awhile. Let her calm down, then come back out here and clean up the car. In the meantime, maybe a drink would help his head. Something more than beer. There was a bottle of vodka chilling in the freezer that would do the trick. He got up slowly, moving like he was closer to seventy than fifty, keeping his wounded hand close to his chest. When he stood straight—or as close to straight as he could get—everything went fuzzy again, and he nearly lost his balance. Closing his eyes helped. He waited for the feeling to pass. Once it had, he shuffled back to his trailer in silence. To her credit, his neighbor held her tongue.
At the door, he turned and looked back across the street. The old woman watched him, a disgusted sneer curling her upper lip. Standing on the concrete pad where her behemoth old Cadillac baked in the sun, the dead boy regarded him through half-lidded eyes crusted over with dried blood. Hello Toomey, my old friend. You’re back to stare and judge again.
Garraty raised his right hand and extended his middle finger, grinning through the pounding in his head and hand. Fuck the both of them. He went into the hot trailer and shut the door behind him. The vodka waited.
11
He was back in the crawlspace of the Barlowe house. The darkness pressed in on him like a great beast, its weight crushing the breath out of him. Somewhere nearby were the hole and the dead boy lying on his Mylar shroud, but Garraty didn’t dare reach out to feel. Something else was in the darkness with them, some slumped thing with a pale smudge of face and dark hollows for eyes. Close. He sensed its nearness, smelled the odor of its corruption. He didn’t dare move. If he were to stretch out one hand to find the grave and instead touch the cool slate flesh of the other...
Something brushed his face and Garraty bawled like a terrified calf separated from its mother. Fingers , his mind jabbered. Bone fingers . He tried to scoot away from the touch and bumped into something hard and unyielding. One of the old brick piers. The blackness was perfect. He had no idea where he was, no clue which way to go to escape.
He could hear the thing chittering, insect-like. The air grew colder and those fingers plucked at his clothes, picking at him the way the sagging beam had when he scooted under it. Whatever shared the darkness with him seemed to have no problem seeing in it. Garraty rolled to the left to escape, sending up clouds of powdery dust that stung his blind eyes and coated his throat.
Still the thing came toward him. Something clittered across the brick pier and in the eye of his mind Garraty saw a skeletal hand grabbing at the worn support, using it to pull the slumped shape forward. He rolled again—anything to keep those bony fingers from touching him again—only this time the ground vanished and he spilled into the hole, landing on the dead boy. Fetid gas belched from the mouth of the corpse, washing over his face in a cool rush, and he gagged. The boy’s arms snapped up and around his shoulders, pulling him close. Overhead, the thing that had been following him chuckled, delighted. Garraty struggled to free himself from the embrace, but the harder he fought, the more entangled he seemed to be. The dead boy tightened his grip, bringing their faces closer and closer.
Garraty moaned when the icy lips pressed against his ear.
“Toomey,” the dead boy whispered, lover-close, his grave-cold breath chilling Garraty’s neck.
Garraty jerked awake with a start.
He was on the couch in the living room, still in his underwear. Pale pink light from outside fell through the blinds and infused the room with a soft glow, but he couldn’t tell if it was still Friday evening or if he’d slept the night through to the morning. The way his head felt he thought it was probably the latter. He’d been pretty drunk. He sat up and got his first real look at the room. Empty beer cans lay scattered across the turd-colored carpet like spent casings at
At the door, he turned and looked back across the street. The old woman watched him, a disgusted sneer curling her upper lip. Standing on the concrete pad where her behemoth old Cadillac baked in the sun, the dead boy regarded him through half-lidded eyes crusted over with dried blood. Hello Toomey, my old friend. You’re back to stare and judge again.
Garraty raised his right hand and extended his middle finger, grinning through the pounding in his head and hand. Fuck the both of them. He went into the hot trailer and shut the door behind him. The vodka waited.
11
He was back in the crawlspace of the Barlowe house. The darkness pressed in on him like a great beast, its weight crushing the breath out of him. Somewhere nearby were the hole and the dead boy lying on his Mylar shroud, but Garraty didn’t dare reach out to feel. Something else was in the darkness with them, some slumped thing with a pale smudge of face and dark hollows for eyes. Close. He sensed its nearness, smelled the odor of its corruption. He didn’t dare move. If he were to stretch out one hand to find the grave and instead touch the cool slate flesh of the other...
Something brushed his face and Garraty bawled like a terrified calf separated from its mother. Fingers , his mind jabbered. Bone fingers . He tried to scoot away from the touch and bumped into something hard and unyielding. One of the old brick piers. The blackness was perfect. He had no idea where he was, no clue which way to go to escape.
He could hear the thing chittering, insect-like. The air grew colder and those fingers plucked at his clothes, picking at him the way the sagging beam had when he scooted under it. Whatever shared the darkness with him seemed to have no problem seeing in it. Garraty rolled to the left to escape, sending up clouds of powdery dust that stung his blind eyes and coated his throat.
Still the thing came toward him. Something clittered across the brick pier and in the eye of his mind Garraty saw a skeletal hand grabbing at the worn support, using it to pull the slumped shape forward. He rolled again—anything to keep those bony fingers from touching him again—only this time the ground vanished and he spilled into the hole, landing on the dead boy. Fetid gas belched from the mouth of the corpse, washing over his face in a cool rush, and he gagged. The boy’s arms snapped up and around his shoulders, pulling him close. Overhead, the thing that had been following him chuckled, delighted. Garraty struggled to free himself from the embrace, but the harder he fought, the more entangled he seemed to be. The dead boy tightened his grip, bringing their faces closer and closer.
Garraty moaned when the icy lips pressed against his ear.
“Toomey,” the dead boy whispered, lover-close, his grave-cold breath chilling Garraty’s neck.
Garraty jerked awake with a start.
He was on the couch in the living room, still in his underwear. Pale pink light from outside fell through the blinds and infused the room with a soft glow, but he couldn’t tell if it was still Friday evening or if he’d slept the night through to the morning. The way his head felt he thought it was probably the latter. He’d been pretty drunk. He sat up and got his first real look at the room. Empty beer cans lay scattered across the turd-colored carpet like spent casings at
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