Back From The Dead

Chapter Sixteen

Ripple effects.

Like throwing a stone in a still body of water, an individual’s actions reverberate through life. A manufacturing plant manager laying off workers with a stroke of a pen to pad the compensation of the company executives affected those workers’ families, their wives and children. A slip down the economic ladder could mean hard times both financially and psychologically. In the mind of a child, that slip could mean a drastic change in their future that would, in turn, affect their future partners, their future children, and anybody whose lives they touched. Likewise, the choices one made upon deciding whether or not to enter college had similar effects. Choose the wrong major and stay with it for the wrong reasons and one could end up a lonely, bitter, angry person who, in turn, could affect everybody they touched in their lives.

So it was with magic.

And it did not concern the forces beyond who bestowed the practitioner of magic with their dark boons.

Their job was to grant the magician their wish.

No more, no less.

The ritual performed by Gordon Smith had been set to do its deed. The elements had fallen into place; the correct words had been spoken.

And the dark forces had answered.

And like all things, the ripple effect was in motion.

Flowing through the netherworld tide it reverberated, echoed. It sank into the ground, gathering strength through the ebbs and flows. It had been strong enough to reanimate and take possession of Neal Ashford when his lifeless, beaten body was buried in the consecrated ground and its strength was still present when Roger Gahan (who had lost his wallet two nights before being kidnapped by Scott Bradfield and his crew) was kidnapped, murdered and buried in the same spot. Building on its initial strength, and the new power it found through its simple task, that strength spread. It seeped through the ground, touching everything that had died and sunk into the earth. It moved slowly, creeping in a manner that was transparent to human perception.

A colony of ants killed by an invading colony was the first. Reanimated, the ants moved around sluggishly, as if confused in their destroyed labyrinths.

Farther in the woods the carcass of a mole, dead of a heart attack, was reanimated by the force’s power. It burrowed through the ground, still forever blind, searching for something that it could not comprehend.

The leaves of the trees overhead stirred. Birds in flight began to avoid the consecrated spot. Likewise, animals normally found in this section of the woods — deer, foxes, rodents, snakes — began to instinctively steer clear of it.

And the power slowly spread, reaching outward. Touching and awakening more dead life forms, calling them forth.

It was Wednesday morning and Tim Gaines was reclining on the leather sofa in the living room watching the news. He was tired. Last night, he’d gone out with Chelsea on his first date with her — she’d actually driven them into Lancaster to the Manor Theater to see the new Chronicles of Narnia movie. It had been a pleasant evening and thinking back on it sent tingles of pleasure through Tim. Even though it was pretty much common knowledge that they were attracted to each other, there was still that awkwardness between them. That all evaporated after the movie, when Chelsea parked her car in the community guest parking lot of his development and they talked. It had been so easy to talk to her now that the barrier between them was crumbling. He felt comfortable with her; still nervous, but comfortable. So when conversation abruptly died in mid sentence and the silence threatened to bridge that gap again, Chelsea had leaned forward quickly and kissed him.

And Tim had surprised himself by kissing her back.

He’d never kissed a girl before and he was surprised to find that his body just seemed to know what to do. From the gentle embraces, to the movement of lips and mouth, teeth and tongue, to the way he responded to her touches, her kisses, everything just came to him. The stirring in his groin was a natural reaction to that very physical coming together of their bodies, and Tim felt a momentary burst of panic. He didn’t want Chelsea to have the wrong impression of him; he wasn’t like all those other guys that lived only to get into a girl’s pants and then dump them. He wanted this to be special!

At the same time, he wanted her so badly.

And he sensed that Chelsea knew this.

And she responded accordingly.

She’d pressed herself against him and he could feel her breasts against his shirt. That only made him more crazy, more responsive to her touch, her caresses, her kisses. He let himself go, gave up control to his body’s instincts and expressed his desire for her through his own touch.

He didn’t know how long they made out in her car but at some point she stopped and held him. Tim opened his eyes, noted that the windows of the car were steamed up and he smiled. Chelsea told him that she should go — her curfew was midnight and it was already eleven-thirty. She started the car, rolled down the windows, laughing at the fact that they were steamed up. Tim had laughed too and she backed the car out of the parking slot and drove the dozen houses down to his condo unit and pulled up in front of it. She told him she’d talk to him tomorrow morning. He told her that would be great. They kissed one more time, quick, but still passionate, and then he was out of the car and heading toward the front door, feeling a momentary sense of panicked embarrassment. God, I hope my folks didn’t peek out the window as she pulled up to the house.

But those fears were laid to rest when he entered the house and saw his mom reclining on the sofa, the TV on, her eyes half shut. She’d looked up at him wearily, asked how his evening was and he’d smiled and said fine. Then he’d gone upstairs.

Where he’d stayed and relived the moment in the privacy of his bedroom.

And didn’t fall asleep.

At some point Mom came upstairs to bed. Tim went downstairs quietly, turned on the TV, and sat down in the darkened living room. His excitement was fueling his wakefulness and he could not go to sleep. He channel-surfed for a while, then headed to the kitchen for a snack.

A light tap on the sliding glass door caught his attention.

Chelsea was on the back deck. When she saw Tim, she grinned.

Tim had quietly opened the back door and before he had a chance to ask what she was doing, Chelsea was in his arms.

Somehow they kept quiet. And when it was over and they were re-arranging their clothes, Chelsea gave him a quick kiss, told him she just couldn’t help it, she had to come back. Tim had grinned back, told her he hadn’t been able to keep her out of his mind since she’d dropped him off, and then she was leaving out the back door. He watched her shadowy figure dance across the yard and between the utility shed his father had built and the fence that bordered their property with the neighboring house, then down the common area to where he knew the guest parking for the development was located. A moment later he heard a car engine start. Only then did Tim close the back door.

And now it was the following morning and Tim had relived his evening with Chelsea too many times to count. Everything about the date was perfect; the physical expression of their feelings toward each other last night had been the icing on the cake. Preceding that had been their conversation at the theater and in the car, where they’d talked about everything. School, their families, friends. Tim had brought her up on the latest in the investigation. How the police still hadn’t pressed formal criminal charges against him, or George and Al, but on the advice of their attorney they were on a sort of house arrest. Chelsea had raised an eyebrow at that and asked if he was on house arrest, why did his parents let him go to the movies with her? Tim could only shrug and grin. “I guess as long as they know we’re going to the movies, they’re cool with it.”

In reality, the house arrest wasn’t mandatory, but was suggested until their attorney could get the police to drop the investigation or file charges. Should something else happen in the interim, it was important they had firm alibis, and if they could verify they were at home, so much the better. It made sense.

It also kept them safe.

Thanks to the local weekly newspaper, the Spring Valley Gazette, they had every reason now to stay close to home due to a story published in last week’s edition. According to the story, which stated in a bold eighteen point headline: local teenagers involved in occult activity accused of grave-robbery, other satanic activity, Tim and his friends were all but tarred and feathered. The article straddled a thin line between sensational journalism and reporting the basic facts. It started off by relating the incident at Reamstown Cemetery, including the police questioning of Tim Gaines due to the evidence found (an occult paperback, according to the paper — nitwits couldn’t differentiate between fiction and non-fiction), and then proceeded to lay out a thinly-veiled indictment of him. It wasn’t enough to support a libel suit, which was the first thing his mother thought of when she read the piece. Their attorney, Doug Fenner, after a careful reading, broke that news gently, and it was he who suggested the house arrest. “The only way we can nail them is when we get the police to drop the investigation completely and hopefully arrest another suspect in the cemetery desecration. If they can do that we might have a case. But for now…we don’t.”

The background material in the article was simple enough in its noting the facts of the past six years from the school records at Spring Valley Middle School and High School; from the accusations that Tim had drawn occult symbols on students lockers and books, to the more outlandish ones where some of the more boneheaded kids swore he’d cast spells on them. There were a few comments on record that the reporter managed to get for the piece, including one from that bitch Heather Watkins, in which she dug up that old chestnut from ninth grade — that Tim had sacrificed her cat and not only told her about it, but informed her that he’d hexed her. It didn’t matter that the police had later dismissed the allegations, and it didn’t matter that this wasn’t reported in the article. As Mom had said the night the article came out, “Who the fuck wrote this? Some idiot that flunked journalism school?”

Dad had written a very long letter to the paper taking them to task for their shoddy reporting. He also set blame on the paper for placing the Gaines family in danger; since the article’s publication they’d received a dozen death threats by phone and had several dozen drive-bys where people yelled obscenities. While the majority of the citizens of Spring Valley were level-headed people, it seemed that a tiny minority of them not only believed everything they read and were told about Tim, they felt the need to put him and his parents in danger when there was no solid proof he’d committed any crime. Furthermore, he wrote, Tim had never been convicted of a crime despite being made the social pariah of town. He concluded by addressing the Spring Valley Police department directly: either file criminal charges against my son or cease your investigation and make a public apology.

That had been three days ago, on a Sunday. Dad’s letter had not been published yet (he wondered if the editors of the paper would publish it in its entirety, if at all), and as Tim thought about it, not even paying attention to the news on TV, he added a few more things he’d noticed in the days since the article’s publication. How the police and Spring Valley High’s principal weren’t returning their calls. How Dad casually mentioned the other night how a once friendly colleague at work was now silent around him, refusing to speak to him (the guy in question lived in Spring Valley). For her part, Mom was looking into moving out of the area. Tim had overheard his parents talking about this Sunday night and his heart sank as he detected the seriousness in their voices. As much as he realized it was the rational thing to do, to wipe the slate clean and start fresh, he felt a tinge of sadness that he would be forced to leave his friends. He also felt a heartsickness at the thought of leaving Chelsea. In the days before their date they’d talked constantly on the phone, and Tim could feel that the attraction was not only mutual, but was preparing to build to a new level. He didn’t want to destroy any hope he had with her.

But he knew that in the grand scheme of things, what was happening to him and his family was very serious. For his sake, for the sake of his future, for the sake of his parents, they had to leave.

A sudden knock on the front door snapped Tim out of his thoughts. He turned down the TV’s volume with the remote, then got up and headed to the front door.

Gordon Smith stood on the front porch. He tilted his head in a greeting. “Hey, Tim. What’s up?”

Tim’s stomach clenched. A burst of anger flared within him. “What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Really? Maybe you should talk to me through my attorney. I’ll get you his number.” He was just about to close the door in Gordon’s face, the anger and rage racing through him now so much it took all his will-power to control it.

“Wait! I need your help!”

Tim paused and something in Gordon’s voice and demeanor diluted his anger. “You need my help? Are you out of your mind? I tried to help you before but you framed me!”

“I know and I’m sorry!” For the first time Tim saw a look on Gordon’s face he’d never seen before. Fear. “But you’re the only person I can come to with this. It’s about — “

“You think I can trust you now after you lied to the police?”

“No, I don’t.” Gordon hesitated a moment, and now Tim’s anger subsided even more. The look of fear in Gordon’s eyes was genuine.

Tim dropped his guard slightly. “What’s going on?”

“It’s about that book you loaned me and why the police found it at Reamstown Cemetery,” Gordon began. “And its about…some really fucked up shit that’s been going on because of it.”

“The only fucked up shit is you vandalizing a cemetery and trying to blame me for it,” Tim muttered.

“I admit, I vandalized that grave,” Gordon said. “But it wasn’t done with the intention of framing you, I swear. It was to…gather material…to cast a spell…”

Now it was Tim’s turn to be surprised. “What?”

Gordon glanced around the neighborhood. “Can I come in? I’ll tell you everything.”

Tim almost told him no at that point. Almost told him to fuck off, but something about Gordon’s demeanor spoke to him. He’s scared out of his mind.

That decided it. He opened the screen door. “Come in.”

Gordon stepped inside and Tim shut the door.

As Gordon began telling Tim the events of the past few weeks, Tim felt a strange sense of disbelief along with a mixture of dread.

Tim was sitting in the easy chair by the living room window, Gordon on the sofa. He’d retrieved cokes for them, and Gordon sipped his as he told Tim what was going on. He started by telling Tim about the wilding sprees, which surprised and shocked him. As much as a pack of assholes Scott Bradfield and his friends were, he never imagined they would be insensitive psychopaths. As quickly as that thought came, though, it went away as the memory of that horrible day from six years ago rose in his mind, unbidden.

He’d been walking home from school that late spring day, minding his own business as usual. The day had been largely uneventful. A math test, an assembly for preparation for the sixth grade class graduating ceremonies. Lunch and recess. Same old shit. Scott Bradfield and his stupid friends had been pestering him again, but they were dorks. Tim avoided them whenever possible anyway, and usually spent his time hanging out with his friend Richard Pilson, who would later move out of the area with his family. During study hall he spent his time reading a really cool book by Stephen King, ‘Salem’s Lot, which was about vampires. Tim was engrossed in the story, and had not been able to put the book down since picking up the worn paperback from the crammed bookshelf that was in the third bedroom of their condo. Good thing he’d completed his homework early.

He was thinking about nothing in particular, only wanting to get home and get back into the book, and was just in the middle of a lonely stretch of road where a large field lay on his right, when he heard them approach from behind.

Scott Bradfield and his friends Dave Bruce and Steve Downing. They were running toward him fast, closing the gap. A yell sounded and Tim caught a momentary glimpse of the look in their eyes before he turned tail and ran.

They had too great a lead on him and caught up with him after fifty yards. Scott grabbed him, holding him back. Immediately Tim had gone on the defensive, trying to talk his way out of a physical confrontation. Scott had beaten him up last year on the way home from school, not enough to raise concern with his parents (who hadn’t noticed he’d been in a fight, nor had he told them; he’d been too embarrassed), but the experience was enough to make him avoid Scott whenever possible. In the year that passed, Scott had occasionally set his sights on Tim, who’d done everything he could to get out of Scott’s radar. It usually worked.

Not this time, though.

“All right!” Scott said, clutching Tim’s jacket. He began herding Tim into the field. “Got something I want to show you, Gaines.”

“Listen, I really got to — ”

Dave and Steve were laughing as they stood on either side of him, helping Scott herd him into the field. “You’re gonna love this, Count Gaines!”

Count Gaines? That had been the first time the nickname was used and at the time Tim didn’t know what they meant by it. “What?” he asked.

“You’ll see!” Scott’s grip was solid. As they walked into the field, Tim caught a glimpse of Scott’s features. There was something in his eyes that sent shards of fear through Tim’s body. They were cold, calculating. They spoke volumes, and Tim had the sense that something very bad was about to happen to him.

Tim tried pulling away, tried protesting, but it was no use. They overpowered him and Dave socked him in the upper thigh, giving him a Charlie horse. He tried yelling at the top of his lungs but another blow to the face cut it off. Scott loomed over him, telling him he didn’t have to make a big deal out of this…they just wanted to show him something, just wanted to help him. Tim was out of breath, scared, confused, and he let the three boys lead him deeper into the field where they suddenly stopped.

At first the smell did not register with Tim. He was so worked up with fear that he hadn’t noticed it until they were standing directly over it. Tim was practically touching it with the tips of his shoes. A cloud of flies swarmed up at their arrival, buzzing frenziedly, then landing on what appeared to be a lump of fur.

“I shot it this morning with my.22,” Scott said. “Blood should still be fresh. Go ahead, have a sip, Count.”

Tim had stared down at what he now took to be a dead possum. There was an animal smell of sweat and shit. “What are you talking about?”

Scott’s fingers had pressed down on his neck, forcing him to his knees in front of the dead possum. Scott hissed in his ear. “Vampires drink blood, don’t they, Count?”

Steve and Dave laughed, crowding in closer.

“I saw that book you’re reading,” Scott said, holding him down. “About vampires. You want to be a vampire, Count?”

Tim almost shouted, almost pleaded, no, I don’t want to be a vampire, I just want to go home! Instead he made one more valiant attempt at escape. He forced himself up only to be brought back down by Scott and his friends. He fell to his knees in front of the possum. The flies buzzed up again, circling.

“Fucking weirdo is what you are,” Scott growled in his ear. His fingers dug into his collarbone. “Always reading books about ghosts and witches and vampires. And that fucking Harry Potter shit! What are you, a fucking devil worshipper?”

Dave and Steve were laughing but Scott was deadly serious. “I don’t see you in church, and neither do people I talk to,” Scott continued. “And all you read is that devil shit. When you read occult books it opens you up to be influenced by the devil. Is that what you’re trying to do? Be influenced by the devil?”

Tim had wanted to shout at him: are you out of your mind? Do you really believe what you’re saying? but he couldn’t. The pain in his collarbone was too fierce, and he was too frightened.

“I know a lot of kids like the Harry Potter books,” Scott said, standing over him, keeping him to the ground. “But you…the stuff you read…it goes beyond that. I’ve seen the kind of books you bring to school. Those comic books. Those paperbacks. Stuff with ghosts and demons on the cover. It’s all you read. I’ve never seen you read anything else. To me, that spells trouble. It makes sense now why you don’t want to hang out with anybody but that Richard Pilson freak. Makes sense why you aren’t into sports or why we never see you at the park or why nobody sees you at church. Vampire devil-worshippers like to hide, don’t they, Count Gaines?”

Tim could tell that Scott’s logic was not only misguided, it was twisted. He’d dimly followed a newspaper account from earlier in the school year when a local Fire Hall refused to provide security and protection during a YMCA event because of the organization’s sponsorship of a Harry Potter reading event geared toward children. The Fire Hall’s excuse was that the Harry Potter books glorified and promoted witchcraft and Satanism. Mom and Dad had a lot to say about that; the people at the Fire Hall were illiterate morons, obviously. And as they’d explained to Tim later, when illiterate morons gained positions of power, especially illiterate morons who were religious fanatics, all sense of reason and diplomacy went out the window.

Tim had never given much thought to the over-whelming Christian church-going views of the Spring Valley township’s population until that moment. He knew that Scott was a member of some church youth group and that was about it. In the years to follow, he would come to learn that his greatest tormentors hid behind the mask of Christianity, using it as an excuse with which to heap their verbal and psychological abuse. But that day, in the field, with a dead possum at his feet, his mind was a swirling mass of confusion as he tried to connect the dots.

“Do you believe in God, Tim?” Scott’s fingers tightened on his collarbone, pinching a nerve.

“Aaah!” Tim breathed in pain.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes!” Tim said loudly. “Yes, yes, I believe in God!”

“How come I don’t believe you?” His grip tightened.

“I don’t know! I believe, I believe!”

“If you believe, how come I don’t see you in church? How come I never hear you talk about going to church?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” He just wanted this pain to stop!

“If you believe in God, why are you always reading books about devils and demons and vampires?”

His grip tightened again and he pushed Tim closer to the dead possum. Steve and Dave’s laughter had settled into occasional chuckles as they stood watching.

“Do you like reading about vampires, witches, and demons?”

Tim winced at the pain in his shoulders and neck, which was becoming unbearable. He squirmed in Scott’s grip, trying to ease the pressure, to escape. “Please…” he panted. “Let me go — ”

“Answer the question!” Scott barked, retaining his grip on him.

“Ahh — ” Tim winced, his breath held. “Please — ”

“Do you enjoy reading about vampires, demons, and witches? Yes or no?”

“No! No, I don’t, now please, just let me go — ”

“You’re lying because that’s all you read. You like reading about demons, witches and vampires because that’s what you want to be, isn’t it? You’re drawn to the unholy because you’re not like the rest of us. You’re not a Christian, you don’t go to church, you’re a witch-loving, demon-loving freak who wants to be a vampire!”

“No, that’s not true, please — ”

“Then why do you like reading those kinds of books so much?”

“They’re just…stories! Just stories, that’s all they are — ”

But Scott wasn’t having any of it. His grip was tight on Tim’s neck. “Just stories, huh? Stories like the Harry Potter books, right? Witchcraft and devil-worship. Those Harry Potter books aren’t just stories, Tim! Witchcraft and devil-worship is real! It’s not Christian, and neither are vampires.”

Vampires aren’t real, Tim wanted to say, but couldn’t. His mouth was dry.

“We’ve been trying to get you to see that it’s bad for you to read that kind of stuff for weeks now,” Scott said, and Tim’s mind instantly replayed to several incidents that had occurred over the past few weeks. Jeering catcalls made in the hallways at school about Tim’s love of spooks and devils. Verbal jabs in the playground that Tim liked the devil more than he liked Jesus. Tim was intelligent enough to dismiss all of this as immature crap. It wasn’t his problem his classmates couldn’t differentiate fiction from reality.

Apparently, though, he was wrong because now it was his problem.

“Now we realize you weren’t listening because you don’t care,” Scott continued. “You love the devil more than you love God. That makes you a freak. So we decided if we can’t save you, we’ll help you. That’s why we brought you out here.”

Tim struggled once more briefly and Scott applied vice-like pressure to the nerve in his collarbone that sent him to his knees. Tim was barely aware that he was crying now.

“You want to be a vampire so much, we got you something to drink.” Scott’s voice was teasing, mocking. “After all, blood is blood, right? Figure we might need to get you used to animal blood before you start going after people.”

And as Tim realized the mad intent behind Scott’s words, he fought one last time to break free from the grip. The blows crashed down on him again, landing on his torso, his legs. He was driven closer to the ground, Scott forcing his face into the matted, bloodied fur of the dead possum. He screamed, his throat becoming raw, and as he screamed his face was shoved into the animal’s body and he felt the fur, felt the matted blood, barely heard Scott’s voice commanding him to drink! Drink its fucking blood, you freak! He didn’t hear Dave and Steve laughing uncontrollably, wasn’t aware that he was crying, that he’d peed his pants and his strength left him as Scott held his face to the possum’s body, filling his mouth and nostrils, the strong scent of it now overwhelming, triggering his nausea, and that’s when he threw up.

Throwing up had been the trigger. Scott released him and the boys had jumped back, laughing. “Ha ha ha, lookit him!”

“Fuckin’ puked all over himself!”

They’d stood over Tim, laughing, watching him puke his guts out. Then they’d walked away, leaving him lying there on the ground, dry heaving, out of breath from crying, still sick with nausea, pain wracking his body.

That simple, very quick reliving of the incident that had set things in motion for Tim Gaines — the arrest of Scott and his friends, their parents influence on the town which forced the authorities to release them and not press charges, Scott and his friends circulating nasty rumors about Tim in the years to follow — was enough to convince Tim that, yes, Scott Bradfield and his crew could be capable of such cruelty. It was a no-brainer. If he could beat another kid, force him to try to eat a dead animal, he was capable of even worse atrocities.

So he listened as Gordon continued his story. He listened as Gordon told him about their brief excursions into Harrisburg and Philadelphia, where they’d target a homeless person and beat him up, then leave. It sickened Tim to hear this and it once again angered him that a group of kids who cloaked themselves with such holier-than-thou bullshit — who had everybody in town fooled that they were not only such upstanding, caring citizens and perfect Christians — were such monsters.

When Gordon got to the part of the abduction of Neal Ashford, Tim drew in a breath. This crossing the line from random beatings to felony abduction was the final straw. Tim could only listen with bated breath as Gordon told them how they’d abducted Neal and taken him back to Scott’s place and locked him in the guest house. He related how the plan had been to use Neal as their own personal punching bag, that the whole idea was to use somebody nobody would care about, but then the guy had fucking died on them a week later, and that’s when Gordon had come up with the idea of resurrecting him.

Tim blinked. “You what?”

“I came up with the idea of bringing him back from the dead,” Gordon said. Despite the therapeutic nature of the confession, Gordon looked amazingly calm. “I thought…if he came back…it would be better. Because then we wouldn’t have to worry about getting another one. We could just use this same guy over and over again. Just beat on him without having to worry about killing him.”

Tim didn’t see the logic in that. They’d already killed the guy. But then, they never saw Neal as a fellow human being. They saw him as an object to pummel and pound on, to use as a human punching bag. With that thought it was now clear to Tim. He was speaking to a stone-cold sociopath.

Somehow he kept his fear in check as he nodded at Gordon to continue.

As Gordon segued into his borrowing of Back From the Dead from Tim, everything became clear. He finished this part of the story himself aloud. “When I told you what the book was about, you realized it contained the elements you were thinking about,” he said. “That’s why you were asking me about the zombies, how they were made.”

“Exactly,” Gordon said, nodding. He took another sip of coke. “And that’s why I asked you to show me the parts in the book that told how to make the zombies.”

“But…I don’t understand…that book is just a horror novel. It’s not real. It was just a story!”

“You said yourself that zombies are real in Haiti!” Gordon argued.

“Yeah, but what takes place in Back From the Dead is fiction. It isn’t real! It’s made up.”

Gordon shook his head. It looked like he was struggling with this basic fact. Tim tried to remember if Gordon came from an overtly religious family, the kind that believed the fantasy novels of J.K. Rowling were as real as thunderstorms. “It might be a story, but it mixes fiction with reality. All fiction does that to a certain extent, right?”

“I suppose,” Tim said. “But…” But you can’t resurrect the dead! That’s impossible!”

And then in the back of his mind came one of the oldest stories of the dead being resurrected. That son of a Jewish carpenter who’d been nailed to a tree, was entombed in a cave, then rose from the dead three days later.

He banished that particular thought from his mind, focusing on what Gordon was telling him. He nodded for Gordon to continue.

Gordon wrapped it up quickly, telling him about the second abduction, how that homeless guy was killed quickly in a fit of rage by Scott, how they’d taken the body out to Zuck’s Woods that night and waited while the spell did its work. He felt a sense of disgust as Gordon revealed that the other guys wanted Neal Ashford’s corpse to eat the second homeless man, and he was even more horrified when Gordon told him about John Elfman. His jaw dropped. “You killed John?”

“I didn’t kill John!” Gordon protested. He was showing a faint sign of nervousness. “Scott…Dave and Steve…they killed him.”

Tim almost blurted, but you helped! but didn’t. For the first time, the thought that Gordon was making everything up as some sort of elaborate practical joke occurred to him, but he kept that to himself. “Okay, Scott and others did it. But…why?”

“They wanted to feed somebody to the zombies,” Gordon explained. His features had a sense of pleading in them, as if he were begging Tim to understand the nature of their actions. “It was like…once we started talking about doing this, all the talk of zombies and stuff…and when it really happened with Neal…they wanted to see if all the stuff you see in movies was real.”

“And was it?”

Gordon nodded. It seemed that with Gordon safe within the sanctuary of his living room he felt comfortable in letting his true emotions through. He looked visibly affected by what he’d seen. “Yeah,” Gordon said. “Once John was pushed into the zombies it was like…they turned on him. It was just like those Dawn of the Dead movies. They just…tore into him.”

“They ate him?”

Gordon nodded. “Yeah.” Gordon’s eyes were haunted. They reflected the depths of the horror he’d witnessed.

As horrible as it all sounded, Tim still had a hard time trying to wrap his mind around it. They’d resurrected their murder victims and turned them into zombies…not just Haitian zombies, but a combination of Haitian and Romero zombies, the latter of which weren’t even real! How was this possible?

Gordon wrapped the story to its conclusion. “I helped the guys clean up. It was…pretty messy. Steve got sick…I did too. We finally got the worst of it out of there and — ”

“How’d you get John’s body out without getting attacked by the zombies?”

“Scott brought a bunch of gardening tools. Rakes, shovels and shit like that. We used them to fish the…body parts…over to us.”

“And the zombies didn’t try to lunge at you?”

“Not really. They were pretty sedated at that point. Like munching on John had made them lazy. You know?”

Tim didn’t know, not having ever seen a zombie consume a human being before. “So you got the rest of John out of there and then what?”

“Scott spread lime on the floor and the rest of us went out and got air fresheners. We hung them up to mask the smell. We…burned the rest of John in the fireplace.”

Tim’s mind was turning everything over. The events Gordon was describing had occurred five nights ago. He had yet to hear of John’s disappearance in the news, but then he supposed the local media hadn’t run anything on it yet. “Do you know if John’s parents have reported him missing?”

Gordon shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

“Scott’s mom is home now?”

Gordon nodded.

“Have you heard from Scott or Dave or Steve since then?”

“Just phone calls. We’ve been checking in with each other, to make sure everything’s okay.”

“And is it?”

Gordon was silent. He wouldn’t look at Tim, and Tim wondered again if this was some elaborate joke. His old instinct told him not to trust Gordon due to their history, but the other boy’s tone of voice, his fearful expression, his body language, was clear evidence: everything Tim was being told was the truth.

Gordon looked at him. “If you’re thinking I’m fucking with you, I’m not. I swear to God it’s the truth. I never thought…never thought — ”

“I’ve got to admit it sounds…” Unbelievable was the word he wanted to use.

“Crazy?”

“Yeah.” Tim nodded.

“I know. But I’m telling you man, that shit worked. Everything in that book worked, right down to the last — ”

“Tell me again what you did.”

Gordon backtracked a bit and related how he’d read over the passages from Back From the Dead where the houngan in the story resurrects the corpse of an ally for use in an upcoming battle with an enemy. The passage itself wasn’t very long, but it was enough to mix fact with fantasy to paint a very vivid, realistic picture. “I just gathered the stuff that’s mentioned in the book. Those roots and herbs I got at Madam Crosswell’s in Lancaster. I got the candles and salt and purchased a rabbit at Mill’s Pet Store in Hempfield. And then I went to Zuck’s Woods and found a nice secluded spot and just did the spell, the one that hung…how do you pronounce that?”

“Houngan,” Tim said, carefully enunciating the words.

“Right. I just followed how he did that spell in the book, the one that consecrates the ground for use in a ritual designed to raise the dead. It was kinda hard because it was dark and I had to keep looking from the book to what I was doing. Some of the words were hard to pronounce, so I just did it the best I could. In fact, the rest of that spell is just plain gibberish. I skipped that part and just recited the stuff in English — ”

“You skipped some of it?”

“Yeah. Why?” Gordon looked at Tim as if he’d done something wrong.

What are you going to tell him now? That skipping over parts of a make-believe spell, from a make-believe book, might have altered the spell he was trying to conjure? Tim knew enough about the occult from his scant reading of it to know that rituals and formulas had to be followed precisely. Any deviation could alter the effects of the spell drastically. He kept this to himself. No need to tell Gordon, especially when he was having a hard time coming to grips with Gordon’s story.

“So you consecrated the ground and then the next night you brought Neal’s body back and did the resurrecting spell,” Tim said, choosing his words carefully. “Did you deviate from it at all?”

“No. Some of the words were hard to pronounce so I might have…skimmed over some of them.” Gordon looked frustrated. “You think I fucked it up by mispronouncing them?”

“I don’t know.” Tim’s mind was racing. He still didn’t know what to make of this, but he had to keep Gordon on his side. Had to maintain Gordon’s trust. After all, Gordon had come to him for help. “It sounds like everything worked, though.”

“So how do we get it to unwork?” Gordon asked. “Is there a spell in the book to counteract what I did?”

“No,” Tim said. It was obvious from that last question that Gordon had not read Back From the Dead in its entirety.

“So what can we do?”

“What can we do?”

“Yeah.” Gordon was looking at him expectantly. “You’ve gotta help me, Tim.”

“To be honest, I’m having a hard time believing this.”

“Would it help if I showed you?”

“You can show me?”

“Yeah. I can take you to Scott’s place. Sneak you in the back.”

“I don’t know…” Tim’s instincts were screaming don’t trust him! It’s a gag!

“I can take you tonight. Scott’s going out with Rebecca, and his parents either won’t be home or won’t notice. It’ll be a quick sneak into their yard, a peek through the door, and you’ll have all the proof you need.”

It still didn’t sit right with Tim. He tried not to let his nervousness show. “I don’t know. I’m kinda on house arrest now since…you know.”

“We can do it real late at night,” Gordon said, and now his expression changed. It became more animated, more persuasive. “I know you want to put this whole thing behind you and maybe…maybe this can be the thing that’ll do it.”

“How would my going over to the Bradfield estate, and seeing what you’re telling me are zombies, help?”

“You’re having a hard time believing what I’m telling you, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“So you’ve got to see them. If you see them, you’ll believe me.”

“Okay, say everything you tell me is true, and by this time tomorrow I’m a believer. Then what? How am I supposed to help you outside of calling the police?”

Gordon’s enthusiasm faltered. “You don’t want to do that, Tim.”

“Why not? I thought you wanted help.”

“I want to help myself get out of this. That means ending the spell, ending Scott’s insanity, so he won’t do this again.”

“You think he’s going to try it again? Kill another homeless person, bury them in Zuck’s Woods and make another zombie?”

“Yes.”

Tim contemplated this. Gordon still spoke with the air of somebody who was deadly serious and not joking around. Still, the very idea of what Gordon was insinuating just wasn’t very believable. “You think I can stop it somehow?”

“If you see, you’ll believe that what I’m telling you is the truth. And maybe that’ll help you find a spell to stop this.”

Why the hell do you think I’ll know a spell to stop this? I’m not the fucking devil-worshipper you and your idiotic friends have made me out to be! I wouldn’t know the first thing about casting a spell! Of course, saying this would be useless. Gordon not only believed Back From the Dead was real, he believed black magic was real.

And with that thought, something tugged at him.

Suppose some of it was real?

Tim had a healthy interest in the supernatural. He was fascinated by it. The romanticism of life after death was highly intriguing, and part of him wished there was some merit to his spirit living on after death. He had no solid belief in any form of organized religion. While the idea of ghosts, of spirits, of some form of supernatural power that could be used for good or evil purposes was intriguing and held his interest, he pretty much rejected all concepts of a supreme diety that ruled from the sky. That didn’t mean he’d slammed the door entirely on that particular school of thought, just that he’d pretty much rejected all the traditional dogma of Judeo-Christian thought.

But that didn’t mean he’d rejected everything entirely.

“I’ve gotta be honest with you,” Tim said, choosing his words carefully. “I’m finding this hard to believe, and even if I did see what you’re…alleging is true…I don’t know how I can help. I don’t know much about the occult and black magic, just what I’ve read in horror novels and a few non-fiction accounts. I’m no expert.”

Gordon acted as if he hadn’t heard Tim. “Let me spell it out for you. You have to help me out of this. If you do, I can help get the Dean of the school off your case and I can persuade the police to drop their investigation of you and your friends in that grave-robbing thing. I can also ensure that nothing like that happens to you guys again.”

Tim felt his face flush with anger. “I’ve listened to enough.” He rose to his feet. “You’re going to have to go now, Gordon.”

Gordon didn’t budge from his space on the sofa. “If you don’t help me I’ll make it worse for you.”

“How are you going to make it worse?”

“I kept some of the bones from that corpse I dug up. I planted some last night in your garden while you were asleep.”

“Bullshit!”

“Wanna try me? Say no to my offer now, the minute I leave I’m calling the police and leaving an anonymous call that the remainder of that corpse is buried in your garden. They’ll find it, too. They’ve got a hard-on for you, Tim. It won’t take much for me to get them out here.”

“You’re full of shit!” Tim got up and strode to the kitchen. He looked out the window that overlooked the garden his mom had tended ever since they’d moved in, the one where she planted tomatoes, beans, turnips, and red peppers every year.

There was a spot two feet from the wooden edge of the garden where the ground had recently been turned over and stomped down again. The earth was a darker shade than the rest, giving the appearance something had been planted there.

Mom doesn’t plant anything in that section, he thought. And I haven’t seen her back here recently…so why is it —

Gordon approached from behind, keeping his distance. “I really don’t want to blackmail you, Tim. Honest to God. I just want you to help me, and I swear when it’s all over you’ll never hear from me again.”

Tim whirled to face Gordon. He could barely contain his anger. “You fucking asshole.”

Gordon pulled out his cell phone from his pocket. He flipped it open, pressed a button, and started to walk away. “Fine, you don’t want to help me, I’ll leave. I’ll be placing that call though.” He stepped away and headed toward the front door.

“Wait!” The urge to placate Gordon temporarily and dash outside to see what was buried in his mother’s garden pulsed strongly through him. “Hold on, I’ll help you.”

Gordon paused at the front door. “You will?”

“Yes.”

Gordon put the phone back in his pocket. “Great!”

“But I need to see them first.”

Gordon nodded. “Of course. I’ll take you tonight.”

“Not tonight. Now.”

Gordon shook his head. “No can do, buddy. Scott’s home, and he’d freak if he saw you there. We’ve got to sneak over tonight.”

Tim sighed. His mind raced, trying to come up with an alternate plan. Something to dig himself out of this. He didn’t want to have anything to do with Gordon, wanted no part of this lunacy, but he also didn’t want to put his parents and George and Al and their families through any more trouble. It had to end, tonight if possible. “Fine,” he said. “Tonight then.”

Gordon nodded and opened the door to leave. “One final warning,” he said. His features were impassive as he faced Tim. “Don’t call the police. They’re not only not going to believe you, they’re going to believe everything I tell them.”

“And why would they believe you?”

Gordon rolled his eyes. “Do I have to spell it out for you? C’mon, Tim, you’re a smart guy.”

“Okay, I get it.” Tim said, the reality of what he was about to say stinging to his soul. “Nobody likes me in this town. It’s pretty much evident from what I’ve been through for the past five years. It’s also evident from the fact that nobody believed me when my copy of Back From the Dead was found at the cemetery and the police dismissed me when I told them I’d loaned it to you.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Gordon looked at Tim and for a moment that softness came back again. “I admit, I lied to the police about returning that book to you. Judging by what’s happened with you and your friends, they believed me.”

“No thanks to you,” Tim muttered.

“Just remember…they’re going to continue to believe me, and they’ll especially believe Scott, Steve, and Dave. They’ll believe me when I tell them more evidence is planted not only in the garden, but somewhere else on your property.”

Tim sputtered. “What?”

Gordon ignored the outburst and continued. “If the police come and say you’d told them I just tried to blackmail you, I’ll make sure they know about this other hidden spot where the bones are buried. There’s other incriminating evidence buried there, too. It might even point to you being involved in John’s murder.”

Tim was so stunned by this that he didn’t know what to say. It was like he’d temporarily lost the ability for speech. His heart pounded fiercely in his chest and he felt his body grow light. “You wouldn’t,” he managed to whisper.

“John picked on you too, right? And with all that horror and occult stuff the cops probably hauled away the other night…” Gordon shrugged and turned to exit the house. “I’ll pull up to your place at two A.M.,” he said as he left. “If you aren’t waiting for me at the curb, I’m placing that call to the police tomorrow morning. And remember.” He paused at the foot of the walk that led to their parking pad. “Not a word of this to anybody. Things will only get worse for you if you call the cops. Nobody’s gonna believe you.”

And with that final threat, Gordon Smith turned and walked down the driveway.

Tim closed the door and leaned against it. Despite the coolness of the living room brought on by the air conditioner, he was sweating.

This can’t be happening. There’s no way any reasonable adult in his or her right mind would look at everything that’s happened logically and determine that Gordon Smith and Scott Bradfield are telling the truth…especially if what Gordon is saying is even partially true…that they’ve kidnapped homeless people and murdered them on Scott’s own property…

…and John! My God, they killed John Elfman?

As much as Tim tried to rationalize it, he couldn’t see how the authorities would believe Gordon over him. He had alibis. He had a solid academic record. He had —

You have a police record, a school disciplinary record that includes allegations of Satanic ritual, witchcraft, vandalism, and all kinds of bogus, trumped-up shit. Gordon, Scott, Steve, and Dave, on the other hand, are good upstanding Christian citizens in the eyes of pretty much everybody in town and can do no wrong. Who do you think they’re going to believe?

And with that it was clear to Tim what must be done. What he had to do.

He had no other choice.

He had to go with Gordon tonight. He had to see for himself.