Back From The Dead

Chapter Twenty

Not far away from where Gordon Smith had performed his impromptu spell, something stirred beneath the ground.

The dark forces that had been summoned had been growing steadily stronger all night. They’d harnessed the energy that had been bestowed on them, drawing more from the tear in the veil that had been opened. Seeking living organisms, the dark force had possessed all the available life forms in the surrounding area and duplicated itself by infecting more.

And it was working.

From the dead mole, to the squirrel, to the possum, it had moved up along the chain until it duplicated itself on to a human being. The human had been lounging at the very edge of Zuck’s Woods, looking up at the night sky when the force had driven the possum to transfer itself. The force no longer needed the dead to occupy. It was now strong enough to transfer itself on to living beings. First, though, the living being had to be killed.

An insatiable need to duplicate itself as rapidly as possible was what had driven the force to take down the human. Relying on the remnants of the possum’s instincts had driven it through the forest where it infected other animals. Once it infected the human, it had then ventured into the house, zeroing in on the warm body of a smaller human it sensed cowering behind a closed door. It didn’t take much for the now infected human to make a transfer on to one of its own.

And once the humans in the house were infected, they ventured out into the night. The possum, still powered by the force, did the same.

And the force continued to replicate itself. One life form at a time.

It also learned.

Once in possession of the humans, it realized it had to hold back a little. Retreat into the shadows of the woods, observe the other humans who remained in their homes. The element of surprise had to be used.

And with daylight, it came.

Jennifer Egan was already in her tights and tank-top and beginning the morning run on her treadmill when a shadow fell across the sliding door of her house.

She looked up and saw that it was Mike Lombardo, the kid from up the street.

Jennifer pressed the slow-down button on the treadmill. “Mike?”

Mike Lombardo slapped his hand on the glass sliding door. It wasn’t until Jennifer approached the door to see what was going on — she couldn’t really get a good look at him due to the lights in the exercise room — that she noticed he was injured badly. His chest was covered with blood, his left cheek bearing a horrible gash. “Oh God, Mike, get in here quick, I’ll call 911!” She opened the door and reached out to pull Mike inside, but he grabbed her. Jennifer barely had a chance to scream as he launched himself at her, ripping her throat out with two savage bites that brought her down in a rain of blood.

Two doors down, John Lombardo entered the back door of the Cyrus family home and managed to get halfway up the stairs before being confronted by Henry Cyrus. Henry stood at the top of the stairs, bearing a black handgun. Henry pointed the gun at John. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

John ignored the warning. Henry fired three shots, striking him in the shoulder and chest. John kept coming and was on Henry quickly in a flash of gunfire and blood.

The gunfire woke up Henry’s common-law wife, Maggie, and her two kids. The transfer was handled so quickly, though, that Henry was able to quickly subdue Maggie and make the transfer to her by his ownself. John took care of the two kids.

The gunshots woke up Nancy Armstrong, who lived in the home behind the Cyrus family. Nancy sat up in bed, the residue of her lover’s touch still on her skin and inside her. Her lover, Carl Boyd, had left the house a few hours ago and she’d been dozing, reliving their lovemaking in her dreams when the gunshots shattered them. Nancy sat up in bed, startled as three more gunshots rang out in quick succession, then reached for the phone on her nightstand. She picked it up, called 911, waited.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My name is Nancy Armstrong and I live at 3587 Oak Street in Spring Valley. I just heard gunshots coming from the house behind me.”

“How many gunshots did you hear Ms. Armstrong?”

“Six.”

“Are you sure they were gunshots?”

“Yes, I’m sure!” Nancy knew the sound of a gunshot. She’d accompanied her husband to firing ranges enough times to distinguish between a gunshot and a firecracker. Her husband, Paul, was out of town on business. He was out of town on business a lot. Every week, in fact. The thought that Paul suspected she’d taken on a lover was in the back of her mind constantly, and the first thing she’d thought of when she heard the shots was that, somehow, it was Paul gunning down Carl in cold blood outside the house. The gunshots had come from the house behind them, though, not from out front.

She was looking out the curtained window, trying to see if there was movement in the house behind her, when she heard what sounded like a faint scream that quickly cut off. “I just heard a scream!”

“Who lives in the house behind you, ma’am?”

“The Cyrus family.”

“We’re sending a car to your house and to 4321 Cedar Drive, ma’am.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you want me to — ” But Nancy never heard the rest of the dispatcher’s question. She’d hung up the phone.

She’d been so engrossed by what was happening at the house behind hers that she never noticed the presence of somebody in her bedroom.

She never got to see the face of the person who killed her. Never got to see the ravaged face of Mary Lombardo as the teenager’s teeth sank into her soft throat and transferred the presence to her body.

In time, shortly before the sound of police sirens could be heard in the quiet, rural cul-de-sac, the reanimated bodies left their homes and darted quickly into the woods while the dark force continued to reach ever onward and outward, awakening the dead and the living alike.

When Officer Frank Clapton arrived at 4321 Cedar Drive, he had a feeling something wasn’t quite right.

He got out of his patrol car, mentally checking that he had his baton and side-arm, and walked to the front door. A second squad car had been dispatched to the home of Henry and Ellen Cyrus, one street over. Clapton knocked on the front door of 4321 Cedar Drive and waited.

He heard no sound from within. Something was not quite right…

Clapton knocked on the door again, harder. “Spring Valley Police, Ms. Armstrong. You called?”

There was no answer. Only a slight breeze in the air, the chirruping of the crickets in the woods.

Clapton tried the door. It was locked.

Speaking into his shoulder-mounted radio, he said, “I’m getting no answer from Ms. Armstrong. I’m going around the back to check things out.”

A squawk of static, and then Officer Walsh, who’d been dispatched to the call from the next block, responded. “That’s affirmative. We’re not getting an answer at the Cyrus residence either.”

Clapton stepped off the porch and began making his way to the side of the Armstrong residence when there was another sound over the radio. Walsh came back on, his voice high and excited. “Dispatch, this is Officer Walsh reporting from the Cyrus residence. Request additional backup. I repeat, request additional backup units now!”

Clapton’s pulse spiked at the sound of Walsh’s voice. The worst thing for any officer was to hear the sound of a fellow officer in fear of his or her life. Officer Walsh sounded not just afraid, he sounded panicked.

He sprinted around the corner of the house, gun drawn, and activated his shoulder-mounted radio. “Officer Walsh, this is Clapton. I’m approaching the Cyrus residence from the direction of the Armstrong house on the north side.”

A female dispatcher called for more backup. “Officers request assistance at 4321 Cedar Drive and 3587 Oak Street. Code 412.”

And as Officer Clapton made his way around the side of the Cyrus house and saw what Officer Walsh was looking at, he felt another spike of panic. Officer Walsh was standing with his back against the wall of the house, his eyes wide with fright. Officer Clapton saw the large puddle of blood on the ground, the tattered flesh that lay in a pile near the wall, and then the panic began as things began to rapidly unravel.

Tim Gaines must have been in a very deep sleep because the next thing he remembered after lying on his cot in the cell, he was being shaken awake.

Tim blinked and sat up quickly, growing confused when he saw who it was that had woken him up.

Detective Andrews and Officer Frank Clapton stood before him. Both of them looked worried. Clapton looked almost fearful. He was still wearing his uniform from the night before. Tim rubbed his eyes and tried to straighten up. “What’s up?”

“We don’t have a lot of time, but you’ve got to come clean with us,” Officer Clapton said.

At the sound of his voice Tim was instantly awake and aware. “What are you talking about?”

“Tell me the truth,” Officer Clapton began. “What were you and Gordon really doing when I pulled you over last night?”

“I told you, we were talking.” The explanation came out so quickly that Tim realized the officer was probably looking for another answer. He looked at the cop and the detective as they stood in front of him and the expressions in their faces told him all he needed to know.

Something happened.

Tim felt all the blood drain from his face.

“Can the bullshit, Gaines,” Detective Andrews said. Gone was the calm, soothing voice and demeanor from last night when he was booked. Now Andrews sounded not only mad, but worried. “We know you have information regarding the disappearance of John Elfman.”

“And I know you’re not being truthful with me,” Officer Clapton said. “I can read it in your face. You just went dead pale.”

“No I didn’t,” Tim said, instantly feeling stupid for the denial.

“I can’t go into details,” Officer Clapton said. “But I have at least one dead man and over a dozen people missing from a neighborhood near Zuck’s Woods. They’re believed to be seriously injured or dead. The Pennsylvania State Police have been here since five o’clock assisting us and by nine we’re going to have a hell of a mess on our hands if you don’t tell us everything you know.”

“What’s happening?” Tim asked, his voice shaky.

Clapton and Detective Andrews glanced at each other. When Clapton spoke he did it with careful reserve. “We’ve found John.”

Tim’s throat was dry. “Is he dead?”

“He is now,” Clapton said.

Tim didn’t know how to respond to that. “What do you mean?”

Detective Andrew spoke to Clapton. “What exactly has this kid been accused of?”

Officer Clapton held up a hand to Andrew. He was looking directly at Tim.

From outside the cell, Tim could make out the faint sound of somebody crying.

Tim was worried. He couldn’t say anything without knowing the full extent of the events that had transpired. Had Gordon said anything? Were Gordon and his friends now accusing Tim of murdering John?

“I’m waiting, Tim,” Officer Clapton said. “I’ve got a dozen people missing and it looks like somebody is either on a killing spree or — ”

“What are you talking about?” Tim felt the fear spike through his system, overwhelming him now.

“We’re not going to get shit out of this kid,” Detective Andrews said.

“You said John was dead,” Tim said, ignoring Andrews’ outburst. “What’s going on?”

“You tell us!” Officer Clapton said. Tim could tell the officer was struggling to contain his emotions, that he was trying to retain a professional edge in the face of chaos. “I’ve got a dozen people missing from their homes in a neighborhood near Zuck’s woods, and I’ve got the remains of John Elfman lying dead in the city morgue, cut up into little pieces. Looks like he was chewed up by some kind of animal or something.”

“But that’s not the best part,” Detective Andrews said. He had his hands on his hips. He regarded Tim with a menacing glare. “The best part has to do with what Officer Clapton told me about the trouble you’ve faced the last few years. The allegations of devil-worship and the like. Especially the latest allegations of grave-robbing. Want to know why?”

Tim could only shake his head slowly.

“Because what we’ve been witnessing defies all logic and flies in the face of rationality,” Detective Andrews continued. “Now you either tell us what you know or so help me, I’ll do all within my power to make sure you’re fingered for much of the chaos that’s been exploding in Spring Valley since — ”

“Enough!” Officer Clapton held up a hand to silence the detective. Looking directly at Tim, he said, “John wasn’t entirely dead when Officer Walsh and I found him. Pieces of him were strewn over a one block area. The parts I saw were crawling toward a house on Oak Street near Zuck’s Woods.”

“Wh-what?” Did Officer Clapton say parts of John were crawling?

“I didn’t stutter,” Officer Clapton said. “They were crawling. Like they were still alive.”

“And on top of that, we have a dozen people missing in that neighborhood, and whoever took them wasn’t very nice about it,” Detective Andrews said. “There was blood in all the houses we entered. These people didn’t go quietly.”

Officer Clapton’s gaze was imploring him. Please tell me everything you know.

And as much as Tim wanted to, as much as he wanted to tell them everything, something made him hold back. The fear of being blamed for everything that was going on.

Tim took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what I know, but first I need to talk to my lawyer.”

“Goddammit, we don’t have time for this!” Detective Andrews sputtered.

“My lawyer,” Tim said, looking at the detective with a steely gaze. A sudden burst of confidence thrummed through him, the knowledge that whatever was happening wasn’t his fault the overriding influence behind it. “Now!”

And with that, Officer Clapton and Detective Andrews left Tim’s cell to summon Doug Fenner, the lawyer George Ulrich’s dad hired for them.

Billy Thompson and Candace Drombowsky’s bodies had lain undiscovered in the thick forest of Zuck’s Woods for almost forty years.

Yet their spirits had always remained.

Trapped by something that held them to the spot, they’d waited for the right moment to break free when they could venture forth and seek vengeance on the people that murdered them.

Thanks to the malevolent force Gordon Smith unwittingly conjured, they now had their chance.

Billy and Candace’s essence directed the force into the ground where their bodies lay, and that was all that was required to ignite the spark they’d been waiting for in order to depart this place.

The force could have done that itself, but only to a limited degree. It really had no overwhelming power over remains that had been reduced to bones, but because of the ethereal spirits of Billy and Candace had remained in the area, it had sufficient power to fuel them, to give them enough strength to take control and use their brittle remains to dig their way out of their grave.

It took most of the night. By the time they reached topsoil the sun was up, the birds were chirping and darting among the tall grass, snatching insects. From two miles away at a distant farm, a cock crowed. Five hundred yards down, water burbled in a stream. Candace and Billy did not hear any of this, nor did they need to as they dragged their dessicated bones out of the soil. The earth had preserved some of the tendons that glued their limbs together, as well as their surface skin, giving their corpses a dried, mummified appearance. The tattered remnants of the clothing they’d been buried in crumbled into dust around their feet as they turned their attention to the north.

The presence that directed their movements was the main force that drove them forward, picking their way through the forest. But within the memory of their essence were those that had done them harm. It burned deep in their memories, giving the dark spirit a focus. A sense of direction on where to spread itself. It pushed its two new vessels forward, working at what it was called forth to do.

The spirits of Billy and Candace cared not one whit about what the dark force wanted. They had their own agendas.

Revenge.

And like a beacon in the night, Billy Thompson and Candace Drombowsky shambled their way through the woods, heading toward the Bradfield estate as if they’d known it was there all along.