"Sorry, I don't know. Should I tell the police about Cooper wanting to go out on the water?"
"Yeah, probably."
The two of us stood there for a second, feeling awkward.
"This is scary," Britt finally said. "Do you think something happened to him?"
"Not necessarily. He could have motored to the top of the lake and gone somewhere from there. It's the kind of thing he'd do."
Britt nodded. She knew.
"You guys have been friends for a long time."
"Since kindergarten," I said.
"It's weird. The two of you are so different."
"Yeah, I get that a lot. I can't tell you why he hangs out
169
with a geek. It's one of those uncanny mysteries that will never be solved."
"That's not what I meant," she said quickly. "I was wondering why a sweet guy like you hangs out with a flake like Cooper."
Britt gave me an absolutely sparkling smile. I think that was the nicest thing that anybody ever said to me . . . who wasn't a parent of mine. If I hadn't been so worried about Cooper and being haunted by supernatural demons, it would have made my day.
The best reply I could give was a shrug. I could feel my face turn red.
"I didn't mean to embarrass you," she said with a flirty chuckle.
"You didn't," I said. "Okay, I lied, you did. But thanks. I better go."
"Do me a favor?" she asked. "Let me know as soon as you hear something?"
"Sure."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
I left the shop feeling confused. I felt like Britt was flirting with me, which was weird because she and Cooper were together. Sort of. Or maybe they weren't. She definitely wasn't happy with him. But none of it really mattered, because Cooper was missing. I left the marina and walked toward town. My plan was to go to the police station and let them know about how Cooper had gone to see Britt on the night he disappeared. I hoped he hadn't taken the boat. That raised all sorts of possibilities, and too many of them were scary.
As I walked along the side of the road, my brain was definitely somewhere else . . . and I didn't see it coming as two strong hands grabbed my shoulders from behind. A single thought shot to mind . . . Gravedigger.
170
"I know," came a frightened voice close to my ear. "I've seen."
I tried to pull away, but the guy was strong and held me tight. I didn't want to turn around and come face-to-face with the skeletal apparition ... so I tried to pull away without turning.
"Help!" I called out as a cold hand clamped over my mouth to keep me from screaming again. I looked around, desperate for help, but the street was empty. It was too early for the tourists to be out. I fought to get away, but it was no use. I was pulled into a small alley, where I was roughly spun around and pinned against a wall to see . . .
. . . the old guy who had Cooper's football jacket. He wasn't wearing the red Davis Gregory jacket anymore, but it was definitely him. I didn't scream. I think seeing him made my brain lock. His gray hair was an uncombed tangle. His breath was putrid. Or maybe it was his body odor. Whatever. The guy reeked. What made me freeze more than anything was his eyes. They were wild and darting every which way. He seemed more scared than I was.
"I know," he mumbled, breathing hard. "I saw."
"Wh-what?" I managed to stammer out. He was gripping my shoulders, pressing me against the wall. He didn't need to. I was pushing against the wall just as hard to try and get away from the crazy old dude.
He got right in my face. I could feel his hot, sour breath and the spittle that came from his mouth as he spoke. "Don't listen," he begged, half crying, half laughing. "Don't do what he says."
"Listen to who?" I asked.
"And don't tell," the guy continued. "Oh no. Don't tell. Anyone. The more people who know, the more will be in danger."
"In danger from what?"
171
He laughed. "What am I saying? We'll all know soon enough and none of it will matter."
The guy was out of his mind, and I was dangerously close to joining him. "D-do you know what happened to Cooper Foley?" I asked.
The guy shot me an intense look and nodded. "I do," he whispered. "He's on the road."
"What road? Where did he go?"
He took his hands off my shoulders and dug into the pocket of his worn, plaid shirt. I thought of running but couldn't. Not if he had information about Cooper. The guy pulled something out of the pocket, grabbed my hand, and pressed it into my palm.
"Take this. You'll find answers. But don't follow him. Please, don't follow. For your own sake, and everyone else's."
He snapped a look to his left. His eyes widened in fear. I looked too, but there was nothing there except an empty alley.
"No," he gasped, backing away. "I didn't tell. I didn't."
"Who are you talking to?" I asked. It was like watching Mikey Russo all over again. This guy was seeing something that wasn't there. Or maybe something was there and only he could see it. Add one more person to the list of the insane . . . or the haunted.
"Leave me be!" he screamed, and ran off. . . straight for the street.
"Hey!" I screamed. "Tell me where Cooper went!"
The guy glanced once over his shoulder as if to see if he was being chased. He was. By me. But I wasn't the one scaring him. He let out a terrified yelp and ran out onto Main Street.
"Whoa! Stop!" I shouted.
A black SUV was bearing down on him.
"Look out!" I screamed at the driver while waving my
172
arms, hoping he would see the crazy old man before running him down.
The SUV swerved. The old guy saw it at the last instant and leaped out of the way. The car didn't slow down but missed him by inches and sped by, blaring the horn. The old guy was safe . . .
... for about half a second. He jumped out of one lane, right into another. A horn sounded. A big horn. It was on the cab of a bloodred eighteen-wheeler that was coming up fast from the other direction. The old guy landed off balance, directly in front of the oncoming monster. The driver leaned on the horn. The big truck was too close to stop and too big to swerve. It hit him dead-on. The sound of screaming brakes was deafening, but I still heard the dull sound of the old man's body as it hit the chrome grill. He grunted once and was thrown across the road like a puppet with its strings cut. Somebody screamed somewhere. It must have been a tourist coming to town for their daily ice cream fix. Or a shopkeeper opening up their T-shirt store. Whoever it was wasn't expecting to see a gruesome accident play out in front of them on this quiet street in Thistledown Lake. The old guy hit the pavement and rolled, his arms and legs flopping wildly. I'd never seen anything like it before and hope I never will again.
I reacted without thinking and ran to the guy. The truck was skidding to a stop and the SUV had stopped a block away, so I was the first to reach him. I didn't know what I would do, but I knew for sure that I wasn't going to ask: "Are you all right?" I already knew the answer. His body was twisted into an unnatural, grotesque sculpture. His mouth was open, with a line of blood dribbling out. He was hanging on, though. His eyes had life and his chest heaved with labored breathing. Looking up, I saw the guy from the SUV running toward us while talking on the cell phone. I hoped he was calling 9-1-1.
173
I knelt down in front of the broken old man and said, "Help is coming. Hang on."
The guy didn't move, but his eyes caught sight of something and his breathing grew faster. Whatever the nightmare vision was that caused him to run into the street, it was still there. I slowly turned to look and this time, I saw it too. We were across the street from the line of tourist shops of Thistledown. The store directly opposite us had a second-floor balcony with a white railing. Standing on the balcony, watching over the scene was Gravedigger. Even from as far away as we were, I could see that he was grinning.
I turned back to the old man and said, "Do you see that
> It was too late. The light had left his eyes. His breathing had stopped. I feared that the last sight of his life had been of a demonic ghoul of my creation. I looked down at my hand, to the thing the doomed man had given me in his last act of life. It was a tarnished brass key on a chain. Sharing the chain was a brass circle that was engraved: "Rolls-Royce." I didn't think for a second that this guy owned a Rolls-Royce. I flipped the circle over to see writing on a piece of white tape.
George 0. Long Pine Road.
"I'm sorry, George," I whispered to the guy.
There was no longer any doubt. These weren't hallucinations. At least not entirely. Whatever this monster was, it was real and it had claimed a victim.
It meant that I wasn't insane.
At least not yet.
174
Chapter 15
"He knew about Cooper," I said, trying to get the sheriff to understand how important that was. "He said he was on the road."
"What road?" the sheriff asked.
"I don't know, he didn't get the chance to tell me."
We were sitting in the small sheriff's office in Thistledown. The department consisted of exactly two people: an older lady who was the receptionist . . . and Sheriff Vrtiak. I guess there wasn't much crime in Thistledown.
"So he grabbed you to tell you that Cooper Foley was on a road somewhere?" Vrtiak asked.
"No," I said, and stopped talking. I wasn't exactly sure why he had grabbed me, other than to blabber some insanity about seeing something and knowing the truth. Trouble was, I kind of knew what he was talking about, but how was I supposed to explain that to the sheriff? I had to choose
175
my words carefully so I wouldn't sound like a lunatic.
"He grabbed me because he wanted to warn me about something. But I saw him wearing Cooper's jacket yesterday, so I asked him about it and he told me that Cooper was on the road."
"You sure it was Foley's jacket?"
"Well, no. But if it wasn't, it sure is a coincidence."
"Coincidence," Sheriff Vrtiak repeated, thinking out loud. He sniffed, then continued. "What did he warn you about?"
We were now stepping into lunatic territory.
"It was crazy talk, mostly. He told me that he knew. That he saw. And he told me not to follow somebody."
"Foley?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Then he saw something that scared him and he ran to get away from it and . . . you know what happened next."
Sheriff Vrtiak pulled at his eyebrow nervously. I didn't think he was used to dealing with such drama. Or tragedy.
"George O. was a local fixture," he explained. "He's lived here longer than anybody I know. He may be a little . . . eccentric, but he's not crazy. At least not by my standards."
"Well, he sure was acting crazy before he ..." I couldn't finish the sentence. What had the guy done? Committed suicide? Had a terrible accident? Been frightened to death? All the above?
"You say he was scared," Vrtiak said. "What do you s'pose he was scared of?"
That was the big question and I knew the answer. Sort of. Up until that moment I had only discussed Gravedigger with Sydney. I wasn't sure if she believed me or not, but I was tired of being alone in this.
"There was a guy," I said tentatively. "He was standing
176
on the second-floor balcony of the ice cream shop. I think that's the guy George was afraid of."
"Who was he?" Vrtiak asked.
There was a yellow legal pad on Vrtiak's desk. I grabbed it along with a pencil and did a quick sketch of Gravedigger, complete with his sunken eyes and broad hat. Vrtiak waited patiently, then took the pad when I offered it to him. I wasn't surprised at his reaction. He looked at the sketch, then at me, then back to the sketch. He pulled at his eyebrow so hard, I thought he might pluck out every hair.
"What the hell is this?" he asked.
"It's the guy I saw on the balcony. I think he scared George into running into the street."
Vrtiak scoffed. "Well, he's plenty scary, but I've never seen anybody like that around Thistledown."
"I saw him," I stated flatly.
Vrtiak tossed the sketch onto the table dismissively. I had gone from a credible witness to a wiseass kid who was pulling his chain.
"So you're telling me that some guy wearing a Halloween costume scared George O. into jumping out in front of that semi?"
How the heck was I supposed to tell him that it wasn't some guy in a mask, it was an apparition that could appear at will and scare you into seeing things that weren't there? It was pretty clear that I wasn't going to be getting any help from Sheriff Vrtiak. I reached into my pocket and felt the rough edges of the key that George had given me. I should have given it to the sheriff, but I figured he probably would shove it into his desk and forget about it. The key stayed in my pocket.
"Yes" was my simple answer.
"Thank you, Mr. Seaver. If we have any more questions, we'll be in touch."
177
I wasn't sure who the "we" was, since he was the only guy around.
"What about Cooper?" I asked.
"We've got his picture out all over the state," he said. "He'll turn up."
Sheriff Vrtiak didn't seem all that concerned about Cooper.
"What about the missing boat?" I asked. "What if Cooper took it out and there was an accident?"
Sheriff Vrtiak stood up. The questioning was over and he wanted me to leave.
"We'll be on the lookout for the boat, too," he said.
"Who is we?" I asked, getting frustrated. "Is there another sheriff hanging around someplace?"
Vrtiak took a deep breath like he was trying to hold back from saying what he really felt. I didn't think he liked being challenged by a kid from out of town.
"You're right, young fella. I'm the only sheriff and there's only so much I can do. Right now I've got to deal with what happened to poor George. I can't go scouring the lake for a single boat."
"What about the fire department? Or the State Police? Or any body?" I asked.
"Listen," the sheriff said. "Let's not kid ourselves. Your friend is in serious trouble down south. I've seen his record. From what I've read, he's taken off plenty of times when there wasn't any kind of heat on him. Now that he's under a little pressure, it wouldn't surprise me if he went somewhere to get away from it."
"You can't say that!" I shouted, jumping to my feet. "You don't know him."
"I know enough," he shot back. "We're doing everything we can to hunt him down, but between you and me, I think when we find him, he's going to have some explaining
178
to do because he's made a lot of people jump through hoops looking for him."
There was nothing more I could say. This guy wasn't taking Cooper's disappearance as seriously as he should be, and nothing I was going to say would change that.
"I hope you're right," I said.
Outside of the sheriff's office, Mr. Foley was waiting for me behind the wheel of his SUV.
"You okay?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Let's call your dad."
"Nah," I said quickly. "What can he do?"
"Marsh, you just went through something pretty traumatic. You should be with your father."
Mr. Foley had no idea of the traumatic things I had been through. George was only the latest.
"It's okay," I said. "He's coming home the day after tomorrow anyway."
"I don't know ...',' he said, thinking out loud. Mr. Foley was a good guy. A little stiff but okay. He wanted to do what was right with me, but his mind was definitely more on Cooper.
"Seriously," I added. "I'm good."
He thought about it for a second, then said, "Okay. Your call."
"Thanks," I said, then added, "You know they're not going to search for the boat."
"Yeah. At least not yet. Let's hope they won't ever have to. Hop in."
"No, I want to hang out for a while and walk back. You know, to clear my head
."
"You sure?" he asked.
I wasn't sure at all. I wanted help from anybody who could offer it. But George O.'s words haunted me.
179
The more people who know, the more will be in danger.
"Yeah, I'm sure," I said.
"Okay. Call if you want me to pick you up."
"I will."
Mr. Foley spun the car into a U-turn and headed back for the lake house, leaving me on the side of the road feeling very much alone.
My encounter with George O. had changed things. He knew something about Cooper. I didn't know if he had anything to do with his disappearance or not, but George had seen Gravedigger. Up until that moment, Cooper's disappearance and my hallucinations were two different stories. That strange man brought them together, which made me worry all the more about Cooper. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the tarnished key. It looked like a house key and since his name was on it, it was probably the key to George's home. The guy was trying to tell me something. Was it about Cooper or Gravedigger? Either way he wanted me to have the key and paid a horrible price to make sure I did.
Over the past few years I'd been spending a lot of time getting lost in the world of fantasy books and art. Those stories spoke to me. The battle lines between the forces of good and evil were always so clearly drawn, and whether the good guys won or lost, it was a safe place to go because escape was as easy as putting the book down. As much as I aspired to create characters and stories of my own, I feared that I didn't have what it took. Frano was right. I didn't have the inspiration. I only copied other people's work. The only original idea I came up with was a ghoul named Grave-digger. I couldn't even write a story about him.
Not anymore. My creation had come to life. But how? Did I want to create something so badly that I somehow conjured him into actual existence? If so, was it my fault