J. Gonzalez - Back From The Dead

“His dad’s home. Not sure about his mom.” Gordon was silent for a moment. “Two A.M. is pretty late for Mr. Bradfield anyway. He’s probably in bed.”

Tim said nothing else as Gordon drove them to the Bradfield estate.

As they entered the road that took them into the hills that led to the estate, Tim felt his apprehension rise. He was prepared for pretty much anything tonight, having rehearsed several scenarios multiple times in his head. If this were a trick, he’d know the minute he stepped on to the property. He would activate his cell phone, would have the pre-set 911 button ready to dial and then if something or somebody so much as jumped out at him, he was sending the call. He’d yell out his location during whatever physical confrontation happened and do his best to get the hell out of there.

Otherwise, if he saw the zombies and had the opportunity, he would try to snap a photo. He had a plan if the zombies were real and this was a ruse to get rid of Tim by feeding him to the creatures; he would make Gordon enter the guesthouse first, would hang outside for a moment to make sure nobody else was around, then enter with extreme caution, making sure Gordon was in plain sight.

Regardless, he was nervous about what was going to happen tonight. He had no idea if he was really going to see what Gordon claimed were zombies. He had no idea what to expect.

He still couldn’t believe what Gordon told him.

He’d spent the rest of yesterday and last night thinking about it and had consulted a copy of Back From the Dead for the passage in question (Al had picked up another copy for him at a used bookstore). The scene that contained the spell was only three paragraphs long and consisted mainly of dialogue and narrative exposition. Hardly a recipe for a spell, but somehow Gordon had gotten it to work.

The question was, how?

Tim had leafed carefully through the book, looking for any other reference or clue that might give him some idea. Aside from a vague reference to the Liber Salomonis and the De prestigiis daemonum , which were no doubt fictional black magic tomes, there were no other references to spells, hexes, or black magic. Google searches were vague. It was only when Tim had exhausted his efforts in perusing Back From the Dead did he get the notion to do some research on Richard Long, the author of the book.

He was surprised to discover Richard Long was the pseudonym of a writer named William Sawyer, who maintained a detailed website that included a full bibliography. Tim had spent over an hour going over Sawyer’s biography and bibliography. In addition to the five Richard Long paperback originals, all horror novels, Sawyer was also the author of almost forty other books, most under his name, some under other pseudonyms. He’d written crime novels, SF, fantasy, thrillers, and horror fiction. Not only was he quite prolific, he’d made several best-seller lists and had won an award or two.

Tim found a contact form on the site and quickly composed a brief message to William, asking him about the occult source material for Back From the Dead , specifically the spells for resurrecting the dead. He noted that he realized the book was fiction but he’d read of similar accounts in supposed non-fiction sources and was wondering if Mr. Sawyer had access to more definitive information. He’d closed the message by telling the author he was a big fan, included his address and phone number, and signed off.

Tim had checked his inbox every hour since he sent that message shortly after supper, and checked it again briefly before leaving the house to meet Gordon. So far he’d received no response.

The Bradfield estate came into view and Gordon slowed the car down. “Here we are,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Tim. Gordon pulled up to the side of the road and turned off the lights. He turned the engine off and they sat in the vehicle for a moment, looking at the house.

Tim didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Gordon nudged him gently. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” Tim said. His mouth was suddenly dry, his limbs heavy, as he exited the vehicle.

With Gordon leading the way, they headed across the road and down the driveway that led past the six car garage. Tim had never been to Scott’s place before, had never even driven past it. Looking at the sprawling house — mansion was a more accurate word to describe the structure — Tim was struck by the fact that Scott lived in such an immense place with only two other people: his parents. It had to be at least four thousand square feet. For the first time, Tim wondered why Scott attended public school when it was obvious his parents were wealthy enough to send him to private school.

And with that thought came something out of memory lane, something Tim had nearly forgotten. The day Scott, Dave, and Steve had set on him in that field had occurred at the tail end of the school year, shortly before he was set to graduate from Spring Valley Elementary School. The year had started, however, with Scott’s introduction to his sixth grade class as a new student to Spring Valley Elementary. In the days to follow, Tim learned Scott had previously attended a series of private schools and had lived in Spring Valley all his life.

His parents did send him to private school , Tim thought as they approached the guest house. But he was kicked out . This thought came to him unbidden, and the more he turned it over in his mind, the more it made sense. Scott Bradfield had been out of control and a total psycho since day one and had been kicked out of every private school his parents sent him to. Public school had been their last resort, and the attack on Tim had almost been the end of that. Tim wondered if Scott’s parents had tried suing the private schools that expelled Scott; his guess was they had and were unsuccessful.

His thoughts were interrupted by Gordon creeping up to the front door of the guesthouse. It resembled a little cottage, with tan trim and little windows that flanked the lone door. Gordon turned to Tim. “Okay,” he whispered. He bent down, felt under a doormat and retrieved a key. He fitted the key in the lock while Tim stood nervously behind him, looking beyond at the vast estate, which was dark and brooding. He hoped Scott didn’t change his mind and decide to come home early from Rebecca’s.

Gordon opened the door and stood aside. He reached inside, looking at Tim. “You’ve got five seconds to get your look and then we’re getting the hell out of here. You got me?”

Tim nodded, relieved that this wasn’t going to be the trap he’d worried about.

Gordon turned on the light.

Standing just outside the front door of the guesthouse, Tim had a direct line of sight. What he saw almost knocked the wind out of him.

Sitting on the floor at the far end of what was obviously the living room were two men who were very dead.

In the five seconds Tim saw them, several things became quickly apparent. The dozens of air fresheners that were hanging from the ceiling gave the interior of the guesthouse a scent of pine that masked a sweet scent of rotting meat. The buzzing of flies gave way to their appearance, both outside the guesthouse and inside, where they buzzed and landed on the two corpses. The faint stains on the floor and walls that could have been dried blood, and the men themselves — both wearing dirty, threadbare clothes, their faces and bodies stained with gore, their skin turning a blue-black color in spots, white in others. They looked blankly at Tim with those dead eyes, fixing him in their stare, holding Tim rooted to his spot at the front door, unable to tear his gaze away until–

Gordon flicked off the light and shut the door with one fluid motion.