Back From The Dead

Chapter Six

The following night, Gordon entered the woods five hundred yards off Briar Road near Zuck’s Farm and, with the help of a flashlight, wove his way between pine and birch trees until he found a spot he liked.

He set the burlap bag down on the ground and found an old log to sit on. Leaving the flashlight on, he dug inside the bag for the things he’d brought with him.

The first item was a paperback copy of Back From the Dead. He’d lost the copy Count Gaines loaned him at Mt. Joy Cemetery and had to make an emergency trip to Aaron’s Used Bookstore on Broad Street after school to find a replacement. He set the book down on the log and pulled out four silver saucers and four black candles. The book said the candles had to be made from sheep’s fat and he’d gone to a Pagan Book and Gift Shop in Lancaster (might as well call themselves witches, Gordon had thought) to purchase these along with some other things, which he brought out: an ounce bag each of hemlock, belladonna, and witchgrass. He brought out the ceremonial dagger — seven inches of jagged steel — and a can of salt.

One of the bags contained an item he’d spent considerable time and energy last night obtaining, but he’d done it. Count Gaines never told him about this ingredient, and Gordon was of good mind to pound the little shit when he saw him at school next time. Gordon pulled the item out now and turned it over gingerly in his hands, his heart pounding.

It was a plastic baggie containing powdered human bones.

When Gordon read the passage that contained the preparation for the ritual yesterday during Study Hall, he’d been concerned. The spell specifically stated that one of the ingredients needed was the powdered bones of a human corpse. For several minutes he’d stewed in anger, almost prepared to leave study hall in a hunt for Count Gaines so he could kick the shit out of him, but then he started thinking about his predicament. The cemetery near Reamstown Road at that old Mennonite church was old, and several of the graves were interred above ground in large stone cairns. Gordon and Susan had walked through it one day on their way home from the Reamstown fair and Gordon thought it might be easy to push the lid of one of those cairns over, revealing the coffin inside.

With that in mind, he’d placed a call to David Bruce and explained his predicament and outlined his plan. David was willing to help. So late last night Gordon had snuck out his bedroom window and started his car, which was parked at the curb in front of the house, and drove to David’s. David had been waiting for him and they’d driven to the graveyard in silence. Once there they made their way onto the grounds, selected the first cairn they came across and went to work. Using a crowbar and brute strength, they managed to move the lid of the cairn enough so that Gordon could get to the coffin within. A couple of heavy strikes with the crowbar splintered the wood, but that wasn’t enough. “Shit, we need to break the fucking lock on this thing,” Gordon had muttered.

“We gotta get the lid completely off then,” David said.

They’d wound up pushing the heavy lid of the cairn completely off, giving them open access to the coffin. Two strikes with the crowbar and the old lock snapped, gaining them access to the thing that lay within.

Gordon thought he’d be sick, but he wasn’t. The body had withered to bones long ago, and what remained of its burial shroud had turned to brittle rags. Gordon took the skull, the femurs, a fibula, and several rib bones, stuffing them in the burlap bag he’d brought along. Then they’d gotten the hell out of there.

Only as they scrambled to get back into the car, David heard a sound. “What’s that?” he’d said. He’d turned a panicked gaze toward 272, which was five hundred yards away.

Gordon had flung the burlap bag into the vehicle and was so nervous and itching to get the hell out of there that he barely noticed the book fall out of the car’s backseat and onto the parking lot. All he saw was the dim glow of headlights down the road. “Shit,” he’d said. “Get in the car! C’mon!”

They’d gotten in the front seat and hunkered down. Gordon had peered through the window and watched as the headlights grew larger. The vehicle made a right turn and headed down another secondary road. Gordon sighed, feeling the tension ease. He started the engine, his eyes concentrating on the receding tail lights of the vehicle.

They’d been so rattled by the incident and in such a race to get the hell out of there that he didn’t realize the book had fallen out of his car. He didn’t realize this until the following morning when he went to school. He was lucky Aaron’s had a copy. Otherwise, he probably would have had to drive into Lancaster to try to scare one up.

Gordon sighed, sifting the powdered bones in the bag. Today after school, shortly after he returned home from the bookstore, he’d taken a pair of rib bones, a piece of the skull and a femur, and ground them to dust with repeated strikes of the hammer. It had taken a good twenty minutes to smash the bones into fine powdery bits. He’d stashed the remaining bones in a box under his bed. His parents never set foot in his bedroom anyway.

While obtaining the bones had been the most difficult, the last item was the one that filled him with trepidation this evening.

This other item was in a box and still alive. He left it in there as he went about making the preparations.

He poured the salt in a circle, being careful the lines were heavy enough to be seen. Then he drew a pentagram with the salt, again being careful the lines were well discernable. When he was finished he stepped carefully outside the pentagram and placed the saucers around strategic points, pausing every so often to consult the book. He placed the candles in the saucers, lit them, then took the book and the herbs and ventured to the center of the pentagram. He consulted the book, flipping through the pages and squinting in the darkness at the text. Then, following the book as best he could, he reached into each baggie, pinched a piece of herb or powdered bone between thumb and forefinger, and threw it at the four corners of the pentagram. “As above, so below,” he said. “From the four points of the earth, through the elements of space and time, I beseech thee! Awaken and open the gates! Listen, for I bring you sacrifice. With my left hand I bring it to you in sacrifice.”

He paused, checked his watch and frowned. The book said the spell had to be started precisely at midnight and it was two minutes before. Did it really make a difference? At least he was getting a head start. Besides, he had to get the box with the rabbit he’d brought along.

Stepping out of the pentagram briefly, Gordon plucked the cardboard box off the ground and stepped back into the circle. Using the blade of the ceremonial dagger, he cut the tape that bound the box shut and carefully opened the lid. He reached inside and grasped the rabbit by the scruff of the neck and, with one quick motion, lifted it and drew the blade of the dagger across its throat as it bleated once and kicked its legs frantically. Blood sprayed out into the pentagram. Gordon continued the spell, reciting the words he’d memorized this afternoon. “I bring you sacrifice with my left hand. I bring you fresh blood as sacrifice. Oh Damballah! Oh Erzuile! Hear my prayer! Oh Azathoth, the blind piper of a thousand names! Oh Hanbi, Father of He Who is Our Dark Demon Father Pazuzu, I call on you to grant me this dark boon! I give you the blood of the living, which I have spilt on this hallowed ground so that the powers you bestow will make one who’s dead alive again!”

The rabbit continued to kick until it suddenly slowed, then stopped. Gordon’s right hand and wrist were drenched with the rabbit’s blood. When the rabbit was dead, Gordon set the animal down in the pentagram. He dipped the forefinger of his left hand in the wound, grimacing as he did so, then stood and flicked the blood from his fingers at the black candles, sprinkling blood on the dancing flames. “Azathoth, Hanbi, Baal, Pazuzu, Damballah! Erzuile! Abaddon!” He repeated these names as he sprinkled the blood, watching as the flames flickered as the blood spilled on them. Actually, according to the book, you were supposed to say something else but it was in some other language and Gordon couldn’t very well hold the book and do all this at the same time. When he was finished, he picked up the book and flipped through to the page in question. He tried pronouncing the words as best as he could. “Aya absath ngya, wahlee obsoth, ngya, yian…wow!” What the hell did that mean, anyway? “Azathoth! Mgwai! Damballah! Damballah!”

The flames of the candles rose and flickered. The wind picked up slightly, blowing leaves. Gordon shivered.

The crickets, which had been chirping and seemed almost like background music to Gordon, continued but there was a funny sound in their cadence. It was almost as if the rhythm of their chirping had been knocked off track just slightly and then resumed again. It was slight, and Gordon thought he was imagining it when it happened. He stopped the ritual, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

The chirping of the crickets continued. Gordon listened, his blood running cold. Something about them sounds different now, it’s almost like they’re in a different key, a different cadence or something and I know I heard that, I know I heard them getting knocked off their rhythm, this is so fucking weird–

Overhead, in a tree, an owl hooted.

Gordon started, heart racing, his skin breaking out in gooseflesh. This was just getting too damn creepy.

Gordon hurriedly finished the ritual, repeating the words and phrases from the book as best he could. He threw another sprinkling of the herbs and bone over the five corners of the pentagram, closing the ritual, and by the time he was finished he was feeling like a fool for letting it all get to him. And besides…what the hell was he doing? Did he really believe in the shit Count Gaines believed in? Did he really think this ritual was going to make the ground cursed? That if he buried something dead here the curse would bring it back to life?

Now that the ritual was over it was time to find out.

Gordon knelt down and dug a hole with his hands, cursing himself for not bringing a small shovel along. He dug into the moist soil, heaving clumps of dirt in a pile on his left side, and when he’d gone down a foot or so he picked up the dead rabbit and placed him inside. He shoved the dirt back over it with his hands, tamping it down flat. Then he stood up, blew out the candles, tossed everything in the burlap bag, then kicked at the salt-drawn pentagram, scattering it. As he worked he listened to the crickets, pretty sure now that he’d let his imagination get the best of him. The rhythm of their chirping was normal; it hadn’t changed at all. He’d just imagined the whole episode.

When he was finished he hurried through the woods to his car, forcing himself to take it slow and not trip over any vines or bushes.

Once in his car he threw the burlap bag on the front passenger seat, started the car, and drove away.

Naomi Gaines watched her son as they ate supper, wondering what was going on in his world.

The past few days had seen a remarkable change in Tim’s demeanor. No longer sulking, no longer shy and reserved, Tim seemed happy and talkative now. Ever since that day five years ago when Scott Bradfield and those other boys had done that horrible thing to him, Tim had been through hell. It didn’t help that so many people in the community, with the exception of school administrators and the local police, weren’t very supportive. Naomi had warned Jeff early on that if they moved back to her hometown they had to be prepared for the narrow-minded attitudes of the local population. Jeff hadn’t taken her seriously enough, though. His eyes were opened not just by what happened to their son, but when Tim was in seventh and eighth grade at Spring Valley Middle School.

“How’re things going, son?” Naomi asked casually.

“Great,” Tim said. He’d already wolfed down his steak. Jeff was wiping his mouth with a napkin, listening as Tim related how his day went. “George and I hung out here after school.”

“He seems like a neat guy,” Naomi said. She and Jeff had met George and Al when they came by the other Saturday to pick Tim up to go to the movies. While cautiously optimistic, they’d come away feeling good about meeting both boys. What little she knew about George, she figured he was too new to the area to be exposed to Tim’s history and the tainted reputation he had with the student body of Spring Valley High. Still, Tim wasn’t a total outcast at school. There was that computer whiz he hung out with and that girl, some art student. Chelsea. They were kids like Tim; kids who had been cast out of all the social cliques, who were forced to band together lest they be picked on and harassed by the social elite of the student body.

“Yeah, George is cool,” Tim continued. “He and Al are into the same books and movies as I am. It’s really neat to finally meet guys who aren’t like, all wigged out over science fiction and horror movies, you know?”

Naomi smiled. “I know, honey. Trust me, I kinda went through something similar when I was your age.”

“Yeah, you told me.” Tim was looking at her and Jeff. “And Matt and Chelsea are cool too. I like them, but they aren’t into the same kind of books and movies as I am nearly as much as George and Al.” He turned to Jeff. “So, Dad, how different was it to go to a big city school?”

Jeff shrugged. He’d grown up in Baltimore and living in Spring Valley was his first experience living in the country, in a small town. “Hard to say,” he said. “It’s been over twenty years since I’ve been in high school and we had our share of cliques back then, too.” He traded a glance with Naomi. “But even I can tell things are different here. I work right off Main Street, you know, and most of the people I work with live in town. I’m kinda like you in a way, Tim, only in a corporate environment. The people I work with all share the same background and interests and I…well, I don’t. You’ve probably heard me tell you and your mom that I’m the only person at my office that reads during their lunch break, right?”

Tim nodded, chuckling. Naomi couldn’t help but shake her head. Jeff had mentioned this before. While Jeff wasn’t an unabashed horror fan like their son, he read the occasional Stephen King, sometimes Peter Straub. One day Jeff had tried a Richard Laymon novel at Tim’s urging. Jeff had liked it, but commented on the remarks his coworkers had for his choice of reading material. Only a sick mind would find this kind of stuff entertaining, one woman told him that day after getting a glimpse of the cover of the book while in the company break room. Jeff had commented on the incident that evening over dinner. Screw ‘em if they don’t like it, he’d said.

“I think it’s no secret that my closest friends, aside from you and your mom, are the ones I made in high school and college. I have a feeling George and Al are going to be very good friends for you, Tim. You share the same interests and, from the way it sounds, they respect you. I’m certain they’ve had to have heard some of the nasty rumors about you from other kids.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Well, Al said that Jennifer Walbert told him not to hang around with me because I sold my soul to the devil and belonged to a coven.”

At the mention of this, Naomi retorted in anger. “That little bitch has been a thorn in your side since seventh grade. When the hell is she going to grow up?”

Tim grinned. “Al told her he thought that was cool. He said he couldn’t wait to join the coven, and she looked at him like he was a freak and walked away. I don’t think that was the reaction she was expecting.”

Jeff chewed his food. “Well, that tells me Al doesn’t give a damn what the other kids say about you, and that’s good.”

“Yeah, when Al told me about it, he was laughing,” Tim said, relating the incident in surprisingly good humor. In days past he would have either been dismissive or depressed about it. “He was like, ‘damn, she’s got to be the dumbest chick I’ve ever met.’”

“Unfortunately, she’s probably going to grow up to assume some position of influence or authority,” Naomi said. She was finished with her meal and leaned back from the table. “And she’s going to torment some other hapless soul.”

“It really is so like The Stepford Wives living here,” Tim said.

“You can say that again,” Jeff muttered.

Naomi couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret when she talked with Tim about his problems or saw his reactions to the vicious teasing he received. She’d hoped the good of living in a small town would outweigh the negative; that hadn’t happened for Tim. She remembered hating Spring Valley High. She liked the town — the architecture, its history, the peaceful setting of the surrounding countryside. But the people? They were all narrow-minded, self-righteous religious zealots. Okay, maybe not all of them, but more than she could count. When Naomi was in high school she’d gone through her own identity crisis stage. Her parents had been strict on appearance, stressing that how you presented yourself through dress, grooming, hair and makeup, formed an impression on other people. Things like your personality, whether you were a pleasant person, easy going, friendly, or kind, did not matter.

So when Naomi had fallen for a boy named Chuck Gabriel, a sullen olive-skinned boy who wore his straight black hair below his shoulders, her parents had disapproved of the relationship vehemently. They’d been trying — hell, pushing her — to date Greg Argall, a boy who lived down the street who’d grown into a Ken-doll caricature of perfect hair, perfect teeth, six-pack abs, and a predictable future of an MBA position at some faceless corporation. If Greg hadn’t been a belligerent asshole, she might have been mildly attracted to him. The fact that she could engage in more stimulating conversation with a pile of mulch was another souring point for Naomi. Chuck, on the other hand, was kind, considerate, polite, and genuinely cared for her and she could talk to him for hours about everything. He wasn’t cruel, did not possess a sense of humor from the gutter like Greg, and he was smart — a straight A student. Despite her pointing this out to her parents, they still didn’t approve of him. Her relationship with Chuck was the first time Naomi ever lied to her parents, and the sneaking around to see him eventually took its toll on the relationship.

Naomi offered Tim a smile. “The difference between you and me is that my parents didn’t take the time to understand me, nor understand what it was like to be a teenager when I became of age. They saw it from their own perspective, which was the nineteen fifties. They didn’t relate to the early eighties trends or fashions at all. Your father and I…I’d like to think we’re trying a lot harder than my parents ever did.”

Tim grinned. “You guys are the best. I mean…I hear some of the kids in my class talk about their parents and they think Linkin Park is a place!”

They all laughed at this.

Jeff was finished with his meal. He stood up and began clearing the table. “Son, your mother and I are happy with the way things are going for you lately. We really are. George and Al seem like great guys, and I think some of the kids that used to be so much trouble for you are eventually going to come around and grow up. If they haven’t by now, they probably will by the time you graduate.”

Tim got up to help his father. “Actually that might have already started to happen. Gordon Smith actually asked if he could borrow a book from me!”

Naomi raised an eyebrow at this. While Gordon wasn’t one of the kids who’d set upon Tim that dark day, he’d participated in too many incidents of harassment against her son that she felt instantly wary and suspicious. “Why did he want to borrow a book from you?”

Tim shrugged. “Beats me. But he seemed really interested in it.” Tim told them about his initial contact with Gordon last week, and the conversations and encounters that led to Gordon’s growing interest in Back From the Dead. “Maybe he’s finally seeing reading as something that can be fun. You know?”

Naomi nodded. Tim inherited his love of books from her and Jeff, and had developed his unique tastes on his own. She surely hadn’t been into horror fiction as a child the way her son was, although it was a genre she dipped into from time to time and enjoyed occasionally. But if it got kids into reading that was half the battle. She’d been pleased when Tim went from Goosebumps to Stephen King and finally to Faulkner, Dickens, and Capote on his own, at no urging from his high school curriculum. “Maybe you’re right,” she said.

And as the three of them bustled about the kitchen clearing the table, rinsing the dishes, placing them in the dishwasher and doing the evening chores, Naomi felt the first ray of hope that perhaps Jeff was right. Their son was going to turn seventeen this summer. He was on the road to adulthood — manhood. He was a mature kid for his age, and she had no doubt that he had a bright future ahead of him. She truly hoped that Al and George were opening new doors for him, that things would improve on a social level for her son in the coming months as he gradually ascended to his senior year.