Free Ghoul by Brian Keene Page A

happened on last week's episode of Hill Street Blues, how Charlie Pitts had been able to afford that big new satellite television dish when he was still on disability, and the twelve point buck that Elliott Ramsey had poached out of season in Mr. Brown's orchard, and whether or not the Orioles would make it to the World Series (even though they lived in Pennsylvania, Southern York County was close enough to the Maryland state border that most of the residents rooted for Baltimore 's teams). Timmy felt like hollering at everybody to shut up, but he didn't. Instead, he tried to ignore the whispers, and looked down over the hill. Far below, in the old part of the cemetery, he noticed again that another gravestone had sunken down into the ground. He'd seen two more like that the day Doug unveiled the map-- a day that seemed like an eternity ago, even though it had been less than a week.
    It was hard to tell through the drizzle, but it looked like in addition to the sinking grave markers, a few more headstones might have fallen over onto the grass, too.
    Barry's dad was letting the cemetery fall into disrepair. Despite the man's misgivings, it was unlike him. Even if he was laid up drunk somewhere, he'd crack the whip, making sure his son covered for him. Maybe he just didn 't have enough time to keep up with the sinking tombstones.
    The funeral procession halted. The coffin was unloaded from the hearse while the crowd circled the open grave. Timmy's breath caught in his throat.
    Barry and his father had dug the grave that morning. The top of the hole was framed with a brass rail and covered with a white cloth. A mound of fresh, reddish, clay-like dirt lay piled to one side, along with squares of sod. Deep backhoe tracks marked the grass, but Clark Smeltzer had moved the machine back into the utility shed so that it wouldn't loom over the service.
    This was it, his grandfather's final resting place-- a long, rectangular hole in the ground, right next to his grandmother. Now, every time Timmy came here to play, they'd both be nearby. The morbid strangeness of it all was not lost on him. This was both his playground and his grandparents'burial ground. If not for the Dugout and the fierce pride he took in its construction, he'd have suggested to Barry and Doug that they'd been right before, and maybe they should play in Bowman's Woods more often, or settle for a tree house somewhere else.
    After the graveside portion of the service, Timmy trudged home with his parents.
    They walked in silence, not speaking, emotionally and physically exhausted.
    For the first time in his life, Timmy felt two new sensations.
    He felt old.
    And he felt mortal--even more now than when he did playing among the graves of kids his own age.
    He didn't at all like feeling either one.
    Grandpa wasn't sleeping. He was dead. That was that. Sooner or later, everybody died.
    And one day, it would be his turn.
    The cemetery had a new permanent resident.
    After everyone else went home, Barry and his father went back to their house, changed from their suits into work clothes, and then returned to the grave. Slowly, they lowered Dane Graco's coffin into the hole via a winch rope and pulley system. The casket was heavy, and Barry's arms and back ached afterward. His father didn't allow him to take a break once the coffin rested at the bottom of the grave. Instead, Barry began shoveling dirt back into the hole while his father retrieved the backhoe.
    The clouds had finally cleared, and the temperature rose. It was hard, sweaty work, and Barry was glad that evening was drawing closer. It would have been even hotter had the sun been in the sky, rather than setting on the horizon. His calloused hands blistered beneath his leather work gloves.
    Barry hated this; hated working for his father, slaving away every day, mowing and digging and raking while his friends enjoyed the summer. Nobody else's fathers made them work like this. Randy Graco didn 't force Timmy to go to the