The Second Horror Page 2

Preparing to attack again?

  He couldn’t see it in the heavy blackness.

  But he heard scuttling in the far corner.

  I need to see it, Brandt thought frantically. I can’t fight it if I can’t see it.

  He fumbled for the light switch. He found it quickly.

  A dim ceiling light clicked on.

  Brandt blinked. His eyes moved warily around the room.

  The long, narrow attic had a low ceiling over plain plasterboard walls. The dusty floor was littered with boxes. To the right of the door, under the eaves of the house, Brandt spotted a small window, slightly open.

  But the creature? No sign of the creature.

  Scratch-scratch.

  Slowly, carefully, Brandt reached for a straw broom he spotted on top of a box.

  The creature stepped out from behind a box.

  Brandt narrowed his eyes at it.

  A fat raccoon.

  He uttered a relieved sigh. Only a raccoon.

  But it attacked me, he realized. A raccoon wouldn’t do that—unless something was wrong with it.

  Unless it had rabies.

  He stared at the raccoon. It was breathing hard. Its tail switched back and forth. Through the black mask on its face, it stared back at Brandt—and snarled.

  Oh, no, Brandt thought. It is rabid.

  The raccoon reared back on its haunches, preparing to spring again.

  Brandt gripped the broom with both hands. If only I had one of Dad’s spears now! he thought.

  The raccoon sprang.

  With a gasp, Brandt batted at the animal with the broom.

  The creature let out an angry hiss as the broom knocked it back to the floor.

  Brandt swung at it again. With a furious hiss, the raccoon swiped at the broom with its claws.

  Brandt swung the broom. And again furiously. Backing the creature to the wall.

  Snarling angrily, the raccoon scrambled up onto the windowsill. It pulled back its lips and bared its pointy teeth at Brandt.

  Brandt jabbed at the creature with the broom. The raccoon snatched at the broom with its teeth—and caught it.

  Startled, Brandt let the broom slip from his hands. It clattered to the floor.

  Brandt started to reach for the broom—but stopped when he noticed the raccoon crouched low, preparing to jump onto him.

  If he bent to get the broom, Brandt realized, the raccoon could leap and sink its teeth into his neck.

  The raccoon continued to utter its shrill, angry hiss. Spittle dripped from its mouth.

  Brandt slowly backed away, his eyes locked on the animal.

  His left leg hit something—a chair. With a startled cry, he stumbled and fell backward.

  The raccoon sprang again.

  Brandt jerked himself up. He grabbed the chair by the legs, lifted it, and jabbed it at the spitting animal.

  The raccoon retreated to the windowsill again.

  With a loud, angry shout, Brandt heaved the chair at it.

  The chair slammed against the wall.

  The creature dived out the window.

  Brandt lunged for the window, grabbed it by the top of the frame, slid it shut, and locked it.

  Struggling to catch his breath, Brandt gazed blankly around the attic. His entire body trembled. The narrow room appeared to tilt and sway.

  A close one, he thought.

  That creature put up a real fight.

  Had any other animals climbed in through the open attic window? Were there other animals hiding up here?

  Brandt wouldn’t be able to sleep unless he knew the answer.

  Still breathing hard, he made a careful search of the boxes.

  No. No more raccoons. No more animals.

  I’ll be safe now, Brandt thought.

  He turned out the light and, his legs weak and rubbery, started downstairs.

  His father stood in the hallway in his bathrobe. Brandt stepped into the pale glow from the hall light.

  “Brandt? What’s going on?” his father asked.

  Brandt rubbed the little scar on his cheek. His mother came running out of the bedroom, her features tight with concern.

  “Brandt, you look terrible!” she cried. “What happened?”

  “I heard noises. In the attic,” Brandt replied breathlessly. “I went up to investigate. I—I found a raccoon.”

  “Is it still up there?” his father demanded, gazing past Brandt to the attic door.

  “It’s gone,” Brandt told them. “I forced it back outside.”

  “Thank goodness!” Mrs. McCloy cried, raising both hands to her cheeks. “Who left the attic window open?”

  “I—I should tell you something else,” Brandt started hesitantly. “I think the raccoon might have had rabies. It was acting very strangely. It attacked me.”

  Mr. McCloy took Brandt by the arm and began to check him over. “Did it bite you or scratch you anywhere?”

  “I don’t think so,” Brandt said. “I think I’m okay.”

  “Let’s make sure,” Mr. McCloy said. He led Brandt into his room and made him stand under the light. Brandt’s parents carefully checked his arms, his throat and face, his chest.

  “I don’t see any marks,” Mr. McCloy announced with a sigh of relief.

  “But you’ve got to be more careful, Brandt,” his mother said. “What did you think you were doing? You shouldn’t have been up there by yourself, trying to fight a rabid raccoon!”

  “Your condition, Brandt,” his father reminded him.

  How could I forget? Brandt thought bitterly. But he kept the thought to himself.

  • • •

  Cally’s ghost watched Brandt make his way back to his bedroom. Invisible, she floated in the doorway as he slid into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin.

  Nice going, Brandt, Cally thought, a scornful smile playing over her lips.

  I wish I could tell you how much I enjoyed your big scene in the attic just now.

  But I’m not quite ready to reveal myself to you.

  I will, though. Soon, I will.

  You are turning out to be very entertaining, Brandt. I enjoyed watching you fight that raccoon.

  I haven’t had so much fun in ages.

  You’re so cute looking when you’re scared, Brandt. I like the way your big brown eyes flash, and the way your jaw sticks out when you clench your teeth.

  Cute. Real cute.

  Cally watched Brandt roll onto his side.

  Can’t get to sleep, huh? she thought. Still thinking about your narrow escape?

  Well, you don’t have to worry about getting rabies, Brandt. That raccoon didn’t have rabies.

  There’s another reason that it acted so strangely. There’s something else that made it act viciously.

  The evil, Brandt. The evil in this house.

  But there will be time to discover that. Plenty of time.

  Better get your sleep, Brandt. Better rest up, Cally told him silently.

  Because I have lots of excitement in store for you.

  You and I are going to be really good friends.

  Chapter 5

  Brandt slept late the next morning. His room was dark, but glancing at his clock, he saw that it was already after ten. Through the thick cover of trees outside the window, he thought he spotted a patch of blue October sky.

  A sunny Sunday, he thought with satisfaction. A good day for a long drive. I’ve got to get away from Mom and Dad for a couple of hours. They’re working my nerves.

  Downstairs he found his parents in the driveway unloading groceries from the battered blue minivan.

  “Go help your mother,” his father ordered. “There’s a twelve-pound turkey in the backseat, and I don’t want her to strain her back lifting it.”

  Brandt carried the turkey into the house for his mother. “We practically bought out the store,” she told him. “I’ve got roast beef, chicken, vegetables, cake mix— What would you like for dinner tonight, Brandt?”

  “Roast beef sounds
good,” Brandt replied, shoving the turkey into the refrigerator.

  “I’ll make a devil’s food cake too,” Mrs. McCloy said.

  “Have you finished unpacking your room, Brandt?” his father asked.

  “I haven’t even started,” Brandt admitted. “I’ll get to it. But I thought I’d go for a drive first, check out the area. Can I take the Honda?”

  His father frowned. “We’ve got a lot of settling in to do. I was hoping you’d finish in your room and start unpacking the books.”

  “I’ll get to it,” Brandt promised, picking up the car keys from the kitchen table and jiggling them in one hand. “I won’t be gone long.”

  “Brandt!” his father protested.

  Brandt dashed out the back door before they could stop him. He jumped into the dark green Honda and quickly backed around the van and down the driveway.

  His parents ran to the front yard, waving their arms at him, motioning for him to come back. He pretended not to see them. Lowering his foot hard on the gas pedal, he roared off down Fear Street.

  He sped up even more when his house vanished from sight. The old houses whirred by. Slender beams of morning sunshine poked through the old trees that lined the street. He rolled down the window and let the cool autumn air wash over his face.

  This is just what I needed, he told himself. To get out of the house, to get moving, to feel the air.

  With a squeal of tires, he turned off Fear Street and headed out of town. He jammed a cassette into the tape deck and cranked up the volume.

  He sang along with the music. “ ‘Don’t care if I live, don’t care if I die.’ ”

  Nothing but farm fields on both sides now. A long, twisting highway, nearly empty.

  Okay, let’s see how fast I can go! he thought.

  He jammed his foot down and watched the speedometer climb. Seventy miles an hour. Eighty. He flew around the tight curves, spinning the wheel, enjoying the excitement of not knowing what lay around the next curve.

  The road climbed into low brown hills. Brandt blasted the music and kept his foot jammed down on the accelerator. The road veered to the right and then sharply left.

  He gazed out over a deep gorge that plunged straight down to his right. A narrow river wound through the valley far below, sparkling in the sun.

  Beautiful, he thought, following the course of the river with his eyes.

  When he turned back to the road, the red oil truck already filled the windshield.

  I’m in the left lane! Brandt realized in panic.

  He cried out and frantically cut the wheel back to the right.

  But the car bounced out of control.

  Too far! Too far to the right!

  The oil truck’s airhorn rose like a siren.

  He slammed his foot down on the brake.

  The car skidded across the wide shoulder—heading straight toward the deep gorge.

  Chapter 6

  Gripping the wheel with both hands, his foot all the way down on the brake, Brandt shut his eyes.

  And waited for the fall.

  Waited for the long slide down.

  When the car didn’t move, he opened his eyes—and saw that the car wasn’t moving.

  “Oh, man!” he cried, jumping out of the car. The right front tire hung over the edge of the gorge. The other three were safely on solid ground.

  “Oh, man,” he repeated, shaking his head.

  He hurried back into the small Honda. Brandt shifted into reverse and pressed the gas pedal. The tires skidded in the dirt. The car slipped, but in the wrong direction—farther out over the gorge.

  “Come on!” Brandt shouted to the car.

  When he hit the gas this time the rear tires caught the road and pulled the car back. The right front wheel eased up over the edge of the gorge and back onto the shoulder.

  Brandt stopped for a second and caught his breath. Then he made a U-turn and sped back toward home at eighty miles an hour.

  “That was fun,” he said out loud. “Man, that was fun!”

  • • •

  That night Brandt lay restlessly in the darkness, waiting for sleep.

  I’m so tired from putting up bookshelves and unpacking boxes all afternoon, he thought. So why can’t I get to sleep?

  He stared at the ceiling. He listened for raccoon scratches.

  Silence.

  So why did he have this strange feeling, the feeling that something was hovering nearby. Something dangerous.

  It must be moving into an unfamiliar house, he told himself. Or maybe it’s the thought that tomorrow is my first day in a new high school.

  Shadyside High.

  And I’ll be the new kid. The kid who doesn’t know anyone.

  He glanced at the clock. I’ve got to get some sleep, he thought. Or else tomorrow I’ll have dark circles around my eyes like that raccoon.

  He felt himself drifting off.

  He closed his eyes.

  A soft whisper of cold air rippled across his skin.

  He opened his eyes.

  Where did it come from?

  Another puff of cold air. Like an icy breath.

  Is someone here? he thought. His skin tingled.

  He felt the brush of lips on the back of his neck. Cold, cold lips.

  And then sharp teeth bit into his shoulder—and he screamed.

  Chapter 7

  The overhead light clicked on. Mr. McCloy rushed to Brandt’s side. “What’s wrong? What happened?” He grabbed Brandt’s trembling shoulders and tried to calm him.

  Brandt swallowed hard. “My—my neck—” he managed to choke out. He rubbed the spot with his hand. It still felt cold.

  “You hurt your neck? You have a stiff neck?” Brandt’s father demanded, his voice clogged with sleep. “Let me see it.”

  Brandt leaned forward. “Something—bit my neck,” he said. “Can you see where?”

  “I don’t see anything,” Mr. McCloy replied, lowering his head and squinting at the back of Brandt’s neck.

  “Another r-raccoon?” Brandt stammered.

  “I hope not,” his father muttered. He searched the room with his eyes. Then he bent down and checked under the bed. He pulled open the closet door and riffled through Brandt’s clothes. He checked under the desk, inside boxes—all over the room.

  Mr. McCloy let out a weary, relieved sigh. “Must have been a dream, Brandt. A nightmare.”

  Brandt rubbed the back of his neck. It felt okay now. His hand moved to the scar on his cheek. “It was so real, Dad. I really thought—”

  “You’re nervous about school tomorrow. That’s all,” Mr. McCloy assured him. “Try to get some sleep, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Mr. McCloy switched off the light as he left the room. Brandt settled down in the darkness. He pulled the covers up to his chin. “A dream,” he muttered softly. “Just a stupid dream.”

  He had almost drifted off to sleep, when he felt a cold rush of air on his face again.

  • • •

  Brandt heard the roar of a vacuum cleaner as he started downstairs the next morning. Peeking into the living room, he was startled to see a short, squat, gray-haired woman vacuuming. Brandt had never seen her before.

  “Hi,” he called, but the woman didn’t glance up. Brandt figured she couldn’t hear him over the roar. He went into the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Brandt,” his father greeted him from the table. “Did you manage to get some sleep last night?”

  “A little,” Brandt replied. “Who’s that woman in the living room?”

  “Her name is Mrs. Nordstrom,” Mrs. McCloy told him. “She’s going to help me unpack and get the house into shape. Did you meet her? She’s very nice.”

  “I tried to say hello, but she had the vacuum cleaner going,” Brandt explained. “Where did she come from?”

  “Mr. Hankers recommended her the other day,” Mrs. McCloy said. “I was going to phone her this morning to see if she wanted a job. But she showed up before I
even got a chance to call. I guess Mr. Hankers called her for me.”

  “She used to work for the previous owners of the house,” Mr. McCloy added.

  “Do you want juice this morning, Brandt?” his mother asked. She opened a carton on the counter and pulled out a couple of juice glasses. “Just a little? Since it’s your first day at your new school?”

  “No, thanks,” Brandt said. He never ate breakfast, and his mother knew it. But she couldn’t stop pestering him about it anyway.

  He sat down at the table while his father read the newspaper and drank his coffee. His mother began to store the juice glasses in a cabinet.

  “I keep thinking about last night,” Brandt said. “That—that bite on my neck . . .”

  Raising his head from the newspaper, Mr. McCloy glanced across the room to his wife. She turned from the cabinet and met her husband’s gaze with a worried expression.

  “I don’t think it was a nightmare,” Brandt continued thoughtfully. “It seemed too real.”

  “Brandt—” His mother sat down at the table, absentmindedly gripping two glasses in her hands.

  “Do you really think there was someone in your room last night?” Mr. McCloy demanded, his eyes locked on Brandt. “I checked everywhere. Even under the bed.”

  “No—not a person,” Brandt replied, running a hand back through his dark, wavy hair. “But something. A spirit of some kind.” He smiled. “Maybe the house is haunted.”

  Brandt’s father chuckled. He set down his newspaper. “Maybe my research is rubbing off on you—playing on your imagination. After all, you’ve grown up in all kinds of strange places, hearing me talk about magic and spirits—”

  “Maybe,” Brandt admitted. “But I don’t think so.”

  Mr. McCloy rubbed his hands together and smiled. “Hmmm. It’s kind of tempting. Exciting. What if there is some kind of spirit right here in our own house?”

  Brandt’s mother flashed him a disgusted look. “Can’t we be serious? There aren’t ghosts and spirits floating around everywhere in the world, you know? I’m sure the house is perfectly safe,” she insisted.

  “Maybe it’s haunted, and maybe it’s not,” Mr. McCloy said firmly. “There could be other explanations.”

  “But you’ll check it out?” Brandt asked.

  “Of course. How could I resist?”