The fourth ghoul waited for me to feed it.
I had two options. I could smash its skull with my cane and move on, forever remembering the glance of the deceived dog that remained so faithful to people, even while dead. Or I could complete the process, correct the errors committed by the supernatural, and turn it into a genuine zombie that would not eat flesh and blood, but would require revivifying spells regularly. Had anyone found me doing something like that, I would have been burned alive.
Not good to be a dark magician that grew up among the white.
I called the dog by quietly whistling, let it sniff my palm, and put my hand on its back. Completion of the transformation was surprisingly easy: the life meridians had not cooled down in the body yet. I passed the spell over them. The dog liked the actions that I made; it wagged its tail and tried to lick my face.
So, the three ghouls left on the agenda, but I couldn’t perform the same trick with them—they were transformed long ago and irreversibly. I turned to the kid, who watched my actions with intense interest. The boy was so exhausted by fear that he wouldn’t run from me, even if he wanted to.
“Pull yourself together, man! I need to know what happened, or they will eat us here.”
Experience with my stepfather and younger white brother helped me to get out all the details I needed without beating the unfortunate kid. Things couldn’t be worse: his parents bought the estate six months ago, after something bad had happened to the former owners. Almost immediately they applied to the local “cleaning” service, but the bastard cleaners put them on a waitlist, not even bothering to find out the reason for the complaint. Two weeks ago, a representative of “Totars Energy” was supposed to pay them a visit to give a quote for hook-up to the power supply network, but the guy didn’t show up; later the company declared his disappearance. The police didn’t demonstrate any enthusiasm in searching for him; the new owners of the estate learned from the officers that people disappeared from that place regularly throughout the past one hundred years. The kid’s father’s patience had exhausted, he called me, and we agreed to meet.
But yesterday the long-awaited “cleaner” with a team of assistants and police officers finally visited the farm. I did not know what this parody on the dark troopers was trying to accomplish; they decided that the poor tradesman was killed either by one of his own, or by a tramp, or by the farmer. These psychos didn’t bother to evacuate the family; instead, they rushed to the woods that I had bypassed. Two local policemen flatly refused to participate in the suicidal event. Thanks to those two, there were still people alive at the estate: when ghuls and ghouls, new and old, came to the front from the forest, the brave rural boys met them with heavy fire. Alas, bullets (any bullets) could not stop three ghouls, each a century old. Only dark magic was effective against such creatures, and the senior “cleaner” returned from the forest as one of the zombies.
It would be best to pick up the boy and run away, but, according to the kid, his family was still hiding in the house, along with the two courageous policemen and an assistant to the “cleaner”, who had not gone to the woods. As soon as the sun dropped behind the horizon, the zombies would become stronger and more resolute; they were not stupid, just their mind, affected by the supernatural, manifested itself erratically and unpredictably. People’s lives depended on whether I could resolve the situation before the nightfall.
The zombie-dog whined and rubbed my knee.
“Now, kid, I need your help. Do you know your neighborhood well?”
He nodded.
“Is there flat ground, roughly the size of a croquet field, nearby?”
He thought and shook his head.
“Any spot, more or less level? I need to draw a pentagram.”
He nodded and walked me around the house. The zombie-dog disappeared in the bushes, but I didn’t worry about it. The level ground was a barnyard, overgrown with weeds. Without complex preparation I could only use a patch of a hundred square feet in size. There was no way that I could seal all three ghouls at the same time.
“Listen, does your father keep spirits here?”
Oil was not well suited for cremation, but the spirit would do the job just fine. The boy pointed toward the house.
“Excellent. Now climb the tree and look sharp! If anything moves, knock, whistle, or shout to me.”
I hoisted him onto the lower branch. At least, one of us would stay safe now.
Drawing a pentagram proved easy, but the next step—lighting a black candle—I postponed: before commencing, I had to find some weapon. In the driveway, I stumbled upon a phaeton without horses and an army truck with a canvas top; the team of the “cleaner” must have arrived in them at the manor. A fresh ghul was sitting motionlessly in the cab of the truck. I carefully climbed into the truck’s body. They ought to bring some weapons with them! I managed to find a flare-gun (an exotic and funny device) and a pack of flares. There was also a spare canister of oil; all the rest the policemen had carried away. I took the flare-gun and slowly spilled oil all over the truck, then soaked a piece of cloth in the fuel, turning it into a great wick. To attack the three mature ghouls with one flare-gun would be stupid, so I had to go around the perimeter of the house in hopes of finding something else. Fortunately for me, the owner kept a barrel of spirits that leaked slightly, and I managed to find it by smell in the barn. It was getting dark outside with almost no time left until sunset. I made three trips, filling large buckets with alcohol and placing them along the path to the barnyard. Then I loaded the pistol, said a prayer, and hit the truck with a flare.
The fresh ghul, not quite used to the role of a zombie, panicked and forgot how to open the cabin door. It cried almost like a man and burned for a long time.
The three mature ghouls emerged rapidly. Had I not strained all my senses, I wouldn’t have gotten away from them. Only on the second attempt did I manage to pour over the most active zombie with spirit. Rushing into the barnyard, I set fire to it with the pistol. The zombie caught fire unexpectedly well and burned brightly, with fountains of sparks (which was very handy, because in the darkness I could miss my own pentagram). There was no time left for any mistakes: the other two zombies attacked me practically together. I lit a black candle and stood behind the pentagram so that the drawing separated me from the undead. The second one was moving directly over the pentacle.
“Dangemaharus!”
And I shut the trap. A dense column of fire filled the pentagram. When the flame had subsided, the zombie disappeared without a trace. And the black candle went with it. It burned down at once, and the pentagram became useless. The last ghoul was safe and sound: it was too far away, and the flame did not touch it. I turned around and ran to the tree, knowing that I wouldn’t get there in time.
The situation was saved by the zombie-dog, clinging to the loins of the undead with a belly growl. How could I not believe in good deeds?! I climbed to the tree and together with the kid watched as the dog tore the ghoul; the two deserved each other. I thought hard what to do next: the sun was about to set, and I did not want to find out what that third ghoul was capable of at night.