The Mask, Chapter 6
6.
October 6th, 201911:00 AM
Sheriff Baker sat in his JEEP, which was idling on the side of the road, out front of Hillside Cemetery. It was a little colder than normal, so he had the heat on, but even though it felt warm in the car, he couldn't seem to shake a chill deep inside.
It was because of the weirdos in masks.
Whatever he'd been expecting to get out of Scott Carter yesterday morning, (he'd been directed to Scott when the evening custodian at Clifton Heights High, a Tom Barton, told Baker he'd seen Scott and Jasper leave school that Thursday), that hadn't been it. He'd expected Scott to say they'd gotten into some sort of disagreement and split up, or that Scott would be evasive about the matter. It was somewhat refreshing to hear someone speak so bluntly for a change, but Scott was new to Clifton Heights. The town's casually evasive manner towards its strangeness obviously hadn't yet rubbed off on him, yet.
He also hadn't been expecting (though he didn't know why he was surprised, after all this time) that the people Scott had seen would vaguely match the descriptions of Lester McDonough and Margaret Seaver. Scott had been far away so he wasn't sure, but when Baker had related the descriptions of both the missing people, he'd seen the the light of recognition in Scott's eyes. Though he lacked any real proof, (as usual), Baker felt sure that on Thursday afternoon, Scott Carter and Jasper Riley had seen the missing Lester McDonough and Margaret Seaver, standing on the other side of Black Creek Bridge, both wearing identical, weird rubber masks.
Scott hadn't been able to tell him much else. Only that, spooked by the two strangers wearing masks, they'd split up. Jasper went home the back way to hopefully avoid the "weirdos," and Scott visited Handy's Pawn and Thrift to wait them out...although Scott said that, right after Jasper left, he turned to look for the two strangers, only to find them gone.
Baker had felt a particular chill cling to him since, because it seemed dreadfully clear what happened to Jasper Riley. The problem, of course, was the same as always: lack of any real evidence.
After talking to Scott, Baker had gone to Black Creek Bridge, and then walked up Kovac Road to the bike bridge over Black Creek. He'd found precious little. Nothing on Black Creek Bridge. The only thing which looked mildly suspicious on Kovac Road was a small blob of rubber. It looked like it had melted, then hardened again. Thinking of the masks, he'd put gloves on and scraped it into an evidence bag, not holding out any real hope of its potential importance.
He'd then returned to what remained of the Riley farm. It hadn't been the picture of health when Jack Riley had been around, but after he'd disappeared (Baker was one of the very few who suspected the boozing and cheating handyman hadn't run away but had instead become another Clifton Heights causality), it had fallen into complete disrepair. The only thing living in the barns these days were rats and stray cats. The house looked like it was barely standing.
Of course this time, unlike Friday afternoon when Baker made his initial visit, Joan was nowhere to be found. Two of her elder sons, Jack Jr. and Jody, had been working on the engine of an old 72 Chevy pickup when Baker stopped by. They were ignorant of their mother's whereabouts, and blithely unconcerned, also.
Baker knew why, as most folks around Clifton Heights did. Since Jack ran off/disappeared, Joan had taken to spending frequent nights up in the hills, trading favors for moonshine and venison. When he'd asked them if they'd seen their mother recently, or if they knew where she was, both Jack Jr. and Jody had shrugged and shook their heads. Jody offered a noncommittal grunt, and Jack Jr. had mumbled through lip jammed with chewing tobacco, "Hell if I know."
Baker spent the rest of the day driving aimlessly around Clifton Heights, looking for anything strange or out of place, though he had no idea what he was looking for. Something he'd gotten very used to working and living here, which spoke volumes.
With Meg attending college down in Binghamton, New York (he took a vague sense of relief in her being away from Clifton Heights), he ate dinner at The Skylark Diner. Because Father Ward and Gavin Patchett were both out of town, it proved to be a quick affair, and then he was back on the road.
He again visited both Lester McDonough and Margaret Seaver's homes. Based on the build-up in their mailboxes, they still hadn't returned home. He walked around both homes, checked their backyards, jiggled the front and back doorknobs, to no avail. Frustrated, he returned to his JEEP, checked in with the station (Deputy Shackleford was on call), and then went home to a thin sleep shot through with confused dreams about people lurking in the shadows, wearing odd rubber masks.
Baker zipped his coat up, grabbed his hat off the seat next to him, and shut the engine off. Reluctantly (preferring to be at Sunday morning mass instead of here, and that was saying something), he got out and headed for the entrance of Hillside Cemetery, where caretaker Jud Collins waited for him impatiently.
If he could ID McDonough or Seaver himself, witness them wearing masks and behaving in the eerily threatening way the Carter kid had described, that would give him cause to force his entry into either home. As it stood, however, he had no idea where either of them were, and had no cause to break into their homes.
And now here was this. Jud Collins had called him on his personal cell as he was dressing to attend mass at All Saints. Something about vandalism at Hillside Cemetery, and that it was urgent he come. Baker had tried to point out to Collins that he was off duty. Freddy Potter was on call; surely he could handle some graveyard vandalism. He had several times before.
But Collins persisted. It had be Baker, and no one else. He tried not feel annoyed at Jud. The retired engineer had, for the most part, done a very capable job after long time cemetery caretaker Whitey Smith left town without telling anyone (different year, same song) shortly after his wife died.
Even so, as he drew near the short, wiry man (who seemed to practically vibrate with impatience), he couldn't help but feel he'd much rather have dealt with the calm, ever-steady Whitey.
"All right, Jud. I'm here instead of at church, on my day off, no less. Who painted their initials on gravestones this time?"
Jud Collins shook his head, bouncing on his toes. So far as Baker knew, Collins had always been an engineer, spending most his adult life working behind a desk. Despite that, the man possessed a powerful vitality and force of will which he expressed in emotion and body. The way he bounced on his toes, shoulders always squared, chin thrust out, eyes defiant, made him look like a bantam-weight boxer willing to take on all comers, even those twice his size.
"No way, Sheriff. Uh-huh. This is ain't no piddly shit like that. You know I wouldn't call you at home to handle something like graffiti."
Baker came to a stop before Collins and rubbed his hands to keep them warm. He didn't like Collins' expression, didn't like that chill inside him, which had nothing to do with the weather, didn't like where this was headed, at all. "And you're sure Deputy Potter couldn't have come out here to take your statement and get some pictures? He has plenty of times before."
Another, almost violent headshake. "No sir. Deputy Potter is a nice a enough boy who couldn't find his own ass with two hands and one of those new-fangled smartphones. And Shackleford's just an arrogant sunnuvabitch who just wants you to screw up so he can take your place."
Baker shrugged and offered a lopsided smile. "He IS Bob Phillips's nephew, after all. Can't fault him for his ambitions."
"Whatever. That toy soldier's got a pole the size of a log stuck up his ass. No, I hate to disturb your Sunday morning, but it had to be you, Sheriff."
Baker sighed, his stomach twisting into greasy knots. He'd been hoping this to be a trivial matter completely unconnected to his latest weird mystery, but there seemed little hope of that now. He gestured up the hill. "Lead the way, then."
*
"Now you see what I'm talking about, Sheriff? What in the blazin hells does something like this?"
Baker stared at the sight before him, momentarily speechless. Collins hadn't been overreacting, this was above and beyond tagging headstones with initials and personal trademarks.
"At first I thought someone was just playing a really mean-spirited Halloween prank. But then I looked closer...and damn it all, Sheriff. That dirt don't look spaded or shoveled up. It looks like something dug it up. With claws or paws or..."
Collins trailed off, and Baker finished the caretaker's sentence with, "Hands. It looks like someone dug these up with their hands."
They stood facing an open grave. As Collins had said, and as Baker now agreed, it didn't look as if someone had shoveled the grave out in an orderly fashion. It looked like someone - or something, or somethings - had dug the grave open with something like claws, or even hands. And the casket?
The latches had been broken off. The casket opened. And its corpse? Dragged from its resting place and torn apart, its bones scattered in the piles of dirt.
Baker glanced at the dates on the grave's headstone. "Jud. This...body was buried only two weeks ago. Stan Greely. Died working at the mill. Buried only two weeks ago, Jud."
He turned and met the caretaker's deeply troubled - and yes, there it was - afraid expression. "I don't know much about this sort of thing...but shouldn't there have been....something of the body left? Some flesh and muscle, if even it was starting to rot?"
Even though he didn't want to, he knelt and examined the mounds of dirt. "All I see is bone. Could animals have done this before you found it?"
Jud stepped forward and knelt next to Baker. "Maybe. Depends on when it happened last night. But here's another thing. Take a closer look at those bones. You know how a ham bone looks like after a dog's been after it, yeah? All jagged and gnawed to hell? Take a close look at those marks, Sheriff. What do those look like to you?"
Baker squinted. Bent closer, looked at the marks...and then sucked in a sharp breath. "Shit. Are those...?"
Jud Collins nodded. "I think so. Like you, I ain't no expert...but those are people teeth marks, Sheriff. I'd bet my life on it."
*10 PM
Despite his best efforts, Scott hadn't been able to go about his weekend like always after Sheriff Baker's visit Saturday morning. Up until the moment Baker had showed up, and until the moment he'd told the sheriff about the weirdos wearings masks, he'd been able to pretend, at least, that the world wasn't getting weird.
Now, it proved almost impossible. Especially the way Sheriff Baker had questioned him about their appearance; coming very near the mark when he'd asked if one of them looked tall and "lanky," as Baker had put it; the other shorter and stouter. Scott had answered honestly that even though it had been hard to tell from their distance, he thought so. The look in Sheriff Baker's eyes at his answer made Scott wonder if the sheriff knew, or at least thought he knew, who those weirdos were.
What matters worse was how Mom hovered around him all day Saturday afternoon, not letting him out of sight, and then dragging him to Clifton Heights Baptist - which she'd been attending since they moved here - Sunday morning. She acted as if he'd been targeted by serial killers, and forbid him to go anywhere both days. Also demanded he stay home while she worked the evening shift Saturday and Sunday.
Normally he couldn't give two shits about what Mom demanded, but truth be told (though he hated to admit it), he still felt spooked by the whole thing. Of course, the only person he'd really hung out with since moving to Clifton Heights was Jasper, so there was no point in going out anyway. This, like not visiting Jasper's farm Friday, served as a much better excuse for heeding his mother's wishes.
The worst part was, he couldn't work up any desire to watch horror movies like he normally did on the weekends. Either every movie he'd tried on Netflix last night had been lame, too corny, or too intense (which was out of character for him, and further evidence of how spooked he was). He'd tried and bailed on four movies before he turned in at 10, a personal record in early bedtimes for him, over the past year.
After church this afternoon, like yesterday, Mom had kept him hopping with chores all afternoon. When she'd left for work again, she'd levied the same demand about him staying home. He'd pretended he didn't care, acting as if he'd go out if he damn well pleased, but he didn't have any more desire to go out tonight than he had last night.
After Mom left, he'd settled down and tried to watch a DVD movie he'd ordered from a Pennsylvania-based indie horror production company called Realsplatter. A post-apocalyptic Christmas tale titled Dreaming of a White Doomsday. However, despite have very good production values and great suspense for an indie film, Scott still had a hard time paying attention.
That annoyed him. He thought he would've really enjoyed the film if the circumstance had been different. The whole thing with the weirdos wearing masks and Jasper disappearing had ruined it, and though he felt like a shit for thinking that, he couldn't seem to not be angry at Jasper for disappearing, even after the movie was over, and he was in the shower.
As he toweled afterward, a glint in the bathroom mirror caught his eye. It was the necklace he'd been wearing since coming to Clifton Heights, really Gothic-looking cross. It had been the first thing he'd purchased at Handy's.
Mom hated it the first time she saw it. He couldn't helping goading her about it, especially because it was, after all, a cross. Shouldn't a newly born-again holy roller like her appreciate it? She'd merely scowled and changed the topic to her favorite and reoccurring tune, his poor recent grades and choice of friends.
The flash of spitefulness he felt toward his mother soured his stomach. He didn't want to think about any of this, any more. He didn't care how distracted he was. He'd hit the couch and try to watch at least one more horror movie, and dammit, he'd enjoy it. He'd nick one of Mom's beers to try and relax.
He pulled on his boxers, thought about taking his cross necklace off, then deciding to hell with it, he left it on.
*
He was dreaming, and it was a weird one. He and Jasper were in the living room, which was weird, because Jasper never came over to his house, ever. Also, they weren't really doing anything. He was laying on the couch, the television showing nothing but hissing white static, while Jasper stood in the front doorway, hands hanging to his sides, not saying a word.
He asked Jasper, Where you been, dumbass? (at least he thought he asked that, it sounded like it in his head, though he hadn't felt his mouth move, or hear his voice). Your fucking vanishing act ruined the whole weekend, even brought the sheriff to my house. With a sneer, (at least, it seemed like a sneer in his head, though his lips and mouth never moved), he asked, You been hanging out with Marcus in Utica, smoking pot and getting lap-dances from those stripper-whores you're always dreaming about? Jasper didn't say anything.
He just stood on the front doorway, and something else weird? In his dream, there was some light in the living room (he'd fallen asleep with a table-side lamp on, and the TV was still on, throwing ghostly white flickers), but the shadows fell just right on Jasper's face, so Scott couldn't see it. And the way he stood still, without saying anything, made Scott think he was talking to a mannequin.
And then, a whisper. Not a voice, exactly. Not Jasper's voice. But a whisper, a feeling, coming from Jasper, to him.
Your fault. It's your fault. You left me. Your Scott's fault. You have to pay.
What the hell do you mean? It was your idea to split up!
Again, Scott thought this, he didn't speak it. For some reason, in his dream, he couldn't move. He lay pinned to the couch, and he couldn't speak, only think his words.
Jasper's whole body twitched. Then, it (why it?) took one halting step forward. And then another, and another. While Jasper (it?) staggered toward the couch, the accusatory feelings of betrayal intensified.
No, no, I'm sorry, Scott whined now (without using his mouth or any words), I didn't mean to leave you behind, you said you wanted to go home the back way, I didn't leave you, I didn't...
Things flickered, like a filmstrip jumping its track. Jasper abruptly was standing above Scott. Bizarrely enough, though he could see everything else of Jasper, his face was still cloaked in shadow.
Jasper leaned down over Scott. Scott squirmed on the couch, but still couldn't move. The glow of the television behind Jasper threw even more darkness onto his face, but as Jasper leaned closer, Scott thought he could hear something liquid shifting on Jasper's face, like mud or slime sloughing off.
A terrible, chemical burning smell filled his nostrils, similar to what he smelled when he once accidentally threw an old pair of rubber wading boots into a garbage fire from a box he'd thought full of only cardboard and paper waste....
Melting, burning rubber.
A rubber mask. With a Herculean effort, Scott thrashed upward, off the couch. He bumped chests with Jasper, pinning the metal Gothic cross between them...
Something screamed. Not aloud, but in his head, and it didn't sound human, or like anything should sound. He heard something sizzling, and now the sickly-sweet smell of burnt flesh made him want to vomit, as the scream in his head ululated, ranging up and down in strange pitches that made him want to clap his hands to his head and scream also...
*
Scott woke from his dream when he thumped off the couch and onto the floor. He jerked upright and threw his hands out, to push Jasper off him...
Nothing.
He scrambled to his feet and turned a quick circle. Alone. He was alone. Jasper wasn't here; he'd never been here, he'd just been having a very bad dream. Served him right for have two of Mom's beers, and watching Ghoul, based on the much better novel by Brian Keene.
Even so...a dream. "A fucking dream," he muttered. "That's all. Just a..."
The skin on his forearm prickled into cold bumps. He turned slowly, and gaped at the open front door, through which wafted a chill October breeze....
October 6th, 201911:00 AM
Sheriff Baker sat in his JEEP, which was idling on the side of the road, out front of Hillside Cemetery. It was a little colder than normal, so he had the heat on, but even though it felt warm in the car, he couldn't seem to shake a chill deep inside.
It was because of the weirdos in masks.
Whatever he'd been expecting to get out of Scott Carter yesterday morning, (he'd been directed to Scott when the evening custodian at Clifton Heights High, a Tom Barton, told Baker he'd seen Scott and Jasper leave school that Thursday), that hadn't been it. He'd expected Scott to say they'd gotten into some sort of disagreement and split up, or that Scott would be evasive about the matter. It was somewhat refreshing to hear someone speak so bluntly for a change, but Scott was new to Clifton Heights. The town's casually evasive manner towards its strangeness obviously hadn't yet rubbed off on him, yet.
He also hadn't been expecting (though he didn't know why he was surprised, after all this time) that the people Scott had seen would vaguely match the descriptions of Lester McDonough and Margaret Seaver. Scott had been far away so he wasn't sure, but when Baker had related the descriptions of both the missing people, he'd seen the the light of recognition in Scott's eyes. Though he lacked any real proof, (as usual), Baker felt sure that on Thursday afternoon, Scott Carter and Jasper Riley had seen the missing Lester McDonough and Margaret Seaver, standing on the other side of Black Creek Bridge, both wearing identical, weird rubber masks.
Scott hadn't been able to tell him much else. Only that, spooked by the two strangers wearing masks, they'd split up. Jasper went home the back way to hopefully avoid the "weirdos," and Scott visited Handy's Pawn and Thrift to wait them out...although Scott said that, right after Jasper left, he turned to look for the two strangers, only to find them gone.
Baker had felt a particular chill cling to him since, because it seemed dreadfully clear what happened to Jasper Riley. The problem, of course, was the same as always: lack of any real evidence.
After talking to Scott, Baker had gone to Black Creek Bridge, and then walked up Kovac Road to the bike bridge over Black Creek. He'd found precious little. Nothing on Black Creek Bridge. The only thing which looked mildly suspicious on Kovac Road was a small blob of rubber. It looked like it had melted, then hardened again. Thinking of the masks, he'd put gloves on and scraped it into an evidence bag, not holding out any real hope of its potential importance.
He'd then returned to what remained of the Riley farm. It hadn't been the picture of health when Jack Riley had been around, but after he'd disappeared (Baker was one of the very few who suspected the boozing and cheating handyman hadn't run away but had instead become another Clifton Heights causality), it had fallen into complete disrepair. The only thing living in the barns these days were rats and stray cats. The house looked like it was barely standing.
Of course this time, unlike Friday afternoon when Baker made his initial visit, Joan was nowhere to be found. Two of her elder sons, Jack Jr. and Jody, had been working on the engine of an old 72 Chevy pickup when Baker stopped by. They were ignorant of their mother's whereabouts, and blithely unconcerned, also.
Baker knew why, as most folks around Clifton Heights did. Since Jack ran off/disappeared, Joan had taken to spending frequent nights up in the hills, trading favors for moonshine and venison. When he'd asked them if they'd seen their mother recently, or if they knew where she was, both Jack Jr. and Jody had shrugged and shook their heads. Jody offered a noncommittal grunt, and Jack Jr. had mumbled through lip jammed with chewing tobacco, "Hell if I know."
Baker spent the rest of the day driving aimlessly around Clifton Heights, looking for anything strange or out of place, though he had no idea what he was looking for. Something he'd gotten very used to working and living here, which spoke volumes.
With Meg attending college down in Binghamton, New York (he took a vague sense of relief in her being away from Clifton Heights), he ate dinner at The Skylark Diner. Because Father Ward and Gavin Patchett were both out of town, it proved to be a quick affair, and then he was back on the road.
He again visited both Lester McDonough and Margaret Seaver's homes. Based on the build-up in their mailboxes, they still hadn't returned home. He walked around both homes, checked their backyards, jiggled the front and back doorknobs, to no avail. Frustrated, he returned to his JEEP, checked in with the station (Deputy Shackleford was on call), and then went home to a thin sleep shot through with confused dreams about people lurking in the shadows, wearing odd rubber masks.
Baker zipped his coat up, grabbed his hat off the seat next to him, and shut the engine off. Reluctantly (preferring to be at Sunday morning mass instead of here, and that was saying something), he got out and headed for the entrance of Hillside Cemetery, where caretaker Jud Collins waited for him impatiently.
If he could ID McDonough or Seaver himself, witness them wearing masks and behaving in the eerily threatening way the Carter kid had described, that would give him cause to force his entry into either home. As it stood, however, he had no idea where either of them were, and had no cause to break into their homes.
And now here was this. Jud Collins had called him on his personal cell as he was dressing to attend mass at All Saints. Something about vandalism at Hillside Cemetery, and that it was urgent he come. Baker had tried to point out to Collins that he was off duty. Freddy Potter was on call; surely he could handle some graveyard vandalism. He had several times before.
But Collins persisted. It had be Baker, and no one else. He tried not feel annoyed at Jud. The retired engineer had, for the most part, done a very capable job after long time cemetery caretaker Whitey Smith left town without telling anyone (different year, same song) shortly after his wife died.
Even so, as he drew near the short, wiry man (who seemed to practically vibrate with impatience), he couldn't help but feel he'd much rather have dealt with the calm, ever-steady Whitey.
"All right, Jud. I'm here instead of at church, on my day off, no less. Who painted their initials on gravestones this time?"
Jud Collins shook his head, bouncing on his toes. So far as Baker knew, Collins had always been an engineer, spending most his adult life working behind a desk. Despite that, the man possessed a powerful vitality and force of will which he expressed in emotion and body. The way he bounced on his toes, shoulders always squared, chin thrust out, eyes defiant, made him look like a bantam-weight boxer willing to take on all comers, even those twice his size.
"No way, Sheriff. Uh-huh. This is ain't no piddly shit like that. You know I wouldn't call you at home to handle something like graffiti."
Baker came to a stop before Collins and rubbed his hands to keep them warm. He didn't like Collins' expression, didn't like that chill inside him, which had nothing to do with the weather, didn't like where this was headed, at all. "And you're sure Deputy Potter couldn't have come out here to take your statement and get some pictures? He has plenty of times before."
Another, almost violent headshake. "No sir. Deputy Potter is a nice a enough boy who couldn't find his own ass with two hands and one of those new-fangled smartphones. And Shackleford's just an arrogant sunnuvabitch who just wants you to screw up so he can take your place."
Baker shrugged and offered a lopsided smile. "He IS Bob Phillips's nephew, after all. Can't fault him for his ambitions."
"Whatever. That toy soldier's got a pole the size of a log stuck up his ass. No, I hate to disturb your Sunday morning, but it had to be you, Sheriff."
Baker sighed, his stomach twisting into greasy knots. He'd been hoping this to be a trivial matter completely unconnected to his latest weird mystery, but there seemed little hope of that now. He gestured up the hill. "Lead the way, then."
*
"Now you see what I'm talking about, Sheriff? What in the blazin hells does something like this?"
Baker stared at the sight before him, momentarily speechless. Collins hadn't been overreacting, this was above and beyond tagging headstones with initials and personal trademarks.
"At first I thought someone was just playing a really mean-spirited Halloween prank. But then I looked closer...and damn it all, Sheriff. That dirt don't look spaded or shoveled up. It looks like something dug it up. With claws or paws or..."
Collins trailed off, and Baker finished the caretaker's sentence with, "Hands. It looks like someone dug these up with their hands."
They stood facing an open grave. As Collins had said, and as Baker now agreed, it didn't look as if someone had shoveled the grave out in an orderly fashion. It looked like someone - or something, or somethings - had dug the grave open with something like claws, or even hands. And the casket?
The latches had been broken off. The casket opened. And its corpse? Dragged from its resting place and torn apart, its bones scattered in the piles of dirt.
Baker glanced at the dates on the grave's headstone. "Jud. This...body was buried only two weeks ago. Stan Greely. Died working at the mill. Buried only two weeks ago, Jud."
He turned and met the caretaker's deeply troubled - and yes, there it was - afraid expression. "I don't know much about this sort of thing...but shouldn't there have been....something of the body left? Some flesh and muscle, if even it was starting to rot?"
Even though he didn't want to, he knelt and examined the mounds of dirt. "All I see is bone. Could animals have done this before you found it?"
Jud stepped forward and knelt next to Baker. "Maybe. Depends on when it happened last night. But here's another thing. Take a closer look at those bones. You know how a ham bone looks like after a dog's been after it, yeah? All jagged and gnawed to hell? Take a close look at those marks, Sheriff. What do those look like to you?"
Baker squinted. Bent closer, looked at the marks...and then sucked in a sharp breath. "Shit. Are those...?"
Jud Collins nodded. "I think so. Like you, I ain't no expert...but those are people teeth marks, Sheriff. I'd bet my life on it."
*10 PM
Despite his best efforts, Scott hadn't been able to go about his weekend like always after Sheriff Baker's visit Saturday morning. Up until the moment Baker had showed up, and until the moment he'd told the sheriff about the weirdos wearings masks, he'd been able to pretend, at least, that the world wasn't getting weird.
Now, it proved almost impossible. Especially the way Sheriff Baker had questioned him about their appearance; coming very near the mark when he'd asked if one of them looked tall and "lanky," as Baker had put it; the other shorter and stouter. Scott had answered honestly that even though it had been hard to tell from their distance, he thought so. The look in Sheriff Baker's eyes at his answer made Scott wonder if the sheriff knew, or at least thought he knew, who those weirdos were.
What matters worse was how Mom hovered around him all day Saturday afternoon, not letting him out of sight, and then dragging him to Clifton Heights Baptist - which she'd been attending since they moved here - Sunday morning. She acted as if he'd been targeted by serial killers, and forbid him to go anywhere both days. Also demanded he stay home while she worked the evening shift Saturday and Sunday.
Normally he couldn't give two shits about what Mom demanded, but truth be told (though he hated to admit it), he still felt spooked by the whole thing. Of course, the only person he'd really hung out with since moving to Clifton Heights was Jasper, so there was no point in going out anyway. This, like not visiting Jasper's farm Friday, served as a much better excuse for heeding his mother's wishes.
The worst part was, he couldn't work up any desire to watch horror movies like he normally did on the weekends. Either every movie he'd tried on Netflix last night had been lame, too corny, or too intense (which was out of character for him, and further evidence of how spooked he was). He'd tried and bailed on four movies before he turned in at 10, a personal record in early bedtimes for him, over the past year.
After church this afternoon, like yesterday, Mom had kept him hopping with chores all afternoon. When she'd left for work again, she'd levied the same demand about him staying home. He'd pretended he didn't care, acting as if he'd go out if he damn well pleased, but he didn't have any more desire to go out tonight than he had last night.
After Mom left, he'd settled down and tried to watch a DVD movie he'd ordered from a Pennsylvania-based indie horror production company called Realsplatter. A post-apocalyptic Christmas tale titled Dreaming of a White Doomsday. However, despite have very good production values and great suspense for an indie film, Scott still had a hard time paying attention.
That annoyed him. He thought he would've really enjoyed the film if the circumstance had been different. The whole thing with the weirdos wearing masks and Jasper disappearing had ruined it, and though he felt like a shit for thinking that, he couldn't seem to not be angry at Jasper for disappearing, even after the movie was over, and he was in the shower.
As he toweled afterward, a glint in the bathroom mirror caught his eye. It was the necklace he'd been wearing since coming to Clifton Heights, really Gothic-looking cross. It had been the first thing he'd purchased at Handy's.
Mom hated it the first time she saw it. He couldn't helping goading her about it, especially because it was, after all, a cross. Shouldn't a newly born-again holy roller like her appreciate it? She'd merely scowled and changed the topic to her favorite and reoccurring tune, his poor recent grades and choice of friends.
The flash of spitefulness he felt toward his mother soured his stomach. He didn't want to think about any of this, any more. He didn't care how distracted he was. He'd hit the couch and try to watch at least one more horror movie, and dammit, he'd enjoy it. He'd nick one of Mom's beers to try and relax.
He pulled on his boxers, thought about taking his cross necklace off, then deciding to hell with it, he left it on.
*
He was dreaming, and it was a weird one. He and Jasper were in the living room, which was weird, because Jasper never came over to his house, ever. Also, they weren't really doing anything. He was laying on the couch, the television showing nothing but hissing white static, while Jasper stood in the front doorway, hands hanging to his sides, not saying a word.
He asked Jasper, Where you been, dumbass? (at least he thought he asked that, it sounded like it in his head, though he hadn't felt his mouth move, or hear his voice). Your fucking vanishing act ruined the whole weekend, even brought the sheriff to my house. With a sneer, (at least, it seemed like a sneer in his head, though his lips and mouth never moved), he asked, You been hanging out with Marcus in Utica, smoking pot and getting lap-dances from those stripper-whores you're always dreaming about? Jasper didn't say anything.
He just stood on the front doorway, and something else weird? In his dream, there was some light in the living room (he'd fallen asleep with a table-side lamp on, and the TV was still on, throwing ghostly white flickers), but the shadows fell just right on Jasper's face, so Scott couldn't see it. And the way he stood still, without saying anything, made Scott think he was talking to a mannequin.
And then, a whisper. Not a voice, exactly. Not Jasper's voice. But a whisper, a feeling, coming from Jasper, to him.
Your fault. It's your fault. You left me. Your Scott's fault. You have to pay.
What the hell do you mean? It was your idea to split up!
Again, Scott thought this, he didn't speak it. For some reason, in his dream, he couldn't move. He lay pinned to the couch, and he couldn't speak, only think his words.
Jasper's whole body twitched. Then, it (why it?) took one halting step forward. And then another, and another. While Jasper (it?) staggered toward the couch, the accusatory feelings of betrayal intensified.
No, no, I'm sorry, Scott whined now (without using his mouth or any words), I didn't mean to leave you behind, you said you wanted to go home the back way, I didn't leave you, I didn't...
Things flickered, like a filmstrip jumping its track. Jasper abruptly was standing above Scott. Bizarrely enough, though he could see everything else of Jasper, his face was still cloaked in shadow.
Jasper leaned down over Scott. Scott squirmed on the couch, but still couldn't move. The glow of the television behind Jasper threw even more darkness onto his face, but as Jasper leaned closer, Scott thought he could hear something liquid shifting on Jasper's face, like mud or slime sloughing off.
A terrible, chemical burning smell filled his nostrils, similar to what he smelled when he once accidentally threw an old pair of rubber wading boots into a garbage fire from a box he'd thought full of only cardboard and paper waste....
Melting, burning rubber.
A rubber mask. With a Herculean effort, Scott thrashed upward, off the couch. He bumped chests with Jasper, pinning the metal Gothic cross between them...
Something screamed. Not aloud, but in his head, and it didn't sound human, or like anything should sound. He heard something sizzling, and now the sickly-sweet smell of burnt flesh made him want to vomit, as the scream in his head ululated, ranging up and down in strange pitches that made him want to clap his hands to his head and scream also...
*
Scott woke from his dream when he thumped off the couch and onto the floor. He jerked upright and threw his hands out, to push Jasper off him...
Nothing.
He scrambled to his feet and turned a quick circle. Alone. He was alone. Jasper wasn't here; he'd never been here, he'd just been having a very bad dream. Served him right for have two of Mom's beers, and watching Ghoul, based on the much better novel by Brian Keene.
Even so...a dream. "A fucking dream," he muttered. "That's all. Just a..."
The skin on his forearm prickled into cold bumps. He turned slowly, and gaped at the open front door, through which wafted a chill October breeze....
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