Ghouls

“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.

— | — | —

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Lenny Stokes paused at the post of the access gate. He was struck clean by the night’s impossible stillness. Even with his Chevelle rumbling intrusively behind him, he couldn’t help but stop and feel the moment. Was it beauty he sensed? His eyes opened for the first time in his life to a wonder of nature? It seemed wrong for him to feel such things.

The night was alive. Swarms of fireflies drifted shiftingly through the woods like luminous smoke, a legion of green flecks of light. A possum crossing the lane looked up at him against the headlamps, then waddled clumsily into the brush. A night thrush lifted off in the air, silent and serene and silhouetted by a moon so bright and heavy with light he thought it might detach itself from its hold in the sky and fall to earth.

“Hurry up, Lenny,” Joanne called out from the car. “Let’s get going. Or are you gonna stand there all fuckin’ night?”

Lenny frowned. The sensation cracked and slipped away, but he’d never understood it to begin with.

He wedged the cutter over a random link, feeling for bite. Soft, he thought. Like pewter. He gripped the long HKP No. 3 bolt cutters as if they were a pair of handlebars on a motorcycle. His muscles tightened, arms shaking but under control, and there was a quick snap of metal. The chain fell away like a severed tightrope.

He got back into the car and pushed in the headlight knob. Darkness seemed to scoop them up. Joanne popped open two cans of beer, spraying the windshield, giggling.

Lenny stared ahead.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Lenny sipped his beer—it tasted like water. “Feel a little funny,” he confessed. Something sour coated his stomach, and his eyes hurt. Fatigue bogged him down like heavy winter clothes. He considered calling it off, trying again another time when he felt better. “Guess I’m just run down er somethin’.”