Edward Lee - Ghouls

In that instant, Glen’s mind shattered through the impact of a single thought.

Willard.

“Bait,” Nancy had said. “We need bait.”

So it was true then.

But Nancy herself was the bait.

He socked the accelerator to the floor, an ache throbbing where his heart should be. His tires shrieked, laying lines on the road and wearing down around one uncontrolled turn after another. He honked and swore aloud at a slow car in front of him, then passed without thinking, only to miss a car in the oncoming lane by inches. A carhorn blared as he squeezed by, and someone shouted “Shithead!” louder than the horn, but Glen kept on driving. As he picked up speed, his vision seemed to melt with thoughts of Nancy. Then something never seen thunked under his wheels. In his rearview he glimpsed a stray dog quivering in the road behind him.

The next miles streaked by in a torrent of delirium. He skidded into the turn, then tore up the access road, rocketing gravel and blowing dust yards high. His tires lost their purchase momentarily as he plowed into the final ascent; he heard the rear fender collapse when he buffeted against one of the phone poles which lined the road up the hill.

He locked the brakes, fishtailed in the cul-de-sac, and stopped. Dust settled, trickling, as he jumped out and raced for the security truck parked at the side of Willard’s garage. With his key he went into the truck, unlocked the rack, and took out the shotgun.

A few steps then, and he halted.

He stood stock-still in the middle of the court, feet apart, hair sifting in the breeze. He held the shotgun low port as he eyed the house.

What if you’re wrong?

Bait.

OK Nancy. OK God.

The mechanism clacked when he chambered a round. It was a satisfying sound; it made the shotgun feel more full, more comfortable in his hands. He advanced toward the house.

On the porch he paused again. Perhaps he should announce himself by blowing that eyesore knocker right through the door panel, or better still, by blasting the entire door down out of its frame. But before he could knock, a voice crackled from the intercom: “The door’s unlocked, Glen. Come on in.”

Willard’s voice.

Glen entered the foyer’s strange, unfamiliar darkness. How many times had he been kissed by Nancy here? How many times had they embraced on this very spot? He’d made love to her here once, right on the foyer floor. She’d pinned him between the cold slate and her heated body, and it had been wonderful.

His eyes shot up for signs of danger. The kitchen entrance stood as a block of light at the end of the hall. Like a dream, Willard stepped into it, his details back-lighted into blackness.

“I knew you’d come.”

“Where’s Nancy?” Glen demanded.

“Ah, yes. The lover coming to claim his love. Too bad you couldn’t rent a suit of armor and a white steed. Raphael could’ve painted it, no? Saint Glen and the Dragon. Nancy would be in the background, nude, of course, and desperately trying to find her G-spot.” Willard seemed on the verge of an outburst of laughter. “But I don’t blame you, Glen. Really, there are no hard feelings at all. She’s quite a hot little number, that much I’ll give you. That much I’d give any natural man. But believe it or not, I married her for her brains.”

Glen stared him down, stiffening to keep his hatred in check. His hands felt numb and very cold.

“Join me in a drink?” Willard invited.

“Fuck you. Where’s Nancy?”

“Let’s have a drink and talk.”

Glen lowered the shotgun. His finger touched the trigger. “Tell me where Nancy is, or I’ll kill you.”

Willard’s silhouette leaned within the doorway, a flouting posture. “Not very attentive today, are we? As I’ve said, I knew you’d come, and since I knew you’d come, I naturally replaced all the shotgun shells with reloads…neglecting, of course, to include such necessities as powder and primers.”

Glen depressed the trigger. Nothing happened. He loaded and ejected all five rounds that way, all dummies. Then he tossed the gun before him in the air, twirling it, and caught it by the barrel. He wielded it now as one would wield an ax.

“I’ll bat your head out of the park if you don’t start giving me some answers.”

“Answers,” Willard intoned, his voice suddenly echoic. He raised a finger in the light. “But first…questions.”

Glen pictured Willard’s face swelling and turning black as he choked the life out of him. He pictured Willard’s head splitting in half like fruit from the chunky thrust of a cleaver, or erupting altogether in the crosshairs of a 9x scope. It was an enjoyable fantasy.

He could hear the smile in Willard’s voice.

“So exactly how much did she tell you?”

“Everything,” Glen said.

“And did you believe her?”

“Of course not.”

Willard appeared to be looking into space now, though his features were still blacked out. He lit a cigarette and watched the tail of smoke rise toward the ceiling. Behind him, the sunlight which bled into the kitchen grew suddenly less clear, as though a cloud had just slipped in front of the sun.

Glen sensed something urgent about the silence now. He could actually hear Willard draw on the cigarette.

“And how much did you repeat to our good constable Morris?” Willard asked.

“None.”

“No?”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“Because he’s my friend,” Glen said, lips pulled to a cutting smirk. “And I don’t want my friends to think I’m an idiot.”

Willard’s silhouette nodded, puffed. “So the gibberish Nancy told you about the things in the woods—you’ve repeated it to no one?”

“That’s right.”

“Excellent… And I’m sure you realize that Nancy is suffering from some psychological abnormality. I doubt that it’s too serious, though.”

Glen felt the muscles in his face sharpen. “Then…she’s all right?”

“Oh, yes. She called about an hour ago.”

“From where?”

“Crownsville. Ward Romig One, one of the low-precaution wards.”

Glen felt a hot flash, but he didn’t know if it was shock or relief. Crownsville was a state mental hospital located on the outskirts of Annapolis.

“I was about to report her missing,” Willard went on. “Thank God, anyway. I knew nothing about it; she admitted herself under her own volition, which at least indicates that her delusions can’t be terribly severe. The doctors would like her to stay for seventy-two hours of observation. Then they’ll be able to decide what to do, probably medication, therapy, and rest.”

Now Glen’s heart surged with relief; he wanted to shout. Embarrassed, he propped the shotgun against the stairs and offered Willard a downcast look of apology. “I’m really sorry about all this. Guess I went off my rocker a little.”

“Yes, a little,” Willard agreed. “Never mind that now; we’ll talk about it later. The important thing is she’s all right.” He hitched up his sleeve to view his watch. “If we leave now, we should make it before visiting hours end. Do you know the way?”

“Sure, it’s on the corner of 178 and Crownsville Road. A fifteen-minute drive if we step on it.”

Willard came out of the kitchen entry. “Let me get my keys.”

“I’ll drive,” Glen said. “My car’s right out front,” and he turned and strode for the front door. Willard, a step behind him, snatched up the shotgun without faltering and then butt-stroked Glen neatly in the back of the skull. The sound of the blow was frightfully insignificant. But then Glen toppled face-first onto the foyer slate, unconscious.

Willard stepped over Glen’s legs to peek out the window, and he frowned. He leaned the shotgun against the wall, and with a labored breath began to drag Glen into the study, toward the basement.