Ghoul (4 page)

As he knocked on the door, Timmy wondered who would greet them this morning--their friend, his mother, or the monster that lived with them.

It opened, and Barry's mother, Rhonda, smiled at them through the screen door. The boys cringed as they always did when she smiled. One of her front teeth had been missing for the past year. They heard the soft sounds of a Barbara Mandrel song coming from the radio in the kitchen.

“Hi, Mrs. Smeltzer.”

“Good morning, b--”

The radio shut off.

“Who is it?” Clark Smeltzer barked from behind her.

Rhonda's smile instantly crumbled, her happiness melting as quickly as a popsicle on a summer sidewalk. Timmy noticed something odd; diamond earrings sparkled on her ears. The Smeltzers didn't have a lot of money, and Timmy had never seen her wear something like that.

She scrambled out of the way and Barry's father replaced her in the doorway. He glowered at them, obviously suffering from a hangover. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was something dried and crusty in his mustache and beard. He wore yellow-stained boxer shorts and an olive work shirt, unbuttoned. Black lint poked out of his swollen belly button. Despite his slovenly appearance, a gold watch adorned his wrist, replacing the Timex he usually wore.

Timmy frowned, backing away a few steps. Mr. Smeltzer stank of sour sweat, booze, and despair. Timmy wondered if he was still drunk.

“What the hell do you two want? Ain't you got jobs this summer?”

Timmy shook his head, his spirits sinking. Clark Smeltzer's slurred speech answered his question.

“No, sir. We were just looking for Barry.”

“You woke me up. Didn't go to bed but an hour ago.”

“We're sorry,” Timmy apologized. “We didn't know.”

“Banging on the door this early in the morning. The hell's wrong with you? Ain't you got nothing better to do?”

“We just wanted to show Barry something,” Doug explained, holding up the black tube.

Clark Smeltzer eyed it and frowned. “What's that? Poster?”

“A map,” Doug said. “I made it.”

“Should be playing baseball or football, instead of drawing. That's queer shit. You a fag? Ain't no wonder your old man took off.”

There was a shocked gasp of dismay behind him. “Clark! Don't say such things to that boy.”

“Get the fuck back in the kitchen, Rhonda, if you know what's good for you!”

Timmy started to turn away. Doug looked like he was ready to cry. His bottom lip quivered, and his ears and cheeks had turned scarlet. The color made his freckles seem more numerous than ever.

“Where the fuck you going?”

“Sorry we woke you up, Mr. Smeltzer,” Timmy apologized again. “Can you tell Barry we stopped by?”

“He ain't here. He's over in the cemetery, working. Same way you boys should. Kids today are lazy. Don't know how good you got it. Ought to get a damn job.”

Timmy froze. “If we're so lazy, how come Barry's out doing your job, while you're sleeping off last night's bottle?” The words left Timmy's mouth before he could stop them.

Clark Smeltzer stared at him in angry surprise. His eyebrows narrowed. Both Doug and Barry's mother groaned.

“You know what your problem is, Graco? You're a fucking smart-ass. Got a real attitude problem.”

Timmy didn't respond.

“I've got a good mind to tan your hide.”

Mr. Smeltzer shoved the screen door open and stepped out onto the porch, towering over the boys. His hand curled into a fist. Doug retreated into the yard. Timmy held his ground.

“Go ahead,” Timmy challenged. “You lay one hand on me and I promise you'll regret it.”

Barry's dad charged. Timmy stood his ground.

“Clark!”

Barry's mother rushed outside and grabbed her husband's arm, wrestling him away from the boys. He shook her off and grinned humorlessly.

His flashing gray teeth reminded Timmy of a shark 's.

“Bet your father will want to hear about this, Graco. He won't be too goddamned happy when I tell him how his son is smarting off to adults.”

“Go ahead and tell him. He's right down over the hill, working in the garden. In fact, I'll go with you.”

Timmy knew that his father despised Clark Smeltzer as an abusive, bullying drunk, but furthermore, Clark Smeltzer knew it, too. Timmy wasn't worried.

“Come on, Doug.” He turned his back on Barry's parents.

“You get out of here,” Mr. Smeltzer hollered. "And don't go bothering Barry, either.

He's got work to do!"

The boys ignored him.

“And stay out of that cemetery. You hear me? I don't want to see you playing there no more.”

Doug stopped. “But we always play there, Mr. Smeltzer.”

"Not no more you don't. Stay clear of it. I've told Barry the same thing. He's not to be there except for when he's helping me, and never after sundown. Those are the new rules. Gonna put up signs this week saying so."

“You don't own the cemetery,” Timmy said. “You're just the caretaker.”

“Don't matter. You mind me, boy. I catch you there and it'll be your ass. That's a promise.”

Without glancing back or responding, the boys hopped on their bikes and pedaled away, still careful to stay out of Randy Graco's line of sight. Timmy wondered if his father had heard Mr. Smeltzer 's outburst, and then decided that he didn't care.

“Jesus,” Doug panted as they reached the end of the parking lot. "You're crazy, Timmy.

You know that?"

“Why?”

"Mouthing off the way you did? Being a smart-ass? I thought he was gonna lay you out cold, man. One of these days you're going to get smart with the wrong person."

“You sound like my mom.”

“I'm just saying, is all.”

“It's bullshit, and I'm not going to take it. He's not gonna push me around the way he does Barry.”

Doug stopped pedaling and slammed on his brakes. His back tire skidded on the pavement.

Balancing the plastic tube, he cleaned his glasses on his shirt.

“You okay?” Timmy asked.

“Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?”

“Well, what he said about your old man ...”

Doug shrugged. "Oh, I don't care about that. I i mean, it's not true. You know? My dad loves me. When he comes back from California, everyone will see."

“Yeah.”

Timmy glanced back at the house. Barry's parents had gone back inside. He wondered what price Barry's mother would pay behind that closed door, perhaps right now, for stopping her husband from hitting him. Then he wondered why she didn't do the same when he hit Barry. If she'd stuck up for her son's friends, couldn't she stick up for her own son as well?

Doug put his glasses back on and smiled. It looked false. Strained. They coasted into the road. Timmy's handlebars were sweaty. So was Doug's shirt, especially around his armpits.

“What are you thinking about, Timmy?”

“Did you notice that both of Barry's parents had new jewelry on? It looked really expensive.”

Doug shook his head. "No, I didn't see it. But big deal. As bad as he treats Barry and his mother sometimes, we should be happy he's spending money on them at all."

“Yeah, I guess you're right. I don't know. Just seemed weird. He never does stuff like that. Barry has to bum money from us for lunch at school sometimes.”

“Maybe Mr. Smeltzer got a raise.”

Timmy shrugged. “Yeah, maybe.”

“It's not really any of our business.”

“I guess not.”

“So what now?” Doug asked.

“Let's go find Barry.”

"You heard Mr. Smeltzer. He said we weren't supposed to play over there anymore.

Said he'd kick our ass."

"The heck with him. He ain't watching us right now.

Probably went back to bed by now. Let's find Barry. I want to see this map you made."

“But what if someone else spots us?”

“Who's gonna see? Other than Barry, there's nobody out there this morning.”

“Except for the dead people.”

Timmy grinned. “Well, yeah, except for the dead people. They're always there. Wouldn't be a cemetery without them.”

“Yeah,” Doug agreed. “It would just be a bunch of empty holes in the ground.”

After making sure Barry's parents weren't watching them from the windows, the boys crossed Golgotha Church Road and wheeled around the church and into the cemetery. To their left, down over the sloping hill, were the old graves. Timmy noted again how two of them had sunk into the ground.

In front of them, sprawling out behind the church, was the more modern portion of the graveyard. This part stretched nearly a quarter-mile to the west. It was split into three large sections by narrow, cracked blacktop roadways, each barely wide enough for a single car to drive on.

The first road, off to their left, separated the older graveyard at the bottom of the hill from the more modern cemetery above. Halfway along this path was an old yellow clapboard utility shed with a rusty tin roof that was covered with fallen tree branches and leaves. Beyond the shed was another stretch of woods. The boys often played inside the old shed, gaining access, when they didn't have Barry's dad's keys, through a boarded up window at the rear, half hidden by a massive pile of dirt left over from new graves. Inside was a small backhoe, a riding mower, two push mowers, a grass catcher, winch, shovels, rakes, pickaxes, hoes, wooden planks and plywood to cover up open graves, canvas tarps, stone markers, plastic flowers and wreaths, vases for the graves, and little flags for Veteran 's and Memorial Days. Because of the dirt floor, it always smelled musty inside. Barry, Doug, and Timmy often waited with their pump-action BB and pellet guns until a rat or groundhog burrowed up through the floor. Then they 'd nail it. Barry especially enjoyed this activity since it was one of the few times his father seemed genuinely pleased with him; they were taking care of the rodents that plagued the graveyard. This morning, the shed 's doors hung open, swaying slightly in the breeze, and the tractor was missing-- both signs that Barry had been there earlier.

The path to their right bordered the northern end of the cemetery. On one side were gray and brown tombstones carved from granite and marble. On the other side was a long, sloping pasture in which beef cattle grazed. An electric fence kept the cows from wandering into the graveyard. Last summer, Barry and Doug had dared Timmy to pee on the fence, offering up back issues of Man-Thing, Defenders, Captain America, and Kamando from their collections, as well as one of Doug's Micronauts action figures (a blue Time Traveler) and some of Barry's extra Wacky Packages cards. It was a hard deal to turn down, especially because Timmy collected Defenders and it was an issue he didn't have-- the one where Hulk, Dr. Strange, Valkyrie, Nighthawk and the rest of the team fought a villain called Nebulon, and Chondu the Mystic possessed the Hulk's pet fawn. So, steeling himself, he'd peed on the fence, got the shock of his life, and had endured two days of not being able to sit down comfortably along with the jeers of his two best friends. His testicles had turned black and blue, and after returning from the doctor 's office, his parents had grounded him for two weeks. By that time, it didn 't matter. Admitting to his parents what he'd done had been, until that point, the most mortifyingly embarrassing moment of Timmy Graco's life.

And it had totally been worth it.

At the bottom of the hill, beyond the lush, rolling pasture, was a small hollow with a thin stream running through it's center, emptying into a deep pond, complete with diving board, boat dock, and a tire swing hanging from a drooping willow tree. Next to the pond stood Luke Jones 's three-story farmhouse and a long barn, both white with green tiled roofs. Several other outbuildings sat clustered around the two larger structures. The view beyond the farm was clear for miles and miles --the paper mill's stacks belching white smoke into the sky, the twin towns of Colonial Valley and Spring Grove, and in the distance, on the horizon, the forested tops of Pigeon Hills and the radio transmitter tower for 98YCR nestled among them. On a quiet day, visitors to the cemetery could hear the distant whine of traffic on Route 116, which cut through Spring Grove and passed by Colonial Valley on its way to Hanover and Gettysburg.

The far end of the cemetery was bordered by a cornfield, which bridged the pasture to the side with the older graveyard, shed, and vast forest beyond them. It was at the intersection of the cemetery, cornfield, and the electric fence that the boys had built the Dugout. It sat only a few feet away from the blacktopped cemetery path, invisible to passersby (except, apparently, Timmy's grandfather), and the electric fence skirted the fort's far edge. They weren't sure whose property it was on, the churches or Mr. Jones 's--and in truth, they'd never stopped to consider it. At twelve, they saw all of the area as theirs, and begrudged the adults their usage of it. Had Timmy been able to figure out a way to tax all the grownups for their usage of the surrounding countryside, he 'd have happily done it.

They rode down the pathway, searching for Barry. The smell of fresh cut grass hung thick in the air. A bird chirped happily overhead. White and yellow butterflies hovered over a puddle leftover from the rainstorm two days before. Honeybees buzzed in a patch of clover.

As he pedaled, Timmy watched the gravestones flash past; sarah myers 1900-1929; abby lucken-

BAUGH 1922-1923; BRITNEY RODGERS, AGE 5; BRETT SOWERS 1913-1983, WWII VETERAN; KENNETH L. RUDIS-

ill 1923-1976. He'd spent so much time amongst these markers that the names and dates were as familiar as the kids in his class. A lot of the people buried here were children, many of them infants, many more around his age. That had always disturbed him. Timmy normally felt immortal, like the Eternals another of his favorite comic books. He didn't like to think about the alternative-- that somebody his age could die. But here was proof, carved in stone, that it happened all the time --that kids his age died. His grandmother was buried in this section as well. Timmy didn't remember her very well, just vague impressions. Her perfume, the way she 'd always tried to get him to eat more when they visited, how she'd squeezed him when they hugged. He often had to look at photographs just to remember her face. Next to her gravestone was a matching marker for his grandfather; Dane Graco's name and date of birth were already engraved in the marble, just waiting on his death to complete the inscription. Timmy didn't like to think about that either, and as a result, he avoided his grandmother's grave whenever possible. Seeing his grandfather 's name along with that blank date, as if the stone were just waiting for Dane Graco, gave Timmy the creeps.

Behind them, five arch-shaped stained glass windows on the rear of the church stared out, overseeing the cemetery. They'd also always given Timmy the creeps. Often on Sunday mornings, when the sermon was especially boring, he'd stare at the windows and make up spooky stories about the scenes depicted in them.

Sometimes he even wrote them down in the margins of his church bulletin, much to his mother's chagrin. She told him it was disrespectful, bordering on blasphemous. Timmy didn 't understand that. The Bible was full of scary stories and characters-- witches and black magic, zombies and demons, giants and sea monsters, murder, even cannibalism. Why were his little tales any worse? Why wouldn 't God like them? He told some of the stories to Barry and Doug, and they'd asked him for more. Their eagerness had inspired something inside Timmy. He thought that when he grew up, he might like to write comic books. Not draw them, of course.

He was lucky if he could draw stick figures. Doug was the artist in their group.

He'd been working on the map for the last four months, and couldn't wait to unveil it. Timmy couldn't wait, either. Doug was much more talented at drawing than Timmy, but Timmy could write, and comic books needed writers to tell the artists what to draw. Maybe he'd grow up to be like Steve Gerber or J. M. DeMatteis or even Stan “the Man” Lee.

At twelve, Timmy's entire world pretty much revolved around comic books. His father had bought him his first two when he was six--an issue of The Incredible Hulk in which the jade-jawed giant fought a group of villains called the U-Foes (before that, Timmy's only exposure to the Hulk was the television program on Friday nights, and the Hulk hadn't been able to talk in that) and an issue of Star Wars that featured a blaster-toting, man-sized, talking bunny rabbit named Jax who had helped Han Solo and Chewbacca ward off a bounty hunter.

After finishing these comics, he was hooked. Like any other young boy's hobby, it soon became an obsession.

Each week, he rode his bike down to the newsstand and bought his weekly fix of comics.

His selections varied, but his favorites were Transformers, The Incredible Hulk, Sgt. Rock, Marvel Two-In-One, The Amazing Spider-Man, Moon Knight, The Defenders and Captain America.

He supplemented his newsstand purchases with mail-order comics from a company called Bud Plant. He preferred underground books like The First Kingdom and Elfquest and wished he could figure out a way to get their X-rated, adults-only material like Omaha the Cat Dancer and Cherry Poptart without his mother's knowledge. In addition to the new monthly issues, he bought every back issue he could find. Sometimes he saw advertisements in the backs of comics for comic book stores, but the closest one was Geppi's Comic World in Baltimore, and he'd only been there twice (but the visits were enough to impress upon him that the proprietor, Steve Geppi, was a god among men). The next closest was in New York City, four hours away. Instead, Timmy scrounged back issues at yard sales and the Colonial Valley flea market. On Sundays, he'd ride his bike there and buy old back issues for fifty cents each. The woman who ran the flea market had roughly 5,000 comic books at home ranging from the 1950s to the mid-1970s. According to popular rumor, they 'd belonged to her son, who was killed in Vietnam. Timmy didn't know much about Vietnam, other than that both his father and Barry 's had fought there. Timmy's dad had been in the Airborne and Clark Smeltzer served on a riverboat. Timmy was sorry her son had died, but he liked to think that whoever the guy was, he 'd appreciate his comic collection now being enjoyed by kids like he once was. Every Sunday, she'd bring in a new box. She was beloved by all the neighborhood children, and loathed by their parents, whom the kids begged for more money.

Last Christmas, his grandfather had bought him a copy of the Overstreet Comic Book Price Guide.

When Timmy saw what some of his comics were worth, it fueled his obsession even more.

Needless to say, Timmy had amassed quite a comic book collection. His father often groused about getting rid of them, that they took up too much space, and that a boy his age should be more interested in sports than reading “funny books,” which is what Randy Graco insisted on calling them. But Timmy had no interest in playing professional sports. Anybody could throw a football or baseball, but making up a story about how the Devil had taken over Earth, like J. M. DeMatteis had done in The Defenders #100--that took real talent.

Riding beside him, Doug panted, out of breath. His bike's spokes flashed in the sunlight.

“You need to lay off those Twinkles,” Timmy teased.

“Screw you.”

“Your Calvin Klein's are sticking to your thighs, man. Gross.”

“Least I got designer jeans. You're wearing those same old Levis from last year.”

"Only reason you got Calvins is because your mom bought them at the thrift store.

It's not like she shops at Chess King."

“Bite me.”

Laughing, they punched at each other, almost crashing their bikes in the process.

They found Barry near the end of the cemetery, right on the border between the graveyard and the budding cornfield. Over the next three months, the stalks would go from ankle-high to towering over their heads. Barry was raking two car tire tracks out of the grass, smoothing out the damage. He waved as they approached, and flipped his long blond hair out of his face. Even at twelve, his lean muscles flexed beneath his black Twisted Sister T-shirt, the result of many days of hard labor. Although they 'd never admit it, both Timmy and Doug often felt self-conscious when standing next to their blue-eyed friend. The girls at school paid attention to Barry, and ignored them, for the most part.

As they got closer, Timmy could hear the tinny strains of Def Leppard's “Die Hard the Hunter” coming from the earphones around Barry's head.

“Hey guys.” Barry stopped his Walkman and removed the earphones, letting them dangle around his neck.

Timmy and Doug skidded to a stop.

“What happened here?” Timmy stared at the rutted ground.

"My dad says some teenagers must have drove through here last night. Went off the road and through this section of grass where there aren't any tombstones, and then kept on going right on through the corn."

“Mr. Jones is gonna be mad when he sees that,” Doug said, eyeing the bent and broken stalks. “They messed his field up.”

"Nan. Corn grows back so fast, he won't even notice it. By this time next week, the stalks will be twice the height they are now.

Timmy and Doug agreed that he was right.

“How'd you guys know I was here?” Barry asked.

Timmy nodded back toward the church. “Your dad told us.”

Barry's face darkened. “Oh. Did he say anything else?”

“Yeah.”

“How bad?”

“Well, he was pretty angry ...”

“He was up late,” Barry apologized. "I went to bed after that special Friday night Family Ties was off, but I couldn't sleep. I was in bed listening to Doctor Demento on the radio. I heard Dad get up around midnight and leave the house. He didn't come back till early this morning. Said he'd chased some kids out of the cemetery. Same kids that did this, I guess."

Timmy shrugged. “Was he drinking?”

"I don't know. He stayed awake long enough to tell me what he wanted me to do today.

Then he went to bed."

Barry refused to meet his stare, and Timmy knew then that he was lying.

“He was pretty pissed off,” Timmy repeated. “More than usual.”

“I don't want him anymore pissed than he already is,” Barry said. “My birthday's coming up, and he said I could get a Yamaha Eighty dirt bike if I listened.”