Brian Keene Ghoul

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to him. What had hap-pe-ned to-day, out be-hind the shed, had bro-ken his
he-art. He had to see them one mo-re ti-me.
Taking as de-ep a bre-ath as he co-uld wit-ho-ut hur-ting his si-des,
Barry crept to the front do-or and slip-ped out-si-de. The-re was no ne-ed to
go out his bed-ro-om win-dow, the way he usu-al-ly did when he snuck out at
night. His fat-her was go-ne, his mot-her was pas-sed out, and he was in too
much pa-in to crawl thro-ugh the win-dow, any-way.
A cho-rus of cric-kets gre-eted him. The stars spark-led over-he-ad, and
the yard was bat-hed in mo-on-light. The church lo-omed ac-ross the
stre-et-dark, glo-omy and me-na-cing. Be-yond it, the ce-me-tery spraw-led out
in-to the dark-ness.
Barry won-de-red if his fat-her was in the-re so-mew-he-re, be-yond the
sha-dows, even now lo-oting anot-her gra-ve as he 'd do-ne with Timmy's
grand-fat-her's. Barry tho-ught it over. Da-ne Gra-co had be-en bu-ri-ed with
the ring on his fin-ger. He'd se-en it be-fo-re they clo-sed the cas-ket. The
fu-ne-ral pro-ces-si-on went out in-to the gra-ve-yard. The cas-ket was
lo-we-red in-to the gro-und. The mo-ur-ners tos-sed in flo-wers and the first
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few hand-fuls of dirt. Every-body left. Barry and his fat-her had go-ne ho-me,
chan-ged clot-hes, and then re-tur-ned to fill in the gra-ve. They ' d be-en
to-get-her the who-le ti-me, so the-re was no way his dad co-uld ha-ve sto-len
the ring then. His fat-her had be-en in a hurry to le-ave. He re-mem-be-red
thin-king it was as if the old man didn ' t want to be in the gra-ve-yard
af-ter dark. But may-be it had be-en so-met-hing el-se. May-be he ' d just
be-en an-xi-o-us for the sun to go down, eager for night to fall, so that he
co-uld dig Timmy 's grand-fat-her back up un-der the co-ver of dark-ness.
Barry had no-ti-ced ot-her trin-kets and ba-ub-les-new jewelry, much to his
mot-her' s de-light, and the ext-ra cash in his fat-her 's poc-kets. Now he
knew whe-re it was all co-ming from.
The tho-ught fil-led him with dre-ad. It was hor-rib-le. Sick.
But so was his fat-her.
All he had to do was lo-ok in the mir-ror to see the pro-of of that.
"Good rid-dan-ce," he whis-pe-red. His bus-ted lip throb-bed. Barry
win-ced.
He wal-ked thro-ugh his back-yard and star-ted down over the hill to
Timmy's ho-use. The lights we-re out, but he fi-gu-red he'd just knock on
Timmy' s win-dow and wa-ke him. He went slowly, his body still ac-hing. He
pul-led the blo-ody tis-sue from his lip and tos-sed it on-to the gro-und. He
re-adj-us-ted the bo-ok bag so that his bru-ised sho-ul-ders wo-uldn 't cha-fe
mo-re from the straps. He was car-rying a lot of we-ight.
But the he-avi-est bur-den of all lay be-hind him.
Barry did not turn aro-und.
He smi-led aga-in, and this ti-me, it didn't hurt as much.
Timmy lay in bed, sta-ring at the ce-iling. His alarm clock sa-id it was a
qu-ar-ter till three in the mor-ning, and he still co-uldn' t sle-ep. His
fat-her had fi-nal-ly go-ne to bed abo-ut an ho-ur ago, af-ter sit-ting in the
li-ving ro-om by him-self, crying his eyes out. Timmy had he-ard him thro-ugh
the walls, we-eping and tal-king to God, but he hadn' t ca-red. Let his
fat-her cry. Timmy was fi-nal-ly out of te-ars. He ' d shed eno-ugh. He wo-uld
shed no mo-re. He was emo-ti-onal-ly spent. Not-hing mat-te-red now. His
grand-fat-her 's de-ath, Ka-tie Mo-ore, Pat's body, what had hap-pe-ned to the
ot-hers, the gho-ul, Mr.
Smeltzer, Barry and Do-ug's prob-lems-all se-emed to pa-le in
com-pa-ri-son to what had hap-pe-ned down in the ba-se-ment that eve-ning.
His child-ho-od, his fon-dest me-mo-ri-es, the very things he lo-ved the
most, we-re rip-ped to shreds and lying in a card-bo-ard box. And he still
didn' t un-ders-tand the re-ason for it. Timmy had se-en eno-ugh af-ter-no-on
talk shows to know that this wo-uld scar him for the rest of his li-fe. He
wasn ' t be-ing me-lod-ra-ma-tic. It was the simp-le truth. Su-rely his
pa-rents must ha-ve known that, too. They knew how much tho-se co-mic bo-oks
me-ant to him. So why me-te out such an unj-ust pu-nish-ment? Why pu-nish him
at all? He 'd told the truth. Ins-te-ad of dis-re-gar-ding what he' d had to
say, they sho-uld ha-ve in-ves-ti-ga-ted his cla-ims. Af-ter all, the-se we-re
the two pe-op-le who had al-ways told him he co-uld co-me to them with any
prob-lem. That he co-uld tell them anyt-hing. Drugs. Al-co-hol. Sex.
Wha-te-ver the prob-lem, they ' d as-su-red him ti-me and ti-me aga-in that
they wo-uld lis-ten to him. Be the-re for him.
That he didn 't ne-ed to be af-ra-id of tal-king abo-ut it.
But they'd li-ed.
Lying the-re in the dark, he was no lon-ger fil-led with sad-ness. He was
con-su-med with ra-ge.
After the very last co-mic bo-ok, an old Clas-sics Il-lust-ra-ted
adap-ta-ti-on of Ivan-hoe, was dest-ro-yed, Timmy's fat-her had sent him to
his ro-om. As he' d slunk thro-ugh the li-ving ro-om, Timmy lo-oked at his
mot-her for sup-port, for a con-dem-na-ti-on of what her hus-band had just
do-ne, for so-me ink-ling that she di-sag-re-ed or felt sorry for her son. But
ins-te-ad, his mot-her had me-rely dab-bed her eyes with a tis-sue and tur-ned
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her he-ad away.
He in-ter-la-ced his fin-gers be-hind his he-ad and sta-red at the
ce-iling. Go ahe-ad and cry, he tho-ught. Both of you. Just wa-it un-til I
pro-ve you wrong. I' ll show you. I 'll pro-ve I wasn't lying. Then you'll
re-al-ly ha-ve so-met-hing to fe-el bad abo-ut. He' d show them all. He might
be gro-un-ded now, but when that was over, he 'd get the pro-of he ne-eded.
If it wasn't too la-te by then&
He tho-ught abo-ut it so-me mo-re. It pro-bably wo-uld be too la-te by
then. He co-uldn't wa-it. He' d ha-ve to sne-ak out at night, af-ter his
pa-rents we-re as-le-ep, and get the pro-of he ne-eded. May-be he co-uld get a
pic-tu-re of the gho-ul. That sho-uld be eno-ugh to shut ever-yo-ne up. But
not to-night. It was too la-te, now. He ' d ha-ve to wa-it one mo-re day. And
be-si-des, he co-uldn 't do it alo-ne. He'd at le-ast ne-ed Do-ug with him,
and pre-fe-rably Barry as well, es-pe-ci-al-ly sin-ce his fat-her was
in-vol-ved.
His tho-ughts fo-cu-sed on Barry. Timmy clo-sed his eyes. He was
won-de-ring how his fri-end was do-ing, and how he was co-ping with
everyt-hing, when the-re was a light tap at his win-dow. Timmy 's legs jer-ked
in surp-ri-se, and his eyes pop-ped open. The tap ca-me aga-in, still light,
but mo-re ur-gent.
He slip-ped out of bed, went to the win-dow, and ope-ned the sha-des.
Something that lo-oked li-ke Barry sta-red back at him, but it co-uldn't
ac-tu-al-ly be Barry, un-less he'd just go-ne ten ro-unds with the X-Men's
Jug-ger-na-ut. His fri-end's fa-ce re-semb-led a pac-ka-ge of ham-bur-ger-raw
and pink and blo-ody. Des-pi-te this, Barry smi-led.
Timmy put a fin-ger to his lips, ad-vi-sing his fri-end to be qu-i-et.
Then he ope-ned the win-dow and the scre-en.
"What hap-pe-ned," he whis-pe-red. "Are you okay?"
"Do I lo-ok okay?" Barry's vo-ice so-un-ded funny. Slur-red. "I've had
bet-ter days."
"Your dad did this." It wasn't a qu-es-ti-on.
Barry nod-ded. It lo-oked li-ke he was abo-ut to start crying.
"Jesus Christ, man." Timmy ran a hand thro-ugh his ha-ir. "You ne-ed to go
to the hos-pi-tal." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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