Demon Freaks

By J.R.R.R. (Jim) Hardison

It's the night before the SAT test. The forces of darkness are stirring. 

 

Twin brothers, Bing and Ron Slaughter, know they've got to cram like their lives depend on it because their college plans sure do. If they don't ace the test, they'll be doomed to spend the rest of their days flipping burgers at the McDonald's their parents run. That's why they hatch a plan to meet up with the members of their punk band, the Ephits, spend the night studying at a secluded cabin in the woods, and maybe squeeze in a little jamming. What could go wrong with a brilliant plan like that?

 

Ancient Evil. That's what.

 

As a cataclysmic lightning storm rolls in, Bing, Ron and the rest of the Ephits find themselves tangled in a sinister plot to summon a demon. Yes, demons are real. To survive the night, the band must find a malevolent artifact, battle bloodthirsty monsters, and stand against the most dangerous and powerful foe humanity has ever faced... The Golfer's Association.

 

"Horrifically funny… if you're a fan of Harry Dresden, Laurel K. Hamilton, Patrician Briggs, and/or the John Dies at the End trilogy,

it should be right up your alley!"    —Dread Central

 

"An exciting tale with nonstop action, supernatural horror, and plenty of humor." 

—Kirkus Reviews

 

"Think Evil Dead II meets Bill & Ted meets the Dresden Files."

—Matt Hiebert, Author of Black Hand

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.R.R.R. (Jim) Hardison
• Release date: Oct 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393982265

Book preview

Visit the author website at www.jimhardison.com.

This book is a work of fiction. While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Demon Freaks

Copyright © 2020, Jim Hardison

Cover Art by Herb Apon

Editing by Vickie McGough

Interior Design by Jim Hardison

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Requests for permission should be addressed to Jim Hardison.

Written in the United States of America but possible to read anywhere words are used!

Second Edition

DEDICATION

For Maria, who was with me when I first started writing this and was still with me when I finished. And for Janet, who was the first person (other than me) to read it all the way through. And for my ingenious girls who are subjected to my ideas before they are ready for anyone else to hear.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

Special thanks to Pat Jackson (for being Nalweegie), Janet Hardison, Rachelle Ramirez, Lucy Vosmek, Rachel Petrovich, Wayne Rowe, Herb Apon, Dave Stewart and Misty Williams and Vicki McGough.

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DEMON FREAKS

J.R.R.R. (Jim) Hardison

ONE: YOU WILL BE TESTED

"Brace yourselves," William Jeffrey Brom said with smug relish tainting his crisp English accent as he double underlined the letters S-A-T on the blackboard. For you will be tested. His chalk squeaked like a tortured soul. Will you be found wanting? Has all the time you’ve spent in school so far been a pointless waste? Are you doomed to failure? As always, it comes down to effort, application and focus, doesn’t it? Chance does not play a role, which means a day of reckoning for many of you. He cocked a black eyebrow at his class of high school juniors and smiled sardonically so that the upper corners of his neatly trimmed ginger goatee almost touched the curled ends of his waxed black mustache. "So let us discuss tomorrow’s test again, shall we? And pay attention. This is quite important for those few of you who still have any hope of salvaging your dim academic futures."

In the middle of the room, Bing Slaughter paused in his note taking. He knew he had to pay attention to this. A good score on his college admissions exam was going to be critical to getting into a top-ranked school, and his parents had made clear the importance of this achievement to getting any kind of financial support from them.

Unfortunately, he was once again distracted by his history teacher’s hair. Ginger widow’s peak, black eyebrows, black mustache, ginger beard. No matter how many times he saw it, the color discrepancy overwhelmed him with the same question: Why? Before the rule had been instituted that outlawed phones or cameras in the room, a favorite pastime of the class had been to take surreptitious pictures of Mr. Brom’s hair and compare them for clues. Bing had created a webpage and several social-media accounts devoted to the hair. Of course, the photographic evidence was inconclusive, but the consensus was that the color had to be natural. Who would choose mismatched hair on purpose? What could one hope to gain? What was the point? What did it mean?

As Bing stared, his bright blue eyes accidentally met Mr. Brom’s glittering black ones, and the teacher made a pinched and sour face as if he had just smelled something distasteful. Bing immediately slid his gaze past Brom, pretending he had just been looking up from his notes toward the blackboard. But then he made the mistake of glancing back to make sure that Brom had bought it, only to find the teacher still glaring poison darts right at him. He knew he wasn’t supposed to antagonize the guy, what with the recent unpleasantness, so he looked away from the teacher altogether. His eyes fell on his identical twin brother, Ron, who appeared to be taking notes in the seat to his right. Bing frowned. That was ridiculous. Ron never took notes.

Where Bing and Ron were concerned, identical was a strictly scientific classification. The brothers tried very hard to look nothing alike, not because they disliked each other any more than was usual for brothers but because they shared a deep feeling that twins who dressed and acted identically were mutant cutesy geeks whose prime talent was provoking others to vomit.

That was Bing’s phrase. Named for Bing Crosby, Bing Slaughter considered himself the deeper, more poetic and more studious of the Slaughter brothers. He fronted the band they both played in and wrote most of their songs, including the one called Twins that contained the verse:

Twins,

Double your pleasure,

Same stinking sweater,

Mutant cutesy geeks,

Dodge my vomit.

––––––––

Ron, named for Ronald McDonald, had contributed only one line to the song:

Yeah, yeah, oooooohhhhh.

which he sang Paul McCartney-style as backup while he played bass. Today, their band was called the Ephits. Yesterday, it had been called the Angry Red Welts. A week ago, when they had gotten into all the trouble, it had been the Croutons.

If you didn’t know, you might not guess that Bing and Ron were related to each other, let alone that they were identical twins. Bing looked a bit scrawny, like a punk-rocking, gluten-intolerant vegetarian—even though his favorite food was pepperoni pizza. He wore black jeans and a black leather jacket over a Union Jack T-shirt. His complexion was pale. His dyed black hair was short and spiky. His friends’ mothers were always telling him to eat more and trying to make him drink milk. Girls didn’t go out with him, but they did think he was sweet.

Ron, on the other hand, affected more of a surfer look. His hair was almost shoulder length, limp and bleached blond. He wore boot-cut jeans with holes in both knees and an extra-large—and loud—red Hawaiian-print shirt. He was heavier by fifteen pounds and younger by thirteen minutes.

One thing the two did have in common was that neither of them liked this history class. It wasn’t that they disliked the subject. They were both kind of history nerds. The problem was that they despised Mr. Brom. The man was a bully. Apart from being stuck up, pissy and mean-spirited, flecks of spit dried in white patches at the corners of his mouth when he gave lectures. In addition to the distracting mismatched hair, the flecks of spit made it impossible to listen to a word he said. Both qualities had been immortalized in a song by Bing called Spit-Flecked Brommy. The band had performed it at the Barton High Fall Dance one week ago, which, unfortunately, Mr. Brom had chaperoned. It had been Ron’s idea to close their set with the song, regardless of his brother’s concerns that they might get in trouble. Although the song had been a real crowd-pleaser, the following Monday they’d been called into the principal’s office and informed that their teacher had accused them of bullying. Despite the boys’ protest that it was not bullying to call someone out for bullying, the school had a zero-tolerance policy. The very real possibility of an expulsion was still hovering while the school board debated whether there was such a thing as "reverse reverse-bullying."

It was only because of this uncertainty that Ron appeared to be taking notes at the moment, not that he was actually taking notes, or even pretending to take them, but that he was so mad at the unfairness of it all that he was working on his own song.

Why do I have to take your test?

Come on, Brommy, give it a rest!

What does it matter how I score?

Answer that, you English bore!

S-A-T and A-C-T,

Your numbers cannot define me,

Who I am is not your decision...

And that was where he was stuck, trying to find a rhyme for decision. Lyrics really weren’t his strong suit.

Bing, on the other hand, had actually been trying to take notes before becoming distracted by the hair discrepancy. Like his brother, he’d been a solid B student for most of his high school career, but his guidance counselor had recently advised him that Bs weren’t going to be all that useful in getting him into any of the film schools he’d been thinking of attending, not if he finished his junior year with an expulsion on his record. Nor would that help with any of the prestigious business schools their father was pushing the boys to consider. Failure to score well on their SATs could doom them to following their mother’s suggestion that they skip college and pursue careers at McDonald’s. She had pointed out that working for McDonald’s had provided a very good life, both for her and for their father and, by extension, for the boys. Having already spent several summers flipping burgers, however, neither Bing nor Ron was interested. So, as their counselor pointed out, the twins’ best chance to get into any halfway decent college was to devote all of their free time to studying so that they could do phenomenally well on their admissions tests and hope that they didn’t get expelled.

As Brom turned to write a list of test sections on the blackboard, a ball of wadded paper bounced off the back of Bing’s head, shot up in the air and landed squarely on the middle of Ron’s half-finished lyrics. Ron stared at the crumpled sheet for a moment in puzzlement. He then turned, eyebrows raised, and met his brother’s eyes. Bing shrugged at him, rubbing the back of his head. Ron turned to scan the rows of students behind them.

No one gave an overt clue as to where the projectile had come from, but Ron guessed that Prathamesh Meat Kimitri had tossed it. Meat was a heavyset, rumpled mess. Not bad looking beneath his unruly, shoulder-length brown hair and slept-in t-shirt and jeans, but famous for being the most disorganized, unfocused kid in the school. He had soulful brown eyes and an overdeveloped class-clown, party-animal sensibility that made him as popular with the uncool kids as he was dreaded by the teachers. He was rocking his chair on its back legs and jotting down notes, a sure sign that he was the guilty party in the paper-wad attack. Like Ron, Meat never took notes.

Ron eyed Meat, the hint of a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. He gazed back to the offending paper wad. Bing looked on curiously as Ron quietly unraveled the ball and smoothed it flat, revealing the message inside. Bing. I like Ron’s idea better than your dumb plan. Let’s study 4 test & then do band practice tonight @ the cabin. You’re outvoted. It was signed with a crudely drawn picture of a meatball.

Meat was, of course, the band’s drummer. Drumming was his one real focus and passion. He couldn’t get his homework done to save his life, but he played absolutely wicked drums. He also enjoyed the luxury of extremely rich, self-involved parents. Part of that luxury included the keys to the family’s summer cabin on Lake Willow a few miles outside of town. Except for the two weeks a year when his parents vacationed there, they let Meat dwell in the cabin alone with his drums as long as he kept the place in good shape and didn’t get into too much trouble. The cabin had super-thin walls, so it sometimes got cold in the winter, but it was situated right on the edge of a forest preserve, with no close neighbors to complain if the band played too loud.

Ron watched him rocking his chair on its back legs, pretending to take more notes, with a preposterously innocent look on his face. The younger Slaughter brother shifted his gaze to Brom. The teacher, back still to the class, was totally engrossed in his list-making. Ron smiled wickedly. Noticing, Bing shook his head and mouthed the word, No, but his brother ignored him.

Ron pivoted and, with a flick of the wrist, deftly pegged the drummer between the eyes with the recrumpled note. Still balanced on the chair’s back legs, Meat reared back, startled. For an agonizing second, he hovered arm-wavingly on the edge of balance while Brom wrote, oblivious to it all. A good argument against the existence of telekinetic gestalts might be that almost every student in the classroom saw what was about to happen to Meat and strove to somehow psychically hold him up, to no avail.

Screaming like a dying pterodactyl, Meat toppled to the floor. His head met the yellowing tile, his cheeks deforming with the impact and rippling with aftershocks as his books and papers showered around him.

Jesus Christ! Ron exclaimed under his breath. It was his favorite expression.

Brom froze.

Oh, the humanity, Bing whispered, his voice covered by a general classroom buzz of laughter and commentary.

Brom spun on one heel to face the room and instantly made an assessment of what was going on. With a sharp crack he snapped his stick of chalk in half at its exact midpoint, and his crisp English voice cut through the noise and silenced it. Mr. Kimitri, he said, to the front of the room! Now!

The drummer sat up among his scattered papers and rubbed the back of his head. His face flushed for just a moment before he burst into a big grin and threw his arms wide in victory. Thank you! Thank you very much! I’m here all week, he said. Bing scrambled from his seat to help Meat up.

Sorry, Ron whispered.

Great move, Ron, Bing hissed.

What’s that, Mr. Slaughter? Brom demanded of Bing. Had something to do with this, did you?

Bing looked up, deer-in-the-headlights style.

You come forward as well. And bring that paper wad, the teacher ordered. Ron winced apologetically at his brother, but Bing scowled back at him.

The boys moved through their now-silent classmates to where Brom stood, waiting like an executioner.

I’ll take that, he said, extending a hand for the paper wad. He unfolded it, glanced at the contents and was on the boys like a spit-flecked English demon. I will not tolerate your constant horseplay in my classroom. You disrupt my lectures, destroy the concentration of the more diligent students and ruin the atmosphere of historical significance I try to establish. Your presence in this class and, I suspect, in this world is a meaningless waste of space and time.

Sorry, said Bing, staring at his hands. This was exactly what they needed right now—another problem with Brom.

It was an accident, Meat interjected.

"You are an accident," Brom hissed.

That’s what my mom says. Meat’s tone was joking, but his eyes narrowed.

Brom glared balefully from beneath his thick brows, assessing. After a moment, a slight smile twitched one spit-flecked corner of his mouth. An accident, he repeated, born of weakness, compounded by a lack of discipline.

At his desk, Ron clenched his pencil so hard it nearly broke.

Our ancestors knew how to punish accidents, Brom continued, his smile more pronounced as he saw the boys seething. Burn the plump flesh from impudent bones, twist atrophied muscle and undisciplined tissue into a pulp of screaming agony, sear the sluggard brain with white-hot pincers of pain. Yes... He seemed momentarily lost in reverie, his eyes asparkle with inner visions of torture and suffering.

Who I am is not your decision!

His eyes asparkle with an inner vision,

His twisted brain an evil tumor,

Not one ounce of joy or humor.

Maniac wanker, don’t punish Meat

Just because he lost his seat.

Why are you such a dick...?

Ron wrote furiously, inspired.

Brom got hold of himself and eyed the entire class poisonously. Have your fun while you are able, he growled, for it ends sooner than you think.

Just then the clock above the blackboard ticked over to 3:30, and the class bell rang. Everyone noisily packed up to leave, spoiling the dramatic quality of the comment. Meat scampered back to his overturned desk and picked up papers with the help of Ron and Bing.

Sooner than you think, Brom said again, under his breath.

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Bing was rereading Ron’s history-class song aloud in the passenger seat of their parents’ minivan as his brother drove down the lonely and isolated road that led to Meat’s cabin.

"Why do I have to take your test?

Come on, Brommy, give it a rest!

What does it matter how I score?

Answer that, you English bore!

S-A-T and A-C-T, 

Your numbers cannot define me,

Who I am is not your decision!

His eyes asparkle with an inner vision,

His twisted brain an evil tumor,

Not one ounce of joy or humor.

Maniac wanker, don’t punish Meat

Just because he lost his seat.

A meaningless waste of space and time

Doesn’t make a boy a crime.

Why are you always such a dick..."?

He trailed off with the unfinished lyrics.

So, then I need a last line before it goes into a chorus, Ron explained.

A meaningless waste of space and time, Bing mused sadly. I couldn’t have said it better myself.

My song or your life? Ron snickered.

Both, Bing sighed. It just seems kind of pointless lately. There was a long moment of silence.

Ron glanced over and studied his brother, his smile fading. I’m telling you, they can’t kick us out over a song. It’s freedom of speech or expression or something.

Bing shook his head. I found a bunch of cases on the Internet where kids got expelled. It turns out they don’t always uphold those rights for minors. Especially when they’re on school property.

Well, that may be, but I don’t think—

No, you don’t think, do you? Bing snapped. Like going to Meat’s tonight. We should be studying at home. You know he’s just going to distract us. He turned away from his brother and looked dejectedly out his window. The sun was setting, and the dark and twisted trees that crowded the sides of the road reached ominous shadows toward the vehicle. Ron clicked the headlights on against the deepening dusk, and the beams illuminated a decaying boundary marker for the Lake Willow Forest Preserve.

They’re not going to expel us, and we have the whole night to study, Ron said. Quit worrying. Nothing’s going to distract us. He smiled and punched Bing lightly on the shoulder. His brother’s frown deepened.

So I think I’m gonna call my song ‘The Plunge of Hindenburg Meatwad.’ Ron changed the subject. But I still need a closing line. Something ominous, but wry.

Bing nodded glumly. He felt nauseated. He always got carsick when he tried to read in moving vehicles, but he couldn’t resist where lyrics were concerned.

"How about this? ‘And now I feel completely sick,’" he suggested, scribbling the line under his brother’s words. Fighting the urge to vomit, he reread the whole thing and handed the notebook to Ron, who juggled it as he drove.

With a crunch, the van turned onto the gravel driveway of Meat’s parents’ cabin. They wound their way about a quarter mile back to the dead end. Ron stopped, shut off the headlights and contemplated the final line of the song by the dying light of day. First verse done, he pronounced.

I really feel like I’m gonna puke, Bing replied, a shade paler than normal. He flung open the van door and hopped out, taking deep breaths of the cool evening air. He could smell rain coming. He bent over and closed his eyes, fighting the nausea.

Carsick? Ron asked.

No, Bing said weakly, this is really serious.

His brother moved toward him, frowning.

I...I felt... Bing started but staggered, grabbing Ron’s arm and sagging against him. Ron supported Bing with a look of growing alarm as his brother struggled to continue. I felt ... a great disturbance in the force ... as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. Bing couldn’t keep a straight face any longer.

Jerk, Ron laughed. I thought you— but he was cut off by an ominous crash of thunder coming from the east with the darkness.

Was it supposed to storm tonight? Bing asked, frowning.

Just then, Meat walked out of the cabin holding a drumstick and a drumstick. One was a beater for a drum; the other was a piece of fried chicken. He filled his mouth with a huge bite of chicken before saying anything.

You guys need help bringing your stuff in before it rains? he asked around the mouthful, gesturing with the chicken at the storm clouds beginning to roll across the sky.

Uh-huh, said Ron, wondering if there was more chicken inside. A big, cold drop of rain smacked his forehead.

There was more chicken inside, a bucket of extra crispy, which the three worked on while they cracked open their SAT prep books and waited for Kaitlyn Krimpsen, their keyboard player.

The Slaughter brothers had known Kaitlyn since kindergarten, and both of them had secret crushes on her, although she annoyed them both no end. She was always late for everything, sometimes hours and hours late. She had twice scored at genius level on an IQ test but was failing most of her classes because she rarely showed up for them. She was so chronically late to so many things that her parents had taken her to a brain specialist to make sure that it wasn’t because of a chemical imbalance or a flaw on the genetic level. Despite the specialist, the cause of Kaitlyn’s lateness was still a mystery.

Well, we can’t study without her, Meat said innocently. Hmmm. Maybe we could play a song or two while we wait?

Ron, who had