The Burning Cathedral of Summer E-Book

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

• Herausgeber: Wayne Kyle Spitzer
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

I wish I could say that when Benson and his gang showed up we drew on some previously unknown strength and kicked their Rich Kid asses; that we chased them all the way back to their fancy cars and tucked and rolled seats and kicked in their doors and fenders; although we really would do that later, not to them personally but to guys like them, in those dog days immediately after high school—when Orley had yet to join the Army and I’d yet to lose my mother, and L.A. was just a twinkle in Kevin’s eye.

Instead they caught us completely by surprise, knocking the tent over and rolling us up in it—like a giant snowball—after which they proceeded to kick and punch us mercilessly—before dragging us out by our feet and gloating over us in the sun: Like trolls, I remember thinking. Or Tolkien’s fucking orcs.

“Well now look at this,” said Benson, and paused to hawk up phlegm. “If it isn’t our little faggots—just cozied up like lemmings.” He pursed his lips and spat, causing green slime to splatter my cheek. “Our thievin’ little douche-flutes, just letting their freak flags fly.”

“And sitting on the rest of our gas money,” said Mickelson. “I can guarantee it.”

“Oh?” Benson raised his brow, as if he hadn’t thought of that. “You’re kind of the leader, Orley. Is that true?”

Orley just looked at him, his mouth bleeding, his cheek scuffed and bruised. At last he said, “We used it to pay your mother. She said that’s what triple-penetration costs.”

A couple of them laughed—Mickelson and Spelvin, I think—and Benson shot them a look. At length he said, “Funny—as always.” He paused, cocking his head. “You look thirsty. Buckey. Give me your cup.”

He held out his hand without looking and Buckey placed in it a large container, one of those 32-ounce super tankards you get at Zip Trip or 7-11, minus its lid. “The stink bugs are terrible this year, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Buckey here left this out in the sun too long,” He smelled the cup’s contents, wrinkling his nose—then motioned to Spelvin and Mickelson, who snatched Orley up by his arms and held him, even as two others grappled his head and began prying his mouth open. “These will probably tickle a little as they go down. A lot of them are still alive …”

Then he tipped the cup and its contents poured out onto Orley’s face, into his mouth—the soda spattering his cheeks, the little bugs scrambling helter-skelter over his lips—before he chocked once, suddenly, violently, and began chewing,  jerking his head free of their hands, smiling like a lunatic.

“Protein!” he exclaimed, and spit something out, a shell, maybe, or a leg. “Thank you, sir! May I have another!”

And then there was a commotion which sent a ripple through their ranks and caused them to stand apart—staring toward the lake, into the sun, where a lone figure stood slight as a wraith, its hair sopping wet, clinging to its face, its skinny arms held straight at its sides. 
 

Leseprobe

THE BURNING CATHEDRAL OF SUMMER

Stories of Darkness and Youth

by

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

Table of Contents

Title Page

The Burning Cathedral of Summer: Stories of Darkness and Youth

GOLEM

REIGNDEER

THAT THING WE KILLED

Copyright © 2019 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. All Rights Reserved. Published by Hobb’s End Books, a division of ACME Sprockets & Visions. Cover design Copyright © 2019 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. Please direct all inquiries to: [email protected]

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this book is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author. 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 recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

“Do it,” Orley urged, and though I didn’t look at him, I could feel those earnest brown eyes looking at me—eyes that always seemed just a little too intense, as if he might burst into tears or kick your ass at any moment.

“We made a pact, kid,” said Kevin, his voice low, his intonation world-weary—even though he was the same age as the rest of us—Han Solo to the core, at least for today. “Besides, this was your idea.”

I hesitated, the sharpened stick wavering, as the big, green caterpillar inched across the pavement. “I know.” I watched as the insect’s bulbous sections undulated, rising and falling, glistening in the sun. “It’s just that—”

“Here,” said Orley.

He took his own stick and used it to roll the caterpillar onto its back, where it curled into a fetal position and promptly froze, looking like a shrimp at the Chuck Wagon buffet, its multitude of little legs ceasing to move, its tiny antennae holding perfectly still.

“Okay, read that passage. The one about daring to approach the gods. You know, where it talks about blood and danger and becoming like gods ourselves. I saw you bookmark it.”

I looked at the book, The Encyclopedia of Death and Dying—which was lying atop my orange nylon schoolbag precisely where I’d left it—and stood, hefting the volume and cutting to the mark. The sun passed behind a cloud as I read, “Participants in blood sacrifice rituals often experience a sense of awe, danger, or exaltation, because they are daring to approach the gods who create, sustain, and destroy life. Therefore, morale is strengthened by the ritual killing, because the group has itself performed the godlike act of destruction—and is now capable of renewing its own existence.”

There was a slight breeze, which seemed to give the proceedings a funereal air, and I continued, “The underlying philosophical assumption is that life must pass through death.”

Orley said, “That’s it. Okay. So.” He looked from me to Kevin—earnestly, intensely—gripping the sharpened stick. “Considering what’s ahead of us ...” He paused, letting that sink in. “I think we all know what we have to do.” He added: “And why.”

We thought about it, the sun beating down, the breeze jostling our hair. The lake. The sword. The visitations in our dreams. We knew.

“So I say we get to it ... before the Valley Boys show up and it’s too late. Way too late.”

I looked at Kevin—who just looked at me with that Zen Master expression of his but seemed to confirm—before again crouching by the caterpillar. And then we all gripped our sticks—and prepared to do something really shitty.

––––––––

BY THE TIME the sun re-emerged the caterpillar had crawled across the sidewalk and into the grass—leaving us more than a little red-faced, not to mention uncertain as to what had just happened. Mostly, I think, we were just relieved.

“I couldn’t do it,” said Kevin wistfully, “Not with the kid here.”

I raised my eyebrows and looked at him, as if to say: Fucking what, dude?

He started to smile but caught it.

Orley elbowed me. “Hey, hey, why didn’t you?” He looked at me earnestly, calmly—as though he were all ears, all understanding. Then he deadpanned, “It was the gay thing, wasn’t it?”

And then they both laughed, falling about on the grass, even as I ignored them, thinking about it.

“I don’t know. It just ... it felt like ...” I looked at them in the sun. “Like we would be killing ourselves ... not the caterpillar. Or a part of ourselves. Like, a version of ourselves. The ideal version.”

They paused, looking at each other, processing this.

“So the gay thing,” said Orley, and held up his hand—which Kevin promptly high-fived.

I must have just stared at them as they bumped fists and swiped palms. “What’s that? Foreplay?”

And then they were both crawling toward me, sneering menacingly, and by the time the Valley Boys rumbled up in their chopped and channeled Chevy (as opposed to our learning permits and BMX bikes), everything had devolved into an out-of-control wrestling match; a match which ended only when Todd Benson, the leader of our bullies, shouted, “Are you faggots finished? Because there’s a lot of miles between here and the lake. And it’s getting late.”

“Jesus,” he said as we clambered into the backseat, the gear in our schoolbags clanking and thumping. “You think you brought enough?”

“Should have charged them by weight,” added Mickelson. He twisted in the front passenger seat and glared at us. “You runts planning on camping there or moving in?”

Just Mickelson. This was going to be easier than we thought.

“Listen,” snapped Orley. “Hearing you run your mouth wasn’t part of the—”

“Money,” said Benson, and reached over his shoulder. “Twenty now, twenty when we get there. As agreed.”

We all looked at each other.

At last we dug into our jeans and pulled out our bills—Orley and I, at any rate (I had a five left over from my allowance and he had some ones, tips from his job at the golf course). Kevin, meanwhile, had reached into his backpack and was fishing around for something, straining. It couldn’t have been easy; he hadn’t taken it off. None of us had.

A moment later he withdrew a purple Crown Royal bag and handed it to Mickelson, whose hand dropped from the weight of it. “Is this a fucking joke?”

“Nope. Seven dollars, counted and rolled.”

Mickelson just stared at him—as though he might jab him right then and there.

“Take it, asshole,” said Benson. He glanced at Kevin through the rear-view mirror. “It’s the money he’s been saving for Star Wars figures.”

Mickelson took the bag and appeared to set it on the floor before turning up the stereo and cocking his arm out the window, still shaking his head. Moments later, looking in the side-view mirror, he said, “There they are. Right on time.”

We all glanced at each other—before craning to look through the rear window and seeing Jud Spelvin’s rodded out Ford Falcon bearing down upon us, its chromed stacks glinting and its headlights shining, and its cab virtually crammed with pasty-faced seniors, at least one of whom I recognized as Buddy LaCombe—the third biggest asshole at Prosperous High. And, considering twenty was all we’d had and we planned to hit and run, this was a problem.

I looked at Benson through the rearview mirror and saw him smirk at our reaction.

“Awww,” he said, and pretended to pout. “Why so sad? You didn’t think it would just be us, did you?”

But nobody said anything, just stared straight ahead at the road, the road that would take us to Mirage Lake and the thing we’d left buried under the brush, as Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band sang Fire Lake and the sun crept toward the stark, blue horizon, and shafts of light pierced the trees— like spears through a sacrifice, I thought. Or sunlight through a cathedral.

––––––––

IT’S STILL HARD TO believe, what happened next. But then, it’s all hard to believe, especially now, almost 40 years later. Suffice it to say that we were only minutes from the lake when the deer ran out in front of us and caused Benson to hit the brakes— throwing us against the bucket seats (and Orley, who was in the middle, halfway into the forward cab) even as Spelvin’s Falcon rammed us from behind, knocking us right back. To this day I wonder if she—it, our Lady of the Lake, our Thing from Another World—had something to do with it. If she had reached out from her watery tomb and guided the animal into our path—to ensure its intended servants reached their destination. To guarantee its release after so many years trapped beneath the lake.