The Last Harvest(55)

“I’m sorry,” she says as she takes the photo away from me. “But you can’t be involved in this anymore.”

“Why? Because I’m on to you now? Because I’m messing up your fantasy world?”

“There’s been a disturbance at the church,” she says as she tacks the sheet back in place, like she can’t bear to look at it anymore. “I’m sorry, but the priests don’t trust you anymore.”

“That’s a good one. Is that why this mysterious exorcism hasn’t taken place?” I advance on her. She backs up against the wall, like she’s afraid of me. “Did you get your kicks with that little video I took for you? Was that fun making me take my clothes off at the church?”

“Clay, this isn’t a good time—”

“Maybe you’re just some pedophile. Am I going to find all this on the Internet someday?” I take a deep breath. “If you’re crazy, tell me now. I don’t even care. I just need to know.”

I hear a creaking noise coming from somewhere down the hall. I listen closely. It sounds like bedsprings.

“Is someone here?”

“I’m sorry, Clay, but I have … company.” She crosses her arms over her chest, over the flimsy silk robe.

It takes me a minute to understand what she’s saying. “Company?”

I back away from her and look around the room. The covered up wall. The candles lit on the coffee table. Two open beer bottles. A denim jacket hanging on the back of the chair.

“Like I said, it’s not really a good time.” She rewraps the silky robe tighter around her waist. The fabric clings to her body and I can tell she’s not wearing anything underneath. I think about the dream, and I feel so dirty and confused. She looks up at me and for a split second I wonder if she knows what’s going through my head.

She reaches out for me and I pull away.

“Just stay away from me. I’m done. Do you hear me? Done.”

“Clay,” she calls after me, but I don’t look back. I can’t.





38

I PARK front row, center. Fuck Tyler Neely.

Grabbing a work blanket from my truck, I head up to the scoring booth, the last safe haven I have. As I lie there staring at the cobwebs clinging to the damp corners, I try to clear my head. I try to remember what it was like before any of this happened. Before my dad went crazy—before the Devil supposedly came to town—but I’m drawing a blank.

I’m trying to make sense of all this, but I feel so stuck and confused.

Miss Granger tells me all this crap and then cuts me off. I mean, if this is so important to all of mankind, why’s she having “company”? Why haven’t they done the exorcism? I’ve given her every opportunity to come clean and she just keeps feeding me more bullshit. What does that even mean, “a disturbance at the church”? “The priests can’t trust me anymore”? They never even said a word to me … not in English. Come to think of it, how the hell do I even know they were priests? I feel completely insane right now. A part of me thinks I should just check myself into Oakmoor and be done with it, but what if they’re all just f*cking with me? What if this is all some elaborate scheme to get me to lose it? Maybe that’s exactly where they want me, where I can’t get in the way. All I know is that I can’t handle this on my own anymore.

I dig my phone out of my pocket and call Sheriff Ely before I have a chance to change my mind. There’s no answer. I leave a message. “It’s Clay. Clay Tate. We really need to talk. In person. If you get this, I’m at Midland High. On the field.”

As soon as I hang up, I feel a sense of relief. I know I’ll be exposing Miss Granger, exposing myself, but I need help with this.

I must’ve dozed off a little waiting for Sheriff to show or call back, because the next thing I know the sun’s starting to rise. I have to get out of here before the groundskeepers start showing up. Don’t want to add more fuel to the rumor mill around here.

I get up and stretch my arms above my head. As I stare out over the field, I catch a glimpse of a strange silhouette on the goal line, like something’s floating between the goalposts.

I know I can get in deep shit for this, but I crank up the stadium lights. The deep hum of ten thousand volts of electricity permeates the air, but that’s not what makes my hair stand on end.

Hovering between the goalposts is a person. I clench my eyes shut and open them again, hoping it’s just another dream or a vision, but the wind blows in my direction carrying the sharp metallic scent of blood, and it hits me like a Mack truck. This is real.

I run down to the field and stumble toward the goal line.

The turf is damp, dark red seeping into my white socks, like slow-spreading poison. A dull dripping sound forces me to look up. There, strung up in a tangled mass of ropes, is Ben Gillman, wearing his uniform, blood dripping from his helmet, piss-stained pants, his black eyes bulging. With his arms suspended to his sides, his feet dangling over the metal bar, I have a flash of the reverend at the Hell House, the priests staring down at me from the altar at All Saints, the crucifixes lining Miss Granger’s bedroom, my father walking into the wheat.

Ben Gillman looks like he’s been crucified. A surge of bile races up my throat, my eyes are blurry with tears, but I can’t unsee it.