The Belly of the Beast by Desmond Doane

Author:Desmond Doane [Doane, Desmond]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JCL Publishing Horror Books
Published: 2016-09-17T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Mike and I turn our ears toward the clap of distant thunder after a small flash of lightning illuminates the southwestern side of the property. Storms of this nature are such a rare occurrence here that we give each other a high five and smiles. It’s a good thing, because electrical storms bring with them more energy for supernatural entities to draw on, meaning we’ll have a better chance of connecting with Papa Joe tonight.

There’s no way on God’s green earth that I would want a storm during our filming of the documentary, when we’re battling Boogerface—he doesn’t need to get any stronger than he already is—but tonight… tonight’s okay for storms. Preferred, even.

We see headlights arcing around a bend and wait. Hamster and her mother are fifteen minutes late, and we’re on the verge of starting the communication attempt without them.

This particular vehicle slows down and turns onto the gravel road that extends roughly a quarter mile out from the farmhouse. Finally. We gather up our equipment, tuck instruments into various pockets on our vests and pants, and shove some of them back inside the hard foam slots of our pelican cases. These we’ll carry inside with us for later use.

The Hampstead’s rusted pickup rumbles to a stop next to a decrepit shed. Deanna ‘Hamster’ Hampstead hops out, and her overweight but jolly mother follows suit. We exchange our greetings in the front yard, and even though we’ve spoken on the phone, this is the first time I’ve met two of the Hampstead clan in person. Hamster’s mother is starstruck and having a tough time communicating with us without shaking.

Hamster, on the other hand, is not quite what I expect. She’s small, as the nickname suggests, but I had pictured her as a teeny bopper teen with a ponytail on the side of her head and pink sandals. I don’t know why that is, other than the fact that her email communique sounds like she should be coated in pink apparel and with cute teddy bear cartoons on her socks.

She’s nothing of the sort. She has the total goth chic thing going on. Black boots, black jeans, black t-shirt, black lipstick and eye shadow, and a dark hoodie, the hood of which is covering dark hair cropped short.

Her smile is another story. Her pristinely white teeth reflect off the glow of the flashlight, and her joy cuts through the angst-ridden image she’s trying to convey.

Granted, I wear all black, but I do it to project my television persona. What I’ve never understood is teenagers trying so desperately to convey a certain image of themselves, especially goth-style clothing during the middle of July. It must suck giant donkey balls to feel as if, in order to be accepted by your clique, you have to wear all black, head to toe, when it’s ninety-five degrees outside.

We promise several times to take care of Mama Hampstead’s baby girl, and even invite her inside with us to join the investigation. She refuses with so many ‘nuh-uh’ hand gestures that I’m worried she’ll sprain her wrist.

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