Dogs
Authors: Allan Stratton
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Copyright © 2015 by Allan Stratton
Cover and internal design © 2015 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systemsâexcept in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviewsâwithout permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
Originally published in 2015 in the United Kingdom by Anderson Press Limited.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Stratton, Allan, author.
The dogs / Allan Stratton. -- [First American edition].
pages cm
“Originally published in 2015 in the United Kingdom by Anderson Press Limited.”
Summary: Cameron is used to moving at a moment's notice because he and his mother are always running away from his supposedly violent father, but he is disturbed by their latest refuge, a creepy, deserted farmhouse, haunted by bloodthirsty dogs--and when he sees a boy hiding in the barn, and finds an old picture of the same boy, he starts wondering about the possibility of human ghosts.
(alk. paper)
1. Abusive men--Juvenile fiction. 2. Fathers and sons--Juvenile fiction. 3. Mothers and sons--Juvenile fiction. 4. Haunted places--Juvenile fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories. [1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Fathers and sons--Fiction. 3. Mothers and sons--Fiction. 4. Haunted places--Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.S9109Do 2015
823.914--dc23
[Fic]
2014044059
For my stepfather, Alex, the best dad in the world
It's ten p.m. Mom's at the living room window staring at the car across the street. She's been there for an hour. Our lights are out so no one can see her.
I'm downstairs in the rec room playing Zombie Attack. No sound. I don't want Mom to know, although I'm pretty sure she guesses. The longer we're quiet in the dark, the creepier it gets.
Mom's imagining things
.
But what if she isn't? I focus on the zombies. More silence.
“It's probably nothing,” I call up.
“Shh. Keep it down.”
“I'm in the basement, Mom. You think someone outside can hear me?”
“Stop it, Cameron. Turn off that game and go to bed.”
“Aw, Momâ”
“Cameron.”
A zombie jumps from behind a tree and rips my head off.
Thanks, Mom. Way to help me concentrate.
I turn off the game and head up to the living room.
Mom's squeezing her phone. “I'm calling the police.”
“Why?” I try to sound normal. “They won't come for hours. By the time they do, whoever's there will be gone.”
“It's not âwhoever.' It's him. I know it.” She dials.
“Mom, it's a street. People park there.”
“Not in neighborhoods where they don't belong. Not opposite the same house three nights in a row. And they don't stay in their car either. It's only a matter of time before he does something. Hello, police?”
I can't breathe. I go upstairs and brush my teeth while Mom gives her name and address to someone who's apparently deaf. The more they tell her to calm down, the angrier she gets.
Go
to
bed. Everything's fine.
Mom's room is at the front of the house. I sneak to her window and peek down at the car. It's out of the light, in the shadow of the trees on the other side of the street. Is there really someone inside?
Even
if
there
is, so what? They could be waiting for a friend.
All night?
It's not against the law to sit in a car.
That's not the point.
Stop
it. Don't be like her
.
The car drives off like it did last night and the night before that. I go to my room and crawl under the covers. Two hours later the cops arrive.
Mom's ballistic. “I called hours ago. We could be dead.”
“Sorry, ma'am. It's been a busy night. Did you get the license number?”
“No, I didn't get the license number. He parks in the shadows. You want me to go out and check with him sitting there waiting for me?”
The cops ask more stupid questions. I stick my fingers in my ears and pray for everything to be over.
The cops leave. Mom slams the door. Next thing I know, she's sitting on the side of my bed, holding my hand. “Cameron, honey. We have to go. Get your things.”
“Go? What? Now?”
“I don't know how long we've got.” She gets up and heads to her room. “He could be anywhereâ¦around the block, who knows. But he'll be back. You can count on it. And the police will be too late.”
“Momâ”
“There are things you don't understand, Cameron.”
Oh
yeah? I understand lots, Mom. I understand I'm scared, for starters. But why? Because he's tracked us down? Or because you're crazy?
My clothes are already in a suitcase under my bed; Mom made me pack two days ago, just in case. There's room in the car for our bags, some coats, a box of dishes, some sheets and towels, and the little TV. My grandparents will store the rest of our stuff in their basement. There isn't much, since the places we rent come furnished. I wish we could go to Grandma and Grandpa's. Mom says we can't. She says that's the first place he'd look.
Heâhimâthe guy in the car: Dad.
Mom backs the car onto the street. I look at the house. After a year, I was getting used to the place. This city too. I'd actually started making friends at school. So much for that.
We drive away slowly with the headlights off.
Mom left Dad when I was eight. She says he'd been acting strange since forever. I have flashes of things, but I'm not sure what's real and what are dreams. And what are things I overheard Mom say to my grandparents.
Anyway, Mom moved us far away. Dad came to see me a few times on supervised visits at some government building. Then all of a sudden we moved again. According to Mom, Dad did things she'll tell me about when I'm older.
Soâhey, Momâwhen's older? This is our fifth move, and nothing's changed except I'm more messed up than ever.
Mom says change is great: “Embrace change.” It's like her motto or something. Only for Mom, change means planning where to run next before we've even unpacked. From the get-go, she's scouting escape routes “in case of an emergency.” So I'm hardly surprised she knows where we're going.
She shows me the virtual tour on her laptop when we stop for gas and a doughnut. “It's perfect. Eight hundred miles awayâfar enough for us to disappearâthe rent's a bargain, and it comes furnished. What do you think?”
“Guess.”
“Please don't be like that.”
“Mom, it's a farmhouse.”
She pretends not to hear me. “The real estate agent says the owner lives on the next farm over if there's ever a problem. He works the land but keeps clear of the house. So we have privacy and security. Isn't that great? Think of the fresh air, the scenery. Think of the fun of exploring the woods beyond those fields.”
“How am I going to make any friends on a farm?”
“There's a town not far off that's right by a lake and has a recreation center and a new school andâ”
“Hello, I don't drive. I'll have to take the bus home right after.”
“Lots of kids take school buses.”
I turn away.
Her shoulders sag. “Cameron. You have to try.”
“Fine, I'll try. Does âFarmer Brown' have cows? I'll make friends with them.”
Mom closes her laptop. “I know this is hard. But living in the country there's less chance of meeting people who know people who know people. Also it's harder for him to prowl around unnoticed.”
“Yeah, right, whatever.”
“Cameron, don't give me that look. Please. You know what he did on Facebook. We can't be too careful.” She presses her napkin to her eyes.
“Mom, please don't.”
“I'm sorry. I can't help it.”
Mom freshens up in the bathroom, grabs a coffee for the road, and we drive into the next day. I try to stretch out in the backseat, but it's not as easy as when I was a kid, so I end up playing video games. Mom says it's bad for my eyes, what with all the bouncing around, but I have my earbuds in and pretend not to hear her.
Somehow I fall asleep. I wake up as the sun's going down. Everywhere are cornfields and shadows. “Can we stop someplace? I have to pee.”
“Don't worry. We're almost there.”
What? We're moving near here?
After ten more minutes of country, we pass a high school and football field in the middle of nowhere. A few hundred yards beyond, Mom pulls into an old motel. It's covered in big white shingles, with a little diner at the side and a red vacancy light in the office window.
Up ahead there's an old iron bridge that crosses a river ravine into town and a sign at the side of the road: Welcome to Wolf Hollow.
The room we get is a cheapie, all beige and banged-up furniture, with twin beds, a phone, a TV, and a coffeemaker.
Mom calls Grandma and Grandpa on her phone to let them know we're all right. We never use motel phonesâany that aren't ours, for that matter. That's another rule: “If your father bugged Grandma and Grandpa's phone, he could track us down from the motel's number.” Mom's made sure both our phones are unlisted so they don't show up on caller ID. She says keeping mine with me at all times is a matter of life and death: “You need to be able to call for help if your father ever attacks you out of nowhere.”
“So everything's fine,” Mom tells Grandma and Grandpa on speakerphone. “We're in a really nice motel, and I already have a lead on a terrific house. The agent will be taking us out tomorrow.”
“Oh, good,” Grandma says. “And how's Cameron?”
I look up from my video game. “Cameron's fine. He's never been better.”
Mom gives me a look. She says we always have to sound cheerful when we talk to Grandma and Grandpa. Otherwise they'll worry. Well, if I was Grandma and Grandpa, I'd be worried about things like why we're so happy if we're running from a maniac.
“Seriously, Grandma, this is the best place yet,” I say in my
I'm so happy I can hardly believe I'm alive
voice. “One day you'll have to visit. I can't wait.”
“Maybe this Christmas?” Grandpa asks.
Right. Like that's going to happen.
“Let's see what the fall brings,” Mom says.
Even when we talk on Skype, these check-ins make me lonely because what we say to each other is totally fake. It's nothing but lies so we can pretend we're feeling things we aren't. I mean, I get we don't want Grandma and Grandpa to worry, and I get they don't want us to
think
they're worrying. But not being honest makes all of us worry even more. With everything a secret, who knows what's real? Not us.
The grandparents I remember were actual people. The ones I talk to now are cardboard cutouts. The more I talk to the cutouts, the less I remember the real ones.
“We'll call again next Sunday,” Mom says.
Over and out.
