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then up in-to the new sec-ti-on. That wo-uld exp-la-in the ste-adily sin-king
gro-und, and why they'd first no-ti-ced it aro-und the ol-der gra-ves.
He tho-ught abo-ut his grand-fat-her's sin-king gra-ve. Co-uld it ha-ve& ?
Timmy shud-de-red, unab-le to comp-le-te the tho-ught.
Ghouls ate the de-ad. All of the sto-ri-es ag-re-ed on this. In so-me of
them, they ate li-ving hu-mans as well. That wo-uld exp-la-in so-me of the
re-cent di-sap-pe-aran-ces. May-be not the wo-man on the news, Deb Lentz (her
car had be-en dis-co-ve-red all the way over in Por-ters), but pos-sibly
Ronny, Jason, and Ste-ve -may-be they' d be-en part-ying in the gra-ve-yard.
And it cer-ta-inly fit with Pat and Ka-ren 's di-sap-pe-aran-ce. It se-emed
pretty cer-ta-in they' d be-en par-ked in the gra-ve-yard. May-be the gho-ul
had eaten Ka-ren and stuck Pat 's body in the trunk for sa-fe-ke-eping,
in-ten-ding to eat him la-ter.
There was only one prob-lem with that the-ory. Co-uld gho-uls dri-ve cars?
Timmy lo-oked at the co-mic aga-in. If they had long claws in re-al li-fe
li-ke they did in fic-ti-on, then pro-bably not. Which me-ant that so-me-one
el-se had hid-den the No-va.
In so-me of the co-mics, the gho-uls had used hu-man hel-pers, sort of
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li-ke Dra-cu-la' s as-sis-tant, Ren-fi-eld. They wor-ked for the cre-atu-res,
did the-ir bid-ding, hel-ped to con-ce-al the-ir exis-ten-ce, and we-re pa-id
with mo-ney and jewelry sto-len from the de-ad -extra ba-ub-les from the
cre-atu-res' tre-asu-re ho-ard. In one back is-sue of Va-ult of Evil, the
vil-la-gers had hung the gho-ul's hu-man fa-mi-li-ar from an old tree in the
gra-ve-yard.
If the-re was a gho-ul be-ne-ath the ce-me-tery, did it ha-ve an
as-sis-tant, and if so, who was it?
It didn't ta-ke him long to co-me up with an ans-wer. It was Barry's
fat-her who'd sud-denly for-bid them to play in the ce-me-tery, who'd put up
the no tres-pas-sing signs and had blown off the sin-king gra-ves by
sug-ges-ting the-re we-re sink-ho-les. He' d had mo-re mo-ney than nor-mal,
and Mrs. Smelt-zer was we-aring lots of new jewelry -so-me of which se-emed
re-al-ly old, li-ke the an-ti-qu-es at the flea mar-ket. He was ang-ri-er and
mo-re vi-olent than ever, li-ke he was suf-fe-ring from stress or gu-ilt or
so-met-hing.
And Barry had men-ti-oned se-ve-ral ti-mes that his fat-her was out la-te
at night.
So if he was right, then how co-uld he go abo-ut pro-ving it? If Barry' s
fat-her fo-und out he sus-pec-ted, the-re was no tel-ling what co-uld hap-pen.
But if Timmy co-uld pro-ve the-re was a gho-ul, if he co-uld get evi-den-ce
wit-ho-ut Mr. Smelt-zer fin-ding out, then may-be pe-op-le wo-uld be-li-eve
him. He ' d ha-ve to tell Do-ug and Barry his sus-pi-ci-ons. If he was right,
they co-uldn 't just waltz down in-to the tun-nel be-ne-ath the uti-lity shed.
That wo-uld be su-ici-de.
They' d ha-ve to be bet-ter pre-pa-red than that. He tho-ught of Do-ug 's
map. To-mor-row mor-ning, if Mr. Smelt-zer wasn't aro-und, he' d get the map
from the Du-go-ut and try to fi-gu-re out exactly how far the gho-ul 's
tun-nels re-ac-hed, ba-sed on whe-re the gra-ves we-re sin-king. That was the
first step.
When his mot-her knoc-ked on the do-or and told him to ta-ke a sho-wer,
brush his te-eth, and get re-ady for bed, Timmy was so pre-oc-cu-pi-ed with
plan-ning that he ba-rely he-ard her.
He rus-hed thro-ugh the bath-ro-om, ba-rely al-lo-wing the wa-ter to hit
his body be-fo-re he was out of the sho-wer and to-we-ling off. He ma-de
qu-ick work of put-ting on his pa-j-amas and ran the to-othb-rush ac-ross his
te-eth on-ce or twi-ce. Then he went out in-to the li-ving ro-om.
His mot-her was cur-led up on the co-uch watc-hing a sit-com. She lo-oked
up from the te-le-vi-si-on.
"You re-ady for bed?"
Timmy nod-ded.
"You want to watch TV with me un-til yo-ur dad gets ho-me?"
"No, that's okay. I tho-ught I might re-ad for a whi-le."
"Alright." She pa-used, stud-ying him. "You su-re you're okay, Tim?"
He smi-led. "Po-si-ti-ve. Everyt-hing's go-ing to be just fi-ne."
"May I be ex-cu-sed?"
Rhonda Smelt-zer glan-ced over at her son's pla-te. His fo-od-pork chops,
mas-hed po-ta-to-es, and li-ma be-ans-had ba-rely be-en to-uc-hed. Barry had
ta-ken a few bi-tes and then pus-hed the rest aro-und with his fork. He hadn
't spo-ken du-ring the en-ti-re me-al. In-de-ed, he hadn' t spo-ken sin-ce
re-tur-ning ho-me from the ce-me-tery. When the po-li-ce had shown up and
qu-es-ti-oned Clark, Barry had sta-yed in his ro-om. His fa-ce was pa-le, and
the-re we-re dark circ-les un-der his eyes.
They matc-hed the circ-les be-ne-ath her own eyes.
"Aren't you go-ing to eat, swe-etie?"
"No." Barry sho-ok his he-ad. "I'm not that hungry."
"Eat yo-ur sup-per." Clark sho-ve-led a fork-ful of mas-hed po-ta-to-es
in-to his mo-uth.
"I don't fe-el go-od."
"None of yo-ur lip. Eat yo-ur god-damn fo-od. When I was in Vi-et-nam, I
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saw a hund-red star-ving kids that wo-uld ha-ve gi-ven the-ir left arm to
ha-ve just a mo-uth-ful of what you got on that pla-te."
Barry put his fork down. "That's a sha-me. Why don't you send mi-ne over
to them?"
Clark cho-ked on his fo-od. He grab-bed his glass, to-ok a qu-ick drink,
and then slam-med it back down on the tab-le. Milk slos-hed out.
"What did you say?"
Barry sat back in his cha-ir and cros-sed his arms over his chest in
de-fi-an-ce. "I sa-id why don't you send my din-ner over to them. Then they
won' t be star-ving any-mo-re."
Clark star-ted to ri-se, but Rhon-da re-ac-hed out and pla-ced her hand
atop his clenc-hed fist.
"Dear," she ple-aded, "he's just up-set. We all are. The po-li-ce we-re
he-re for so long, and it's be-en-"
Clark to-re his hand free of hers, pic-ked up his glass, and threw the
milk in her fa-ce. Rhon-da gas-ped in surp-ri-se. Milk drip-ped from her no-se
and chin.
"That's whe-re he gets it from," he sa-id. "Boy talks back and do-esn't
lis-ten. Acts li-ke a smart-ass be-ca-use his bitch of a mot-her is the sa-me
way."
"You mot-her-fuc-ker." Barry jum-ped to his fe-et, sen-ding his cha-ir
cras-hing back-ward to the flo-or.
Fists clenc-hed, his fat-her ro-se to me-et his chal-len-ge.
"You sit the hell down, shut the hell up, and eat yo-ur god-dam-ned
sup-per, or so help me God, you won't sit down for anot-her we-ek."
"Fuck you, you son of a bitch. I ha-te you. I ha-te you and I wish you
we-re de-ad!"
Barry's hands cur-led in-to fists, just li-ke his fat-her' s. Hot te-ars
of an-ger, not sha-me, co-ur-sed down his fa-ce. He sho-ok with ra-ge. Clark
stu-di-ed him for a mo-ment. Then he step-ped aro-und the kitc-hen tab-le.
"Reckon you're a man now, huh? All grown up and cur-sing li-ke an adult.
Fi-gu-re you can kick my ass?"
"I wo-uld lo-ve to."
His mot-her jum-ped to her fe-et, hands fla-iling li-ke frigh-te-ned
birds. Her wet bangs we-re plas-te-red to her fo-re-he-ad and milk still
drip-ped from her fa-ce.
"Barry, no. Clark! Ple-ase!"
Ignoring her, Clark swung aro-und to Barry's si-de and sto-od right in
front of him.
Barry re-sis-ted the ur-ge to step back-ward, and held his gro-und. His
fat-her le-aned down and thrust his chin out.
"Go ahe-ad, boy. Ta-ke yo-ur best shot. Bet-ter ma-ke it a go-od one."
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