Brian Keene - Ghost Walk

Cecil felt haunted.

While Cecil had taken a good job at the paper mill, Clark Smeltzer had gotten work as the cemetery caretaker for the Golgotha Lutheran Church in Spring Grove. At first, Cecil had been a little jealous of his younger brother. Sure, Cecil had union benefits and a fine hourly wage, but Clark’s position entitled him to a home along with his weekly paycheck. He and his family lived across the street from the cemetery in a house owned by the church. They stayed there rent free, paying only for their utilities. It was a good job.

Until Clark fucked it all up.

Somewhere along the line, Clark went crazy. Cecil blamed himself for not seeing it sooner. Perhaps he’d just been bad all along—keeping his insanity brewing beneath the surface, hidden from everyone but himself. Maybe it was the booze or the gambling, or the whores he’d slept with on the side. Clark beat his son, beat his wife, and drank himself nearly to death. Then he’d started robbing graves—stealing from the people he was supposed to be burying. Worse, when the hookers apparently weren’t doing it for him anymore, he’d kidnapped two women and held them in a tunnel he’d dug beneath the cemetery, raping them repeatedly. He’d died in that same tunnel, killed while trying to murder his own son and the boy’s friend, both of whom had discovered what he was up to. And even in death, he’d continued to poison those around him. Cecil’s nephew Barry was living proof of that. Despite everything he’d gone through, the boy had turned out just like his old man.

As Cecil’s stream slowed to its more normal trickle, another twig snapped behind him, closer this time. Leaves rustled.

“Hello?”

Snap…snap…snap…

“That you, Tom? Don’t you be messing around now or you’re liable to get a surprise.”

Something growled, low and deep.

“Clark?”

Cecil immediately felt stupid. Clark had been dead since 1984. Why would he call out his name now?

Because I’m getting senile in my old age?

Cecil stuffed his shriveling penis back in his pants and quickly pulled up the zipper. The noises continued, coming from three different directions now. When he turned around, something brown and red darted between the trees.

Coyote , he thought, or maybe a fox . He’d never heard of either attacking a full-grown man before, but he didn’t intend on waiting around to find out.

“Go on!” He tried to holler, but it came out more of a whisper. His mouth was suddenly very dry. “Scat! You get out of here now.”

He hurried back toward the trail. To his left, the predator—whatever it was—growled again.

“Let me get my machete and you won’t be growling like that, I goddamn guarantee you.”

Sam, that kid the cop was looking for, stepped out from behind a tree, holding the machete in his right hand. Cecil noticed that the boy’s hand had what appeared to be dried blood on it. The teen looked sick. His clothes were dirty. Patches of his hair were missing. Cecil remembered seeing pictures of the prisoners in the Nazis’ death camps during World War II—living skeletons, flesh stretched parchment thin over sharply angled bones. That was what Sam resembled, which made no sense, since two days ago, when he’d helped Cecil and the others with construction on the maze house, he’d looked fine.

“Kid,” Cecil gasped. “What the hell happened to you?”

Ignoring the question, Sam raised the machete over his head. “Looking for this?”

“Put that down before you hurt yourself. Listen, there’s a coyote or something back there. Let’s get back to the trail. You don’t look so good. You got the AIDS or something?”

Smiling, the teen shook his head.

“You know the cops are looking for you?”

Still smiling, the teen shuffled closer, holding the machete as if to strike. As he closed the distance between them, Cecil got a good look at his eyes.

They were black.

“I…” Cecil tried to talk, but found that he couldn’t breathe.

Another man stepped out of hiding. Cecil didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t one of the volunteers. The stranger pointed a hunting rifle at him.

Cecil desperately tried to call for help, but could only wheeze. The forest seemed to spin and his heartbeat was very loud in his ears. Sam grabbed his wrist, hard. The boy’s fingers felt like burning ice.

“Want to see your brother again, Cecil?” Sam asked him. “Come along. We’ll show him to you. But first, you’ll have to do something for us.”

“I feel better,” Maria said. “Seriously, you can let go now. I’m fine.”

Levi released her hand. He’d been pinching the skin between the thumb and index finger on her right hand.

“Are you still light-headed?”

“No. Honestly, I’m okay. Just sweaty and thirsty. My senses are coming back again. Whatever you did, it worked. What was that anyway? Acupressure?”

He nodded. “Something like that. It wasn’t magic, though, if that’s what you’re thinking. A lot of what I do—a lot of powwow in general—has no basis in magical theory and discipline. It’s just herbs and prayer.”

“But you’re not just practicing powwow. You admitted as much yourself.”

“No,” Levi admitted. “I’m not. Some of the places the Lord has led me over the years—well, let’s just say that powwow wouldn’t have been effective. I’ve had to use other methods.”

“But doesn’t that fly in the face of God?”

“Not if I’m using those methods to further His will.”

They were sitting in Levi’s buggy, which was still positioned at the rear of the parking lot. He’d led Maria there after she regained consciousness, so that she could lay down. Her car didn’t have enough space for that, and despite the time of year, it had been hot and stifling inside the vehicle. The buggy sat beneath several trees, and it was better for her to be in the shade rather than the sun. Maria laid down on the long, wide bench at the front of the buggy. Once he’d gotten her situated, Levi crossed the street to the local gas station, bought her a bottle of water, and then hurried back. While Maria sipped the water, he’d applied slight pressure to her hand until her dizziness and nausea passed.

“Do you…” he hesitated. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“I don’t know,” Maria admitted. “I mean, it’s not every day that you hear…whatever that was.”

“Oh, God—or Allah, as you think of Him—speaks to us every day. We just don’t listen.”

“But not like this.”

“No,” Levi agreed. “Not like this. Not in a long time. These days, there are no burning bushes or voices from the mountaintop.”

Maria breathed a heavy sigh. “Part of me still thinks it was a trick. Maybe you got to my recorder earlier or something—except I know that’s not true.”

“I promise you that I did nothing of the sort.”

“And part of me believes it really happened. That G…” She paused. “That whoever …somebody left a message.”

“I can’t sway your belief one way or the other, Maria. All I ask is that you believe what I’ve told you. For anything other than that, you’ll have to look to your own heart.”

“Listen, I’m sorry about my behavior earlier. I don’t think you’re some psycho killer or Amish rapist or anything like that. At least, not anymore. And yes, some things have happened that I can’t explain. But I just don’t know what to think yet. I’m overwhelmed and exhausted. I got no sleep last night. I was already in a bad mood and then all this…this weirdness started up. I just need to chill for a bit. I need to take a step back and think about things. I can’t just totally, one hundred percent accept on blind faith that Allah spoke to me through my voice recorder. I want to. I really do. But I need to think about it more. Call it my journalistic side.”