Nate lay curled up in his bed, groaning and coughing weakly. He'd come up with a plan, one that required him to stay home from school. He was fully aware that it wasn't a very
good
plan; it was more like an act of desperation. But he didn't have much of a choice.
When his groans didn't achieve the desired result, he began to hack and cough loudly, doing his best impression of his great aunt who had apparently lived on nothing but cigarettes and coffee her entire life.
It didn't take long for his mother to appear. She was dressed in her house robe and slippers, looking alarmed as she rushed in to stand beside his bed.
"What is it, Nate?" She asked, placing her hand against his forehead. "Tell me what's wrong."
"My stomach," he lamented while doing his best to look pathetic. Fortunately for him, he'd had a lifetime of practice.
"You didn't eat broccoli, did you?" His mother asked, concerned. "You
know
it gives you the gas..."
"No, mom. I just don't feel good."
"I'll get you the fizzy stuff, then maybe you can have some saltines," she said anxiously. "I'll be right back."
He was glad that she'd slipped back into full mom mode and was acting somewhat normal. He felt a little bad about tricking her after everything else that had happened, but he needed to stay home to carry out his plan.
His 'sick' act almost backfired, however. His mother was so worried about him that she hovered at his bedside all morning. But after he repeatedly assured her that it was nothing worse than an upset stomach, she finally left him alone and went to run her errands. He jumped out of bed the moment she was gone and went to the garage to work on his bike.
It was easy enough to replace the spokes, but the front fork had also been bent when he'd slammed into the minivan. He banged it back into shape with a hammer and tested it out, finding the wheel a little crooked but serviceable. When he was satisfied that his bike was roadworthy, he tied a crowbar and a shovel to the frame, shouldered his backpack, and rode once more toward the edge of town. At least no one seemed to be following him this time.
He pedaled down the highway until he reached the turnoff to the old graveyard, a narrow and winding dirt road that appeared to be rarely used. Beyond a broken iron gate, the cemetery loomed bleak and deserted as ever. It was populated only by tall weeds, a handful of gothic-looking angel statues, and row after row of weathered gravestones. He knew that his fellow high schoolers sometimes went there to party, as evidenced by all the broken bottles and scattered beer cans which lay strewn among the graves.
So much for respecting the dead. Not that he had much room to talk. He wasn't exactly there to place flowers, either.
It took him almost an hour to locate the grave he was looking for. The headstone was jammed in the back corner of the cemetery like an afterthought--a small, crooked, and almost pathetic-looking slab with letters so worn that Nate could barely read them. But it was the one.
Clouds were beginning to gather in the sky overhead as he readied his shovel. Around him, the stone angels seemed to glare disapprovingly. A cold shiver crept up his spine as he considered what he was about to do. He was planning to dig up a grave, steal from a hundred-year-old corpse, and use whatever he stole to open a direct portal to Hell.
"Fuck it," Nate said as he drove the shovel into the dirt. He was already damned. A little grave robbing was just icing on the cake.
It turned out to be more difficult than he thought. The ground was packed hard and before long he was forced to take a break. He sat beside the grave, eating the sandwich he'd brought while wondering what kind of a person Myrtle/Maxine had been. Whoever she was, it seemed like she'd been given one of the cheapest burials in the entire cemetery.
Nate went back to work. His arms ached and his hands were beginning to feel raw, but at long last he heard the dull thump of wood beneath the blade of his shovel. He uncovered the coffin as gently as he could, but its worm-tracked lid was so flimsy and rotten that it fell apart, crumbling inward with a shower of dirt and dust.
Inside was a jumble of frayed cloth and bones, the mortal remains of one Myrtle West... some poor sinner who'd gone on to become a crossroads demon in service to the Devil himself. Or at least, so Nate hoped. He surveyed the remains somberly for a moment before selecting a well-preserved finger bone. As Nate was picking it free, he discovered something even better underneath--a thin, lightly tarnished silver ring set with a small black stone.
It was just what he'd been looking for. Nate secured the bone in a plastic baggie then checked his list of essential items. It read as follows:
Candles for magic circle
Two bags Salt
Bones and belongings (important!)
Dirt from the grave
Tin box
Blood
???
Profit.
He was just about ready. Nate gathered up some dirt and put it in the box along with the corpse's finger bone. The ring he slipped into his pocket, unable to keep himself from muttering
'my Precious'
as he did. Then he took his pocketknife and hesitantly pricked his finger, feeling nauseous as he added the essential drop of blood to the contents of the box. Naturally, the picture of his porn star idol Brooklyn still lay folded neatly in the bottom.
Nate made a halfhearted attempt to fill in the grave but abandoned it when he noticed the dark-bellied clouds that were gathering above. Shit. Rain would be a problem. He left the shovel leaning on the headstone and jumped back on his bike, hoping that the weather wouldn't turn against him too.
It was late afternoon when he reached the crossroads. As before, there was no one in sight. The dead and crooked branches of the hanging tree appeared even more ominous under the thick layer of clouds. He began his preparations, and by the time he was done it was almost dark. The sky was dimming into a dull, cloudy twilight as he stood back and surveyed his handiwork. In the dirt beside the road he'd drawn a large pentagram with salt, and at each point sat a flickering candle. The tin box was buried at the center--bait for the trap.
He touched the outside of his pocket with anxious fingers, but the circular outline of the ring didn't do much to reassure him. He steadied himself, and with a deep breath, he took out the occultist's book. There was no point in stalling. He was as ready as he was ever going to be.
The book had repeatedly warned not to attempt what he was about to do, but then it had gone on and explained how to do it anyway. A full-blown demonic summoning was very different from just making a deal. There were a lot of things that could go wrong. Horribly wrong.
As Nate was about to find out.
