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 assailed her senses.
"Pplease…"
The thing between the creature's legs stiffened, pointing toward her like a magnet. Whimpering, Karen shrank away, scampering backward like a crab. She did not get far.
In the darkness, Prince sang, but only the dead were around to hear it. An hour later, another figure crept through the cemetery, carrying a flashlight. The autoreverse feature on the car's stereo had recycled the Prince cassette back to side two again. The title track ' s mournful guitar solo wailed at full volume, reaching its thunderous crescendo.
Grumbling, the figure turned the stereo off. The cemetery was silent once more. The figure searched the tops of the tombstones until it found what it was looking for: jewelry most belonging to the two teenagers, and some to others. Pocketing the loot, the figure turned to the task at hand.
A cloud passed over the moon, and the night grew darker. The figure glanced upward and shivered.
Then the figure collected their gorecovered clothing and blanket, empty beer cans, cigarette butts, and other belongings, and put it all in the trunk of the car. The few remains of Pat's body were tossed on top of the pile, and the figure slammed the trunk. Then it scrubbed Pat' s blood and brains off the tombstone. Its stomach churned as it completed the grisly task. Red water turned pink, then clear. Finished, the figure emptied the bucket far away from the crime scene. Returning, it got behind the wheel of the Nova, started the vehicle, and drove away. The headlights were off. The driver went slowly, so that there would be no need for the brakes, and therefore no telltale flashing brake lights, which might be glimpsed by a latenight passerby somebody coming home from a late shift at the paper mill, or last call at the Whistle Stop, or kids sneaking around when they should be in bed.
Darkness swallowed the car. The only sign that it had ever been there were two deep tire ruts in the grass. The graveyard was deserted again, and when the owl hooted a second time, there was nobody around to hear it.
Not even the dead.
Chapter One
It was the first day of summer vacation, and Timmy Graco' s mind swam with the possibilities. Excitement and fun and really cool adventures awaited him for the next three months. There were miles of forest yet to be explored, bike rides to make down to the newsstand to buy his weekly fix of comic books, fishing to do at the local pond, camping out and telling ghost stories and especially hanging out in the clubhouse. And it all started with thisSaturday morning cartoons. The milk in his bowl had turned into sugary, multicolored sludge. Timmy ate another spoonful of Fruity Pebbles, stared at the television with rapt attention, and tried to ignore his father.
"Timothy, did you hear me?" Randy Graco raised his voice, competing with the television's volume.
Timmy nodded, pushing his dark bangs out of his eyes. "Yes, Dad. Weed the garden. I'll do it when Thundarr is over."
Thundarr the Barbarian was Timmy's favorite Saturday morning show, having replaced The Herculoids and Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle before them, and Land of the Lost before that. (The Bugs Bunny and Daffy Show, of course, remained his alltime reigning champion, however.) Two of his favorite comic book creators, Steve Gerber and Jack Kirby, worked on Thundarr, and Timmy was addicted to the program. Many of the kids at school argued that HeMan and the Masters of the Universe was better, but Timmy merely laughed at them. They were novices. He was a cartoon connoisseur.
"No," his father argued, his tone still patient, but bordering on something else.
"You'll do it now. No arguments."
"Dad…" It was very hard to hear the TV.
"If you want an allowance to buy comic books and play those stupid video games, then you' re going to have to work outside and around the house. Those are the rules." Timmy's grandfather, who sat next to him on the couch, sighed.
"Oh, why don't you lay off him, Randy? It' s the first day of summer vacation. Thundarr and Ookla the Mok are fighting the Rat People. He can weed the garden later."
"You stay out of this. I'll decide what's best for my boy."
"I can't stay out of it," the old man said. "You're doing it in here while I'm trying to watch my cartoons. I can't hear anything with you talking."
A commercial came on for a toy Timmy didn't want.
He watched it anyway, feigning interest. He felt the tension in the air. His father and grandfather glared at one another. Then his grandfather coughed and looked back at the television.
Timmy's father spoke slowly, the same way he did to Timmy when he was in trouble.
"Dad, I really wish you wouldn' t undermine my authority around the house. We agreed that if you were going to live here with us, that you 'd respect Elizabeth's and my"
"Shush." Timmy's grandfather cut him off. "How many times do I have to tell you?
We can't hear this with you talking."
Timmy suppressed a smile.
"Never mind," Randy Graco grumbled. "I'll do it myself." He glared at them both and stomped to the door. "But this isn't over. I' m not putting up with this all summer." After he was gone, Timmy and his grandfather glanced at one another and laughed. In the kitchen, Timmy's mother' s radio played softly, a song by Dolly Parton, one of Elizabeth Graco 's favorites. Outside, they heard Randy open the garage door.
"Thanks, Grandpa."
"Don't mention it. Besides, this is more important. Wish they'd had stuff like this when I was your age."
"What did you watch on TV?"
"Watch? We didn't watch anythingdidn't even own a television. We listened to the radio. We had programs, too, but not like this."
Timmy frowned, trying to imagine listening to Thunder on the radio, rather than the stuff they usually playedMichael Jackson and Cyndi Lauper and Huey Lewis and the News and Journey and "Come On Eileen" by Dexy ' s Midnight Runners. Timmy was just starting to discover music. Iron Maiden. Twisted Sister. Sugar Hill Gang. Duran Duran. The Eurythmics. Van Halen. And new underground metal bands like Metallica, Slayer, and Anthrax, which some kids from shop class had turned him on to. Older stuff like Rush 's 2112 and Black Sabbath's Mob Rules and Dio' s solo material. One of the kids at school had shown him that if you turned Dio 's album cover upsidedown, it spelled out "Devil." Timmy wasn't sure what particular type of music he liked yet, but he knew it wasn' t "Come On Eileen." That song was only good for dirty jokes on the playground.