a while. Spend some time in Mexico.”

  That had almost worked. “This guy’s everywhere. He’d find me. Maybe not for a while, but one day…” I mimicked a pistol at the side of my head.

  We sat silently for a while. It was good to finally talk about this with someone, even if L.J. didn’t know half the awful truth.

  “Here’s an idea, Sherman.” He continued to stare at the wall.

  “Yeah?”

  He pulled at his longish hair. “Okay. Now this guy who’s after you…what’s his name?”

  “Saberhagen…I mean…shit.” No wonder he wanted me dead, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

  “Right, well he sends a professional out to kill you.” He spoke the last two words as if he still couldn’t believe it had actually happened. “Only that guy ends up dead instead of you.”

  “So now he’s even angrier.”

  “Maybe. But now he’s down a man. Advantage: you. Plus the cops are involved, so he’ll have to think twice before trying something like that again.”