The Haunting Hour Page 7

  Dogs love Artie and me, and we love dogs.

  Mom says we have a special relationship with dogs because we’re almost as smart as they are. That’s supposed to be a joke.

  But Artie and I take dogs very seriously. They are wonderful, loving animals. And they need people like Artie and me to take care of them.

  This wasn’t the first time my brother and I had made Dad stop the car because we saw a dog running loose on the road. Once we saw a cute little terrier get run over by a van. We had nightmares about that for weeks. I never forgot the terrible squeal the dog let out when the tires rolled over its back.

  I brushed back the collie’s fur and searched for a collar. No. No collar or ID tags or anything.

  The collie had the biggest brown eyes I had ever seen. “Who would let a beauty like this loose?” I said, rubbing its ears.

  Cars whirred past. Artie and I carefully led the dog away from the highway.

  “Not again,” Dad sighed when we reached the car. “Do we have to return him to his owner?”

  “We can’t,” I said. “No tag. He’ll have to come with us.”

  “No room!” Mom exclaimed. “One of you will have to run alongside the car!”

  “I will!” Artie volunteered, raising his hand.

  A blue pickup truck bounced up onto the grass and came to a stop behind our car. A young man with long, stringy hair and a thick stubble of beard stuck his head out of the driver’s window.

  “Hey, Fletch!” he shouted, waving at the dog. “Fletch—get back in here! Bad dog!”

  The collie burst out of Artie’s hands, flew over the tall grass, its tail wagging furiously, and eagerly leaped into the back of the truck.

  The young man turned to us. “Thanks!” he called, flashing us a thumbs-up. “That dog is always trying to give me a scare.”

  He gunned the engine, and the truck skidded back onto the highway as Artie and I waved good-bye.

  We stopped for dinner at a restaurant called The Barbecue Barn. Artie and I were starving. We were putting away the barbecued chicken and mashed potatoes. I glanced up and noticed that Mom and Dad still had full plates.

  “We’re just not very hungry,” Mom said.

  They were both quiet too, I realized. Artie and I kept trying to guess where we were going. “Just give us a hint!” we begged. But they wouldn’t play along.

  They kept glancing at each other. Once I saw Dad squeeze Mom’s hand under the table. He let it go when he saw me watching.

  “What’s wrong with you two?” I asked.

  Dad shrugged. “Nothing. Tired from the long drive.”

  “Have some of those collard greens,” Mom urged. “We don’t have those back home.”

  Artie stared down at the pile of greens on his plate and made a face. “Yuck. It looks disgusting.”

  “Go ahead. Taste it,” Dad said. “You have to be brave.”

  “Yes. Brave,” Mom repeated. And suddenly, I saw that she had tears running down her cheeks. “You both have to be brave.”

  “Mom? What’s wrong?” I asked.

  But she spun away, wiping the tears off her face.

  I turned to Dad. He shrugged. “Finish your dinner,” he said. “We’ve got miles to go before we stop for the night.”

  After dinner, we drove west, into the setting sun. Red sunlight covered our windshield. Then suddenly, we were rolling through a heavy, dreamlike darkness.

  I must have fallen asleep. I let out a sharp cry as a hard bump shook me awake. Dad had turned into a gravel driveway. I glimpsed a red-and-green neon sign blinking in the dark. It was supposed to read: WAYSIDE MOTEL. But the L was burned out, so that it read: WAYSIDE MOTE.

  Squinting out the window, I could see a long, low building and a row of doors and dark windows. The only window with some light behind it had a sign that read OFFICE.

  Dad stopped the car in front of the office. Artie leaned forward, suddenly wide-awake. “Is this where we’re staying tonight? Do you think they have a video game room?”

  Mom yawned. “Too late for video games,” she said softly. “It’s been a long day. You’ll be asleep in five minutes.”

  Artie and I had our own room. Mom was right. We were so exhausted from riding all day, we climbed under the thin blankets and fell right asleep.

  The next morning, cold gray light seeped in through the dusty window. I woke up, blinked, trying to remember where I was. I stretched. My back ached from the hard bed.

  I squinted at my watch. Past nine o’clock.

  Weird, I thought. That’s really late. Mom and Dad like to get an early start. Why didn’t they wake us up?

  I shook Artie awake. He blinked at me. “What’s up?”

  “We slept late,” I said. “Let’s go find Mom and Dad.”

  Yawning, we stepped out into the cool, gray morning. Mom and Dad’s room was next to ours. I knocked on their door—and it swung in. Had they forgotten to lock it?

  “Mom? Dad?” I called.

  No answer. Artie pushed the door open all the way, and I followed him in. “Hey!” I let out a startled cry.

  The room was empty. The bed was made.

  “Wrong room,” Artie said.

  We stepped back outside. I felt a cold raindrop on my forehead. Then another one on my hair. We moved to the room on the other side of ours. I knocked on the door. “Mom? Dad?”

  No one in that room either.

  I stared down the long row of motel rooms. Which room were Mom and Dad in? “We’d better ask at the office,” I said.

  We turned and started jogging toward the office. Artie stopped suddenly—and pointed to the gravel parking lot.

  “Huh?” My eyes swept over the lot. I saw a huge, silvery truck parked at the end of the lot. And then…no cars.

  No cars.

  “Where is our car?” My voice came out in a whisper.

  We both stared at the empty lot.

  “Maybe they went out to bring back breakfast,” Artie said.

  I frowned. “Maybe.” But my heart was pounding. “They would have told us they were going.”

  “Well…they didn’t just take off!” Artie said.

  I swallowed hard. My mouth suddenly felt dry.

  I knocked on the office door and peered through the glass.

  “Try the door. Let’s just go in,” Artie said.

  I turned the knob, pushed open the door, and stepped inside with Artie. The room smelled stale and musty. I gazed around quickly. Empty shelves. A bare table. A vending machine with an OUT OF ORDER sign taped to the front.

  Then I spotted a man in a blue cap and a red-plaid shirt behind the dark wood counter. He was facing the wall, with his back to us.

  I cleared my throat loudly, but he didn’t turn around.

  “Hello—good morning,” I called.

  He still didn’t move.

  “Hey—excuse us,” Artie said. And then he punched the bell on the counter. It dinged once. Twice.

  Again the man didn’t move.

  I’ll bet he’s deaf, I thought.

  “Sir—?” I moved around to the side of the counter. “Sir?”

  He was hunched on a tall wooden stool, shoulders slumped. The blue cap sat high on his head. And his face…his face…

  I stumbled back against the wall and opened my mouth in a shrill scream. No face! No face at all!

  A yellow skull beneath the cap. Two dark, empty eye sockets. The jaw hanging down in a toothless grin.

  “Tammi—what’s wrong?” Artie shrieked.

  I grabbed his hand and lurched to the door. I pulled him outside.

  “What’s wrong? What is it?” Artie demanded.

  “We…we…” The words caught in my throat. “We have to get out of here!”

  “But—Mom and Dad!” Artie cried. “The man in the office—”

  “It wasn’t a man!” I shouted. “It was a skeleton!”

  Artie’s eyes narrowed on me. “Huh? That’s crazy!”

  My mind whirred. I took a
deep breath and held it. My eyes searched the highway, one direction, then the other. No cars coming.

  Where were they? Where?

  “We have to call the police. They’ll help us. They’ll come and help us find Mom and Dad, and—”

  “We can use the phone in the room,” Artie said.

  The rain was coming down a little harder, splashing off the red tin roof, pattering over the gravel parking lot.

  We burst back into our room. I grabbed the phone off the night table and raised the receiver to my ear. Silence. No dial tone. I pushed 0. Pushed 911. Nothing.

  “There’s no wire,” Artie said. He pulled the phone from my hands. “See? It isn’t hooked up to anything.”

  He tossed the phone onto the bed, and we ran back outside. I searched the parking lot again, praying that our car would be pulling in.

  “Where are they?” Artie asked shrilly.

  I ducked my head into the rain and led the way toward the highway. “We’ll find a phone somewhere,” I said. “If they don’t see us when they get back here, Mom and Dad will wait.”

  My shoes crunched over the wet gravel. As I walked, a picture flashed into my mind. Last night. Mom with tears suddenly sliding down her cheeks. Mom saying, “You both have to be brave.”

  What did she mean? Did she know they were going to leave us?

  No way. Mom and Dad would never leave us.

  Artie and I stopped at the edge of the highway. No cars coming in either direction. Shielding my eyes against the rain with one hand, I squinted to see the other side.

  A long, flat green field seemed to stretch forever. And in the distance was a dark building, hazy in the gray light.

  A farmhouse?

  I placed one hand on Artie’s shoulder and pointed with the other. “Maybe they’ll have a phone we can use over there.”

  Artie shivered. His blond hair and the shoulders of his sweatshirt were soaked from the rain. “Let’s go,” he said.

  We jogged across the highway and into the grassy field. The ground was soft and marshy, and our shoes sank into the mud. I kept my eyes on the house in the distance. I saw several smaller buildings beside it.

  I heard a rumbling sound behind us on the highway. Our car? I turned back and saw two large red-and-black trucks speed by. I sighed with disappointment and kept walking.

  A cemetery appeared as if out of nowhere. Artie and I cried out in surprise. We saw gravestones set in six or seven rows, low in the grass. They were tilted and cracked. Some lay flat on their backs.

  “Who would put a graveyard in the middle of a field?” Artie asked.

  “Maybe it’s where they bury people from that farm,” I said, pointing to the house in the distance.

  He leaned down to try to read the words on an old stone. As he did, I heard a loud creaking sound, like a rusty door being pulled open.

  “Artie!” I gasped as one of the old gravestones toppled over with a thud.

  “Don’t freak,” Artie said. “The rain made the ground soft. That’s why it fell.”

  I heard another long creeeeak. Another stone toppled over. My breath caught in my throat. I heard a low cracking sound. A large stone tilted forward, then slammed to the ground.

  Artie jumped back to my side. “What’s happening?”

  “I—I don’t know,” I said.

  Then I saw the dirt fly up beside one of the fallen gravestones. And I heard a long, low groan. A groan from under the ground!

  Frozen to the spot, I saw the dirt crumble and shift in front of another grave. And the tall gravestone toppled onto its back.

  “Ohhhhhhhh.” Another groan behind me. A weak cry. And then another, a howl of pain from beneath the ground.

  “This is crazy!” Artie gasped. “This is crazy!”

  And then we were running. Running hard, our arms swinging at our sides, our breath wheezing from our open mouths. Running over the wet, muddy field, our shoes slipping, sliding…then suddenly I felt myself sinking.

  I turned and saw Artie sinking too. His arms thrashed wildly, struggling to pull himself up. But the soft mud was already up to his waist, and he was going down fast.

  “It—it’s like quicksand!” he wailed.

  Down, down. The mud felt so cold, so thick as it rose up over me. I kicked both legs and grabbed frantically at the ground, struggling to escape, struggling to stop sinking.

  But it was useless. We were being sucked into a bottomless pit of thick ooze. We’re going to drown in it! I realized.

  “Tammi—do something! I—I can’t stay up—” Artie’s shrill cry was cut short.

  “Hang on! Hang on!” I shrieked. The wet mud rose up to my armpits. My hands grasped furiously at the surface, and my fingers wrapped around a hard object. A tree root?

  “Yes!” I squeezed it tightly in my hand. With a groan, I started to pull myself up.

  It slipped out of my hand, and I sank back. But I grabbed it again—and pulled myself up…up…to the surface.

  I carefully made my way to Artie. I grabbed his hands and pulled him free of the thick, oozing mud.

  And then we were running again. Scrambling like mud crabs, the dark ooze dripping off us.

  “Help us! Can anyone help us?” I screamed as we reached the old, brown-shingled farmhouse.

  We were answered by a furious snarl from a dog. No. More than one dog, I realized. Sharp, angry growls.

  “Dogs—over there!” Artie cried. He pointed to a low wooden shed behind the house.

  “Anyone home?” I called, cupping my hands around my mouth. “We—we need help.”

  I started to the front porch, but Artie pulled me back. “Those dogs,” he said, shouting over their angry howls. “Who would lock them up in a tiny shed? They can’t breathe in there. They’re calling for help.”

  I pulled him back toward the house. “We are the ones who need help! Mom and Dad—” But Artie was already running toward the shed. No arguing with him when it came to dogs. With a sigh, I took off after him.

  We reached the shed door at the same time. The dogs howled and raged, barking ferociously. Artie grabbed the door handle. I tugged his arm. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  He nodded. “These dogs are in trouble. I’m not afraid of them. Dogs always like us—remember?”

  “Yes, but—”

  He pulled open the shed door.

  Two enormous black attack dogs—the size of panthers—teeth bared, eyes wild with fury, dove out at us.

  I squealed—jumped back and dropped to my knees.

  Artie covered his head.

  The raging, snarling dogs seemed to hover in midair. Then they dropped heavily to the ground.

  “They—they’re chained up!” I gasped.

  The dogs couldn’t run out. The chains around their necks held them back. Now they lowered their heads and glared, still growling angrily.

  And a man’s voice behind us announced loudly, “I’M SORRY. YOU FLUNK.”

  “Huh?” Artie and I spun around. We stared at a young man with slicked-back black hair and a deep tan. He wore a charcoal-gray suit, white shirt, and tie. He held an umbrella over his head, even though the rain had slowed to a drizzle.

  I squinted at the small badge on his jacket. It read: OFFICIAL JUDGE. “Tammi and Artie, I’m afraid you just failed your test,” he said, shaking his head.

  “No! Please!” I recognized Mom’s voice. And then I saw both of our parents come running from the other side of the house.

  “Please!” Mom cried. “Can’t you give them another chance?”

  “Yes—give them another chance!” Dad demanded.

  The dogs growled behind us. The man lowered his umbrella. “Sorry. No second chances. They have failed.”

  “But—but—” Mom sputtered.

  “What is going on here?” I cried.

  Dad sighed and shook his head. “All kids have to take car trips,” he told me, speaking just above a whisper. “It’s a test. The government said all kids must be tested for brav
ery and intelligence.”

  “But—why?”

  “There’s so little space left,” Dad said, lowering his eyes. “So little food. So little everything to go around. The government decided it had no choice. Only the bravest and smartest kids can survive. Only the bravest and smartest can…home home.” His voice broke.

  Mom wrapped him in a tearful hug.

  “You failed because you opened the dog shed,” the judge announced. “You did okay with the graveyard frights and the quicksand. But then you should have gone into the farmhouse. You should have stayed away from the vicious dogs in the shed. Instead, you opened the shed. You showed you were brave—but not smart.”

  He shook his head. “I’m so sorry. Your parents must return home without you.”

  Mom burst into loud sobs. Dad was crying too.

  “Wait—” Artie cried. “What if we prove we really are smart?”

  I looked at Artie. Artie looked at me. I knew we were both thinking the exact same thing.

  “It’s too late,” the judge said. “Come with me.”

  But Artie and I didn’t follow him. Instead, we did something really really smart.

  We grabbed the dog chains—and unleashed the attack dogs.

  Growling and snarling, the ferocious dogs tore past us. (Because dogs always like us.) And they dove at the judge. Heaved him to the ground. Ripped at his suit, wrestling, tearing, snapping their jaws, sinking their jagged teeth into his skin.

  “Okay! You pass!” He screamed, on his back, kicking and flailing, struggling to protect himself. “You both pass the test! You can go home! Just get them OFF me! Get them off!”

  Of course, it was easy to pull the dogs off the poor man. Because dogs always listen to us. We saved his life, and he knew it.

  After that, the ride home was a lot of fun. Very relaxed. Lots of jokes and kidding around. And Mom even did her famous folding-the-map routine again, which got howls from all of us.

  Sure, there were some rough spots. A few pretty scary moments. But all in all, Artie and I had to agree, this was definitely our family’s best car trip ever.

  Take Me with You

  INTRODUCTION