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CHAPTER 1
THE LAST HALLOWEEN
Aren't you going out for trick or treat?" Jennifer's mom asked two weeks before Halloween. "If you want me to make a costume, we'd better start soon."
"I'm getting kind of old for that," Jennifer said. "Maybe I'll skip it this year."
"Are you sure? I thought you loved to go out."
Jennifer nodded. "I'm pretty sure." She'd been thinking about it ever since last year — ever since those older kids had stolen her candy and chased her down the street. As much as she loved Halloween, it just wasn't worth the risk. Monster terror was fun. Real terror wasn't.
"There's still time for me to make a costume," her mom said a week before Halloween.
"Thanks. But I think I'll stay home and hand out candy." That might even be fun, Jennifer thought. She liked seeing the little kids in their cute costumes. Her enthusiasm faded as she realized the older kids would come to her door, too — the ones who didn't even bother with real costumes. The ones who were just out to get as much candy as they could.
"Last chance," Jennifer's mom said the day before Halloween. "I can still put something together."
Jennifer looked out the window at the leaf-strewn streets that would soon be filled with costumed kids. "No thanks," she said.
But on Halloween, as the day fell dark and the smallest trick-or-treaters emerged from their houses like ants spilling from a hill, Jennifer wondered if it was too late to change her mind.
She had good memories of her first Halloween. It wasn't fair to have nothing but bad memories about her last one. But that awful Halloween didn't have to be her last one. Not if she went out now.
Costume, Jennifer thought, rummaging through her closet. Nothing. Sure, she could throw together a hippie outfit, or do some sort of clown makeup, but that wasn't good enough. That wasn't special.
She tried the basement. The sound of the doorbell drifted down from upstairs. As Jennifer scanned the piles of boxes stacked along a wall, the flash of a gold latch caught her eye.
Her great grandmother's old trunk sat shoved in a corner beneath moldy boxes of baby toys and a stack of canning jars. Jennifer vaguely remembered looking in the trunk when they'd first moved to the house.
She uncovered the trunk and unlatched the lid. A dusty smell of ancient cloth tickled her nose as she sorted through the contents. Just old dresses. Nice enough, but not the sort of costume she wanted. There was a hat with a veil — thin black gauze that covered the face of the wearer. This might work in an emergency, she thought. Still, she'd hoped to find something better.
Jennifer found nothing else. But, as she started to close the lid, she realized something was wrong. The outside of the trunk seemed deeper than the inside. She emptied the trunk and knocked her fist against the bottom. Instead of a solid whack, she was rewarded with a hollow thump. Excited, she pushed and pressed until she discovered the right spot. The false bottom popped up.
Jennifer held her breath as she lifted the wood panel, wondering what treasures she might find.
Gloves. That was all. One pair of black leather gloves. Jennifer noticed a folded slip of paper tucked between the fingers. She opened the slip and read the handwritten words out loud, "Special gloves for a special night."
The doorbell rang again. Jennifer heard a chorus of young voices shouting "Trick or treat!" Halloween was slipping past her like hourglass sand.
Jennifer grabbed the hat. Not a great costume, but it would have to do. On a whim, she grabbed the gloves, too. After all, it was a special night, even if she didn't have a special costume. She slipped the gloves over her hands. They fit like she'd worn them for years. She put on the hat. The veil cut her off from the world, filtering everything through a dark curtain.
Jennifer ran upstairs and grabbed her Halloween bag.
"I'm going out," she called to her mom.
"Have fun, dear. Be careful."
She dashed into the crisp air of the last night in October. As she knocked on her first door and got her first piece of candy, Jennifer knew she'd made the right decision. She traveled the familiar streets, following a pattern she'd worked out over the years.
At most houses, she heard the same question. "What an interesting costume. What are you?"
"Just a veiled lady," Jennifer told them.
She reached Pritchard Street. A dead end. The best path was down one side and up the other. She went to the first house on the right, and then the second.
As she left the second house, she heard the footsteps behind her. Footsteps and whispers. She took a quick glance over her shoulder at the hovering shapes. Taller kids, bigger kids. Though she hated to break the pattern, Jennifer crossed the street.
They followed. Going to each house right after her. Playing with her the way a cat plays with a mouse. They had time. She was trapped.
Jennifer crossed the street again.
They crossed, too.
And again.
Jennifer gripped her bag with her right hand, feeling the plastic handle bite against her palm through the thin leather of the gloves. I'm just going to walk back to the corner, she told herself. She'd go past them, and everything would be fine.
Forcing herself to look straight ahead, she took a step toward them. Crude laughs bubbled from the cluster of kids. "Trick or treat," the boy in front said in a nasty, mocking voice. His only costume was a football shirt. Behind him, another boy, the tallest of the group, wore a motorcycle jacket.
"Gonna share?" the boy in front asked.
Jennifer avoided his eyes.
He stepped closer and reached toward her bag.
Jennifer put her left hand out, as if this motion had the power to stop them. She froze as the oddest sound punctured the night.
Thwick ... thwick ... thwick ... thwick ... thwick.
Claws, black as coal and sharp as needles, sprouted from her fingertips.
"Just give me the bag," the boy said.
Jennifer gave him the claws instead.
He screamed and clutched at his ripped shirt. The others took a step toward her. Jennifer flicked her arm out and slashed ribbons from the tall boy's leather jacket. She slashed flesh, too, but only enough to warn him off, only enough to make him think twice the next time he considered stalking a victim.
Even in the dark, the others saw enough to know what she had done.
They turned and fled. But not before Jennifer had flicked her wrist a final time, gutting their bags and spilling candy on the street.
The claws retracted.
Jennifer left the spilled candy for the little ones to find. She'd already received her reward. She finished her path along the street.
At the final house, a woman said, "My, my, that's a lovely costume. What are you?"
"Justice," Jennifer whispered.
"What?" the woman asked.
"Just a veiled lady," Jennifer said.
Her bag was nearly full. Normally, that was when she'd return home. But there were other kids out there like her, alone and vulnerable. And there were other gangs like the one she'd met.
Jennifer stayed on the streets until the last porch light went dark. Finally, she headed home.
"Did you have a good time?" her mother asked.
Jennifer nodded, sending a ripple through the veil. She removed the hat and gloves. "I think this was the best Halloween ever. I can't wait until next year."
"Well, just let me know ahead of time if you want a costume," her mother told her.
"I'll stick with this one," Jennifer said. "It's kind of fun. And it fits me really well."
CHAPTER 2
BED TINGS
I was having a rotten day. First thing in the morning, I broke my camera. I know I shouldn't have left it on the floor right next to my bed, but that doesn't do me much good now. Then, right after breakfast, I accidentally dropped my toothbrush in the toilet.
When I told my friend Pauli what had happened, he said, "Well, it's almost over."
"What do you mean?"
"My grandma says that bad things happen in threes," Pauli told me. "You've had two bad things happen, so you've just got one more to get through and it's over."
"That's silly," I said.
I liked Pauli's grandma. She baked great cookies, and she always used lots of chocolate chips. But she was full of superstitions. And her accent was so thick, I had a hard time understanding her when she talked. She said mek instead of make, and true instead of through. I could just hear her telling Pauli that bad things happen in threes, but it would sound like Bed tings heppen en treeze. No matter how she said it, it was just a superstition.
"It might be silly," Pauli told me, "but if I were you, I'd be careful today."
"Yeah, right." I wasn't too worried. "Come on, let's play ball." I got my basketball from the garage and started to dribble it down the driveway.
The ball broke on the second bounce.
It just burst and went flat. I'd never seen a basketball do that.
"Bad thing," Pauli said.
"Shut up," I told him. But then I realized something. If bad things happen in threes, the bad part of my day was over. "I'm safe now," I said. "Watch this."
I got the ladder and climbed up the side of my house. Then I closed my eyes and ran along the top of the roof.
"Careful," Pauli shouted.
"Don't worry." I really felt great. It was wonderful knowing that nothing bad could happen to me now. I stood on one leg and spun around.
"Come on, get down," Pauli said.
"Okay." I went to the lowest part of the roof and jumped to the lawn. Naturally, I landed without any trouble.
For the rest of the day, I pushed my luck, and it held. As evening fell, Pauli and I wandered over to his house. When we got there, I looked toward the top of the huge oak in his front yard. My kite was still stuck up there from last fall.
"I'm getting it," I said.
"No," Pauli said. "That's crazy. It's too high."
"Watch me." I started climbing the oak. I felt fabulous and free. Nothing could hurt me.
"Denjer!"
I looked down as I heard the shout. Denjer? I thought.
Pauli's grandma was down below me — far down below, waving a dish towel like a flag and shouting. "Denjer! Denjer!"
Oh. I got it. She was shouting "danger."
"It's okay," I called to her. "I'm safe."
"Bed tings heppen in treeze," she shouted.
"But it's okay," I called back, smiling at the way she'd pronounced the words.
"In treeze! In treeze!" she shouted, pointing to the oak I'd climbed.
Pointing to the oak tree, I realized. At that same instant, I heard something start to crack. The branch I was standing on tore from the tree with a splintering scream.
I fell. Also letting out a splintering scream.
I managed to land on Pauli, and that sort of broke my fall. But I still broke my leg. His grandma sure was right. Bad things happen in trees.
CHAPTER 3
THE DEAD WON'T HURT YOU
The gate to the cemetery wasn't locked.
That had been Eric's last hope. He'd been prepared to shake the bars, then turn to his friends and say, "Guess we can't do it."
The gate swung when he pushed, moving without the slightest creak. To Eric, the unexpected silence was worse than any graveyard moan of rusted metal. He felt as if he was watching a movie with the sound turned off. For an instant, he thought of an old, scratchy silent film — that first vampire movie with the freaky-looking bald guy.
"I'm out of here," Bennet said.
Eric made no comment as Bennet raced away. He watched Jacob and Lance, wondering if they'd chicken out, too. They both looked at him, obviously wondering the same thing.
Last chance, Eric thought. All three of them could quit right now, and there'd be no blame anywhere. But the moment came and passed. Eric drew a deep breath of the damp air and stepped through the gate of the cemetery. He checked his watch. Just ten minutes to go. Then, he could leave. He couldn't even remember which of them had suggested they visit a cemetery at midnight.
But once the idea had been spoken, they'd teased and taunted each other until they had to do it. Eric couldn't admit that the cemetery terrified him. Even in daylight — even as far as possible from midnight — he avoided this field of headstones and monuments. Eric thought about last year, when they'd buried Hunter Reynolds. Eric had pretended to be sick so he wouldn't have to go to the funeral and the cemetery. He hadn't even really known Hunter. They weren't in any of the same classes at school. They'd been on that Little League team together three years back, the one that had almost made it to the state playoffs, but that was it.
Eric always kept as much distance as he could between himself and the dead.
Until now.
They walked toward the center of the cemetery, the spot they'd agreed upon for their midnight adventure. Jacob was the next to turn and run. "I can't," he said when they were halfway there. "Sorry."
"Looks like it's just you and me," Lance said.
"Yeah." Eric squeezed out that single word, not trusting his voice to speak a full sentence without trembling. Not much farther, he told himself. It wasn't that far to midnight, and it wasn't that far to the center of the cemetery.
Lance stopped walking. "You hear that?"
"No." Eric looked around. "What?"
"I heard something. Footsteps."
"Cut it out." Eric listened to the dead silence around him.
"Man, don't you hear it?" Lance asked.
Eric shook his head.
"Forget this," Lance said. He spun away from Eric and sprinted back toward the gate.
Eric knew he was free to follow his friends. Just being the last to leave — that was a victory. But he was so close. He checked his watch. Only five more minutes.
He continued walking toward the center of the cemetery, his breath growing shallow, his ears straining for any hint of the sounds that had spooked Lance. He heard nothing. Any other place on Earth, the peacefulness would have been pleasant. Here, the silence was a reminder of what lay beneath the ground.
Eric reached the center of the cemetery, then checked his watch. Three minutes. He knew he could make it.
Just this once, he told himself. All he had to do was stay in place and fight the terror for a little while, and he'd be able to do anything — face any fear at all. He looked at the rows of headstones, wondering where Hunter was buried.
"People don't understand."
The voice from behind cut into his thoughts like a hatchet. Eric spun and shouted in surprise.
"Hey, relax," the man said.
"You scared me," Eric said. "I didn't hear you walk up." He was surprised a guy that big could move so quietly.
The man laughed and scraped a foot against the ground. "I'm not a ghost," he said. He slapped his chest. "See, real and solid."
"Yeah." Eric waited for his nerves to stop buzzing.
The man put a hand on Eric's shoulder. "People don't understand," he said. "There's nothing scary here. The dead won't hurt you."
"Guess not," Eric said. He wanted to pull away.
"No," the man said, "the dead don't hurt anyone. And they keep their secrets."
Eric tried to step back. The fingers tightened on his shoulder.
"It's the living," the man said. "The people who haunt the places where nobody goes. That's who you have to watch out for. It's the people in the alleys, the people in the cemetery at night, the people who hope to catch you alone."
"What?" Eric pulled harder against the man's grip, trying to get free without turning his attempt into a struggle. He didn't understand what this man was talking about. But deep inside, he was afraid he knew exactly what the man meant.
The bell in the town clock began to strike the hour.
The man laughed. He reached toward Eric with his other hand. "Let me go!" Eric shouted. He twisted his body, breaking loose. The instant he slipped from the man's grasp, Eric rushed blindly away.
The man swore and chased after him. Eric could hear the footsteps close behind him. He knew that any second he'd be tackled or grabbed and swept off his feet. Then he'd be found dead like Hunter Reynolds, and the adults would talk about it in whispers.
Eric shouted again, but the bell drowned out his voice. He ran across a stretch of manicured lawn, dodging left and right between headstones, knowing his feet were landing on graves, knowing he stepped on the dead as he raced for his own life.
"Run, boy, run," the man behind him yelled. "Makes it more fun."
The sound of the bell wrapped around Eric like deep water. He gasped, trying to find more speed. As the twelfth peal rode on a wave through the air, Eric heard a scream — short, cut off, a howl of frustration and surprise — followed by another sound that he'd never forget — the wet thud of a thick fruit smashed against a sidewalk.
Eric dared a glance over his shoulder.
He stopped in his tracks. In this field of death, the living man who'd pursued him had — suddenly and undeniably — joined the dead. Trembling, Eric crept back even as his mind screamed for him to keep running.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Invasion of the Road Weenies"
by .
Copyright © 2005 David Lubar.
Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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