It might have been my imagination. Just a little yank on the pole, as if something underground had pulled on it. I released the shaft, leaving it upright in the dirt.
Charlie was gripping my shoulder. I stared at the iron rod for another moment. The movement had probably been the result of it collapsing into an air pocket or something. Lacking the courage to investigate, I allowed Charlie to pull me away.
There it went again! I could just make out the jagged top of the pole against the tombstone. It was slowly, almost imperceptibly, sinking into the earth.
There must be water or something under there. Or maybe Saberhagen’s coffin has rotted away, and the dirt’s collapsing inward.
I recalled Denton’s warning. ‘Tell me if his grave looks…normal.’ And still it sank! It was almost halfway gone.
I pulled away from Charlie, intending to grab the shaft, yank it out of the grave, prove to myself that it was only a cave-in that was engulfing the rod.
The movement stopped when I approached the grave, as if it had encountered something solid. I reached out to touch it. Without warning, it shot upwards, poleaxing me in the jaw. I awoke five seconds later, flat on my back, gagging on what turned out to be bits of two shattered molars. For half a minute I lay sputtering in the dirt as pretty colors swam behind my eyelids. Only the realization that we were no longer alone kept me from blacking out.
What rose from the grave appeared humanoid. About six foot tall, with arms, legs, and a head. But though I could see it clearly, even in the dark, I couldn’t give further details. Was it wearing clothes? What color was it? Perhaps I was merely blinded with pain, but I couldn’t make out even the most obvious features.
The thing didn’t shuffle or shamble like a decent zombie. It didn’t vaporously arise like your typical ghost. It didn’t even lunge like a slasher movie villain. It simply crawled out of the grave like a city worker climbing out of a manhole.
The thing moved towards me, gliding more than walking. As it stood over me, I looked into what would have been its face, had it had a mouth, a nose, ears and hair. It did have eyes, though. I looked into the staring eyes and began to cry.
I was worthless. In seventeen years I’d not amounted to anything.
The eyes stared. They were featureless, like two ping-pong balls.
I’d let everyone down. Everyone was worse off for having known me.
The eyes stared. They were yellow and had slits for pupils.
I was a coward, a wimp, a loser. I didn’t have any balls. I wasn’t a man. My father was ashamed of me.
The eyes stared. They were huge and emotionless, like the eyes of the great squid.
I should have been a miscarriage. I should have died an infant. I’m the reason Mom left.
The eyes stared. They were bloodshot and angry.
If I were dead, everyone would be less miserable. Hell, they’d be a lot happier.
The eyes stared. They were two empty sockets.
It wouldn’t be hard. I could correct nature’s mistake.
The eyes stared. They were multi-faceted, like an enormous insect’s.
Do it! Now! Unconsciously, my hand reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the straight razor I’d been carrying for protection.
The eyes stared. They were human and smiling.
I put the blade to my throat. The sharp metal clawed at my skin. One quick slash.
DO IT!
“Stay the hell away from him!” The mental fog lifted and I dropped the razor, horrified at what I’d been about to do.
“Stay the hell away from him!” Charlie. She was advancing towards the monstrosity, brandishing the hammer I’d used to smash open the gate. The flirtatious girl from earlier was gone. In her place stood a mother bear, protecting her brood.
The thing turned toward her. It seemed much more substantial as it grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her to drop her weapon. She was already screaming as I climbed to my feet.
I’d like to say she was screaming in fear, but the sound was unmistakable. She was in agony. The apparition held her by her shoulders as she threw back her head, howling in pain.
Not stopping to think, I grabbed the pole and rushed whatever ghoul I’d called up. I swung for the outfield fence, almost expecting to meet no resistance from the phantom. Instead, there was a nice solid crack as the metal connected with whatever passed for the monster’s ribs. It released Charlie, who collapsed to the ground.
My victory was short-lived as my weapon was wrenched from my hands and bent in two. My opponent faced me…and began to change.
It wasn’t like some cheap CGI trick. First it was the faceless cemetery wraith, then it wasn’t. It was a person. A man. A chubby, olive-skinned man in his fifties, with salt and pepper hair, a pencil-thin mustache, and a Roman nose. And a smile. A friendly yet somehow insincere salesman smile.
Saberhagen.
And then he was gone. He didn’t exactly vanish. It was like when a light bulb burns out. You’re not aware of the absence of light so much as the sudden presence of darkness. I stood blinking at the cemetery fence.
The experience rattled me so much that I didn’t at first remember that I wasn’t by myself. I found Charlie struggling to her feet.
Her sweater was caked with grime and torn. If it hadn’t been so loose it probably would have been ripped completely off. Several deep gashes ran along her shoulders, oozing blood. Her hair was filled with leaves and twigs, and one of her lips was swelling.
“Charlie…”
She stood up. “We’re getting out of here. Now.”
She drove us almost twenty miles without saying a word. She mopped up blood with some Kleenex while I sucked on my extremely painful broken teeth. Finally, I had to break the silence.
“Charlie…”
Her eyes sparked with fury. “Don’t talk to me. Seriously.”
When we approached campus, she slammed on the brakes. “Get out.”
“Are you going to…”
“I’m going to Katherine’s. Get the fuck out of my car.”
“Your sister’s house? But…”
She smacked me. Hard. In my broken teeth. “I sure as hell can’t face my parents looking like this!”
Torn shirt, scratches, tears. Yeah, I knew what they’d think.
Words failed me. I got out of the car. She took off just as I was closing the door. I watched, morosely, as her headlights faded.
But after about a hundred feet, she pulled over.
Joyfully, I ran toward her. I think I was laughing. I realized just how badly I needed her at that moment, to talk to her, to comfort her, to let her comfort me. The thing we experienced tonight, we had to face it together. She must have realized that.
The car door open. After a moment, L.J.’s backpack flew out into the street. The door slammed and she sped off into the night.
The clock tower of the Memorial Union rose high above the university like the spire of a Gothic castle. Beneath the ornate facade, a huge archway provided an entrance to the white stone buildings of east campus. The upper vaults of the arch were lined with the names of University of Missouri students ‘who made the ultimate sacrifice during the Great War’. A plaque said that when passing through the archway, you were supposed to remove your hat and pause for a moment, to honor the dead.
I lay slumped against an interior wall, watching the ebb and flow of summer school students. No one doffed their hat. The clock didn’t strike, but it was probably about ten in the morning.
After Charlie ditched me, I’d walked to the University Hospital, where a sleepy oral surgeon had yanked two of my broken teeth. He accepted my story of a frat house fight without question. I slipped out without paying and wandered back to campus.
I sat under the tower for five hours, filthy and frightened. The very idea of being alone was suddenly terrifying. I had to be around people. Lots of people. The thought of the dorm seemed claustrophobic. I had to be here in the middle of campus, with hundreds of students nearby. The image of Saberhagen’s horrible eyes tortured me.
Demon. Zombie. Vampire. Ghost. Whatever the hell he was, he was real. Had my trespassing summoned him, or was it just his time to return, like Denton theorized? It didn’t matter. Whatever he was, wherever he came from, I was screwed.
The fact that I had no idea what to do was almost as bad as the memories of the previous night. If I called the police I’d wind up in the crazy house with Denton. I didn’t want to risk involving any more of my friends. My whole world had become a living nightmare. No, it was worse than that. It was like a German children’s story.
“Hey, I know you!”
The lilting, female voice evoked a terrified howl from my battered and paranoid brain. I skidded halfway out of the arch, ready to pounce, to fight, to kill, before my numbed senses could process who was talking to me.
It was Steph, the cute Mormon girl from Mark Twain Hall. Her face was expressionless as she retreated backwards from the guy who’d snarled and skittered away at her friendly greeting.
“Wait,” I croaked. I’d looked upon evil last night. Steph was the closest thing I had to an angel on this campus and I wanted to talk to her.
She paused, but kept walking slowly away, never taking her eyes off me, as if she expected me to suddenly lunge.
“Please talk to me, Steph.”
She stopped backing up. Her foot jiggled. I imagined her picturing the blond-haired, blue-eyed Mormon God instructing her to minister to the fallen, as well as her earthly father warning her to stay away from creepy teenage guys.
She must have been feeling charitable that morning. Probably bolstered by the presence of passing students, she hitched up her skirt and sat down next to me on a step.
“What’s the matter?”
Well, I kind of like this girl, even though she’s overweight, but I don’t think she likes me because when I took her grave digging last night the ghost of this 1930s cult leader attacked her. And all I was trying to do was prove to some mental patient that the writings of this one-eyed minister were bogus.
“It’s kind of involved. Want to get some coffee?”
There was a Starbucks inside the Union. I ordered us two coffees (Steph, of course, requested a decaf). I found us a table where I could sit with my back to the wall.
“So…” said Steph, staring at the blood and dirt stains on my shirt. “What’s new?”
I sipped my overpriced coffee. How to put this? “Do you believe in the devil?”
She paused for a moment. “Yes.” It was not a ‘yes’ that left room for doubt.
“I don’t mean the Bible devil, or like an abstract representation of evil. I mean, an actual, physical being.”
“I do.”
“What about demons? Do you believe in them?”
“Of course I do,” she said with a tone so condescending that I might have asked her how the little people got inside the television. “Don’t you read the news?”
“I don’t mean evil humans…” I began.
“Neither do I, Sherman. The Bible tells us they walk among us. Beautiful to behold, but beings of darkness.”
Denton had claimed Saberhagen had worked evil in all his incarnations. Was that was Steph was referring to? How much should I tell her?
“Sherman,” my companion continued. “Um, have demons been talking to you?”
I flashed her my best non-insane smile. “No, it’s just that…how would you go about fighting a, erm, being of darkness?”
Steph suddenly took a swig of her coffee, like a novice drinker downing a shot. She winced, then focused on me. “They aren’t vampires. You combat evil by doing good, not by splashing them with holy water.”
“Yeah.” I might have expected that sort of answer. Maybe I’d have better luck with a Catholic missionary. I was sure the Vatican had some sort of secret army of grim-faced priests ready to fight the living dead.
Stephanie regarded me with a slight smile, probably labeling me as harmlessly mad. She wrote something on a napkin.
“I have to go. This is my cell phone number. If you ever need to talk, about demons, or whatever, call me.” I was sure she was giving me her number because she did not want to hang out in person again. I thanked her and she left, only glancing over her shoulder once.
Steph was wrong about one thing. My battles were physical, not moral. Saberhagen, or whatever he was, was not made of ectoplasm. I’d hurt him when I hit him with that rod. And if he could be injured, then he could be killed. I had to send that thing back to its grave.
When I arrived at Mark Twain hall, I half expected my clothes to be scattered all over the front steps. Mr. Schultz had been clear as to what would happen if I stayed out all night again. I shuffled through the empty lobby and up the stairs. From my room, I could hear L.J. belting out ‘Ironman’ on his guitar. Not wishing to give him a long overdue explanation, I searched the nametags on the doors until I located Aaron’s. I realized, with no interest whatsoever, that John Doe was his roommate. I knocked, then entered.
Both guys at their desks, half buried in papers and books. When they looked up, they both winced, briefly. Just a quick, frightened grimace when they saw me.
“You feeling okay, Sherman?” asked John.
“Why?” My voice was raspy and thick, still half numbed from the dentist.
“You have blood on your chin. And your shirt.”
I made no effort to wipe my face. “Get out, John. I have to talk to Aaron in private.”
He balked. “Ypsilanti, Michigan! Where do you get off—”
“Now!”
John, insulted and frightened, glanced at his roommate, who nodded. As soon as he left, Aaron swiveled in his chair and regarded me through narrow eyes. His face was uncharacteristically scruffy. Probably because his razor was now lying in the middle of an abandoned graveyard.
“You shouldn’t talk to John like that. He saved your butt last night.”
“How?”
“He crawled into your bed and pretended to be you when Benny did bed check last night. Then I distracted him while he ran back to his own room.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I tried to work up some gratitude, but after the events in the cemetery, it all seemed pointless and stupid.
“Thank L.J., he arranged it. That guy’s been bouncing off the walls since he went driving with you the other day. What the hell did you guys get up to?”
I ignored the question. Sitting on John’s bed, I attempted to be casual. “Aaron, you’re a man who appreciates our Second Amendment rights, correct?”
His stern look broke into a grin. “Junior NRA member since I was nine.”
“And you have some guns yourself?”
“Hell, yeah! Two shotguns, couple of pistols, and…” He suddenly stopped smiling. “Why do you want to know?” he asked suspiciously.
There was no casual way to broach was I was about to ask. “The other day, when I got robbed…well, I’ve just been thinking, if I’d been armed…”
“You might have shot yourself in the knee,” Aaron finished. “Or killed a guy over twenty bucks. You think you could live with that?”
“Don’t be like that. I want to buy a gun. What do I do?”
He avoided my eyes. “You have to be eighteen. Twenty-one for a pistol. My guns are registered under my dad’s name.”
“But there’s ways to get around that, right? C’mon, I know you can help me. Just point me in the right direction.”
Aaron opened his mouth, then closed it. After a pause, he spoke. “I’m sorry, Sherman. But you’ve been acting real weird. You don’t want a gun because you’re afraid of getting robbed. Talk to me, man. What’s really going on?”
I slowly stood. Everything ached. “Forget I said anything. You don’t want to help me, that’s just great. Your conscious is clear.” I left before he could protest.
L.J. was gone, but he’d left the door slightly open (which was good, because I hadn’t taken my key). I glanced around the room, almost hoping Dan was there waiting for me, just so I could get the confrontation over with. And a fight with Dan, castration fears and all, would be a hell of a lot more welcome than whatever I’d met in Irontown.
I sat down in from of my computer. Dan, or Saberhagen, or someone seemed to know everything about me. It was time to even the score.
Okay, maybe Saberhagen was an undead monster with legions of followers, unlimited resources, and a history of destroying those who crossed him.
But I would bet anything he didn’t know how to Google.