Ghost ❤️ Zombie | Part 2

Dr. No Sleep. Want to binge this entire Valentine's Day trilogy tonight? Start your seven-day free trial of Dr. No Sleep Premium and hear all three parts back-to-back. No waiting, no delays. Cancel any time, no commitment. Just go to patreon.com slash drnosleep to sign up. That's patreon.com slash drnosleep. The music of time played on. And as we ghosts listened to its haunted harmonies, the old house became a little older around us. Some things stayed the same, while other things changed. The sugar maple tree beside the porch was still there, for instance, but it was showing signs of decay, much like the widower within the house. The Reverend Hiram von Gothenburg, you see, continued to reside in the home, even as the flesh rotted off his daughter's bones in her shallow grave down in the coal cellar, and he continued to be cold of heart and stern of temperament. And yet, as the decades passed, the Reverend's hair fell out, and his beard grew long and white and wiry, and his spine and shoulders sagged until the elderly pastor resembled a shepherd's crook as he shuffled about the dusty halls. The world beyond the old house and the lawn and the shutout back must have been changing too, though any progress was slow to find its way into the old house. Utility workers from the county did come in once, and they installed wires and glass bulbs and something called a telephone. And the coal stoves that had worked so hard to heat the place each winter since its construction were finally getting respite when a central oil-burning furnace was installed. What else? Ah, buttons. We mustn't forget buttons. Well, eventually buttons became old and thin and sickly, and one evening the cat crawled into a cupboard and died. But don't worry. It was a nice death. A quiet death. And I was there with Abby to watch the darling creature's spirit ooze from its eyes and the ends of his whiskers, to greet Buttons as his ghostly form settled into shape. And as every cat in life, already possessing those qualities necessary to haunt an old house, Buttons adapted to the afterlife with ease. But the big change, the one that crashed, quite literally, into our tale of death and miracles and love, the impossible occurrence which, in turn, changed everything, that began on the morning of February 11th, a Sunday morning. The Great War in Europe was long over by then, of course, and another, even greater war there had come and gone. And though the echoed cries of the ghostly choir it had birthed had only just begun to fade from the atmosphere, it seemed that our nation had found a new spot to send its boys to die, this time in jungles far across the Pacific. But such tragedies had little to do with us in the old house in Ohio, with cornfields across the street and the rats in the attic. Our main concern was avoiding the reverend, whose wicked presence made any room he was in unbearable. But on this Sunday morning in 1968, he had already departed for church, driven off by one of his parishioners, and we were free to float about the house, unhindered and undisturbed by the old man's wet coughs and dark grumbles. There was not, however, silence. There was music playing, or at least musical sounds, specifically the tinkling of piano keys from the front hall. There had not been a piano in the house back in 1918. It had come later, gifted by an elderly Lutheran businessman who had hoped to marry off his homely daughter to the respectable widower, Hiram von Gothenburg. The piano had been sent over so that the daughter might play and sing and so impress the reverend. He was not impressed and was quite rude in his response, causing a good deal of tears to be shed. But the piano remained, untuned and rather dusty. It was only ever played by the current living cat in the place. A ginger whom the reverend once again called only animal and whom Abby called Mozart, because he was so often running over the porcelain keys of the instrument, as he was that morning back and forth chasing a fly. Abby's ghost was sitting cross-legged in the air before the piano, listening to the concert politely, while I hovered by the ceiling, watching particles of dust collect one by one upon the cobwebs on the chandelier. You think we might train him to play something? You could jiggle your buttons, Joe, and have Mozart hop from key to key. Hmm? I floated down to join her. Well, only if we train him to tune the instrument first, and accomplishing that seems unlikely. It was at this moment, which, like so many others we had experienced together in the old house, was neither significant nor unpleasant, that a new noise arose outside, causing Mozart to halt his composition and whip his head toward the front porch, eyes wide. Abby and I turned as well, and the curious ghost of Buttons hurried in, scampering midair to the windowsill and crouching there, phantom whiskers alert, looking out through the glass. I think it's police sirens, said Abby, floating toward the door. And they're coming closer. As she joined buttons and peering outside, I glanced back at Mozart, who had dropped to the floor at the foot of the piano, crouched, hissed in the direction of the road, then turned and took off into the kitchen. Taking this to be far from a reassuring omen, I revolved and moved to join my fellow ghosts at the window. Sure enough, the unmistakable sight of flashing lights appeared through the trees to the left. But moving ahead of them, its engine revving and tires squealing on the pavement, was another vehicle. As it swerved into view, rocketing to where the road passed the yard, the driver lost control. The wheel spun out and the whole thing careened off the road, over the ditch, and came spinning across the lawn. Poor Abby gasped. And for half a moment, I was too overcome with shock, fearing that the vehicle would hit the old house, perhaps even bursting into flame and lighting the place ablaze. But the driver managed to slow and turn, missing the porch by inches, then maneuvering around the porch to the right, past the maple tree and out of our view. Then we heard its brakes squeak to a stop behind the old house, just as two police cars sped by, sirens screaming, and in their rush, They failed to see that their target was no longer on the road ahead. Soon, the wailing of the sirens had faded, and a tense and heavy silence settled over the scene. I'll be damned, I said, removing my hat to wipe at my brow. A pointless gesture, given the immaterial nature of ghost sweat. But old habits die hard, or rather, they don't die at all, even after death. I wonder what all that was about. Abby remained silent, her expression serious. From its hiding place behind the house, the vehicle released a sudden belch of grinding sounds, then a hiss, a nothing. The engine had died, farting out a smoky ghost of its own in the form of putrid fumes. Then came the sound of a muffled voice, a woman's, crying out, and the vehicle doors being thrown open and footsteps moving around the side of the house. They're coming onto the porch, said Abby, craning her neck to see. Peering through her, I watched as two figures stumbled up the stairs and approached the front door. Hello? Is anyone? We need help. Please. Abby turned her eyes to me, her expression shocked and pleading. I shook my head. There's nothing we can do, Abby. And even if your father was home, he'd just call the authorities to come cart them away. He'd assume they were criminals. They don't look like criminals, she said, gazing out again. But then, why would the police be racing after them? I can think of one reason, I mumbled. A thoughtfully built wardrobe really comes down to pieces that mix well, last, and don't make you feel like you overpaid. And that's exactly why I've been loving Quince lately. They make up everyday essentials using premium fabrics and thoughtful design, without the luxury markup. I picked up one of their linen shirts and immediately noticed the quality. Light, comfortable, and not flimsy like cheaper linen. The shoes were the same deal. Clean look, super comfortable, and they feel like something that should cost a lot more. They work directly with top factories, cut out the middlemen, and focus on premium materials that actually last. No flashy branding, just well-made apparel that gets the job done. Right now, go to quince.com slash dns for free shipping and 365-day returns. That's a full year to build your wardrobe and love it. And you will. Now available in Canada, too. Don't keep settling for clothes that don't last. Go to quince.com slash dns for free shipping and 365-day returns. That's quince.com slash dns. The middle-aged woman banging on the front door of the old house was black, as was the teenage son who clung to her, looking like he might collapse at any moment. They didn't look like the typical folk in these parts, where German and Scandinavian immigrants had lived and farmed for well over a century. And since we only ever encountered the reverend and certain members of his severely pious congregation, Even the garments worn by this mother and son looked strangely out of place to our eyes. The woman was wearing trousers, if you can believe it, and the teenage boy's hair was of a style I had never seen, his dark, tight curls high and shapely rounded. They looked like they had gone through hell, metaphorically speaking, in the preceding hours. They were sweaty and dirty, and the boy had a busted lip and bags under his bloodshot eyes. and one of the sleeves of his orange sweater was torn open and bloody, and the skin on his forearm was discolored and bore some sort of bite mark upon it. Something sinister has happened to these folk, I said. And look, the mother has a firearm in her jacket pocket, and the boy, do you, sense a sort of energy radiating from him? Yes, I do. A sort of red glow. Even the ghost of Buttons, usually curious to a fault, became too afraid to watch any longer, and jumping from the windowsill, he scampered through the air and into the ceiling. I've never seen anything like this. I leaned my face forward, through the glass, and squinted over at the teen outside, whose whole body was now haloed in a soft crimson light. That energy, it's almost like impending death, isn't it? But it's warm, and death is cold. Oh, dear, gasped Abby. Oh, no, Joe, look. On the porch, the boy's eyes had rolled back in his head, and his knees buckled, and he slumped sideways against his mother. Oh, Jesus, Clarence, no, no, no, baby. Stand up, honey. Come on, come on. Straining under the weight of her son, who was as tall as she was, the woman looked around frantically for help. That look in her eyes, that wild, desperate, delirious desire for a glimpse of hope, when all was hopeless. It was almost too much for me to bear. I wanted to float away, back inside, to hide with buttons in the attic until the horrid scene was over. But Abby... She raised her chin and took in a sharp breath and declared, I'm going to help them. And just like that, she moved through the window and out into the morning air, drifting to join the mother and son by the door. Wait, Abby, that red glow, we don't know if it's... Swallowing, I steadied my resolve and floated outside. Another police siren sounded, shrill, somewhere nearby, and the woman released dry sobs, then adjusted her grip on her limp son. Turning she began to drag him to the corner of the wraparound porch Abby followed drifting at the mother side I came last moving cautiously keeping my distance The boy was now twitching, his eyes still rolled back, thick, bubbly froth leaking from the side of his mouth. Oh Lord Jesus, sobbed his mother, pulling him around the corner to a spot where the cover of the porch's pillars and the sugar maple tree would block them from view of the street. Collapsing from her effort, she fell heavily onto her backside Her son landing on top of her with his head in her lap Closing her eyes, the woman let out a shaky breath The panic in her face had given way to exhaustion And for a few seconds, she let her head hang as her son twitched and gurgled Then she opened her eyes and laid a hand on his trembling brow Shh, there now On her lap, the boy, Clarence, let out a squelching grunt as his body seized. Legs kicking, arms stiff at his sides, his facial muscles contorted in agony. His mother clasped a hand on either side of his head, trying to hold him still. Abby's ghost leaned slowly forward, and smiling at the mother and the son, ever so sweetly, unseen and unseeable, She held out her luminous, immaterial hands. Don't, I whispered, flinching as I watched her reach out toward the blood-red light that now blazed from his skin. Into that mysterious fire, Abby extended her pearl-bright fingertips, her palms, her wrists. Floating closer, Abby moved to position her ghostly hands so that they occupied the very same space of the mother's hands, their shapes aligned perfectly there upon the brow of the dying boy. Several things happened in that moment. Several notes played as one chord. A chill ran up the mother's arms and she gasped. The blue light of Abigail Alyssa's spirit flickered, and the red glow from Clarence's body dimmed. Then their luminous hues mingled into a soft and purple glow. Lying on his back on the porch, the boy's trembling lessened, and his breathing slowed and his eyes rolled forward again. He blinked and looked up into his mother's tear-streaked face. Mama. Hey, baby. Hey, Clarence. Mama's right here. I hurt, Mom. Everywhere. I know, but it's almost over. But then, with that it was... What if... What if I try to... His mother shook her head. Now, now, don't you worry about all that. But the hunger, if it makes me... I don't want to hurt you, Mama. I don't want to kill you. Shh, none of that. You listen to your mother now, Clarence Harker. Whatever happens next, I won't let you hurt me. And I need you to remember, baby. Remember that you were strong. Mama, no! And that God loves you. Just shoot me! Shoot me now! And that I... Still holding his head in one hand, she raised the other and tapped one finger on the end of his nose. I love you. For a moment, Clarence was still, looking up at her. Then his body began to shake. Dark spit dribbled from his mouth, and his face grew taut and gray, his eyes bulging, pushing outward, blood vessels bursting, the pupils becoming black henpricks. Abby looked up at me, her eyes pleading for another way to help, but I had no answers. And so, with a sigh, Abby removed her ghostly hands so that his mother's alone might be the last to hold him. And there, on the porch of the old house, on that brisk February morning, the boy named Clarence Harker stopped moving, and the heart in his chest stopped beating. And yet... Uh, Joe? Where is this ghost? Shouldn't we see it forming by now? I stared at the rigid body, with its protruding crimson eyes. I... I'm not too sure. The body jerked, snarling, and the mother gasped. We looked down at the boy with his twitching stiff limbs and his twitching lips, through which there hissed the hollow sound of undead breathing, like the grinding of gristle and bone. After a moment's shock, his mother steadied herself, averting her vision from her boy's trembling corpse. Sliding her right hand into the pocket of her coat, she pulled out a pistol. Lord Jesus, she said aloud. I ain't ever asked for a miracle before, but protect this poor child. Letting the fingers of her left hand stroke the surface of her son's curls, She raised the gun in her right hand to set its barrel against her temple. Protect my boy! No! Abby screamed as the mother's finger tightened on the trigger. The woman's ghost came out with the blood and the bits of brain and skull. And for a second, her spirit hung in the air with the gory mist, like a shimmering pink shadow. As her physical body crumpled backward on the porch, her son's head still upon her lap, I watched the spectral particles in the air coalescing into shape. As the ghost of Mrs. Harker took on its eternal form, her gaze swiveled to look one last time upon her son, then shifted over to Abby's ghost, who floated at Clarence's side. The ghostly mother smiled, a look of such pure relief and gratitude upon her features as I had never witnessed before. And then her ghost turned and floated upward, letting itself drift away upon the breeze like a whispered prayer, and so departed. Joe, he's breathing again. I blinked and looked down at Abby. Hmm? What? What's happening to him? Can we help him? What is all this? Clarence was trying to sit up, moving with many twitching jerks of his locked limbs and stiff neck. Dark veins stood out in a web upon his gray cheeks. For a moment he sat, shivering and grunting. Then his nostrils flared and he sniffed loudly. I saw his pinprick pupils dilate and sensed the sudden feral hunger in those eyes. Acting on instinct, I reached to grab Abby and tried to pull her away, though of course my hand passed through her form and out the other side. And anyway, I need not have bothered. As the boy twisted and lurched on the porch, wheezing and moaning, his target became clear. He pounced upon his mother's corpse like a rabid beast, punching out with both stiff arms, hands open, his fingers tensed like claws, beating and slashing. Abby clasped a hand in front of her mouth. The boy, he was... He was digging with his fingertips at her bleeding head, scratching and yanking at the edges of the bullet hole there. And when he failed to find a grip this way, he grunted, swung his hands up, then brought his fists crashing down upon her skull, like the mortal blow of some wild chimpanzee. Abby, I said, as flecks of the woman's blood splashed through the air. Back away! But she did not move. She floated in place, the look on her face more curious than terrified. Watching as Clarence tore apart his mother's skull, sunk his fingers into the wrinkled flesh beneath, and pulled out a dripping wedge of warm brain, snapping his jaw open and shut upon the flesh. He devoured the meal with gusto, then ducked down to grab another handful, panting greedily, chewing noisily, bits of brain dripping down his chin until he had hollowed out the head, scraping clean the inside of the broken skull and licking his fingers. Then, seeming to come down from his feeding rage, he staggered awkwardly to his feet and stood, his protruding red eyes facing the leafless branches of the maple tree, and then, turning to the side, he faced Abby. He stared at her, then pivoted and stared at me. At that moment I felt, what did I feel? Something akin to a chill up my spine, like what a living person feels when a ghost passes through them. An icy shock. Joe, he can see us. He's not a ghost. He's physical, but he can see us. I think you are right. That's amazing, said Abby, now rising to float in a standing position. and Clarence's red eyes swiveled to follow her movement. How can he do that? And what is he? The glimmer of a smile appeared on her face as she looked at the boy, her head tilting to one side. His head tilted too, gazing back at her. I don't know what he is. Not alive. Not dead. But as human as you or I or anybody living, I know it. I feel it. And he's in trouble. We have to help him, Joe. So we have to find out what's happened. Please? After a moment, I nodded. You're right, of course. I will try. And so I did, resolved first to uncover whatever strange events had led these tragic figures to our door. I left the glowing teens there on the porch, in the mid-morning chill, and closing my spectral eyes, I drifted skyward, detaching from my spiritual nesting place in the old house, and then, from time itself, my spirit swimming upstream against the very current of entropy. As I open my eyes, I see the world passing beneath me, and all is in reverse. The morning sun sinks toward dawn in the east, and to the south, a current of freezing rain gathers back into a gray cloud in the darkening sky. I look down at the yard and spot the mother's vehicle reversing around the house, then spinning through the grass and leaping back onto the road, where it speeds off, backward and swerving, and now seeming to pursue the authorities, with their flashing lights and the eerie sound of their temporarily inversed sirens. I follow the regress of this chase, to just outside a nearby town, where the reversing police cars park. The officers leap out and run backwards, surrounding a spot by the road where the other car speeds backward to a stop. The policemen undraw their guns and walk backward from the vehicle. All depart but one, who lowers his radio and stands with his arms crossed, staring at the black mother at the wheel and her ill-looking son in the seat beside her. Then the officer steps back into his car. The police lights cease, and both vehicles pull off, reversing down the road. Hmm, the chase and the crash were just the final twist, think to myself. Mrs. Harker got scared and sped away from that traffic stop, but this isn't how it all started. So then? I move faster, tearing through the night, following the backward path of the vehicle as it winds its way across the Pennsylvania border. At this point in my venture, I admit that my determination to find answers grows frail, lessening with every eastward mile we traverse. You see, I might have died in that old Ohio house, but in the months leading up to that fateful moment, I had been elsewhere, a place I have tried to forget, and somewhere which I now seem to be heading toward with speed. Drawing upon the hope that Abby has placed in my success, I soar on, over the Blue Ridge Mountains. And now, I begin to recognize the landscape. Those broad open valleys, frosted in moonlight, and though I try to keep my focus on the vehicle reversing along the road, I find myself turning and gazing at fields outside Little Sharpsburg, Maryland. Oh lord, oh what a haunted sight is that. Down there, glowing against the nightscape, swarms a great host of moaning spirits. They revolve in the sky round and round like a school of spectral fish trapped eternal in the vortex there above the grounds of a bloody battlefield I blink and swallow pretending that the stinging in my eyes is from the wind and nothing more But the truth? Some of those ghosts down there, I made. With my musket and my bayonet. And maybe one of them, while still possessing a body, had fired the shot which struck my ribs on the right side, and thus set me on my path to ghosthood, though in that I know I should count myself lucky. For one thing, my role in that savage exchange was the nobler of intent. I do not regret taking up the blue uniform, though it cost my all, for to do otherwise would be to betray the values of my heart. And yet, the lesser of two evils is still an evil thing. And so the memory of that day, of the violence we inflicted upon each other. It haunts me as I fly, and it shall haunt me until the last note of the music of time is played out, and the great song is over. I pass beyond the battlefield and turn forward once more. Dusk appears ahead, and as last night becomes yesterday, the vehicle backs down one final stretch of road toward a set of gates and a high wire fence. Knowing I have reached the origin of Clarence's predicament, I spiral groundward, zipping back as I do so, to land earlier in the day, and letting my ghostly senses realign with the natural order of the living world's timeline, settling into the moment, which occurred in the late afternoon of February 10th, 1968, some sixteen hours before the tragedy on our porch. I hover above the ground. The boy, I now see, must live with his mother and his father here, on a U.S. military base, Fort Detrick. That's what it says on a green sign above a perimeter fence to my right. I revolve in the air, looking around the installation, which hardly resembles the ramshackle posts of the Union Army back in my day. There are soldiers visible around the base, but their uniforms are mottled green, and the firearms slung over their shoulders are shorter and thicker than muskets. Some of the soldiers have dogs on leashes. There are other men walking from building to building, wearing long white jackets and carrying papers and satchels. Are those men doctors? Then this is some sort of military hospital? If so, it's nothing like the one I woke up in after Antietam, when they stitched me up and sent me homeward to recover, a journey I never completed. I reach the grounds for any sign of Clarence or his mother, but at first, I spot none. And although my ghostly senses detect more of that unnatural red heat that we encountered on the porch, it is difficult to pin down its location. I circle, and while facing a three-story edifice by the base's eastern perimeter, I spy a boy's silhouette in a third-story window. His high, rounded hairstyle is a dead giveaway. It is Clarence Harker. He is sitting with his head in his hands, his nose pressed up against the glass and he is crying. I approach his window, then drift through it, emerging into what is unmistakably the bedroom of a teenage boy. Music plays from a machine in one corner, a screeching sort of song that makes me want to cover my ears, but also dance. The room is untidy and simply furnished, with some books open by the bed and one large, shiny printed artwork on the wall. A poster quickly grabs my attention. 20th Century Fox presents Raquel Welch in One Million Years B.C., the poster proclaims, in large red letters, beside the image of a blonde woman dressed in strips of fur and little else. I've no idea what this means, but I admit that the thought of drifting out of time again to travel back one million years and see this buxom blonde for myself does cross my mind. Over at the window, Clarence sighs, then straightens up, wiping at his eyes. This is such bullshit, he grumbles to himself. He moves to sit on the edge of the bed and leans down to grab shoes and pull them onto his feet. It's not right. It's all lies and it's all bullshit. Standing up, he grips his hands into fists, and the look on his face is that common to young people who have a mind to act bravely, even though their emotions are teetering on the edge of total collapse. I know that look well. I saw it on many faces during the war, but only before a battle, never during. Snatching an orange sweater from the back of a chair, Clarence yanks open his bedroom door and marches out into a hallway. I follow him, floating into a dim sitting room. There is an extremely thick carpet on the floor and a sofa facing a glass-fronted box on a stand against the wall. Mrs. Harker is on the sofa, hunched and quiet, a cigarette burning between two of her fingers, though it looks like many minutes have passed since she remembered to take a puff. At this time, the woman is not yet battered and haggard as she will be, stumbling from her vehicle and onto the porch of the old house. But she does look troubled already. Her eyes are weary, her expression far away. She looks up as her son stomps into the sitting room, and the burnt ash from her cigarette, falls to the carpet floor. Oh, Clarence, what time is it, baby? Where are you going? Clarence doesn't answer and heads straight for a doorway across the room. I'm going to see dad, he declares, reaching for the doorknob. But his mother leaps to her feet and practically flies across the room to stop him. Oh, no, you're not. It isn't safe, Clarence. You heard Colonel Solomon yesterday. If what your father has is contagious, then... Oh, wake up, Mom! Clarence screams. She hushes him, a crazed look in her eyes, and she tries to pull him away from the door, but Clarence isn't budging. You can't possibly believe them! You know it's a lie, but you're still just acting like everything is normal. You're still just smiling and cleaning their goddamn offices as if... Keep your voice down! This isn't a normal base! They're up to something. Your father is sick, like the others. Ha, the others. The other black soldiers, you mean? Because they're the only ones getting sick funny enough. And if it's really so contagious, shouldn't the doctors be wearing suits and masks and all that, huh? It ain't a sickness, mom. You need to hush up. Do you know what they do here? The U.S. offensive biological warfare program. Experiments. On people. He looks scared now, too. Angry, yes, but scared, too. After a moment, he lowers his voice and says, And you've heard it, too. These past few nights. The screaming. Stop it, Clarence. The grunting. The groaning. Like, hungry and in pain. She slaps him, but not hard. It's a movement of desperation, not violence. He mustn't be overheard spouting rumors. And your father, he's, he's just... Her lip quivers. She can't finish her sentence. We never should have come here, Mama. And would it have been better if Dad was shipped off to Vietnam? Far away, getting shot in the jungle? Yes. His answer strikes her with more force than her slap had caused him, and he knows it. I'm sorry, Mama. I'm just... I'm scared. She takes his hands. I know, I know, baby. The world is a scary place right now, but you can't just go running over to Clinic Z demanding answers. The guards wouldn't let you near your dad, you know that. So now, go back to your room. Maybe you can read those new comic books, okay? And keep that music down. Clarence hangs his head, but nods. Good. Bringing up one hand, she sets it on her chest, then reaches up and taps Clarence on the nose. Love you too, Mom. She smiles reassuredly as he walks back to his bedroom, but I stay and watch her face. And as soon as her son is out of view, her smile vanishes and the fear returns. She knows he's right, right about whatever is going on in this place. I float back to Clarence's bedroom. He's stretched out on the bed, hands crossed on his stomach, staring at the ceiling, contemplating. I drift past him to the window and peer outside. The sun is setting, and by its dying light, I watched the figures of the soldiers and doctors moving between the ugly, boxy, windowless structures below. What are they up to? Developing some new weapon of war, perhaps? They are always doing that, aren't they? From sticks and stones, way back in the ancient days of scantily dressed Raquel Welch on the wall there, they worked away, upgrading to bows and arrows, then to broadswords and trebuchets. And in my own day, it was the musket and the mighty cannon. So what did they have now? What tool or method or machine were they using in humanity's mad, mad race to transform hordes of the living into swarms of ghosts before their time? Why the hurry? That's what I want to know. The bedroom goes still. The music has ended. And on the bed, Clarence begins to snore. And then, from somewhere in the base outside, A noise arises. He's right, I say to myself, as the haunted sound pierces me. It is a scream, a grunt, a groan, beastly and ravenous. Clarence jerks awake and whips his head to look through me and out the window, where the noise drones on. The conviction to do something returns to his young face. Jumping up from the bed, he moves swiftly and quietly into and down the hall, pausing at the corner to peer into the drawing room. He sneaks past his mother, who has fallen into a restless sleep, curled up on the sofa, then hurries to her wool jacket hanging by the door. He reaches into the jacket's pocket, and I wonder if he's going to pull the gun, but no. He retrieves a silver ring upon which hangs a dozen shiny keys. Gingerly squeezing the keys in a fist to keep from jingling, he moves out into the hall and heads for the stairs to the building's exit, completely unaware that I am at his side all the while, an invisible partner in this night's perilous investigation. The evening is warmer than expected when we emerge. Perhaps that's due to the blinding spotlights that glare down from the perimeter fence. Or maybe it's that unnatural crimson energy, which has grown stronger since the groaning started, and which I now sense is radiating from the same direction of the noises. Clarence sets off that way, running at a crouch and staying in the shadows of buildings, always stopping at corners to let yawning guards amble by, until, after several tense minutes, we approach the back of a windowless structure of dark brick. There's a service entrance there with a heavy steel door, and Clarence hurries to try the various keys in the door's lock. Come on, come on, come on. Even government secret labs need to be cleaned sometimes, right? It's got to be one of these. I watch on, dreading the inevitable. I know it's all already happened to that bravely foolish boy and that these events are written in stone, their details as final as the date of death etched upon a grave marker. My ghost is but a witness here in the unchangeable past, just as it is a prisoner to the present, Able to watch the living go about their numbered days, repeating the same old mistakes. The same patterns of wasted time and needless violence. The lock clicks. Clarence takes in a shaky breath, then pushes the door open. From the darkness within, howled the shrieking savage voices. Clarence flinches, torn between his fear of knowing and his fear of not knowing. I feel the same way. He steps inside and closes the door behind him. I follow, slipping through the steel door. The mysterious building is dark, and the beastly shrieking echoes down the long hall that stretches out before us. Clarence walks fast, toward a soft red light that glows from an open doorway at the far end. I glide forward, glancing through the windowed doors on either side of the hall at the many strange rooms. White tiled, with long counters and the tools and bottles like those a chemist might use And cages Metal cages with red-eyed rats and albino snakes and jet-black ferrets And glass cages with snails the size of a man head and jellyfish floating languidly in salty water Ahead of me Clarence reaches the open door turns and walks through The moaning goes quiet and so I hear the boy clearly as he says, Dad? What do they do to you? Then silence. Then an answer. I float into that final room, where Clarence stands in the center, frozen in place in the glare of a red exit sign above the door, and, to my ghostly vision, also the crimson glow of the bodies on the beds against the walls. Three men lie on three beds, left, right, and dead ahead. Each man is black and dressed in military garb, but the clothes are tattered and flies buzz in the air around them. Straps are tight about their ankles, hips, wrists, and shoulders, tying them to the mattresses, which I now see are soaked in black liquid. The men, the soldiers, all eyes are red and bulging, their heads turned to stare at the boy in their midst. Their mouths are gaped and drooling, wide open like wounds in their ashen faces. They have been dead for some time, I realize, but just like Clarence on the porch, no ghost has been allowed to emerge, no longer alive. but not dead either. Dad? Clarence takes another step toward the bed straight ahead of us and the creature tied down upon it. His father is still, except for the tongue, which reaches wetly from his mouth, wriggling like a fat worm. On the other two beds, the men begin to grunt again, seizing and snarling and writhing in their restraints. I'll get you out of here! Falling to his knees beside the bed, Clarence pulls out a pocket knife and begins to saw the straps on his father's left wrist. I'll get you away. We'll find you help. Don't, Clarence, I say, uselessly. I am so enthralled by the sight of this teenage boy struggling to free that into which his father has been transformed that I don't even notice that an army officer enters the room until the big man marches right through me, shuddering at the icy feeling of my spectral presence. The officer holds a pistol in one hand and reaches out with the other. What are you doing? He seizes Clarence's shoulder, but the boy spins, slicing the air with his pocket knife. The blade nicks his attacker's hand. Ah! Little bastard! The officer strikes Clarence across the face with his pistol. The boy falls, dropping his knife, and in the bed, his father's body releases a feral shriek. As Clarence tries to rise, the officer grabs him roughly by the back of his sweater and yanks him up, shoving the barrel of his pistol against the boy's head. Clarence trembles, tears in his eyes, blood dripping from his busted lip. Solomon, you motherfucker! He shouts. What have you done to them? Well now, that's enough of that, unless you want this 45 here to blast a hole in one side of your afro and out the other. And look what you've done, eh? Gotten them all riled up. Come on then. On their three beds, the three undead men writhe and groan as Colonel Solomon forces Clarence to turn. Half dragged, half stumbling, the gun against his brow. The boy is baring his teeth as he is taken away. I start to follow, but the sound of the tearing fabric makes me look back. Clarence's efforts at his father's bedside have not, it turns out, been in vain. The creature has managed to free his left arm, and now swings that stiff limb, wildly, grasping to pull at the other restraints, as his fellow undead watch on, shrieking their encouragement. Stop! Struggling! I hear from down the hallway. I turn and hasten after Clarence, as the colonel drags him toward the clinic's lobby. And you got it all wrong, boy. Your daddy back there, good old private Augie Harker, he signed up for the experiment. Bullshit! He was probably just after the incentive pay, of course, but now? Now he is a vital part of the war initiative. Part of something bigger than you or even me. You should be proud! Kicking open the glass front doors, the colonel drags the boy back out into the moonlight. The two guards posted outside both look around in surprise, and another soldier passing by on patrol tries to approach. But the large dog he leads on a leash starts to whine anxiously and resists. What the hell's all this, colonel? asks one of the guards. Doggy Harker's boy. I was just telling him about the program. The officer responds, shoving Clarence onto his knees on the pavement, aiming the gun at the back of his head, then leaning down to whisper. You see, boy, we got plans, big plans, once we finish off the Viet Cong. We're already striking Laos and Cambodia, and Korea's next. Then it's on to China. And once the Orientals are handled, the USSR, the Middle East, Latin America, all lucky future recipients of American democracy. But to accomplish that, we'll need a military force like the world has never known. From the building behind us, the inhuman cries rise up, rattling the glass panels on the door and making the dog yip and strain on its leash. Colonel Solomon grins. American warriors, driven by patriotism, fueled by the hunger. And now, they keep on fighting, even after they die. They don't sleep. They don't age. They don't rot. They see in the dark and can go months without a meal. They are the perfect weapons. The perfect slaves. You're all fucking crazy, spits Clarence. You're monsters! Clarence! Screams a voice from the darkness, and Mrs. Harker approaches at a furious pace, dressed in her wool coat and house shoes. What are you all? Oh, Lord! Colonel Solomon, sir! This is a misunderstanding, I'm sure. There's no need for violence. Well, well, family reunion. How touching. Evening, Miss Gladys. Sorry you caught us at an awkward moment with your boy here. The guards exchange a chuckle. As for what to do with you meddling harkers now, well, it has just occurred to me that we haven't tried the stuff on women or kids yet. That might lead to some interesting data for the doctors. He jabs the pistol at Clarence's head as one of the guards holds up his rifle to aim at Gladys. Wait! Oh, Lord, please don't! She bleeds, raising both hands into the air. Solomon sniffs a laugh. No need to fret, miss. This ain't the end. See? We'll have your boy here fighting in battlefields for the next century. As for yourself, well... There'll always be a need for scrubbing toilets, won't there? The Colonel's lips curl in a sneering grin. The glass doors of the clinic explode out as a body lunges through them and tackles the Colonel to the ground. Solomon lands on top of Clarence, gasping and flailing, as Augie Harker's bulging red eyes burn in the night, and he whips his head to bite down again and again, tearing out chunks of bloody meat. Whoa! Get him off me! The colonel shrieks, trying to roll and push Clarence in between him and the attacker. The guards spin to help, raising their weapons, but two more figures rush drunkenly from the building, groaning and snarling, and they aim at the newcomers instead. The guns roar. Bullets rip through the oncoming creatures, but fail to slow them down, and soon the guards are flat on their backs with the undead soldiers on top of them, beating with fists and tearing with teeth. The last soldier draws his weapon, but his dog darts suddenly off, breaking free from its leash and running down the lane, and after a moment's consideration, the soldier follows the dog, screaming as he flees. Gladys is crouched and shivering, hands clapped over her mouth, watching as her husband seizes the colonel's head from behind, squeezes, and slams it down into the pavement, smashing in the skull. As the creature begins to greedily devour the glistening brains within, Clarence wriggles out on his elbows from beneath the weight of the dead officer and the undead private. Oh, thank you, Jesus! Gladys gasps as Clarence gets shakily to his feet. His face is filthy and his teeth chatter. I don't think he meant to do that, Mama! Men are shouting from around the base now. Boots are running, spotlight swinging. Gladys looks around in terror, then spotting the colonel's fallen pistol on the ground, she snatches it up and shoves it into her jacket pocket. We gotta go, baby, she says, motioning for Clarence to hurry. He sniffs. Dad, he didn't mean to. At first, his mother doesn't understand. She looks over at where the trio of undead are feasting upon the brain tissue of their prey, then back at her son. Trembling, Clarence holds up his right arm. The sleeve is torn, revealing the double curves of puncture marks from human teeth. Gladys exhales. We gotta go now, baby. We gotta go. I begin to float upward, letting the vision fade as the mother leads her injured son through the darkness and more soldiers surge toward Clinic Z, opening fire upon those poor souls gathered there, feeding. I hear the engine of Mrs. Harker's vehicle boot up, and the tires squeal as she speeds from the parking lot to the main gate, smashes through the parking gate, and tears down the road on its long journey through the night, a journey that will end on the front porch of the old house. Back in the present, I let out a long sigh. The morning was almost over, but the day was gray and cold and hazy, and I could feel the danger lurking around every corner and every tree trunk and from the fog that clung to the distant horizon. A tinkling of laughter made me look over. Abby's ghost was floating beside Clarence, who had finished his meal and was sitting upright, stiff and ghoulish, his skin blue-gray and bulging eyes fixed upon the phantom girl before him. Abby, I said, finding my voice. The, uh, Reverend will be home soon. Hmm? Oh, oh dear, of course. She took in my expression, and her eyebrows lifted. Did you already do it then, Joe? Did you find out what happened? I, yes, I know what happened, though I wouldn't say I understand it entirely. But is Clarence safe? What do we do now? I did not answer right away, but let my gaze pass again over the tire marks in the yard to the road. Had they managed to contain the madness in Fort Detrick yet? I did not know. But I was sure that, sooner or later, the army would come looking for Gladys and Clarence Harker. Perhaps already. Their trucks were rumbling this way. And when they found that boy there, what would they do to him? Several possibilities crossed my mind, each darker than the last. And if we didn't act fast, the local authorities would be called as soon as the church service was over and the reverend returned. I exhaled and sunk down into the porch, drifting to look at Clarence eye to eye. Hello, Clarence, I said. I am so very sorry about what happened to your mother and father. Can you? It's just, I must be sure. Can you understand me, young man? For a long moment, he did not move. His breath came in hollow wheezes. A bit of wet brain fell from his chin onto his lap. Then, muscles creaking, his head dipped forward, paused, and came up again. Good. That's good. And can you tell me, do you think you could help us to move your mother's body? And some other things. We have to hide the evidence of what's happened here. Again, the teenage corpse nodded stiffly and made a little noise in his throat. Thank you, Clarence, said Abby, the light returning to her eyes. And was it just the morning sunlight, or did a bit of golden flush come into her translucent cheeks as she smiled at him? We'll help you now, I promise. We'll make sure you're safe, won't we, Joe? I looked at her, considering the momentous task at hand. I reckon it's not possible, I said, then glanced down and noticed, for the first time, that Abby's right hand was resting upon the knee of Clarence Harker's undead body, and where the phantom fingers pressed against his physical form, a gentle purple light did glow, steady and warm. I smiled. But when did something being impossible ever stop us, eh, Abby? She beamed, then turned back to Clarence. I told you, Clarence. We'll get you through this together. And then, who knows, maybe you'll find a reason to stay.