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talk to you when he gets ho-me. Be pa-ti-ent with him. He' s ti-red and
stres-sed. I gu-ess we all are."
"Yeah."
"You and Do-ug might be on the eve-ning news. Want to see?"
"No. I think I've se-en eno-ugh for one day." "Lo-ve you. Try to get so-me
rest, okay?"
Timmy nod-ded, and she clo-sed the do-or. His mot-her' s fo-ots-teps
fa-ded down the hall. He re-ac-hed over and tur-ned the ste-reo back up.
Che-ap Trick was still pla-ying.
"& but don't gi-ve yo-ur-self away& away& away& "
He sat the-re for a few mo-re mi-nu-tes, re-mem-be-ring Pat and thin-king
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abo-ut the day's events. Over and over aga-in, his mind was drawn to
Ka-tie-the smell of her ha-ir and the to-uch of her hand, and the way her eyes
had spark-led in the sun-light. He mis-sed her al-re-ady and co-uldn 't
be-li-eve he' d ha-ve to wa-it un-til Sun-day to see her aga-in.
After a whi-le, he pul-led a box of co-mic bo-oks out from un-der his bed
and be-gan flip-ping thro-ugh them. His nost-rils fla-red as he bre-at-hed in
the com-for-ting, fa-mi-li-ar smell of old pa-per. He ca-me ac-ross a
tat-te-red is-sue of Ho-use of Sec-rets that he hadn' t re-ad in a long ti-me.
The bot-tom sec-ti-on of the co-ver was mis-sing and the pa-per aro-und the
stap-les was brown with age. He le-aned back aga-inst the bed and be-gan
re-ading it.
On the top of what was left of the rag-ged co-ver was the tit-le, along
with the lo-go:
There's No Es-ca-pe From& THE HO-USE OF SEC-RETS.
In the left hand cor-ner was the cir-cu-lar DC lo-go, as op-po-sed to
Mar-vel's. In the right hand cor-ner was the is-sue num-ber-135, along with
the pri-ce of thirty-fi-ve cents. It was a la-te se-ven-ti-es back is-sue that
he' d pic-ked up at the flea mar-ket. Timmy grin-ned, nos-tal-gic. In 1978,
co-mics had cost a me-asly thirty-fi-ve cents. Now, in 1984, they cost fifty
cents, or so-me-ti-mes mo-re.
It was a sha-me. On the co-ver, a man in a ca-pe sto-od atop a cof-fin. A
gro-up of men we-re gat-he-red aro-und him. "In one mi-nu-te," the man told
them (via a word bal-lo-on), "I'll pro-ve my po-wer and bring Jen-ni-fer back
to li-fe!" The ghost of a blond wo-man, sup-po-sedly Jen-ni-fer, flo-ated
be-hind him.
Timmy ope-ned the co-mic. The car-to-onish host (na-med Abel), tal-ked
di-rectly to the re-ader from the first pa-ge, int-ro-du-cing each gru-eso-me
ta-le (his brot-her Ca-in was the host of DCs sis-ter pub-li-ca-ti-on, Ho-use
of Mystery).
The first story was cal-led "The Re-sur-rec-ti-on Bu-si-ness" and pretty
much fol-lo-wed the events de-pic-ted on the front co-ver. The se-cond story,
"Don 't Lo-ok Now," was abo-ut so-me un-derg-ro-und ca-ve exp-lo-rers
figh-ting a gro-up of mons-ters cal-led Cypors. Timmy wasn' t imp-res-sed with
eit-her the wri-ting or the art-work, and fi-gu-red he and Do-ug co-uld do
bet-ter. Temp-ted to re-turn the co-mic to the box and se-lect so-met-hing
dif-fe-rent, he flip-ped to the last story, "Down With the De-ad Men." It
to-ok pla-ce in a ce-me-tery, which pi-qu-ed his flag-ging in-te-rest. A
gho-ul was on the lo-ose; eating the bo-di-es of the de-ad and hor-ding the
gold and jewelry with which they ' d be-en bu-ri-ed. In the co-mic, a gro-up
of vil-la-gers trap-ped the cre-atu-re in a crypt and dest-ro-yed it by
wa-iting for the sun to ri-se, then al-lo-wing the sun-light to shi-ne
thro-ugh the crypt 's small win-dow.
Timmy bol-ted up-right aga-inst the bed and sta-red at the last pa-nel. He
shut the co-mic bo-ok with tremb-ling hands.
Earlier, Re-ve-rend Mo-ore had sa-id that the church' s ori-gi-nal
fo-un-ders had imp-ri-so-ned a de-mon in the ce-me-tery. The de-mon had
sup-po-sedly fol-lo-wed them from the Old World and had be-en ca-using
tro-ub-le. What if the de-mon had ac-tu-al-ly be-en a gho-ul, just li-ke in
the co-mic bo-ok? What if they ' d imp-ri-so-ned it in the gra-ve, and bo-und
it in pla-ce with the ma-gic pow-wow symbol?
And then, when the gra-ve and the symbol we-re dest-ro-yed, the gho-ul had
be-en fre-ed?
Timmy had al-ways be-en fas-ci-na-ted by the su-per-na-tu-ral, and
be-li-eved a lot of it. When they we-re six, he and Do-ug had tho-ught they
saw Big-fo-ot ne-ar the cre-ek in Bow-man ' s Wo-ods. It had tur-ned out just
to be a tree, but Timmy still be-li-eved it was pos-sib-le, and that per-haps
one day they wo-uld co-me ac-ross Big-fo-ot in the fo-rest.
He be-li-eved in Big-fo-ot. He be-li-eved in ghosts. He be-li-eved in
flying sa-ucers and sea ser-pents and de-mo-nic pos-ses-si-on. Timmy
be-li-eved that pe-op-le re-al-ly did di-sap-pe-ar in-si-de the Ber-mu-da
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Tri-ang-le and that so-me di-no-sa-urs pro-bably es-ca-ped the Ice Age and
we-re still ali-ve in the de-ep, dark cor-ners of the world -in pla-ces li-ke
Loch Ness and La-ke Champ-la-in. He be-li-eved in pyro-ki-ne-sis,
te-le-ki-ne-sis, ext-ra-sen-sory per-cep-ti-on, and re-mo-te vi-ewing. He didn
' t know whe-re the-se be-li-efs ca-me from, just that he had al-ways had
them. The bo-oks-hel-ves in his ro-om we-re full of bo-oks on the to-pics. He
' d al-ways vi-ewed the world with wi-de-eyed fas-ci-na-ti-on. He 'd no-ti-ced
over the last few ye-ars that many of his fri-ends at scho-ol-fri-ends who had
on-ce be-li-eved just as fer-vently as him-no lon-ger con-si-de-red the
pos-sib-le exis-ten-ce of ghosts or mons-ters. Per-haps they vi-ewed them as
fal-la-ci-es, the sa-me way he vi-ewed
Santa Cla-us and the Eas-ter Bunny. But whi-le Timmy no lon-ger fell for
tho-se pa-ren-tal in-ven-ti-ons, he still be-li-eved in the su-per-na-tu-ral.
He be-li-eved in mons-ters.
Maybe it was be-ca-use he' d re-ta-ined that sen-se of won-der that so
many ot-hers his age se-emed to be lo-sing.
Or may-be it was be-ca-use of what he re-ad and what he wro-te.
The mons-ters we-re re-al, and not all of them we-re adults or at-tack
dogs.
Just be-ca-use he co-uldn't see them, it didn't me-an that they didn't
exist.
Timmy be-li-eved be-ca-use he wan-ted to be-li-eve, and if gro-wing up
me-ant that ti-me dul-led yo-ur per-cep-ti-ons and era-di-ca-ted that
be-li-ef, era-sed the pos-si-bi-lity of ma-gic and mons-ters, then he wan-ted
to stay twel-ve fo-re-ver.
He tho-ught over everyt-hing he' d ever re-ad abo-ut gho-uls, both from
this par-ti-cu-lar co-mic bo-ok and ot-hers. They li-ved in tun-nels and
war-rens be-ne-ath ce-me-te-ri-es and bu-ri-al gro-unds. They we-re
noc-tur-nal and ha-ted sun-light. In this par-ti-cu-lar story, the gho-ul had
be-en dest-ro-yed by di-rect ex-po-su-re to sun-light. It was that way in most
of the ot-her co-mics, too. On a few oc-ca-si-ons, they ' d be-en dest-ro-yed
by fi-re, and on-ce by be-ing drop-ped in-to a vat of acid, but day-light
se-emed to be the only su-re bet. Gho-uls ate the de-ad, which was why they
dug be-ne-ath gra-ve-yards.
The Gol-got-ha Lut-he-ran Church ce-me-tery was col-lap-sing in spots. The
gro-und was sin-king.
There was a tun-nel ent-ran-ce in-si-de the uti-lity shed. Sup-po-sedly,
ac-cor-ding to Clark Smel-ter, the-re was a ca-ve run-ning be-ne-ath the
gro-unds. But what if it wasn 't a ca-ve? What if it was the gho-ul' s
tun-nels, as it bur-ro-wed from gra-ve to gra-ve de-vo-uring the de-ad?
So-me-how, the si-gil ke-eping it imp-ri-so-ned had be-en shat-te-red? It had [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]