The Long Way Home (10 page)
Josh, Rick, and I did not beat Miler to death and bury his mangled body in a shallow grave with a headstone warning future would-be practical jokers that this could be their fate. We wanted to, believe me. And he deserved it, that’s for sure. I can’t even remember now why we decided to let him live. He’d brought some brownies his mother had made—maybe that was it. Or maybe it was because he also brought an extra PSP with a battery pack that would last till dawn and keep us from having to go to sleep again. That was important, too, because at the time, there didn’t seem to be any chance we’d be able to sleep again—ever— so a little gaming seemed like it might be a good way to pass the time.
Anyway, for whatever reason, we let Miler live and he took off the plastic mask he’d used to hide his features and joined us in the house and told us all about how he didn’t really have a track meet to train for but had just come up with this awesome idea for a practical joke that was sure to scare the daylights out of us. Which, after the terror had passed, we were forced to admit had worked pretty well and had, in retrospect, been incredibly terrifying while being kind of hilarious at the same time. And yes, I was also forced to admit that I had screamed like a girl when Miler grabbed my ankle and that that had also been more or less hilarious. In fact, as I recall, I was forced to admit this several times before I finally punched Josh in the arm to get him to shut up about it.
Mostly, we spent the rest of the night laughing until we couldn’t breathe and then breathing enough so we could start laughing again. On top of which, the story of Miler’s prank made for such a good report that Mr. Sherman was, in fact, forced to give us the As we were looking for. And that, in turn, got my parental sentence reduced from two weeks grounded to one Saturday cleaning out the garage.
That hadn’t been that long ago. A year and a half or so— not that long in the scheme of things. But it seemed to me like another life.
Now, I had come back to the old McKenzie place. I didn’t have much choice. I had to try to clear my name. I couldn’t let the police find me, and I couldn’t let my friends get involved and put themselves in danger. The Ghost Mansion was the only place I could think of where I could hide long enough to get the job done. No one ever came here. No one even passed by. No one would have any reason to suspect that they would find me here.
The iron gate that blocked the way in was held shut by a chain, but the chain was wrapped only loosely through the bars. When I pushed against the gate, the chain slid off and dangled between the bars. I opened the gate wide enough for me to squeeze through.
I started up the last stretch of the path to the Ghost Mansion.
It was dark and cold as dawn approached. The half- moon that had shone through the church window earlier that night was low to the horizon now, sinking out of sight behind the faraway trees. The last dark of night seemed to gather around me. I had a small keychain flashlight in my pocket. I took it out and pressed its button occasionally to send a thin white beam down at the path. It wasn’t much light, but it was enough to keep me headed in the right direction.
By now, the broken macadam of the road was all but gone. There was nothing left but dirt and stones. They crunched under my sneakers as the path dipped down into a small valley and then rose again.
I climbed up over the crest of the little hill and finally saw the house.
It hadn’t changed any. It still loomed large and tumbledown and gloomy on the top of the rise. It still stared out at the darkness through its broken windows as if waiting for victims to approach. The predawn wind still moved over the surrounding fields, still stirred the trees and the unmown grass so that the place almost seemed a living presence, restless and murmuring. It was all just as I remembered it.
But if the house hadn’t changed, I had. I’d changed a lot. The last time I’d come here, I was pretty much just a kid, getting into a little harmless mischief. I was afraid of ghosts then. The noise of mice in the walls made me jump and shiver. A staring statue in a graveyard sent a chill up my spine.
I was older now—a young man, I’d guess you’d call me. Even though I’d lost a year of growing up—even though I couldn’t remember it—I had grown up all the same. I was still afraid—I was afraid all the time—but the things that frightened me were different. They were real. Not ghosts, but people—bad people—who didn’t believe we should have the freedom to think and say whatever we wanted and live the way we thought was right. They hated America because we had those freedoms. They wanted to hurt our country and they wanted to hurt me. I was afraid of them—the bad guys—and I was afraid of the good guys, the police. The police who wanted to put me in prison for the next twenty-five years. I was afraid they would catch me before I could find out the truth.
So as I walked up the hill toward the Ghost Mansion, my feelings were weird—mixed, I guess would be the best way to describe them. I looked up at that great hulk of a house sitting against the deep blue sky and among the silhouetted trees—I looked up at it and I felt it looking back down at me—and yeah, I have to admit I still felt that old chill, that same chill I’d felt the last time I was here, as if something supernatural, something bizarre and frightening, might be waiting for me behind those black, staring windows.
I felt that—but mostly, I felt something else. I felt sad. I missed those old days, those days I’d last been here. I missed being a kid. I missed being afraid of dumb things that couldn’t really hurt me. I missed laughing until I couldn’t breathe and then breathing and laughing some more.
I guess the point is that more than anything, I missed my friends. I missed Rick and Miler and Josh. I missed having someone to kid around with and talk to. I missed long conversations about girls and sports and arguments about whether
Medal of Honor
was cooler than
Prince of Persia
and why part 2 of any trilogy was never as good as parts 1 and 3. I missed being with the guys who knew me best and liked me just the way I was. I missed my friends.
But they were gone. I had to face that. Those days were gone and I was alone, as alone and empty as the McKenzie house.
The dark house rose over me as I approached. The autumn branches of the trees leaned down toward me, creaking and groaning as I stepped into the shadow of the doorway.
The last time I’d been here, I remembered, the front door had been locked and we had had to go around to the side before we found a door that was open. Now I just touched the front door and it opened easily, the rotten wood around the latch cracking and giving way.
I stepped inside. The door swung closed behind me with a soft, high moan. I stood in the foyer at the foot of the front stairs as the brooding darkness of the house closed around me.
I was about to reach for my flashlight, but then I noticed: in the time it had taken me to walk up the path, the first faint light of dawn had crept into the sky. That light was filtering to me here from the windows in the living room off to my right. After only a moment or two, my eyes adjusted and I could make out the shapes of things pretty clearly.
I went to the foot of the stairs and peered up into the deep shadows. I put my hand on the banister—and then quickly pulled it away as I felt the slimy dust under my palm. I was about to start upstairs when I hesitated. Did I hear something up there? Was something moving around?
I stood still and listened. The wind was rising the way it does at dawn and it blew freely through the house. The house creaked and settled, just the way it had the last time. And the mice—they were still here as well. In fact, they sounded particularly active. I could hear them scurrying this way and that. I guess they were trying to get back to their nests before daylight.
I smiled to myself, remembering how Josh and Rick and I had lain in our sleeping bags, listening to those same noises, scared out of our wits. Every time we heard a new noise, we would glance at one another nervously and try to explain it away, try to laugh it off and reassure one another. It seemed kind of silly now.
So I started up the stairs again—and stopped again. I had heard something. Something was moving around on the second floor. It wasn’t the wind or the house or the mice either. It was bigger than that. I could tell by the way it made the floorboards shift.
I was tense now. My mind was racing, trying to come up with some explanation, trying to make sense of it. I thought it might be the cops or even the Homelanders, waiting for me. But how would they ever think to come here? Maybe it was just some animal, I told myself. Some raccoon who’d gotten stranded. Or maybe it was some homeless guy who’d crept in to get out of the cold and get some sleep.
I thought about turning away. I thought about running. But the sky was getting even brighter and there was really nowhere else to go, nowhere else I could think of anyway.
I waited there a long time, but there was no other noise. I shook my head at myself. Maybe I hadn’t grown up as much as I’d thought. I was still afraid of spooks and shadows and strange bumps in the night.
I shrugged it off. It was probably nothing. I started up the stairs again, faster this time, moving with more boldness than I felt.
The dawn was coming quickly now. As I reached the second-floor landing, I could see the new light coming through open doors and spilling into the hallway. I saw windows through the doors, and through the windows I saw the sky growing paler and paler blue. Soon I could make out the walls and the floorboards of the second-story corridor that led to the upstairs parlor, that same large room where I had come to stay the night with my friends all that time ago.
I moved down the corridor to the parlor doorway. The door itself was gone and I saw the window on the wall beyond. The light of the sky was growing brighter even as I watched. Birds were singing and the branches of the trees were coming clear against the brightening blue.
I was about one step away from the threshold when I heard a soft, quick, urgent whisper:
“Coming!”
There was no mistaking it: a human voice. I froze, motionless, my pulse pounding. The thoughts in my head seemed to all come together, like people shouting at each other in an argument:
The police! The Homelanders! They’re here! They found me!
I knew I had to run, but for a second I was so startled I couldn’t get my body moving.
And before I could budge from the spot, a figure stepped into the doorway in front of me.
The light from the window behind him blotted out his features. He was just a gray form standing there, as motionless as I was.
For a long moment we confronted each other, just like that, neither of us moving a muscle.
Then, slowly, the figure lifted his hands above his head, his fingers curled like claws.
And he said softly, “Boo!”
It was Miler. I couldn’t believe it. It was impossible, but it was true: it was Miler Miles.
And now Josh and Rick were there, stepping into the doorway behind him.
And after another moment, Rick said, “Dude. What took you so long?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
What Friends Are For
I don’t know how long I stood there, staring like an idiot. I’m pretty sure it was a good long time.
Finally, Miler said, “You know, you look really stupid with your mouth hanging open like that. No offense or anything.”
Then the next thing I knew I was in the room and we were all together, hugging and slapping hands and slugging one another’s shoulders and just saying, “Man!” and “Dude!” and “Bro!” over and over again. I don’t think I have ever been so happy to see anybody in my life. I don’t even know how to describe the feeling. It was like the dawn came up at the windows and the dawn came up inside me at the same time. It was like I didn’t realize how dark it was in my heart until the light shone through.
The light. My friends. I could hardly believe they were here in front of me.
I looked around in a daze. There were sleeping bags on the floor and flashlights and empty soda cans and an empty bag of potato chips. I guess they’d been waiting for me a long time.
“How . . . ?” I finally managed to get the words out. “How did you guys know? How did you know I would come here?”
“Josh knew,” said Rick. “He figured it out.”
Josh touched his own shoulder with a finger and made a sizzling noise to show just how hot he was.
I answered with a gesture of my own: raising my shoulders and lifting my hands in an enormous shrug as if to say,
What’s the story?
“I saw you on TV,” Josh said. “The whole thing about how you were in the library and the librarian called the cops and the cops showed up and started chasing you and everything.”
“Yeah?”
“And I thought, well, the last time anyone heard anything about you, you were escaping from the cops all the way over in Centerville. So I knew you were heading this way. I figured you must be coming back to Spring Hill.”
“Sure, but . . .” I gestured around me at the big empty parlor. The room—the whole feeling of the house—was growing less and less dismal as the sun poured in through the windows. “The Ghost Mansion. How did you figure I’d come back to the Ghost Mansion?”
