Back From The Dead

Chapter Seventeen

Sneaking out of the house was easy enough. His parents were sound sleepers.

His only worry was getting through the next hour or so and sneaking back in without being caught.

The neighborhood was silent as he stood by the curb waiting for Gordon. It was a warm night and a slight breeze brought much needed relief to the ninety-five degree heat the region had experienced the day before. Despite the warm night, Tim had dressed in a pair of jeans, tee shirt, and sneakers. He also had his cell phone, which contained a digital camera. If the possibility availed itself, he was going to snap a picture of the so-called zombies.

A pair of headlights stabbed the darkness and drew closer. As the car pulled up quietly at the curb, Tim noted Gordon’s pale features behind the wheel.

Tim got in the front seat and Gordon pulled away without a word.

“You sure Scott’s still gone?” Tim asked as they headed out of the development.

“Yeah,” Gordon said. He yawned. “He’s at Rebecca’s tonight.”

“He’s spending the night at her place?”

“Oh yeah.” Gordon grinned at him. “Her parents must be cool, eh? Imagine being able to spend the night fucking your girlfriend at her parents home!”

Chelsea popped into his mind and Tim felt a short tug to his heart. She’d been over to the house earlier that evening where they’d watched TV and hung out on the back deck. Mom and Dad had given them their space and mostly stayed inside. Chelsea could sense something had been bothering him and the one time she’d asked, Tim had told her everything was fine, he was just worrying about the latest court appearance. They were due in Lancaster Superior Court in a few days regarding the motion to dismiss the criminal investigation that was currently ongoing against Tim. That seemed to satisfy her, and Tim had tried to be a happy-go-lucky boyfriend the rest of the evening, but felt he’d failed miserably.

“His parents are gone, too?” Tim asked.

“His dad’s home. Not sure about his mom.” Gordon was silent for a moment. “Two A.M. is pretty late for Mr. Bradfield anyway. He’s probably in bed.”

Tim said nothing else as Gordon drove them to the Bradfield estate.

As they entered the road that took them into the hills that led to the estate, Tim felt his apprehension rise. He was prepared for pretty much anything tonight, having rehearsed several scenarios multiple times in his head. If this were a trick, he’d know the minute he stepped on to the property. He would activate his cell phone, would have the pre-set 911 button ready to dial and then if something or somebody so much as jumped out at him, he was sending the call. He’d yell out his location during whatever physical confrontation happened and do his best to get the hell out of there.

Otherwise, if he saw the zombies and had the opportunity, he would try to snap a photo. He had a plan if the zombies were real and this was a ruse to get rid of Tim by feeding him to the creatures; he would make Gordon enter the guesthouse first, would hang outside for a moment to make sure nobody else was around, then enter with extreme caution, making sure Gordon was in plain sight.

Regardless, he was nervous about what was going to happen tonight. He had no idea if he was really going to see what Gordon claimed were zombies. He had no idea what to expect.

He still couldn’t believe what Gordon told him.

He’d spent the rest of yesterday and last night thinking about it and had consulted a copy of Back From the Dead for the passage in question (Al had picked up another copy for him at a used bookstore). The scene that contained the spell was only three paragraphs long and consisted mainly of dialogue and narrative exposition. Hardly a recipe for a spell, but somehow Gordon had gotten it to work.

The question was, how?

Tim had leafed carefully through the book, looking for any other reference or clue that might give him some idea. Aside from a vague reference to the Liber Salomonis and the De prestigiis daemonum, which were no doubt fictional black magic tomes, there were no other references to spells, hexes, or black magic. Google searches were vague. It was only when Tim had exhausted his efforts in perusing Back From the Dead did he get the notion to do some research on Richard Long, the author of the book.

He was surprised to discover Richard Long was the pseudonym of a writer named William Sawyer, who maintained a detailed website that included a full bibliography. Tim had spent over an hour going over Sawyer’s biography and bibliography. In addition to the five Richard Long paperback originals, all horror novels, Sawyer was also the author of almost forty other books, most under his name, some under other pseudonyms. He’d written crime novels, SF, fantasy, thrillers, and horror fiction. Not only was he quite prolific, he’d made several best-seller lists and had won an award or two.

Tim found a contact form on the site and quickly composed a brief message to William, asking him about the occult source material for Back From the Dead, specifically the spells for resurrecting the dead. He noted that he realized the book was fiction but he’d read of similar accounts in supposed non-fiction sources and was wondering if Mr. Sawyer had access to more definitive information. He’d closed the message by telling the author he was a big fan, included his address and phone number, and signed off.

Tim had checked his inbox every hour since he sent that message shortly after supper, and checked it again briefly before leaving the house to meet Gordon. So far he’d received no response.

The Bradfield estate came into view and Gordon slowed the car down. “Here we are,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Tim. Gordon pulled up to the side of the road and turned off the lights. He turned the engine off and they sat in the vehicle for a moment, looking at the house.

Tim didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Gordon nudged him gently. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” Tim said. His mouth was suddenly dry, his limbs heavy, as he exited the vehicle.

With Gordon leading the way, they headed across the road and down the driveway that led past the six car garage. Tim had never been to Scott’s place before, had never even driven past it. Looking at the sprawling house — mansion was a more accurate word to describe the structure — Tim was struck by the fact that Scott lived in such an immense place with only two other people: his parents. It had to be at least four thousand square feet. For the first time, Tim wondered why Scott attended public school when it was obvious his parents were wealthy enough to send him to private school.

And with that thought came something out of memory lane, something Tim had nearly forgotten. The day Scott, Dave, and Steve had set on him in that field had occurred at the tail end of the school year, shortly before he was set to graduate from Spring Valley Elementary School. The year had started, however, with Scott’s introduction to his sixth grade class as a new student to Spring Valley Elementary. In the days to follow, Tim learned Scott had previously attended a series of private schools and had lived in Spring Valley all his life.

His parents did send him to private school, Tim thought as they approached the guest house. But he was kicked out. This thought came to him unbidden, and the more he turned it over in his mind, the more it made sense. Scott Bradfield had been out of control and a total psycho since day one and had been kicked out of every private school his parents sent him to. Public school had been their last resort, and the attack on Tim had almost been the end of that. Tim wondered if Scott’s parents had tried suing the private schools that expelled Scott; his guess was they had and were unsuccessful.

His thoughts were interrupted by Gordon creeping up to the front door of the guesthouse. It resembled a little cottage, with tan trim and little windows that flanked the lone door. Gordon turned to Tim. “Okay,” he whispered. He bent down, felt under a doormat and retrieved a key. He fitted the key in the lock while Tim stood nervously behind him, looking beyond at the vast estate, which was dark and brooding. He hoped Scott didn’t change his mind and decide to come home early from Rebecca’s.

Gordon opened the door and stood aside. He reached inside, looking at Tim. “You’ve got five seconds to get your look and then we’re getting the hell out of here. You got me?”

Tim nodded, relieved that this wasn’t going to be the trap he’d worried about.

Gordon turned on the light.

Standing just outside the front door of the guesthouse, Tim had a direct line of sight. What he saw almost knocked the wind out of him.

Sitting on the floor at the far end of what was obviously the living room were two men who were very dead.

In the five seconds Tim saw them, several things became quickly apparent. The dozens of air fresheners that were hanging from the ceiling gave the interior of the guesthouse a scent of pine that masked a sweet scent of rotting meat. The buzzing of flies gave way to their appearance, both outside the guesthouse and inside, where they buzzed and landed on the two corpses. The faint stains on the floor and walls that could have been dried blood, and the men themselves — both wearing dirty, threadbare clothes, their faces and bodies stained with gore, their skin turning a blue-black color in spots, white in others. They looked blankly at Tim with those dead eyes, fixing him in their stare, holding Tim rooted to his spot at the front door, unable to tear his gaze away until–

Gordon flicked off the light and shut the door with one fluid motion.

Tim could hardly breathe. His fear had returned tenfold now, blossoming through him to create an undeniable urge to make trails and get the hell out of there.

Gordon quickly replaced the key and was at Tim’s side. “Let’s go.” Gordon lightly but firmly urged Tim to turn around and, together, they made their way back the way they came, down the driveway and around to the front of the house. They made it to the car and Tim hunkered down in the front seat as Gordon started the car and did a U turn, heading back down the street and out of the development.

Gordon turned on the headlights as he exited the street and he cast a glance at Tim, who was still trying to get over his shock at what he’d seen. “Believe me now?”

Tim could only nod, still trying to calm himself down. His heart was beating hard, his stomach was doing slow flips in his belly. Trying to calm down was not very easy. What did I just see in there? his mind kept repeating.

“Well?” Gordon asked.

“Well, what?” Tim managed.

“You believe me. You saw the zombies. So now what are we going to do?”

Tim was at a loss for words. What he wanted to do was go to the police, but he knew if he voiced that opinion now, Gordon would do something. If Gordon was capable of participating in murder, even if he never laid a hand on the guys in that guest house but merely aided and abetted, he would be capable of keeping this a secret at all costs.

“You’ve got to have some kind of idea on how to stop this,” Gordon said. They were heading out of the development, making their way toward Route 501, which would take them to Broad Street.

“I don’t,” Tim said.

“You saw them, though. You believe me now, don’t you?”

“Oh, I believe you all right,” Tim said. Gordon sounded nervous and he had to placate him, assure him he was trying to think of a solution. “I just…let me think about it for a minute.”

They drove in silence for a while. Tim looked out the window, his mind racing, turning everything over. He had no idea what to do short of going to the police. He didn’t know a thing about black magic or Wicca other than what he’d read in a few books. He wasn’t a practicing witch or warlock despite what Gordon and his moron friends thought, and he was half tempted to simply not do anything but let Gordon suffer for his actions. If he was stupid enough to go messing around with things he didn’t know about, he deserved what was happening to him.

At the same time he couldn’t allow Scott, Dave, and Steve to continue kidnapping and murdering homeless people, much less turn them into zombies. Gordon was right…this had to stop. But at the same time, Gordon and his friends had to pay for what they’d done.

As if he’d read Tim’s thoughts, Gordon issued another threat. “No police. If you tell the police, I’ll not only make things worse for you, I’ll make things worse for Chelsea.”

Tim looked at Gordon, his heart lodged in his throat. “What?”

Gordon cocked a grin at Tim. “Didn’t realize I knew about the two of you, huh? I saw you guys sniffing around each other the last few weeks of school. I heard you went out with her last week, too.”

“Just…take me home,” Tim said, turning away from Gordon. “I’ll figure something out.”

“You better. Because if you don’t, Chelsea might end up as meat for the zombies.”

Tim glared at Gordon. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

The anger Tim felt at the threat directed to Chelsea was enormous. It almost eclipsed his rational side, making him want to lash out and bash Gordon’s face in. He reined it in, turned away and looked out the window as Gordon drove north on 501.

“I’ll call you tomorrow morning to hear your plan,” Gordon said. The street was deserted as they passed the Red Rose Shopping center on the left and went up the hill that would take them down into Spring Valley. “I can keep Scott and the guys occupied tomorrow. That should give you time to come up with a spell to make all this stop.”

Damn, he’s stupid, Tim thought. It was obvious Gordon wasn’t taking no for an answer, that he either didn’t care that Tim’s knowledge of the occult was limited or didn’t want to believe it. He’s depending on me to get him out of the mess he created. And if I don’t do it he’s going to hurt Chelsea.

“If those zombies aren’t dead — as in reduced back to the corpses they once were — by the next day, the police will be getting that anonymous call,” Gordon said. “Don’t bother digging up that garden for the rest of those bones, either. I hid them real well. You won’t find them. And if you call the cops I’ll not only deny everything and tell them where those other remains are, I’ll feed your girlfriend to the zombies.” Gordon regarded Tim calmly. “Are we clear?”

“Yeah,” Tim said.

“Good. Because — ”

From behind them came the brief whoop of a police siren, accompanied by swirling blue and red lights.

“Shit!” Gordon cast a quick glance in the rearview mirror, then turned to Tim. “If you so much as say one word about this to that cop, I’ll make sure Steve and Dave get Chelsea. You got me?”

Tim nodded, his brief fear over the sudden arrival of the police car giving way to momentary relief.

The police car whooped again behind them and Gordon pulled to the curb. “Keep your mouth shut,” he said to Tim. “Don’t say anything about what we were doing tonight. If they ask you, just tell them you and I were driving around talking.”

“We were trying to air out our differences,” Tim said, the ruse coming quickly.

“Right! We were just trying to air out our differences. They’ll believe that.” Gordon glanced in the rearview mirror, straightened up in the driver’s seat. He reached for his wallet and rolled his window down. “Remember what I said would happen to Chelsea if you tell them anything.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, his heart racing, not knowing what to do now that the cop was approaching the vehicle from the driver’s side, only knowing that he had to do something to stop this madness and do whatever he could to protect Chelsea and his family.