Undead to the World (2 page)

“Let me guess. He snapped and went on a killing spree with an ax.”

“Good guess, thank you for playing,” says Zev. “But no.”

“I told you, he didn’t do anything,” Terrance says. “He just sat in the town square,
right by the spot where his wife died, and wept. Sunup to sundown. Old Edward had
never been real popular with the townsfolk—kept to himself, had no friends—but they
still tried to do right by him. Brought him food, tried to console him.”

“Didn’t work, though,” says Zev. “Old Eddy bought a full-price ticket on the Boo-Hoo
Express, and he wasn’t getting off until the end of the line.”

“It went on and on. Day after day. Started getting on people’s nerves. So they tried
to convince him to do it somewhere else. He wasn’t interested. They didn’t know what
to do.”

“Kind of like having a giant two-year-old throwing a permanent tantrum,” says Zev.
“After a while, you’ll do just about anything to make it stop.”

“They tried locking him up, but the sheriff couldn’t stand the noise. They thought
about starving him out, but that was just plain cruel.”

“They were,” says Zev, “at the end of their rope. Bet you saw that one coming.” I
don’t bother replying.

“But then something happened,” Terrance continues. “A woman disappeared in the middle
of the night. And she just happened to be married to the man whose horse killed Edward
Jump’s wife.

“Some said she just ran off. Some said her husband did her in and laid the blame on
Edward’s shoulders. But Edward had no alibi—and let’s face it, by that point they
were just tired of the noise.”

“Wait,” I say. “Are you trying to tell me they executed him for
grieving?
”

Terrance takes a long sip of the beer Charlie’s finally put down beside him. “No,
they executed him for being a pain in the ass. For not
getting with the program.
You know what people in this town—hell, in any small town—are like. The nail that
sticks up gets hammered down—and Edward Jump was one stubborn, heartbroken nail.”

Zev slams his hand down on the bar. “So down he went! Ka-boom!”

“But before he did,” says Terrance, “he stopped crying long enough to deliver his
last words: ‘The gallows is not a punishment. It is a release from pain.’ And then
he looked out over the whole town that had come to see him drop, and added, ‘Soon
that pain will be yours. And I will release you as you have released me.’”

I shiver involuntarily. Terrance may be a jerk, but he’s a decent storyteller.

“That should have been the end of it,” says Terrance. “But it wasn’t.”

“It was just the beginning,” says Zev softly. I wait for the punchline, but it seems
he’s fresh out.

“It started with the man whose wife disappeared,” Terrance continues. “He found his
dog dead. Got herself tangled in some barbed wire, wound up with it wrapped around
her neck. Strangled.

“Then his oldest son had an accident, fell in the river. When they found him, his
face was almost black; he had weeds wound around his throat so tightly the townspeople
had to cut them off. Then his daughter’s first child was found dead in her crib with
the blanket twisted around her neck…”

“That was when people started calling old Eddy the Gallowsman,” Zev says. “You might
wonder why he didn’t just go straight after the man who’d falsely accused him—”

“He wanted him to suffer,” I say. “The same way he’d suffered.”

Terrance nods again, with a smile. “So the Gallowsman took away the guy’s life, bit
by bit, until he’d lost everything. Eventually they found the poor bastard hanging
from an oak tree in his own backyard.”

My throat’s suddenly dry as an old bone—or rope. I signal Charlie for another beer.
“Creepy story. What’s it got to do with me?”

Terrance studies me for a second before answering. “They say the Gallowsman is the
patron saint of people who hang themselves—especially those who do it in the woods.
When someone’s life gets so hard they just can’t take it anymore, and they trudge
out to the forest in the middle of the night with a rope in one hand and a chair in
the other—well, that just calls to him. And once that noose tightens, once the body
has stopped jerking and twitching and its shoes fall onto the mossy ground with two
little thumps … that’s when he comes. His spirit slips into the corpse like a thief
putting on someone else’s coat, and no matter how tight the knot was tied it just
slithers apart like a snake stretching. And then, trailing the rope behind him, the
Gallowsman goes in search of those who did the victim wrong—because when there’s that
much pain in someone’s soul, there’s always somebody who put it there.”

Terrance’s voice has gotten slower and quieter as he’s been talking. It’s an old trick
to draw the listener’s attention in—but it’s old because it works.

“So here’s where I thought you could settle a little dispute Zev and me been having.
See, he thinks the Gallowsman just out-and-out kills people—that he can bring any
kind of cable or cord to life and send it out to throttle his victims. Me, I think
he’s more subtle.”

“How so?” I ask.

“He doesn’t just kill for the sake of killing. He kills for
despair.
In his mind, there’s only one victim, one person he’s going after. He kills everyone
that person cares about—but that’s just a means to an end. He needs his victim to
die by their
own
hand. To take them down so far they don’t even know what up is. And to do that, he
needs to do more than just murder; he needs to get up close and personal with the
person he’s targeting, to get right in their head. Whisper in their ear, point out
just how bad things are.” His voice is low, hypnotic, almost a whisper itself.

Red Dog’s a profiler, so part of my obsession is—
was
—studying how people think. Everything Terrance is saying makes sense from a psychological
point of view, and he’s very good at focusing a listener’s attention. A politician’s
son, for sure.

“Still not hearing a question.”

“My question? I thought that was obvious.” His smile is predatory. “What’s it like,
hearing those whispers? Do they sound like they’re coming from inside your head, like
you’re just talking to yourself? Or is it an actual hallucination, a voice you can
hear coming from a person you can’t see?”

I don’t say anything for a moment.

The strange thing is, I’m not even angry. I should be—it’s what he wants, what he’s
trying to provoke—but I’m not, which I suppose is a victory of sorts. No, what I really
want to do is answer his question honestly. I want to say,
No, that’s not quite it. It’s like hearing voices in another room, a mutter of conversation
that suddenly sharpens into something meant for you. It’s like hearing words in the
rustle of trees or underneath the static from a radio. It’s like the chaotic, random
parts of the universe have suddenly snapped into a new alignment that’s aimed right
at you.

What I say is, “I wouldn’t know.” I turn to look at him. “And if I did, I wouldn’t
tell you.”

“Come on, guys,” Alexis says. “Leave her alone.”

“Good idea,” says Charlie coldly. “Or find someplace else to drink.”

“Hey,” Zev says, grinning like a loon, “take it easy, big guy. We’re just having a
little fun—”

Charlie locks eyes with Zev. “Oh,
fun.
Why didn’t you say so? I
like
fun. Want to see
my
idea of fun?”

Zev looks away first. “I’ll pass.”

Charlie turns to Terrance. “How about you?”

Terrance doesn’t spook so easily. He meets Charlie’s gaze calmly. “You know, I just
might … but I’m kinda busy at the moment.”

“My schedule’s flexible.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Alexis sighs. “Geez, get a room already. Or an arena, or octamom or whatever.”

Terrance blinks. Charlie frowns. Both of them give Alexis
WTF?
looks, which breaks the tension.

“I think you mean
octagon,
sweetie,” I say.

“Whatevs.” She turns and heads for their usual table. Sally follows, and after a second
so does Zev.

Terrance drains his beer and sets the glass down in front of Charlie with a smile.
“Bring us another round, will you?” he says. “Thanks.” He saunters off.

“Don’t let them get to you,” Charlie says. “Small town bullies, you know? They don’t
have anything better to do.”

“Yeah, I know. Nothing breeds mean like boredom and ignorance.” I try to sound casual,
but I feel a little lightheaded. I should probably go home and take my medication,
but I’m not going to give Terrance and his gang the satisfaction of driving me away.

But then I check my watch and realize what time it is. I finish my beer in a hurry,
say, “I gotta go,” and head for the door.

Charlie’s no fool. He knows what’s going on, but he doesn’t try to stop me. “See you
later,” he calls after me.

“Count on it,” I say.

I get in the door with plenty of time to spare, ten minutes at least. My dog, Galahad,
greets me with lots of happy woofing and ankle licking. He’s a Saint Bernard with
a sunny disposition and a drizzly mouth—I don’t need to water my plants, I just get
Galahad to stand over them and drool. He’s also extremely bright, so much so that
I’ve offered to pay for driving lessons. He just sighs and rolls his eyes.

Eight o’clock, Friday night. Time for the latest episode of
The Bloodhound Files.

I’m recording it, of course. I don’t
have
to watch it live. Except I do.

I take my medication first, an antipsychotic called Erthybon. I’m not supposed to
combine it with alcohol, but hey, I’m not supposed to be watching Jace Red Dog hunt
down werewolves and vampires, either. You do what you have to.

I turn on the TV and get settled in on the couch, Gally lying beside me with his head
on my lap. I used to put a towel over my thighs, but I eventually just gave up and
learned to live with damp pants.

I can’t really explain my fascination with the show. Yeah, I identify with the main
character, but I was never all that interested in the supernatural before I started
watching it. Maybe because it’s really different from all the other occult TV shows
out there: It takes place on a world where ninety-nine percent of the population are
either vampires, werewolves, or golems. Jace is from a different reality—the normal
one, I guess—but gets yanked across the dimensional divide to use her finely-honed
profiling skills to hunt psychos with an aversion to sunlight and/or silver. I love
the characters, but it’s the world Jace lives in that really interests me—all the
little details of an entire planet full of supernatural beings. I especially love
the fake commercials, which is how the show usually starts.

“He’s a vampire. She’s a werewolf. Their best friend is a golem with a talent for
getting into trouble. Tune in at nine on Thursday for
How I Bit Your Mother
—on the FANG Network!”

“Would if I could,” I mutter.

It’s pretty good, as episodes go. Jace is hunting some maniac who’s killing werewolves
with silver-tipped crossbow bolts. She’s helped by a mysterious masked woman who’s
the head of a criminal gang, dresses like a pirate, and has a really cool submarine;
she calls herself the Sword of Midnight, and carries a dual-bladed weapon that resembles
two overlapping clock hands, one slightly shorter than the other.

For the next hour I’m enthralled. I resist the urge to take notes on the different
criminology methods Jace uses, something I used to do compulsively. I don’t touch
the TV screen, even once. Overall, I’d say I’m doing well.

Right up until the end.

“I think it’s clear where this is headed,” Jace says. She and the Sword of Midnight
are studying a table loaded down with ancient texts and scrolls.

“Yes,” replies the S of M. “There’s no room for doubt.”

“Then there’s only one man we can go to,” says Jace.

“Longinus.”

“What?” I blurt. I
know
that name. Old Man Longinus lives in a sprawling, rundown mansion on the edge of
town, the kind of place the local kids dare each other to trick-or-treat at on Halloween.
It’s not exactly a common surname, either; I must have misheard it.

And then the Sword of Midnight turns and stares directly at the camera.

No—not at the camera. At
me.

“That’s who has all the answers, Jace,” the Sword says. “That’s where you have to
go.
Seek Longinus.
”

The screen goes dark.

TWO

For a while, I just sit there on the couch and stare at the TV. I have the remote
in my hand, but I’m sure I didn’t use it to turn off the set.

Pretty sure.

Then again, I’m also “pretty sure” that someone on a TV show just spoke directly to
me. Which puts a whole new spin on those two words, and possibly my brain.

Galahad whines. He knows I’m upset—he can always tell. Then he does something he’s
never done before: He grabs the remote out of my hand, springs off the couch, and
sprints for his doggy door.

“Hey!” I say, too startled to be angry. I jump up and give chase.

I catch up with him in the back yard, where he’s digging furiously. I watch, stunned,
as he excavates a quick hole, drops the remote in, then fills it back up.

I stare at him, then glance up into the sky. Nope, no UFOs or angels. Too bad; if
I’m going to lose my mind—again—I’d really appreciate a few special effects added
to the mix. “After all,” I say out loud, “if you’re going to go crazy, you may as
well go all the way.”

No invisible people reply. I don’t hear anything but crickets and somebody’s badly
maintained pickup in the distance. Ken Tanaka’s, by the sound of it.

It’s a nice night in September, the tail end of an Indian summer. The air is warm
and a little dusty. I stand there for a while, hugging myself and just listening to
the twilight sounds of a small town: children yelling and laughing in the distance,
the bang of an old screen door, dogs barking. It’s peaceful and serene and very, very
ordinary.