Wolf Moon Rising (7 page)

ing in shifts, carry ing the wood and rolling it up to the back

door of the kitchen. Fresh snow lay all around, but they soon

trampled their path to melting scum.

“Where are the keys, Willie?” David said before he picked

up a piece of snow- covered kindling. He felt a splinter slide into his palm. “Ow!”

“You keep away from them buildings.”

“Why? What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me?” He gri-

maced at the splinter lodged under the skin.

“It’s kinda hard to forget all the things you did when you

were allowed to play there. You stay in your room, study for

those tests you need to take.”

David took off his cap and beat it against his leg to knock

off the snow. “Damn it, that’s not fair! Willie, I’m not that little kid everyone thought would grow up to be a criminal.”

“Th

at’s right,” Willie said dryly. “You had everybody plenty

worried. Trying to fi x Mr. Roger’s brakes so he would crash his

car.”

Not all this again, David thought. His hand throbbed. “Be-

cause he wanted to send me away to military school! I was ten

years old!” David took a breath because he could feel himself

getting frustrated. “Come on, Willie, that’s all in the past.

You know I’ve changed.” He looked out at the grounds behind

Collinwood and saw that the snow had fallen so thickly all

the paths and low bushes had disappeared. He would miss

Jackie’s bus.

“Th

en stay away from places you’re not supposed to go.”

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David could feel the angry child welling up inside him.

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He decided to try a diff erent tack. “You know, Willie, the

truth is I need to make some extra money for college, and there

are a lot of things abandoned that nobody wants I could sell. I

could split what ever money I make with you.”

Willie looked at him warily. “You ask your dad?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise. If I put aside a little cash, he’ll

be really impressed. What do you say?” He waited.

“Don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Exasperated, David shook snow off his jacket. “Okay. You

win.” He shrugged. “I’ll just break in.” Willie only grunted and

David felt a fl ood of irritation. “What’s the real reason I can’t go back there?”

Willie stared at him a minute. “You’ll probably just think

I’m crazy.”

“No, I won’t—”

“Th

en I’ll tell you.” His mouth was working again. “Th

em

places is haunted.”

David laughed. “Wait a minute. What did you say?”

“I said they’re haunted.”

“Haunted? Oh, come on.”

“You remember what happened in the swimming pool,

don’t you?”

David felt a tremor of guilt. “Uh, yeah, some little kid. But

that was a long time ago. You don’t need to bring that up.”

“You

weren’t s’posed to be back there. You were playin’

chicken— and skating the pool.”

“Not fair, Willie. Gimme a break.” David remembered cry-

ing in Roger’s arms, saying it wasn’t his fault. A kid had fallen

off the coping, a younger boy who had tried to do a really diffi

-

cult maneuver on his skateboard. An ambulance had come and

taken the kid away, and he had been forbidden to ever play there

again. David sighed, wondering if he would ever live it down.

“So you think that boy’s ghost is back there?”

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“Him and a lot others.”

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“But that’s stupid.” David was ready to lose his temper.

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Dark Shadows: Wolf Moon Rising

Th

inking about the past always gave him qualms. Th

e splinter

was bothering him, and he decided to go in the house and get

some tweezers. “Never mind, Willie. It’s a big waste of time

talking to you. I’ll just look around in the basement.”

“Th

is basement?” Willie jerked up.

“Yeah. Th

ere’s a lot of junk down there. Fishing poles, golf

clubs, guns, lots of old tools. I could have a yard sale. And maybe the portrait is there, too.”

Willie looked at him, his eyes widening. “Now wait a min-

ute. Th

ere ain’t no painting down there. Don’t you be going

down there either, you hear me?”

David sighed and sucked on his hand. Th

e splinter had hit a

nerve. “Okay, this is getting crazy. What’s the matter with the

basement?”

Willie shook his head.

“No, Willie. Tell me. I’ve been thinking about this for a

long time. Th

ere’s something weird about this house, isn’t there?

And about my family. We live alone out here and there are se-

crets, things no one talks about. What’s wrong with us? You’ve

been around a long time, ever since I was a little kid. Do you

know what it is? When you say the outbuildings are haunted,

what do you really mean?”

Willie slammed another armload of wood in the wheelbar-

row. “I’ll get you the damn keys. Don’t blame me if you fall in

the swimming pool. And just stay out of the basement. Too

much junk, Too many things to trip over. And there’s nothing

down there. You understand?”

By the time he got the keys from Willie, who, in his dim-

witted confusion said he had forgotten where he had put them,

David was too late to meet Jackie. Th

e bus would have come and

gone. She would already be at home, and if he went to the Old

House he would have to make pleasant conversation with her

mother and endure those thinly disguised looks of disapproval.

Nevertheless, still determined to pursue his goal, David

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decided to look for the painting alone. If he were going to search

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Lara Parker

the old pool house, which was the place he was most curious

about, he would have to hurry not to miss the light. It was

snowing again when he climbed on his snowmobile and jerked

the pull cord. Th

e engine rumbled into a satisfying whine as he

pressed in on the throttle. He skimmed along the sea road, rel-

ishing the motor’s increased per for mance, and practiced carving

the hillocks near the road, shifting his weight in the turns,

dodging the trees and half- buried rocks, and his heart beat

faster as he felt himself become one with the machine.

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T h r e e

It had been snowing all day, and Jacqueline had watched the

storm from her seat in the classroom, mesmerized by the

dance of windblown fl akes outside the glass. Th

e schoolyard had

faded to a misty black- and- white photograph hanging behind a

gauzy scrim. Th

en it was a Japa nese print, then a tissue paper

cutout. Th

e sky had fl oated down and swallowed the earth.

But by the time school let out, the snow had melted at the

back entrance under the overhanging shelter of the boarding

area, and— along with a blast of hot air— the students burst

screaming from the building. Th

e school bus had been delayed

by the storm, but it was fi lled up with noisy teenagers, soggy

stocking caps and scarves, and jackets reeking of wet wool and

nylon when Jackie slipped into a seat next to a fogged- up window

and pulled her legs up under her.

Th

e ride home was the worst part of her day, and she always

dreaded sitting in a seat by herself, ignoring the stares and snick-

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ers aimed her way. Already ringing in her ears were the cruel

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jibes the four boys she hated the most made from the back of

the bus, teasing that she endured silently, even though she fanta-

sized turning them all to stone. In her vision, she would become

an enraged Medusa, her mouth gaping open and her head crawl-

ing with snakes as she watched them freeze into motionless

statues with rigid scowls on their faces.

Sometimes the girls pretended to be friendly but traded

whispers behind her back, girls with blunt- witted minds. Rud-

derless skiff s fl oundering in the murky waters of their lives.

Today they only deadpanned and giggled when she looked over

at them, as if they had heard some mortifying rumor about her.

David would already be waiting for her. He always worried

when she was late, and he had promised to help her search for

the painting. Th

e outbuildings behind Collinwood were the most

obvious storage places, and he had said he would fi nd the keys

to the old swimming pool and the bowling alley. He had assured

her over and over that they would fi nd it together.

Th

e Collinses were wealthy, and David had always been

schooled at home. For a month they had been fellow students,

and they had studied Greek mythology and Roman history,

chemistry and algebra. It had been so comforting, sitting in the

sunny kitchen with David, reading about the gods and god-

desses of ancient Greece together and laughing at their human

foibles, or watching his lips move as he worked out congruent

triangles and not blurting out the answer before he found it. But

her mom had run out of money, spent it all to redo the Old

House, and so she had been forced to return to the local high

school.

She fl ipped the hood of her coat up over her head and

thought of her mother’s advice. “Just ignore them. Th

ey’ll leave

you alone.” Today she was in a black mood, and there was an

ache from loneliness inside her rib cage. She could feel tears

welling up. She could have accepted her solitude, but her classes

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were disor ga nized, and the teachers spent most of their time

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trying to control the classroom. Th

e gloomy redbrick school

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Dark Shadows: Wolf Moon Rising

building had been an abandoned woolen mill back in the fi fties,

and it was attended by the sons and daughters of loggers and

fi shermen, none of them interested in going to college. Her only

escape had been art class, where she could ignore them all and

follow her paintbrush into her own dreams.

Ping!
Something hit her on the back of her head— a pencil, probably.

“Hey, weirdo, you smell funny. What’s the perfume?”

She knew without turning around that would be George

Claggard— the brutish one, the ape with hairy knuckles whose

father was a longshoreman. He always wore a red- and- black plaid

wool coat, leather work boots, and a hat with fake fur earfl aps

over his kinky curls. Once he sat down beside her on the bus

and she thought he was trying to be friendly, but he leaned into

her and whispered that he wanted to show her something— his

father’s hook, a lethal tool used for loading crates at the docks.

She could smell his breath, and she had stared into his tiny eyes

before she bit out, “Get away from me!”

“Could it be bat shit?” he sang down the aisle. “Ummmm . . .”

It was one of their favorite taunts, and for good reason. A

bat had followed her out of the forest one day and it had chosen

to stay on her shoulder. She had liked stroking his soft brown

fur, kissing his tiny turned- up snout, and even wearing him

upside down on the collar of her coat, just to freak everybody

out. When he unfolded his wings and took off , the girls screamed

hysterically, especially when he landed in someone’s hair. But

she had taken him home to the woods. Had he whined for her

when she left him behind?

“Phew! Your clothes must be stiff as cardboard.” Th

e boys

guff awed as if this was hysterically funny. Ernie Slavic, the snub-nosed weasel, was the clown of the pack, a skinny, dark- haired

boy with a foul mouth and sneering gaze. He always wore a

sweatshirt, even in the coldest weather, the hood pulled over a

New York Mets baseball cap that shadowed the deep- set eyes in

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his thin face and his pimply complexion. She suspected that

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Ernie was the ringleader, smarter than George, and the instiga-

tor of their plots. She knew, for instance, that Ernie was the one

who bought the weed.

“Yeah! How come you always wear that same ol’ dirty coat?”

She looked down, surprised at the insult. She loved her

coat, even the frayed sleeves. Her mother had bought it for her

one sunny autumn day in Boston, and they had spent a happy

afternoon, choosing the quarter- length navy jacket that suited

her best, and brought out the color in her eyes. Afterward they

had gone to Schraff t’s for hot chocolate.

For the fi rst time she noticed buttons were missing and the

sleeves came to above her wrists. Her mother, who spent all her