After Dark (13 page)

Five or six houses down, though, there was a house that looked like it belonged on the set of a disaster movie. The front door was attached to the frame only by the bottom hinge and it was hanging open, most of the windows were smashed or had spiderweb cracks running through them, and two of the windows were completely gone. A blue minivan had run into the corner of the house, smashing the wooden siding and crumpling the hood back in a wedge.

“What in the name of Dolce and Gabbana happened there?” Mom said, staring out her side window as we passed.

“You know, I'm suddenly feeling like a bit of a drive this morning. Why don't we grab something to eat along the highway, maybe in the next town over. You know, try something new.”

“Maybe I should call Sheriff Dutton to make sure everyone's all right,” she murmured, ignoring me.

“That's an excellent idea,” I said, as she pulled out her phone. Unfortunately, at that exact moment, a large yellow dog shot out from behind a bush and sprinted into the street.

Mom slammed on the brakes and dropped her phone. The truck squealed, and we heard a soft thump.

“Oh no!” Mom cried and jumped out.

I almost got out, too, but I stopped myself and took a look around first. This was exactly the type of situation I'd expect to see in some half-baked horror movie. The unsuspecting victims foolishly jump out of their car to check on a poor, innocent dog, only to be attacked by a secret mob of microchip-controlled, killer vampires. So, I gave myself a few good, hard slaps to the face, just to make sure I stayed sharp, surveyed the street and then slipped out.

The street was still — quiet, still and empty.

“Are you coming, Charlie? I could use a little help!” Mom cried.

“Be right there,” I said, easing my way around to the front. She was squatting beside a golden retriever, who was lying on its side, panting and struggling to get up. It was obvious that at least one of its legs was broken, probably two.

“Easy, boy, easy. Just lie down,” she said.

I surveyed the street, expecting someone to come outside, to claim the dog, to help us, but nobody came out, no curtains or blinds were thrown open, nobody peeked out of their front door to see what was going on.

“There's an address on his collar,” Mom said. The dog was old. I could see gray hairs behind his ears and along his nose, and even though he was hurt badly, he was still wagging his tail a little and trying to lick Mom's hand as she read his tag. “It says 17 Oak Avenue.”

“That's just over there,” I said, pointing at the house directly to our right. It was a two-story brick house with ivy crawling all over it. The car, a big old Cadillac, was parked in the driveway. None of the windows in the house were smashed, and the white picket fence was intact (although the gate was open).

“His name is Mr. Chips. You need to hurry, Charlie!” Mom said, trying to keep Mr. Chips from getting up.

I scurried across the sidewalk and down the long front walk, glancing around, watching for any sign of movement from inside. But there was none, not the slightest flicker or flutter from the curtains.

I pushed the doorbell, it ding-donged, and I listened. It was silent on Oak Avenue, no birds singing, no cicadas chirruping.

I listened more closely. Nothing.

I was about to ring again when I heard faint footsteps creaking down a set of stairs behind the door.

“Charlie? Is anyone home?” Mom yelled.

“Yeah,” I said, taking four or five small steps backward.

Now shuffling footfalls were coming toward the door. They stopped, and I heard the dead bolt open. My heart rate suddenly skyrocketed, and the hairs on the back of my neck all lined up and stood at attention. The doorknob clicked, and then the door opened an inch.

“Hello?” a crackly voice asked.

“Uh … hello,” I stammered. The muscles in my legs had seized up, rooting me to the spot. “I'm … well, I'm … I'm afraid we hit your dog … Mr. Chips.”

“Mr. Chips?”

“Yeah, his tag said that this is his house.”

“Yes, Mr. Chips,” the voice said.

I waited for Crackly Voice to say something else, but only got about ten seconds of silence.

“Is Mr. Chips your dog?”

“Yes.”

“He's hurt. Can you come get him? He's out in the road. I think his leg is broken.”

The door opened another inch, and I could see the silhouette of a short, hunched woman inside. I moved so she could get a look at Mom and Mr. Chips out in the street.

“Do you need help?” I asked.

“Bring him here,” Crackly Voice said and abruptly shut the door.

“What's going on, Charlie?” Mom yelled. She was holding Mr. Chips by his collar, struggling to keep him on the ground.

“She wants us to bring him here,” I called.

“What?” Mom said, confused.

“She's kind of old, I think,” I said, jogging back into the street.

“Ask her if she wants us to take him to the vet.”

I marched back to the door, ready to bolt at the drop of a hat, and called, “Do you want us to bring Mr. Chips to a vet?”

“No,” Crackly Voice said, from behind the door, “bring him to me.”

I turned and headed back to Mom.

“She says she wants us to bring him to her,” I said. I scanned the street again. I had an uneasy feeling we were being watched.

“This is crazy,” Mom said, motioning me over. “But we'll have to do what she wants. Help me move him.”

We got our hands under Mr. Chips, me at the tail end, Mom by his head, and lifted him as gently as possible. He growled and moaned a little at first, but Mom shushed him soothingly and he quieted down.

Mr. Chips whimpered as we eased our way to the front door.

“Hello!” I cried. “We've got him! Hello?”

“Leave him there,” Crackly Voice said.

“We can't leave him out here,” Mom said. “Please, open the door so we can put him down — he's hurt.”

“Leave him,” Crackly Voice repeated.

“Ma'am, I can't leave him like this,” Mom called. “He's in a lot of pain. I'll bring him to the vet and take care of everything, okay?”

The door opened a sliver and Crackly Voice said, “Bring him in.”

Mom hesitated. She looked down at Mr. Chips. He whined.

“This is a bad idea,” I said, looking at the darkness behind the door.

“We're new in town, Charlie,” Mom whispered. “We can't afford to offend anyone. Remember, we need the inn to succeed.”

“Inside,” Crackly Voice said. Mom nudged the door open with her foot and it swung in on creaking hinges.

There weren't any lights on inside, but the sunlight slipped a few feet into a small entryway. There was a Persian rug on the hardwood floor and a round mirror hanging on the wall, which was covered in faded flowery wallpaper. Dust motes floated in the shaft of sunlight.

“Inside,” Crackly Voice called. She sounded like she was standing well back from the door.

“I'm so sorry about this,” Mom said, leading the way inside. That's when Mr. Chips started to whine again, whine and struggle.

“Easy, boy,” Mom cooed.

We were inside now, standing on the rug. There were closed doors to our left and right, a staircase in front of us and a hallway beside it. There was a door at the end of the hallway that was ajar, and it was from behind that door that Crackly Voice called out again.

“Leave him there,” she said.

Mom started to lower Mr. Chips, but his whining got worse, and she hesitated.

“I'm so sorry about what happened. My truck is right outside. I could take him to a vet and pay for everything.”

I was feeling claustrophobic in there, like things were closing in on us and if we didn't move fast we might not get back out. “Let's just take him,” I blurted, hoping for a quick escape.

“Leave him there,” a second voice said. It was a man's voice this time, and it was coming from the top of the staircase. I couldn't see him from where I was standing, but judging by the sound of the voice, he was just as old as Crackly Voice.

“I've called Dr. Creed,” he added. “She lives down the street. She'll be right over.”

“Dr. Creed?” Mom said.

“She's a veterinarian,” Crackly Voice said.

“And she's coming right over,” the man's voice said.

“She'll be right here,” Crackly Voice added.

Mr. Chips was whining and squirming more than ever.

“Let's put him down, Charlie,” Mom said.

“Yes, leave him there,” the man said.

“Leave him there,” Crackly Voice added.

We lowered Mr. Chips onto the rug, but he didn't stop whining or squirming around.

“Your dog's very agitated,” Mom said. “I think he's in a lot of pain.”

“This will help,” yet another voice said, from behind us.

I whirled around and found myself face-to-face with a woman about my mom's age, who was standing in the doorway holding a hypodermic needle. She was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and large round sunglasses.

“This will help,” she repeated, but as she came in, she staggered and almost fell down.

“Are you okay?” Mom asked, grabbing her and holding her up.

“Just a little under the weather,” she said, straightening. She was slim, was wearing jeans and had on a long-sleeve white shirt with the collar flipped up.

Mr. Chips growled and bared his teeth, but Dr. Creed didn't hesitate or stumble this time.

“This will help,” she said a third time, bending down and quickly jabbing the needle into Mr. Chips's hip.

He tried to bite her, but his broken legs held him back, and she stood up as though nothing had happened.

“That will sedate him, and then I'll take him to my office,” she said. Mr. Chips's growls were fading away quickly.

“I'm Claire Autumn,” Mom said, holding out her hand.

“I'm Mariam Creed,” the woman said as she shook Mom's hand.

“This is my son, Charlie.”

“Hello,” Dr. Creed said, turning to me. Her handshake was cold and limp.

“I'm sorry about all of this,” Mom said, bending down and patting Mr. Chips, who was now lying still and panting lightly. “Please send me the bill for any treatment. We've just moved into the inn on Elm Street. Do you know it?”

“I'm quite familiar with it,” Creed said, stepping over Mr. Chips and starting up the stairs. “He'll be fine now.”

“I'm relieved to hear it,” Mom said, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the door.

“What do you mean when you say you're quite familiar with the inn?” I asked.

“Come along, Charlie!” Mom said, dragging me outside.

“We'll be seeing you very soon,” Dr. Creed added.

“What's that supposed to mean?” I asked, but Mom shut the door behind us and pulled me away.

“What's gotten into you, Charlie?” she grumbled.

“Don't you find it a little strange that she's
quite familiar
with the inn? And that she threatened to come and visit us
very soon
?”

“I don't think that counts as a threat, kiddo — and we can't get lippy with the locals. We need them to be on our side.”

“The locals aren't exactly —” I started, then stopped.

The SUV I'd seen with its doors open in a front yard was now parked in the driveway, doors closed. The minivan that had crashed into the side of the house had been backed into the driveway, and the front door that had been hanging by a single hinge was now propped back in place. It was as if a pit crew had rushed out and tidied things up while we were talking to Crackly Voice and Doc Creed. Was the whole street crawling with zompires? Were they all watching us right now? I flinched to the left and right, like a jittery chicken, and would have made a break for the truck, but there was a man sitting on a moped between us and the truck. He was dressed all in black and wearing a black helmet. The helmet's tinted visor was down, covering his eyes.

“Is this your truck?” he called.

“Yes,” Mom said, heading toward him. I tried to hold her back, just in case this was the trap I'd been waiting for, but she slipped out of my grasp. “I'm afraid we had a bit of an accident, and I didn't have a chance to pull over to the side.”

“It looks like there's been lots of accidents around here,” he said, keeping the visor down. “What's going on?”

“I was hoping you could tell
us
,” Mom said.

“A party gone bad?” he said, shrugging. “Although, Oak Avenue isn't exactly known for having a whole lot of out-of-control parties.”

“Do you live around here?” I asked, keeping my distance.

“No, I live up on Birch Court,” he said and flipped up the visor.

He was an Asian guy, with a gray goatee and round, silver-framed glasses.

“I don't suppose there were any strange goings-on up on Birch last night?” I asked, pretty sure he wasn't one of them, whatever they were.

“Charlie, don't start,” Mom said, but he answered anyway.

“Now that you mention it, there was a bit of a commotion at the neighbor's place. I figured it might've been a few kids goofing around again or maybe some coyotes getting into the garbage.”

“There are coyotes around here?”

“You bet,” he said, smiling. “Lots of them.”

I remembered all those shuffling sounds that I'd heard in the woods last night and felt lucky that all I had to deal with was a thick cloud of mosquitoes.

“I'm Bob Takahashi. I'm the pastor at St. Michael's.”

“Claire Autumn,” Mom said, shaking his hand.

“That's the place at the end of Church Street, right?” I asked, shaking his hand, too. He had a firm grip.

“That's the one,” he said.

“You don't have a head cold or anything, do you?” I asked.