Peter And The Vampires (Volume One) Page 4

  “I doubt that. He was picking vegetables.”

  “Huh.” Dill pondered for a second. “Maybe he’s a killer hobo vegetarian.”

  “I kind of doubt that, too. You sure you don’t want to climb up and spend the night in my room?”

  “Dude, the only thing I’m more scared of than killer hobo vegetarians is your grandpa. I’ll be fine.”

  “Here.” Peter handed Dill the flashlight. “You need it more than me.”

  “Thanks, dude. See you tomorrow morning.” Dill trotted back towards his own house, keeping a wary eye on the darkness in Peter’s backyard.

  “What’s tomorrow morning?” Peter whispered after him.

  “That’s when we check it out,” Dill whispered back.

  • • •

  It was a long and scary climb back up to his bedroom, but no killer hobo vegetarians burst out of the darkness to menace him. Still, Peter checked the latch on the window six times and put his heaviest suitcase in front of it before he finally settled down in bed. Even then he lay awake for hours, looking out into the night sky and wondering what it was he had seen.

  Sleep came long before any answers did.

  • • •

  In his dreams, he was walking out in the backyard, which seemed to stretch in all directions forever. There was a giant bonfire raging in front of him. Sparks flew up into the night sky and settled there amongst the stars.

  Then the fire ended in one giant burst like a bomb going off. Peter stepped into the ashes, a whole acre of them, which scattered on a silent wind.

  An arm rose up out of the soot — an arm thin as a skeleton’s, made out of the smoldering ash.

  Peter kicked, and the arm disappeared in a cloud of dust, but another arm rose up out of the dead firepit.

  He started running, but the faster he ran, the slower he went.

  A body formed behind the arm, and a head, and two legs. It was the burned man from the garden patch, and he began to chase Peter.

  The house loomed up ahead, and Peter made it inside the front door and slammed it closed. As he did, he could see the wrinkled, charred face on the other side, followed by a pounding on the other side of the closed door, a heavy pounding —

  • • •

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Peter started awake, drenched in cold sweat.

  “Peter!” his mother called from the other side of his bedroom door. She sounded muffled and far away. “Time to get up! Wake up!”

  “I’m awake!” Peter answered.

  “Breakfast is ready. Why’s your door locked, Pete?”

  “My mistake.”

  There was the sound of her feet padding away. Peter took a few seconds to stop trembling before he got out of bed.

  11

  There was dry cereal for breakfast, and bread with jam, but no milk. Beth crammed her face with big handfuls of both. Grandfather was absent, as usual.

  “Grandfather had some bread in the freezer,” Mom explained, “but apparently he has an aversion to any fresh foods. Well, that’s not entirely true, there was a carton of milk, but it was a bit…chunky.”

  Peter let the raisin bran fall from his spoon in a dry little avalanche of flakes.

  “Don’t worry, I’m going shopping this morning. You want to put some water on your cereal? I know that’s kind of gross, but — ”

  “I’m not hungry,” Peter mumbled as he pushed the bowl away.

  “You okay, kid?” Mom asked, her eyes searching his. “Sad about your friends?”

  “Uhhh…yeah.” Peter nodded. It was a convenient cover story.

  Over in her high chair, Beth pointed at the kitchen screen door. “Mommy, dere’s a wittle boy!”

  “I’m not little!” a voice protested.

  Peter looked over just in time to see Dill dart to the side.

  “It’s okay, Dill, Grandfather’s not around,” Peter reassured him.

  Mom looked at Peter questioningly.

  “That’s my new friend,” Peter said. “His name is Dill.”

  Dill waved from the other side of the screen door. “Howdy.”

  “Come on in, Dill.” Mom smiled. “Any friend of Peter’s is a friend of the family’s.”

  “Um, well, not exactly,” Peter said.

  “Grandfather…?”

  “Not Dill’s biggest fan.”

  “That’s okay, I’m like mold, I grow on people.” Dill swaggered over to the table and stuck out his hand. “Whassup, uh, Peter’s mom.”

  Mom eyed Dill with an amused expression. “Hi, Dill, I’m Ms. Normal, and that over there is — ”

  “Your last name is ‘Normal’?” Dill slapped his knee and cackled as he turned to Peter. “Your last name is ‘Normal’?! You didn’t tell me that!”

  “Well — ”

  “But your grandpa’s name is Flannagan,” Dill said, confused.

  “And so was mine, but then I got married,” Mom explained, “and changed my last name.”

  “Oh yeah…well, don’t worry, I think it’s completely normal,” Dill deadpanned, then snorted.

  “Okay, Dill pickle,” Peter shot back.

  Dill scowled and pointed. “Hey now.”

  “As I was saying,” Mom continued, considerably less amused, “that’s Beth.”

  “Hi, Beth,” Dill said to the little girl. “Say, you don’t look normal,” he said in mock concern, then followed with several snorting laughs.

  Beth looked at Mom as though to say, Huh?

  “And what is your last name, mister?” Mom asked, then pressed her lips together tight.

  Uh–oh.

  Anytime Mom used ‘mister’ or ‘miss’ to address Peter or Beth, somebody was in trouble. Pressed lips meant twice as much trouble. Peter didn’t see any reason why it would be different for obnoxious neighbor kids.

  “Bodinski,” Dill replied.

  Mom’s eyes widened. “Bodinksi?”

  “Bodinski!” Peter laughed.

  “Buh–jin–ky,” Beth gurgled.

  “Bodinski,” Dill repeated to Beth, and not happy to do so.

  Beth giggled. “Bo–dun–ky.”

  “Bodinski!” Dill snapped. “Get it right!”

  Mom glared at him. “Dill, don’t speak to my daughter that way.”

  “Tell her to get my name right, then,” Dill sulked.

  “She’s two years old. She’ll get it right eventually.”

  “That’s…” Dill seemed to be holding himself back, as though he knew it was the wise thing to do…then finally couldn’t restrain himself. “That’s not normal.”

  At that point, he literally fell on the ground and dissolved into a fit of laughter.

  Mom looked at Dill like he was a dog rubbing its bottom across the floor. Then she looked at Peter like, What in the world are you thinking?

  “He wasn’t like this yesterday,” Peter apologized.

  “I think you should escort Mr. Bodinski outside.” Mom smiled, but it was not a happy smile. Her lips were pressed tight together again.

  Oh crap.

  “Bbbb–zis–by!” Beth burbled.

  “Bodinski!” Dill shouted from the floor.

  Double crap.

  “Dill, Grandfather’s coming,” Peter hissed.

  Dill took off like an Olympic runner and was out of sight before the screen door slammed shut.

  Mom looked around. Grandfather was nowhere to be seen. She realized what Peter had done and nodded. “Ah. Good one. I’ll have to remember that.”

  Peter got out of his chair and headed for the screen door.

  “Peter,” Mom said, “I’m not sure I completely agree with your choice of friends.”

  “Okay. So when are we moving back to California?”

  “Peter,” Mom warned, “don’t get a smart mouth with me.”

  “Dill’s the only friend I’ve got,” Peter complained, suddenly mad. “You took away all my other friends, now you’re going to take away this one, too?”

  His mother stared
at him for a moment, then relented with a sigh. “Go on.”

  Peter walked out the screen door into the bright Sunday morning sunshine. Dill was crouched down by the trashcans about twenty feet away. “Did he see me?” he asked, more than a little fear in his voice.

  “I don’t think so.” Peter shook his head. “Dude, that wasn’t cool.”

  “I know. It’s Bo–DIN–skee,” Dill enunciated. “Your sister needs to learn how to talk.”

  “I’m not talking about my sister, I’m talking about you! If you don’t want people to make fun of your name, don’t make fun of my name!”

  Dill looked surprised for a second, then angry…and then it all passed. “Okay. Sorry.”

  Peter kept frowning for a few more seconds, but inwardly he was talking to his mom: see, he’s not so bad once you get to know him.

  “Mrrrmmm…fine,” he grumbled.

  “Fine. Are we…back to normal?” Dill asked, then collapsed into a snorting gigglefest.

  “I’m gonna kick your butt!” Peter half–yelled, half–laughed. He ran after Dill, who sprinted away, still laughing uncontrollably.

  12

  They walked out towards the garden patch, slowly.

  “Do you…do you think it’s still out there?” Peter asked hesitantly. “The hobo?”

  When Dill didn’t answer, Peter looked over at him — and found that Dill wasn’t worried about the garden patch. Instead, he kept casting his eyes back at Peter’s house.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making sure your grandfather doesn’t see me. Dude, let’s hop the fence and walk in my yard.”

  “But the garden’s on this side of the fence.”

  “Just till we get close, then we can go back over to your yard.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Just in case.”

  “He’s not going to do anything to you,” Peter protested.

  “Well, if he does come running after me, I want a pretty good head start.”

  Peter remember that Dill had mentioned the exact same thing last night. “You like head starts, don’t you?”

  “If you got in as much trouble as me, you’d like them too.”

  They hopped the rickety fence and landed in Dill’s backyard, which was huge. It might have been narrower than Grandfather’s, but it stretched way past the garden and into the woods. “Wow, you guys have a big backyard.”

  Dill’s voice got defensive. “Why wouldn’t we have a big backyard?”

  Peter cringed. Dill’s house was nowhere near being called ‘nice,’ but he didn’t have to rub Dill’s nose in it. “I just meant this is a lot of land,” Peter backpedaled. “We didn’t even have a lawn in California, and you guys have a whole football field.”

  “Yeah, well, places next to crazy old dudes are cheap, I guess.”

  Peter glared at him. “That’s not true.”

  “What, that he’s crazy or that it was cheap? We just moved in a couple of years ago, so I remember everything when my mom and dad bought it. Guess how long it was since the last person lived in our house?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Six years.”

  Peter’s eyes got big.

  “Yeah,” Dill said in an I–told–you–so voice. “Nobody wants to live next to crazy old dudes, even rich crazy old dudes.”

  “Rich?! Give me a break,” Peter scoffed. “Have you seen my house?”

  “Uh, yea–uhhhhh,” Dill said, like he was saying, Puh–leaaaaaze, idiot.

  “I don’t mean how big it is. I mean how rundown it is.”

  “Is it rundown on the inside?”

  Peter considered. Now that he thought about it, no, it wasn’t. Dusty, maybe. But not rundown. “A little,” he lied. “But we don’t even own the land back here. He only owns up till the rose garden, but not the rest of it.”

  Dill smirked. “Riiiiight.”

  “It’s true! My mom said that my grandfather spanked her once when she went into the garden because he said it didn’t belong to us.”

  “Well who’s it belong to?”

  “I don’t know. My mom didn’t really say.”

  “Mm–hm.” Dill shook his head. “You know, if you’re gonna be rich, be rich. Don’t lie about it.”

  “I’m not lying! If he was so rich, why didn’t he just buy your house during those six years and tear it down or something?”

  “I don’t know, maybe he was waiting for a kid like me to move in because he likes making my life crappy.”

  Dill stopped. In his irritated mood, Peter hadn’t noticed that they had reached the garden.

  They stood behind the wooden fence and looked at the plants a hundred feet away. It was hard to see anything beyond the first few tangled tomato vines or thick corn stalks.

  “Well…should we get back in your yard and go over there?” Dill offered.

  Peter craned his neck to try to see more. No use. “Uh…maybe we should just stay here for a minute. You know, scope it out.”

  “Okay,” Dill agreed quickly.

  “Make sure there are no hobos.”

  “Yeah.”

  They stood there for another five minutes, barely moving.

  No hobos appeared.

  Finally, Dill climbed the fence. “Come on.”

  “What if that thing is still there?” Peter whispered.

  “Good. It’s better than being bored.”

  Peter reluctantly followed. They pushed their way gingerly into the rows of green, walking slow as baby deer on the lookout for wolves. Within a minute they had broken through the tomatoes and into much shorter plants like lettuce and turnips.

  “I didn’t see any hobos,” Dill said.

  “Me neither.”

  Dill kicked at a head of lettuce. “And I don’t think there are any hiding under there.”

  “Probably not.”

  Dill turned back towards the corn.

  “What are you doing?” Peter asked, panicked.

  “I’m goin’ back in,” Dill growled, Army soldier–style.

  Peter sighed, and stuck close behind him.

  There was nothing in the corn, either, though they criss–crossed it five times.

  Dill stopped and folded his arms judgmentally. “Are you sure you saw a hobo? Or whatever it was?”

  “You saw the handprint on my shirt!”

  Dill pondered this for a moment. “You know how they make a grill cheese sandwich, and then somebody sees something in it, like Jesus’s mom?”

  “You mean Mary?” “Yeah. And they say it’s a big miracle, and then they sell it on eBay for a lot of money?”

  “What does this have to do with my shirt?”

  Dill spoke like he was thinking hard. “Maybe…maybe you fell on your butt, and instead of there being a miracle and Jesus’s mom was on your shirt, you got a stupid miracle that looked like a hand.”

  “I saw it, Dill. I saw the hobo.”

  Dill sighed. “Well, it’s not there now. Maybe it’s a nighttime hobo.”

  “Maybe.”

  Peter looked at the plants surrounding him. Even though there wasn’t anybody here now, there had been last night, and the thought of it creeped him out.

  Dill shrugged. “Wanna see the ocean?”

  Peter could hear Grandfather’s voice in his head: And don’t go down to the ocean, either. At the edge of the meadow is a giant cliff with a hundred foot drop to the rocks below. Stay away.

  But the ocean was the one thing Peter had been looking forward to the entire trip out here. He nodded. “Let’s go.”

  13

  After they left the garden they walked another five minutes through grass that reached higher than Peter’s waist. Grasshoppers clicked and chirped and sprang up unexpectedly here and there, and Peter even saw a rabbit run away through the underbrush.

  Over to their right, the crumbling fence gave up the fight and the woods took over. Peter peered into the maze of tree trunks. The branches and leaves up above must have bee
n thick, because the ground was dark and shadowy. He couldn’t see far.

  “You play in the woods?” Peter asked Dill.

  “Sometimes. Mostly just watch TV.”

  About halfway between the garden and the cliff, Peter noticed a distant spot where the grass didn’t grow as thick. Curious, he headed over and found large, flat stones sunk into the ground in the shape of a fifty–foot rectangle. Other stones lay scattered in piles of rubble. These were the rocks he’d seen from his bedroom window when Grandfather showed him the house.

  “What’s this?”

  Dill shrugged. “Don’t know. It’s been out here forever, though.”

  The boys resumed their trek. As they continued to walk, Peter could hear the ocean now — he just couldn’t see it. The horizon wasn’t far away, but it seemed to abruptly stop, to just quit. There was only one lonely tree up ahead in the middle of the field, a grizzled old thing. It seemed to be perched on the edge of the world, where land ends and the sky begins.

  When they got closer, Peter saw why.

  They were on a cliff at least a hundred feet tall, just like Grandfather had said. The height made Peter sick to his stomach, and he backed up quickly.

  Dill pointed off to the left. “If you go thataway, there’s a path that goes down to a real beach…but it’s a heckuva long way to get there.”

  Peter got down on his knees and crawled forward until his head was just over the edge of the cliff. Down below, dozens of boulders and jagged rocks poked up out of the crashing waves. Peter felt dizzy, but he stayed crouched there until he worked up a gob of saliva and spit it into space.

  The little white droplet fell forever before finally disappearing in the sea foam below.

  “You gotta go gngghghghhhhh,” Dill said from somewhere over to the side, snorting like he was about to hock a loogie.

  Peter looked up from his hands and knees, then froze. That single, grizzled tree in the middle of the field was just a few feet away. It didn’t grow up straight in the air. No, it jutted out over the ocean at an angle, like it was frozen midway in the act of falling.

  And Dill had shimmied up on top of it, a leg and an arm dangling down on either side of the trunk.

  “Dill,” Peter gasped. “Dill, please, get down from there.”

  “What?” Dill asked without a care in the world.

  “Dill, please, get down…I’m afraid you’ll fall, please, get down,” Peter whispered.

  “What, you mean like this?” Dill teased, and kicked a leg out over empty space.

  Peter gritted his teeth. “Please Dill, please, just get off of that tree.”

  “Okay, okay. Jeez, you’re white as a ghost.”

  Dill scooted down the tree trunk and got back on solid land. Beneath his feet, a tangle of roots were exposed at the edge of the cliff, like a humongous bird’s nest poking out of the dirt.