Ghoul

Chapter Nine

When they got up for breakfast the next morning, they were surprised to learn that Timmy's father hadn' t yet left for work. His truck was still in the driveway, and they heard him talking to Timmy 's mother in hushed, serious tones. Timmy' s first thought was that someone else in their family had died, maybe one of his aunts or uncles. His second thought was that maybe his father was sick. If that were so, it would have to be something very serious. Randy Graco had gone to work with the flu and a high fever before. He 'd even gone in every day when he broke his leg while out deer hunting four years ago. Things like illness didn' t stop him when it came to putting food on the table.

"Wonder what's happening?" Timmy said.

Doug didn't respond. He' d woken taciturn and withdrawn, and Timmy wondered if perhaps he was regretting telling the truth about what was happening between him and his mother.

"You okay, Doug?"

"Didn't sleep too good."

"Yeah, me either." Timmy pulled a clean pair of socks from his top dresser drawer.

"Listen, about last night"

"Let's not talk about it right now."

After getting dressed, the boys walked into the living room, and immediately, Timmy noticed the grim expression on both his parent' s faces. His father looked shocked, and his mother was pale. At first he was afraid they 'd overheard Doug' s latenight confession, but then he realized that they were both staring at the television, which was tuned to the local news. They hadn 't even looked up to acknowledge the boys' presence.

"What's going on?" Timmy asked. "What's wrong?" Randy looked up from the newscast and blinked in surprise. "Hey guys. Good morning."

"Don't you have to work today, Dad?"

"I'm going in late. Wanted to talk to you guys first."

"Did you boys sleep okay?" Elizabeth sipped from a coffee mug. "Or did the storm wake you up last night?"

"We heard it," Timmy said. "Sounded pretty bad. Is that what's on the news?"

"No," she said quickly, glancing at her husband. "It's just…" She shook her head and took another sip of coffee.

"Just what?"

"Maybe you two better sit down," Randy said, waving his hand at the couch. Shit, Timmy thought. They did overhear us last night.

Doug shuffled his feet. "Um, are we in trouble, Mr. Graco?"

"No, Doug. Not at all." He gave a short, uncomfortable laugh. "But we do need to talk."

Timmy and Doug took seats on opposite ends of the couch. Timmy glanced at the television.

A reporter was standing alongside a road. There were woods behind him, and a car parked along the side next to the trees. The entire area had been roped off with yellow police tape. Timmy frowned.

"What's going on, Dad?"

Randy stood up and turned off the television. Then he turned to his wife. "Hon, can you get me some more coffee?"

"Sure." Elizabeth got his mug and disappeared into the kitchen. Randy leaned forward in his chair, folded his hands together, and stared at them both without speaking. He seemed to be considering something. Timmy and Doug both twitched nervously. Randy opened his mouth to speak, but the phone rang, interrupting him. In the kitchen, Timmy heard his mother answer it.

"Hello?… Oh, hi Brenda Yes, Randy and I were just watching it on the news… Terrible." Randy cleared his throat. Timmy and Doug turned their attention back to him.

"Boys," he said, "I don't know how to say this, so I'm just going to say it. I know you' ve had some trouble in the past with Ronny Nace and Jason Glatfelter and Steve Laughman. I know they 're not exactly friends of yours, butwell, there's been some bad news." Timmy twitched, wondering if his parents had found out about Ronny's stolen bike, and what they'd done with it.

Doug looked relieved. "Are they finally in jail for something?"

"No. They're missing."

In the kitchen, Elizabeth told Brenda goodbye and then hung up the phone.

"Missing?" Timmy glanced at the blank television screen. "Like they ran away?" His father shook his head. "I guess it's a possibility, but the police don' t seem to think so. Their parents reported them missing this morning. Another woman is missing, too. An adult. Deb Lentz. They found her car abandoned out near Porter 's Sawmill. And there's even speculation that maybe Karen Moore and her boyfriend didn't run off, either."

"A serial killer?"

"I don't know, Timmy." Randy Graco scowled. "That's a little extreme, don't you think?

Ask me, you've been reading too many comic books."

"But it could be."

"Yeah, sure it could. I guess. But they don't know that yet. All they know is that there are a lot of people missing all of the sudden. That doesn't mean it' s a serial killer. Where do you get this stuff? I wasn 't thinking about serial killers and monsters when I was twelve. I was busy playing football."

That's because you didn't get clobbered every time you played, Timmy thought to himself.

And you didn' t live next door to a monster or down the road from one, either. The bad people aren 't just in my comics. They're in the real world, too. Elizabeth returned with two fresh mugs of coffee for Randy and herself. Then she sat back down in the rocking chair.

"That was Brenda," she told her husband. "She and Larry are going to do the same thing with their kids."

Nodding, Randy sipped coffee.

"Do what with us?" Timmy didn't like the sound of thiswhatever it was.

"Well," his mother said, picking up where Randy had left off, "the reason your father stayed home this morning was because we wanted to talk to you about this. We' ve discussed it, and came to a decision. Your father and I think it might be best if you stick close to home for the next few days. You too, Doug."

"But it's summer," Timmy said. "We've got stuff to do. Important stuff. We're not babies. We can watch out for ourselves."

"Even still," Elizabeth insisted, "you're not to go anywhere by yourself from now onuntil the police find out what' s happened. No going off to the woods or the dump or the pond, and no riding down to the newsstand, either."

"But I've got to go to the newsstand every Wednesday, or I'll miss the new comics."

"You've got enough comics," Randy said. "Won't hurt you to miss a few. You should save your money, anyway. In four more years you' re going to want a car and " Timmy cut him off. "If I miss the new issues, then I'll have gaps in my collection, and won't find out what happens next."

"I'm not going to argue with you, Timmy. We've all been under a strain lately sincewell, since Grandpa's death, and I've tried to take it easy on you. But don' t fight me on this."

"It isn't fair." Timmy crossed his arms over his chest and sank back into the cushions.

"Why should we be punished just because some other people are missing?"

"You're not being punished," Elizabeth said. "We're just worried about your safety, is all. We're worried, about youboth of you. I bet Doug' s mother will say the same thing. Try to see it our way. It 's for your own good."

Timmy stifled a laugh. There was his old friend, his invisible accomplice, U'rown Goode, making another appearance.

"I've got to ride my bike past Bowman's Woods to get here," Doug said. "What should I do?"

"Well," ElizaBeth said, "for the time being, maybe your mom can drive you over here when you want to visit?"

"I don't think so, Mrs. Graco. My mom doesn't leave the house much."

"Oh. Well, maybe Timmy's father can pick you up and take you back."

"Wait a second," Randy said. "I've got to work."

"Well then, you can make special trips when you're home." Randy started to protest, but Timmy cut him off again.

"This sucks."

"Language," his mother warned.

"Well," Timmy said, "it does suck. Our whole summer is ruined because of Ronny, Jason, and Steve."

"Timothy Edward Graco!" Elizabeth's voice boomed across the living room. "Those boys are missing, and Lord only knows what' s happened to them. You should try to be a little more understanding and sympathetic.

We raised you better than that."

"Sorry," he said, feeling anything but.

"You should be."

He forged ahead. "Well, what about Barry? Can we still hang out at his house? He's right over the hill, and we only have to go through our backyard to get there."

"You can still play with Barry," Randy said. "But no further until we say otherwise. I mean it."

"And we can help him work in the cemetery?"

Randy sighed. "Yes, as long as you're not by yourself. But no further. Understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Doug? How about you?"

"Yes, Mr. Graco. You don't have to worry about me. If some sick perv tries to snatch me, I'll kick him in the balls and run!"

Elizabeth gasped. Randy struggled to suppress his laughter. A moment later, all four of them started laughing. Privately, Timmy wondered why he got hollered at for saying

"sucks" but Doug could get away with "balls." But he didn 't ask. It was good to hear Doug laughing, especially after last night.

"What do you boys want for breakfast," Elizabeth asked when she'd regained her composure.

"There's Count Chocula or Trix, or oatmeal."

Both boys made a face at the mention of oatmeal.

"Or, I guess I could make pancakes."

"Pancakes," Doug said. "Yes, please. That would be great. Can you put blueberries in them, too?"

She smiled. "I think we can do that. It just so happens I bought some at the store this week."

"Awesome."

Timmy raised his hand without much enthusiasm. "Me too, I guess. With bacon."

"That makes three of us," Randy said. "With eggs." While she cooked, Timmy and Doug watched The Transformers while Randy got ready for work. They ate, and Timmy listened to his parents talk without really hearing them, and his mother ' s blueberry pancakes, usually his favorite, had no taste. The new set of rules and boundaries really chafed at him. Sure, unbeknownst to his parents, they still had the Dugout to play in, but that somehow wasn ' t enough. The most desirable horizons were the ones you were forbidden to reach, and the thrill of exploration was what lay beyond those known borders. He thought about Doug ' s map, useless for all intents and purposes now. The blank space all around the edges would stay blank now. Doug chatted with Randy and Elizabeth, and ate three helpings of pancakes. Timmy sulked. He tried very hard to ignore the fact that his best friend' s mom was having sex with him, and that people were missing, probably abducted by some serial killer, and that his summer vacation was not turning out to be a vacation at all, but a prison sentence. It was like one of the storm clouds from the previous night had settled over him, dark and foreboding.

It felt like he was in a tunnel and the walls were closing in. He shivered.

After breakfast, Randy left for work and the boys went outside to play. They grew bored after an hour and decided to go to Barry's house and see what he was doingafter assuring Elizabeth that they ' d stray no farther and come straight home when they were done. They left their bikes behind, and doing so filled them both with sadness. What good was a BMX

with mag wheels and thick tires and racing stripes if you couldn ' t ride it anywhere and show it off? It was like Batman without a Batmobile or Han Solo without a Millennium Falcon.

As they trudged through the backyard and up the hill toward Barry' s, Timmy picked up a stick, left over from the storm, and in a fit of anger snapped it in half and tossed the pieces aside.

"So much for going tubing. This bites. This whole summer just keeps getting worse and worse."

"Could be much worse," Doug said. He was still wearing Randy's old shirt, and had put on his jeans from the day before, along with a pair of Timmy's socks.

"How could it be any worse?"

"The police could be trying to find out who beat Catcher, instead."

"True. I guess they've got more important things to worry about now."

"Or it could be us that was missing."

"Yeah…"

"I just hope Ronny and those guys are okay," Doug said. "I'm a little worried about what could have happened to them."

Timmy stopped walking. "Are you crazy?"

"What? I'm concerned, is all."

"Doug, how can you say that? Are you forgetting about everything they' ve done to you?

The pink bellies and the wedgies and swirlies? How they made you wear girl 's underwear on your head that time on the school bus? Or how Ronny used to squeeze your… well, your tits, until you cried?"

"I don't have tits," Doug said. "And I cried because it hurt. And no, I haven't forgotten about any of those things. How could I?"

"Exactly. So why worry about them?"

"I don't know. I just do."

"Those guys are jerks. They picked on you constantly."

"Yeah, they're jerks, but that doesn't mean I want some crazy guy to kidnap them and do stuff to them. That's wrong, man. Nobody deserves that."

They started walking again. The wet grass soaked through their sneakers. They passed by Randy Graco' s grapevines, which had been flattened by the storm. To their right, at the top of the hill, the Wahl 's cherry tree was spilt in half, the unfortunate victim of a lightning strike.

"I just hope they come home safe." Doug stepped over the drooping vines. "That's all I'm saying."

"They deserve whatever happens to them," Timmy said. "Serves them right. I don't care."

"Yes you do," Doug said. "You're just pissed off right now."

"So? I'm serious. Why should I care what happens to those assholes?"

"You cared about Catcher when Barry started beating on him, and he was just as mean to us as Ronny and those guys were."

"Catcher didn't know any better. He's just a dog, and he was just doing what all Dobermans do. They're attack dogs. It's instinct."

"Not necessarily. The guy that lives next door to me used to have a Doberman, and it was nice, because he'd trained it to be nice. Catcher was mean because Mr. Sawyer didn' t teach him any different."

"So Ronny, Jason, and Steve's parents taught them to be assholes?"

"Maybe." Doug paused, choosing his words carefully. "Look, with everything I told you last night, I know I' ve got problems. But when Barry started kicking Catcher the other day, who did he remind you of?"

He shrugged, and then mumbled, "His father." Timmy wondered how his friend could be so nice, how he could keep such a positive attitude with all that had happened to him. But even so, Doug was right. He was about to admit that he 'd been thinking the same thing, that maybe grownups were the real monsters, when they reached Barry' s house. Timmy decided to wait until later.

They slowly approached the front door. The window shades were still closed, and the house looked dark.

"Go ahead," Doug whispered. "Knock."

"You knock. It's your turn. I knocked last time." Doug rapped on the door twice. They heard shuffling sounds inside. Then the door opened, the rusty hinges squeaking. Mrs. Smeltzer peered out at them through one good eye. The other one was swollen shut and looked black and purple. Timmy and Doug gasped in surprise, but she just smiled.

"Hi, boys."

Timmy thought she sounded sadand maybe a little relieved as well.

"Um, hi Mrs. Smeltzer. Is Barry home?"

She nodded toward the cemetery. When she tilted her head, Timmy noticed that another pair of new earrings sparkled in her ears.

"He's out helping his dad. You might not want to go over there this morning, though."

"Why not?" Timmy stared at her black eye.

"Well, Mr. Smeltzer didn't get much sleep last night. He was out late. He's a little grumpy." Neither of them replied. Doug stared at his feet. Timmy couldn't look away.

"You okay, Timmy?"

Am I okay? he thought. You're the one with the black eye, lady.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Didn't sleep much last night, either. The storm kept me awake." She smiled at them again. "Well, I'll tell Barry that you stopped by."

"Thanks, Mrs. Smeltzer."

She closed the door, and they turned away and started back down the sidewalk.

"Jesus," Timmy whispered. "Did you see that shiner?"

"See it? How could I miss it? The whole side of her face is swollen up. What do we do?" Timmy sighed. "Nothing we can do, except maybe tell my parents, and if we do that, Barry might get pissed at us, or they might say we can' t hang out with him anymore. Let 's just not think about it. We'll go find Barry. Make sure he's okay. If he doesn't have to work, then maybe we can explore the tunnel today after all. If not, tKen we'll just hang around inside the Dugout until he' s finished."

"Maybe we better not. Mrs. Smeltzer said Barry's dad was in a bad mood. The way her face looked, I'd say she was right."

"Screw him. I'm in a bad mood, too."

He crossed the road. Doug followed after a moment's hesitation. They passed by the newly installed no trespassing sign and went around the side of the church.

"I noticed something else," Timmy said. "She had on another new pair of earrings. I'm telling you, man, something weird's going on. Something more than just him hitting them."

"But, like you said, there's nothing we can do. Barry's dad is a grownup. We're kids." Timmy kicked a stone. It shot across the church parking lot, careened off a telephone pole, and rolled away.

"He's no adult. He's a monster. Barry should tell somebody."

"Maybe he's afraid to."

They reached the rear of the church and started down the cemetery's center road. There was no sign of Barry or his father, and they didn' t hear the sound of lawnmowers or anything else. This morning, even the birds and insects seemed silent. It was almost as if all the wildlife had abandoned the grounds.

"Why would Barry be afraid to tell?" Timmy lowered his voice, in case Mr. Smeltzer or Barry were within earshot. "He' d be safe. Him and his mom both. The cops would lock his old man up in a heartbeat."

"Maybe he's embarrassedlike I was." Doug sighed. "I still can't believe I told you last night."

"Are you sorry that you did?"

"No." Doug hesitated. "But I am afraid that you'll tell somebody. Your parents, or Reverend Moore."

Timmy clapped him on the shoulder. "I promised that I wouldn't tell, and I won't. But you've gotta do something, man. You can' t just stay there and let her keep doing this to you. It 's not right. She's no better than Barry's dad."

"I know, I know. It's justshe's all I have left, Timmy. I can't just leave her."

"But you have to. You have to get out of there."

"I can't. I know it's wrong. I know it' s doing something bad, like the time we put the shotgun shell on the railroad tracks to see what would happen when the train ran over it." Timmy shook his head. "It's a little worse than that, Doug."

"I know. All I'm saying is that I know it's wrong, but I can't stop it, other than locking my door."

"Do you like it? Do you want it to keep happening?" Doug looked horrified. "No. Of course I don't like it. I hate it. I told you that."

"Then get some help."

"I can't. It wouldn't be"

"She's a monster."

"She's also my mother!"

He shoved Timmy, hard. Timmy stumbled backward, almost tripping over a low gravestone.

Doug advanced on him, meaty fists raised in defiance.

"She's my mother and don't you dare call her that, you jerk. Don't you dare!"

"Hey"

"Shut up. It's not for you to say."

Timmy held his hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay. Take it easy. I'm sorry. Seriously. I shouldn't have said anything."

Doug' s face had turned reddish purple, and the veins stood out in his neck. Another one throbbed on his forehead, pulsing beneath the skin. He dropped his fists to his sides, clenching and unclenching his fingers. His jaw hung slack. His breath came in rapid, labored gasps. He turned his back and walked away.

"You okay?" Timmy asked.

Without looking back, he nodded, still hyperventilating. His shoulders sagged.

"Where you going? You're not going home, are you?" Shaking his head, Doug bent over, hands on his knees, and threw up. Timmy didn' t know if he should help him or just give him some space, so he just stood there, watching.

"Don't bring it up any more, Timmy."

He took a few more steps and then vomited again.

"Doug," Timmy said, "I really am sorry, man. I didn't mean to piss you off."

"I'm sorry, too." Doug stood back up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Just let me deal with it. Okay? It's my problem and I'll deal with it. I don' t want people finding out. They pick on me already. Can you imagine what they 'll say if they find out about this? Can you imagine what they' d do to me? To my mom? I don 't have anything. My dad's gone. All I have left is her, and even if she is… disgusting, I still don't want to lose her. Can you understand that?"

Timmy nodded, somewhat reluctantly.

"So let me handle it my way, okay?"

"Okay."

"You promise? You won't say any more?"

"Yeah, man. Sure."

They walked on in silence, past the debris left behind in the wake of two stormsthe thunderstorm from the night before, and the emotional storm brewing between them. They passed earthworms wiggling helplessly at the bottom of rain puddles, and graveside floral arrangements that had been blown over by the storm, their petals and stems scattered across the cemetery. A green Styrofoam wreath lay in the middle of the road. Timmy picked it up, examined it, then tossed it aside like a Frisbee. They avoided two mourners, who were gathered around a single gray stone, and nodded hello to a jogger, Mrs. Nelson, who lived on the other side of the Wahls and gave out the best candy on Halloween. Apparently, Mrs. Nelson had ignored the no trespassing sign as well. Timmy wondered aloud if Mr. Smeltzer had hollered at her about it.

But other than the graveside visitors and the jogging woman, the cemetery was deserted.

Finally, they spotted Barry and his father. They were using a chain hoist to lift a fallen tombstone.

"Wow," Doug said, speaking for the first time since their argument. "The storm must have been even stronger than we thought."

Timmy nodded, only halflistening. He was studying Clark Smeltzer' s posture, looking for clues to his demeanor. All signs pointed to bad. Barry moved like a whipped dog, and even from this distance, they could hear Clark shouting orders at him.

"We can' t get to the Dugout with them working down there." Timmy picked a blade of grass and put it in his mouth, chewing the tip. "Mr. Smeltzer would see us for sure." Neither Barry nor his father had spotted them yet. They were too absorbed in their task. The mourners had gotten back into their car and left, and Mrs. Nelson was all the way on the other side of the cemetery now.

"Come on," Timmy said. "Let's sneak over to the shed while they're busy. We'll take a look at the cave entrance."

"What if he catches us? If we're down inside the tunnel, we might not hear him coming."

"We'll hear him. Besides, it's not like we can actually go inside it right now, anyway. We promised Barry that we' d wait for him. I just want to check it out a little more."

"Okay," Doug agreed, still sounding unsure.

They cut through the grass, ducking behind tombstones and monuments, trying to stay out of Clark Smeltzer' s line of sight. Timmy noticed more sunken graves, and when they passed by his grandfather ' s plot, he was dismayed to see that the dirt had fallen in even more. For a moment, he imagined himself exploring the caverns below, and stumbling across his grandfather 's coffinor even a body. A hideous image, but one he'd seen a thousand times before in the pages of House of Secrets and The Witching Hour. They were almost to the shed when Mrs. Nelson circled round again, this time on the road that ran between the old portion of the cemetery and the new one. They hid behind a monument until she 'd passed by, and then darted out and crossed the path. They ducked behind the shed and knelt at the window.

"What the hell?" Timmy pounded his fist against the new boards that had been nailed up overnight. "Barry' s old man must have found out. No wonder Mrs. Smeltzer said he was pissed off."

Doug slapped at a mosquito. The squished insect left a red smear on his palm. "Oh, man. Wonder how much trouble Barry got into?"

"God," Timmy said. "I don't even want to think about it. Depends on whether or not his dad figured out we were the ones climbing through there when he wasn't around." Timmy paused to lace up his Converse AllStars, which had come undone, while Doug inspected the window. "I don't see what the big deal is. Barry's allowed in there when he has his old man' s keys." "Yeah, but nobody 's supposed to be in there when he isn't aroundespecially us. And besides, when have any of Mr. Smeltzer' s rules made sense?

He makes a big deal out of everything." "If he does know, you think he 'll tell our parents?"

"I don't know," Timmy said. "I doubt it. He knows that my dad doesn' t think much of him." Doug poked the dirt with a stick. "You don 't think… you don't suppose he'd hit us? The way he does Barry?" "I'd like to see him try," Timmy said. "I' d kick his drunken ass." From behind them, Clark Smeltzer said, "Is that so?" Timmy and Doug both jumped, and Doug let out a frightened squawk and dropped his stick. Mr. Smeltzer seized them by the ears, pinching and twisting the cartilage. The boys shouted for help as he yanked them to their feet and spun them around. He grinned. "Kick my ass, will you?"

"Let go," Timmy demanded. "You 're hurting us." Doug started to whimper. Timmy silently willed him not to cry, not to give Barry' s father the satisfaction. "You 're hurting us," Timmy repeated. "You' re goddamn right I am, you little brat." He released them both and took a menacing step forward. Crying out, Doug scrambled backward, tripped, and tumbled over onto the dirt pile, landing flat on his back. Timmy shrank against the wall of the shed.

Clark Smeltzer glared at them both. His eyes were red and rheumy, and an unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth. He chomped the filter furiously. Barry stood behind him, lingering in the background, looking at his friends in dismay. His eyes were wide. He said nothing.

Timmy glanced around in fright, hoping that Mrs. Nelson would jog by again, see what was happening, and rescue them. But Mrs. Nelson was nowhere in sight, apparently done exercising for the day. The cemetery was deserted. Somewhere in the distance, one of the neighbors started a lawnmower, and he heard the faint drone of it, but as far as Timmy was concerned, the lawnmower and its owner might as well have been on the moon. Clark spat out the cigarette. "I figured it was you two that was sneaking in here, as well.

'Couldn't just be them other boys,'

I thought. Looks like I was right. Thought I told you two that I didn 't want you playing in this graveyard no more."

The boys said nothing. Doug was too busy fighting back tears and Timmy was afraid his voice would betray him. His legs trembled and his face was flushed. His lips felt heavy. Swollen. His heartbeat throbbed inside his head.

Barry took a timid step forward. "Dad…"

Clark whirled on him. "You shut your goddamned mouth, boy. I don't want to hear a thing from you. You were probably breaking in here with them, weren' t you? What 'd I tell you about being out here without me? Huh?"

He raised his hand and Barry cringed. Timmy stepped forward.

"Why don't you just leave him alone, you son of a bitch?" Clark turned, slowly, his mouth hanging open in disbelief.

"What'd you just say?"

Timmy swallowed. "You heard me, asshole. You're good at hitting women and little kids. Why can't you beat on somebody your own size?"

The color drained from Mr. Smeltzer's face. His open hand curled into a fist.

"I've warned you before, Graco. Somebody needs to do something about that mouth of yours."

"Go ahead," Timmy challenged. "Hit me."

"Timmy," Barry said, "Shut up. Don't"

Clark lunged. Timmy tried to dodge him, but the angered man was quicker. He seized Timmy' s Tshirt with both fists and lifted him off the ground, slamming him into the wall of the shed. Timmy 's feet dangled off the ground. The boy was too terrified to speak. Timmy's anger vanished, replaced with fear.

"Dad," Barry pleaded, "put him down."

"Pplease," Doug said, "please Mr. Smeltzer, don't"

"Barry, I told you to shut your fucking mouth. You too, fat boy." He turned back to Timmy, his leering face only inches away. Despite his terror, Timmy winced at the man's foul breatha miasma of cigarette smoke, coffee, booze, rotting teeth, and bleeding gums.

I won't cry, Timmy thought. I won't cry, I won't cry, I won't. And then he did.

"Now, Graco," Clark snarled, "you listen up and you listen good. If I see you or your tubby friend in this cemetery again, I will tan both your goddamned hides so bloody that your mommas won 't recognize either one of you. And you know what? I'll get away with it, too. You're trespassing, and that's against the law. It ain't like I didn't warn you before." As if to emphasize, he slammed Timmy against the wall, hard enough that his teeth clacked together. Then he let him drop.

"There's a new lock on this shed, and I'm the only one that can open it. It's all boarded up nice and tight. Anybody else gets in, I'll know about it. Don' t let me catch you here again. And as for you," he turned to Barry, "you ain 't to hang out with these two no more. They're trouble. Up to no good. You think they' re your friends now? Just you wait. Get a few years older, they 'll want nothing to do with you anymore. They'll think they're better than you. Their kind always does. Just like Graco's daddy. Ol' Randy thinks he' s better than me cuz '

he's got that highpaying union job down at the mill and all I do is dig graves and mow grass." Timmy stirred. "That's not true."

"Shut your face. Now you mind me, Barry. You see these two riding down the street, you go the other way. They come to the house, you don' t answer the door. I catch you playing with them again, you know what will happen."

"Yes, sir…"

While Mr. Smeltzer was distracted, Timmy crawled over to Doug's side. The two boys squeezed each other's hands. Timmy thought he might throw up.

"No more," Clark said. "Am I understood?" Tears filled Barry's blue eyes. "But Dad"

"No 'buts' about it."

"But they're my best friends. I don't have anybody else." Clark lashed out, slapping him across the face with the back of his hand. Timmy and Doug gasped. Barry's cheek turned red.

"Go ahead," Clark said, his hand still raised. "You go ahead and back talk me again, you little punk. I dare you."

Weeping, Barry stared at the ground. Clark turned back to the others.

"Wipe your noses and run home to your mothers. I don't want to see you here again."

"Barry?" Timmy reached for their friend.

"I said go!" Clark kicked out. His heavy, steeltoed work boot slammed into Timmy's tailbone. "Get the fuck out of here."

The boys' last bit of resolve shattered. Both Timmy and Doug fled. They couldn't go in the direction of Timmy' s house, because the utility shed and Mr. Smeltzer both blocked their way. He stood there, hands on his hips, the look on his face just daring them to pass. So instead, they ran in the other direction, toward the cornfield at the far end of the graveyard.

A rock bounced off Doug's shoulder blade. He cried out, but didn't look back.

"That's right," Clark Smeltzer shouted, "Just keep on running. If I see you here again, it'll be both your asses!"

His laughter hounded them as they reached the edge of the cemetery and stumbled into the cornfield, heedless of the damage their pounding feet were doing to Luke Jones 's crop. Halfway through the field, Doug paused, gasping for breath.

"Let's stop a minute," Timmy suggested, wiping the remaining tears from his eyes. Sweat poured down his forehead.

Doug nodded, unable to speak. He sank to his knees and closed his eyes.

"That… jerk…" He gulped air. He can't… do that. Barry's our friend. He can't …" Timmy stripped off his Tshirt and mopped his brow. "Save your breath. He just did. And we let him."

"We could have stopped him. We could have fought back."

"No we couldn't have. Come on, Doug, who are we kidding? We' re two kids, man. When it came down to it, and he literally had us backed up against the wall, we did everything but piss our pants, we were so scared."

Doug's face, already purple from a combination of crying and running, now turned violet. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. "Too late."

"Oh no. Please tell me you didn't."

"I did. Just a little bit. When I fell. Some squirted out." Timmy snickered, then chuckled, then turned his face to the sky and howled. He pointed at his friend, tried to speak, and only laughed harder. He stretched out on his back and giggled.

"It's not funny," Doug said, but he was smiling, and a second later, he started laughing as well. "Look at us," he said. "We almost get beat up by our best friend' s dad, and then, just a little while later, we 're sitting in a cornfield laughing because I peed myself." Timmy sat up. "It's a defense mechanism. Like SpiderMan. Ever notice when he's fighting Doc Ock or Hobgoblin, how he cracks jokes all the time? That' s because he 's scared. It's how he deals with being afraid. It helps him face the monsters."

"Too bad we couldn't do the same back at the shed."

"Yeah." Timmy took off his Converses and shook dirt and pebbles from them.

"I mean, why did we have to be so chicken?" Doug shook his head in shame. "We weren't afraid of Catcher. Well, maybe a little. But that didn' t stop us from standing up to him."

Timmy slid his shoes back on. "And look at what happened when we did."

"That wasn't really our fault, though. Barry was the one who snapped."

"I read this issue of The Defenders once. Nighthawk, Gargoyle, Dr. Strange, and Son of Satan had to travel to this other dimension to rescue Valkyrie and Hellcat. There was a line in it that said, 'When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.' I didn' t understand what it meant, so I asked my grandpa. He told me it was from some philosopher.

I can 't remember the guy's name. Nacho or something. He was German, I think."

"Nacho doesn't sound very German."

"It doesn' t matter. Anyway, Grandpa explained it to me and then told me a few other things this guy had said. I always remembered the one, because I thought it sounded cool."

"What was it?"

"When you battle monsters, you have to be careful or else you'll turn into a monster yourself."

Doug mouthed the words, silently repeating them to himself. Then he frowned. "I don't get it. What's it mean?"

"Think about it. We fought Catcher and what happened? For a few seconds, Barry acted just like his father. And me, earlier. What I said about Ronny and those guys. You 're rightit was a stupid thing to say. The kind of thing you'd expect them to say, rather than one of us. Maybe it's better that we don' t fight our own monsters. Maybe we 're better than them."

"Maybe," Doug agreed. "I don't know. I still wish we'd have done something. Poor Barry. I'm worried about what's gonna happen to him now."

"We'll still see him. Dude, he's our friend. I don't care what his old man says. He can't stop the three of us from hanging out together. We'll sneak out tonight and then all three of us can hang out in the Dugoutor look for another way into the cave, since we can't get into the shed."

Doug looked frightened again. "No way. After what just happened? I'm not setting foot in that cemetery anymore. And besides, that's not what I mean."

"Well, what do you mean, then?"

"I'm worried about what his dad is going to do to him after all that."

"Yeah." Timmy sighed. "Me too, man. Me too."

"Mr. Smeltzer was always kind of weird, but he' s really starting to lose it. Who knows what he could do? And did you notice something else? When we were at the shed, he said,

'I figured it was you two that was sneaking in here, as well. Couldn't just be them other boys.' Who do you think he was talking about?"

"I don't know," Timmy said. "I can't even think about that right now. I still feel like I'm going to throw up."

"What if it was Ronny, Jason, and Steve? What if Mr. Smeltzer knows what happened to them?"

"Barry's dad is a serial killer?"

"Well, noprobably not. But you saw what he did to us today. How he acted. Sure, he' s hollered before, but he never laid a finger on us. Not like this. Today was different, and the way Barry 's mother talked, he was like this last night, too. Maybe he caught them trying to sneak in the shed and… lost control?"

"You think he killed them?"

Doug didn't reply.

"He wouldn't have done that," Timmy said. "He's crazy, but killing them? That seems a little farfetched. He' s just an abusive jerk, not some psycho. Much as I hate the guy, and as much as I think my dad 's wrong, and that there really is a serial killer running around, I don't think it's Barry's old man."

"Yeah," Doug said, nodding. "I guess you're right. I hope you are, anyway. So what do you want to do now? We can't go back to the cemetery and we can' t go anywhere else, either. We can 't even get our stuff out of the Dugout."

"Let's finish catching our breath first. My stomach and my head still hurt."

"Did he hurt you when he slammed you against the shed?" Timmy shook his head. "No. Not really. I think it's more nerves than anything else." Timmy lay back on the ground, careful not to squash the budding corn stalks. Clouds drifted slowly by above them, and he wished that he could hop on one and ride away. He 'd always been mystified by clouds. They looked like solid thingsislands floating above the earth. Meanwhile, Doug reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic egg of Silly Putty. He began playing with it, rolling it in his hands and then flattening it out, while Timmy watched the sky and tried to figure out what they could do. The sun felt good on his face. He wished they could just stay there in the field for the rest of the day. He turned to his friend.

Doug found an anthill and began picking up the scurrying insects with his wad of Silly Putty, pretending it was the Blob and that the ants were frightened townspeople. He'd always been able to entertain himself like that. One summer, he'd enlisted Timmy and Barry' s help in collecting empty locust shells from the trees and shrubs. They ' d spent an entire day gathering the bugeyed, creepy looking husks. Then, overnight, Doug had set them all up on top of a train table in his basement. He 'd placed his green plastic army men in the diorama as well. The next day, the boys had reenacted a fantastic battle between the U.S. Army and some alien bugs from outer space. Watching him now, as Doug transformed his Silly Putty into yet another alien menace, Timmy grinned. Then the memory of Clark Smeltzer's voiceand the look on Barry's facemade his grin vanish as quickly as it had appeared.

Timmy stood up and brushed the dirt off his pants. "Let's walk over to the woods. Maybe we can find a hornet's nest or something cool."

"But we're not supposed to. Your parents said."

"Yeah, but they didn't know that Mr. Smeltzer was going to chase us out of the boundaries anyway. I mean, we' re already beyond where my mom and dad said we could be. Might as well make the best of it. It 's not like we'll get caught or anything." Doug put his ball of Silly Putty, now embedded with ants, back in the plastic egg and slipped it into his pocket. Timmy gave him a hand and helped him to his feet. Then the two of them set off for the tree line. As they neared the edge of the forest, they noticed four turkey buzzards circling in the sky. The carrion birds were hovering over a specific spot in the woods.

"Something must have died in there," Timmy said, nodding toward the birds. "Maybe a deer or a pheasant. We should check it out."

"What do you want to see an old dead deer for? That's gross."

"I don't think so," Timmy said. "Sometimes, it's kind of cool." They pushed through the thick tangle of thorns and branches growing around the edges of the forest, and stepped beneath the leafy canopy.

The temperature was cooler in the woods, and rainwater from the previous night's storm still dripped off the limbs overhead. It was darker under the trees. The woods were alive with sound, birds and insects, squirrels barking at one another, dead leaves and pinecones crunching under their feet. Flowers burst from the dark soil, lining the trail with different colors and fragrances. A chipmunk sat on a mossy stump and watched them go by. A plane passed overhead, invisible beyond the treetops. Timmy glanced upward, but he could no longer see the circling buzzards.

They didn't often come to this section of forest and hadn't fully explored it, and despite that morning' s terror, their spirits lifted slightly at the opportunity to do so now. They ' d only gone a few yards in, and were still standing in an area where the undergrowth was sparse and the trees were spaced far apart, when Doug spied the raspberry bushes.

"Awesome!"

He ran over to the thick stand of bushes and began picking raspberries, greedily popping them into his mouth and relishing the taste. Juice dripped from his lips. Timmy heard the unmistakable squawk of a turkey buzzard overhead, but the leaves still hid them from sight. He sniffed the air, but didn't smell anything dead. Doug groaned with delight. "My mom never buys these at the grocery store. Says they're too expensive."

"My mom says the same thing. I was surprised she actually had blueberries on hand this morning for the pancakes."

"Try some." Doug held out a handful of berries. Timmy strolled over, but before he could join in, something behind the bushes caught his eye. The sun shined down through a break in the trees, and the sunlight glinted off of something bright and metallic.

He tapped Doug's shoulder. "What's that?"

Doug looked up. His face and fingers were stained red from berry juice. "What?"

"There," Timmy said, pointing. "On the other side of the bushes. The sun is reflecting off something. See it?"

"Metal…"

"Sure looks like it."

"What do you think it is?"

"Could be anything," Timmy said. "A tree stand left behind by a hunter, or someone else's fort, or an old junked refrigerator or something." Or a crashed UFO, he thought, or maybe the hatch to a secret underground government base. Or what those birds are looking for…

He glanced down at the forest floor, found a long, straight stick, and picked it up.

"Let's find out."

Swinging the stick like a scythe, Timmy slashed at the clinging berry branches, cutting a path through the thicket. Doug followed along behind him, still picking raspberries and stuffing them into his mouth. They waded through the undergrowth and reached the object. Standing in front of it, the boys saw obvious signs that someone had gone through an awful lot of trouble to conceal it. Tree branches had been cut and laid over it, and dead leaves had been heaped on top of those, all in an effort to camouflage the mysterious object.

Doug's nose wrinkled. "Smells like something died around here all right. Those turkey buzzards must be right overhead."

Timmy had noticed the stench as well. It wasn't like what he' d smelled coming from beneath the graveyard. This was sharper. Muskier. Fresher, the way a dead groundhog smelled after lying in the middle of the road for several days. This was the aroma of death and decay.

Ignoring the foul odor, Doug grabbed another handful of berries. He stepped to the left, spotted a patch of poison ivy, and quickly jumped behind Timmy again. Timmy grasped a pine branch. Sap still leaked from the end of it, and the bark stuck to his hand. He pulled the limb away, revealing a glimpse of what lay beneath.

"Is that…?"

Doug nodded, his berries forgotten. "Yeah. I think it is." Without another word, both boys stepped forward and began clearing away the debris. Beneath it lay Pat Kemp' s black Chevy Nova. Enamored of Pat as they were, the boys would have recognized it anywhere. Chrome mag wheels; big tires, shiny and black; the Thrush highpowered muffler sticker on the back window; a chrome blower sticking up through the hood like some spaceage coffee maker; an AC/DC bumper sticker, complete with a cannon and the slogan, for those about to rock; and the waxed, flawless body so dark that the viewer was left with the impression that it absorbed light. The paint was now dirty and sticky with sap, and some of the branches had left long scratches. Timmy leaned forward and peered through the driver's side window. Cassette tapes lay scattered on the seatRatt, Motorhead, Ozzy Osbourne, Dio, Dead Kennedy 's, Black Flag, Iron Maiden, Autograph, Suicidal Tendencies, and curiously out of place (in his opinion), Prince's Purple Rain.

A crumpled pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a pair of black sunglasses sat on the red vinyl dashboard. Empty beer cans littered the floor. Each one had been crushed. Timmy breathed through his mouth. This close to the car, the stench grew stronger. Doug pushed up beside him and peeked through as well.

"Why would Pat have a Prince tape?" he asked. "I thought he was a metal head."

"You like Prince," Timmy reminded him.

"Yeah, but I'm not cool like Pat. What do you think his car's doing here?"

"I don't know, but it ain't good. Whoever put it here went through a lot of trouble to hide it."

"Do you think he's okay?"

Timmy shrugged, then straightened up and looked around. "I don' t see any sign of him. Or Karen. But look over there." He pointed to another section of the forest where the undergrowth was sparse and the trees were spaced far apart.

"If you look carefully, you can see tire tracks going back up to Mr. Jones 's cornfield."

"You remember the morning after Pat and Karen ran away, Barry was smoothing out tire tracks? They went off into the cornfield."

"Yep. So somebody drove it from the cemetery to here." Both of them heard the sound of buzzing flies.

Doug peered back inside the car. "So maybe Pat and Karen were parking in the graveyard.

Somebody found them, did something to them, and then hid the car here."

"Could be," Timmy said, "or maybe they hid the car so people wouldn't find it, and then walked out."

"You don't really believe that, do you?"

"No," Timmy admitted, remembering the circling carrion birds. "There' s no way Pat would have ever left his car behind. He loved this thing. But a good detective considers all possibilities before coming to conclusions. That 's what the world's greatest detective would do."

Doug seemed puzzled. "Who's the world's greatest detective? Sherlock Holmes?"

"No, you idiot. It's Batman."

Doug wiped the window with his sleeve. "Well, I don' t think they ran away. Ronny, Jason, and Steve. That lady on the news this morning.

Now we find Pat and Karen 's car? I think it all adds up." Timmy didn't reply. Secretly, he was thinking about Katie Moore, wondering how she'd react to this news regarding her sister' s disappearance. He walked around the car, studying it, looking for clues. The smell got stronger as he neared the abandoned Nova 's rear. The buzzing flies grew louder.

"You think I'm wrong? You think Pat and Karen are alive, and that they really did run away together?"

Timmy staggered backward, his hand over his mouth.

"Timmy? What's wrong? What is it?"

Unable to speak, Timmy raised his hand and pointed. Doug hurried around to the back of the car, and gagged. They' d discovered the source of the stench. A thick, viscous liquid leaked from the trunk and pooled onto the forest floor, sticking to the leaves and pine needles. Maggots and other small insects wallowed in the slop. It was dark in color, and there were tiny bits of pink matter floating in it. The smell was incredibly strong, almost overpowering. Bloated, black flies swarmed over the trunk, crawling into the car through the same small crevice the slime was dripping out of. Whatever was inside had rotted to soup and was now spilling out of the trunk.

"No," Timmy said. "I don't think you're wrong. I think that's them. I think they're inside the trunk."

Then he leaned over and threw up.

Chapter Ten

They fled from the woods, not bothering to mark their location so they could find the car again. The buzzards, still swooping around above the trees, would do that for them. Not wanting to risk encountering Mr. Smeltzer, they cut through the woods and followed Anson Road, avoiding the cemetery. Then they walked along the side of the road the whole way back to Timmy 's house. Timmy had puke on his shirt and jeans, and Doug's face was stark white.

They burst through the door, and at first, Elizabeth assumed that one of them had been injured. She flew out of the kitchen, where she' d been balancing the checkbook, her pulse racing. The boys weren ' t hurt, not physically at least. But they appeared absolutely terrified. At first, Timmy was too shocked to speak, and all Doug would say was, "It was spilling out."

He kept repeating it over and over, and each time he said it, Timmy looked like he was about to vomit.

When they finally calmed down and told her of their discovery, she immediately called Reverend Moore and informed him. Then she called the police. She was so upset and concerned for the boys that she didn 't even question what they were doing in the woods after having been forbidden to go that far just hours before. The township police arrived at the Golgotha Lutheran Church, and the boys were there to meet them, along with Timmy' s mother, Reverend Moore, Sylvia Moore, and Katie. Mr. Smeltzer, spying the adults with the boys and assuming they were there for what had happened earlier, made Barry go inside. Warily, he walked over to them as the police got out of their vehicles.

"I done told them boys several times not to be playing here. Even posted these signs. It ain't my fault what happened."

"What in heaven's name are you talking about, Clark?" Reverend Moore frowned. "The boys discovered something in the woods, on Luke Jones's property."

"Oh." He shut up after that. Timmy thought he would have been relieved, but instead, he seemed even more nervous than before. The township police walked over to the group.

Clark excused himself, saying he had to go wash up for lunch. Reverend Moore watched him go, and muttered, "That's odd." Soon after, the state police and a team of paramedics arrived on the scene. Then Timmy and Doug led the township officers, the state police, and the paramedics to the car. The boys were nervous, but their excitement at being involved in a police investigation at being the ones to discover the caroverrode all other emotions. Timmy was thrilled, and he found himself comparing the events to Tom Sawyer again. This was just like when Tom solved the mystery as to the whereabouts of escaped murderer Injun Joe.

First, they stopped in the cemetery, and the boys showed them where the tracks had originated. The investigators found remnants of tire tracks in Luke Jones' s cornfield, as well. Finally, the boys led them to the woods. The birds were still circling. Once they ' d arrived, the police sealed it off as a crime scene. They dusted the Nova for fingerprints, meticulously took photos of both the car and the surrounding area, and combed through the leaves and detritus on the forest floor for clues. Timmy and Doug watched with rapt attention, and basked in the reciprocal attention showered on them by the police.

Despite the morning ' s bad start, they were surprised to find themselves having fun. Then a bulky state trooper opened the trunk and the fun stopped. Pat Kemp's halfliquefied remains splashed out onto the ground, splattering across the trooper's boots. The man' s face turned white. Everyone else scrambled backward. The stench was revolting.

Doug screamed, and almost fainted. Timmy bit his thumb to keep from vomiting again. This was their hero. The cool older kid who was always willing to stop and talk to them, who treated them like little brothers, gave them advice on girls and bullies and turned them on to good music. The guy they ' d all wanted to be when they reached high school. The cool kid who smoked and drank and had the fastest car in town and was dating a fox like Karen Moore that cool kid was now a waxy, congealing, rancid stew of tissue and bone and squirming maggots.

A state police detective led the boys out of the woods, back to the edge of the cornfield, right next to the cemetery, where Timmy' s mother and the Moores had been interviewed by another officer while they were waiting.

The farmer, Luke Jones, had also arrived after being contacted by the officers when it was determined that the car was on his property. There was no sign of Barry or his father. Timmy noticed the sad, fearful look in Katie's eyes, and wanted to talk to her, wanted to tell her that it was only her sister's boyfriend' s body that had been found, and maybe Karen was still alive, but before he could, the detective asked Elizabeth ' s permission to question the boys, then took them aside and did so, one at a time. When they were finished, the detective took them back over to the other adults and told them they were free to go. He asked Timmy 's mother if she' d be willing to let them contact her son later if they had any more questions, and she agreed. While they were talking, Timmy glanced over at the Moores again. Both Reverend Moore and his wife, Sylvia, were crying. She clung to her husband, his shirt balled up in her fists, her black mascara staining the material. Great, uncontrollable sobs racked her body. Reverend Moore ' s tears were more controlled, but no less heartbreaking. He looked like he 'd aged ten years in the last three weeks. Katie stood beside them, alone, frightened, and seemingly forgotten.

"I don't feel so good," Doug said, clutching his stomach. "When they opened the trunk

…"

Elizabeth put her arm around the shaken youth. "I'll take you home, sweetheart. Can you make it back to our house?"

Doug nodded. "Yes, Mrs.

Graco I think so. But maybe I could stay at your house for a little bit longer? Maybe spend the night again."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Doug. We'd love to have you stay, but I' m sure your mother is already worried about you. And we need to tell her about what happened. She

'll need to contact the detective. He gave me a business card to give to her."

"Please, Mrs. Graco? Pretty please? Just one more night?" Timmy noticed the desperate pleading in his voice, but his mother did not.

"I'm sorry, Doug, but I just don't think you'd better tonight." He can't go home, Timmy felt like shouting. Don't you understand, Mom? What' s waiting for him at home is ten times worse than what we found in the woods. But she was already offering her condolences and prayers to the distraught Moores. The adults exchanged hugs, and once again, Timmy' s eyes were drawn to Katie. Summoning up his courage, he smiled at her. She smiled back. Sadly. A tow truck from Old Forge service station arrived, and Mr. Jones got into an argument with the driver about the man tearing up his cornfield, until one of the officers intervened.

Elizabeth returned to the boys. "You guys ready to go home?"

"Mom," Timmy lowered his voice to a whisper. "Maybe I should stay here and talk to Katie for a little bit. You know, cheer her up?"

Elizabeth glanced over at the girl, then back at her son. She smiled knowingly.

"I think that's a very nice gesture, Timmy. As long as Doug doesn't mind?"

"No." Doug spoke with the air of a condemned man who knows he can't escape his fate and is resigned to it. "I guess not."

Elizabeth turned to leave. Timmy quickly pulled Doug aside.

"If you need meif anything starts to happencall our house. I'll come up right away."

"You can't. Your dad said you weren't supposed to go that far by yourself. Your curfew"

"Screw my curfew. This is more important. If I have to, I'll sneak out."

"Doug," Elizabeth called, "you ready to go, hon?"

"Coming, Mrs. Graco."

Timmy grabbed his arm. "Remember. If you need me, I'll be there."

"I will." He tried to smile, but it came off as a grimace. His eyes were tired and haunted. "Gotta go. Your mom's waiting."

"See you later, man."

"Not if I see you first."

They both chuckled, and then Doug ran to catch up with Elizabeth. Timmy turned back to Katie. He willed himself to walk over to her. Slowly, his feet obeyed.

"Hey." He tried to say more, but his tongue suddenly felt like cement.

"Hey."

"I'm, uh… I'm sorry about… well, you know."

"They said there's no sign of my sister. She might have been abducted. Like in the movies. She might be…"

Katie trailed off, fighting back tears.

Timmy nodded, unsure of how to respond.

A white news van arrived, and rolled across the field. Luke Jones shook his fist at them and ran toward the vehicle. His cornfield was beginning to resemble a parking lot. Katie moved closer to Timmy. "Thank you for what you did today." He felt his cheeks begin to burn. "Oh, well… I didn't do anything, really. All we did was tell our parents."

"You found Pat's car. That might help the police find Karen. And it's not just that. You were nice to me at your grandfather' s funeral. Even though you were sad, you still made time for me."

Timmy's voice betrayed him. He opened his mouth to thank her, and "Would you like to go for a walk?" came tumbling out instead.

Katie smiled, and this time, it was genuine. Some of her sadness seemed to lift.

"I'd love to go for a walk. That would be fun."

"Cool."

They heard voices, raised in anger. Luke Jones shoved the cameraman. The cameraman pushed back. Both men were cursing. A township officer ran to break it up, shouting at them to knock it off or he 'd arrest them both.

Katie tugged on her mother's sleeve and asked for permission to go for a walk. Sylvia Moore turned to her husband, seeking his approval as well.

"Sure," Reverend Moore told them. He looked over at the arguing men and frowned at their language in disapproval. "Go ahead. That might be for the best. They 're getting ready to tow the car out. I'll come get you when we're ready to go, so don't stray too far." Katie and Timmy strolled off together, walking between the tombstones. He glanced around for Clark Smeltzer, worried that he might spot them, and then decided it didn 't matter. Let him try to keep them out of the cemetery with their parents and all the cops around. Timmy noticed that many more of the graves had now sunk the way his grandfather' s grave had done. It was almost as if a giant groundhog had burrowed beneath the graveyard, tunneling off in every direction. He wondered just how big the cavern beneath the cemetery actually was. He felt a pang of regret. With everything that had happened, he'd probably never get a chance to explore it now. He started thinking about Tom Sawyer again, and how Becky and Tom had gotten lost in the cave. He glanced over at Katie.

She smiled. Her teeth were white and perfect.

He smiled back.

And when she reached out and touched his hand, he thought he might die. His feet stumbled, his heart pounded, and he began to sweat. He was speechlessand the feeling got worse when her fingers wrapped around his and squeezed. She did not let go, and his discomfort grew.

It was the most wonderful thing he'd ever felt in his life. And then Katie started to cry. She was still holding his hand, clutching it now, squeezing his fingers tight. Timmy wasn't sure what to do, so he squeezed back.

"It'll be okay," he said.

"I miss her." Katie sniffed. "At first, I told myself she just ran away. That she was tired of living with our dad' s rules. He never liked Pat. But three weeks later, we hadn 't heard from her. She would have called. Karen wasn't mean. She wouldn't let us keep worrying. She would have called."

Timmy nodded.

"Something bad has happened," Katie continued. "I know it. She's not coming back."

"She could still be okay," Timmy said, trying to sound hopeful. "Maybe she got away from whoever did that to Pat. Maybe she's lost or has amnesia or something." Katie sniffed again, and then wiped her eyes with her free hand. She gave him another squeeze.

"Thank you, Timmy. I don't believe it, but thank you for trying. Nobody else has paid much attention to me during this whole thing."

He was surprised. He'd always thought the Moores doted on their youngest daughter.

"Not your parents?"

She shook her head. "Nope. Too worried about Karen, I guess. It's like I'm invisible."

Timmy was speechless, and Katie misinterpreted his silence as disapproval.

"I'm sorry. That probably sounds horrible, doesn't it? I don't mean it to be."

"I don't think it sounds horrible at all."

"I'm just hurt, you know? It's like I don't exist. They miss Karen, and want her to come home, but they forget that I' m feeling those things, too. Your parents are supposed to make you feel better. They 're supposed to tell you everything's going to be all right. The only person that's told me it would be okay is you."

"Yeah, parents are weird sometimes. I'm learning that more and more." They walked on, still holding hands and a little closer together. Katie smelled good, like strawberries and shampoo, and Timmy shivered a little. He wondered what he could do to cheer her up.

"Karen used to play EasyBake Oven with me," Katie said. "We'd make cupcakes and little pizzas and stuff. I keep making things now, hoping she' ll come back. Isn 't that stupid?"

"I don't think so," Timmy said.

They started down the cemetery's rear pathway. Farmer Jones' s cows stood grazing in the field. As they passed by, the cows raised their heads and stared at them blankly. Timmy noticed that none of the animals would come near the fence line, which was unusual. Most days, they ' d stick their head under or through the fence, trying to feed on the cemetery 's greener grass. Now, it was as if they were afraid to draw near. Timmy spotted the Dugout's stovepipe sticking up out of the ground, and suddenly, he had an idea of how to cheer Katie up.

"Want to see something cool?"

She smiled. "Sure."

"Okay. But it's a secret, so you've gotta promise not to tell anybody. And you have to close your eyes, too."

"Is it your clubhouse?" Her voice was innocent but her eyes glinted mischievously. Timmy gasped. "How do you know about that?"

"Everybody knows about your fort." Katie shrugged. "Erica Altland told me about it at school."

"Ericahow does she know? It's supposed to be top secret!" Katie giggled. "I think Doug let the secret slip."

"Oh, man." Timmy groaned. "That dipshit." Immediately, he felt his ears burning, and worried that he'd offended her. But Katie was laughing.

"I'm sorry," Timmy apologized. "I shouldn't have said that."

"That's okay. I don't mind."

He smiled, relieved. "So… you want to see it?"

"I better not." She squeezed his hand reassuringly. "Not today, at least. If what Erica said is true, your clubhouse is underground, and if my dad comes looking for me and can't find me, he'll be mad. Maybe you could show it to me during church some Sunday?"

"Sure. But won't he be looking for you then, too?"

"Not if we play hooky from Sunday school."

She shoved him playfully, and then dashed off through the graveyard.

"Hey," Timmy shouted. "Where are you going?"

"To show you something else that's top secret. Catch me if you can." Curious, Timmy ran after her. She led him on a chase around the graves, weaving around tombstones and darting behind statues. When they reached the older portion of the cemetery, she slowed down. Timmy caught up with her, winded, but trying hard not to show it. He reached out and tapped her shoulder.

"Tag. You're it."

"You're out of breath," Katie teased. "What took you so long? Can't keep up with a girl?"

"No. Just didn't want to make you look bad."

Laughing, she took his hand again and led him forward. Their fingers entwined. No longer stunned by the display of affection, this time he was able to enjoy it more. It was quite possibly the best thing he ' d ever experienced. He liked how soft her skin was, and how tiny her fingers felt next to his, and the way her red fingernails brushed against his skin when she moved.

They came to a circular depression, almost thirty feet in circumference, where the ground had collapsedtapering from several inches on its outer edge to three or four feet in the center.

The grass in the circle was wilted and brown.

"Wow," Katie said, "what is this?"

"Sinkhole," Timmy said. "Haven't you noticed how some of the graves are sinking?"

"Yeah. My dad was complaining about it earlier. He said he needed to talk to Mr. Smeltzer about it. What's making it happen?"

"We think there's a cave underneath the cemetery. Barry, Doug, and me found a tunnel."

"Really?"

"Uhhuh. We were gonna explore it, but then…"

"What?"

"Well, some other stuff came up."

Sensing his sudden sadness, she led him onward, skirting around the edge of the sinkhole.

"So, what's this big secret?" Timmy asked. "Don't tell me you've got a clubhouse down here, too."

Katie giggled. "Not quite. My clubhouse is in our garage. But there is something cool that I've always wanted to show you."

She stopped in front of two old gravestones, which had also begun to sink. The lichencovered limestone surfaces were pitted and worn by time and exposure to the elements. The dates of births and deaths were faded and unreadable, but the names and epitaphs were still apparent.

"Timothy Rebert," Timmy read out loud, "and Katie Rebert. Beloved husband and wife."

He scratched his head.

"Don't you see?" Katie said. "They have the same names as us."

"Kind of creepy."

"I think it's sweet."

"If you say so."

"I do. It's sweetjust like you."

Timmy fumbled for words. "So, does this mean… like… you want to…" Katie laughed. "It doesn't mean anything, other than I noticed the names a long time ago, and I always thought it was nice. They were married and they had the same names as we do."

"So why didn't you ever tell me before?"

"I was afraid you didn't like me. You never talk when I'm around. Barry always talks more."

Timmy blushed. "I didn't talk because I was afraid you didn't like me. I figured you liked Barry more."

"I don't. I like you."

Timmy swallowed, and his stomach fluttered. "You do?" Katie nodded.

"Um…"

"Well," she tapped her foot, "is that all you can say?"

"No," he blurted. "I… I like you, too. I have for a long time."

"Good."

"It's kind of like that note you made for me when we were little." He blushed, immediately regretting saying it. She probably didn't even remember what he was talking about.

Katie smiled. "I was in first grade and you were in second. It said 'I like you, Timmy,'

right?"

"Yeah. Wow, I'm surprised you remember it."

"I'm surprised you do, too."

"I still have it, actually. In my room."

Now it was Katie's turn to blush. "Well, I meant it then and I still do. I like you, Timmy." They both stood silently, staring into each other's eyes.

"So," Timmy stuttered, "does this mean we're going together?" Now it was Katie's turn to blush. "If you want to."

"I'd like that."

"I'd like it, too."

Timmy wanted to kiss her, and it seemed like Katie was waiting for him to. She looked at him expectantly; her face turned upward, lips slightly parted. But he couldn 't bring himself to do it. Pat Kemp would have done it in a heartbeat, so why couldn't he?

An image of Pat's corpsewhat had remained of itflashed through his mind, and Timmy scowled. Katie noticed it and asked what was wrong.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For a second there, I was just thinking about Pat. And your sister."

"Yeah." Katie nodded. "I've been trying not to. Being with you helps."

"Good. I'm glad."

And he was. He was glad being with him helped her, and he was glad to just be with her. Ecstatic. What had started out as the worst day of his life since his grandfather 's death was now turning into something specialsomething he'd longed for for quite a while. They strolled on together, hand in hand, and easier with one another than they' d been before. Timmy picked a full, yellow dandelion and gave it to her. She clutched it to her chest and smiled.

"I'll keep it forever."

"Well, not forever," Timmy said. "Nothing lasts forever."

"Flowers do, if you press them in a book. My mom showed me how."

"Cool."

They continued on their way. Timmy wondered how much longer their parents and the police would be. He didn't want the day to end.

Katie looked up into the treetops. "You know what's weird?"

"Hmm?"

"There aren't any birds around. I haven't seen or heard a single one since we left my parents. No squirrels, either."

Timmy thought again of the cows in the field, and how they' d been reluctant to approach the border with the cemetery. Could they sense the cave somehow? Did they know the ground was weakening, and they avoided it? He ' d read in school about how some animals could predict earthquakes and tornadoes.

Maybe this was something similar.

They passed by a broken tombstone. It had fallen to the ground and cracked in half, its marred surface so worn with age that most of the writing was illegible. The only thing they could still make out on it was an odd symbol one half of it on each section of broken stone. Playing in the graveyard, Timmy had seen plenty of symbols on the stones before crosses and hands clasped in prayer and lambs and open bibles. But he' d never seen one like this. It looked like the sun, rising over a hill. In the middle of the sun were two crosses, one upright and the other upside down. The image, shattered as it was, filled him with dread, but he didn ' t understand why. Katie must have noticed it too, because she shivered against him.

"Never seen one like that before," Timmy said. "Wonder what it is?"

"It's ugly. I don't like it."

"Why not?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I just don't. It makes me feel… weird."

"Yeah," he admitted. "Me too."

There was some faint writing carved directly beneath both halves of the symbol, barely discernible beneath the clinging green lichen. Timmy brushed the crumbling moss aside, pushed the two pieces of limestone together, and tried to read it.

I. N. I. R.

I.

SANCTUS SPIRITUS

I. N. I. R.

I.

"What's it mean?" he asked.

"How should I know?" Katie teased. "You're a grade ahead of me. Have you studied Latin yet?"

"No. We don't get Latin. Just Spanish, French, and Germanand I' m not taking any of those. I just figured you might know, your dad being a preacher and everything. It looks religious."

Katie studied the faded letters, tracing them with her fingers. "INIRI… that's what's on the pulpit at the front of the church, right?"

Timmy nodded. "I think so. Something like that. Do you know what it stands for?"

"No. I guess we learn that in catechism class, and we don't take that until we're fourteen. I wonder what knocked the tombstone over?"

"Oh, it happens a lot, especially in this section. They get old and fall over, or people push them."

"People knock them over on purpose?" She sounded surprised. Timmy nodded. "Sure. Ronny and those guys knocked a bunch over last Halloween. It took Barry' s old man a week to put them all back up again. Some of them couldn 't be fixed. The church had to pay for new ones."

"Why didn't they make Ronny, Jason, and Steve pay?"

"Couldn't prove it was them, I guess. But we knew. They bragged about it one day when they cornered us while we were sledding. Anyway, these things fall over all the time. Could have been the way the ground's settling, too. Might have shifted and knocked it over."

Then they heard Reverend Moore's voice, calling for Katie. They looked up and saw him at the top of the hill, near the utility shed. Timmy' s heart sank, knowing that their time together was at an end. Spotting the two of them, Katie 's father walked down the hill toward them. Immediately, Katie let go of Timmy' s hand. He felt an immediate longing for contact again, but restrained himself. He 'd already been in enough trouble today. He didn' t need Reverend Moore getting mad at him, as well.

"There you are," the preacher said as he drew closer. He looked tired and beaten. His face was puffy and sweat poured off his forehead and cheeks. His thinning hair was plastered against his scalp. "You ready to go, sweetheart? Your mom is in the car already. She 's pretty tired."

"Yeah, I'm ready, I guess." She glanced at Timmy and smiled. "Thanks again, Timmy. For everything."

He returned the smile, and tried to keep his feet on the ground.

"Yes, Timothy," Reverend Moore said, sticking out his hand, "thanks for taking care of my little girl. You're a fine boy. Your parents should be proud." Timmy shook his hand, trying to keep a firm grip. "Thanks, sir." The preacher noticed the broken tombstone. "Good Lord. That's the third stone I' ve seen like that today. Not to mention how the ground is sinking. Have you noticed it?" Timmy nodded. "Yeah, it's happening all over the cemetery. We think there's a cave underneath."

Reverend Moore arched his eyebrows. "Really? Well, it wouldn't surprise me. This whole area is riddled with limestone. But I would think Mr. Smeltzer would have let the church board know. To be honest, I'm disappointed in the cemetery' s general appearance lately. After all, it's not only a place for our loved ones, but a reflection of the church, and of God himself."

Timmy wasn't sure of how to respond, so he tried to look thoughtful and concerned. Laughing, Reverend Moore gripped his shoulder and squeezed. "I' m sorry, Tim. These are matters for adults, not for you. There will be plenty of time to worry about things like this when you 're older."

"Reverend Moore, can I ask you something before you leave?"

"Of course you can. What is it, son?"

Timmy pointed at the broken tombstone. "Well, Katie and I were wondering what that meant. It's weird looking."

The preacher knelt beside the marker and studied the faded symbol and writing. "Why, it's an old powwow charm. I didn' t even realize we had anything like it here on the grounds. You don 't see many of these anymore."

"Powwow?" Timmy had visions of Indians dancing in a circle to the beat of drums.

"I suppose they don' t teach you about that in school," Reverend Moore said.

"Powwow is something our ancestors believed in. I guess some of the older folks in the county still believe in it today, too. This part of Pennsylvania was mostly settled by the Germans, English, and Irish. When they came here, they brought their own customs and folklore and beliefs.

They were all good Christians, of course. But in many cases, they had no place of worship, and no minister to see to their faith. Some towns had a preacher like myself travel through once a month, but he had many other towns to see too, and so the settlers were pretty much left to their own devices.

Sometimes they strayed from the Lord's teachings. That' s how powwow came about. It was a mix of Christianity and their own folklore. Some folks call it white magic, but you know what the Bible says about that."

Timmy, who spent most sermons writing stories in the margins of the church bulletin, didn' t know what the Bible said about white magic, but he nodded as if he understood because he wanted Katie ' s father to like him. It had never mattered to him before, but now that they were officially going together, it seemed very important.

"Thou shall not suffer a witch to live. Of course, powwow isn't really witchcraft, at least not by my definition. It' s more superstition than anything. I only know of one person in the area who supposedly still practices it, and that 's Nelson LeHorn over in Seven Valleys. And he seems like a nice gentleman. Doesn' t attend our church, of course, but we can hardly cast doubt on him just for that.

My interactions with him have always been pleasant. He seems to know God 's love." Timmy shifted uncomfortably, and the preacher seemed to realize he'd gotten off subject.

"Anyway, there's an old wives' tale about our churchyard. The old gate over there, the one you boys play on, is all that remains of the original Golgotha Church. Ours was built after the first one burned to the ground." He chuckled to himself. "I haven 't thought of this story in years. Supposedly, our ancestors Golgotha' s first congregation were bedeviled by a demon that had followed them here from the Old World. They' d called upon the Lord to help them defeat the beast, and buried it in a chamber somewhere behind the church, which, of course, would be somewhere in this portion of the cemetery. A tombstone was erected on the site, so that no one would disturb the earth, and it had powwow symbols carved on it to keep the ghoul trapped. Like I said, it's just a story. There's no such thing as monsters. They' re makebelieve, unlike the very real evils in this world."

Timmy stared at the cracked marker with renewed interest. He thought the story was just about the coolest thing he' d ever heard from Reverend Moore, and wondered why he didn 't talk about things like that during his Sunday morning sermons. If he had, Timmy would have paid more attention.

"Well, Katie, we'd better be going. Your mother is still waiting. She's very tired. We all are, I guess."

"Okay, Daddy." She cast one more glance at Timmy, and her expression was a mixture of sadness and excitement. "Bye, Timmy. See you on Sunday?"

"You bet. Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Her father gave them both an odd, puzzled look. His stare lingered on Timmy a moment longer. He seemed perplexed. Then, without a word, he led Katie back up the hill.

The shadows grew longer as the sun moved toward the horizon. Timmy walked home, and though the day had been long and unsettling, his step was lighter. He was heartsick about Barry and worried about Doug and furious with Mr. Smeltzer and shocked over Pat Kemp 's fate, and the possible fates of the other missing people but he was also exuberant. Katie liked him. Katie had said they were going together.

Katie had held his hand. Somehow, the other things paled in comparison. Life was not endless. He knew that now. But summers were. Or, at least it seemed that way.

Fear was a strong emotion, but so was love.

He looked at his open hand, and marveled over how, just a short time ago, it had been holding Katie Moore's.

Chapter Eleven

When Doug got home and went inside, his mother was sprawled out in her recliner, watching a syndicated rerun of Three's Company.

The volume was turned up loud and the sound of a canned laugh track filled the house. She barely acknowledged him as he walked into the living room. Carol Keiser wore the same nightgown she ' d had on two days before, and her hair was tangled and unwashed. An empty bag of Utz potato chips lay beside her, and crumbs dotted her lap. A bottle of vodka sat on the floor, snug against the chair.

"I'm home," Doug said.

Her eyes flicked toward him. "Where you been? I hollered for you earlier. I wanted you to ride your bike down to Spring Grove and pick me up some things." Her speech was slurred, her movements jerky. Doug glanced down at the bottle and saw that it was almost empty. He knew from experience that it would join the other empty bottles tossed about all over the house, and then she'd start a new one.

"I wasn't here, Mom. I spent the night over at Timmy's."

"You were gone last night?"

"Yeah." Then he thought to himself, Did you miss me?

Grunting, she turned her attention back to the television. Doug cleared his throat. "Have you watched the news?"

"No," she said. "Why? Are you on it?"

He sighed. "Maybe. I'm not sure, really. Some bad stuff happened."

"What did you do? You steal something?"

"No. Some kids from my school are missing. A few other people, too. The police might call here. They might need to talk to me some more."

Now he had her attention. She picked up the massive remote control and turned the volume down. Then she studied him with drooping, bloodshot eyes.

"Why do they need to talk to you? Are you involved, Dougie?"

"No. I didn't do anything. But Timmy and I found something today. Pat Kemp's car. Out past the graveyard, in that little stretch of woods next to Mr. Jones' s cornfield. It was… pretty gross. The police think "

"Are you in trouble? Are the police coming here?"

"No, Mom. I told you"

"Then don't worry about it. You don't tell the police anything."

"But"

"No arguments. I don't want yoo talking to policemen. They might trick you. Make you tell them things that aren't true or say things you don't mean. And I especially don't want them coming here. You understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good boy. You know I love you, Dougie. I only want what's best for my little boy." He nodded.

She smiled. "You hungry?"

Doug paused. He wanted to talk about his day, about what they'd found. Seeing Pat' s remains had disturbed him deeply. Mrs. Graco had listened to him on the way home, and talked to him in soft, reassuring tones. She 'd cared. He wanted the same thing from his own mother.

He opened his mouth, intent on telling her that, but instead, he said, "I'm a little hungry, I guess."

"There's chicken in the fridge. Stay out of trouble with the police. Remember, I don't want them coming here, and I don't want you talking to them." She turned her attention back to the television and fumbled for the remote. Doug' s shoulders slumped; he walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The aroma of cold chicken wafted out of the door. His stomach churned. He thought again of Pat what he'd looked like, how he' d smelled. Deciding he had no appetite after all, Doug closed the door and walked back down the hall to his room.

"Maybe you and your friends should play here for a few days," his mother called after him. "I'll keep the three of you out of trouble."

"Yeah, maybe." Sour stomach acid burned the back of his throat.

"Barry and Timmy don't come over here much anymore."

"They've been busy, Mom."

"You should invite them over. They can spend the night." He unlocked his bedroom door and slipped inside, closing and locking it behind him. Then, still dressed and without even bothering to remove his muddy shoes, he lay down on the bed, curled into a ball, and stared at nothing.

Sometimes he felt very oldmuch older than twelve.

And sometimes, he felt like dying.

Timmy was in his room when his mother returned from dropping Doug off. He sat crosslegged on the floor, listening to a Cheap Trick cassette that Pat Kemp had once given him.

"You 'll like it," the older boy had promised, and he'd been right. Now, Timmy let the music wash over him and thought about the day' s events. It seemed a fitting tribute.

"Mommy's all right. Daddy's all right. They just seem a little weird…" He chuckled. "Boy, ain't that the truth."

There was a knock on his bedroom door. Timmy turned his stereo down until it was barely audible.

"Come in."

The door opened and his mom peeked her head inside. She smiled.

"You okay, hon?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I think so."

"Can I come in?"

"Sure."

She walked into the room and sat down on his bed. "What you doing, kiddo?"

"Just listening to some tapes. Pat gave this one to me. I was just thinking about that. I mean, we weren't exactly friends or anything, because he was older than us. But he was always nice to us. He treated us like little brothers, I guess."

"I see." She paused. "Do you want to talk about what happened today?" Timmy shrugged. "I think I'm okay, Mom. I mean, it just sucks. Pat was a cool guy, and I feel bad for the Moores,"especially Katie, he thought"but what can I do?"

"Doug said it was pretty bad, when the police opened the car's trunk. Did you see much?" His face paled at the memory. "Yeah."

"Do you want to talk about that?"

He breathed a heavy sigh. "It… it wasn't like in comic books and movies. The smell was the worst. The sound of flies. And the… maggots. I' ve seen maggots before, like when there's a dead groundhog on the road. One time, we were riding our bikes down to the dump and Barry stuck an MEighty in a dead groundhog and blew it up and there were maggots everywhere. That was kinda cool. But this was… different." She frowned. "You boys blew up a dead animal?"

"It was cool, Mom. But that wasn't anything like this. This was…" Still frowning, she nodded with tentative encouragement.

"I know that' s just a part of the process," Timmy continued, "the maggots and stuff. But it made me think about Grandpa, and about what really happens to us after we die. And that freaked me out. You think about dead people going to heaven, but not about what happens under the ground. Like I said, it freaked me out for a little while. But Katie…" He trailed off, suddenly nervous and uncomfortable.

He was embarrassed to tell his mother anything about Katie. Elizabeth waited patiently. "Yes? Katie what?"

"She cheered me up. I'm okay, now."

"Well, good." His mother rose, and patted him gently on the head. "I'll leave you alone. If you want to talk about it though, I' m here. Your father is working late, since he went in late this morning. Are you hungry?"

"Not really."

"Well, if you get hungry, let me know and I'll put a pizza in the oven or something."

"Okay, Mom. Thanks."

She started to leave, then turned. "Timmy? You know we love you, right? Your father and I?"

"Sure. I know."

"It' s been a really hard summer so far, what with your grandfather and the extra hours your father is putting in at the mill. But you seem… different, the last few weeks. Withdrawn, like something 's on your mind. Is there anything else that's bothering you?

Something else that you want to talk about?"

Sure, Mom. I'm going with Katie Moore now, and I can hardly believe it because it seems like a dream, and meanwhile, Barry' s dad is an abusive asshole and I think he 's up to something and he has forbidden us to hang out with Barry anymore and Doug's mom is having sex with him.

"No, Mom. Honestly, I'm okay. Like you said, it's just been a weird summer. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'll be kind of glad when it' s over and school starts again."

"Okay. Well, I'll leave you alone. Your father will probably want to talk to you when he gets home. Be patient with him. He' s tired and stressed. I guess we all are."

"Yeah."

"You and Doug might be on the evening news. Want to see?"

"No. I think I've seen enough for one day." "Love you. Try to get some rest, okay?" Timmy nodded, and she closed the door. His mother' s footsteps faded down the hall. He reached over and turned the stereo back up. Cheap Trick was still playing.

"… but don't give yourself away… away… away…"

He sat there for a few more minutes, remembering Pat and thinking about the day's events. Over and over again, his mind was drawn to Katiethe smell of her hair and the touch of her hand, and the way her eyes had sparkled in the sunlight. He missed her already and couldn 't believe he' d have to wait until Sunday to see her again. After a while, he pulled a box of comic books out from under his bed and began flipping through them. His nostrils flared as he breathed in the comforting, familiar smell of old paper. He came across a tattered issue of House of Secrets that he hadn' t read in a long time. The bottom section of the cover was missing and the paper around the staples was brown with age. He leaned back against the bed and began reading it.

On the top of what was left of the ragged cover was the title, along with the logo: There's No Escape From… THE HOUSE OF SECRETS.

In the left hand corner was the circular DC logo, as opposed to Marvel's. In the right hand corner was the issue number135, along with the price of thirtyfive cents. It was a late seventies back issue that he' d picked up at the flea market. Timmy grinned, nostalgic. In 1978, comics had cost a measly thirtyfive cents. Now, in 1984, they cost fifty cents, or sometimes more.

It was a shame. On the cover, a man in a cape stood atop a coffin. A group of men were gathered around him. "In one minute," the man told them (via a word balloon), "I'll prove my power and bring Jennifer back to life!" The ghost of a blond woman, supposedly Jennifer, floated behind him.

Timmy opened the comic. The cartoonish host (named Abel), talked directly to the reader from the first page, introducing each gruesome tale (his brother Cain was the host of DCs sister publication, House of Mystery).

The first story was called "The Resurrection Business" and pretty much followed the events depicted on the front cover. The second story, "Don 't Look Now," was about some underground cave explorers fighting a group of monsters called Cypors. Timmy wasn' t impressed with either the writing or the artwork, and figured he and Doug could do better. Tempted to return the comic to the box and select something different, he flipped to the last story, "Down With the Dead Men." It took place in a cemetery, which piqued his flagging interest. A ghoul was on the loose; eating the bodies of the dead and hording the gold and jewelry with which they ' d been buried. In the comic, a group of villagers trapped the creature in a crypt and destroyed it by waiting for the sun to rise, then allowing the sunlight to shine through the crypt 's small window. Timmy bolted upright against the bed and stared at the last panel. He shut the comic book with trembling hands.

Earlier, Reverend Moore had said that the church' s original founders had imprisoned a demon in the cemetery. The demon had supposedly followed them from the Old World and had been causing trouble. What if the demon had actually been a ghoul, just like in the comic book? What if they ' d imprisoned it in the grave, and bound it in place with the magic powwow symbol?

And then, when the grave and the symbol were destroyed, the ghoul had been freed?

Timmy had always been fascinated by the supernatural, and believed a lot of it. When they were six, he and Doug had thought they saw Bigfoot near the creek in Bowman ' s Woods. It had turned out just to be a tree, but Timmy still believed it was possible, and that perhaps one day they would come across Bigfoot in the forest. He believed in Bigfoot. He believed in ghosts. He believed in flying saucers and sea serpents and demonic possession. Timmy believed that people really did disappear inside the Bermuda Triangle and that some dinosaurs probably escaped the Ice Age and were still alive in the deep, dark corners of the world in places like Loch Ness and Lake Champlain. He believed in pyrokinesis, telekinesis, extrasensory perception, and remote viewing. He didn ' t know where these beliefs came from, just that he had always had them. The bookshelves in his room were full of books on the topics. He ' d always viewed the world with wideeyed fascination. He 'd noticed over the last few years that many of his friends at schoolfriends who had once believed just as fervently as himno longer considered the possible existence of ghosts or monsters. Perhaps they viewed them as fallacies, the same way he viewed

Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. But while Timmy no longer fell for those parental inventions, he still believed in the supernatural. He believed in monsters. Maybe it was because he' d retained that sense of wonder that so many others his age seemed to be losing.

Or maybe it was because of what he read and what he wrote. The monsters were real, and not all of them were adults or attack dogs. Just because he couldn't see them, it didn't mean that they didn't exist. Timmy believed because he wanted to believe, and if growing up meant that time dulled your perceptions and eradicated that belief, erased the possibility of magic and monsters, then he wanted to stay twelve forever.

He thought over everything he' d ever read about ghouls, both from this particular comic book and others. They lived in tunnels and warrens beneath cemeteries and burial grounds. They were nocturnal and hated sunlight. In this particular story, the ghoul had been destroyed by direct exposure to sunlight. It was that way in most of the other comics, too. On a few occasions, they ' d been destroyed by fire, and once by being dropped into a vat of acid, but daylight seemed to be the only sure bet. Ghouls ate the dead, which was why they dug beneath graveyards.

The Golgotha Lutheran Church cemetery was collapsing in spots. The ground was sinking.

There was a tunnel entrance inside the utility shed. Supposedly, according to Clark Smelter, there was a cave running beneath the grounds. But what if it wasn 't a cave? What if it was the ghoul' s tunnels, as it burrowed from grave to grave devouring the dead?

Somehow, the sigil keeping it imprisoned had been shattered? It had begun feasting on the dead, first in the old part of the cemetery and then up into the new section. That would explain the steadily sinking ground, and why they'd first noticed it around the older graves.

He thought about his grandfather's sinking grave. Could it have…?

Timmy shuddered, unable to complete the thought.

Ghouls ate the dead. All of the stories agreed on this. In some of them, they ate living humans as well. That would explain some of the recent disappearances. Maybe not the woman on the news, Deb Lentz (her car had been discovered all the way over in Porters), but possibly Ronny, Jason, and Steve maybe they' d been partying in the graveyard. And it certainly fit with Pat and Karen 's disappearance. It seemed pretty certain they' d been parked in the graveyard. Maybe the ghoul had eaten Karen and stuck Pat 's body in the trunk for safekeeping, intending to eat him later.

There was only one problem with that theory. Could ghouls drive cars? Timmy looked at the comic again. If they had long claws in real life like they did in fiction, then probably not. Which meant that someone else had hidden the Nova.

In some of the comics, the ghouls had used human helpers, sort of like Dracula' s assistant, Renfield. They worked for the creatures, did their bidding, helped to conceal their existence, and were paid with money and jewelry stolen from the dead extra baubles from the creatures' treasure hoard. In one back issue of Vault of Evil, the villagers had hung the ghoul's human familiar from an old tree in the graveyard. If there was a ghoul beneath the cemetery, did it have an assistant, and if so, who was it?

It didn't take him long to come up with an answer. It was Barry's father who'd suddenly forbid them to play in the cemetery, who'd put up the no trespassing signs and had blown off the sinking graves by suggesting there were sinkholes. He' d had more money than normal, and Mrs. Smeltzer was wearing lots of new jewelry some of which seemed really old, like the antiques at the flea market. He was angrier and more violent than ever, like he was suffering from stress or guilt or something.

And Barry had mentioned several times that his father was out late at night. So if he was right, then how could he go about proving it? If Barry' s father found out he suspected, there was no telling what could happen. But if Timmy could prove there was a ghoul, if he could get evidence without Mr. Smeltzer finding out, then maybe people would believe him. He ' d have to tell Doug and Barry his suspicions. If he was right, they couldn 't just waltz down into the tunnel beneath the utility shed. That would be suicide. They' d have to be better prepared than that. He thought of Doug 's map. Tomorrow morning, if Mr. Smeltzer wasn't around, he' d get the map from the Dugout and try to figure out exactly how far the ghoul 's tunnels reached, based on where the graves were sinking. That was the first step.

When his mother knocked on the door and told him to take a shower, brush his teeth, and get ready for bed, Timmy was so preoccupied with planning that he barely heard her. He rushed through the bathroom, barely allowing the water to hit his body before he was out of the shower and toweling off. He made quick work of putting on his pajamas and ran the toothbrush across his teeth once or twice. Then he went out into the living room.

His mother was curled up on the couch watching a sitcom. She looked up from the television.

"You ready for bed?"

Timmy nodded.

"You want to watch TV with me until your dad gets home?"

"No, that's okay. I thought I might read for a while."

"Alright." She paused, studying him. "You sure you're okay, Tim?" He smiled. "Positive. Everything's going to be just fine."

"May I be excused?"

Rhonda Smeltzer glanced over at her son's plate. His foodpork chops, mashed potatoes, and lima beanshad barely been touched. Barry had taken a few bites and then pushed the rest around with his fork. He hadn 't spoken during the entire meal. Indeed, he hadn' t spoken since returning home from the cemetery. When the police had shown up and questioned Clark, Barry had stayed in his room. His face was pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

They matched the circles beneath her own eyes.

"Aren't you going to eat, sweetie?"

"No." Barry shook his head. "I'm not that hungry."

"Eat your supper." Clark shoveled a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

"I don't feel good."

"None of your lip. Eat your goddamn food. When I was in Vietnam, I saw a hundred starving kids that would have given their left arm to have just a mouthful of what you got on that plate."

Barry put his fork down. "That's a shame. Why don't you send mine over to them?" Clark choked on his food. He grabbed his glass, took a quick drink, and then slammed it back down on the table. Milk sloshed out.

"What did you say?"

Barry sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest in defiance. "I said why don't you send my dinner over to them. Then they won' t be starving anymore." Clark started to rise, but Rhonda reached out and placed her hand atop his clenched fist.

"Dear," she pleaded, "he's just upset. We all are. The police were here for so long, and it's been"

Clark tore his hand free of hers, picked up his glass, and threw the milk in her face. Rhonda gasped in surprise. Milk dripped from her nose and chin.

"That's where he gets it from," he said. "Boy talks back and doesn't listen. Acts like a smartass because his bitch of a mother is the same way."

"You motherfucker." Barry jumped to his feet, sending his chair crashing backward to the floor.

Fists clenched, his father rose to meet his challenge.

"You sit the hell down, shut the hell up, and eat your goddamned supper, or so help me God, you won't sit down for another week."

"Fuck you, you son of a bitch. I hate you. I hate you and I wish you were dead!" Barry's hands curled into fists, just like his father' s. Hot tears of anger, not shame, coursed down his face. He shook with rage. Clark studied him for a moment. Then he stepped around the kitchen table.

"Reckon you're a man now, huh? All grown up and cursing like an adult. Figure you can kick my ass?"

"I would love to."

His mother jumped to her feet, hands flailing like frightened birds. Her wet bangs were plastered to her forehead and milk still dripped from her face.

"Barry, no. Clark! Please!"

Ignoring her, Clark swung around to Barry's side and stood right in front of him. Barry resisted the urge to step backward, and held his ground. His father leaned down and thrust his chin out.

"Go ahead, boy. Take your best shot. Better make it a good one." Trembling, Barry said, "Why are you like this? Why can't you be like Timmy's dad?" Clark laughed. "That what you want? Randy Graco don't know the first thing about being a father."

"He's better than you'll ever be. You're a drunk and an asshole. You don't let Mom or me have any friends. You don't let us go anywhere. I can' t even be next door anymore unless you 're with me."

"I told you," Clark said. "It's for your own good. Nobody is allowed in the cemetery after"

"Shut up," Barry shouted. "I'm tired of your shit. Tired of the way you treat us."

"Barry," his mother cried. "Please, stop this now. Sit back down." His father smiled. "Then like I said, take your best shot." Barry stared at him. His entire body quivered. The anger felt like a solid thing, deep down inside him. His pulse throbbed in his ears, and his lips felt swollen and full.

"Pussy," his father teased. "I knew you didn't have it in" Barry swung. Swung with all his might. His fist plowed forward with the weight of twelve years of abuse and cruelty behind it, twelve years of anger and tears and frustration. Twelve years of hell. It rocketed toward his father ' s stubbly, unshaven chin and he felt a surge of vindication. Importance. A fiery, testosteronedriven right of passage into manhood. In that brief second, he understood the magnitude of his actions, and how they 'd change the course of his life.

And then he missed.

Arm extended, body swerving with the thrust, stepping into the punch just like Luke CagePower Man did in the comicsand yet, despite all this, and despite the poetic justice he felt flowing through his veins his fist sailed by his father's jaw and clipped the older man's shoulder.

His father didn't even blink.

Still grinning, Clark swung his own fist. It smashed into Barry' s mouth, and immediately, the boy tasted blood. His lips were crushed against his teeth, splitting open. Blood flowed. The warmth squirted over his tongue, and Barry ' s stomach rolled. He spat blood, and the simple act of doing so left his mouth in agony. In the background, his mother was screaming. He stared at the bright red spot, and didn't notice the second blow coming. Clark' s other fist clobbered the side of his head. Barry became woozy. His vision dimmed on the sides and it seemed as if he were looking down a tunnel. Stunned, he kept staring at the blood, even as more of it filled his mouth.

He noticed something else. A flash of color, glinting off his father's ring finger. It had just left an imprint on his face a ring. A Freemason' s ring. Barry had only seen one like it before, and that was buried with Timmy 's grandfather.

"That's what you get," his father said. "I told you before to not talk back to me. This time, you ain't gonna forget it."

His fist and the ring came down again, but Barry' s knees gave out before it could connect. The blows followed him all the way to the floor, and continued as he wavered on the edge of consciousness. Blood his blood, he realized flowed into his eyes. The last thing he heard were his mother's screams.

Barry tried to speak, and then he passed out. Mercifully, he did not feel the next punch. When Timmy' s father arrived home at a quarter past ten, Timmy was sequestered in his room, lying in bed, surrounded by books and comics. He had his Trapper Keeper notebook in his lap. HeMan 's archnemesis Skeletor graced the front cover. Timmy was taking notes on ghouls.

He' d pulled out every reference he could find, from the House of Secrets comic to his Dungeons and Dragons Monster Manual. He wasn' t sure the latter was entirely accurate, because it dealt more with the game than it did mythology or legend. He heard his father's pickup truck pull into the driveway. Glen Campbell's "Wichita Lineman" drifted softly from the cab' s radio. Then he heard the garage door opening. Moments later, his father came inside.

The television snapped off. In the living room, his parents talked in hushed tones, and though Timmy strained to hear them, he couldn 't make out their words. Instead, he turned back to his research.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on his door.

Timmy?"

He closed the notebook. "Come on in, Dad. I'm awake." His father entered the room, looking exhausted and smelling of sweat. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and patted his son's knee through the blankets.

"You okay? Your mom says you and Doug had quite the day."

"Yeah, it was something, all right. But I'm fine."

"Well, it must have been pretty scary, I guess." Timmy shrugged. "Kind of. It's scary to know that somebody did this. When you see it on TV, it's always in faraway places like Los Angeles and New York. And I'm sad about Pat and the others."

"I shouldn't have hollered at you this morning, about the serial killer thing. I'm sorry about that. Looks like you may have been right."

"That's okay."

Randy glanced down at the books spread out all over the bed. "So what's all this?

You working on a D&D game for your friends?"

"No," Timmy said. "Just doing some research."

"On what?"

"Ghouls."

Frowning, his father picked up the Monster Manual and began flipping through it.

"Ghouls, huh? You know, Reverend Moore says that some kids get too wrapped up in this game. Can' t tell fantasy from reality anymore. A couple college kids supposedly died…"

He trailed off, put the book down, and nodded at the Iron Maiden poster on the wall.

"That, too. The Number of the Beast? That's satanic, Timmy. Don' t you think?"

"Isn't that what they used to say about the Beatles when you and Mom were kids? And Elvis?"

Randy nodded, obviously reluctant. "Yes, you' re right. Some people did say that. Especially when John Lennon joked that the Beatles were more popular than Jesus Christ. But that's different, Timmy. Elvis and the Beatles never sang songs about the devil. They certainly never had album covers like that. My parents would have kicked me out if I'd had something like that hanging on my wall. It's just evil looking."

"Come on, Dad. You know I don't worship the devil."

"I know. You're a good kid, Timmy, and I'm very proud of you. I just worry sometimes. Your attraction to stuff like this and your infatuation with monsters and thingsit just isn'

t normal for a boy your age. You should be playing sports "

"I hate sports."

"and be more interested in girls than you are little green men."

"I am interested in girls," Timmy said, feeling defensive. Randy paused, surprise and relief both clearly visible in his expression.

"You are? Well, that's good. That's very good."

"You sound surprised, Dad."

"No. Don't think that way. I just didn't know. See, we need to talk more, kiddo. You need to know that you can tell me things like that."

"Okay," Timmy said. Secretly, he wished his father would just kiss him good night and go to bed, so that he could get on with his research. It had been a long day and he still had lots to do.

Randy made no move to leave. Instead, he winked and said, "So, is it anybody I know?"

"Who?" For a moment, Timmy thought his father was talking about the ghoul.

"This girl you like. Is it someone your mother and I have met?"

"Yes," Timmy mumbled.

"Who?"

"Aw, come on, Dad. I don't want to say. It's embarrassing."

"You can tell me. I won't say anything to your mother. Is she cute?" Timmy took a deep breath. "It's Katie Moore."

Grinning, his father slapped his knee in delight. The bed springs groaned from the sudden movement.

"Katie, huh? That's great. She's going to be a knockout when she gets older. Does she know you like her?"

"Yes. We're going together. We talked about it today."

"Going steady?" Randy reached out and ruffled Timmy's hair. "Well, how about that. My little guy is finally growing up."

Despite his embarrassment, Timmy smiled. Once he' d finally admitted it, he was surprised to find that it actually felt good to share the news with his father. Maybe his dad was right. Maybe he should talk to him about things like this more often. Like Doug had said earlier, Timmy was pretty lucky.

He had a father, unlike Doug, and his father was pretty cool most of the time, unlike Barry 's.

Still grinning, Randy got to his feet. "Well, I'll let you get back to your reading. Still wish you'd read about other stuff, for a change. Don' t stay up past eleven, okay?" Timmy decided to take a chance.

"Dad, wait. Can I talk to you about something else?"

"Sure." Randy sat back down again. "What's up?"

"Well… I'm not sure where to start. This may sound kind of weird."

"Try me."

"Okay." Timmy swallowed. "I think I know what happened to Pat and Karen, and all the others."

His father blinked. "Well, Timmy, I know it was traumatic finding Pat' s body the way you boys did, but according to your mother, the police have cautioned against assuming the other disappearances are related."

"Do you believe that, Dad?"

"I think it's safe to assume that whoever killed Pat probably killed… that the same thing might have happened to Karen. But we just don' t know about the others yet."

"But this morning, when you warned us to stay around the house, I thought you were assuming the same thing."

"Maybe I was. Look, Timmy, I don't have all the answers. I'm just worried about youand your friends. Something's going on and I don' t want it to affect you any more than it already has. Whatever it is that 's happened to the others, I don't want it happening to you. Let's just let the police find out who's responsible."

"But, Dad, that's just it. I know who it is! I know who's behind this."

"Who, Timmy? And how do you know? Is there something you didn't tell the detective when he interviewed you?"

"No. I figured it out later, when I got home. That's why I'm doing all this research." Randy's face grew concerned. "What do you mean?"

"The person that killed Pat isn't a person at all. It's a ghoul." His father didn't speak, and Timmy assumed he was too shocked to reply. Gathering his courage, he pressed ahead.

"You said I could talk to you about what's going on. Well this is what's going on." He proceeded to tell his father about all that he suspected, blurting out a breathless, excited litany of the past month' s chronological events and how they connected to facts regarding ghoul legends. Occasionally, to clarify a point or back up a position, Timmy would rifle through the stack of comics and hold one up for verification, pointing to the specific panels where he ' d gotten the information. Randy kept quiet, listening with rapt attention to all that his son had to say. He started to interrupt once, when Timmy voiced his suspicions about Clark Smeltzer, but then he fell silent again. His mouth was tight, his face grim. When Timmy had finished, he was speechless. Timmy waited expectantly for some sort of response anythingbut none was forthcoming. His father merely stared at him.

"Dad?"

Blinking, Randy shook his head slightly, as if waking up from a daydream.

"Dad," Timmy said again, "what should we do? Do you think we should tell the police?"

"No." His father's voice was sad and hoarse. "No, Timmy, I don't think we should call the police."

"But why not? It could be out there right now."

"That's enough, Tim."

"But Dad, you said that you'd listen to me. You said I could talk to you. What's wrong?

Don't you believe me?"

Randy sighed. "No, Tim. I don't."

Timmy's heart sank.

"But… but it all makes sense. Even Grandpa's grave." Randy tensed. "Stop it, Timothy. Just stop this right now."

"Don't you care? The ghoul could have tunneled into his coffin."

"I said stop it."

"It could have eaten Grandpa."

"I said stop it!"

In the living room, Elizabeth heard the outburst. Gasping, she ran down the hall. She flung the door open and stared at them, frightened. Tears rolled down her son 's face. He was sitting upright against the headboard, shrinking away from his father. Her husband looked angrier than she'd seen him in a long time.

"What on earth is going on in here? What's wrong?"

"Tell your mother," Randy spat. "Tell your mother the same nonsense you just told me."

"I… I…" Timmy trailed off, stifling a sob.

Randy stood up, fists clenched at his sides. Elizabeth touched his shoulder, but he shrugged her away.

"Randy, what is going on?"

"Our son," he said through gritted teeth, "thinks that a monster is on the loose next door in the cemetery. He says that it' s in cahoots with Clark Smeltzer, and that the two of them are robbing graves. He thinks that this monster, this ghoul, is eating people. He thinks that it ate… my father."

Elizabeth's eyes went wide with shock. Her head whipped back and forth in denial.

"Timmy," she cried, "why would you say such horrible things?" More tears rolled down his face. "Because it's the truth, Mom. I can prove it."

"Honey, you know it's not the truth. There is no such thing as monsters. And Mr. Smeltzer? I'll admit, he has problems, but Barry's father is"

"Barry's father is a monster," Timmy shouted. "Jesus Christ, are you both blind?"

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain."

"Mom, don't you know what Mr. Smeltzer does to Barry and his mom? He's evil, and he's working with that thing out there. That ghoul."

"Timothy Graco," Elizabeth snapped. "You stop talking like that this instant. There is no monster living in the cemetery. You know that."

"It' s these funny books," Randy said, seizing a handful off the bed. He crumpled them in his fist. "This garbage. I told you Reverend Moore was right. We shouldn 't be letting him read this bullshit. These comics are where he gets these ideas. They're a bad influence." Timmy cried out as his father continued to squeeze, crumpling the comic beyond any hope of repair.

"Your father is right," his mother said. "Like earlier, when you said that you and your friends blew up a dead animal. That type of behavior just isn't acceptable."

"I'm sorry," Timmy said. "We won't do it again. But I'm not lying about the ghoul."

"No more," Randy said. "I'll have no more of this nonsense. It's not normal, Timothy. These things you believe innormal people don' t think about monsters and demons." He tossed the comics on the floor and stalked out of the room. Timmy leapt out of bed and scooped them up. He flattened the comic books out on his mattress and tried to smooth them.

"Look at this," he sobbed. "Look what he did. He ruined them." Elizabeth tried to soothe him. "Timmy. Calm down, sweetie. Your father is very angry right now, and he's had a long day."

"I don't care. It isn't right."

"Honey, did you really say that about your grandfather?"

"Yes."

"But why? Can't you see how hurtful that is to your father? How wrong it was to make up such a horrible story?"

"It's true!" Timmy looked up at her with redrimmed eyes. "See for yourself. His grave is sinking."

"That's normal, Timmy. Graves settle after a few weeks, especially if it rains like it did last night. You can't make up lies like that."

"It's not a story, and he didn't need to do this." He continued smoothing the comics. "I hate him. I'll never forgive Dad for this."

"Timmy, that's not true. You love your father, and he loves you very much."

"If he loved me, then why won't he listen? Why did he do this?"

"You have to look at it from his perspective."

"Why? Why do I have to? Because I told the truth?"

"But you didn't, Timmy. You're telling stories. Fiction. You're confused right now. Upset with all that's happened."

"No, I'm not."

Randy walked back into the room with a huge cardboard box in hand. He sat it down on the floor and then, without a word, he began dropping Timmy' s comic collection into the box. Timmy gasped. The comics folded and bent as they were dumped inside.

"Dad, what are you doing?"

"Something I should have done a long time ago. Elizabeth, pull those long white boxes out from under his bed."

"Randy, I"

"I said to do it."

She took a deep breath and complied. Not once did she look up at her son.

"What are you doing?" Timmy asked again. "What is this?"

"Follow me."

Randy turned and stomped down the hall, hefting a box under each arm. Timmy ran after him, demanding to know what was going on. Elizabeth trailed along behind them, carrying the last box. When they reached the kitchen, Randy set down a box, opened the basement door, and motioned for Timmy to go through.

"Downstairs."

Timmy did as he was told. His father's voice was cold and emotionless. He'd never heard it sound this way before.

His parents followed him. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Randy made Timmy sit down on a wooden stool that he pulled out from under his workbench. He sat the boxes of comics next to him. Then he pulled over a large, empty trash can and put a fresh garbage bag inside it. Only then, after he' d finished this task, did Randy finally speak.

"Elizabeth, go back upstairs."

"Randy, don't do this. Please. You know how much he loves those books. Please? I'm sure he didn't mean it."

Silently, Timmy prayed she'd convince his father to stop before it was too late. Randy sighed. "Honey, do as I asked you to. Please, just this once? This is hard enough." They stared at one another for a moment, and then she turned and went back upstairs to the kitchen. She shut the door behind her. Randy pulled out another stool and sat down facing his son.

"Dad…"

"Timmy, I love you. I need you to know that."

His voice cracked. He paused, taking a moment to compose himself, and then continued.

"Sometimes it's hard, being a parent. When you have a kid, it's not like buying a new car or an appliance. There' s no instruction manual, and you get so scared of making a mistake. Get scared of screwing your kid up. Your generation has it pretty easy. You don

't have Vietnam or the Depression to go through. But it' s still tough, these days. We want the best for you. Your mom and I have tried very hard to give you the things we didn ' t have at your age. Things like good food and clothes. Your bike. That Atari in the living room. And you deserve them. I meant what I said earlierI'm proud of you. But this lying has got to stop."

"I'm not lying, Dad."

"You know very well that story isn't true. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. I' m going to give you one last chance, Timmy. One last chance to take it all back."

"But, DadI…"

His father sighed. His shoulders slumped.

"Okay. I didn't want to do this…"

"What?"

"I'm grounding you for disobeying me this morning. Yes, I know you boys found Pat's car, and that' s a good thing for all concerned. But you still disobeyed me. You went beyond the boundaries your mother and I set for you."

"We had to. We were"

"I don't want to hear any more lies. It doesn't matter. You're grounded for a month."

"A month? But that's half my summer vacation!"

"I'm sorry, Timothy. You should have listened."

"But the ghoul"

"There is no such thing as monsters, Timmy! Stop it. Stop making up bullshit stories!" Flinching, Timmy reared back on the stool in fright. His father's anger seemed to roll off him in waves, almost tangible.

Randy picked up the first comic book, Avengers Annual #10. His hands shook. Timmy's eyes grew wide.

"Don't speak, Timothy. Don't say a word, because all you're doing is lying more. I gave you a chance. And don't you dare look away. If you look away, I' ll ground you for another month."

"Dad," Timmy sobbed, "please don't do this. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"

"I'm sorry, too, son."

He tore it in half, slowly. A single tear rolled down his cheek.

"No," Timmy screamed, "please, Daddy, don't. Please? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm" The torn halves were tossed into the trash can, followed by an issue of Man›el TwoinOne.

"Stop it, Daddy! Please, just stop."

"It's too late for that." An issue of Fantastic Four was next. Then a mint copy of Justice League of America that Timmy hadn't even had a chance to read.

"I hate you," Timmy screamed. "I hate you and want you to die." More tears spilled from both of their eyes as Randy tore up a copy of The Defenders. And another.

And another.

And an hour later, when the boxes were empty and his entire comic book collectionhis entire childhoodwas destroyed, Timmy still had plenty of tears left. There is no such thing as monsters, his father had said, but his father was wrong. Timmy was looking at one, and at that moment, he hated his father far worse than he'd ever hated Barry's.

Chapter Twelve

Doug pedaled down Laughman Road. The spokes on his wheels hummed quietly as the tires went round and round. His bike' s white reflectors flashed in the darkness when the moonlight hit them. He sped by Catcher 's driveway, but if the Doberman was awake, he didn' t give chase. Breathing a big sigh of relief, Doug coasted on. He'd woken, plastered in sweat, as his mother's mouth closed over him. Somehow, she'

d already succeeded in pulling his pajamas down while he slept. Frightened and disoriented, he'd jerked away from her and glanced around his bedroom, wondering how she'd got in.

Then he saw. Though he' d invested his meager savings in a lock for the door, he'd forgotten to lock his window. It hung open and the screen was missing. Drunk as she was, his mother had managed to remove the screen. Then she 'd crawled inside while he'd slept, exhausted from the day's traumatic events.

She reached for him again. Doug fought her off, managing to get his pajama bottoms back up while she sat on the floor and cried. Then he comforted her, holding her close and whispering consoling words until she passed out, drooling on his shoulder. As soon as she began snoring, he ' d slipped out from beneath her, got dressed, and left. It was a quarter till midnight.

With any luck, Timmy would still be awake, probably reading comic books under the covers with a flashlight. Doug could bang on his window and spend the night. Bowman' s Woods were different at night. Scary. The tree limbs seemed to reach out over the road, grasping for him. The darkness between their trunks was a solid thing, and strange noises came from within its shadowy confines. Night sounds: snapping twigs, rustling leaves, a chirping chorus of crickets, something that could have been an owl or laughter.

Shivering, Doug pedaled faster.

To his left, another twig snapped, as if something were following him. Then another. The faster he went, the faster the snapping sounds increased. His mind conjured up images of Jason and Michael Myers and every other movie maniac he'd had the misfortune to see. What if Pat' s killer was in the woods right now, watching him, lying in wait? After all, it had been him and Timmy that had discovered Pat's carand Pat himself.

He increased his speed yet again, and the wind ruffled his hair, cooling the sweat on his forehead. His pedals beat a steady rhythm, clanking against the bike' s faulty kickstand. He 'd been meaning to get it fixed, maybe have Timmy's father install a new one, but he hadn' t yet come up with the money to get it, since most of his savings went toward candy and video games.

Eventually, the snapping sounds faded. Doug chided himself for being silly. It had probably just been a deer or a squirrel.

Somewhere deep inside the forest, a whippoorwill called outa mournful, lonely sound.

Doug had heard the old wives' tales about them if you heard a whippoorwill late at night or just before dawn, it meant that somebody close to you was going to die. As the bird sang out again, Doug hoped those stories weren' t true. There were enough people dead. He didn 't need any more.

Sometimes he thought about dying. What it would be like. If it would hurt. If anything happened afterward, like Reverend Moore promised, or if there was nothing but oblivion.

Of the two choices, he preferred oblivion. Sleep was good. Doug enjoyed sleeping. It was the only time he didn 't have to think; didn't have to feel. Doug reached the intersection with Anson Road and paused to catch his breath. With relief, he noticed that the Graco' s living room light was on, which meant that at least one of Timmy 's parents were still awake, and maybe Timmy, as well. Both vehicles were in the driveway. Everyone was home the whole family.

Family.

Doug wished he had one. He spent his time alone daydreaming about when his father had still been around. He often wished that he' d appreciated those times more while they lasted. His parents had seemed happy, at least to him. And they seemed to be happy with him, as well. His Dad said, "I love you." They did stuff together. Talked about things. His father had never called him fat boy or tubolard or faggot, like the kids at school or Barry 's father did.

The last month he was with them, things changed.

Subtly. Doug hadn' t seen it at the time, but it was clear in hindsight. His father had seemed withdrawn.

Distant. Irritable. At first, Doug had figured it had something to do with his mother losing her job. But the uncharacteristic behavior continued. Those last few weeks, Doug and his mother ate dinner alone. His dad didn 't come home after workdidn't come home at all, sometimes. Spent the night somewhere else. He never said where, at least to Doug. He' d heard his parents arguing about it, but at the time, he hadn 't understood what was going on and was too afraid to ask. He thought maybe it was something that he'd done.

And then, one night, his father didn' t come home again, and the next morning, he was still gone. He never came back. Never said goodbye. Never explained it to Doug or told him where he was going or that he loved him one last time.

He was just… gone.

His father abandoned him for a waitress that Doug had never met. Worse, his father had left him alone with his mother, knowing full well what she was capable of. Ever since then, Doug had felt hollow and empty. Dead.

So maybe oblivion wasn't such a bad alternative after all, if he was already dead inside anyway.

At twelve, Doug felt eighty.

He hopped off his bike and pushed it up the Graco' s driveway, trying his best to be quiet. The chain rattled softly and the spokes clicked. He gently laid the bike down in the yard and then crept around back. The grass brushed against his shoes, the dew soaking his feet. The breeze picked up for a moment, and Mrs. Graco 's wind chimes rang in the silence. Doug willed them to be quiet, and the wind died down again. He started toward Timmy's window, tripped over a stick, and froze, waiting to see if he'd been heard. He noticed that Timmy' s bedroom window was dark, as were the rest of the lights in the house except for the living room, its soft yellow glow peeking out from beneath the shades.

Doug paused, wondering what to do next. Somebody was obviously awake, but it probably wasn't Timmy. Even if Timmy was still up, his parents didn' t know about it because his light was out. If he knocked on Timmy ' s window, he risked the possibility that whoever was still awake might hear him.

If Mr. or Mrs. Graco caught him, not only would Timmy get in trouble, but they ' d also insist on either calling his mother or taking him back home themselves. No way was he going back home tonight.

He crept back around the side of the house and sneaked up to the living room' s large picture window. Pressing his nose against the glass, Doug peeked through a space in the shades. Timmy 's father was sitting on the couch. A halfempty bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the end table next to him. Doug' s eyes widened with surprise. Mr. Graco rarely drank, especially on weeknights. But what shocked him the most wasn ' t the alcohol. It was the look of absolute anguish etched into Randy Graco 's face. Timmy' s father was weeping; large, fat tears that made his cheeks shiny and wet. His eyes were red and his body shook each time he sobbed. Doug had never seen him show so much emotion not even at Dane Graco' s funeral. He looked scarred. Tortured. In a weird way, it almost looked like he was laughing instead of crying, since there was no sound. But the haunted look in his eyes was a dead giveaway that this was a man in pain.

Doug backed away from the window. It felt wrong, somehow, spying on his best friend's father at such a private and darkly intimate moment. Something was definitely wrong, but whatever it was, Doug would have to wait until tomorrow to find out. There was no way he could risk waking Timmy now. And going to Barry 's house was obviously out of the question. He couldn't go home. He couldn' t spend the night with friends. And so, he was left with only one option.

The Dugout.

Sighing, Doug collected his bike. He coasted down the driveway and onto Anson Road.

When he was out of earshot, he began pedaling again. He slowed as he reached the cemetery. Even though they 'd played there after dark often enough, it was still spooky at night. Spookier than even Bowman' s Woods. Especially when he was alone. Light wisps of mist curled around the bases of the tombstones and trees. The moon seemed frozen overhead, bright and full, offering radiance, but no warmth. Unlike Bowman ' s Woods and the rest of the countryside, the graveyard was quiet. No crickets chirped. No birds sang. Not even an owl or a whippoorwill. It was weird, as if Mother Nature were holding her breath.

The cemetery felt empty.

Despite the humidity in the air, Doug shivered.

He slogged up the hill, out of breath, hot and sweating hard. The bike seemed heavier than normal, and he wished that he had the leg strength to pedal it uphill, rather than push it. He avoided going anywhere near Barry ' s house, and instead, turned off the road and into the old portion of the graveyard.

Even though it was still uphill, the going seemed easier. The ground was softer, and the wet dew soaked through his sneakers and cooled his feet.

He reached the top of the hill and paused to catch his breath. Then he hopped back on the bike. To his left, the dilapidated utility shed loomed in the distance. Just the sight of it filled Doug with dread and sadness. That morning' s memories were still fresh. He imagined that he could still hear Clark Smeltzer ' s cruel, mocking laughter and slurred speech, as if he were nearby. It seemed very real, as if Mr. Smeltzer was still there. And then, with a jolt of panic, Doug realized that he was. Clark Smeltzer leaned against a tall, granite monument near the utility shed, in the newer portion of the cemetery. Despite the solid support, the drunken caretaker swayed back and forth. One arm hugged the stone. The other waved around in agitation. He clutched a bottle in his hand, and the liquid sloshed in time with his jerky movements.

His voice was animated loud and angry. He was talking to someone, but from his vantage point, Doug couldn' t see who it was. He strained to hear. The wind shifted toward him and he picked up a snatch of conversation. The breeze carried something else, too a foul odor, similar to the one they' d smelled wafting from the hole beneath the shed floor. Doug assumed that was where the stench was coming from.

"You leave them out of this," Mr. Smeltzer threatened whomever he was talking to.

"That wasn't part of the deal."

He lurched to the side, still holding onto the grave marker, and Doug caught a glimpse of the stranger. Whoever it was, they appeared to be naked and almost hairless, except between their legs. His eyes widened. Yes, the person, whoever it was, really was naked, and definitely a man. Their skin was very pale, and seemed to be… glowing?

That couldn't be right.

He squinted, trying to see clearly. His pulse raced. A lump rose in his throat. If Mr. Smeltzer turned around now or if the stranger spotted him over the caretaker' s shoulder, he 'd be caught. He'd already seen just what Barry's father was capable of in broad daylight. There was no telling what he' d do under the cover of night, especially as angry as he sounded right now.

Slowly, carefully, Doug turned the bike to the right and began heading for the church. He held his breath, hoping the chain wouldn' t rattle. The spokes clicked softly. He prayed they wouldn 't notice the bike' s reflectors. His plan was to cut around it, letting the structure block him from their view, and then take the lower cemetery road the one that bordered Luke Jones's pastureto the Dugout. If he needed to, he could even go the long way around and cut through the pasture itself. Once inside the fort, he should be safe. There was no way they could stumble across it in the dark. Swallowing hard, he tried to calm his fears, tried to make a game out of it. He was Han Solo, sneaking around onboard the Death Star and hiding from the Imperial storm troopers. His BMX was really the Millennium Falcon, the fastest bucket of bolts in the entire galaxy. He tried to think of the film ' s line about the Kessel Run, but he was too scared to remember it.

Inching farther away, he climbed onto the bike, breathed a silent prayer, and coasted away. His feet slipped onto the pedals and he gently pumped them. The pedals went round in a circle and clanged against the faulty kickstand.

Kachunk.

Doug whimpered.

Behind him, something squealed like a monstrous, enraged pig.

"Oh, shit." Doug pedaled as fast as he could.

The bike picked up speed, rocketing toward the church. The tires crunched through the gravel, and the bike' s chain rattled. Clark Smeltzer shouted in confusion, but Doug didn

' t bother to turn around. He heard feet slapping the ground in pursuit, coming hard and fast. The horrible stench seemed to be following him as well, getting stronger. He bent over the handlebars, gritted his teeth, and pedaled with all his might. Another terrible cry sounded from behind him, and then the sounds of pursuit faded. He rolled into the parking lot, and out onto the road, passing between Barry ' s house and the church. The windows were dark inside each, reinforcing in his mind just how late it was. I'm all alone out here, he thought. If something happens now, nobody will ever know. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw no sign of either Barry's father or the mysterious, howling stranger. He took a deep breath, held it, and listened. Silence.

Who sounds like that, anyway? Not even the guy who does all those sound effects in the Police Academy movies could make a noise like that. It was more like an animal than a person.

He waited a few seconds longer, his muscles tensed, ready to flee if there was any sign of pursuit. No one came. Apparently, they' d given up. Relieved, Doug reached down and patted the bike 's crossbar.

"Good girl," he whispered. "Got us out of that one, for sure. Need to get that kickstand fixed, though."

He rode on into the night. He'd decided that maybe death and oblivion weren't really what he wanted after all.

Smeltzer had become a problem. Angered, the caretaker was suddenly making demands, and refusing to follow the ghoul' s commands. He was inebriated almost to the point of incoherency, and threatening to expose the ghoul 's underground warrenbreeding pit and all. There was dried blood on the caretaker' s fists, and it had belonged to the man ' s whelp, judging by the scent. In this drunken, unreasonable state, Smeltzer was no longer useful. The ghoul had been about to kill him when the child interrupted them.

The creature had commanded Smeltzer to bring it more females, and warned him that if he didn't, it would have no choice but to take Smeltzer' s own woman, as well as the women living in the homes nearby. Despite this, the gravedigger had refused. Finding courage from his bottle, he 'd grown belligerent. He' d complained about the police presence, and how the law was asking questions. The ghoul had known nothing of this, having spent the daylight hours asleep deep beneath the graveyard. It was displeased to learn that its first victim the youth whose mate he'd stolenhad been found, and even angrier to learn that Smeltzer had not properly disposed of the youth 's body. Once again, the ghoul gnashed its teeth in annoyance at the Creator's commandment not to taste living blood, nor to eat living flesh.

It grinned, remembering the child whose foot had fallen through the tunnel roof. The ghoul had only clawed him, but it had heard the child on the surface above, telling his companions that he 'd been bitten. The ghoul wasn't positive, but he thought that it might have been the same child who' d interrupted them tonight. The scent was similar. It should have bitten him. It hadn 't broken the commandment until the three young men had invaded its underground home. Even then, it hadn' t consumed their bodies immediately. It had enjoyed merely a small taste. But that was in the process of defending its lair, and the ghoul felt justified.

In hindsight, it should have done the same when this drunken fool, Smeltzer, first freed it from its prison. It should have ignored the Creator' s law when it came across the young couple rutting in the cemetery. When it slaughtered the male and took the female as its first mate, it should have devoured the youth ' s carcass. It hadn't, and because of that, because it had left the matter of disposing of the body in the hands of a human accomplice, its home and security were now threatened. Its family the ghoul's new family was now endangered.

Or maybe this was all happening as a result of the ghoul's breaking of the commandment in the first place. Maybe the Creator was displaying His displeasure. It had intended to kill its human accomplice, to rip Smeltzer' s head from his body and bathe in the warm, red fountain, but the child had interrupted those plans. And now the child had escaped, and could tell others. Soon men would come, armed not with torches and magic. Not this time. But armed nevertheless. It did not fear their guns and ammunition. It feared discovery before it had the chance to become a parent. Relocation would delay those plans.

The ghoul stopped in its musings, pausing in front of a black marble gravestone, the ornate lettering gilded in gold. A cross symbol dominated the stone' s center. It had been carved with obvious craftsmanship and care. Beneath the engraving were the words, He is Risen.

Snarling, the creature lifted one leg and urinated on the symbol. The pungent stream splattered over the tombstone and ran down onto the grass, steaming in the darkness.

"There is what I think of your commandment. He is risen?

Bah. He would not have risen, had one of my kind been in the tomb with him. He would have been another meal. Nothing more. Then where would your great plan be?" The ghoul gnashed its teeth in frustration. The child was gone, vanished into the night. But his scent was familiar. The ghoul was positive now. It had smelled this scent several times before: the day the boy 's foot had fallen through the tunnel, and most strongly from a separate warren on the graveyard's edgea den manufactured by children 's hands. Smeltzer' s son, the child from this evening, and one other. It had discovered the hole during the previous evening when it was foraging in a nearby grave, but had thought nothing of it at the time. Now, it knew better.

Snorting, it leapt over the tombstones and bounded back to Smeltzer. The man had slumped over to the ground, his back propped up against a statue. His eyes were slits, his breathing troubled. The bottle was still clutched firmly in his hand. The caretaker muttered something under his breath.

The ghoul knelt beside him and took his chin in its clawed hands. The long, black talons dimpled Clark' s grizzled cheeks, drawing small beads of blood. He tilted his face upward.

"Tell me who that child was."

Clark winced. The creature's breath woke him up; it stunk like rancid meat, and there were bits of decayed flesh between its teeth.

"Who?"

The ghoul squeezed, impatient. "The child. The boy I just pursued. What is he called?"

"Doug," Clark slurred. "Doug Keiser. Faggoty… 's fat kid. 'S nuttin' to worry about."

"I will be the judge of that. Twice today my safe haven has been compromised. I cannot allow this to stand. It is important that I see my race live again. All that matters is my children."

"Kids ain't… shit." Clark belched directly into the beast's face, and then took a drink of Wild Turkey. His breath reeked almost as bad as the ghoul itself.

"You test my patience, grave digger."

Ignoring the creature, Clark continued. "Kids jus' don' lishen. Got to show 'em who's …

boss. Knock 'em around a bit."

The ghoul released his chin. "Does this Keiser child dwell nearby?" Shrugging, Clark lifted the bottle to his lips again. With a low, rumbling growl, the ghoul smacked it away. The bottle shattered against a tombstone. Clark pouted at the loss.

"My patience wears very thin. Listen carefully. Does the child live nearby?"

"Yeah, up past Sawyer's place. He comes and goes. Shumtimes… sometimes he stays wit' my boy and the Graco kid. Livsh down over t' hill."

Pausing, the ghoul sniffed the air.

"Ain't enough," Clark stammered. "Whatchu giving me, it ain't enough. At night… when I try t' sleep… I hear those women screamin'. In my head."

"Silence."

The ghoul's nostrils flared, catching a scent. The boy was back. Not close by, but still near enough for the wind to carry his scent. Perhaps sneaking into the graveyard from the other side, intent on cowering inside his little den. Grinning, it turned back to the caretaker.

"You are displeased with our arrangement? Then rejoice."

"Why? Ain't got nuthin' to be happy 'bout."

"Indeed you do. It is time for our dealings to come to an end, as you wished."

"What'sh that mean?"

In answer, the ghoul uttered a savage growl and lashed out. Its talons ripped through Clark Smeltzer' s face, flaying the skin on his cheek, nose, chin, and throat. Redhot pain overwhelmed the muting effects of the alcohol. Shrieking, Clark brought his hands to his ruined flesh. His fingers brushed against the ragged flaps of skin. He pulled his hands away and stared in disbelief at his dripping red fingers, wondering whose blood it was. By the time he collapsed, slipping into unconsciousness, the ghoul was already speeding toward the tunnels.

Commandments be damned. It was weary of feasting on the dead. It wanted blood.

Inside the Dugout, Doug pulled out his neon green Duncan Imperial yoyo and did a few tricks while he tried to calm down. Eventually, he got his breathing and heart rate back under control. He was safe now. No way could Barry 's father or that weird guy (thing?) he' d been hanging around with find him down here. The stranger had actually scared him worse than Mr. Smeltzer had. That horrible squeal, the way his naked skin had looked in the moonlight, the sounds he made when he 'd given chase. None of those things were normal.

So what the heck was he?

He wished Timmy were there with him. Timmy was smart. He knew everything there was to know about monsters and stuff.

Monsters. Could the guy have actually been a monster? That was just silly. Doug put away the yoyo. He unwrapped a KitKat bar and turned up the lantern. He tried to laugh. It sounded more like a sob.

"It wasn' t a monster," he whispered aloud, the sound of his voice soothing his frazzled nerves.

"More like a molester. Just some guy painted up so his skin would glow or something. A nut. Likes to run around naked at night. Mr. Smeltzer 's crazy. Figures he'd have crazy friends."

Munching his crispy chocolate bar, Doug flipped through an issue of Boy's Life magazine, skimming an article about model rockets, but he found it hard to concentrate.

Instead, he reached for the rusted coffee can in which they kept all sorts of assorted junk, and plucked out a sharpened pencil. He spread the map out before him and felt a sense of pride. It didn ' t matter what people said about him. None of them could make something like this.

He began to work on it some more, adding the section of forest where he and Timmy had discovered Pat Kemp 's Novaand what was left of Pat. He drew it by memory, and hoped he was getting the details right. He wanted to finish it by morning. Then he could show it to Timmy. That might cheer his friend up. He didn ' t know when Barry would have a chance to see it. Sneaking out to see him at night seemed awfully risky, especially since his father apparently hung around the graveyard with a naked, glowing man all night long. Doug breathed a heavy sigh. The three of them had been hanging out together since the first grade. It seemed inconceivable that Barry was no longer allowed to see them. There had to be something they could do other than clandestine latenight meetings in the Dugout. In a way, Doug was actually looking forward to school starting again in September. They could hang out together at school without Clark Smeltzer 's watchful eye knowing about it. And besides, this summer had been kind of a bust, anyway. He'd be glad to see it end.

His chocolatecovered thumb left a smudge on the corner of the map, but Doug didn' t acknowledge it. He drew the outline of a pine tree, then another. He clenched the tip of his tongue between his teeth, focusing on the task at hand. Content, he hummed quietly to himself the chorus from a John Cougar song. He drew another tree, and then filled it in.

"Life goes on," he sang softly, "long after the thrill of living is gone." The only time Doug was ever truly happy, other than when he was hanging out with Timmy and Barry, was when he was drawing something. The simple act of sketching, then adding detail, bringing something to life on paper, calmed his mind like nothing else. It was a form of escape. When he was drawing, his mind went into hibernation. He didn ' t think about his parents or his troubles at school or the things people said about him. None of those things mattered, or even existed. He was consumed with creation, blocking out everything other than the picture in his head. In a way, it was much like the oblivion he craved. He became totally absorbed in it and tuned out the rest of the world.

Which was why when a few small pebbles and loose soil on the Dugout's floor began to quiver, it didn't register with him. He barely noticed when the card table began to wiggle. He just assumed he'd accidentally bumped against it with his knee. Until it wiggled again, this time more noticeably.

Doug dropped the pencil and sat back, moving his knees away from the card table's legs. It shook again, more violently this time. The pencil rolled across the map and fell to the dirt floor.

"What the heck?"

Still seated, Doug bent over to retrieve the pencil and noticed that it had rolled to the center of the floor. So had several other objectsa marble, a Matchbox car, several loose BBs that had fallen out of someone ' s gun, a dud M80 that Timmy had told them he wanted to take apart, but had apparently forgotten about. As he watched, all of these and more slid to the middle of the Dugout 's floor, as if the floor itself were caving injust like the graves in the cemetery above.

"Oh, man. The sinkhole!"

Doug heard a muffled rustling sound from somewhere beneath his feet. He jumped out of the chair and sprang for the hatch door. The sound grew louder. Closer. A small hole appeared in the center of the floor, and the soil began tumbling into it, like sand through a sieve. Eyes bulging, Doug fumbled with the door ' s pullrope. His fingers were slicked with sweat and chocolate, and the rope slipped out of his grasp. Behind him, the card table toppled over, spilling the lantern and the map. The light went out, plunging him into darkness. Terrified, Doug began to cry.

He smelled the now all too familiar stench. It burned his nostrils. He heard more dirt falling into the hole. The entire floor was caving in.

"Please," he prayed aloud, "I don't want to die. I really don't." The darkness was replaced by a faint, eerie luminescence. Not enough to really see by, but still noticeable. The glow was coming from the hole. The foul odor grew stronger. Something hissed.

This wasn't some underground crevice opening up. Something was alive down there, beneath the Dugout, and it was tunneling up from below.

Desperate, Doug reached for the trapdoor again. Behind him, the hissing was replaced with cruel, wicked laughter. Crying now, he closed his eyes. When he' d been little, Doug used to lie in bed at night, fearful of the monster he was convinced lived in his closet. When he thought the monster was near, he ' d close his eyes. He was pretty sure that if he couldn 't see the monster, then it couldn't see him.

"Daddy," he whispered. "Come back now. Please? Come back and save me from the monster."

He opened his eyes.

The floor exploded upward, showering him with dirt and rocks. The card table and a stack of comics and porno magazines tumbled into the crevice. A long pair of pale, sinewy arms thrust toward him, barely visible in the gloom. Hands grasped his legs, just as his mother had done earlier in the evening. Doug beat at the clawed hands, but they held firm. The monster pulled him into the hole. He didn 't even get a chance to scream. Plunging downward into darkness, Doug thought about his father, and wondered if he still loved him.

Just like before, his father hadn't shown up to save him from the monster.