Harlan County Horrors (24 page)

No
sooner had he done this when a commotion arose across the cemetery.
Whipping back around to face the noise, he fumbled with the
flashlight, almost dropping it. At last he got it switched on. But
its beam didn’t penetrate far enough to illuminate the headstones
twenty feet in front of him, let alone the gazebo, over a football
field away. Fully embarrassed, he switched the useless light off
again.

“
What was that?” Kathy’s voice was a gasp.

Feral motioned for her to keep quiet. The three of them
strained their attention into the interior of the cemetery, hoping
to make out what was going on. They could hear voices, but the rise
of ground past the gazebo muffled the sounds, with only the odd
shout breaking through. The glow of the torch Joe carried bobbed
along the crest of the rise. Feral couldn’t determine what its
movement indicated.

“
Joe!” he called out at last. He was careful to keep any note
of urgency out of his voice.

No
answer came, although the torchlight appeared to flare more
brightly for a moment. The group continued to watch, listening
intently. The silence became all there was in the world.

A
sharp report made Feral jump. But as soon as he heard it, he
recognized the source of the noise. From beyond the rise, where
Joe’s team was patrolling, a dog had barked.

Feral released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He
also realized he was sweating. He looked at Kathy and Frank, hoping
they hadn’t noticed his fear.

“
Let’s go,” he said.

They traipsed across the grounds, careful to skirt the grave
mounds. Many of these were marked with small, low headstones,
dangerous in the dark. It took them several minutes to reach the
gazebo. They stood at the top of the rise for a moment, looking
down into the shallow bowl where Joe, Eliza, and Harold played with
a small terrier. Feral shook his head and moved to join
them.

“
Look what we found!” Eliza said, laughing. The dog jumped at
her outstretched hands, barking and growling.

“
It’s probably all we’re going to find,” Feral said, relief in
his voice.

“
Isn’t it cute?”

“
Yeah, it’s cute. But it isn’t exactly dangerous.” Feral
raised his hands. “I say we call it a night.”

“
Are you all right?” Joe said.

“
Yeah. Nothing’s going to happen here. I’m headed
back.”

Joe
peered at him intensely. Slowly, he nodded. “Yeah, okay. Full
moon’s better for werewolves, anyway.” He wrestled playfully with
the terrier, which was yapping and snapping and circling among
them. “Right, boy? Wolves like you, eh?” He laughed.

The
dog, crouching in a ready stance, stared up at Feral with a knowing
glare.

Feral awoke groggy and restless the next morning. His knee was
stiff, the result of clambering around in the cold the night
before.
Damn fool
, he thought. He wasn’t sure at whom the epithet was
directed.

The
midmorning air was reasonably warm, so he soon found himself
ambling aimlessly along Mound Street. Named to commemorate the old
Amerindian burial ground on which the town was built, the street
divided the downtown business district from the elegant residential
section of Ivy Hill. Brick and colonnades were the order on the
north side. The sun cast long westward shadows under the trees,
although Mound was open to the sky. Feral luxuriated in the heat
flowing through his body, loosening the ligaments in his damaged
knee.

He
hoped the night’s excursion had satisfied the group’s vampire lust
sufficiently to preclude another attempt. He didn’t relish spending
any more of his nights in such fruitless adventure. This whole
vampire scare was utterly ridiculous, in his opinion.

And yet...there was certainly
something
going on.

He
looked up at the ridgeline of Ivy Hill, rising on his left some two
hundred feet above his head. Behind that skyline, along the next
ridge beyond the hollow, it had long been rumored a “family” of
vampires congregated. This rumor had persisted over most of his
life, but Feral had never really put any stock in it. Before now.
Of course, he wouldn’t put it past the rich to practice any
eccentricity, and Coldiron Heights was
the
wealthy section of town. Money
made for some strange behavior.

But maybe not
that
strange.

Man
, he
thought.
This stuff is starting to get
to
me
now.

He
was almost to the corner of South Williams Street, the last chance
to turn back up the slope toward the town center before taking the
switchbacks that wound their way up Ivy Hill. He could see the
elementary school, heavy and rectangular like the red blocks that
made up its structure, looming on the far side of the street. He
slowed, wondering if he should continue up or down. As he
considered this, standing in front of the yellow clapboard façade
of the Rich Funeral Home, he suddenly jumped at the sound of
approaching footsteps behind him. He hadn’t realized he wasn’t
alone on the street.

He
also hadn’t realized he was so nervous.

“
Joe,” he said, turning. “Damn, man, don’t do
that.”

“
Feral,” Joe said, his voice so low the name came out like a
growl. “I think you need to come see this.”

“
What is it?”

Joe
shook his head. “You really need to look at it.”

Feral sighed. “Not even a ‘good morning’ first?”

“
Come on.” Joe began walking off in the direction he’d come
along Mound. He glanced over his shoulder. “Good
morning.”

Feral followed him.

“
How’d you know where I was, anyway?”

“
You was looking the other way when you passed by my
street.”

Up
at Ivy Hill
, Feral
thought.
And Coldiron Heights. At the
vampires.

They turned back one block, then headed south on Third Street,
a neighborhood of small, well-kept houses under spare, graceful
shade trees. Feral could see a group gathered on the sidewalk up
ahead, in front of Joe’s place. The looks on their faces made his
heart squeeze in his chest. Their voices were subdued as he
approached, greeting him in chorus.

“
Morning, everyone,” he said. “Don’t any of you guys ever
sleep?”

“
Not very well,” Charlene said, taking his question seriously.
“I’ve been having nightmares.”

“
And it’s no wonder,” Joe said. “Take a look at
this.”

The
group parted as Feral stepped up. In the gutter lay the little
terrier from the night before, its throat ripped out.

“
Jesus,” Feral said.

“
Been laying here all night, by the looks of it,” Joe
said.

Feral shook his head. “That’s just wrong.”

“
So what do you think did it?” Kathy said. Her voice quavered;
she seemed more anxious this morning than she had in the
cemetery.

Maybe she was beginning to believe, Feral thought hopelessly.
“Coyote, maybe?” he suggested.

“
Nah,” Joe said. “Coyote’d eat the whole thing.”

“
Dogfight?” said Randy.

Feral nodded. “That would make sense.”

“
Except,” Joe pointed out, “this here dog shows no sign of
having been in a fight. His throat was just tore clean out. Nothing
else on him was touched.”

Feral grunted. “That is kind of weird.”

“
Damned straight it’s weird. It’s a sign.”

Feral sighed. He stared at the carcass. Somehow the horror of
it seemed even more grotesque in the clear morning sunlight. His
stomach turned. This wasn’t the sort of thing he needed before
breakfast. “A sign of what, exactly?”

“
I
don’t know. Maybe we’re too close. Something’s trying to warn
us.”

“
To keep us from wandering around the graveyard? Do you know
how stupid that even sounds, Joe?”

“
All I know is, there ain’t no blood in the
gutter.”

Feral looked again. Joe was right. There was a small stain on
the concrete from some residual dripping, but otherwise the street
was clean.

“
So the dog didn’t die here.” He hated having to admit
it.

“
Nope. Someone killed it, then brought it here afterward. Put
it right in front of my house.”

Jesus
, Feral
thought.

Joe
said, “This is the dog from the cemetery last night.”

“
Are you sure?”

Joe
glared at him. “It’s the damn dog, Feral.”

Feral nodded. There was no use arguing the point. Besides, he
was pretty sure Joe was right.

“
So now what?” he said.

“
We should bury it,” Eliza said. She wiped away a
tear.

“
Or at least tell the owner,” Frank said. “Anyone know whose
it is?”

No
one did.

“
Shouldn’t we report it?” Harold said. “I mean, this is pretty
scary.”

“
Yeah,” Feral said. “Animal control can take care of
it.”

Harold pulled out his cell phone and moved off to make the
call.

“
This has to be stopped,” Joe said.

“
Joe, we don’t even know what happened.”

“Well,” Randy said, “we have to do
something
.”

“
I
wonder,” Charlene said, “what it was doing in the
cemetery.”

“Hunting,” Joe said. At Feral’s glare, he pointed at the dead
dog. “There’s dirt on his front paws. He’s been digging.”
He squinted up at Ivy Hill. “We should’ve stayed
last night.”

“
And done what, Joe?” Feral said. “Do you really think that,
after we left, some vampire broke out of a grave, chased down this
dog, bit off its throat, walked the four miles here, dropped it in
the gutter, and then went back? Or that we could’ve stopped him
even if he did?”

Joe
didn’t remove his gaze from the tree-studded hill.

“
One way to find out,” he said.

And
so once again Feral found himself, against his better judgment, in
Resthaven Cemetery.

The place looked less sinister in the daylight, as most places
do. But not all, he decided.
Southeastern Kentucky Baptist Hospital, out in
Corbin, was downright creepy. Boarded up now, awaiting the order to
be torn down, the red brick building exuded an otherworldly horror.
The place was just
wrong
. Feral had no trouble
believing the stories he’d heard of demented patients throwing
themselves through what used to be plate glass windows on its
façade. Or any other bizarre rumor about the place. Even today, in
full direct sunlight, a misbegotten visitor could still all but
hear the screams emanating from its empty black heart. No one
tarried on its misshapen grounds for long.

Considering such things, he wondered how long it would be
before he embraced Joe’s assertions about vampires invading
Harlan.

Something just was
not right
about this county, he concluded.

“
Where do we even start?” he asked to the group in general,
and Joe in particular.

Joe
considered for a moment. “Prob’ly over where we found the dog,” he
said, gesturing toward the gazebo.

They headed there. Feral glanced around at the group
surrounding him as they walked. It appeared he was now the only one
who doubted. Everyone else wore looks of stricken determination on
their faces. He felt defeated.

Am
I the only sane person left in Harlan?
he wondered. And immediately, he had to
doubt his own sanity as well. After all, wasn’t he there with
them?

They clambered down the small rise to where Joe’s group had
encountered the terrier the night before, just beyond the gazebo.
Everything seemed normal there.

“
Now what?” Feral said.

Joe
scrutinized the area, finally settling on a course. “Over there,”
he said.

Feral followed dutifully. But as it turned out, Joe knew what
he was doing. As they crossed the small bowl of grass to its
opposite side, they spotted a disturbed piece of ground off to
their right. Approaching it, they saw that it was a newly dug-up
grave.

Several of the women gasped.

“
It’s okay,” Joe said. “Nothing can hurt us now.”

Feral stared at the broken earth. The hole was considerable,
given the hardness of the soil. Loose dirt was piled haphazardly
around the indentation, indicating that whatever—or whoever—had dug
it had been in a hurry. If that something had indeed been the small
terrier of the night before—the dog that was now lying dead in the
gutter in front of Joe’s house—then its efforts had been
determined. The hole lay at least two feet deep, and more than that
in diameter.