Zombie Raccoons & Killer Bunnies Read online

  During a commercial, Kevin had turned to his dad. “I don’t like ghosts. They’re creepy.”

  His dad put his arm around Kevin’s shoulders and gave his son a gentle squeeze. “Yeah, that skeleton was scary, huh? But you know, I think there’s something nice about ghosts, too. At least, about the idea of them. If you ever saw one, then you’d know that spirits were real, and that there’s something more to life than just physical existence.”

  Kevin hadn’t had any idea what his father was talking about, so he didn’t say anything. But he understood now that his dad had already been sick and knew that he was going to die. He also understood what his father had been talking about. He didn’t know if there was anything like a heaven for him to go to once he was gone. He’d been scared.

  That was why Kevin hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the groundhog. The damned thing was weird, no doubt about that, but if it was supernatural somehow, that meant that there was more to life than most people thought, that magical things could happen. The groundhog wasn’t a good thing, Kevin was sure of that, but if bad magical things were real, good ones had to be too, right? He remembered something else his father had once said.

  Where’s there’s shadow, there has to be light.

  Kevin was headed back to the graveyard to see if he could find that light, even just a hint of it. Because if he could . . . it meant that his father was maybe still alive somewhere, and not just a body sealed inside a coffin covered with dirt.

  This time when Kevin reached the graveyard gate, he put down his bike’s kickstand and climbed off. He walked up to the gate, shivering despite the temperature. He expected to see the groundhog come running toward him across the uneven grass, launch itself at the gate, claws scrabbling in the air as it tried to grab hold of him, curved flat teeth gnashing, eager to take a chunk out of his skin, tear away flesh to reveal the gleaming white bone beneath. Hard, fresh, young bone, so good for gnawing . . .

  But there was nothing. The graveyard was empty.

  For a moment Kevin considered getting back on his bike and leaving. Instead, he pushed open the gate, which made no sound as it moved, and walked inside. He expected to experience some sort of eerie feeling—a chill rippling down his spine, maybe a sense that he was being watched. But he felt nothing beyond the heat of the day and a slight breeze that moved the air around without cooling things off. Well, he was here. Might as well take a look.

  He started walking toward the spot where he’d seen the groundhog sitting.

  He saw the hole long before he reached it. It was so big, he was surprised he hadn’t seen it from the road. It was located only a few feet from the graveyard’s southern wall, and the ground here was mostly bare, with only patches of dry, dead grass. The edges of the hole were rounded and worn smooth from years of use. How old could the groundhog be? Kevin had looked up groundhogs in an encyclopedia at the school library, and according to what he’d read, the animals usually lived two to three years in the wild, but they could live as much as six years. But somehow the hole looked older, much older, as if it had predated the burial ground, a natural formation that had been here since long before any humans had ever set foot upon the continent. It was a crazy thought, of course, but he couldn’t shake it.

  Kevin walked up to the edge of the hole and peered down. It measured nearly three feet across, he estimated, and there was no telling how far down it went. He couldn’t see further than a few inches down. After that, the dry earth of its walls gave way to inky shadow that seemed so thick Kevin wondered if a beam of direct light would penetrate it. He wished he’d thought to bring a flashlight. Then he could’ve checked for himself. He was thinking about riding home to get one when he felt cool air emanate from the hole. It wasn’t a breeze, exactly; more like air leisurely wafting forth from somewhere far away. It was cool and musty-smelling, kind of like a basement but more so. A basement built deep within the earth. Miles deep. Miles upon miles. A soft sound accompanied the air, kind of like the hush of ocean waves breaking on a distant shore. No, more like the whispering of voices. Hundreds, maybe thousands. So soft that Kevin could almost but not quite make out the words.

  He lost track of time as he stood there, looking down into the darkness, listening to the voices as they continued whispering, more urgent now, as if they were desperate to impart a message to him, but whatever it was, he wasn’t getting it. Maybe if he stepped closer to the hole, leaned down, cocked his head to the side so that his ear was nearer the source of the whispering . . .

  He got as far as sliding one foot forward when he heard a rustling in the grass off to this right. He snapped out of his trance and turned in time to see the giant groundhog running toward him. He had no idea where the creature had been hiding, but that wasn’t important now. All that mattered was the damned thing was attacking. The voices grew louder then, and Kevin thought he might have been able to make out what they were saying, but he was too terrified by the creature coming toward him. He screamed, his voice drowning out the whispers, and he whirled around and ran toward the Quaker meeting house. He didn’t look back to see if the groundhog pursued. He didn’t have to.

  He reached the house, grabbed the metal handle bolted to the front door, and prayed it was unlocked. It was. He ran inside, slammed the door shut behind him, and dropped to the floor. He pressed his back against the door just as the groundhog slammed into the other side with a heavy thump. Kevin sat there, listening as the groundhog began scratching at the wood, tears streaming down his face, and he begged the creature to go away and leave him alone. But the scratching didn’t stop. It continued on and on . . .

  Adult Kevin walked up to the groundhog. The damned thing was even larger than he remembered. He didn’t question whether it was the same creature. Of course it was. The beast sat only a couple feet from its lair. The hole looked the same as it had the last time he’d seen it, with the exception of the headstones scattered about. After he’d escaped the groundhog by breaking one of the meeting house’s windows, climbing through, and running like hell for his bike, Kevin had returned to the graveyard one last time. He’d knocked down some of the older, smaller headstones—ones he felt confident he could carry—and brought them over to the hole. He tossed them inside, wedging them into the hole, stomping on them to pack them down tight. He’d known it wouldn’t stop the creature, which he’d decided might look like a groundhog but was undoubtedly something else, but he had to do it, if for no other reason than he could pretend that he’d stopped the thing. He’d expected the beast to come after him at any moment, but the groundhog didn’t show, and he’d left the graveyard safely, telling himself that he’d sealed the creature off from the world and no one need ever fear it again. He’d known even then that it was bullshit, but it was bullshit he needed to believe.

  Now, four decades later, he walked up to the groundhog and crouched in a squatting position in front of it. The creature made no move against him, nor did it seemed fearful. It continued gnawing on its bone as it regarded him with its wet black stare. Kevin stared back, gazing deep into the darkness within those eyes, and for a few moments he did nothing more. But eventually he began speaking in a soft, tired voice.

  “My daughter Nancy graduated high school today. I didn’t stay for her party, though. I . . . Her mother and I divorced when she was little, and Nancy’s been uncomfortable around me ever since. Can’t say as I blame her. I inherited my mother’s less-than-sunny disposition, and I’ve battled depression all my life. And I don’t think I ever recovered from the trauma of losing my father so young. At least, that’s what all the therapists I’ve seen over the years tell me. It’s been so hard for me. I can barely bring myself to talk with other people, and I can barely get out of bed in the morning. Medicine doesn’t help. Just makes me groggier. But that’s not the worst of it. A few months ago, I found out that I inherited something from my father, too. His cancer.”

  The groundhog remained motionless, but it stopped chewing the bone, and Kevin had the imp
ression that it was paying attention to him. What’s more, he had the feeling that it understood his words.

  “No one knows. I didn’t tell anyone at work. Didn’t tell my ex-wife or Nancy. I wasn’t planning on doing anything about it. Doctor says there’s nothing to do. But as I was driving home from the graduation ceremony, I passed the highway exit for my hometown and remembered this place. Remembered you. So I turned around, got off the highway, and came here.”

  The groundhog cocked its head slightly to one side.

  “To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure why I came here. Maybe I’m hoping that this time I’ll finally find out whether there’s anything beyond this life or not. Or maybe I’m just hoping that you’ll make a fast end of me and spare me weeks of painfully withering away to nothing in a hospice.” He paused. “I guess the real reason I’m here comes down to one thing: I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

  The groundhog stared at him for a long time, and Kevin stared back, sweat rolling down the sides of his face and the back of his neck. He wondered if he’d try to run this time if the groundhog attacked, or if he’d just stand here and let the creature do what it would to him.

  Finally, the groundhog dropped the bone to the grass and fell forward onto all fours. Kevin’s stomach clenched in anticipation of the beast running toward him, but he held his ground. Whatever was to come within the next few seconds, Kevin had at least answered one question for himself: he wasn’t going to run.

  The groundhog looked at him a moment longer, as if it were trying to come to decision of its own. Then it slowly turned away and began walking toward its hole. When it reached the edge, it stopped and turned back to look at Kevin, and then it crawled in, its large, furry body sliding into the opening with ease. And then it was gone.

  Kevin stood there for a moment, trying to understand what had just happened. When he’d been a child, the groundhog had attacked, clearly trying to kill him. But this time it hadn’t displayed even a hint of aggression. He was sure it was the same creature, no matter how impossible that might be, so why hadn’t it come after him this time? Was he too large to be considered prey now? Too old? And then it came to him. It was neither of those things. The creature hadn’t attacked him because there was no reason to. He was for all intents and purposes already dead, both inside and out. He was no longer an intruder to be run off. He belonged here.

  Kevin walked over to the edge of the hole, which was larger now, to accommodate the groundhog’s increased bulk, and peered into the darkness within. He felt the same cool air on his face as he had when he was ten, smelled the same basementy odor, heard the same soft whispers. Only this time, he understood their message clearly. It was an invitation.

  Kevin thought it over for a moment. Then he removed his suit jacket, folded it neatly, and lay it on the ground next to the hole. Then he got down on his hands and knees and followed the groundhog into darkness. As he made his descent—fingers clawing moist soil, hard-shelled insects scuttling through his sweaty hair and beginning to crawl beneath his damp clothing—Kevin realized that his father had been wrong about one thing. Where there was shadow, there wasn’t always light.

  Sometimes there was just deeper shadow.

  WATCHING

  By Carrie Vaughn

  Carrie Vaughn is the author of a series of novels about a werewolf named Kitty who hosts a talk radio show, which now spans six volumes, including Kitty Takes a Holiday and Kitty and the Silver Bullet. She’s also published over thirty short stories in magazines such as Weird Tales and Realms of Fantasy. She has a masters in English literature and lives in Boulder, Colorado, where she seems to be collecting hobbies. For more information see www.carrievaughn. com.

  Paul stood in the middle of St. Mark’s Square in Venice, arms limp at his sides, holding a small velvet jewelry box containing a diamond solitaire ring. His engagement ring. Her engagement ring, but she was walking away from him. No, running, pigeons scattering, flapping in her wake. Her last words to him: I’m sorry.

  Right before that she’d explained that she’d been seeing someone else but hadn’t had the heart to tell him because the trip had already been planned, and she should have told him, but she wasn’t expecting this. And this moment he’d been dreaming about for months crashed to pieces. She was going to change her plane ticket and try to get a flight back home this evening. He could do what he wanted. And one of the most beautiful cities in the world turned to a hazy muddle in his eyes.

  Mostly, he wondered why he hadn’t seen it coming.

  A pigeon landed on him, digging its claws into the shoulder of his polo shirt. Because if you stand still in St. Mark’s Square long enough, the pigeons will mistake you for a statue and consider you theirs. Absently, he shook it away, but another came right behind it, and another, until he was slapping at them with both hands, rushing to get away from them. They cooed and flapped and shivered around him, but finally they left him alone. The whole square smelled of feathers and gasoline.

  For all the tourists crowding Venice this time of year, he felt invisible. No one seemed to see him. No one noticed the little tragedy that had played out here. Street vendors shouted, gondoliers sang, bells tolled, as they had for centuries.

  The only ones watching him were pigeons. Dozens of them, hundreds, looking at him, heads cocked, eyes—black, red, or orange—shining like beads. As if they were actually interested. As if they knew, and gathered around him to see what he would do next.

  He resisted an urge to kick one, which would have been childish. But he was curious about whether it would get out of his way.

  He sold the ring, called his office to say he wasn’t coming back, and set out to backpack across Europe, as he should have done in college but hadn’t because he’d been responsible. He’d done the right thing, finished his degree, gotten the good job, worked hard, climbed the ladder, met the girl of his dreams. The white picket fence and two point five kids would follow, and wasn’t there a certain kind of happiness in that life?

  So much for all that.

  Eight months later, he hit bottom.

  Bottom was a pair of holey jeans that needed washing, combat boots that didn’t fit, five layers of shirts and sweaters, and a canvas jacket that made him too warm during the day, but the nights got cold so he didn’t dare lose anything. He’d bartered bits and pieces of his corporate uniform and yuppie tourist gear along the way for his new disguise, the homeless rags that made people look away, that made him invisible.

  But God, he’d seen Europe. Walked the streets in all the capitals, seen the monuments, the museums. He’d also spent whole afternoons sitting in parks watching children play, listening to parents call out to them in foreign languages. He’d shopped in local grocery stores, strolled through quiet neighborhoods. Seen things the guidebooks never talked about. He went everywhere, rode trains, ate great food, and stayed in hotels until his credit card maxed out. He kept going because he wasn’t finished yet, wasn’t ready to go home. The longer he stayed away, the less likely he would go home, simply because picking up the pieces would be too hard. The last of his cash brought him to Great Britain, where he discovered a network of footpaths that let him walk through much of that country as well. He’d probably never been in such good shape. Except he hadn’t eaten well in weeks, and he was always hungry.

  He sat on the steps of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, overlooking Trafalgar Square, and fed pigeons bits of scavenged bread. He kept thinking he ought to go home. He could call his broker, cash out what was left of his 401k—

  But why? So much simpler to sit here all day, watching pigeons.

  They’d followed him across Europe. Well, they hadn’t followed him. It might have seemed like it, because they were everywhere, in every city, leaving their marks on every statue and monument, building nests in every available nook, no matter how many spikes or plastic owls people put up to dissuade them. He’d spent hours watching pigeons and had become an expert on them. Their coloration—grays, white bars on wings and t
ails, pale underbellies; heads shimmering with iridescent bands of green, purple, blue, or white, or brown, or some hybrid mix of all of them. The way they moved, strutting, preening, cocking their heads, staring warily as if unsure he would really drop a piece of bread. In flight, they were graceful, powerful. Almost beautiful. Many were injured, and he wondered what they did that so many of them lost toes. They didn’t seem to mind; they just kept hopping, flapping, pecking, living.

  Like him.

  It’s a sad life, isn’t it? they seemed to say. So much work for so little reward. He tossed another crumb, and the reddish-grayish-green bird with the white ring in its eye looked at him, blinking, before pecking at the bread and trotting away.

  “It really is,” he said. Because even pigeons were suspicious of handouts.

  Did you ever think you’d end up here?

  “Nope.” He sighed. But it was startling, how much he wasn’t bothered by where he’d ended up. It was almost nice to be surprised.

  He did wonder if he was going insane, because he’d been talking to pigeons across Europe. He’d had no one else to talk to.That wouldn’t have been so worrying except for how often the pigeons seemed to talk back. From Barcelona to Bern to Lyon to Amsterdam to Copenhagen, they’d watched him. He’d sit on park benches, wondering what to do next, and they’d gather. He’d started feeding them, even when he hadn’t had enough to eat, because he felt obligated. A pigeon missing a foot would hop in front him, cock its head, and seem to say, At least you have both feet. And he’d answer, “Well, yes, you’re right,” and dig in a trash bin for cracker crumbs to give it.

  Trafalgar Square was full of pigeons. Not as many as St. Mark’s Square—apparently London had instituted a feeding ban to cut down on the pests. But the pigeons still came.