Ghoul

Chapter Thirteen

Barry waited until his mother was asleep before he got up. His alarm clock showed that it was 2:23 in the morning. He reached above him and turned on the small lamp sitting precariously on his headboard. Just this simple movement caused new agony, and the light hurt his eyes. He groaned, and that hurt his mouth.

His body was sore and battered. It hurt just to breathe. If he moved too quickly, he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his side. His father' s fury had left no part of his body untouched. His bottom lip was split wide open in the middle, and simply touching it brought tears to his eyes. One eye was swollen, the other blackened, and Dane Graco 's Freemason ringwhich had somehow ended up on his father's handhad left ugly, purple indentations on Barry' s cheek and forehead. The ring had gouged a ragged furrow in his other cheek. The deep cut would leave a permanent scar; just one more scar to add to all of those left by his father. His shoulders and kidneys ached, and his stomach, back, and sides were covered with welts and bruises. Portions of Barry' s scalp were raw and bleeding, where his father had pulled his hair out. His left forearm had five fingershaped bruises on it. The other had been burned with a cigarette, and the open wound wept. He dimly remembered that it had been the burn that brought him back to consciousness. Even his groin throbbed.

His father' s last act had been to kick him there, after he was already down and about to pass out a second time. Barry was covered in dried blood, all of it his. He eased himself off the bed, went to the door, and listened. The house was quiet. His father had left many hours before, stomping out into the night without a word. His mother had either cried or drank herself to sleep. Probably a combination of both. After his father was gone, she ' d tried to help Barry, wept over him and tried to soothe his pain, but Barry had pushed her away. Now he felt guilty about that. He ' d shouted at her, told her he hated her. The look in her eyes had been the same one she gave his father, when the old man was hitting her. Feeling a savage twist of vindication, Barry had said it again. But it wasn ' t true. He didn ' t hate his mother. He just no longer cared. Not about her or his father or anything else. Not after tonight. His physical pain was immense, but inside, Barry felt emotionally numb.

His mother had taken a beating as well, after Clark was finished with Barry. At one point, Rhonda had scrambled for the phone, threatening to call the police. Clark ripped it out of the wall, and then did the same with the one in the bedroom. He 'd put his foot through both jacks, so that the phones couldn' t be plugged back in. Then he 'd laughed, hands on hips, defiantly daring them to run for help.

Slowly, Barry opened his bedroom door and peered out into the hallway. The house was still silent. He crept into the bathroom, turned on the light, and shut the door behind him. Bending over to lift the toilet seat caused fresh pain. He whimpered while he relieved himself. The act made his kidneys and groin ache even worse. Alarmed, he saw that his urine was dark in color. He wondered if that meant there was blood in it, and if so, what he should do about it. He realized there wasn ' t really anything he could do. If he went to the doctor, there would be questions.

He might get placed in foster care. That would be just as bad as this. It would interfere with what he 'd decided to do.

Finished, he left the seat up and didn' t flush, afraid that the sound would wake his mother. Then he opened the medicine cabinet. The door squeaked, but his mother slept on. He dry swallowed two Tylenol caplets to help ease his pain. Then Barry doctored his wounds as best he could, wincing when the hydrogen peroxide hit his cuts, and nearly screaming when he put it on his split lip. The disinfectant bubbled and fizzed like acid. Pain coursed through him like liquid fire. But this pain was different. Good, somehow. Better. Because this was the last time he ' d ever allow himself to feel pain like this, and knowing that strengthened his resolve for what was to come. Several months ago, Pat Kemp and some of the other older kids had gone to see Quiet Riot and Slade opening for Loverboy at the York Fairgrounds. They' d been there for the opening acts and left when Loverboy took the stage. A few days later, Pat had told Barry, Doug, and Timmy all about it when they ran into him at Genova ' s Pizza. As a result, Barry had picked up a Slade cassette. Experience had taught him that if Pat Kemp liked a band, he probably would, too. Slade had been no exception. Now, as he bandaged his cuts, his favorite song by them ran through his head. He sang it softly, whispering the chorus. It hurt his mouth, but he did it anyway.

"See the chameleon lying there in the sun… Run, run away. Run, run away…" He'd overheard the cops when they' d come to the door and questioned his father earlier. He knew what had happened to Pat. Barry had always looked up to him wanted to be him. The whole thing sucked.

"Run, run away."

He grinned, and doing so reopened the gash in his bottom lip. Fresh blood dribbled down his chin. Despite the searing pain, his smile didn' t fade. He liked the way it looked.

"Run, run away… Run, run awayyyyy…"

That was what he was doing. Running away. He' d made up his mind. Never again would he allow this to happen. Never again would his father lay a hand on him. Because if he stayed around, and it did happen, Barry was sure he ' d kill the son of a bitch. His fateful punch earlier in the evening had missed. Next time, he wouldn 't. He could get a gun, easily. He knew where his father kept his pistol. Timmy' s father had a gun cabinet full of hunting rifles, and the boys could get access to the key. If he stuck around, next time his father came after him, he ' d squeeze a trigger rather than his fist. And that would be murder, and they put people in jail for that. Put people to death for it, too. Barry did not want to die, especially now. He felt reborn. He wasn't sure where he'd go next, or what he' d do, but it felt like the whole wide world was open before him. Anywhere was better than here. He never wanted to see this house or his parents or the cemetery and church again.

After the worst of the pain had subsided, Barry turned off the light and tiptoed back out into the hall. He peeked in on his mother.

She lay on her back, mouth open, snoring softly. He felt the urge to go to her, to kiss her forehead and tell her he was sorry, but he squashed it down. Pulling her bedroom door shut behind him, he made his way back to his room and rummaged through the closet until he found his book bag. His bare foot came down on a Star Wars action figureGreedo, complete with blasterand he bit his lip to keep from hollering, which hurt him even more. Fresh blood flowed. He wadded a tissue against it. Barry slipped on his shoes and went into the kitchen. He began gathering items he' d need. The combination can and bottle opener from the utensil drawer, along with a single fork, knife, and spoon. Then he raided the cupboard. He stuffed his backpack with potato chips, Twinkies, Hershey ' s kisses, and Fruit RollUps, along with canned goods

peas, corn, baked beans, succotash, tuna fish, sauerkraut, Vienna sausagesand some Ritz crackers. He tested the weight and was surprised to find that the backpack was still relatively light. He added some more Twinkies, then closed the cupboard door and moved on to the fruit bowl, which was sitting out on the counter. He selected a few small apples and dropped them into the book bag. He avoided any of the citrus fruit, worried that it might go bad before he had a chance to eat it.

Finished with scavenging the kitchen, he moved on to the living room. It was littered with empty beer cans, dirty coffee mugs and overflowing ashtrays. His mother had never been much of a housekeeper, and it had only gotten worse as his father got worse. Barry found just over ten dollars in quarters, dimes, and nickels in the large dolphinshaped ceramic ashtray his parents used to hold loose change. He remembered the day they 'd bought the souvenir, during a family trip to the National Aquarium in Baltimore. He' d had a good time. Thought the day might turn out okay. Then, on the way home, his father had backhanded him for talking while he was trying to drive. Frowning at the memory, Barry dropped the coins into his pockets. His jeans sagged a bit from the weight. His parents wouldn 't miss the money. Lately, his father had seemed to have more cash than usual. After seeing Dane Graco's Freemason' s ring on his father 's hand tonight, Barry suspected he knew how his father had gained these new riches. Grave robbing.

Barry returned to his bedroom and closed the door behind him. He opened his Baltimore Orioles bank and dumped out his life savingstwentytwo dollars and ten cents

then added the bills to his pockets. Combined with the money he'd stolen from the living room, he assumed he' d have enough to live off of for a while. If money and food ran out, it was summer, and he could always eat by raiding people ' s gardens at night. He debated on whether or not to bring his fishing pole, but decided it would be too cumbersome. He also grabbed his flashlight, a pocketknife, his BB pistol, extra COj cartridges and BBs for the pistol, and his jean jacket from the closet. It was warm outside, but he didn ' t know where he was going, and he might need it sooner or later. Plus, he could use the jacket as a pillow or blanket. He tied the jacket around his waist and stuffed the pistol behind his back, making sure it was snug inside his waistband. Then he dropped the other items into his book bag. Finally, he opened his dresser drawers and grabbed several pairs of underwear, socks, shirts, and another ' pair of jeans, and crammed those into the book bag as well. Stuffed to the brim, the bag 's fabric bulged at the seams, and he had a hard time zipping it shut. When he slipped the straps over his bruised shoulders, the extra weight pulled at him, magnifying his pain all over again.

He patted his jingling pockets and glanced around his bedroom, trying to decide if there was anything else he was forgetting. Barry wondered if he should feel sad or nostalgic. After all, this was the last time he 's see his room and all of his stuff. But he didn't feel sad. He didn' t feel anything, other than an urgency to leave. The stuff was just that

stuff. Bought for him by two parents who smiled when they handed it to him, despite the nightmares that would follow. None of it meant anything to him. Shaking his head, he closed the door behind him.

He left no note. He had no goodbyes to say.

Except for two.

He couldn' t run away without saying goodbye to Timmy and Doug. They were his best friends, the only good things that had ever happened to him. What had happened today, out behind the shed, had broken his heart. He had to see them one more time. Taking as deep a breath as he could without hurting his sides, Barry crept to the front door and slipped outside. There was no need to go out his bedroom window, the way he usually did when he snuck out at night. His father was gone, his mother was passed out, and he was in too much pain to crawl through the window, anyway.

A chorus of crickets greeted him. The stars sparkled overhead, and the yard was bathed in moonlight. The church loomed across the streetdark, gloomy and menacing. Beyond it, the cemetery sprawled out into the darkness.

Barry wondered if his father was in there somewhere, beyond the shadows, even now looting another grave as he 'd done with Timmy's grandfather's. Barry thought it over. Dane Graco had been buried with the ring on his finger. He'd seen it before they closed the casket. The funeral procession went out into the graveyard. The casket was lowered into the ground. The mourners tossed in flowers and the first few handfuls of dirt. Everybody left. Barry and his father had gone home, changed clothes, and then returned to fill in the grave. They ' d been together the whole time, so there was no way his dad could have stolen the ring then. His father had been in a hurry to leave. He remembered thinking it was as if the old man didn ' t want to be in the graveyard after dark. But maybe it had been something else. Maybe he ' d just been anxious for the sun to go down, eager for night to fall, so that he could dig Timmy 's grandfather back up under the cover of darkness. Barry had noticed other trinkets and baublesnew jewelry, much to his mother' s delight, and the extra cash in his father 's pockets. Now he knew where it was all coming from.

The thought filled him with dread. It was horrible. Sick. But so was his father.

All he had to do was look in the mirror to see the proof of that.

"Good riddance," he whispered. His busted lip throbbed. Barry winced. He walked through his backyard and started down over the hill to Timmy's house. The lights were out, but he figured he'd just knock on Timmy' s window and wake him. He went slowly, his body still aching. He pulled the bloody tissue from his lip and tossed it onto the ground. He readjusted the book bag so that his bruised shoulders wouldn 't chafe more from the straps. He was carrying a lot of weight.

But the heaviest burden of all lay behind him.

Barry did not turn around.

He smiled again, and this time, it didn't hurt as much.

Timmy lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. His alarm clock said it was a quarter till three in the morning, and he still couldn' t sleep. His father had finally gone to bed about an hour ago, after sitting in the living room by himself, crying his eyes out. Timmy had heard him through the walls, weeping and talking to God, but he hadn' t cared. Let his father cry. Timmy was finally out of tears. He ' d shed enough. He would shed no more. He was emotionally spent. Nothing mattered now. His grandfather 's death, Katie Moore, Pat's body, what had happened to the others, the ghoul, Mr.

Smeltzer, Barry and Doug's problemsall seemed to pale in comparison to what had happened down in the basement that evening.

His childhood, his fondest memories, the very things he loved the most, were ripped to shreds and lying in a cardboard box. And he still didn' t understand the reason for it. Timmy had seen enough afternoon talk shows to know that this would scar him for the rest of his life. He wasn ' t being melodramatic. It was the simple truth. Surely his parents must have known that, too. They knew how much those comic books meant to him. So why mete out such an unjust punishment? Why punish him at all? He 'd told the truth. Instead of disregarding what he' d had to say, they should have investigated his claims. After all, these were the two people who had always told him he could come to them with any problem. That he could tell them anything. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. Whatever the problem, they ' d assured him time and time again that they would listen to him. Be there for him. That he didn 't need to be afraid of talking about it.

But they'd lied.

Lying there in the dark, he was no longer filled with sadness. He was consumed with rage.

After the very last comic book, an old Classics Illustrated adaptation of Ivanhoe, was destroyed, Timmy's father had sent him to his room. As he' d slunk through the living room, Timmy looked at his mother for support, for a condemnation of what her husband had just done, for some inkling that she disagreed or felt sorry for her son. But instead, his mother had merely dabbed her eyes with a tissue and turned her head away. He interlaced his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling. Go ahead and cry, he thought. Both of you. Just wait until I prove you wrong. I' ll show you. I 'll prove I wasn't lying. Then you'll really have something to feel bad about. He' d show them all. He might be grounded now, but when that was over, he 'd get the proof he needed. If it wasn't too late by then…

He thought about it some more. It probably would be too late by then. He couldn't wait. He' d have to sneak out at night, after his parents were asleep, and get the proof he needed. Maybe he could get a picture of the ghoul. That should be enough to shut everyone up. But not tonight. It was too late, now. He ' d have to wait one more day. And besides, he couldn 't do it alone. He'd at least need Doug with him, and preferably Barry as well, especially since his father was involved.

His thoughts focused on Barry. Timmy closed his eyes. He was wondering how his friend was doing, and how he was coping with everything, when there was a light tap at his window. Timmy 's legs jerked in surprise, and his eyes popped open. The tap came again, still light, but more urgent.

He slipped out of bed, went to the window, and opened the shades. Something that looked like Barry stared back at him, but it couldn't actually be Barry, unless he'd just gone ten rounds with the XMen's Juggernaut. His friend's face resembled a package of hamburgerraw and pink and bloody. Despite this, Barry smiled. Timmy put a finger to his lips, advising his friend to be quiet. Then he opened the window and the screen.

"What happened," he whispered. "Are you okay?"

"Do I look okay?" Barry's voice sounded funny. Slurred. "I've had better days."

"Your dad did this." It wasn't a question.

Barry nodded. It looked like he was about to start crying.

"Jesus Christ, man." Timmy ran a hand through his hair. "You need to go to the hospital."

"No way." Barry shook his head. "No doctors. No adults. I'm out of here, dude."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm leaving. Running away."

"You're hurt. You can't just run away."

"Well, I am. I can't take any more of this shit." And then Barry did start crying, and somehow, that scared Timmy worse than his appearance did. His split lip quivered and tears spilled from his swollen eyes. Timmy sighed. "Hang on. I'll be right out. Just stay quiet. If my parents wake up, we're both screwed."

Sobbing, Barry nodded again, and then slipped off his book bag and crouched down by the side of the house.

As quickly and silently as possible, Timmy changed out of his pajamas and into some clothes. He checked on his parents, making sure that they were both asleep and their door was shut. Satisfied that they were, he grabbed a flashlight and then climbed out the window. He left the screen and the window open a crack so that he could sneak back in. He stared at Barry. Barry stared at him.

Then they hugged. Spontaneously. Uncharacteristically. But the gesture was real all the same. Timmy patted his friend's back, and Barry winced, and then pulled away.

"Ouch."

"Sorry," Timmy apologized. "He messed up your back, too?"

"He messed up my whole body. Even my bruises have bruises."

"You really should see a doctor, man."

"No. That would just be one more delay, one more excuse. And then I'd be stuck here again tomorrow night. If I don't leave now, I might not ever."

"But your face…"

"I'll be okay. It's not as bad as it looks."

Timmy disagreed with his friend's diagnosis, but didn't argue.

"What set him off? Was it what happened earlier, at the shed? If so, I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have gotten smart with him."

"No, it wasn't that. Who knows? It started because I didn't want to finish my dinner, but if it hadn't been that it would have just been something else." Despite his friend' s obvious suffering, Timmy felt an immense surge of relief. Finally, after all these years, they were actually talking about the abuse. It was out in the open. No more excuses. No more pretending that it wasn 't going on. Now, maybe they could finally get Barry some help.

"Can I ask you something?"

Barry nodded. "Sure. What's up?"

"How long? How long has this been going on?"

Barry looked at the ground. "As long as I can remember."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you ever tell somebody?"

"Who would I tell?"

Timmy shrugged. "Well, on those after school specials, kids tell their teachers. You could have told Mrs. Trimmer."

"Mrs. Trimmer hates us. No way I was telling her."

"You could have told me and Doug. We kinda knew about it anyway."

"You guys couldn't have done anything. Not really. It just didn't seem fair to get you involved. And besides, Doug's got his own problems."

They sat in silence, huddled together against the side of the house. Elizabeth' s wind chimes rang softly. The notes seemed melancholy. A dog barked, far away into the night. After a few minutes, Barry said, "You know what the first thing I remember is? I mean my very first memory? I was like two or three years old. I was sitting on the kitchen floor, underneath the table, playing with one of those plastic telephones. Remember the ones with wheels on the bottom, and the smiley face and eyes that moved when you pulled it on the string?"

Timmy nodded, smiling at the memory. He'd owned one, too.

"Well, I'm sitting there playing with that thing, calling Daddy on the telephone and pretending to talk to him. And then my old man comes home. He' d been working all day. Back then, I was too little to understand that he just worked across the street. All I knew was that I missed him. So he comes in and sits down at the kitchen table, and he 's talking to my mom. I think they were arguing. I'm not sure, but they probably were. And meanwhile, I'

m trying to get his attention. Trying to get him to pay attention to me, because I'd missed him all day. I'm still under the table, tugging on his leg, and he's just ignoring me. So I bit him."

"You bit him?"

"Yeah. Like I said, I was just little. I don't remember why I did it. Just seemed like a good way to get his attention, to let him know I was down there. It wasn' t hard. I mean, I just had baby teeth, right?"

"And what did your old man do?"

"He kicked me across the room. I can still see that very clearly. He hollered something and then kicked me across the room. And that's my very first memory."

"That's messed up."

"Yeah, it is. And every day since then has been the same. I'm not putting up with it anymore. I can't."

"And you're really planning on running away?"

Barry pointed at the overstuffed book bag. "Not planning. I'm doing it. Tonight. I just wanted to tell you first, you know? I didn' t want to leave without saying goodbye. But now that I 'm here… well, goodbye sucks, doesn't it?"

"Then don't say goodbye." Timmy's voice cracked. "Stay. We'll figure something out." Barry began to cry, softly. "How?"

"I don't know. But we will." Timmy's eyes filled with tears. "We'll figure it out together. Me, you, and Dougthe Three Musketeers. We' re like Luke, Han, and Chewie, man. You can 't break up a good team like that."

"Only if I get to be Han."

Timmy smiled. "Sure. I'd rather be Luke, anyway, and Doug's obviously a good pick for Chewbacca."

Both of them wiped their eyes and then laughed.

"Jesus Christ." Barry groaned. "It hurts to laugh. But it feels good, too." Timmy appraised his friend's face. "He really cut up your cheek. What did that? A knife or something?"

Barry's expression darkened. "No. It was a ring."

"A ring?"

"Yeah." He paused, unsure of how to continue. "Timmy, I need to tell you something. It might make you angry."

"Dude, I couldn't be any more pissed off at your old man than I am right now."

"Don't be so sure." He took a deep breath, kneaded his ribs, and then continued.

"Your grandfather had his Freemason's ring on when he was buried, right?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Because that was what cut my cheek up tonight. My old man was wearing it." To Barry's chagrin, Timmy seemed only mildly surprised.

"Aren't you pissed off?" Barry asked. "He stole your grandpa's ring, man!"

"I've got something I need to tell you, too," Timmy said. "I suspect that your dad's taken a lot more than just the ring."

Barry was shocked. "What are you talking about? You mean you knew he was robbing dead people? You didn't say anything?"

Timmy stood up, peered through his window, and made sure his parents were still asleep.

He didn' t hear them moving around, and there were no lights on. Assured they were safe, he knelt back down and told Barry everything he suspected and everything that had transpired since their fight with Barry ' s father behind the utility shed. He started with the legend that Reverend Moore had related to Katie and him, and then worked his way chronologically through the past month ' s events, lying out the supporting evidence and bolstering it with his research.

Finally, Timmy voiced his suspicions regarding Mr. Smeltzer 's compliance, and added Barry's admission that his father had stolen Timmy's grandfather's ring as further proof. He left out his suspicions that it had also been Barry' s own father who hid Pat kemp

's body, because he wasn't sure how Barry would react to that. Grave robbing was one thing. Accessory to murder was another.

When he was finished, Timmy braced himself, expecting Barry to scoff just like his parents had. But he'd forgotten something. Barry was his friendand Barry believed him without question.

"I knew about the old church," he said. "My old man told me about it once. If you look carefully, you can still see some of the foundation stones. The grass has pretty much grown over them, though. There are pictures of it down at the library. Never heard about the ghoul, though."

"Well, for whatever reason, they imprisoned it, rather than just killing the thing. I don't know why. But now it's loose again."

"Okay," Barry said. "What are you going to do about it? Have you told your parents about the ghoul?"

"Yeah." Timmy's voice grew sullen. "They didn't believe me. Dad grounded me and…

ripped up my comic collection."

Barry gasped. "Holy shit! All of them?"

Timmy nodded. "Every last one."

"Oh, man. That's… I don't know what to say. My old man, I could see him doing that. But your dad? Never in a million years."

"Well, believe it. The proofs sitting in the basement right now."

"I'm sorry about that, man. What are you going to do?" Timmy shrugged. "Nothing I can do. And it's not like I can run away with you. Not now. Not after…"

"Katie?"

"Yeah. You can understand that, right?"

Barry spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. "I guess. I mean, she's cute and all. I don' t know. Just seems like me, you, and Doug have been hanging out longer. I 'd think we would come first."

Timmy's temper flared. "I'm putting everybody first. If I don't do something about this ghoul, then everyone's in danger. Katie. Doug"

"Not me," Barry interrupted. "I'm out of here, man. Tonight."

"What about Doug?"

"I'm stopping at his house next. It's on my way. Who knows? He might want to go with me, crazy as his mom is."

Timmy's spirits sank even lower. He hadn't considered the possibility that both of his friends might want to leave.

"Doug won't go. He'd chicken out."

"Probably," Barry agreed, "but I at least want to tell him bye."

"Then what?"

"Figured I'd walk to Porters or Jefferson and hop a freight train. They're both close enough that I could make it before dawn. Then I' ll just hide out in the woods along the tracks until a train comes by. I don ' t want to grab one here in town because all of the ones that come into the paper mill are either coal trains or log carriers, and it would be too hard to hide on one of those. Dangerous to hop, too."

"So you'll hop a train. And go where?"

"Wherever it takes me. Hanover is too close, but maybe Westminster or Baltimore or down into West Virginia or Ohio. Wherever. As long as it' s away from here, I really don 't care."

"Barry, you just had the shit beat out of you, man. You can barely talk. You're moving like you're eighty years old. There's no way you can hop a train tonight."

"Well, then what do you suggest I do, Timmy? Hitchhike? Get picked up by some psycho, and dumped alongside Interstate Eightythree? No thanks. Or maybe busted by the cops and then brought back home to my old man?"

"Stick around for another day. Rest up a little bit. Recuperate. Doug and I will hide you. When your mom reports you missing, we'll say we don' t know anything about it. At least get better before you leave."

"Where are you gonna hide me? The Dugout? No way I'm staying there. Not if there really is a ghoul on the loose. And I can' t stay here. Your parents would want to call the cops and stuff."

"And then your dad would go to jail."

"Probably not. This isn' t TV. And even if the cops did put him in jail, what if they took me away from Mom and stuck me in a foster home? That would be just as bad."

"How about you hide at Doug's house?"

Barry snorted in derision. "Yeah, right. With his mom? Get real. Would you spend the night there?"

"No."

"I'm sorry, Timmy. I really am. But this is the way it's got to be. I can't stay around here another night. If I do, I'll never escape. I don't want that." They fell quiet again. Somewhere in the night, out on the main road, a car backfired. An owl hooted closer to them. The crickets had grown quiet. Barry slowly stood up. "Well, I guess this is it." He stuck out his hand. Timmy stared at it. After a moment, he took it. Their grips were firm. Then Barry pulled him to his feet.

"See," Barry said. "I'm feeling better already. Told you it wasn't as bad as it looks." Timmy didn't respond.

"You gonna be okay?" Barry asked.

Timmy nodded. He was afraid to speak, afraid that he might start crying again.

"Seriously, the pain isn't as bad now," Barry said. "My lip still hurts, and my cheek. But the aches and stuff are going away."

"That's good. Maybe you can take another break when you get to Doug's."

"Yeah."

They stood there, neither one knowing what to say, and neither one wanting to be the first to turn away from the other. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Barry spoke.

"I'm gonna miss you, man."

"Yeah…" The lump rising in his throat cut off the rest of Timmy's reply. They hugged, quick and hard this time. When they disengaged from one another, Timmy stared at the ground and Barry looked into the night sky. Then, shuffling his feet in reluctance, Barry picked up the book bag and sighed.

"Take it easy, Timmy."

"You too. You got my address, right?"

"Sure do. I'll write to you."

"Okay. Be careful, dude."

"I will. Nothing out there can be any worse than what we've got right here. I'll be all right."

"Well…" Timmy paused, and then looked him in the eyes. "You're the best friend I've ever had. You and Doug. Never thought we' d leave each other. I love you, man." Barry smiled, sadly. "I love you, too. And I will always be your friend. Even when you do grow up and become a rich and famous comic book writer." He smiled. Timmy tried his best to return the gesture, but found that he couldn't. It was more of a grimace than a grin.

Then Barry turned to walk away.

Timmy watched him go. His fists balled at his sides.

Barry kept walking. His shoulders were slumped. He stared at the ground. Suddenly, Timmy lurched forward and grabbed his arm.

"Look. I can't do this without you, man. You' re my best friend in the world and I need you. Please stay. Just long enough to help me beat this thing in the cemetery? Please? I need your help."

Barry grinned. "It's hard being your friend sometimes, Graco. You always have to be the one in charge."

"Yeah, but this time I mean it. I need your help. I can't do this by myself."

"Well, since you're admitting that you can't do it without me, then I guess I have to, don't I?"

Timmy gasped, relieved. Then he laughed with joy.

Barry set the book bag down. "So, what's the plan, oh fearless leader?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

"Squirt guns with lemon juice again?"

"Nope. Something better. Let me take a leak real quick and I'll tell you all about it."

Chapter Fourteen

"Are you insane?" Barry shouted. "It will never work."

"Yes, it will," Timmy said. "And keep your voice down. You want somebody to hear us?"

"Yeah, if only to stop us before we get killed. This is a dumb idea."

"As long as you guys listen to me, there's no way we can fail. What's the worse that could happen?"

Sputtering, Barry raised his arms to the night sky. "Didn't you just hear what I said? We could get killed! What' s the worse that could happen? How about the ghoul eats us for breakfast, man? How about all three of us end up like Pat? You don 't think that's bad?"

"None of that is going to happen. You've got to trust me."

"Last time we trusted you was with Catcher, and look what happened." Timmy stopped walking. "That was your fault."

Barry grew sullen. "Okay. You made your point."

They continued on, crossing from Timmy's yard into the Wahl's. The first part of Timmy' s plan was simple. They intended to go the long way around to the Dugout, avoiding Barry's house and the church and the cemetery. Instead, they'd cut through the Wahl's, cross the road, and then walk through Luke Jones' s pasture. Hopefully, the bulls were penned up for the night. When they were near the Dugout, they'd come back up to the fence line. Timmy insisted that they needed the map for his plan to work, and that they couldn 't wait until daylight to get it because Barry's dad might see themnot to mention that Timmy was grounded and Barry would soon be listed as a runaway.

Timmy had tried one more time to convince his friend to go back home for the evening, but Barry refused. Instead, he would hide out in Bowman 's Woods for the day, while Timmy plotted their next course of action.

Timmy's intent was simple. Tomorrow, he would use the map to chart out the possible locations for the ghoul's network of tunnels. He' d start with what they knew the hole in the utility shed and the places where the ground was sinking, and mark those on the map. Then he' d connect the dots, and that should give them an idea of where the tunnels lay. While he was doing this, Barry would sneak off to Doug ' s house and inform him of the plan, then go back into hiding in the woods. Tomorrow night, the three of them would sneak into the cemetery and, utilizing Mr. Smeltzer ' s picks and shovels, would dig up the tunnels in various locations, flooding them with daylight when the sun rose. They crept through the Wahl's yard, skirting around their swimming pool. Inside the house, the elderly couple's miniature Schnauzer yipped in alarm.

"Shit." Timmy urged his friend on. "Pookie's awake. Go!"

They hurried on, crossing the road and jumping the fence. Barry, normally much stronger than Timmy, had trouble keeping up. Once they were safely out of sight and in the pasture, they stopped to take a rest.

Barry sighed. "Wish I'd left this book bag back at your place. It's getting heavy."

"Leave it here. We'll get it on the way back."

"Good idea." He unzipped the bag and ruffled around inside it. He pulled out the flashlight and his pocketknife and then zipped it back up.

"You ready?" Timmy asked.

Barry nodded.

They walked on. Almost an hour had passed since Barry had first shown up at Timmy' s bedroom window, and it was now well after three, the longest part of the night, yet neither one of them were tired. They should have been. They knew this. Both boys had been through more that day than the combined events of the summer so far. Yet they weren ' t fatigued. Far from it. They were both excited and angry and a little bit scared, and the adrenalin kept them moving. Especially Barry, battered as he was.

"So, tomorrow night," Barry said, "what if the ghoul shows up while we're digging?

What happens then? You said daylight was the only thing that would kill him."

"Don't worry about that. I'll take care of it."

"You've got a plan for that?"

Timmy paused. "No. But I will by tomorrow night. I'm sure there's something in one of my comic"

He stopped, jarred by the knowledge that his comic book collection no longer existed.

"I'll come up with something."

They continued through the pasture and then turned toward the fence, coming up behind the Dugout. They carefully scanned the cemetery beyond, but there was no sign of monstersparents or otherwise. Everything was silent. They approached the Dugout. The clubhouse lay hidden in shadows, invisible from their vantage point. They checked again to make sure the coast was clear, then opened the trap door. Timmy turned on his flashlight and swung around, preparing to climb down the ladder. Barry grabbed his arm. "Wait a second."

Timmy paused. "What?"

"Thought I saw something in your flashlight beam." Barry turned on his own flashlight and shined it down into the hole. Both boys gasped aloud.

The Dugout was gone. The roof was still there, still concealing it from the outside world. The stovepipe still jutted from the ground, providing fresh air below. But the ladder led down into darkness. The fort was now a gaping chasm. The entire floor had disappeared, and all of their belongings had apparently gone with it. The tunnel dropped straight down for about five feet before sloping away into parts unknown. It looked like it ran in the direction of the cemetery, but they couldn ' t be sure from where they stood.

At the same time, they both said, "Oh shit…"

Perched on the ladder, Timmy shined his flashlight around, studying the damage. He noticed a few random items at the mouth of the crevice, caught at the tunnel' s bend an issue of Cracked, a plastic SpiderMan cup from 711, an old shotgun shell they'd found in the woods.

A discarded KitKat wrapper.

The map.

"Shine your light down there," Timmy told Barry. He set his own flashlight on the ground and then started down the ladder.

"Are you nuts? What are you doing?"

"I'm going in."

"No you're not. This isn't a comic book, dude. You and I both know what did this. You were right. This is our proof. Let' s get the hell out of here and call the cops."

"You didn't want to call the cops before."

"That was about my old man. And besides, we didn't have any hard proof before. We do now. They can't ignore this."

"I'm going down there," Timmy insisted. "You just stand guard for me."

"Timmy!"

Ignoring his protests, Timmy started down the ladder. Without even thinking about it, Barry pulled the BB pistol out of his waistband with his free hand and pointed it down the hole. Just holding the weapon made him feel better.

When Timmy reached the bottom, he dangled his legs over the hole and glanced around, unsure of what to do next. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out Barry 's alarmed whispers. Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes and let go of the rungs. Barry gripped the flashlight and BB pistol and watched in terrified amazement. Timmy plummeted downward and landed with a smack, sending a cloud of dirt into the air. Immediately, he began to slide down into the tunnel. He scrabbled, grasping at the soil, trying to arrest his fall. Above him, Barry struggled to see. The swirling dust blocked his flashlight beam. When Timmy reached the curve, he stopped sliding. Inching forward, he grabbed the map and the candy wrapper. Then he crawled back to the ladder. He slipped a few times, and each time he did, his heart leapt into his throat. When his hand closed around the rung, both boys breathed a sigh of relief. Timmy stuffed the rescued items in his waistband and then climbed back up.

"You okay?"

Timmy nodded, out of breath.

"That was really stupid, man."

"I know. But we need the map."

"Let's get the hell out of here now. Okay? This whole thing gives me the creeps. It's too quiet, like in a movie."

"Hang on one second. I just want to make sure the map is okay." Timmy unrolled the map and spread it out on the ground. He paused, his fingers tracing over the topography. Then he looked up at Barry. His eyes were wide.

"What's wrong?"

Timmy pointed. "There's some new stuff on here that wasn't on it before."

"Where?"

Timmy showed him, pointing out the section of woods where they'd found Pat Kemp' s abandoned Nova. The area around the edge, which had been left blank before, was now partially filled in. The illustrations were obviously made by Doug 's hand, and it looked as if he'd stopped drawing midtree.

"So Doug stopped by and worked on it," Barry said. "Good. Now let's get out of here."

"Don't you see? The only time he could have done this was earlier tonight. Look at this thumbprint. That' s chocolate." He scraped at the smudge with his fingernail. "And it 's fresh."

Agitated, Timmy pulled out the candy wrapper and sniffed. "This is fresh, too. There are still crumbs inside."

Barry turned pale. "You don't think… Doug was in there when…?" Timmy swooned. The KitKat wrapper slipped from his hand, fluttering to the ground. He knelt, his face in his hands.

"My mom took him home when the cops were done. He'd spent the night before, so he didn' t have his bike. That was around dinnertime. He would have had to come back here between then and now."

"And he would have rode his bike," Barry said. "I don't see it here. Maybe he'd already left when this happened."

"Maybe." Timmy sounded unsure.

"Look, we need to get out of here, man. This is too close to the cemetery. If that thing is still around, or even if my old man is out here, we're sitting ducks. Let' s at least go down into the pasture or something."

Nodding in agreement, Timmy stood up and brushed himself off. His jeans and Tshirt were filthy.

"My mom is gonna freak out if she sees this."

"Why? It's just dirt. You get dirty all the time."

"Yeah, but if she sees these tomorrow, she'll know I snuck out. I'll have to hide them in the bottom of the hamper."

Timmy turned his flashlight back on, and the two of them started toward the field. Barry's light beam flashed off something white, hidden in the weeds.

"What's that?"

He trained the flashlight on the object and it shined back in his eyes. A reflector.

Both boys ran over to the weeds and pushed them aside. Doug's bike lay on its side, abandoned.

Timmy moaned. "Oh, no."

"This doesn't mean he was here," Barry said. "Not Doug. He wasn't here. He just wasn't."

Timmy's voice was barely a whisper. "Yeah. He was. He was in the Dugout, eating a candy bar and working on the map when that thing came up out of the ground and got him."

"Not Doug. We don't know that for sure."

"Stop it," Timmy cried. "Just stop it, Barry. I know you're scared. I'm scared, too."

"What are we going to do?"

Taking a deep breath, Timmy strode back to the trapdoor.

"You're going to get your old man's keys, get the backhoe out of the shed, and then start digging this whole place up."

"I am?" Barry scoffed. "And what are you going to do?"

"I'm going down there. I'm going after Doug."

"Yeah, right!"

"I'm serious, dude. Go get your dad's keys and start the backhoe up."

"I'm not going back to my house. What if my old man is there?"

"Then make sure he doesn't see you."

"No way. No freaking way, Timmy. Not on your life."

"Barry, we've got no choice."

"If I got the keys and if my old man didn't see me, I still can't start the backhoe. It' s nuts. Running that thing in the middle of the night? Somebody will hear us for sure, and call the cops."

"Good," Timmy argued. "Let them. The more the merrier."

"But a few minutes ago, you didn't want the cops here."

"I don't care anymore. Doug is gone, man. Don't you see? Can't you get it through that thick head of yours? He' s down there, right now, with that thing, and he could be hurt. For all we know, he could be dead. We can't wait any more. We don't have time to make a plan. We can't rely on the grownups. We have to do something now. You promised that you' d help me, so help me goddamn it."

Scowling, Barry kicked the ground. His mouth was a thin, tight line, and his bottom lip had started bleeding again. The red gash on his cheek stood out in stark contrast to his pale, moonlit skin.

"Okay. I'll do it. But you're insane, Graco."

"No, I'm not, and neither are you. We're not the crazy ones."

"Then who is?"

Timmy didn't respond. He simply stared at Barry, impatient. After a moment, Barry understood what he was implying. "Oh, yeah. Them."

"Get going," Timmy said. "Once you get the backhoe running, just start digging everything up between here and the shed. Any place where the ground is sinking that's where you'll want to dig. It's got to be close to four o' clock now, if not a little after that. Sun usually comes up around fivethirty. That gives us like an hour and a half or so."

"Yeah, but the sunlight isn't really shining bright until around sixthirty or seven. What if the light isn't enough?"

Then we'll just have to go with Plan B."

"And what is Plan B?"

"Just get going." Timmy pointed in the direction of Barry's house. Barry stayed put. "You don't have a Plan B, do you?"

"No," Timmy admitted. "I don't."

Timmy stepped to the ladder's edge and peered nervously into the darkness. He took several deep breaths and then said, "Okay. Here I go." He didn't move. Neither did Barry. They stared at each other.

"Aren't you going?" Barry asked.

"Aren't you?"

"Yeah. I will. I just wanted to make sure you made it down safely."

"I'll be fine," Timmy said. "You be careful."

"You too."

They both continued standing still.

"You scared?" Barry asked.

Timmy nodded. "I' ve never been more scared in my life. But Doug is down there somewhere. We owe it to him. We owe it to ourselves. I… I need to prove to my dad that he was wrong.

Does that make sense?"

Barry glanced off into the distance. "It makes perfect sense. More than you know."

"I'll try to keep the ghoul distracted while you open the tunnels up. Don't let me down, okay?"

Barry turned back to him. His expression was grim. His fingers tightened around the BB pistol.

"I told you, man. We're friends for life. You can count on me."

"Okay. Seriously, let's do this. Before it's too late."

"Here." Barry held out his pocketknife. "You might need this."

"Thanks." Timmy stuffed the knife in his pocket and then stepped onto the ladder.

"Be careful," Barry called.

Nodding, Timmy climbed down the rickety ladder.

"Here I come, Doug," he whispered. "Just hang on man, and please be all right." He went slowly, carefully watching his footing. When he reached the bottom, he let' go of the rungs and tumbled once more into the darkness. Barry watched the hole swallow him up, until he could see him no more. Even his flashlight beam had vanished. Timmy was gone, into the monster's lair.

"Be careful," he whispered. He didn't know if Timmy heard him or not. Barry turned toward homea monster's lair of its ownand wondered if either one of them would actually still be alive come dawn.

Chapter Fifteen

The first thing Timmy noticed was the stench. It hung thick in the air, like an invisible fog, and he could taste it in his mouth when he breathed. It was just like what they ' d smelled before, coming out of the holes around the cemetery, but it was much stronger now; highly concentrated. It burned his nose the way the smell of bleach did when his mother was doing laundry.

Make it a game, he thought. I'm Luke Skywalker, sneaking through the Death Star, trying to rescue the Princess.

He stumbled over a thick tree root jutting up from the soil and reached his hand out to steady himself. The tunnel' s walls were cold and damp, and covered with some type of slime. Timmy jerked his hand away and shined the flashlight on it. His fingers were webbed with something that resembled milky snot. Disgusted, he wiped them on his jeans before continuing.

The passageway wound into the darkness, and his meager flashlight beam did little to penetrate the gloom. And yet, Timmy had the distinct impression that he could actually see farther than he should be able to.

As his eyes adjusted, he realized why. It was the slime. The stuff was glowing barely noticeable, but giving off a faint, eerie radiance all the same. He wondered what it was. Living within twenty miles of both the Three Mile Island and Peachbottom nuclear power plants, Timmy was very conscious of radioactive waste, even at twelve. Several times over the last five years, there had been news stories about barrels of waste found dumped in creeks and streams, or off dirt logging roads way out in the wilderness. But this wasn 't anything like that. The substance coated everythingwalls, ceiling, and the parts of the floor not covered up with piles of loose soil. It had to be the ghoul. Maybe the creature exuded the slime from its pores. Maybe the stuff aided the ghoul in digging, or allowed it to see much better below ground. And maybe, the thought occurred to him, he didn't know nearly as much about ghouls as he' d assumed, and perhaps he should just turn around right now and go call the police. But then he thought of Doug, who 'd been let down by everyone in his life, except for Timmy and Barry. He couldn' t just abandon his friend down here. As scared as he was, he had no choice.

Timmy pressed ahead, feeling less like Tom Sawyer or Luke Skywalker and more like the very frightened twelveyearold boy that he was. He pulled out Barry' s pocketknife and opened the blade. He clutched it with one hand and held the flashlight in the other. Neither item made him feel more courageous. He wished his father were here with him. Timmy 's hate and anger were forgotten. He wanted the safety net he'd grown accustomed to over the yearsknowing that no matter how bad the danger was, his parents were always standing by, ready to take care of him. Shelter him. Keep him safe from the monsters. He remembered when he was little, and had been convinced there was a monster under his bed. He ' d cry out at night, and his father was always there, turning on the light and checking the closets and beneath the bed.

And now his father wasn't there.

Timmy went on. He'd never felt more alone. Even thinking of Katie didn't help. The passage was roughly circular, and varied in height and width. At some points, he had to duck his head or pull his arms tight against his sides to avoid brushing up against the walls. Other stretches were wide enough to walk comfortably in. He tried to guess in which direction he was traveling, but it was impossible to tell. Eventually, other tunnels began branching off the main passageway. He decided not to venture down them, for fear of becoming lost. His progress was slow. He kept the light trained on the floor, looking for signs of where Doug might be footprints, candy wrappers, blood, anything. He found nothing.

The maze of tunnels was silent. The only thing Timmy heard was the sound of his own panicked breathing. His mouth felt dry, and his pulse throbbed in his neck and temples. He felt a momentary urge to call out, to shout for Doug, just to break the stillness, and the thought frightened him even more.

Where are you, Doug? Please be okay. Just hang on a little bit longer. Biting his lip, Timmy forced himself not to cry.

The passage sloped downward, and Timmy followed it, deeper into the earth. The spoiled milk stench grew strongerand now there was another smell mixed with it. Rot. Decay. Death.

Barry rushed through the field. His wounds and pain were forgotten, and he urged himself on. Dewcovered weeds whipped at his legs, soaking his jeans and shoes. The crickets and other insects grew louder, disturbed by his passage. He went by the spot where he 'd left his book bag, but didn' t bother stopping to retrieve it. When he reached the road, he crouched close to the ground and stared at his house. All of the lights were still off, which meant anyone inside was probably sleeping. The car was still in the driveway, but that meant nothing. When his father had left earlier, he ' d departed on foot. Which meant he was probably in the cemetery somewhere. He hoped.

Swallowing nervously, Barry rushed across the road and into the yard, moving as quickly but silently as possible. He opened the screen door, silently willing the hinges not to creak, and then slowly turned the doorknob. Meeting no resistance, he stepped inside.

The house was quiet. He paused, listening. After a moment, he heard his mother's soft snoring coming from his parent' s bedroom. He was tempted to creep down the hall and peek, see if his father was lying next to her, but he decided not to chance it. Timmy was counting on him. He had to hurry.

He moved over to the hat rack hanging above the kitchen door. His father only had one hat, a faded, weatherbeaten Skoal cap that he sometimes wore. The rest of the rack was used for keys and umbrellas. Both the hat and the umbrellas were there, hanging from their pegs, as were his mother's keys. But his father's key ring was missing.

"Shit." His voice was louder than he'd intended, and Barry jumped, frightening himself. It made sense, of course, and he cursed himself for being so stupid. His father would have taken the keys with him when he left, even if only to get inside the utility shed where he stored his emergency bottles of Wild Turkey. He should have thought of that when Timmy came up with this stupid plan.

Frustrated, Barry checked his parent's room after all. His mother slept soundly. His father' s side of the bed was still made up. Untouched. And with the car still sitting next to the garage, that meant there was only one possibility: his father was still in the graveyard, probably drunk, and Barry would have to find him, face him, and somehow get his keys.

He ran out of the house and prayed he could do it all in time. The horizon was tinged with a faint trace of bluishwhite. Not a lotjust a hint of the dawn' s impending arrival.

"Hang on, Timmy," he panted. "I'm coming." Timmy traveled steadily downward. At times, the tunnel sloped so steeply that his feet slipped and he had to struggle to maintain his balance. In addition, the maze had become more bewildering than ever. When Timmy was seven, he 'd had a pet hamster named Milo that he'd won at the York Fair. He' d kept the hamster in his room and set up a Habitrail for him. Timmy had assumed that Milo would love running around inside the multiple plastic tubes and paths, but the hamster had seemed terrified of them. Now, he understood how Milo had felt.

Soon, the purpose of the branching passageways and multiple crossroads became clear.

Each new path led upward to a grave. The further he went, the more of them he encountered.

The tunnel was littered with empty coffins, smashed into kindling and tossed aside, along with scraps of clothing and other unwanted items that had held no value to either the ghoul or his human assistant teeth, toupees, and something that Timmy realized with dread was a pacemaker. In some areas, the main tunnel was so clogged with discarded coffins that he had to crawl over the wreckage. At one point, teetering on the edge of a silklined casket, he dropped both the flashlight and the pocketknife. The beam went out and the flashlight rolled away, plunging Timmy into total darkness. Frantically, he dropped from the coffin and felt around for them. Tears welled up in his eyes. His breathing came in short, quick gasps. Then his fingers closed over the flashlight. Mouthing a prayer, he turned it on. It still worked. After a few moments, he recovered the pocketknife as well, and then continued on his way.

"Thank you," he whispered. "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. Now just let Doug be all right and let us get out of here and let Barry get the backhoe and everything will be okay." Timmy stopped in the middle of the passage. He suddenly felt as if someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over him. He remembered Clark Smeltzer, standing over him behind the utility shed, bragging.

"There's a new lock on this shed, and I'm the only one that can open it." Both Timmy and Barry had heard him say that. How could they have been so stupid?

How was Barry supposed to get inside the shed if he didn' t know the combination? His father 's keys were useless.

So, he thought, Barry will just have to bust the window in or something. He won't let us down.

Eventually, after a long, descending walk, the tunnel evened out again. At the same time, it grew wider and taller. He noticed that the surface was more smoothed and rounded, as if extra care had been taken in finishing this part. The sidetunnels became nonexistent. Timmy wondered why at first, and then figured it out. He must be getting close to the older portion of the cemetery. There was an area between the two sections, right along the hill separating them, where there were no graves ancient or modern. He must be beneath that now. Just today he'd been there with Katie, walking hand in hand, when they' d seen the big depression in the earth. He closed his eyes, remembering the way she ' d smelled. It already seemed like a million years ago, and he wanted very badly to see her again at that moment. He felt that if he could hold her hand again, everything would be okay.

He paused and listened, but heard nothing. If his suspicions were correct, and he was nearing the older part of the graveyard, then he must be very close to where the ghoul had originally been imprisoned. The smell was at its strongest now. He ' d grown used to it during his journey, been almost able to ignore it, but now he noticed it again. His fears, which he ' d managed to set aside, came creeping back now. Every bit of him wanted to turn around and flee, but the thought of Doug, trapped in this impenetrable darkness, rooted his feet to the ground.

As if in response to his mounting terror, something grunted in the darkness. An animalistic sound, like a boar or a bear would make. Timmy let out a frightened yelp and spun around. It was impossible to tell for sure where the sound had come from, how near or far, but he thought it might have been behind him. He shined the light back the way he' d come, terrified of what it might reveal, but the tunnel was empty. He waited for the noise to be repeated, but the silence returned.

"Oh, Jesus…"

He resisted the urge to run, and hurried ahead instead. From its hidden nook in a side tunnel, the ghoul listened to the boy go by. The child was heading deeper into its warren, nearing the main lair, which was exactly what it wanted. Once there, the intruder would be cut off. The boy would have to come back through this same tunnel to exit the burrows, and the ghoul could catch him unawares. Its initial urge had been to kill the boy as soon as it had caught his scent and then heard him coming. But it had waited, intrigued that such a young human could display a courage and determination not found in many of his elders (at least, from the ghoul ' s experience with humans). It had let the child pass simply because he might provide good sport. As an afterthought, it had let out one short grunt, simply to spur the child onward and intensify his fear.

Meat was much sweeter when it had been marinnated in fear. And besides, it was still consuming the first one.

Grinning, the ghoul returned to its meal. The stillwarm flesh felt solidrealbetween its teethnot disintegrating or turning to mush the way decaying flesh did. The ghoul relished every bite. It sighed with delight as its incisors sank into a thigh. The blood was sweet and thick, and it eagerly lapped it up. The boy had been blessed with an extra layer of fat, and the ghoul greedily dug into the yellow curds with both hands. It cracked open a bone and sucked out the marrow, and wondered if this new child intruder had been a friend of its current meal. The new boy' s scent was familiar, possibly from the children ' s clubhouse it had ransacked earlier. What was it that Smeltzer had said? The Keiser child, who currently lay spread out and open before it, had played with the gravedigger 's son, and one other. The ghoul searched its memory for the name. Draco? Mako?

Graco.

The ghoul raised its hands to its face. Its long, black tongue flicked, licking bits of flesh from its goreencrusted talons. It burrowed its snout into the boy' s stomach, and even as it did, the creature 's stomach growled at the promise of more to come. And it didn' t even have to move or hunt. It could wait here, finish this appetizer, and then trap the main course before the boy escaped.

Barry found his father beneath a marble monumenta tall, monolithic spire nearly eight feet high. His father sat propped up against it, eyes shut, reeking of booze. Shattered glass lay nearby, the remains of a Wild Turkey bottle. At first, Barry thought he might be dead. He was covered in blood and his face and neck were sliced open pretty bad. He didn't stir when Barry prodded him with one foot. Hands trembling, Barry brought out the BB pistol and fired one round at his father' s unmoving body. The projectile bounced off his shirt. Still he didn 't move.

"Shit."

Barry wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel. He was no stranger to grief. He saw it all the time, whenever there was a funeral at the church. He' d seen every reaction imaginable, from sadness to dark gallows humor. He guessed perhaps he should feel sad, although that seemed stupid, considering all his father had put him through. The only emotion Barry felt was an overwhelming surge of relief. It quickly turned to angerand fearwhen his father opened one eye and stared at him in surprise.

"BBarry? Wha…"

That was all. He closed his eye. Barry stepped backward, making sure he was out of reach, and then he shot him again. This time, his father' s hand twitched feebly. Barry sat the flashlight on a tombstone and approached him cautiously, ready to run if the old man showed any sign of moving more than he had.

He didn' t. His chest rose and fell very slightly, but that was all. Barry shoved the barrel of the BB pistol in his face, just inches from his eye. He knelt in the grass, careful to avoid the shards of broken glass. Slowly, he reached into his father ' s pocket with his free hand and retrieved the keys. They jingled. His father groaned, but lay still. Barry stood up and hurried away. He grabbed the flashlight and headed for the utility shed. The faint glow on the horizon was spreading.

Barry reached the shed doors and fumbled for the right key. He held it up to the lock and then cursed out loud. In their panic, in their hurry to rescue Doug, both he and Timmy had forgotten about the new lock.

He threw the keys at the shed. They bounced off the wall and landed in the grass. Barry ran back over to his father and knelt beside him. He grabbed his father' s face in his hands, careful not to touch the wounds, and shook him.

"Dad, what's the combination to the shed?"

His father didn't reply. His eyes twitched, but he made no sound.

"Dad! Wake up. What's the combination?"

Clark mumbled, "S''nother bottle inshide."

"Goddamn it!"

Barry stood up, stalked back over to the shed, and surveyed his father' s repair job. The old window had been boarded up, and the plywood sheeting looked thick and strong. He glanced around for something to pry it with, but the ground was barren. His eyes settied on a metal plate stuck into the ground at the foot of a grave. The plate informed him that the man who was buried there, Mick Wagner, had died in service to his country in Korea.

Barry ripped the plate from the ground.

The edges were blunt and narrow. He wedged it between the boards and pushed. The nails creaked. The board moved. Spirits rising, Barry dropped the sign, stood back, and kicked the plywood. The sole of his sneaker absorbed most of the impact, but his foot throbbed. The pain was nothing compared to how the rest of his body felt. Clenching his teeth, he kicked the board again. The plywood clattered to the floor inside.

Barry grabbed the flashlight, clicked it on, and cautiously crawled through the window. He' d been inside the utility shed thousands of times, but it had never scared him until now. In the darkness, once familiar shapes now became something sinister lurking in the corner.

He stood overtop the hole in the center of the floor and listened, hoping to hear an indication that his friends were still down thereand alive. Instead, he was greeted by silence.

He found the crowbar, went back outside, and pried the hasp off the doors, lock and all. The doors swung open. Barry retrieved his father' s keys, climbed up onto the backhoe, and crossed his fingers. Taking a deep breath, he inserted the key into the ignition and turned it.

The backhoe roared to life.

Exhaling, Barry turned on the headlights and drove it out into the graveyard. Awoken by the rumbling engine, his father stirred, glancing about slowly. Shit, Barry thought, If he regains consciousness he could screw this whole thing up. Leaving the engine running, he put the backhoe in park and hopped down. He ran back into the shed, found some long black bungee cords, and wrapped them around his father 's chest, abdomen, and shoulders, tying him to the monument. After making sure they were tight, Barry stood back and smiled.

His old man had fallen unconscious again.

Barry spit in his face.

The sky grew lighter.

The tunnel broadened and all at once, Timmy found himself stepping into a large, roughly circular chamber. He gasped, not so much from fright, but from the scene before him. The dirt floor was littered with bones and other body fragments. A shattered skull stared back at him. His flashlight beam disappeared into its hollow eyes. The ceiling was high, much higher than in the network of tunnels, and Timmy got the impression that he was deep below the cemetery now. It felt like the earth itself was pressing down on him. But neither the bones nor the atmosphere were what made him gasp. It was the women.

There were two of them. Katie's older sister, Karen, and another woman whom Timmy didn't recognize. He assumed that she was the missing woman he' d heard about on the news. Both of them were dressed in rags, their clothing soiled and torn to shreds. Despite his overwhelming dread, Timmy felt a dark thrill go through him at the sight of Karen Moore' s breasts. He immediately felt guilty, but his eyes were drawn back to them again. They were covered with red scratches. Both women ' s hands and feet were bound with thick roots and vines, tied together in crude knots, and then looped around large, heavy logs, insuring that they wouldn ' t escape. A corner of the chamber was covered with feces; most of it theirs, he assumed.

The larger piles probably belonged to the ghoul itself. The two women huddled together on a pile of straw and grass, staring at Timmy with wide, horrified eyes.

"Um." He wasn't sure what to say.

"I… know you…" Karen spoke haltingly, hesitant, as if she'd forgotten how to talkor was afraid to. Her voice was hoarse and scratchy. "From… church?"

Swallowing, Timmy nodded. "Yeah, you do. I'm Timmy Graco, Randy and Elizabeth Graco's son. I'm your sister's…"he started to say boyfriend, but caught himself "…

friend."

The other woman said nothing. She simply stared at him, that frozen, horrified expression never leaving her face.

Timmy smiled, trying to reassure them.

"Are you okay?" he asked Karen.

She nodded slowly, as if unsure what the word meant. "I… weit hurt us. Did… things." Karen began to make clicking sounds in her throat. She looked as if she might start screaming. Slowly, Timmy stepped toward them. The other woman shrank away, pressing her back against the dirt wall.

"Look," Timmy said, keeping his voice calm and soft, "I've come to rescue you. I'll get you out of here."

Both women whimpered. Tears rolled down Karen's dirty face. The other woman fixated on the knife in Timmy's hand.

"It's okay," he whispered. "I'm just going to use it to cut you free." She shook her head, trembling harder.

"Her name is… Deb," Karen rasped. "Her first night here… all she did was scream. She… hasn't said anything since."

Timmy sawed at Karen's bonds first, so that with any luck, Deb would see he didn' t mean them any harm. This close to them, he tried to ignore their nudity. It was easier than he 'd imagined. Both captives stank of unwashed bodies and something elsesomething fishy, almost like almonds or ammonia. He was afraid to ask what it was. Their pale skin was covered with cuts and scratches and a fine sheen of dried blood and the ghoul ' s slime. When he was finished freeing her, Karen rubbed her wrists and ankles. Both had red circles where the vines had rubbed the flesh raw. As her circulation returned, he moved over to the other woman. She cowered, moving as far away from him as she could.

"It's okay," Timmy said. "I promise. I'm just going to get you loose, like I did her." She shook her head and turned away from him, squeezing her eyes shut. Timmy sighed in exasperation. "Why doesn't she believe me?"

"Because," Karen said, "she thinks you're going to… do what he's been doing to us."

"Who?"

Karen frowned. "That thing."

"The ghoul?"

She nodded. "Is that what it is?"

Rather than answering, Timmy tried again to free the frightened woman.

"Don't scream," he told her. "I'm not going to hurt you." He raised the knife, and she whined, the start of a shriek building in her throat.

"Okay," he said, and dropped the knife again. "Shhh. Don't scream. It's okay. I put it down."

Her scream turned into a fearful sigh.

Timmy turned to Karen. "Do you know where it is now?"

"It feeds at night. Usually comes back just before dawn. That's when it… that's when it happens. After that, it sleeps."

Timmy paused, listening for the sounds of the backhoe. He didn't hear anything. He wondered if he'd even be able to hear it this far below the surface.

"The sun will be up soon," he told Karen. "We' ve got to get you both out of here before the ghoul comes back. See if you can help me cut her loose. Then the two of you head straight down that tunnel. It goes for a long way, but keep following it."

"What about you?"

"I've got to find my friend, Doug Keiser. Do you know him?" She paused; then nodded. "Fat kid? Yeah, I know him. Hangs around with you and the Smeltzer kid. I remember now. All three of you guys used to talk to Pat… he liked you. I 'd forgotten. Forgot about… Pat."

Her face blanched, and Timmy thought she might scream. Instead she swooned. He propped her up while she shook against him, her entire body quivering.

"Is he okay?" she asked. "Patis he alive?"

"Yeah," Timmy lied. "Sure. Help me get Deb loose and we'll go see him, okay?" She nodded. Steadying herself, she rose to her feet.

Timmy shined the flashlight back to Deb. This time she met his gaze. Her lower lip trembled.

"Please," Timmy said. "I need to help my friend. Let me help you first, okay?" Her nod was barely perceptible, but she consented in silence. Timmy began cutting her bonds.

"Hurry," Karen urged.

"I'm going as fast as I can. This knife wouldn't cut a wet monkey." Karen frowned at the odd statement. Timmy grinned, and tried to squelch the sudden sadness that overcame him. It had been a longtime private joke between him, Barry, and Doug. Doug had first uttered it one night when they were camping out, and the phrase had never failed to make all three of them laugh.

Now, it just made Timmy want to cry.

"Have you seen Doug down here? I can't leave without him." The vines and roots around Deb' s wrists and ankles fell away. She still looked afraid. Trying to ease her fears, Timmy sat the pocketknife down and backed away from it, still crouched at eye level with the frightened woman.

"We haven't seen him," Karen said. "But why would he have been down here in the first place? Was he helping you?"

Before Timmy could respond, there was a rustling sound behind them. Deb screameda hoarse, wretched sound, like gargling with glass. She clawed at the dirt and stared over Timmy's shoulder. At the same time, Timmy became aware of a faint illumination spreading throughout the chamber. It wasn't much, but it was definitely noticeablea pale, flickering luminescence, much like the light cast by the slime. The foul stench that permeated the entire tunnel network suddenly became stronger. And then something hissed. It sounded like air rushing from a punctured tire. Karen shrieked. Deb pressed against the wall. The hairs on the back of Timmy' s neck prickled. He was afraid to turn around, afraid that if he did, he might pee his pants. But he did anyway, and came face to face with Doug.

His best friend's disembodied head swung back and forth like a pendulum, dangling from the ghoul's left hand. Its long, curved talons gripped Doug' s hair. The creature stood in the entranceway to the chamber, blocking their escape. It looked nothing like the monsters depicted in Timmy ' s comic books. Naked, its body was almost completely devoid of hair, except for between its legs and a few long strands along its body. It was thin, but its limbs were knotted with corded muscles and its stomach bulged considerably, as if it were pregnant.

Its white skin was covered in filth, and yet still shone with an eerie incandescence. It had yellow, baleful eyes, a pointed head, and thick black lips that resembled two pieces of raw liver. Its mouth and face were slicked with fresh blood. The ghoul ' s gray tongue flicked out and licked some away. Then it grinned, revealing pointed teeth. They looked very sharp.

"Are you looking for this, child?" Its voice was like sandpaper. Timmy couldn't speak.

The ghoul held Doug' s head aloft. "A friend of yours, yes? He was succulent. A fine repast, indeed. The fat melted in my mouth. For too long I have fed on carrion. I wonder how you will taste."

Timmy shouted at Karen to run, but even as he did, he realized there was nowhere to run to. His voice sounded very small and afraid. He couldn' t take his eyes off Doug 's head.

"You are trespassing in my home," the ghoul said. "Disturbing my mates, and threatening discord amongst my tribe. You should not have come here." Growling, the ghoul flung Doug' s head at them and then leapt. Timmy flung his hands up in front of his face and dodged right. Karen jumped to the left. The head bounced off the wall, knocking soil loose, and then rolled across the floor. The ghoul followed behind it, landing in front of Deb. Teeth snapping, it whirled toward Timmy. With a frantic, shrill scream, Deb seized the pocketknife with both hands and plunged the blade into the creature' s groin. The ghoul shuddered, then howled. Its hands cradled its wounded testicles.

Blood spilled through its fingers. Timmy stared at it in horror, then glanced back down at Doug ' s head. His dead, sightless eyes seemed to be staring right at Timmy.

"Run!" Karen grabbed his arm and led him toward the exit. As they fled, Timmy glanced over his shoulder. Bellowing with pain and rage, the ghoul ripped the knife free. Still on her knees, Deb lashed out with her bare hands, striking at the creature. It struck back, knocking her to the floor with one swipe of its massive hand. Then it turned and faced them.

"I will kill you slowly, boy."

Timmy ran.

The backhoe's front scoop gouged at the earth. The engine coughed, but kept running. Barry dropped the dirt to the side and then dug up another scoop full. A yawning crevice appeared beneath the soila tunnel, sloping downward at a sharp incline. He' d decided to use the front scoop rather than the back scoop to save time, and the results were worth it. Behind him, the cemetery looked like it had been infested with giant groundhogs. Holes and collapsed graves dotted the landscape. He drove on a few more yards, his progress slowed by weaving the big machine around the tombstones, and then started digging again.

Barry glanced at the sky and saw that it was getting brighter. The first true rays of sunlight crept over the horizon. But here on the ground, it was still dark. He tried to go faster. The backhoe ' s oversized tires ran overtop a small gravestone. He began digging again, dragging the scoop through the dirt, making trenches instead of holes. The back end lurched and Barry glanced around. The left rear tire had fallen into the earth. The dirt had collapsed beneath it, and Barry saw that he was sitting on top of a tunnel. Trying to maneuver away before the entire thing caved in, he gunned the engine. The motor thrummed.

When his father began shouting, Barry didn't hear him.

Timmy and Karen plunged through the darkness, running as fast as they could. The flashlight beam bounced off the walls and floor, jostled by the exertion. Timmy let Karen lead the way, but her captivity had left her weak, and she kept stumbling and slowing down. Timmy urged her on. Behind them, he heard the sounds of pursuit. The ghoul howled, sputtering curses and threats. Its feet pounded on the dirt floor. The tunnels echoed with its harsh, ragged breathing. Karen clambered over the splintered wood from a broken casket, and Timmy urged her to move faster. He cast a terrified glance over his shoulder and saw the ghoul narrowing the distance between them. It ran hunched over, one hand still cradling its wounded groin. It looked like a ghost, the phosphorescent slime glowing all around it as it neared them.

"Hurry." Timmy pushed her legs.

"I'm trying."

They cleared the barrier and kept running. Karen stumbled over a rock, but regained her balance. She gasped for air. Timmy was tiring as well. Despite days spent riding bikes and hiking through the woods, he was at the limits of his physical endurance. His lungs burned, and his leg muscles were beginning to cramp. A sharp pain jolted through his ribs. Clenching his teeth, he rubbed the sidestitch and tried to keep moving.

"Wife," the ghoul screeched. "Return to me, now. You cannot forsake me. My kind must live."

Karen sobbed, but didn't look back. Behind them, they heard their pursuer crash into the pile of shattered timbers.

"Woman, I will not warn you again."

Desperate to put more distance between themselves and the creature, Timmy and Karen pushed on while the ghoul clambered through the wreckage. They reached a crossroads, with side tunnels branching out in three different directions. Over the ghoul

's enraged shouts, Timmy heard a new soundthe muffled rumble of a diesel engine. It was the backhoe. It had to be. Sure enough, farther up the tunnel, dirt showered down from the surface. Confused by the falling debris, Karen weaved right and darted into one of the side tunnels.

"No," Timmy shouted. "That's the wrong way!" If she heard him, she gave no indication. She passed beyond the reach of his flashlight beam. He paused for just a moment, unsure of what to do. The ghoul growled, and then surged forward. It reached for him, talons clicking together. Timmy ran after Karen. Bones crunched under his feet. The tunnels began to shake. The first thing Clark Smeltzer was aware of was the noisea loud, steady rumble that made his head throb and his teeth ache. It thrummed through the very earth and cleaved the air around him. A machine, by the sound maybe a motor. The second thing he noticed was that the pain in his head was minor compared to the rest of him. Each breath brought fresh jabs of agony in his chest and sides. His face and throat felt like they ' d been burned. He tried to move and found he couldn 't. He' d been tied up with bungee cords. Clark took a few shallow breaths and then leaned forward, trying to loosen his bonds. His muscles screamed, and so did he. His voice was lost beneath the din of the machine. The bungee cords tightened, then went slack, tightened and slacked, as he slowly rocked back and forth. The rubber bands squeaked against the tombstone' s marble surface. Finally, they slipped down his body. He pulled his arms free and unfastened the cords. Clark squinted at his hands through crusted eyes, saw halfdried blood, and then touched his cheek. He shivered. The action brought more pain. His fingers came away red, fresh blood coating the already dried blood.

Fucked me up, he thought. Damn thing fucked me up good.

He shuddered. It was very cold. But that couldn't be right, could it? Coldin the middle of June? His teeth wouldn't stop chattering.

He forced his eyes open further. Only one of them obeyed. The other stayed shut. He turned his head slowly, seeking the source of the rumbling noise, and more pain ripped through him, causing his entire body to spasm. Clark clenched his hands into fists and forced his head to turn. His remaining good eye widened in surprise. Somehow, Barry had gotten inside the utility shed. The little bastard had picked the lock and hijacked the backhoe. As Clark watched, the scoop threw another clod of earth into the sky. He was digging up the cemetery obviously taking revenge for the beating Clark had handed down to him earlier.

"Hey!" he shouted. "You little fuck. What are you doing?" Barry ignored him.

"Don't pretend you can't hear me, you son of a bitch. Get off that fucking backhoe!

I mean it."

The engine revved higher. The machine rolled forward, the front end bouncing over a tombstone.

"Barry! You mind me, boy."

Fists still clenched, Clark stumbled to his feet. So his worthless son was pissed off about getting his ass beat? He' d teach him now. This was vandalism, plain and simple. Barry was about to get a beating he 'd never, ever forget.

"Okay. I warned you. You still ain't learned. This time, you don't get another chance." Clark staggered forward, grinning through the pain. Blood ran into his one good eye, and he saw red.

Karen moaned.

Timmy turned around and pointed the flashlight back the way they'd come.

"Oh God… Oh God…

Karen kept repeating it over and over. Timmy wasn' t sure if she was praying or just going into shock. If it was a prayer, it had gone unanswered. They had reached a dead end a mound of dirt and rock sealed the side tunnel off from the surface. An ashgray bone protruded from the center of the pile. All around them, the walls trembled. Timmy could hear the backhoe very clearly now, and it was easy to figure out what had happened. This tunnel had led to a grave. With Barry digging above them, the soil around the grave had collapsed, sinking down into the chasm below. Now they were trapped. Timmy stared back down the tunnel. It curved away into the darkness, sloping downward.

He wondered if there was time to run back out to the main passage and find another route. But even as he considered this the pale luminescence thrown off by the ghoul ' s body lit up the tunnel walls beyond the bend. Timmy shrank away, placing himself between Karen and their pursuer. She reached out and took his hand. Numb with terror, he barely felt it when she squeezed.

He thought of Katie, and how her hand had felt in his. He thought of his parents, and wished he could see them again, one more time, if only to tell them that he was sorry. He thought of Doug.

"I don't want to die," Timmy whispered. "Please." The walls around them shook and rumbled. Dirt spilled down on them, showering their hair and shoulders. Coughing, they brushed it off. A cloud of dust filled the narrow passageway, obscuring the flashlight beam. Their hands squeezed tighter. When the dust cleared, the ghoul had rounded the corner and stood several yards away. The creature cocked its pointed head and laughed.

"There is nowhere left for you to flee. You have offered good sport, boy, and for that I am grateful. But it is time to end this charade.

I will make your death quick, not out of kindness or pity. Believe me, I would relish the chance to flay your skin slowly for your transgressions. But I must still deal with what is transpiring on the surface. Did you and the grave digger ' s son really think to shake the foundations of my kingdom?"

Timmy licked his lips, too frightened to respond. His nostrils and the back of his throat tasted like dirt. His mouth was dry.

"Never mind," the ghoul said. "Tonight, you shall both feed me. And feed my wives, as well."

Karen squeezed Timmy's hand so hard that his knuckles popped. The ghoul raised its claws and took a menacing step forward. Timmy's eyes were drawn to the knife woundor where the knife wound should have been. It had healed already, and the only sign that Deb had even stabbed the creature was the dried blood on its thighs and legs.

The tunnel shook again and the ceiling rustled. More dirt showered down upon them all. The ghoul stumbled backward. Timmy and Karen pressed themselves against the wall, holding their breath so they wouldn 't choke. The sound of the backhoe's engine swelled, filling the tunnels.

You were right, Barry, Timmy thought. We shouldn't have tried to do this ourselves. We should have just told the adults. We can't fight a monster…

The cloud of dust dissipated, and the ghoul lunged for him. Barry struggled with the gearshift. It vibrated in his hand, refusing to budge. The backhoe rocked back and forth, the front end swaying precariously several feet off the ground. He'd spotted a fresh sinkhole and had tried to back up so he wouldn' t drive over the depression. He was afraid the ground might give way. In the process of turning around, he ' d driven up over a tombstone and was now stuck. He pushed harder on the stick. The gears made an awful grinding sound. Black smoke belched from the exhaust pipe.

The sunrise grew brighter on the horizon, the glowing orb now peeking over the treetops of Bowman's Woods.

Grunting, Barry tried again. As he wrestled with the gearshift, something tugged at his arm. Barry glanced down, saw a bloody hand clenching his wrist, and screamed. His father clung to the side of the backhoe. The old man was grinning. Blood coursed down his face. It looked like he could barely stand, let alone hang on to the bucking vehicle, yet his grip tightened.

"That's it for you, boy." Clark spat blood. "Time to take your medicine, once and for all."

"Get off me." Barry jerked his arm away, breaking his father's grip. Arms flailing, Clark teetered backward, and then fell forward and grabbed the backhoe' s sides. He swiped at Barry's head with one fist, but in his weakened state, his aim was off. Barry easily dodged the blow, and then struck back. This time he connected. His fist plowed into his father 's already mangled mouth. Clark's lips exploded beneath his son's knuckles. More blood splattered them both. Barry' s other hand slipped off the steering wheel. The backhoe careened atop the tombstone, leaning forward at a dangerous angle. Both father and son grabbed on tight, struggling to keep their balance. Pain lashed through Barry 's hand. He glanced down and saw a piece of his father' s tooth jutting from the knuckle of his middle finger.

Clark's hand shot forward and closed around Barry's throat. Barry tried to breathe, but couldn't. His tongue and eyes bulged. Grunting, his father squeezed tighter, his fingers digging into Barry 's flesh.

"Look at this shit," Clark wheezed. "All this damage. You did this, you little punk." Barry could barely hear him over the ringing in his ears. His head began to pound. He tried again to take a breath, but his father's grip was firm. Barry' s lips started bleeding again. He reached up with both hands and clawed at his father ' s wrist and forearm, trying to dislodge him. He pried at the thick fingers, but his father was too strong.

"You ain't no son of mine."

Barry's legs thrashed. The ringing in his ears grew louder. His hands fell away, weakening. Clark's grip tightened.

"You ain't no son of mine," he repeated.

Metal shrieked against stone. The backhoe tilted forward, then plunged over. The motor sputtered and died. All around them, the ground collapsed, falling down into the earth with a deafening roar. The sinkhole yawned wide like an eager mouth, waiting to devour them all. The front scoop disappeared into the earth, followed by the grille, headlights, and front tires. Barry slammed against the roll cage. Wire mesh pressed against his cheek. His father ' s grip slipped from his throat as Clark struggled to avoid falling.

Gasping for breath, Barry held on tight as the backhoe again lurched forward. His stomach felt sick. His fingers clutched the wire mesh. His father scrabbled for purchase, clinging to the steering wheel. The backhoe tipped forward and plunged headlong into the chasm.

As the ghoul approached, Timmy tried to scream. Instead, all that came out was a muffled whine. Clouds of dust swirled in the air. The creature loomed before him, its stink filling the tunnel. Slime dripped from its pores, pooling at its feet. It raised its claws to strike And the tunnel collapsed behind them. Tons of dirt filled the passageway, sealing off the other end. The flashlight slipped from Timmy' s grasp. He dropped to his knees, pulling Karen down with him. Both of them covered their mouths and noses as more dust filled the air. Timmy closed his eyes. A great roaring sound filled his ears, and then faded.

He opened his eyes again.

Despite the debris in the air, he could see. The ceiling was gone. Dim sunlight spilled through the chasm. The backhoe filled the tunnel, surrounded by piles of dirt, broken tombstones, and splintered coffins. Barry knelt in the dirt, coughing and gagging. The wound on his cheek had opened up again, and there were fresh cuts and scratches on his face and arms. His neck was bruised. The purple blotches looked like finger marks. There was no sign of the ghoul. Next to him, Karen threw up.

Timmy patted her back, unsure of what to do. "You okay?" Gasping, she nodded. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Timmy crawled over to Barry. Despite his injuries, Barry smiled.

"You're rescued."

"What happened?"

Groaning, Barry struggled to his feet. "The ground caved in. I couldn't jump off because my old man"

His eyes grew wide. He turned around quickly; then looked back to Timmy.

"Where is he?"

Timmy frowned. "The ghoul? I don't know. He must have took off when you came crashing through."

"No," Barry shook his head. "My old man. He was on the backhoe when it fell." They searched through the wreckage. The backhoe had landed on its front, and the scoop was imbedded in the tunnel floor. The dirt had piled up around it, burying the entire front end. The rear scoop jutted through the crevice in the ceiling and out to the surface. They clambered over the mounds of earth, searching. Timmy gasped. "Is that…"

Barry knelt in the dirt. His father's hand jutted from the soil. Dane Graco' s freemason ring was still on his finger. Without a word, Barry pulled the ring free and tossed it to Timmy.

"There. You should have this."

"Thanks." Timmy put the ring in his pocket. "Are you gonna be all right?" Barry shrugged, his eyes not leaving the hand. "Yeah. I mean, maybe I should be sad, because he was my father, but I'm not. I don't even feel happy. I' m just… empty. Does that make sense?"

Timmy nodded.

Barry ran his hands through his hair, shaking out the dirt. "He said I wasn't any son of his. Right before we fell."

"That's not true."

"Yeah, it is. He may have been my old man, biologically, but I ain't his son. No way. I'm nothing like him, and I'm never gonna be. I swear it."

Karen stepped forward. "Can we go?"

"What about the other woman?" Timmy asked. "Deb? We can't just leave her down here."

"Where is she?" Barry stared at Karen's breasts, then quickly looked away.

"Back there somewhere." Timmy pointed past the pile of dirt choking the tunnel.

"We'll have to dig through that."

"With what," Barry snorted. "Our bare hands?" Karen climbed up the backhoe. "We'll get help. They can send a rescue squad in to dig her out, just like they do when a mine collapses. I' m not waiting for that thing to come back. She might not even be alive anymore. She was pretty… out of it. I think her mind went after the first time the ghoul…"

Rather than finishing the sentence, she turned her face skyward. Timmy and Barry watched her climb. Barry leaned close and whispered in his ear.

"Do you think the ghoul is dead?"

"I don't know," Timmy said. "My eyes were shut. I didn't see where it went."

"What about Doug? Did you find him?"

Timmy lowered his head. His lip quivered. "Yeah. He's… I don't want to talk about it right now."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

Karen shimmied up the rear scoop's arm. When she reached the ceiling, she looked back down at them.

"You guys coming?"

Nodding, the boys climbed onto the backhoe. Barry started up first, followed by Timmy. Timmy had only ascended a few feet when he heard a soft rustling noise. He glanced down at the mound of debris. It was moving.

"Shit. Go, go, go!"

"What is it?" Barry stopped, looking down in concern.

"Just go," Timmy screamed. "Hurry!"

A clawed hand erupted from the dirt, followed by another. Several of the ghoul' s talons had been ripped away, and its fingers were bleeding. Its arms thrust forward, followed by its pointed, oversized head. Its yellow eyes smoldered with rage. Screaming, Barry began climbing again. Timmy pushed on his feet, urging him to go faster.

The ghoul sprang from the mound and shook off the dirt. Then it rose to its full height.

"My bride!" It beckoned to Karen. "Return now, and I shall not hurt you." With a shriek, Karen pulled herself up to the surface and out into the light. Barry and Timmy climbed higher.

"No," the ghoul roared. "No, no, no, no, no. I will not allow this. My kind must live again. You will not take away my chance at parentage."

It leaped onto the backhoe. The scoop arm rocked back and forth, and both boys had to cling tight to keep from falling. Like a spider, the ghoul raced up the side of the machine, its long arms and legs scrabbling for purchase. Barry reached the top and heaved himself over the side onto solid ground. He extended his hand down into the hole and Timmy grasped it.

"Hurry," Barry shouted. "It's almost on you." Timmy pushed with his legs and reached the top. The ghoul was directly beneath him. He could feel its breath on his ankles; hear it hissing with rage. Then it howled but this time, the sound was different.

Timmy crawled out of the hole and glanced back down. The dim sunlight had touched the ghoul' s arm, and the pale flesh sizzled. The slime coating the appendage bubbled and popped, and a thin line of smoke curled upward.

"Come on." Barry grabbed Timmy's arm and pulled him to his feet. Timmy shrugged him off and stared in horrified fascination, absolutely transfixed as the ghoul's arm continued to smolder.

"Timmy, let's go!"

Barry shoved him forward. Timmy stumbled, and then followed. They ran between the tombstones. Karen sprinted ahead of them, heading for the church. The sun 's upper half had cleared the treetops now, and the blue light of predawn had given way to the red glow of sunrise.

"No. My family…" The ghoul emerged from the crevice. Smoke billowed from its body as the light touched its flesh. Even as they ran, the boys heard it sizzling behind them. Still, it pursued them with determination, screaming for Karen to come back. As they neared the church, the creature 's shouts faded. Timmy turned and stared.

The ghoul writhed in the grass, its body contorted with pain. Timmy had once found a slug on his parent' s sidewalk, and had poured salt over the unfortunate creature. He was reminded of that now. The ghoul ' s pale flesh sloughed away each time the monster moved. The muscles and tissue beneath bubbled and burned. A layer of white foam covered everything. Timmy expected the ghoul to explode, like in the movies and comic books, but instead, it simply pawed at the earth, making pathetic mewling sounds and watching Karen race away. Even after its eyes had melted and run out onto the ground, its head remained upright and pointed in her direction.

"My… family…"

The boys watched until there was nothing left but a bubbling puddle. And then Timmy began to cry. He thought about their attack on Catcher, the guilt and shame he'd felt after the fact. Like Doug had said, the dog wasn' t a monster. It was just doing what it was supposed to do. What it had been bred to do. Protecting it 's home. When they' d attacked, and Catcher had run around in a circle, yelping and whining and pawing at his eyes, he hadn 't looked like a monster. He'd looked pitiful. Timmy stared at the stewing remains of the ghoul. It didn't look like a monster anymore.

"Didn't it realize? Didn't it know what the sunlight would do?"

"It must have wanted Karen that bad," Barry said. "Nothing else mattered."

"Family," Timmy whispered. "It was trying to save its family."

"Come on," Barry said. He put his arm around Timmy's shoulder and led him away. Behind them, the sun rose into the sky. A new day had begun.

Epilogue

The black Toyota SUV wheeled into the church parking lot and slowed to a halt. A satellite radio antenna was magnetically affixed to the roof, and the muffled sounds of a children 's program drifted from inside the vehicle. A man sat in the driver' s seat, gripping the wheel tightly. A woman sat next to him. After a moment, the Toyota slowly made its way down the graveyard ' s middle road. The path was wider than the man remembered it being, and looked as if it had recently been given a fresh coat of blacktop.

"Is this it, Daddy?"

The man nodded. "Yep. This is it. This used to be my playground." He shivered. His wife noticed and turned down the air conditioning. The man said nothing.

The SUV crawled past the graves, slowed again, and then stopped. The man got out, and smoothed his suit. His tie fluttered in the warm June breeze. He took a deep breath. He hadn' t been there in a long time. He glanced around. The old utility shed was gone, replaced with a more modern structure. Farmer Jones ' s pasture now held duplex housing instead of cattle. Things were different. He closed his eyes for a moment and heard the sound of children 's laughter. Old ghosts. They'd been good ghosts, once upon a time.

Not anymore.

As an adult, the man was reminded of how children laughing often sounded like children screaming.

He opened his eyes and moved on.

Inside the vehicle, his wife and kids watched him approach the grave. Then the woman made a call on her cell phone.

The man stood in front of the gravea fresh, open hole in the earth. A wound. It would be filled later that day, and then covered back over with sod. A brandnew tombstone sat at the head of the hole.

It said that Randy Graco was a loving husband and father. Dane Graco 's tombstone stood a few feet away.

"Hey, Timmy."

Tim jumped in surprise. He'd thought he was alone. He looked up. The cemetery' s caretaker stepped out from behind a tall monument. A bashful young boy, around the same age as Tim ' s oldest son, crept out behind him, watching with curiosity. Both were dressed in work clothes, their jeans soiled with grass stains and dirt.

"Timmy?"

The caretaker pulled off his work gloves and walked toward him. Tim frowned. Nobody had called him Timmy since he'd graduated college. Not even his parents. He didn't recognize the caretaker at first. He was bald, and his skin looked weathered from too much sun or stressor both. There were dark circles under his eyes that most men didn ' t get until much later in life. But the scar was what gave his identity away: a narrow, pale line running up his cheek, carved years ago with a stolen ringa ring that was now on Tim' s right hand.

The scar had happened on a night neither man would ever forget. The scar, like the memories, had faded over time, but was still there.

Smiling in disbelief, Tim stepped forward. "Barry? Jesus Christ…"

"Good to see you, too, man." Barry laughed. "Thought maybe you didn't recognize me."

"I didn't. At first, anyway. Took me a second. It's been a while."

"Yes, it has. Twenty years, give or take."

Still surprised, Tim was speechless.

"I keep up on you," Barry said, his voice filled with pride. "The Hanover Evening Sun and the York Dispatch both had articles on you. I hear you' re a famous comic book writer now."

Tim chuckled. "Well, I wouldn't say I'm famous or anything. But I do all right."

"You and your funny books." Barry pulled out a can of Husky tobacco and loaded some into his lip. "I remember you were crazy about those things when we were kids."

"You were, too."

Barry's brow furrowed. "Yeah, I guess maybe I was. I'd forgotten about that. I don' t read much of anything these days, except the paper. But man, I remember how pissed you were when your dad ripped yours up."

"I remember, too," Timmy whispered. "I don't think we'll ever forget."

"No," Barry agreed. "We won't. But shit, I didn't mean to bring up your old man. I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

Barry pointed at the grave. "I was sorry to hear about what happened. He was a good neighbor. Hell, I've been living next to him my whole life. It' ll be weird not seeing him down over the hill."

Tim nodded sadly. "Yeah. It was pretty sudden. The heart attack hit him while he was watching the game. Happened quick. Mom' s still in shock, I think. But at least he didn 't suffer."

"Well, that's good."

"Yeah."

They stared at each other in silence, neither one knowing what to say. Barry spat a wad of brown tobacco juice onto the grass. "That your family?"

"Yeah." Tim turned back to the SUV. "That's my wife, Mara, and my sons, Dane and Doug."

Barry paused. "Doug, huh? That's good. He'd have liked that."

"I think so."

"Wife's goodlooking," Barry said, staring at the Toyota. "You done good."

"Yeah, I can't complain."

"Ever hear from Katie Moore?"

"Not since graduation. I went to college. She had another year in school. You know how it is."

"I always figured you two would get hitched. Young love and all that."

"That only happens in songs, I guess."

Barry nodded, and they fell silent again.

"That's my kid back there." Barry turned, pointing at the shy boy, who'd crept back behind the monument again. "Richie. Get your ass out here and say hello." Tim frowned. Barry' s voice had taken on a rough, unpleasant tone. The boy, Richie, slunk out from behind the marker, eyes cast to the ground, shoulders slumped. Tim finally got a good look at the kid. He was skinny, and his arms stuck out of his Tshirt like twigs. Both of them were bruised, and his right forearm had a nasty circular mark. Tim tried to keep a straight face, but inside he was shocked. It looked like a cigarette burn.

"Get over here," Barry shouted.

The boy jumped at the sound of his father's voice, and dutifully shuffled over to them. As he got closer, Tim noticed the scars.

"This here is Timmy Graco," Barry said, introducing him. "We was best friends when we were your age."

"Hi." Tim stuck out his hand.

Richie shook it. His grip was weak, his palms sweaty. He mumbled under his breath. Barry slapped the back of his head. "Speak up. I told you before, nobody can understand shit when you mumble like that."

"Sorry," the boy apologized. "Nice to meet you." He didn't look into Tim's eyes, but kept his gaze focused on the ground.

"Get on back to work," Barry commanded.

He prodded Richie with his boot. The boy ran off.

Barry grinned, looking sheepish.

"He don't listen sometimes. Got to teach him manners. Guess we did the same thing when we were kids."

"Looks like he got hurt recently." Tim kept his voice calm. Shrugging, Barry looked away. "He's careless. Clumsy, like I was at that age. You know how it is. Boys have scars."

Timmy nodded, unable to speak around the lump in his throat. He stared at the faded scar on Barry's cheek.

Boys have scars, he thought. Some of them fadeand others don't. Some scars stay with us for life.

"Listen, Barry… I should get going. The kids are restless, and I want to check in on my mom. It's been a long drive."

"Sure." Barry met his gaze again, and smiled. His face was sad. "Funeral's tomorrow. You gonna stay in town long?"

"A few days, probably."

"Well, let's get together. Have a few beers. I'll have to show you how I fixed up the house, since the last time you saw it."

"That sounds good. It will depend on Mara and the kids, of course. And Mom. I want to be there for her."

"You can make time for a beer with your old bud." Timmy nodded.

Barry wiped the sweat from his brow. "Good seeing you, Timmy."

"You too, man."

Tim started to turn away, but Barry called out to him, his voice soft and sad. For a brief moment, he sounded like the old Barry, the Barry Tim had known from childhood.

"What happened to us, Timmy?"

"What do you mean?"

"We were supposed to be best friends. Remember? We promised ourselves that we wouldn't let each other down. Best friends for life."

"I remember."

"So what happened?"

Tim shook his head. "I don't know, Barry. Life happened, I guess. We grew up. Grew apart. I think of you a lot, though. You and Doug."

"Yeah." Barry wiped his eyes. "Me, too." They said goodbye again, and Tim headed back to the Toyota. He hadn' t lied. He did think of Barry and Doug, and Katie, too. Almost every day, in fact. But in his memories, they were twelve and immortal. And they would be twelve forever, living out the happiest days of their lives over and over again. They were who they 'd been at twelve and not who they were now.

He'd come to the cemetery and found new old ghosts. The happiest days of their lives had been nothing more than a defense mechanism.

Tim opened the door and slid into the driver's seat.

"Who was that?" Mara asked. "Old friend?"

"Yeah." Tim turned the key. "An old friend. My best friend, actually."

"What's his name?"

"Barry. We used to run around together. Me, him, and our friend Doug." In the backseat, Dane pressed buttons on his handheld video game, oblivious to the conversation. But Doug leaned forward in the seat. "You mean you had a friend named Doug, just like my name?"

Tim smiled. "I sure did."

"And the three of you were best friends, just like me and Joey and Jesse?" Tim nodded. He blinked the tears away so his family wouldn't see them. Mara noticed, reached out, and patted his leg.

"Sit back, honey, so Daddy can pull out."

Doug complied. As he fastened his seat belt, he said, "I miss Joey and Jesse. It's summer. I want to get back home and play."

"You will soon," Mara said. "You've got the whole summer ahead of you."

"I guess you're right," Doug said. "Summer's last a long time. And me, Joey, and Jesse are best friends forever, so they'll be there when I get back." Tim sighed. He wanted to promise his son that yes, summers were endless and that his best friends would be his best friends forever, but the truth was, life didn' t work out that way. When he was twelve, he had believed that summers were endless and so was life. But he knew better now. Nothing was endless. Nothing lasted forever. Nothing was eternal. Not life. Not summer. Not friendship. Not even love. Because the ghouls would gnaw away at those things until there was nothing left. The only things that lasted forever were scarsand monsters.

THE END