Frozen fear, p.23
Frozen Fear, page 23
‘I remembered her babbling nonstop while repacking the bowl. When she finished her story about her girlfriend Tracie, she decided it would be cool to get out and go smoke by the lake. We grabbed a blanket from the trunk and put it on the ground. We got comfortable and started talking, toking on the bowl...
‘Didn’t Julie mention something about a group of kids burning a Satanic pentagram in the spot we had been sitting?’ he remembered. ‘That was weird.’
Then what happened?
‘We started kissing, then...I woke up with her warm blood all over me.’
The killer’s face in the back-peeling, cracked mirror looked puffy around his eyes lined with shadows. Julie was dead. He did it. He had perforated Julie Soto with the buck knife he kept on his belt. He remembered he had a bad dream. He remembered feeling like someone was behind him, grabbing his arm, sliding down around his wrist. Controlling him? Yes, it felt like that but that was ridiculous, impossible. I guess I’m just a bad guy. I like to think when I do something bad there is an external factor screwing with me, making me want to lash out. Maybe this proves that I’m just a sick guy. I’m a sick, stupid loser who can’t handle the good life.
Life has been nice lately. The first two years since being out of prison had been rough but, during the last year, shit started getting better: he liked his job with the towing company and was even making money. His mom stopped riding his ass. He’d been making friends. Kip had recently gotten out of jail, too, and they had been having fun. He wiped a tear away and felt around his jeans pocket for his cigs and lighter.
Just after he lit up, the stony silence of the restroom was pierced by a creaking sound. Clay froze. Then a bang and a slight crack of wood. He whipped his head around. One of the bathroom stall doors was hanging open.
“Who’s that?” asked Clay. He felt for his buck knife at his hip but it wasn’t there.
He thought he heard someone breathing. So, someone was watching him. He straightened up, lifted one of the Coleman lanterns, and crept over to the bathroom stall. There was a machete mixed in with Kip’s camping gear, too. That would have felt great in his hand. Most likely it was a raccoon or something. God knows what kind of awful shit holed up in this place. His revved-up imagination told him he heard breathing again.
“Who’s in there?”
“Hi, Clay,” a raspy voice said. Right out of nowhere. This voice sounded shredded like it was speaking through a sewer run-off grate.
“The blood of a virgin,” it continued, the stone restroom amplifying it like a microphone. “That was good, Clay. You saved me from the brink. Lucky for me you still go for those high school girls.”
The speaker started laughing. The laughter that would normally get his ass kicked. ‘You gonna take that, Clay?’ He wanted to say, that, no, she wasn’t in high school. She had dropped out, had a full-time job, and just finished her GED. She was applying for community college. His mind was racing. This was the kind of dream he used to have on mushrooms. Ah, the good ole days. There was nothing “good” or “ole” about this bullshit. Time to yank this sneaky bastard out of the stall and beat that mocking tone out of him. ‘So, I gotta kill this guy, too?’ He could tattletale on him, would send him up for murder so he didn’t have a choice. He wasn’t sure if he had the energy to do it.
“Come out of there, you creep!” he shouted, “You know my name, so who the fuck are you?”
“No one you would know, kiddo. I’m here to help you. I think you need help.”
“Is that a fact?”
“You just killed a girl, right?”
Clay took a puff from his cig. The smoke hovered around him like storm clouds.
“I guess you saw that, huh?”
“Well, yes, Clay.”
“You spying on me or something?”
The person, thing, whatever, laughed.
“What’s so funny, asshole? If I can kill one person, two ain’t much harder.”
Now, it was laughing big time.
“Kill me? If you only knew, buddy,” more laughter. “There’s no need to talk to me like that. I’m your friend. I know you.”
“Is that so?”
“You’ve been living a lie, Clay: punching a clock, sitting on the couch after work, listening to that girl go blah, blah, fucking blah, all the time. What happened to you? The straight and narrow isn’t for you. That’s why you killed her. You know you don’t fit in with society, and you never will.”
“Hey, fuckin’ listen-”
He stopped, about to launch into his don’t-judge me-you-don’t-know-me speech he had used millions of times in his life. There was no point. That outline of blood, innocent blood, under his fingernails proved he didn’t even truly know himself anymore.
Clay took a pull from his cigarette and leaned against the wall. He still wouldn’t dare peek around and look inside. Who was this guy? The Devil? What a stupid joke. He held the lantern up a little higher, and higher and peered around. He only saw a rust-stained, splotchy toilet crouching in the darkness, nothing else.
Where was this guy? Clay whipped around, thinking maybe he had snuck out from under the stall. He whipped around again expecting a sneak attack. Nothing came at him. He put the lantern on the floor and poked his head into the other two stalls. They were empty.
“Hey, dude,” he said into the air. “Where are you? Are you still here?”
“Haven’t left, Clay.”
“I didn’t see you when I looked in,” he replied.
“You’re not looking hard enough.”
“Fuck it. I ain’t playing this game anymore, I’m too goddamn tired.”
Clay closed his eyes, smoked the rest of his cigarette, and stomped it out. He felt like he was about to fall to pieces. Julie’s face flashed in his head. He felt tears coming on.
“You’re wrong about me,” Clay said. “Maybe I’m just adjusting to this new life. You know, since being out of jail. Truth is, I don’t know why I killed Julie. Hell, I don’t even know if I killed Julie. I don’t know shit right now. I loved her though. I didn’t, I didn’t mean to—”
“Bullshit. There’s no ‘I didn’t mean to’ with cold-blooded murder. There’s always a reason.”
“Because I’m sick, I guess,” said Clay. That sounded about right.
“Yes, you are. You’re very sick. Why beat around the bush? You have nobody to help you except me.”
“Really? How exactly can you help me?”
“I can give you a new life, Clay, a purpose.”
“You can give me a purpose? So, you’re some kind of toilet genie?” Saying the words “toilet genie” made Clay giggle to himself, stoned, nervous, uneasy laughter. He picked up the Coleman lantern and looked in the stall again. It was empty. Just an old spotty toilet, the lid up and the flusher handle missing.
“Are you still here?” asked Clay. “Where the fuck are you exactly?”
“What’s wrong? Never seen a talking toilet?”
The waterless bowl had mouthed with words. Yep, the hole inside was a goddamn mouth like a sick comic image. Clay thought he could see teeth in it. A rat hopped up on the flat tank above the bowl. Tiny red eyes beamed from its face and its tail whipped the air. It hissed. With lightning speed, a ropy tongue shot from the toilet bowl and lassoed the squealing rodent. The rat screeched just before it disappeared into the toilet bowl’s mouth.
“See what I’m reduced to, Clay?” the toilet said. “Eating rats inside of a broken-down public restroom. I used to be great, too, like you. I think we can help each other.”
“How?” Clay asked. “What do you mean?”
“It’s simple. I need your attitude, your hunger, your high ambition. I need your muscle. I need your tow truck and gear. I need your guns. I need your loyal badass friends.”
“For what?”
“I have to break something out. Illegally. Very illegally. It’s in police impound a few miles away. We gotta work fast though. We gotta get it out within the next couple of days or it’s gone. They’ve already gutted most of it. It’ll damn sure need some tires.”
Clay laughed. Not only was he sticky with blood and conversing with a toilet, but the toilet wanted him to pull a job.
“The cops got this thing?” Clay asked.
“Yes.”
“And you want me and my friends to break it out?”
“Correct.”
Clay chuckled.
“I’ll get into the specifics later,” said the chatty commode. “I’m gonna compensate you very generously. When I was on the make, I made a lot of money gambling. I’ve got more than thirty thousand dollars in cash buried around my mother’s place— and that’s just for starters. I know where even more money is. If you do this simple job for me, you can take a permanent holiday down in Mexico, living like a king on the beach surrounded by raven-haired sweeties.”
The toilet smiled with satisfaction at its proposal. All those ragged sharp little teeth. An inner voice told him to wake up and flee town. A tiny voice of reason wanted to warn him that he was being tricked, that something was manipulating him through fear and warped perceptions. But Clay was already sold. He knew he’d just wake up from this crazy dream eventually so it might as well have a happy ending. If the toilet genie even delivered just half of the money he promised, Clay would be satisfied. He’d always fantasized about having enough money to do what he wanted. He’d never left the country before and this shit country was falling apart anyway.
It’d be great if Kip could go with him. He could see them sunning on some tropical beach somewhere, fanned by tanned girls with long black hair. Kip would love that shit.
“Now, about that dead girl out there—” the toilet resumed. “I know just the place to put her, nice and respectful.”
Clay wrapped the rest of Julie’s body in Kip’s camping tent, filled it up with rocks, and sunk it in the river where the talking toilet told him to take it. Nope, it wasn’t as respectful as he had promised. Clay was too numb to question what was going on. What was he going to do? Argue with him? He was completely at his mercy, whatever he, or it, was. He was some kind of ghost, demon, or God. He could destroy the small future Clay was starting to believe in. Whatever it was owned him, for now. Who knows? Maybe it was the same monster terrorizing all the kids, putting them in weird comas. If that’s true, he sure as hell didn’t want to get on his bad side. These were strange days indeed.
The creature had said he would visit him again later with more instructions. Clay honestly hoped he would. He wanted to pull that job, get the money, and disappear as soon as possible. He hoped Julie could join him and they could start a new life together far from this crappy little town.
Knocking on Kip’s door that morning, he expected Kip to start shoving and screaming at him for getting his car so muddy. Clay still wasn’t sure how much he would tell Kip about the toilet guy. He’d probably wait a while, let his nerves settle, and process everything.
As soon as he saw Kip’s face in the doorway, Kip tugged him by the collar of his shirt, shaking his head saying, “Dude, I gotta tell you something...”
Kip led him into his den and told him to sit on the couch.
“Something fucked up happened last night,” said Kip, pacing in front of him. “I need your help. We gotta use your tow truck.”
So, the toilet man had spoken to Kip as well. They at once started discussing the plan.
It was on.
***
Clay’s little brother, Russ, thought it was strange when he hadn’t seen his brother for several days. His tow truck was missing, too. Clay’s boss, Earle, had called several times, sounding pissed. On the twentieth or so message he had left, Bossman Earle threw a wicked tantrum, shouting, “I’ll call the cops on you, Clay, ya fuckin’ punk! Bring that truck back! You’re in deep shit!”
Russ laughed his ass off. He knew Clay would wind up back in jail.
Russ used this as an opportunity to rummage through Clay’s things, particularly his porno mag collection. Clay was probably the last guy in the world with actual magazines with naked bitches in them. A house all to himself and a drawer full of vintage porno magazines was paradise for lonely Russell, especially since the cable TV had been shut off because his mother didn’t pay the bill. She lived in a trailer park on the other side of town with her latest boyfriend. He didn’t even have to go in the bathroom to jack it: he could do it in any room of the house, flipping through the pages, dick in hand, at his leisure.
He grabbed the stack from the top of Clay’s closet. He knew exactly where they were: right under the tool kit and the weightlifting gloves Clay never used. The titles made Russell’s fat little head swoon: Cherry, Hustler, Barely Legal—His heart pounded in anticipation just holding them.
When he finished, he had nothing left to do so he drank Clay’s last Yuengling from the fridge and fell asleep on the couch. In his sleep, he had a very vivid dream involving Amber from page 12 of Penthouse. She told him she would be his girlfriend if he would help his brother do something. Something that normally would seem weird to him. Clay and him got along but were blood, not besties who did everything together. She said she might have to ask some of his friends to help as well, Philip Norris or Adam Guzman.
He woke up in that filthy cinderblock restroom at Pine Lake, wondering how he got there. His feet were shoeless, filthy, and raw. He had walked, it was almost two miles. He looked to his right and Amber stood there, wearing nothing but a satin thong and brushing her hair in the spiderwebbed dusty mirrors above the grimy sinks. He reached out and touched her and she felt so warm and smooth and real. She grabbed his hand.
“If you do your part in this ritual, he can give you all the girls you want.”
“Nah. Look at me,” he said, shrugging. “No girls want me. There’s no way. I only want you.”
“You don’t have to be super handsome or fit to be attractive to women,” her full lips eased closer to his face. “Women are attracted to men that are bad, even dangerous.”
“I’ve been bad a long time so far and it’s not working out that way.”
She got up close, her lips right at his ear again, “You just haven’t been bad enough.”
“How bad do I need to be?”
“Well, once you start helping us, I’ll show you.” She took his hand and placed it between her legs. It was soft and warm. “Bad guys are such a turn on. The badder you are, the sexier. I’m gonna show you a lot, Rusty.”
Russ felt a twinge of mistrust and pulled away.
“So, what’s our goal here?” he asked, “Who and what ahem...is this ritual for?”
“I’m sure you know,” Amber purred. “You know what’s been going on around town.”
“That monster the kids have been dreaming about?” he asked “It’s coming back?”
“Oh, yes,” said Amber. “Stronger than ever. You’re going to want to be on the right side when he comes back. You shouldn’t be afraid of him though.”
“I ain’t afraid of anybody at the moment.”
She leaned into him and gave him a long kiss. When he pulled back from her embrace, he took in her perfectly suntanned skin and large almond eyes and noticed the stark contrast with the backdrop of the seedy cinderblock restroom. They didn’t quite fit.
“You’re real, right?” he asked her, a quiver in his voice.
“I’m as real as you,” she said with another quick kiss, then tousled his hair. Her dark eyes lingered on his a second or two, then she turned and walk towards one of the stalls.
“I’ll see you again tonight,” she said and disappeared behind the door signaling him to follow him into the stall.
Of course, he followed. Then they sealed their agreement by giving Russell Piggy Brock the most realistic sexual experience he’d ever imagined.
He had a long talk with Clay the next time he saw him.
Chapter Twenty-two
Two weeks later, Josh went to Gerald Dawson’s belated birthday party. His actual birthday had been the week before, but Gerald had been too sick to celebrate his birthday. Finally, a celebration for Gerald. What a hopeful sign that was. Despite falling prey to the mysterious sickness and losing his older brother, like Josh, Gerald was still going to have a small birthday party.
His mother said he could sleep over if Gerald’s mom said it was okay. Seven other kids were there, including Michael, Carter, and two other recovering kids. The four of them were extremely thin and pale. Carter was wheeled around in a wheelchair by his mom still.
They reminded him of Billy Tolliver. Were they all dead inside too? Opening his presents around a cluster of smiling faces and hands holding phones, taking pictures, Gerald managed a big smile. The smile looked heavy on his face. He joked about a goofy sweater his aunt had given him and tried to put it on like a pair of pants. This wasn’t quite Gerald’s normal level of goofy, but it was close enough. Josh overheard Gerald’s mother, looking at the pictures on her phone and contemplating whether to send them to the newspaper. The local newspaper did lots of stories on the recovering kids lately. Gerald had gotten a whole paragraph talking about his own condition and the death of his brother, Casey. His mother was talking to some other women, saying she thought Gerald was so brave that deserved a whole story about himself. Josh’s mom did not want Georgie in the papers. Gwen said little to the other mothers other than congratulating them on their children's recovery and the mandatory small talk of moms. She kept to herself.
Pictures of Casey were all over the Dawson place. Every little table held a framed picture of their deceased son: school photos, family photos, pictures of Casey at the beach, on his bicycle, rollerblades, and posing in his baseball uniform. The mantel of their fireplace was like a shrine: several pictures, two baseball trophies, Boy Scout badges, and a Mathematics Achievement Award from the seventh grade. Josh had to wonder: Does Casey visit Gerald in dreams too? Is he in a place where he vomits spider egg sacs like Georgie? Maybe he’s up in heaven. Casey had always been a super-achiever in school, perhaps he was continuing to impress in the afterlife.
