J. Gonzalez - Back From The Dead

Dave and Steve were laughing but Scott was deadly serious. “I don’t see you in church, and neither do people I talk to,” Scott continued. “And all you read is that devil shit. When you read occult books it opens you up to be influenced by the devil. Is that what you’re trying to do? Be influenced by the devil?”

Tim had wanted to shout at him: are you out of your mind? Do you really believe what you’re saying ? but he couldn’t. The pain in his collarbone was too fierce, and he was too frightened.

“I know a lot of kids like the Harry Potter books,” Scott said, standing over him, keeping him to the ground. “But you…the stuff you read…it goes beyond that. I’ve seen the kind of books you bring to school. Those comic books. Those paperbacks. Stuff with ghosts and demons on the cover. It’s all you read. I’ve never seen you read anything else. To me, that spells trouble. It makes sense now why you don’t want to hang out with anybody but that Richard Pilson freak. Makes sense why you aren’t into sports or why we never see you at the park or why nobody sees you at church. Vampire devil-worshippers like to hide, don’t they, Count Gaines?”

Tim could tell that Scott’s logic was not only misguided, it was twisted. He’d dimly followed a newspaper account from earlier in the school year when a local Fire Hall refused to provide security and protection during a YMCA event because of the organization’s sponsorship of a Harry Potter reading event geared toward children. The Fire Hall’s excuse was that the Harry Potter books glorified and promoted witchcraft and Satanism. Mom and Dad had a lot to say about that; the people at the Fire Hall were illiterate morons, obviously. And as they’d explained to Tim later, when illiterate morons gained positions of power, especially illiterate morons who were religious fanatics, all sense of reason and diplomacy went out the window.

Tim had never given much thought to the over-whelming Christian church-going views of the Spring Valley township’s population until that moment. He knew that Scott was a member of some church youth group and that was about it. In the years to follow, he would come to learn that his greatest tormentors hid behind the mask of Christianity, using it as an excuse with which to heap their verbal and psychological abuse. But that day, in the field, with a dead possum at his feet, his mind was a swirling mass of confusion as he tried to connect the dots.

“Do you believe in God, Tim?” Scott’s fingers tightened on his collarbone, pinching a nerve.

“ Aaah! ” Tim breathed in pain.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes!” Tim said loudly. “Yes, yes, I believe in God!”

“How come I don’t believe you?” His grip tightened.

“ I don’t know! I believe, I believe !”

“If you believe, how come I don’t see you in church? How come I never hear you talk about going to church?”

“ I don’t know, I don’t know !” He just wanted this pain to stop !

“If you believe in God, why are you always reading books about devils and demons and vampires?”

His grip tightened again and he pushed Tim closer to the dead possum. Steve and Dave’s laughter had settled into occasional chuckles as they stood watching.

“Do you like reading about vampires, witches, and demons?”

Tim winced at the pain in his shoulders and neck, which was becoming unbearable. He squirmed in Scott’s grip, trying to ease the pressure, to escape. “Please…” he panted. “Let me go — ”

“ Answer the question !” Scott barked, retaining his grip on him.

“Ahh — ” Tim winced, his breath held. “Please — ”

“Do you enjoy reading about vampires, demons, and witches? Yes or no?”

“No! No, I don’t, now please, just let me go — ”

“You’re lying because that’s all you read. You like reading about demons, witches and vampires because that’s what you want to be, isn’t it? You’re drawn to the unholy because you’re not like the rest of us. You’re not a Christian, you don’t go to church, you’re a witch-loving, demon-loving freak who wants to be a vampire !”

“No, that’s not true, please — ”

“Then why do you like reading those kinds of books so much?”

“They’re just… stories ! Just stories, that’s all they are — ”

But Scott wasn’t having any of it. His grip was tight on Tim’s neck. “Just stories, huh? Stories like the Harry Potter books, right? Witchcraft and devil-worship. Those Harry Potter books aren’t just stories, Tim! Witchcraft and devil-worship is real ! It’s not Christian, and neither are vampires.”

Vampires aren’t real , Tim wanted to say, but couldn’t. His mouth was dry.

“We’ve been trying to get you to see that it’s bad for you to read that kind of stuff for weeks now,” Scott said, and Tim’s mind instantly replayed to several incidents that had occurred over the past few weeks. Jeering catcalls made in the hallways at school about Tim’s love of spooks and devils. Verbal jabs in the playground that Tim liked the devil more than he liked Jesus. Tim was intelligent enough to dismiss all of this as immature crap. It wasn’t his problem his classmates couldn’t differentiate fiction from reality.

Apparently, though, he was wrong because now it was his problem.

“Now we realize you weren’t listening because you don’t care,” Scott continued. “You love the devil more than you love God. That makes you a freak. So we decided if we can’t save you, we’ll help you. That’s why we brought you out here.”

Tim struggled once more briefly and Scott applied vice-like pressure to the nerve in his collarbone that sent him to his knees. Tim was barely aware that he was crying now.

“You want to be a vampire so much, we got you something to drink.” Scott’s voice was teasing, mocking. “After all, blood is blood, right? Figure we might need to get you used to animal blood before you start going after people.”

And as Tim realized the mad intent behind Scott’s words, he fought one last time to break free from the grip. The blows crashed down on him again, landing on his torso, his legs. He was driven closer to the ground, Scott forcing his face into the matted, bloodied fur of the dead possum. He screamed, his throat becoming raw, and as he screamed his face was shoved into the animal’s body and he felt the fur, felt the matted blood, barely heard Scott’s voice commanding him to drink! Drink its fucking blood, you freak ! He didn’t hear Dave and Steve laughing uncontrollably, wasn’t aware that he was crying, that he’d peed his pants and his strength left him as Scott held his face to the possum’s body, filling his mouth and nostrils, the strong scent of it now overwhelming, triggering his nausea, and that’s when he threw up.

Throwing up had been the trigger. Scott released him and the boys had jumped back, laughing. “Ha ha ha, lookit him!”

“Fuckin’ puked all over himself!”

They’d stood over Tim, laughing, watching him puke his guts out. Then they’d walked away, leaving him lying there on the ground, dry heaving, out of breath from crying, still sick with nausea, pain wracking his body.

That simple, very quick reliving of the incident that had set things in motion for Tim Gaines — the arrest of Scott and his friends, their parents influence on the town which forced the authorities to release them and not press charges, Scott and his friends circulating nasty rumors about Tim in the years to follow — was enough to convince Tim that, yes, Scott Bradfield and his crew could be capable of such cruelty. It was a no-brainer. If he could beat another kid, force him to try to eat a dead animal, he was capable of even worse atrocities.