Surrounded by disarrayed piles of paperwork and crisply stapled documents, Jim sat hunched over the kitchen table, squinting against the sunlight streaming through dusty windows. Weeks of endless research had yielded frustratingly few insights into the greasers' resurrection.
Scouring aging yearbooks, police reports, and newspaper obituaries for Richard, Vinnie and David provided pieces of their troubled histories. But no clear answers.
David's school records showed dismal grades and chronic truancy. A 1963 clipping detailed his alcoholic mother's death in a suspicious house fire. Yet nothing tied the wayward boy explicitly to supernatural forces.
Vinnie's juvenile rap sheet was even longer - vandalism, assault, theft. The apple clearly hadn't fallen far from the tree: Vinnie's father was equally violent and abusive. However, the domestic disturbances seemed tragically mundane.
Richard's background proved the murkiest. He had drifted into Stratford alone a year before that pivotal summer of '55. With no family or school records, his origins seemingly dead-ended there. Yet Richard had always exuded a certain dangerous magnetism that drew the other greasers into his orbit.
Jim leaned back, kneading his tired brow. Each teen was deeply disturbed in life, yes, warped by tragedy, poverty and neglect. But those sadly common seeds of youthful ruin failed to explain their otherworldly return from the grave three decades later.
What crucial piece still eluded him? Restless, Jim shuffled through the piles once more, seeking any clue. His eyes snagged on the photo of Vinnie's father - a powerfully built man with cold, light eyes eerily reminiscent of his son's...
Jim sat bolt upright, pulse quickening. Carson North's icy gaze seemed to taunt him from the faded image. A theory slowly crystallized in Jim's mind. Vinnie's old man had reputedly dabbled in the occult. What if he had resurrected the greasers through some depraved ritual?
Jim swept the papers back into the file, galvanized by this new possibility. If he could uncover hard proof of Carson's involvement, it may finally provide the key to unraveling the sinister mystery of the resurrected trio.
A floorboard creaked behind Jim. He turned to see Sally watching him sadly from the kitchen doorway, arms wrapped around her growing belly. "Don't lose yourself chasing ghosts, my love," she said softly.
Jim crossed the room and pulled her close, pressing his cheek against her golden curls. "I have to see this through, wherever it leads. For all our sakes." Sally simply nodded bravely, trusting his word implicitly.
Bolstered by Sally's faith, Jim turned resolutely back to his research. The truth was within reach, he could feel it. He only prayed it wasn't already too late. The peeling wallpaper and persistent mold smell informed Jim he was in the right place before he even rapped on the scarred door. A beetle-browed man with sallow skin and arms covered in crude prison tattoos opened it, glaring at Jim suspiciously.
"You Carson North?" Jim asked.
The man spat brown saliva onto the crumbling porch. "Who wants to know?" His voice was a malicious rasp.
Flashing his old private investigator's badge, Jim adopted a casual tone. "Just following up on some old cases, routine stuff."
North's bloodshot eyes narrowed, but he stepped aside to let Jim enter. The interior was dim and cluttered with beer cans, ashtrays, and piles of auto magazines.
"Haven't been a model citizen perhaps, but I've kept my nose clean last few years," North growled, lighting a cigarette. "So whatever you think I did, you got the wrong guy."
Jim nodded politely. "I'm sure that's true, Mr. North. But we really need to close up all loose ends to get cases fully off the books." He paused. "Especially anything...unusual."
YOU ARE READING
Jim's haunted past
HorrorJim nervously starts his new teaching job at Stratford High School. He sees teenagers Richard, Vinnie, and David who look just like his brother Wayne's killers.
