The path they were on came to a T, with a mass of trees beyond. The mists were thicker here, and Toby thought he could smell mud. They must be close to the river.
“Here’s where we go right,” he said.
They were moving into a more out-of-the-way section of the cemetery, where the tombstones were smaller and plots unkempt, with weeds and cheap vases of plastic flowers, some toppled over, spilling their sad contents. That was all right with Toby: less chance of coming across a caretaker or, worse, a cop.
“Sure you know where we’re going?” Brock asked.
“Yeah.”
They passed the bottle back and forth again. Clouds had covered the moon. Now the flashlight of the cell phone barely penetrated the murk.
“Think we’ll see a ghooooost?” Brock said with an exaggerated moan.
Here was the third path. It was almost invisible, covered in grass, and it wandered behind a row of tombs into a still more overgrown section of the cemetery.
“This is it,” Toby said with a confidence he didn’t feel.
The path was hard to follow. They had to step over a few fallen tombstones. The Bird Girl was supposed to be on the right, but there was nothing like that around: just more broken tombstones.
“Admit it,” said Brock. “We’re lost.”
Toby ignored him and kept going. The cemetery was huge and Toby hoped they could find their way out again.
They came to a marble tombstone with a winged angel striding along with one arm raised, splotched with lichen.
“Now, there’s a zombie angel if I ever saw one,” said Brock. “Man, this is a perfect place to drain the main vein.”
“Jesus, don’t do that, it’s a cemetery—” said Toby, but Brock was already giving the angel a good hosing down.
“We’re lost,” said Brock when he was finished. “And you know it.”
Toby, feeling the liquor kick in, shrugged. “Totally.”
Brock laughed. “What the fuck time is it?”
Toby checked his cell phone, momentarily blinding himself with the light. “Three eleven.”
Brock took another long swig of Southern Comfort, then began singing, using the bottle as a mic.
Please allow me to introduce myself
I’m a man of wealth and taste
His drunken words floated off into the darkness as he hammed it up, dancing around the graves like Mick Jagger. Suddenly he stopped. “You hear that?”
Toby said nothing. He, too, had heard something, like wind in the trees, and smelled a faint stench like burning rubber. But there was no wind. The air was deathly still. He held the light up as he looked around. Nothing. Brock resumed singing behind him.
Then Toby heard it again: or rather, felt it. It was a broad flutter, a stirring of air. Brock’s singing abruptly ceased. Toby spun around, but Brock had vanished.
“Brock? Where are you?”
There was no answer. Toby waited, holding his breath. And then, off in the darkness, he heard the shattering of the pint bottle.
“Brock!” he called, taking a step back, blood pounding in his ears. He had a sudden and profound sense of dread. “Cut it out, man, it’s not funny!” He held the cell phone light out in front of him, moving it this way and that, probing the darkness. All he could see were swirling mists.
And then he felt something warm and humid brush his face.
He stumbled back, waving the light. “Who’s there?”
But nothing was there. It must have been just a warm nighttime draft, nothing solid.
“Brock!” he yelled.
And now he heard a wet sound, a sort of gush, and then a hot, heavy burst of wind—no mere draft this time—struck his face. The foul smell grew much stronger: burning rubber, but now mixed with something like vomit or old socks. He screamed, stumbling backward, twisting away, and then turning to run. He felt the nightmare wind rush over him again, damp and horribly fetid, and then he tripped over a broken tombstone and fell hard, the cell phone flying out of his hand and off into the darkness. He struggled to his feet. Where was his phone? He looked around but could see no light, the darkness closing in upon him like a damp cloak. Something unlike anything he’d ever felt before suddenly brushed the side of his face and, with a scream, he broke into a blind run, clawing his way through undergrowth, stumbling and rising, choking and sobbing, the dark fastness of the old cemetery absorbing his cracked, shrill cries.
29
IT WAS JUST AFTER three in the morning when Constance Greene once again noiselessly ascended the stairs to the hotel’s fourth floor, then paused at the landing to look down the carpeted hallway. All the doors were closed, and everyone, it seemed, was asleep.