Ghoul (9 page)

“I don't know,” Barry admitted. "There's not much he can do, except to add extra dirt to the sinking areas, and straighten up the headstones. If it keeps happening, I guess the church board will have to do something."

They crossed the road and cut through Barry's yard and over the hill into Timmy's backyard, all so that Clark Smeltzer wouldn't see them and find something else for Barry to do. Then they went inside Timmy 's house. His mother made a big production over Doug's injuries, and made him sit down while she attended to him with cotton swabs and disinfectant. Doug beamed at the attention and concern, happier than his friends had seen him in weeks. They shook their heads, saddened and bemused. The simple attention of a mother --any mother--changed his entire mood.

“What in the world did you do?” Elizabeth asked him. “How did you cut it like this?”

“I don't know, Mrs. Graco. I think it was a rock or something.”

“You think? These scratches look like claw marks, Doug.”

“It was a bunch of sticks. I cut it when I fell. Sticks or a rock. I didn't really look to see.”

While Elizabeth was distracted with Doug, Barry and Timmy snuck into the kitchen and borrowed a bottle of vinegar and a plastic container of lemon juice. They turned up his mother's radio to cover the noise--Olivia Newton John moaned about getting physical. Quickly, they filled up their squirt guns, laid the plastic weapons out on the patio, and then returned the items just as Elizabeth and Doug were finishing up. They walked into the kitchen. Doug was wearing Timmy 's old pair of Vans, from last year when he'd gone through a skateboard craze. They barely fit, and the laces were undone.

Timmy's mother sniffed the air. Her nose wrinkled.

“It smells like vinegar in here.”

The boys glanced at one another. Doug's smile vanished.

“Really?” Timmy's voice cracked. “I don't smell anything. You guys smell anything?”

Barry and Doug shook their heads.

Shaking her head, Elizabeth turned down the radio. "You guys want to stay for dinner?

We're having hamburgers and French fries. Randy's grilling when he gets home from work."

Doug grew excited. “Sure, Mrs. Graco. That would be great.”

“I'd better not.” Barry's eyes fell to the floor. “Don't want to leave my mom home alone.”

Elizabeth frowned at the odd statement, but said nothing. She winced again at the sharp tang of vinegar in the air. Motherly instinct told her that Timmy and his friends were up to something, but it also told her that it probably wasn 't something that would get them hurt or killed or in trouble, and therefore, she decided to let go. Letting go was something she struggled with. No matter how old Timmy got, she still thought of him as her little boy, and she still worried. She supposed she always would, even when he was an adult.

“Hamburgers and French fries,” Doug said. “That'll hit the spot. What's for dessert, Mrs. Graco?”

“Blueberry pie.” She patted Doug's head. “I'll call your mother and make sure it's okay.”

“You don't have to,” Doug said. “She's probably not there to answer, anyway.”

“Oh?” Elizabeth arched her eyebrows. “Did she start back to work? Good for her!”

“No, she just spends a lot of time sleeping.”

“Oh ...”

“Mom,” Timmy interrupted, sparing his friend further embarrassment, “we'll be back in time for dinner. Right now we've got to go do something.”

“What?”

“Can't tell you. It's top secret.”

His mother smiled. “Be back by four. Your father will be hungry, and if you're not here to eat, you'll make him grumpy.”

“Will do.”

The three ran outside, collected their armament, and walked down Timmy's driveway, heading in the direction of Doug's house.

Barry glanced behind them. “Won't your mom wonder why we left our bikes behind?”

“No,” Timmy said. “She knows Doug can't pedal with his foot like that. She'll just think we headed for the creek or something.”

At the edge of Timmy's property, they turned left and started up Laughman Road, which climbed steadily uphill before leveling off after a half-mile. Thick forest bordered both sides of the road, with Bowman's Woods on their right. If Timmy's mother were indeed watching them from the window, she'd assume they were going to the creek, just as he 'd planned. But instead of following the thin footpath into the woods, they continued up the hill and passed from his mother's view. The road grew darker, shadowed on both sides by the tall, arching trees. They seemed to loom directly overhead, as if trying to block out the sunlight. It was cooler in their shade, but unsettling, as well.

Doug limped, slightly dragging his injured foot.

“You okay?” Timmy asked.

Smiling, Doug flashed him a thumbs-up. "Never been better. Your mom fixed me up good.

She's so nice."

“You say that now,” Timmy scoffed. “But I bet you'd change your tune when she made broccoli for dinner and told you that you couldn't watch The A-Team until you'd finished.”

“The A-Team is stupid. Ever notice they fire like ten thousand frigging bullets at the bad guys, but never manage to hit anything? Nobody ever gets killed or wounded.”

“So? I like it.”

“Well, I like broccoli--and I like your mom.”

“Want to trade?”

Doug's smile disappeared. “I don't think you'd want to do that, Timmy.”

“Why not?” Timmy teased. “You change your mind?”

“No. I just don't think you'd like my mother very much. ...”

“Yeah.” Timmy's voice grew softer. “I guess you're right.”

They walked on in silence.

At the top of the hill, Laughman Road leveled out, providing a straight shot to Doug's house. To their left, the forest disappeared, giving way to acres of fenced in pasture.

They'd yet to climb the fence and explore the territory, due to Catcher. Mr. Sawyer 's dairy cows roamed and grazed among the fields. Several of them stood close to the road, staring at the boys on the other side of the fence with wide, unblinking eyes. Timmy had once heard his father say that cows had the stupidest expression of all God's creatures, but Timmy disagreed with that. He thought the cows looked sad. To him, their eyes held longing, a wish that they could go beyond the fence and graze on the other side of the road. The grass of Bowman's Woods must have looked greener to them.

“Moo,” Doug called out, his spirits lifting again. “Mooooooooo!”

“Knock it off,” Timmy warned him. “If Catcher hears us, he'll come running.”

“But don't we want that this time?”

“Yes. But I also want to be ready for him. This is a sneak attack. Don't holler for him until we're all set.”

Nodding, Doug moved away from the cows and began quietly humming a song by Morris Day and The Time. His limp grew more pronounced and his pace slowed as they neared the Sawyer's home.

“Maybe we should wait,” he suggested. “Come back another day.”

“Screw that,” Barry said. “We've got the squirt guns, and we've come this far. What are you--scared?”

“No.”

“Yes, you are. Admit it. You're scared of Catcher.”

“Screw you, dipshit.” Doug's face grew red. “You're scared of him, too.”

Barry held his hands up in mock surrender. “Yeah, okay. Guess I am.”

The Sawyer's farm grew visible in the distance, sitting far back from the road and connected to the world by a narrow, winding lane. The boys knew that lane well, and viewed it as the gateway to hell. A grain silo and the top of a red barn jutted above the rolling hilltops.

“Okay,” Timmy muttered. “This is it.”

They lined up side by side at the entrance to the lane.

“Okay,” Doug whispered. “I admit it. I'm scared.”

“Of what?”

“Catcher! What if we miss?”

Barry grinned. “Don't.”

“Wait until you see the whites of his eyes,” Timmy advised them. Then he placed his feet squarely apart, cupped one hand to his mouth, and shouted for the dog.

“Oh shit,” Doug whimpered. “I'm not ready. You said we'd wait until we were ready.”

Timmy stared straight ahead. “Too late.”

His cries for the dog did not go unheeded. Within seconds, the three boys heard an all too familiar snarling coming from the distant farmhouse. A flash of black fur appeared at the end of the lane and rocketed toward them. Catcher 's growls split the air like artillery shells. As the dog drew closer, Doug took a step backward.

“Don't you move,” Timmy warned.

“But--”

“Come on, Catcher,” Barry taunted the enraged Doberman. “We've got something for you!”

Foam and spittle flew from the dog's jaws as he closed the distance between them. Catcher paused for a moment, as if surprised to see his rivals on foot and standing their ground rather than on bikes and fleeing. Surveying them with his dark eyes, the dog lowered his head and growled again, deep and menacing. He bared his white teeth. The boys trembled. Warily, he took another step forward. His hackles were raised.

“Come on,” Timmy shouted, his voice cracking. “Come take a bite out of Doug.”

Doug shot a terrified look at his friend. “W-what?”

Still suspicious, Catcher barked. His muscles rippled as he flexed his haunches.

Timmy stomped his foot at the dog.

Doug's eyes grew wide. “Oh, Jesus ...”

Suddenly, Catcher darted forward, open jaws pointed directly at Doug's crotch.

Doug screamed.

Catcher moved quickly, but Timmy was quicker.

“Now--fire!”

They did. All three aimed their squirt guns directly at the charging Doberman's eyes and unleashed a stream of vinegar and lemon juice. The effects were instantaneous.

Catcher stopped in midcharge and spun around, trying to avoid the stinging barrage.

Yelping, he darted away, weaving back and forth as if he were drunk.

“It worked,” Barry hollered. “Holy shit, it worked!”

Laughing with triumphant glee, the boys continued their assault, squeezing their triggers again and again, releasing all of the squirt guns' potent contents. Catcher's tortured whining grew louder. Fleeing, he ran onto the grass and rolled onto his back. He squirmed, yelping and snapping at the air. Flipping over onto his belly, the dog pawed at his eyes.

Still firing, Timmy inched closer. Barry and Doug followed along with him. Their bravery grew with each step until they stood over the thrashing canine. Catcher looked up at them, unseeing.

All three boys continued laughing.

“Eat shit.” Doug leaned over and fired directly into the dog's left eye at point blank range.

Catcher let out one long, mournful howl, and then Barry kicked him.

“Take that, dickhead.”

Timmy and Doug's laughter dried up. They stared in shock and surprise.

Barry kicked The dog again. The tip of his sneaker drove into Catcher's side, right between his ribs. Catcher snapped at his foot, but Barry easily sidestepped him and lashed out a third time.

Timmy's heart sank. Catcher, their personal demon, the dog that had terrorized them for all these years, that had made the simple act of going to each other's homes a living hell, suddenly seemed pitiful. Timmy was horrified. He felt sorry for the dog, and ashamed at what they were doing. This had been his idea. The guilt was overwhelming.

Barry kicked him again. Blood trickled out of Catcher's nose.

“Stop it, man,” Timmy cried. “You'll kill him!”

“So?” Grimacing, Barry wiped the sweat from his eyes. “We won't have to worry about him chasing us ...”

Kick.

“... ever ...”

KICK.

“... again.”

Catcher wailed. Not yelped--wailed. Timmy had never heard a dog--or anything else--make that noise before. The sound filled him with dread. Catcher's nose and muzzle were covered with blood now. The dog 's bladder let go, flooding the ground with urine.

“Bite me now, fucker! Cocksucker. Son of a bitch.”

Timmy had never heard so many curse words come out of his friend's mouth at once.

“Barry,” Doug pleaded. “Stop. You'll get us in trouble.”

Timmy grabbed his friend's arm, but he was no match for Barry's superior strength and size. Grunting, Barry pushed him to the ground.

“Get off me, Graco, unless you want some, too. This was your idea!”

“Not like this ...”

Taking advantage of the distraction, the wounded dog jumped to his feet and fled across the fields, his tail tucked firmly between his legs. He was limping badly, and dog shit ran down his hindquarters.

Out of breath, the three boys stood there looking at each other. Each of them was exhausted. Timmy felt sick to his stomach. The strength seemed to drain from his limbs. What had just happened? And how had it happened? He 'd daydreamed about this plan a dozen times, but never with these results.

He shook his head at Barry. “What got into you, man?”

“My father,” Barry panted, his hands on his knees. “Oh Jesus, just like my old man ...”

Misunderstanding, Doug pointed back toward Timmy's house. “Let's go. If we leave now, your dad will never find out.”

Barry stared at him and said nothing.

Timmy picked up the fallen squirt guns. "He's right. We need to get the hell out of here before Mr. Sawyer finds out what happened to his dog. If he sees us standing down here, we're screwed. He'll tell our parents for sure."

“Sorry I shoved you,” Barry apologized. His cheeks were wet with tears.

“Don't worry about it. Let's just go, okay?”

The three of them cut across the road into Bowman's Woods, far enough inside the treeline so that they couldn't be seen. They wound their way through the forest, pushing aside low-hanging limbs and slashing the clinging vines and poison ivy out of the way with long sticks. When they reached the creek, they stopped to rest and catch their breath. Doug kneaded his sore ankle and swatted at the swarming gnats. Timmy washed the squirt guns out in the cold water to get rid of the evidence, the lingering smell of vinegar. Barry was silent and morose.

“I don't know what happened,” he said after a few minutes. “I just... snapped.”

Timmy picked up a pebble and threw it into the creek. “It's okay, man. We all kinda did. We could have blinded him.”

“Seriously?” Doug asked.