As an Old Memory
AS AN OLD MEMORY
By Vic Kerry
A Macabre Ink Production
Macabre Ink is an imprint of Crossroad Press
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Smashwords edition published at Smashwords by Crossroad Press
Digital Edition Copyright © 2020 Vic Kerry
ISBN: ePub Digital Edition - 978-1-951510-46-6
ISBN: Trade Paperback - 978-1-951510-49-7
LICENSE NOTES
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Meet the Author
Vic Kerry lives in Alabama with his wife, four dogs, and two cats. He has an MFA in writing popular fiction from Seton Hill University and is haunted by the ghost of his dearly departed Lovecraft-loving cat, Possum H. Puss Lovecraff. You can like him or friend him on Facebook or stalk him through Twitter and Instagram.
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Dedication
This book if for all those kids who came of age and lost their innocence in the 1990s, especially a group of fifty-odd adolescents that made up the Oakman High School class of 1997. Also, this is for Aunt Dale, who came of age in the 1950s. Finally, I dedicated this book to the memory of Uncle Al. He never got to read any of my books, but I think he would have liked them.
Acknowledgements
There is a book in this story that is an essential plot point. It’s called Jeffrey Presents Thirteen More Modern Southern Ghosts, which is written by Kathryn Tucker Windham. There really isn’t a book called this, although Mrs. Windham was a very real person who wrote several “real” ghost story books set throughout the South, with two volumes about Alabama ghosts in particular. Anyone of a certain age who grew up in Alabama has read those volumes numerous times and slept with the lights on after every single read. I never met Mrs. Windham. She had passed away by the time I wrote this book, but there was no way a ghost story set in Alabama with kids that grew up with her books as characters couldn’t feature her or her resident ghost Jeffrey. Thank you, Mrs. Windham, for all the chills and thrills you’ve given me and every other Alabama child since Thirteen Alabama Ghosts and Jeffrey was published.
I need to thank some other people. Firstly, thanks to the people at Crossroad Press and all its imprints, especially including the editors and publishers. I’d also like to thank Don D’Auria, who bought this book for Samhain Publishing, even though it got caught up in the shutting down of the publishing house.
Much of the psychiatric information used in this story came from Dr. Syed Aftab. I give him a lot of thanks. Additional psychiatric information came from other staff psychiatrists and long-time nursing staff of the Behavioral Medicine Unit. Some people let me kill them in this story, which was nice of them to do. Here’s to Debbie L., Sue P., Sheila C., and Connie I. I thoroughly enjoyed killing some of you (You know who you are *cough* Sheila.)
As always, a big thanks to my wife Lauren, who reads everything first to tell me if it sucks or not. Merci, to Laura who beta reads and edits for me. Thanks to my other family members who express interest in my work and encourage me to keep going. Thanks to the readers. I hope you like(d) this one.
Lastly, a huge thank you to all the awesome alternative rock bands from the 1990s. Your songs were the soundtrack of writing this book. Without them, I would have never gotten through this.
Darkly,
Vic Kerry
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Prologue
1956
The evening before Homecoming
Charlotte fumbled an armful of crepe paper rolls as she walked into the gymnasium. The dance committee had run out of streamers and sent her to the five-and-ten to get some more. She hoped they wouldn’t be angry because the store was out of the school colors. Apparently lots of people had put a run on the place making floats for the parade. The closest that old man Shannon, the five-and-ten owner, had to the school colors were baby blue and gray. They’d work. There wasn’t that much left to decorate anyway. If they put those streamers near the back of the basketball court, no one would notice.
The heavy metal door into the lobby was hard to open with her hands full. She negotiated it using her feet and elbows. A few of the rolls of gray paper nearly spilled from her arms. She juggled them and kept everything in place as she made it into the lobby. The door closed hard, leaving the lobby dim. The only light was what streamed in from the diamond-shaped windows in the swinging wooden doors leading to the basketball court. Charlotte hollered for help. One of the guys would help her. Boys always bent over backward to help her. She’d coerced several of the guys to join the dance committee.
No one came. She huffed and headed into the basketball court, blaming the lack of help on the fact that music blasted over the loudspeaker. Tommy Jones had hooked that up for them. He was savvy when it came to hi-fis.
Charlotte gave the swinging doors a push with her hips, and they swung open. She stared up at the rafters as she turned around, searching for the best place to hang the new off-colored streamers.
“Don’t jump all over me, but this is all old man Shannon had. We can hang them in the dark corners,” she said, spying those corners. When no one answered her, she shouted to drown out “Sh-Boom” by the Crew Cuts playing on the record player. “Guys?”
When she looked down, al
l she saw was red. Blood covered every square inch of the polished wooden floor. She had waded into it without realizing it. The baby blue and gray rolls of paper toppled out of her hands and hit the floor. The rolls soaked up the horrible red flood. A overload of sensation overtook her, starting as a tingle at the base of her neck, turning bitter in her mouth, roaring through ears like heavy static and engulfing her vision in a velvet blackness. Charlotte crumpled to the ground. Her hair soaked up blood like the crepe paper as the Crew Cuts song faded out into a hiss of empty vinyl grooves.
Chapter One
1996
Alan McAdams studied the changes that the head coach had made to the football team’s playbook over the weekend. He looked up after someone tapped on his office’s doorjamb. His son Joshua stood framed in the doorway, one strap of his backpack resting on his shoulder. Alan had harped on his son many times to wear both straps or he’d injure his shoulder, but the boy had too much of his old man in him. He’d never listened about those kinds of things, so why would his son? You pay for your raising, as they said.
“What’cha need?” Josh asked.
“Coach called an extra-long emergency practice today,” Alan said.
“Emergency practice?”
“I know, but apparently he got a hold of some new film of the team we’re playing for Homecoming. Apparently, they aren’t as bad as we thought when the school booked them. According to him, they’re actually pretty awesome. I’m letting you know because we rode together.”
“Correction, you rode with me. Do you want me to pick you up after the practice?”
“No, I want you to leave me your keys. I’ve got no idea how long this will take, and I don’t want to wait for you to answer the phone and drive back here. I’m already hungry.”
“Come on; it’s my car, and I was going to give Jessica a ride home,” Josh whined.
“It may be your car, but I’m paying for it, so keys.” Alan held out his hand.
Josh dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his keys. He tossed them to Alan.
“I guess I’ll tell Jessica we’re walking.”
Alan put the keys in his desk drawer and brought out a white paper sack with a gold pestle and mortar logo on it. The top was folded and stapled closed. He tossed it to his son, who fumbled the catch but secured the prescriptions. Josh should’ve played football; he would’ve been a decent receiver.
“Those are for your Aunt Charlotte. Drop them off on your way home.”
“It’s out of the way,” Josh said.
“Only a couple of blocks. The exercise will do you good. It won’t be that long until baseball season starts, and you’re looking a little out of shape.”
His son gave him the most sarcastic look that any teenager had ever given him. Without another word, Josh turned and walked away.
The final bell rang, echoing through the weight room. Alan got up from behind his desk and grabbed his clipboard with the new plays the team would practice. Coach Turnbuckle wanted everyone in the screening room by 3:15. The boys would be coming in from the field. He could already hear the first ones entering. It wouldn’t be long until he’d smelled the first one. They were in the middle of an Indian summer, and it was particularly hot and humid today.
The telephone rang as he rounded the corner into the locker area. He stopped and looked over his shoulder. Only three people would call him at that time of day. He’d just talked to Josh, and his wife would be in her car on the way home by now. It had to be his dad. Alan hurried back and grabbed the receiver on the fourth ring. If the fifth had echoed out, he would’ve been too late. His father always hung up after the fifth ring.
“Hello,” he said.
“Son, it’s your dad.”
“What do you need? I’ve got to get to practice.”
“I think I need to go back to that doctor.”
“What doctor, Dad? You’ve got several of them.”
“The one that handles my problem.”
His dad whispered the last word like someone would hear. For a few months, his dad had been under treatment for Parkinson’s disease. Things weren’t going the best, and his dad was embarrassed about it.
“He’s a specialist. I don’t know if you can get an appointment. Plus, I can’t miss tomorrow. I’m giving a test in every class.”
“You teach health and history. No one is going to care,” his dad said. “I need to see that doc.”
“Dad, if you’re shaking too much, he told you to get more rest. You’re probably too tired.”
“That ain’t it.”
“What is it? I don’t have time for a game of twenty questions,” Alan watched the clock on the wall tick closer to 3:15. Coach Turnbuckle would jump him hard if he walked in a second late. He’d done it before.
“I don’t want to talk about this over the phone. Come by when you’re done with practice. We can talk then.”
“It might be late.”
“That’s fine, swing by Hardee’s and get us something to eat.”
“All right. I’ll be there when I can get there.”
His dad hung up the phone without saying another word. Alan looked at the wall clock. He had enough time to leave a message on his home answering machine to tell Diane he wouldn’t be eating supper at home. He hated that too, because it was pork chop night. It would be another week before he’d get them again. His two boys would assure that he wouldn’t have any leftovers for lunch tomorrow.
“Come on, Dad.” Thomas, his younger son, poked his curly auburn head into the office. “You’re going to be late.”
Alan got up from his desk and followed his son through the locker room into the cramped film room. The whole team sat there, waiting for the show to start. The smell of the place overwhelmed him. He’d been helping coach the football team for a while now, but that many sweaty boys in one room could be overwhelming. It was bad enough when he had to haul Thomas home after practice when he hadn’t showered in the field house.
“When we finish this evening, you’ll need to walk home or catch a ride with one of your friends,” Alan whispered to his son.
“How come? You kept the car, right?” Thomas whispered back.
“Yeah, but I’ve to go check on your grandfather after this. I might not get home until late.”
“Can I have your pork chop?” Thomas asked.
“I assumed I didn’t have a choice in that decision, but thanks for asking.”
He turned his attention to the film playing on the television at the front of the room. Their Homecoming opponents looked like a college team. They ran plays Alan didn’t think high school students were capable of doing. He imagined the Blue Raiders would get massacred.
“They’re going to kill us,” Jonathan Smith said to Garret Miller, who sat beside him.
“Good thing we’re having a massacre dance instead of a Homecoming dance,” Garret said back.
“You two want to stop the chitchat?” Coach Turnbuckle said. “Watch this film without any more commentary, Statler and Waldorf, or you’ll be running bleachers until you Gonzo yourself.”
The two players turned back to the video. Alan wanted to grab them both and grill them about their comment. The school had shot down the student proposal to have a Homecoming dance themed around the massacre. Apparently, some students were still planning one.
“What do you know about the Homecoming dance?” he whispered to Thomas.
“It’s going to be at the old gym,” his son answered back.
“Is it going to be themed about the massacre?”
“I don’t know.” Thomas pushed on Alan. “Be quiet. I’m already going to have to walk home. I don’t want have to run bleachers too.”
The sack of medicines rattled as Josh walked. He was glad that he wasn’t trying to sneak up on someone, because he’d already have given away his position. Jessica walked beside him. She hadn’t been upset that they had to walk home, although she did insist this meant he would have to drive her home twice
more to make up for it. Josh didn’t mind in the least. Since she transferred at the beginning of the school year, all Josh wanted to do was drive her home every day, and maybe a few other things.
They turned the corner of Second Avenue and Cherry Street. His Aunt Charlotte’s house was a block away.
“There are a few things I need to tell you about Aunt Charlotte before we get there,” Josh said, a little quicker than he’d wanted.
Jessica laughed at his blurted statement. “I think we’ve got time. You don’t have to rush it.”
He composed himself. One of the things he worried about was people meeting his aunt and his grandfather. Fortunately, he and Jessica could cross the grandfather bridge at another time.
“My aunt is... different,” Josh didn’t want to call her crazy, but that would be the most appropriate word.
“Everyone’s a little different.”
“No, I mean very different. These medicines are for mental stuff.”
“You mean she’s crazy,” Jessica said.
“We usually don’t call her that, but, yeah.”
“What do you mean? Does she hear voices, or does she go over the edge like Bette Davis in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?”
“She doesn’t hear things, and I have no idea who Bette Davis is. I can’t describe her. You’ll have to see.”
Jessica gave him a strange look as they crossed Third Avenue. “You don’t know who Bette Davis is? We’ll have to change that. I’ve got her movies on tape. You’ll love it.”
“Are they in black and white?” Josh asked as they stopped in front of a small white house with a green and yellow striped metal awning over a screened in porch.
“Some of them, but they’re creepy, at least the ones I’ve watched.”
“Good.” Josh hated creepy movies, but if Jessica liked creepy stuff, she was about to see it in person.
He walked up the sidewalk and rang the bell beside the screen door. The hook and eye loop latch was in place. His Aunt Charlotte always kept the doors locked even though Pinehurst had very little crime, and she terrified almost everyone.