Free Ghoul by Brian Keene

Timmy.”
    Timmy responded with what could only be described as a garbled squawk.
    “What's up, Katie?” Doug asked.
    “They sent me down here to find you guys,” she explained. “The funeral is getting ready to start.”
    “Oh.”
    Timmy's apprehension returned at the thought of sitting in the front pew, staring at his grandfather's not-sleeping corpse while Katie's father droned on about ashes and dust and walking through the valley of the shadow of death. "We'll be right up."
    “I'm sorry about your Grandpa, Timmy. He was a nice man.”
    Doug's Hot Wheels car made scratching noises in the background. Barry cleared his throat and loosened his tie.
    Timmy realized Katie was staring at him, and that he hadn't responded.
    “Thanks.” He searched for something else to say to her before she left, anxious to keep the conversation going for just a little longer. "I'm sorry to hear about your sister. I hope she's okay."
    “Yeah, me too. I miss her.”
    “Do you guys know where she went?”
    Katie's voice grew quieter. "No. Mom and Dad are really worried. She got in a fight with Dad before she left the house. He didn't want her going out with Pat. She did anyway. The township and state police said they'd tell us when they heard something, but that's about all."
    “Well, I'm sorry,” Timmy said again, and meant it.
    “So am I.” She smiled again, but this time it wasn't quite so sad. Their eyes lingered for a moment. Then Katie blushed and turned away.
    They heard her shoes clomping up the stairs two at a time.
    Timmy's face and ears were scarlet.
    “You like her,” Barry teased, shoving him playfully.
    Grinning, Timmy pushed him back. “Screw you. I do not.”
    “Why not? She's cute, man.”
    Timmy's stomach sank. Did Barry like Katie, too? He'd said hi to her first, while Timmy was still struggling to talk. And if so, did Katie like Barry more than she liked him?
    “Not as cute as her sister, though,” Barry added quickly, as if sensing his friend's thoughts.
    Doug stood up and slipped the toy car into his pants pocket. “I guess we better go upstairs.”
    “Yeah,” Timmy sighed. “I guess we better.”
    Then he thought of his grandpa again, and started crying.
    It was starting to sink in that he'd never see him, talk to him, or hear his voice again. Timmy remembered the last time he'd seen him, Saturday morning when they'd been watching cartoons together. He'd hugged him good-bye and then gone out to play with Doug. He'd been anxious to go outside and enjoy his summer vacation. If only he 'd known then what he knew now. He would have stayed behind.
    Summers were endless. Life was not.
    He was still weeping when he took a seat between his parents in the front pew, and when Reverend Moore began the service.
    “Friends, would you please bow your heads in prayer.” The preacher's voice was soft, and the sobs echoed over it.
    The tears kept falling, and Timmy wondered if they'd ever stop.
    They did stop, though, after the service, when the coffin was carried to the hearse.
    The sudden lack of tears surprised him, and for a moment, Timmy felt guilty. The emotions drained from his body as the tears dried up. Timmy felt empty. Hollow. He watched the pallbearers--his father among them, tears streaming down his face --load his grandfather's casket into the back of the hearse and experienced only a numb sense of finality.
    The rain had stopped, too. Beams of sunlight peeked through the dissipating cloud cover. White and yellow butterflies played in the puddles. Sluggish earthworms, forced topside by the rains, crawled and squirmed on the blacktop.
    The mourners walked slowly along behind the hearse, following it down the cemetery's middle road. They talked softly among themselves, murmuring gossip that had nothing to do with the deceased; President Reagan and William Casey and Ed Meese, the godless Communists, the godly Pat Robertson, who was going to see the Charlie Daniels Band at this year's York Fair, what had