Hi I'm a Social Disease: Horror Stories Part 7

He took out the few small pictures and it all came back to him.

It must have been a little more than thirty years ago now. The air raid had flushed them out. Well, the air raid had dropped the bombs that flushed them out. Verner's decimated troop was so terrified they were simply mowing down anything in their way.

Verner wasn't terrified, though. Each night, he slept soundly, awaking in the morning with a feeling of exhilaration rus.h.i.+ng through his veins. War was quite simply a game where the strongest, the most cunning, survived. Verner had no doubt he was the strongest, both mentally and physically. There was slow-witted Tibbs from Tennessee. Wallace from someplace like North Dakota who always thought a snake was going to slither up and bite him while he shat. Bergman from New Hamps.h.i.+re acted like he'd rather be in Canada or Mexico, anywhere but here. There were others. Verner hated them as much as he did the people on the other side. More, probably, since he had to listen to all of their idiotic little conversations that usually involved the girl back home. Verner wanted to tell them that girl was undoubtedly getting her brains f.u.c.ked out by some guy who was just waiting for them to leavea"in short, someone like Verner.

Yeah, the bombs flushed them out.

And Verner and the rest surrounded the ramshackle village, waiting for them to run through the smoke jabbering their idiotic mutant chatter. That's when they opened fire, aiming for the nameless figures. Sometimes, it amazed him to see how many came running.

Off to his right, he noticed one of them running away.

"Three o'clock!" Verner shouted to Tibbs.

"f.u.c.k! Let it go!" Tibbs shouted back. If it hadn't been for the bullets in Tibbs' gun, bullets that may eventually find their way into the enemy, Verner would have killed Tibbs, simply because of the weak look in his eyes.

Verner took off toward the figure. Of all the ones he hated, he hated the ones who almost got away the most. This one was fast, running in a jagged pattern. Verner didn't fall for it. He kept straight on, waiting for the smallest mistake. He got close enough to the figure to be able to tell that it was a woman. This spurned him on even more. The figure darted off to her left, a little wider, and Verner continued straight.

After a couple of seconds, he cut quickly to his left, holding his gun diagonally across his torso, thrusting himself into a collision. She was the one who went down, of course.

Sprawled on the ground, panic danced in her eyes.

To make sure she wouldn't be going anywhere, Verner brought the b.u.t.t of the gun down on her ankle. He circled her, the sound of gunshots rolling in the distance, the pealing screams of someone cracking up or melting down. He could already feel himself stiffening.

That had been only one incident. There were a number of others. He'd probably been mythologized as some kind of monster in their language. He never killed them. No, that was too easy and, in the end, did death really make much of a point or was it just something that had to happen? No, what Verner did was much worse than deatha"and much more memorable.

The girl in the other room moaned. Probably just cleaning out a wound, Verner thought.

After looking at the first photograph, Verner had moved back out onto the balcony. There were several more. All of them in vivid color. The dominant color was red. Verner dragged on his cigarette. What was it he felt? Pride? Maybe, a little bit. Confusion? Probably. How the h.e.l.l had the pictures got there and, more importantly, who had taken them? It was a question that couldn't be answered, of course. It was like a paradox. Who takes the pictures when there's no one around? It certainly wasn't him. That would have been too messy.

But there was another feeling Verner felt. A new feeling. It was the feeling of inconsolable dread.

Verner turned and let the pictures float down over the city, vulgar confetti.

The heavy door to his bedroom creaked loud enough for Verner to hear it out on the balcony.

The figure that came out wasn't the young girl he'd taken in there just hours before. The only thing similar was the smooth skin hanging from the seeping organic shape inside. A row of faces descended down the front of its torso. All of them similar, none of them the same. All were recognizable.

"Someone had to die!" Verner barked at the monstrosity. Claws like razors came out from what Verner guessed were the hands. They clicked against the coffee table.

It spoke in the soft voice of the girl he'd picked up that night. The one who called herself only "Li."

"Yes," it said. "Someone had to die."

Even though the hybrid was far away from Verner, everything slammed into him at once. He was helpless and he knew it. It moved toward him, standing at the balcony's threshold.

Verner thought about what he'd done to his victims. He couldn't let that happen to himself. He remembered their screams, remembered the way the skin sounded as he tore it apart, remembered the feeling of power as he stood over top of them. He remembered the look in their eyesa"the complete absence of sanity. The hybrid reached out those razor fingers, grunting as Verner had when he thrust into those countless girls, all on separate occasions, all together now.

Verner lashed out at the hybrid, gouging at the eyes rapidly emerging from the filmy skin. Anger numbed him to the slas.h.i.+ng razors. He braced himself against the railing, kicking out with his bare feet. The hybrid got hold of his feet and swung them around, sending Verner to dangle over the city, his hands clutching the top of the railing. The hybrid stood there for a moment, making sure each of its myriad eyes took in Verner's situation. Then, as slowly as it had come out to the balcony, it reached out a hand and gracefully sliced through Verner's fingers.

With a final shout, he fell away from the balcony, plummeting down into the cold bowels of the hot city.

The hybrid watched as its personal demon, their personal demon, bombed his way down into the darkness. Turning away from the city, the hybrid split apart, beautifying itself, becoming countless, becoming whole.

The Funeralgoer.

Thrip had a lot of problems.

He found it impossible to explain most of his actions.

He did not have a job. He did not have any friends. Other than obtaining the bare essentials of lifea"food, coffee, and cigarettesa"he rarely ventured outdoors. Besides those bare essentials, a funeral was the only other thing that could draw him from his cramped, cavelike apartment. Over the past sixteen years, ever since turning sixteen, he had been to two-hundred and eighteen funerals. He had seen Harold and Maude and knew what he was doing was not wholly original but, like most other things, he could not explain it.

However infrequently he did so, it seemed impossible for him to leave the apartment without incident. Part of the reason for this was his appearance. He stood well over six feet tall and was rail thin. Normally, he clothed himself in layers of old clothes, allowing them to grow pungently filthy before was.h.i.+ng them. Greasy black hair fell in a tangled ma.s.s down to his shoulders. He rarely shaved but his facial hair was thin, looking more like a layer of grit on his bone pale face. His so-brown-they-were-almost-black eyes were normally bloodshot because he did not sleep very well. His fingernails, which he rarely cut, were thick and jagged.

Thrip could not help the incidents. When he went out in public, he grew anxious. And when he grew anxious, he did things that were clearly not right.

Like this morning...

On the way to the Thornburg funeral, he had stopped at a gas station for some cigarettes. Upon leaving, he saw a small girl sitting in a car while her mother went in to pay for the gas. Thrip, noticing the girl staring at him, bounded over to the car and, pressing his face nearly to the girl's window, ran his fingernails down the gla.s.s, shooting a wild-eyed stare at the girl. She screamed, her face turning red, forcefully cradling the doll in her arms. The girl's mother had seen this and come running from the gas station, shouting at Thrip to get away. The woman waved her arms in the air and shouted, "Get away from her! Get away from her, you horrible man!"

Thrip bowed his head and slinked away. He knew nothing would come of the incident. He was as much a part of the town as the corner drunk or the star quarterback. There were stories about him and he knew the town would not be able to live without those stories. Not only that, he had the police in his pocket.

Whenever there was a murder in the town, of which, admittedly, there were very few, the police came to Thrip. And he, unfailingly, could give them an accurate description of the murderer. Consequently, a murder had not occurred in Olden in six years and, while it was a peaceful town, this was some kind of record. Thrip wondered if all of those cutesy housewives who vilified him knew he was the very same man who had put an end to murder in Olden.

He had an interesting knack for feeling what the dying felt, of looking through their eyes. If anyone had cared to ask, he could tell them what the old man dying from a heart attack felt too. He could tell them there was a Heaven for some, a h.e.l.l for others. He could also tell them about Purgatory and the endless Void. But no one asked about that. No one truly wanted to believe there could possibly be nothing at all after death.

Lately, however, the funerals had disturbed Thrip. The murders had stopped but another mystery had risen in Olden.

His suspicions had culminated at the Thornburg funeral. Actually, the thought had popped into his head when he had crossed Alma Bentley's grave. She had been buried yesterday afternoon but, now walking over the grave, Thrip had the distinct feeling it was empty. Under a cool gray sky, he stood in the back of the group gathered around the Thornburg grave but he couldn't stop thinking of the emptiness just a few yards behind him. Before the service was over he had pointed at Mrs. Bentley's grave and shouted, "That grave is empty! She isn't there! There's no one in that grave!"

The pastor looked up from his thick Bible and went back to reading from it, paying no attention to Thrip. Two large men in the Thornburg party advanced on Thrip, helping him out of the cemetery.

"Get the f.u.c.k away," one of them said. "You're ruining my dad's funeral."

"You don't understand," Thrip said, practically pleading with him. "Mrs. Bentley's grave... it's empty. You don't want that to happen to your father, do you?"

The man drew back a meaty hand and rammed it into Thrip's nose. "You're sick," he said. "You're a very sick man."

Thrip, on his knees, stayed there for a while, holding his bloodied nose and staring up at the incline of the cemetery, wondering what had just happened. Eventually, he rose, headed back to his small apartment in town.

That incident, that feeling, continued to plague him. He wondered why he went to funerals at all. They were all basically the same and he wondered why this was. Hadn't all of these people led wildly different lives, wildly individual lives? Why were all of their services conducted in the same manner, as though it could be anyone going into the cold earth? Had he just shouted those things to try and breathe some life into the funeral, to give the funeralgoers something memorable?

He wanted to think that. He really did. Because the alternatives seemed to be so much worse.

That night he tried to sleep, waking up to a shattering pain. Somewhere, someone had just taken a nasty and fatal fall down a flight of stairs, pushed by the blind hand of fate. Thrip was up the rest of the night, shaking, knowing there would be another funeral in a couple of days. But he didn't want to wait that long before going back to the cemetery.

Thrip slept fully clothed. He pulled himself up to the head of his small bed and waited, knees pulled into his chest, arms wrapped around knees, staring frightfully around the room until the cold gray dawn came up over the town. Still shaking, the meager light bleeding through the curtains, he left the bed and pulled on a couple more layers of s.h.i.+rts and a ratty black overcoat.

The morning traffic had not yet begun and he made his way to the cemetery, some unseen force hurrying his footsteps through the cool mist that monochromed everything.

Once in the cemetery, he approached Alma Bentley's grave. There was still a bit of a swell, a bit of a mound, to the freshly turned earth and the sod had not yet taken. Thrip stared at the headstone, not yet made colorful with years of lichen and mildew. He did not really want to do what he was about to do. But he did it anyway.

Knowing the force of what he was about to feel would send him reeling, he dropped to all fours and sort of crawled onto the grave, staring down at the gra.s.s almost as though he was able to see through it. Of course, he couldn't actually see through it. He knew that. He could only feel what was supposed to be below there. And he could only feel what was supposed to be below there if it was death. Death had a way of calling to him. Death, the cessation of all feeling, had a way of sparking his feelings until they came alive and sent a scary kind of electricity rus.h.i.+ng through his veins.

Thrip felt nothing.

And that was how he knew the grave was empty.

Cautiously, unable to take his eyes from the grave, Thrip stood up, backing away from it.

Would anyone listen to him? he wondered. Would anyone pay the least bit of attention if he ran up to them and told them about how some of the graves in the cemetery were completely empty when there were supposed to be people in them?

No. He knew they wouldn't listen. And maybe he didn't want them to listen. Thrip felt something interesting pa.s.s through his brain. A flicker of a thought. A wash of excitement.

What if this was what he had been waiting for?

He had attended all of these funerals, drenching himself in death, wanting to gain some sense of finality to its mysteries, wanting to find some proof of something more than just these bland family reunions there to placate the attendees with foggy candy- coated memories.

Maybe this was that something else. Maybe there was something else after death. Some form of life after death. Maybe it wasn't all so final and bleak. Maybe there were other options besides Heaven and h.e.l.l and Purgatory and the Void. He straightened his clothes, planning to go over to Travis Thornburg's grave and see if he could still feel the death below or if it would just be more of the empty nothing that infested Alma Bentley's.

Movement caught Thrip's eye. He turned his head to see a small man standing at the crest of the hillside. Briefly, Thrip thought he was going to get kicked out of the cemetery again. He was well outside of visiting hours and although he wasn't doing anybody any harm, he knew the caretaker to be a restless and trigger happy hillbilly who had never really liked him from the second he had seen him.

This wasn't the caretaker.

The man raised an arm over his head and beckoned Thrip to come over to him.

Thrip made his way over the soggy cemetery gra.s.s until he stood out of the man's reach but close enough for conversation and observation. The man was considerably shorter than Thrip. He wore a conservative gray tweed suit with an out-of-place bright pink derby on his head. He looked vaguely familiar to Thrip but he couldn't put a specific time or place to him. The man smiled jovially and raised the hat off his head.

"Ah, Mr. Thrip, just the man I wanted to see."

"You... you wanted to see me?" Thrip asked, finding this encounter odd on a number of levels.

"Oh, I most certainly did."

"Why?"

"Because, out of everyone in this town, I think you are the only one who would be interested in us."

"And who are you?"

"Yes, yes, I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm sorry." The man's small brown eyes blazed with a cross between good humor and craziness. "My name is Gregory Nascent."

The man stuck out his hand. Thrip moved closer and took the man's hand in his own. "It's very nice to meet you," Thrip said out of politeness more than any genuine affection.

"I would like to invite you to a funeral. You're always up for a good funeral, aren't you?"

"I go to every one I see listed in the paper."

The man looked down at the ground, his smile fading for just a second, before looking back up at Thrip. "I'm sorry to say this funeral will not be in the paper."

"No?"

"Most certainly not. Truthfully, I don't really suspect many would attend."

"Why not?"

"It's kind of a unique funeral. Would you like to join us?"

"Who is *us'?"

"You'll just have to come down and see. It begins at midnight. I trust you will be there."

Nascent had turned and left before Thrip could give him an answer.

Something about the man left Thrip feeling slightly off, like the man had taken a piece of his soul. He couldn't describe it any better than that.

On the trip back home, he kept his head down, staring at the ground, having traveled this route so many times he didn't really need to look up and see where he was going. Once inside his apartment, he lay down on his bed, staring up at the water stains on the ceiling and thinking about who that strange man could have been and how he had never seen him before and why the man would have approached him this morning of all mornings. Surprisingly, he fell asleep.

The night was cool, dark and gloomy. The fog milked the sky gray. Not a single star was visible. The moonlight was murky but ample enough for Thrip to make his way to the cemetery. After bypa.s.sing the gates, a s.h.i.+ver wiggled its way through his body. Excitement and fear mingled within him as he climbed the gentle slope to the dark figures gathered around Mr. Thornburg's grave.

Upon spotting him, Mr. Nascent approached Thrip and held out his hand, "Ah, I'm so glad you could make it."

Thrip did not know what to say. He shook the man's cold hand. The others gathered around the grave seemed to be in high spirits as well. Looking at Thrip, they spoke excitedly, albeit in hushed whispers. There were maybe fifteen people in all. Something Nascent described to Thrip as a "pitiful showing."

"So what happens here?" Thrip asked Nascent.

"Well, that is why I invited you. So you could see for yourself."

"Very well."

"I invite you to put your hand on the grave. Tell me what is beneath it."

Thrip looked at Nascent, somewhat distrustfully, approaching the grave but not taking his eyes off the small man. He put his hand on the dew-slicked earth and said, "Death. Mr. Thornburg is in there. He's dead." Thrip took his hand away before the sensation of nausea could completely wrap him and rock him to the ground.

"So we are agreed upon that?"

"Yes. I guess." Thrip found himself more and more confused.

"Now, what you are about to see is a funeral like you've never seen before, Mr. Thrip. It is sort of a... reverse funeral."

"You're going to raise him from the dead?"

"That is exactly what I am going to do."