Читать книгу Shallow Graves - Rev. Goat Carson - Страница 7

HIS CORPSE WAS COLD, gray, split open down the middle from the sternum to the pelvis. Jimmy didn’t like the way he looked. He examined the empty flaps of skin left by the coroner’s incision, the hollow cave where his intestines, heart, lungs, stomach, liver, kidneys – in short, his guts, had been. Jimmy’s spirit hand touched the lifeless hand of Jimmy’s corpse. Spirit tears, like tiny jewels, fell from his spirit cheeks onto the tattered flesh. The corpse was covered with wounds. He had been shot twice, stabbed over one hundred and fifty times but he still would not die. At last, they held his fighting body to the ground and drove a rat-tail file through his skull. The sound of that terrible hammer and the pain of that ugly file, creeping blow by blow through his sputtering brain, began ringing in his spirit ears. He touched the hole in the center of his body’s forehead and screamed a silent spirit scream until the corpse rattled and shook the metal table it lay upon. It sat blot upright, jaw open, all its wounds spitting cold, black blood. It was time for the spirit to move on, to leave its shaking corpse to the elements of corruption and spin howling into the night in search of revenge.

Chris Boone would wake up, perhaps in a few moments. He would be clammy wet with sweat and fear. Jimmy’s ghost would sit beside his bed and send cold chills up his barely conscious spine.

I had just come back from a Halloween party up in the Hollywood Hills, all done up in my special wolfman make-up. Steaks, in her Betty Boop outfit, had actually dumped her chic date at the party and was sprawled out on my couch chugging down the last of my tequila. It looked like I was finally gonna’ find out if New York stayed open all night. We had just decided to leave our costumes on when the phone rang. It had to be bad news. It was. Chris Boone had just seen a ghost.

“You’ve just seen a what?”

“I’ve just seen the Rabbit.”

“You mean Jimmy, from Texas—He’s been dead over five years.”

“Can you come over? I can still feel his presence. The cats are going crazy.”

Steaks was actually turned on by the prospect of seeing a real ghost on Halloween. We jumped in my ragged M.G. and headed up Wilshire to see Chris Boone. I was glad to have her company even though I didn’t share her frisky mood. Jimmy was the last chapter of my book. He had died a grisly death only a few weeks after Chris had married Kathy in the hot Texas summer of ’73. It was in his memory I’d made the trek to L.A. Maybe he was angry that I had not done his memory justice, but what did he have against Chris. The pimply-faced guard looked askance at the wolfman and Betty Boop driving up to his guard box at four in the morning. Usually just the sight of my battered car was enough to send him into a stuttering fit. Tonight it took him a full five minutes to get our names out of his mouth and into the telephone. As we pulled into the driveway of the White house I noticed the flickering of candlelight coming from the kitchen of the otherwise dark house. Considering how we were dressed and Chris’ current state of mind I led Steaks up the long brick path to the front door and rang the bell. Chris was still freaked a bit when he answered the door, candle in hand.

“What’s the matter, you blow a fuse?”

He motioned for silence, his finger to his lips.

“Can you feel him?” He whispered as he ushered us into the great entrance hall of the mansion.

Our footsteps echoed through the empty house as Chris led us past the dark dining room towards the kitchen. The cats yowled and hissed unseen from the corners and under the chairs, moving like shadows in the candlelight. It must be my outfit.

In the kitchen Chris had arranged thirteen candles in a circle on the kitchen table. In the center of the circle was a large manila envelope with the words Common Poets written on it with black magic marker— my book.

We sat down at the table. I felt a chill as I picked up the envelope and opened it. Rabbit’s picture was on top of the stack of photos and poems. I looked at Chris across the table; he seemed to shiver. Steaks leaned over and looked at the picture.

“That’s him isn’t it? That’s the ghost.”

“Yeah, that’s the ghost.”

I handed Steaks the picture of Jimmy. Chris just kept staring at me. I shook my head and shifted through the stack of photos and poems, words and images I thought I would never see again. Steaks held the picture against her breast and closed her eyes.

“I’m gonna’ see if I can feel his presence. You guys be quiet.”

I stuffed the pictures and pages back into the envelope and lay it solemnly back in the center of the circle. Chris shoved the envelope back towards me.

“Take it, it’s yours.”

“What’s the angle?”

“Sssssh! I’m getting a vibration.”

I looked at Steaks; she was trembling.

“He’s here, in this room.”

Chris paled and turned his head from side to side, cautiously inspecting the room. I don’t know, maybe it was the booze or my book suddenly appearing, wrapped in the bloody hands of a dead friend, but the whole scene Chris Boone and the wolfman sitting around a circle of candles waiting for Betty Boop to trance channel the Rabbit—it was starting to piss me off.

“Is this what you wanted to do, give me my book back? Is that it?”

Steaks eyes popped open.

“I can’t do this if you guys don’t shut up!”

Chris slumped back in his chair, frazzled, nervous.

“Yeah, that’s it. Take it and go.”

I grabbed the envelope and stood up. Steaks looked at Chris then back at me.

“Well, you ruined it. I was just starting to pick up on him.”

“Yeah, what’d you pick up?”

“Rage.”