On the Nova's tape deck, 'Darling Nikki' blurred into 'When Doves Cry.' Karen watched him as he slowly thrust in and out of her in time with the music (though she doubted he realized it). Pat never looked at her when they made love. Oh, he kissed her, held her close, whispered her name. When he came, he 'd squeeze her so tightly that she couldn't breathe. Occasionally, he'd talk to her, breathless, nonsensical promises and praise, all uttered in the heat of the moment.
Pillow talk, her girlfriends called it, though Karen had always thought it sounded more like baby talk.
But when he made her feel the way she felt now, Karen didn't mindeven if the act itself turned him into a child, rather than a manbecause this was when she felt alive. Her best friend, Becky Schrum, had asked her several times over the past year why she dated Pat. Karen could have her pick of any guy in school. Why stay with this shop class loser whose main activities involved smoking marijuana behind the shop class and listening to Motley Crue tapes all night long? It was because of the way she felt when he touched her. Pat ' s fingers were electric. His eyes drank her in, worshiped her. Let her know she existed, was the center of his attention.
Karen Moore was a middle child. Her older sister, Kathy, was in her third year at Boston College, much to the delight of Karen' s mother. Her younger sister, Katie, eleven years old, was heavily involved in the church youth group, which pleased Karen 's father, the Golgotha Lutheran Church's minister. Karen' s interests and activities excited neither of her parents. Her good grades were met with casual disinterest rather than enthusiasm. The school plays she participated in (A Midsummer Night 's Dream this year and Dracula the year before) were not attended by either of her parents, who always cited previous obligations with their other two daughters. Have a nice time dear, and break a leg.
The only time her father took an interest in her was when he cautioned her, frequently, against the perils of premarital sex and taking drugs, and how listening to Madonna and Prince was a fast track to hell. They'd had an argument about those very things earlier that evening.
Pat paid attention to her, and more, he provided the very same things that her father warned againstsex and drugs. She knew he didn' t love her, but that was okay, because Karen didn't love Pat, either. He was a means to an end, a stopgap measure. Someone to hold her over until she left for college in the fall (no Boston for her Karen was attending York Community College). Between now and then, she hoped to get an apartment in York and move out from under her sisters ' shadows. Eventually, she hoped to meet someone else in college, someone who really loved her and who she really loved, someone who could take her away from all of her indifference once and for all. Becky's boyfriend, Adam Senit, had jokingly asked Karen the other day if she felt like an adult (Becky and Adam wouldn' t graduate until next year). Karen had said no, that she didn't feel any different. No different at all.
And she didn't, except now, when Pat tensed, muscles coiled as he approached orgasm. It was times like this that she felt something. Felt noticed. Needed. Wanted. That she was valued and important. It was that emotion, that sense of worth, that urged her own orgasm along.
A rock dug into her back from beneath the blanket. She barely felt it. Karen closed her eyes and held her breath as she came.
Pat opened his own eyes, his head thrown back against the night sky, his breathing harsh, his moans drowning out Prince.
Karen's hips bucked beneath him as she felt him explode. Pat' s body went limp, sagging against her. Karen lay still, panting. She nuzzled his chest. Pat flipped his sweaty bangs away from his eyes and sighed.
'That was all right.'
She giggled into his chest hair.
Pat wondered where he'd left his cigarettes. Still lying on top of Karen, he glanced aroundand froze.
Somebody was watching them.
A figure crouched atop a tombstone twenty yards away. The darkness hid its features. Pat couldn' t tell if it was male or female, young or old. It sat still, frozen like stone. Despite the shadows surrounding it, the voyeur seemed to give off a pale, faint glow. Karen felt Pat's entire body stiffen, but this time, it was very different than when they' d been making love. Pat pulled out of her and she gasped. She hated that sudden empty feeling.
'What's wrong?'
'Someone's watching us. Spying.'
'Where?'
'Over there.'
He peered into the darkness, trying to discern a face, even just the eyes, but the figure was still concealed in shadow. Again he noticed the muted glow. It seemed to be coming from the figure itself.
'Hey,' Pat shouted at the voyeur. 'What the hell you doing, man?' The figure didn't respond, didn't move.
Karen sat up and grabbed her shirt, trying to cover herself with it. Pat jumped to his feet, his hands curled into fists. 'What's your problem, pal? You looking to get your ass kicked?'
Somewhere in the forest bordering the cemetery, an owl called out. The chirping insects fell silent.
Karen looked at what Pat was shouting at. Then she began to laugh. She slapped the blanket with one palm and howled.
'You think this is funny?' Exasperated, he glanced down at her.
Laughing louder, Karen pulled on her panties and fastened her bra. Pat' s penis was already going limp, and the condom drooped the end. The sight brought a fresh round of giggles.
'What's wrong with you?'
'It's a statue, dummy.' She pointed. 'I saw it when we came in. One of those stone angels that people put on top of their tombstones. A lifesized one.' On the tape deck, Prince's 'When Doves Cry' segued into 'I Would Die For You.'
'A statue?' Embarrassed, Pat looked back at the carved figure. It was gone.
'It's not there anymore.'
Not looking up, Karen said, 'Quit messing around. I'm losing my buzz.'
'I ain't'
Then the stench hit him.
When he was ten years old, Pat rode his bike to the Colonial Valley Flea Market one Sunday afternoon, where he bought Bucky Dent and Rick Dempsey rookie cards for five cents each. On his way home, the cards slipped out of his bag. He'd stopped to gather them, and noticed a soda bottle along the side of the road. A mouse, attracted by the sweetness inside, had crawled into the bottle, but was unable to get out. Eventually, it died in there, and the hot sun had cooked it along the side of the road. When Pat experimentally tipped the bottle upside down, the mouse turned to liquid and oozed out of the opening. The stench was incredible, strong enough to make his eyes water. He 'd picked up his cards and rode home, sick to his stomach for the rest of the day. He'd never smelled anything more revolting in his life.
Until now, and this was much worse.
It smelled like something rotting in an open grave.
Karen's eyes grew wide, staring at something behind him. She screamed. Before Pat could turn around, something slammed into him from behind, knocking him to the ground. A crushing weight bore down on his back, pressing the air from his lungs. He struggled, but couldn ' t move. The stench was overpowering now. A massive, clawed hand closed around his head and smashed his face into the ground. Before the dirt obscured his vision, he caught a glimpse of wicked black talons, long and curved and caked with dirt. Mud filled Pat ' s ears and nose as his face was pressed deeper into the earth.
Karen's screams grew frantic.
Pat managed to get his head free. He opened his mouth, drew a breath, and tried to shout at Karen, to tell her to run, to head for the caretaker' s house and call the cops, but before he could, the hand returned. It was cold against his cheek; the flesh felt like cottage cheese. The hand was also coated with translucent slime. His attacker bashed Pat's head against a tombstone, once, twice. Hard. His face went numb and his vision blurred. It didn' t hurt, really, which surprised him. On the third strike, Pat heard a cracking sound, and wondered what it was. The sound was very loud. He felt warm and sleepy. And then he knew no more, and the best days of Pat Kemp 's life became his last.
Karen screamed in terror, watching her boyfriend's brains drip off the bloody tombstone.
The bloated figure laughed, looming over her, naked flesh pale and white in the moonlight. Slime dripped from its malformed limbs. Something monstrous dangled between its legs, bobbing and swaying like a hairy serpent. The attacker was human in shape two arms, two legs, a head. But that was where all similarities ended. Its smell
