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then to-ok a drink of Wild Tur-key. His bre-ath re-eked al-most as bad as the
gho-ul it-self.
"You test my pa-ti-en-ce, gra-ve dig-ger."
Ignoring the cre-atu-re, Clark con-ti-nu-ed. "Kids jus' don' lis-hen. Got
to show 'em who's & boss. Knock 'em aro-und a bit."
The gho-ul re-le-ased his chin. "Do-es this Ke-iser child dwell ne-arby?"
Shrugging, Clark lif-ted the bot-tle to his lips aga-in. With a low,
rumb-ling growl, the gho-ul smac-ked it away. The bot-tle shat-te-red aga-inst
a tombs-to-ne. Clark po-uted at the loss.
"My pa-ti-en-ce we-ars very thin. Lis-ten ca-re-ful-ly. Do-es the child
li-ve ne-arby?"
"Yeah, up past Saw-yer's pla-ce. He co-mes and go-es. Shum-ti-mes&
so-me-ti-mes he stays wit' my boy and the Gra-co kid. Livsh down over t'
hill."
Pausing, the gho-ul snif-fed the air.
"Ain't eno-ugh," Clark stam-me-red. "Whatc-hu gi-ving me, it ain't
eno-ugh. At night& when I try t' sle-ep& I he-ar tho-se wo-men scre-amin'. In
my he-ad."
"Silence."
The gho-ul's nost-rils fla-red, catc-hing a scent. The boy was back. Not
clo-se by, but still ne-ar eno-ugh for the wind to carry his scent. Per-haps
sne-aking in-to the gra-ve-yard from the ot-her si-de, in-tent on co-we-ring
in-si-de his lit-tle den. Grin-ning, it tur-ned back to the ca-re-ta-ker.
"You are disp-le-ased with our ar-ran-ge-ment? Then re-j-o-ice."
"Why? Ain't got nut-hin' to be happy 'bo-ut."
"Indeed you do. It is ti-me for our de-alings to co-me to an end, as you
wis-hed."
"What'sh that me-an?"
In ans-wer, the gho-ul ut-te-red a sa-va-ge growl and las-hed out. Its
ta-lons rip-ped thro-ugh Clark Smelt-zer' s fa-ce, fla-ying the skin on his
che-ek, no-se, chin, and thro-at. Red-hot pa-in overw-hel-med the mu-ting
ef-fects of the al-co-hol. Shri-eking, Clark bro-ught his hands to his ru-ined
flesh. His fin-gers brus-hed aga-inst the rag-ged flaps of skin. He pul-led
his hands away and sta-red in dis-be-li-ef at his drip-ping red fin-gers,
won-de-ring who-se blo-od it was.
By the ti-me he col-lap-sed, slip-ping in-to un-cons-ci-o-us-ness, the
gho-ul was al-re-ady spe-eding to-ward the tun-nels.
Commandments be dam-ned. It was we-ary of fe-as-ting on the de-ad.
It wan-ted blo-od.
Inside the Du-go-ut, Do-ug pul-led out his ne-on gre-en Dun-can
Im-pe-ri-al yo-yo and did a few tricks whi-le he tri-ed to calm down.
Even-tu-al-ly, he got his bre-at-hing and he-art ra-te back un-der cont-rol.
He was sa-fe now. No way co-uld Barry 's fat-her or that we-ird guy (thing?)
he' d be-en han-ging aro-und with find him down he-re. The stran-ger had
ac-tu-al-ly sca-red him wor-se than Mr. Smelt-zer had. That hor-rib-le
squ-e-al, the way his na-ked skin had lo-oked in the mo-on-light, the so-unds
he ma-de when he 'd gi-ven cha-se. No-ne of tho-se things we-re nor-mal.
So what the heck was he?
He wis-hed Timmy we-re the-re with him. Timmy was smart. He knew
everyt-hing the-re was to know abo-ut mons-ters and stuff.
Monsters. Co-uld the guy ha-ve ac-tu-al-ly be-en a mons-ter? That was just
silly.
Doug put away the yo-yo. He unw-rap-ped a Kit-Kat bar and tur-ned up the
lan-tern. He tri-ed to la-ugh. It so-un-ded mo-re li-ke a sob.
"It wasn' t a mons-ter," he whis-pe-red alo-ud, the so-und of his vo-ice
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so-ot-hing his fraz-zled ner-ves.
"More li-ke a mo-les-ter. Just so-me guy pa-in-ted up so his skin wo-uld
glow or so-met-hing.
A nut. Li-kes to run aro-und na-ked at night. Mr. Smelt-zer 's crazy.
Fi-gu-res he'd ha-ve crazy fri-ends."
Munching his crispy cho-co-la-te bar, Do-ug flip-ped thro-ugh an is-sue of
Boy's Li-fe ma-ga-zi-ne, skim-ming an ar-tic-le abo-ut mo-del roc-kets, but he
fo-und it hard to con-cent-ra-te.
Instead, he re-ac-hed for the rus-ted cof-fee can in which they kept all
sorts of as-sor-ted junk, and pluc-ked out a shar-pe-ned pen-cil. He spre-ad
the map out be-fo-re him and felt a sen-se of pri-de. It didn ' t mat-ter what
pe-op-le sa-id abo-ut him. No-ne of them co-uld ma-ke so-met-hing li-ke this.
He be-gan to work on it so-me mo-re, ad-ding the sec-ti-on of fo-rest
whe-re he and Timmy had dis-co-ve-red Pat Kemp 's No-va-and what was left of
Pat. He drew it by me-mory, and ho-ped he was get-ting the de-ta-ils right. He
wan-ted to fi-nish it by mor-ning. Then he co-uld show it to Timmy. That might
che-er his fri-end up. He didn ' t know when Barry wo-uld ha-ve a chan-ce to
see it. Sne-aking out to see him at night se-emed aw-ful-ly risky,
es-pe-ci-al-ly sin-ce his fat-her ap-pa-rently hung aro-und the gra-ve-yard
with a na-ked, glo-wing man all night long.
Doug bre-at-hed a he-avy sigh. The three of them had be-en han-ging out
to-get-her sin-ce the first gra-de. It se-emed in-con-ce-ivab-le that Barry
was no lon-ger al-lo-wed to see them. The-re had to be so-met-hing they co-uld
do ot-her than clan-des-ti-ne la-te-night me-etings in the Du-go-ut. In a way,
Do-ug was ac-tu-al-ly lo-oking for-ward to scho-ol star-ting aga-in in
Sep-tem-ber. They co-uld hang out to-get-her at scho-ol wit-ho-ut Clark
Smelt-zer 's watch-ful eye kno-wing abo-ut it. And be-si-des, this sum-mer had
be-en kind of a bust, any-way. He'd be glad to see it end.
His cho-co-la-te-co-ve-red thumb left a smud-ge on the cor-ner of the map,
but Do-ug didn' t ack-now-led-ge it. He drew the out-li-ne of a pi-ne tree,
then anot-her. He clenc-hed the tip of his ton-gue bet-we-en his te-eth,
fo-cu-sing on the task at hand. Con-tent, he hum-med qu-i-etly to him-self
-the cho-rus from a John Co-ugar song. He drew anot-her tree, and then fil-led
it in.
"Life go-es on," he sang softly, "long af-ter the thrill of li-ving is
go-ne."
The only ti-me Do-ug was ever truly happy, ot-her than when he was
han-ging out with Timmy and Barry, was when he was dra-wing so-met-hing. The
simp-le act of sketc-hing, then ad-ding de-ta-il, brin-ging so-met-hing to
li-fe on pa-per, cal-med his mind li-ke not-hing el-se. It was a form of
es-ca-pe. When he was dra-wing, his mind went in-to hi-ber-na-ti-on.
He didn ' t think abo-ut his pa-rents or his tro-ub-les at scho-ol or the
things pe-op-le sa-id abo-ut him. No-ne of tho-se things mat-te-red, or even
exis-ted. He was con-su-med with cre-ati-on, bloc-king out everyt-hing ot-her
than the pic-tu-re in his he-ad. In a way, it was much li-ke the ob-li-vi-on
he cra-ved. He be-ca-me to-tal-ly ab-sor-bed in it and tu-ned out the rest of
the world.
Which was why when a few small peb-bles and lo-ose so-il on the Du-go-ut's
flo-or be-gan to qu-iver, it didn't re-gis-ter with him. He ba-rely no-ti-ced
when the card tab-le be-gan to wig-gle. He just as-su-med he'd
ac-ci-den-tal-ly bum-ped aga-inst it with his knee.
Until it wig-gled aga-in, this ti-me mo-re no-ti-ce-ably.
Doug drop-ped the pen-cil and sat back, mo-ving his kne-es away from the
card tab-le's legs.
It sho-ok aga-in, mo-re vi-olently this ti-me. The pen-cil rol-led ac-ross
the map and fell to the dirt flo-or.
"What the heck?"
Still se-ated, Do-ug bent over to ret-ri-eve the pen-cil and no-ti-ced
that it had rol-led to the cen-ter of the flo-or. So had se-ve-ral ot-her
obj-ects-a marb-le, a Match-box car, se-ve-ral lo-ose BBs that had fal-len out
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of so-me-one ' s gun, a dud M-80 that Timmy had told them he wan-ted to ta-ke
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